Insipid (35 page)

I TELL MYSELF
that it may not be a bad thing—the fact that the earliest flight home is not till the day after tomorrow. I decide to make the most out of it, scheduling an all day tour of the capital city of Palma and some of the historic monuments along the way. Today I take my time wandering on foot along the white sand beach that lines the resort where I’m staying. It’s been a few hours since the incident at the vacation house and my mind is clearer than it has ever been. I came here to find what I was looking for and I’m leaving here with the pain of knowing that it wasn’t meant to be. When you feel this strongly about someone, convincing yourself that he was merely passing by will take all of the logic you can muster in your mind.

The hotel lobby is bustling with sights and sounds that are familiar to anyone on vacation in a city full of tourists—cameras, backpacks, foreign accents—I hear them without seeing them. I zip through the crowds of people and heave a sigh of relief as soon as I get inside the car that will take me to my floor. I’m the only one in so I persistently pound on the CLOSE button out of habit. Just as the doors begin to move, an arm reaches in, followed by a body.

His body.

I turn my head away, refusing to look at him, aware of the fact that we are both scooted on opposite corners of the enclosed space.
He’s getting very good at appearing out of nowhere.
A family of four steps in; their chatter a welcome respite from the strain that ensues between us. I can feel the scalding burn of his eyes on me as I stare up at the row of floor numbers that light up one by one. My stop is the first one up. I don’t wait until the doors are fully open, I dash out, hoping that I can make it to the safety of my room before I decide what to do next. I hear his footsteps behind me and speed up my stride until I find myself breaking out in a run. Another pathetic move on my part, considering that room 4042 is the last one at the end of the hall right next to a dead end wall. I laugh to myself as I begin to see the pattern of my life.
Hard stops. Dead ends. Irrevocable. Irretrievable. Final.
Things happen so quickly. I grip the room key in my fingers as he pins me to the door, taking my face in his hands and fervently rubbing his lips against my cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jade. I love you.” His lips find mine and this time, there is no hesitation, no reserve, no conclusion. I want this to be our beginning. I want him to devour me, to swallow me whole. I want to hide from the world, wrapped in his arms.

He unlocks the door without breaking our kiss and lifts me up to carry me inside. “You didn’t allow me to finish,” he says breathlessly. “That night was a huge mistake because it’s all I can think about every fucking minute of the day. Being inside you. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me,” he murmurs as he sets me back down on the ground.

I don’t say a word. I take his hand and slowly walk backwards to lead him towards the bed. He follows me, watching my every move as peel my clothes off slowly, one layer at a time, all the while staring straight into his dark brown eyes. And then he reaches out to touch me, his fingers so delicately stroking every inch of my skin. I bring my mouth to his and he kisses me with the kind of unbridled passion that makes me forget all of the pain I’ve ever experienced in my life.

“Jade,” he whispers, “let me cherish you.”

I lift my body up to meet his touch and guide his mouth downwards, allowing his hands to roam wherever they please. I begin to unbutton his shirt but he stops me.

“No. Not yet. Let me enjoy you.”

“We have no pictures.” My lips betray my thoughts.

He pauses for a moment and then stretches his arms to graze the top of my shoulders with his fingertips. “That’s what you think. Look, twenty-two tiny freckles,” he continues to trace a downward path with his hands, “and a birthmark right under here.” He touches the inside of my thigh. “I committed them to memory on that very first night.”

He spreads my legs and expertly gives me so much pleasure, I can hardly contain myself when I whisper in his ear, “I want to come with you inside me.”

This prompts him into action. He tears off his clothes, giving me free access to reach out for him, to pull him closer. I let out a high-pitched moan when he enters me, my legs high above his shoulders, my hands on his thighs as he slides my body up to meet his. I feel so full, like every void in me has just been suffused. I encourage his mouth, I provoke the intensity of his touch, I spur him to use his tongue, his teeth. Pleasure and pain. Only when I’m with him do I welcome them with open arms.

The overwhelming emotion of having him here with me is more than I can take. I have to tell him how I feel, but I can’t define it.

“Lucas. I want to—”

“Shh. It’s okay. Don’t say anything. Just feel,” he instructs as he holds my legs together to tighten myself around him. “Feel me just as much as I feel you.” His movements turn furious, the look on his face intense. His eyes never leave mine as he moves in and out, my moans reverberating on his lips. “Only you, Jade. Teach me how to love you. Help me to let go.”

With one final thrust, he fills me with himself.

I don’t think of him. I can’t even remember her.

All I know is that he is inside me and I’m aware of nothing else but my desire. He’s giving me what I’ve wanted all this time. And for once in my life, I selfishly take it all.

“ARE YOU OKAY?”
he asks as he takes my hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss. We’re sitting atop a double decker bus on a city tour of Palma.

“Yes, I’m perfect,” I answer, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve never seen you so relaxed before.”

“Having sex five times in one night will do that to you,” he teases. “In fact, I’m counting the seconds until this tour is finally over so you can relax me again.”

We step off the bus for a walking tour of the cathedral, the last stop in our four-hour long local excursion. Also known as La Seu, the imposing structure stands out from the seafront, its golden sandstone exterior hovering above the city’s walls. We have an hour to explore on our own. After walking around for a while, we decide to sit by the side door of the church, along a long nave surrounded by tall iron columns and meticulously fashioned stained glass windows. I once read a long time ago that these windows were designed to depict life during those periods, of Christ and of medieval times, of the colors of the world and visual remembrances of every era. It’s funny how they’ve appeared at monumental stages in my life. At junctures that represent my life story.

Fate vs. coincidence. I truly believe in that.

“Wouldn’t you love to live in a place like this where the weather is warm and sunny all the time?” he asks, moving his body closer to mine. It’s autumn in Chicago. Football, hockey, half marathons.

“Now what would the fun be in that? I love my seasons. With them, no sadness is permanent. There’s always hope.”

We lean against the stone wall, side by side, my head on his shoulder as he loops his right arm around me. The captivating beauty of these vestiges renders us deep in thought.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your mom? About rehab?” I ask him discretely, making sure that I don’t sound accusatory or confrontational.

“What difference would it have made?” he answers lightly. I don’t sense any anger in his voice.

“A world of difference. I would have gotten to know you better. What makes you tick, what drives you.”

“What drives me wild is you,” he teases again. “Especially when you did that thing last night…”

“Stop joking around!” I swat his arm playfully. “I would have been right there for you.”

“I just had to work things out on my own. And in a way, I am glad that I did, especially after finding out that you were going through much more yourself.”

I nod my head in agreement. I never told him much either, determined to work through things on my own. I know exactly how that goes.

He stares far away into the distance before continuing on. “You and I, we’re two peas in a pod. Heartless. Broken. We’ve both touched death and despair with our bare hands. You handled it bravely; I spun off my axis.”

“I really didn’t. I had an emotional affair on my husband and a sexual encounter on my fiancé. That is hardly courageous,” I protest. And I feel ashamed.

“I’m honored to know that it was with the same person,” he rags me jokingly.

“I know, right? Crazy times,” I goad back, flashing him a warm smile.

A few minutes later, we are interrupted by the approaching footsteps of our tour guide. Lucas stands up and extends his hand to help me get on my feet. “Finally,” he says, “we get to go home.”

THE RECEDING LIGHT
of the afternoon sun streams through our bedroom window. Lucas and I lie together on the chaise lounge facing the astounding view of the ocean. My back is flush against his skin as he entwines his arms and legs around me, his right hand caressing my neck, his nose buried in my hair. The white sand beach extends miles and miles beyond the horizon, connecting countries and people and cultures. If heaven were real and Cia was there, I would be a few steps closer to finding her.

“I always wondered what this would be like,” I think out loud as I hold on to his arms and encourage their weight on me. “If the stubble on that chin was scratchy. What those hands would feel like on my skin.”

He instigates my comment by lifting his head and rubbing his jaw along my cheek. “Hmm. Well, tell me. How do I feel?”

“Rough!” I laugh. “In a good way.”

He tilts my head sideways and kisses me lightly on the nose. “Well, I’m here now. This is real. You don’t have to imagine anything because this isn’t a fantasy anymore, for either of us.”

“Are you disappointed?” I ask shyly.

“Oh fuck, no! Quite the opposite! The real you is a world apart from the Skype buddy I had. You’re stunning and precious, a treasure to be worshiped. Your skin is so soft and flawless. You feel like heaven to touch, to kiss. You’re delicious and silky and oh so very wet. All the time. You are absolutely amazing,” he whispers as his free hand travels down from my neck to my breast. His fingers work like magic. They caress and touch and pinch and tease until I want him so badly again. I close my eyes and enjoy this moment with him. I snap back to reality when I hear his voice enter my thoughts.

“Tell me about Felicia,” he quietly requests.

The mere mention of her name makes me feel guilty. In that instant, I become aware that we are naked. I sit up abruptly, reach for the robe sprawled out on the floor, and cover myself. “She was my life. I was so lucky to be her mother.”

He pulls me back down to him, as if trying to find a way to console me.

“I’m okay, really I am,” I assure him.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through, losing the person you love most in the world,” he says sadly. “With my mother, I had only gotten to know her for a few months. The impact to me was more contempt for lost time. For you, the world that you lived and breathed was no longer. It must have been so devastating.”

“It was. Everything changed for me after that day. My life didn’t make sense. I woke up the next day and didn’t recognize anything around me. It was like Felicia gave that life its essence. Without her, it was reduced to nothing.”

“She was so pretty, by the way. Just like her mother.”

“Thank you. I think it was more difficult for Chris to handle because of the fact that she looked a lot like him.”

He nods his head in understanding and waits patiently. We both know it’s my turn to ask a tough question.

“And you? Tell me about your mom.”

“I know you’ve never experienced this, but when you’re a product of divorced parents, you always end up taking sides with one or the other. My father always led us to believe that my mother walked out on us. While she did leave him to return home to her country, it was because she was miserable. She was a very independent woman who couldn’t take the old world culture that moving to Spain with my father forced her to accept. She was a renowned psychiatrist at the height of her career. She said that she left to save her sanity, to save us from going down with her. When I heard she was sick, I decided to move back to care for her and to try to convince her to seek medical help in the States. But by the time I found her, she was resigned to living what was left of her life in pure simplicity. She lived in a small house in the mountains close to a nunnery and she prayed and offered her pain up to God every day. She held me in her arms when she died, as if it was me, and not her, who desperately needed to be comforted and rescued. Her gesture was the ultimate act of selflessness, and she wanted to pass that on to me. She was so at peace with her world and with herself; it made me so angry that all the prayers on this earth couldn’t save her. I took what should have been her resentment against her faith as my own.”