Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max) (11 page)

W
hen I walked
up to the window on that Toyota Celica, I was half expecting to see Sloan Anderson sitting there, boiling in some testosterone-fueled rage over the fact that Chelsea outed him for the assault back in October. When I found a twerpy little pasty faced jerk in stained jeans and a Mountain Dew can littered car, it took me a second to readjust my plan of attack

If it had been Sloan Anderson, I was ready to pull that man out of the driver’s seat and threaten him with every ounce of media attention I can muster. If that meant making a big loud deal on the street so that Chelsea’s neighbors came pouring out of their homes to see what was happening, then so be it. If that meant dragging his dumb ass down to the station on trumped up charges of some sort, then so be it.

But the strange little guy who was most definitely not Sloan Anderson would have had a heart attack if I went all big bad cop on him. So I went for a different kind of threatening. I know how to put fear into someone. I know how to use my eyes, my size, the gun on my hip. I know how to look at a person and let them see that little bit of crazy in me that they really don’t want to rile up.

Chelsea had sounded so scared on the phone. So small. So unsure of what to do. No one needs to feel like that. No one. The fact that she reached out to me in her time of need—a guy she’s only known casually for a few weeks, a guy she’s only been on one date with—that sent little ripples of anxiety through my heart for her. What that told me is that she doesn’t have anyone else she trusts to keep her safe. That even though she claims to have this great, supportive family, she didn’t trust them to be there for her when she felt threatened.

She turned to me, a near stranger.

Part of me likes it. Not the part where she’s scared and alone. Not the part where her voice trembled explaining why she called me. But the part where she called
me
? That feels good. She knows I can protect her. She knows that when things get bad, I’m the one to call.

What man wouldn’t like to know a woman has that kind of faith in him?

And then there’s the fact that she didn’t want me to leave after it all went down. We stood there in the driveway, her in her baseball cap and dirty hair, me in my uniform, and she suggested I just keep on staying. Thing is, I really considered it. In the past, that level of clingy would have had me running for the hills. Not with Chelsea. She’s something special. My palms get a little sweaty when I think about how much I want to see her.

She was my last thought before bed and my first thought of the morning and has infiltrated every other moment of my day since I woke. Considering how hard I’ve worked not to build any attachments in my life, this should worry me. But it doesn’t.

Anyway, I don’t know if I could stay away from her if I wanted to. I’m drawn to this woman. She is unlike anything or anyone I’ve ever encountered in my whole damn life. When I’m with her, the memories don’t come whispering up from the dark part of my soul, threatening to overtake me. She calms me. Soothes me. I smile more around her and let me tell you, that certainly doesn’t suck, even if it does surprise me. Takes me off guard when I realize that I’m just grinning like an idiot or laughing at some silly little nothing she said and that I didn’t even have to consciously make it happen.

And the other thing? The other little truth that I’d like to think I know as an honest to goodness truth? I am not my past. DNA or not. Faulty genetics or not, my grandmother made sure that I saw whatever wires got crossed in my dad and helped me cement the desire to keep on the straight and narrow. Even when I got placed in the worst of foster homes. Even when I ran away and found solace in the company of people who made it their mission to look as prickly on the outside as they felt on the inside, I still managed to keep my hands clean, to stay true to who I am deep down in my very core.

A good person.

Driven to operate within the boundaries of
right.

And when I was presented with opportunities to break the law? To make a good hefty sum of money by becoming a criminal? Well, I managed to side-step those, too. So maybe, even given my less than stellar pedigree, maybe I really am the good guy I want to be. That my grandma wanted me to be. That she spent every second of every day training me to be.

My thoughts spin while I take Reagan on a nice long run. They tumble over themselves as I shower and shave. My past and my present, tangling together. My grandmother’s loving hands, wizened and wrinkled, clasped together as she pulls me up into her lap. Chelsea’s long fingers sliding up my arm, the last thing I see before I touch my lips to hers. My mother, tight-lipped and arms crossed, chest sunken, shoulders hunched. Whispered conversation with my dad. Rage in her near-silent voice. My dad, strong arms and a quick smile. Gentle hands on her shoulders and reassuring words from his snake oil tongue.

“I’ve got this, babe,” he says to her, his voice deep and warm, rumbling down to me through the years. I hear it now, distorted as it is and I hear it then, as I was, a little boy peering around the corner at a discussion I wasn’t meant to hear.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says. “I’m getting out. For you. For Max. It’s over.”

“It’ll never be over.” Tears clamp down on her throat like a vice, breaking her words.

“Yes, it will. It is.” And he pulls her into his arms. Runs his hands up her back. Soothing. Reassuring.

Two days later, they were dead. Turns out, they were both right. For them, it was over. For me, it will never be over.

I
can’t remember
the last time I cared what I looked like naked. I mean, like, really cared. Typically, I’ll shave up to my knees, throw on some mismatched underwear that might be a year or seven old and call it good to go. Today though, I’m in full on primp mode, shaving every inch of my legs, even paying extra attention to my bikini line. It’s been a long time since I’ve had eyes (or hands!) on my body. A long time since I really and truly felt pretty.

I pull on the new black lace bra and panties and study myself in the mirror, turning this way and that to get the best view of myself. I cover my belly with my hands. Pinch the soft spots on my hips. Press up on the cups of my bra, lifting my breasts into a better position. Maybe the lingerie was a mistake. The little demon-bitch in my head goes to work, counting up all my flaws and cackling shrilly when I try to bat her away.

You’re not good enough, silly girl,
she says.

You’re too pale.

Too soft.

You’ve let yourself go.

You’re too fat.

You’re too old.

You never were very pretty.

You should be better than this.

And the worst of them all:

He’s not going to want you. No one does. You are not enough.

I flip on my phone and pull up Pandora, drown out the voice with some loud music, happy and upbeat. The only way I know how to quiet her is to overpower her. I’d love to find the magic button that just turns her off. Shuts her up. I’d love to look in the mirror and tell the demon-bitch that I
am
good enough and for her to disappear in a puff of smoke. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. But I think she’s just a permeant fixture in the Chelsea London psyche.

And I can actually thank her for a lot of things. Her constant nagging has driven me to achieve more and more, reach for new heights, ask new things of myself, to never settle for where I am, to know that I am capable of more…

It can’t be all bad, right?

One last flutter of my hands over my belly. One last little lift of my breasts. One last turn of my body, a new angle to see it all. I sigh.

No, it’s not all bad, but it sure could be better.

I get dressed and do my hair and makeup. The new outfit is a complete success and, even though the demon-bitch is whispering about all the flaws I’m hiding under the cut of the sweater, I actually feel pretty. And that’s what I’ll focus on.

A text interrupts my music, a picture from Dakota. Her cheek pressed to her husband’s, her smile rivalled by his. The sun setting over the desert stretched out behind them.

Don’t know what’s better, finally seeing the Serengeti or finally getting to see it with Dominic,
she says.

Neither is better, both are good,
I respond.

I put the phone down, smiling. I’m beyond happy for her. She met Dominic and her whole life changed just like that. A snap of the fingers and everything she ever wanted in all her life came into existence. This perfect fairy tale of a love story. It was fast, so fast that I should be worried about her, but there’s this magic when they’re in the room together. There’s no denying that Dakota and Dominic are made to be together. Before seeing it, I was the first to laugh at people who talked about things like true love and soul mates. Relationships are hard and messy and a lot of work. They burn bright and fade as lust gives way to comfort and compromise.

But I won’t be surprised if Dakota and Dominic avoid that. If they are one of those lucky few who love each other into old age, still holding hands as they hobble down the street. I wonder if I’ll ever have that. Actually, I wonder how many people in this world are lucky enough to actually find it.

I grab my phone and head downstairs, thoughts of my sister morphing into thoughts of Max. Is he the guy that can give me that? There certainly wasn’t any palpable magic the day we met. I didn’t like him very much and I don’t think he liked me very much, but we didn’t exactly have the most auspicious of first meetings. But as the weeks passed, I found myself liking him more and more. And now? I’m holding my breath until he gets here.

I’m up to my hands in ground beef, making meatballs for tonight’s dinner, when my phone buzzes again. Probably Dakota, who can wait, but I check anyway and my body zings with excitement when I see it’s Max.

It flashes across my screen and I smile, happy to know that he’s thinking about me while I’m thinking about him. Another text comes in, but I can’t see it so I wash my hands before picking up my phone.

It wasn’t there when I came downstairs, but that was a good twenty minutes ago. I head over to the window and take a peek, breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see it.

I wait for the next text to come in, hesitant to put my hands back in the meatballs in case he still wants to chat. But as one minute stretches into two, I start to feel a little silly standing there staring at my phone while dinner waits for me to finish it in the kitchen. Just as I slide my phone into my pocket, it buzzes again.

My heart leaps. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

I want him here, always
. The thought takes me by surprise. But there it is, my attraction for him spelled out for me in no uncertain terms.

Of course not,
I respond.
Still working on dinner, but you’re welcome anytime.

I hit send, hesitate for only a second and then tap out another text.
The earlier the better.

Heart racing, I wait for a reply. Just stare at my phone like it’s the only thing that matters in this world. So, when there’s a knock on my door about twenty seconds later, I about jump out of my skin. Cautious, I peer through the slats in the blinds, trying to get a look at the front porch. This is the way of it now. Can’t just open the door because there are weird guys in cars out there. I can’t see the porch, but I can see the driveway and I bounce happily to recognize Max’s sleek black car.

I bound to the door and throw it open. “That was fast,” I say, trying not to show just how excited I am to see him.

“Couldn’t wait. Got ready, got in the car, was mostly here before I thought it might be a good idea to find out if you were ready for me.” Max gives me a sheepish grin, which transforms his rugged looks—almost harsh sometimes in the wrong light—into something sweet and boyish. I invite him in and take his coat. He leans down and pulls me in for a kiss the moment we’re close, arms around me, claiming me. I melt into his strength, sheltered by his size.

“Couldn’t wait for that either.”

A tingle of warmth starts in my toes and zings up and through my body. “Well, no need to wait. You can have as many of those as you’d like.”

“Good,” he says and kisses me again. He’s brought the smell of the cold in on his skin. I take a deep breath and another knot of tension inside me slips free. “You smell good,” I whisper.

Max smiles. Runs a thumb across my cheek and taps the end of my nose. “So, what’s going on in the kitchen? You need any help in there?”

“I was just getting started on the meatballs. You want something to drink? Keep me company while I cook?”

Max lifts his eyebrows. “Meatballs? Damn, woman. You really want on my good side don’t you?

“I take it you’re a fan?” I lead him back to the kitchen, absolutely beaming. Max studies his surroundings, his quick eyes taking in everything. I try to see my house as he does. It’s tidy with lots of neutral color. Pictures and paintings I found on sale at random places that I hung because I liked the look of them. Nothing personal anywhere. No pictures of me and my family. No awards from work. This could be anyone’s house. What’s it telling him about me?

We’re standing in the kitchen, Max leaning on the wall, peering at the beginnings of the meatballs. “Oh, I’m a fan,” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “But let’s not get crazy here. A lot depends on the execution. There’s a lot that can go wrong between the meat and the balls.” He surveys the ingredients I have lined up next to the mixing bowl, lips pursed, eyebrows raised, while I try desperately not to think about his balls.

“Well? Everything pass muster up to this point?” I roll up my sleeves and get ready to plunge my hands back into the mess.

Max eyes me warily. “I’m withholding judgement until I’ve had a chance to taste them.” His tone is so serious it’s hard to know if he’s joking. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s joking, because why wouldn’t he be? But he’s so deadpan, it’s hard to tell.

We talk and laugh as I work on dinner. Max rolls up his own sleeves and joins in, teasing me the whole time about his superior meatball rolling skills. We talk about everything. Work. Movies. Music. High school. He was way more of a daredevil then I ever was and his experiences far outweigh mine. I never got too drunk at prom. Never skipped school. Never cheated on a test.

Him? It sounds like he had a rebellious streak a mile wide tempered by an equally strong desire to be good.

“My friends would all be skipping school, doing drugs, getting caught. I skipped a couple times, but only on days when I knew I didn’t have anything important going on. And I never did the drugs. And I always got myself back in class without being caught.”

“I never did anything like that. I could just
see
the disapproval in my dad’s eyes. And the thought of something being on my record, my
permanent
record…” I roll my eyes. “Nope. Not for me. I just put my head down and worked hard on my grades.”

“Seems like that worked out pretty well for you.” Max leans onto the counter and stares deeply into my eyes. I’m lost in the blue upon blue upon blue that will forever mean safety to me from this point forward. His eyes aren’t weapons today. They are the calm after the storm. “The house, the job…” He gestures around my pristine kitchen. “Must feel pretty good.”

“Kind of. I still feel like I could be more, you know?”

Max frowns. “Actually, no. I don’t. It sounds like you work your ass off and it looks like you’ve got a lot to show for it. What more could you possibly want?”

I could be thinner. Better. Richer. Harder working. I could be a surgeon instead of physical therapist. I could have more friends. I could have a pet. A garden in the back. I’m just not living up to my potential…

I silence the demon-bitch with a shake of my head. “I don’t know. I think my family just had their sights set higher for me.”

Max takes a moment to digest that, studying me so intently that I feel absolutely exposed, and not in the best way. “Anyone who is not satisfied with a beautiful woman who works miracles in her field, who pushes herself to learn the latest and greatest, a woman who has earned enough to buy herself a house, a woman who does it all with a smile on her face and a kind word for the people in her life … maybe that person needs to step back and take a good look at what’s in front of him.”

I stare into Max’s eyes. His words sear down into my heart and touch some broken part inside me that hurts.

“You’re good enough for me, Chelsea,” he says. “I think everything about you is amazing. Perfect. More people should be like you.”

You’re good enough for me.

You’re good enough for me.

You’re good enough for me.

Those words. They stretch and roll through me, unleashing a torrent of fear and hope and panic and a goddamn outright
need
to hear them again.

We have accidentally stumbled into highly awkward, not appropriate for second date territory. I break eye contact with Max. “Thank you,” I mumble towards the counter and then hit him with a smile, searching for a lighter topic. “So, I never did get you a drink. What are you in the mood for?”

He steps into my space, invading and protecting in the same instant. “You,” he says. “I’m in the mood for you.”