Mia Like Crazy (8 page)

He walked over to a coat closet, pulled out my suitcase and hanging bag, and disappeared up the stairs before I could make sense out of what had happened.

Realizing I’d broken out in a sweat, I kicked off the blanket.

Little by little, the heat melted away, leaving only one hot spot, roughly the size of a man’s hand, sizzling on my abdomen. I touched it, then, rolled back toward the television.

Way too well rested and wide-awake, I lay staring at the muted TV set, wondering what in the world I’d gotten myself into.

Chapter Six

I was lower to the ground than I remembered being in a very long time.

This must be a dream. I’ve never seen this many trees in one place before.

I skipped along a dirt road, enjoying the sunshine on my face, until I spotted a boy sitting slumped against a tree trunk. I walked over and sat down right next to him.

“Hi,” I said.

He lifted his head and peered at me with serious grown up eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I think it’s a dream.”

“It can’t be. No one has dreams about me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a nightmare.” He smiled. It was a nice smile. It made me smile.

“I’m going to be a rich lawyer when I grow up.” For some reason I was dying to impress this boy. “What are you going to be?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be silly. You can be anything you want to be.”

“
You
can,” he argued. “This is just temporary for you.” He glanced behind me, and I looked over my shoulder at the tall, dingy buildings that loomed over us. They were the housing projects I’d always refused to claim as my home, even though I’d lived there much of my life.

They certainly didn’t belong in my dream. I willed them away and they disappeared. That was the good thing about dreams.

I turned my attention back to the boy. “I like you,” I said. “You can be something with me. Let’s shake on it.” I put my right hand out toward him.

He stared at it with longing in his eyes, but kept his own hands clasped together around his knees. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It hurts too much.”

~

I awoke the next morning in Drew Larson’s guest bedroom. I’d finally gone to bed the night before, after hours of questioning myself about my own behavior, and his, without any answers revealing themselves.

Regardless, waking up in his guest room made me feel like a queen.

I’d been too sickly to examine my surroundings the previous day. Not only had I never experienced such luxury before, but I wouldn’t have known the first thi
ng
about how to create it.

The room couldn’t have been more perfect.
The fabrics were more feminine than in the other rooms of the apartment and had rich, royal colors like wine and gold, yet the decor didn’t seem overstated.

I caressed the soft comforter and thought about Drew’s older sister. Meridith seemed to have everything. From the chat we’d had at the diner, I knew she lived in the mansion that had belonged to her late father, the great-grandson of the city’s “founding father.” Meridith had spoken enthusiastically about her two children, and it sounded as though she had servants at her—and Drew’s—beck-and-call.

As if that wasn’t enough, Meridith had exquisite taste and radiated sophistication, sympathy and kindness, simultaneously. I was surprised that, for once, I wasn’t envious of someone else’s good fortune.

Maybe awakening in this wonderful room had changed my perspective on everything. I turned to one side, then the other, to feel the brush of the expensive bedding on my skin. It was so soft, it reminded me of when I was a little girl and daydreamed of sleeping in the clouds.

My eyes rested on the ornate little clock on the bedside table. It was seven-thirty. Soon Drew would expect me to appear downstairs and start making our “fake” wedding plans…or tell him I wouldn’t marry him at all. My stomach did a flip, but I wasn’t sure if it was at the thought of marrying him or of having to tell him I wouldn’t.

What am I going to say? Am I most bothered by the fact it would all be a sham, or the possibility that it might not really be a lie at all?

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t marry him.

But I was feeling
something.
Every time I was in the room with him, I felt him on every inch of my skin. He fascinated me, mesmerized me, and he was Drew Larson, convicted—

I couldn’t bring myself to finish the thought. Then, the other thought, the one I’d been holding at bay, crept into my consciousness…

I
didn’t believe it.

I thought of myself as a hard-boiled attorney who was never deluded about people. When I was in college, instead of watching soap operas in the afternoon like my roommates did, I went to the courthouse and sat in on trials. After a while, many of the lawyers, and even the judges, knew me by name. I’d lost count of how many days I’d spent in there, witnessing both civil and criminal trials. I watched with professional detachment, even though I wasn’t a professional, yet, taking mental note of the tactics the attorneys used and telling myself what I would do differently if I were trying the case. Never did I feel one whit of sympathy for the defendants in the criminal cases, no matter how strongly they proclaimed their innocence, or how well their lawyer’s argued it.

In fact, after everything I’d seen in my neighborhood growing up, I’d pretty much assumed they were all guilty of their crimes. But now, I couldn’t bring myself to believe this convicted felon, who had never once claimed he was innocent of his horrible act, was actually guilty.

I’d heard enough shrink’s testimonies to know he had experienced everything necessary in his life to mold him into the monster everyone, including Drew himself, thought he was. Yet, when I was with him, I couldn’t see it.

What’s happened to me?
Am I seeing him as he is, or is this just wishful thinking?

I sat up and buried my face in my hands. Since I was through reveling in my newfound luxury, I decided I might as well get up and take a shower. As I stepped out of my adjoining bathroom a few minutes later, I thought I heard voices downstairs, but decided it must have been the television.

After I dried my hair and put on some makeup, I was presented with a dilemma. Normally, I would dress in a polished, professional business suit to meet with a client. However, it now seemed silly, considering how I’d been lying in this client’s lap last night wearing only my nightgown.

I walked over to the closet and inspected the clothing I’d brought with me:
professional, very professional, ultra professional, jeans and t-shirts, sexy professional…
My eyes rested on the last option. I wanted to wear it for him.

At first glance, it was a traditional looking black pencil skirt that hit me above the knee, but instead of hanging straight down, it hugged the curves. The blouse I’d bought to wear with it was lavender with a satiny sheen, which I knew was striking against my skin. It had a bigger collar than average and, although it had buttons down the front, the first one was at my cleavage, leaving the top of the blouse open for speculation. I never would have admitted it at the time, but I fell in love with the outfit because I could visualize myself descending the staircase wearing it in the real-life version of
Dynasty
I had planned for myself. But although I’d purchased it some time before, I’d never had the nerve or occasion to wear it.

This was certainly not the time. I dismissed the outfit, thinking how ridiculous it would be to choose it when I wasn’t even certain what answer I was going to give Drew yet.

~

Thirty minutes later, I descended the stairs wearing a slim black skirt, low cut lavender blouse and the highest heels I owned, still not sure what had gotten into me.

Drew was sitting at the table. He had a fork in one hand and the newspaper in the other. When he looked up, the utensil froze halfway to his mouth. I thought he looked like a pop art sculpture: “Man with Fork.” He appeared unable to move or even blink until my feet descended the steps and touched the floor. Then he recovered, looked back at his paper, and murmured a greeting.

I was flattered, yet not completely satisfied because I was used to getting a little more direct attention from men. Since he hadn’t had the decency to compliment me after I’d gone all out, I found myself trying to goad him into it.

“Are you all right, Drew?” I asked with mock concern. “For a minute there, you looked like you weren’t breathing.”

“I was afraid you couldn’t make it down the steps with those shoes,” he replied. “I think shoes like those are only meant to be worn in a horizontal position. You’re not actually supposed to walk in them.”

A feeling of humiliation washed over me, but I couldn’t let him know it. “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind next time I wear them.”

He motioned to the seat across from him, so I sat down. “Do you eat bacon and eggs and stuff, or are you on some kind of skinny lawyer diet?”

Skinny?
I might qualify for “slender,” but “skinny”?
That was only one notch away from “scrawny.” Was that how he saw me? Great, I was even more self-conscious.

“I eat all the normal stuff.”

“How do you like your eggs?” He stood and picked up his plate.

“Scrambled.” I was grateful for any reprieve. Anything that would postpone the inevitable discussion. This was the most life-altering decision I’d made since junior high, because that was when I’d planned out my whole life. I’d followed the plan until the day I quit the firm.

A few minutes after he disappeared into the kitchen, Drew returned with a plate and set it down in front of me. It contained scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast with butter. I realized I really was hungry, despite the heavy feeling I’d had in the pit of my stomach all morning.

“Is there someone in there cooking this?” I wondered out loud.

“Just me,” he answered.

I began eating and was surprised at how quickly I cleaned the plate.

“Wow, do you always eat like that?” he asked.

“I think I’m in a calorie deficit from yesterday, and this is pretty good. How is it you know how to cook?”

“It was my prison job.”

“Oh.” I was sorry I asked. That was the last thing I wanted to talk about this morning.

He smiled, apparently pleased he’d made a fool of me. “Actually, I learned when I was a kid. Satan didn’t like to take care of me, and I didn’t want to live on cold hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches, so I taught myself to cook.”

So, the first distasteful statement was a joke, and the second heart-wrenching one was the truth. I wondered if I would ever get used to Drew’s weird sense of humor or his sudden bursts of brutal honesty.

Not knowing what else to say, I told the truth, too. “My dad wasn’t around and my mom…well, couldn’t take care of me much of the time, but it didn’t teach me any homemaking skills.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He appeared to be teasing me more than judging me, so I smiled at him.

It was as though my smile reminded him of something. His expression became more serious. He stood up and went back into the kitchen without a word. I patted my lips lightly with my napkin, placed it on the table, and scooted my chair back a few inches. I wondered if I should take my plate to the kitchen or wait until he finished whatever he was doing in there.