The Boots My Mother Gave Me (26 page)

“This girl has some imagination.” He playfully ran his hand over the top of her head. “We better put that one on the fridge, don’t ya think?”

“Yeah!” She quickly made her way to the refrigerator, proudly hanging the picture with magnets. Jeremiah looked at his fingernails, shook his head, and smiled.

Megan returned to him with a big hug. He reciprocated, putting his arms around her. She ran back to me and did the same. “Love you, Aunt Harley.”

“I love you, too, sweet thing.”

Taking Kat’s hand, she said, “See you later, Uncle Miah.” Jeremiah was quite a mouthful for a five-year old, but since when had she advanced from Miah to Uncle Miah?

Kat gave me a peck on the cheek, grinning in her mischievous little way. “A girl can wish,” she said, quickly scurrying Megan out the door.

Painfully aware I remained alone with him, I blurted, “I’m just here to pack my things. I’m going to take everything to Kat’s, and leave from there in the morning. You’re fine to stay by yourself tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You’re welcome to stay. There’s no sense in packing to go over there, and pack it up again in the morning.” He stood from the sofa. I had no reply. “Do whatever you need to do, Harley,” he dismissed, running his fingers through his hair, leaving the room.

“I
will
do what I need to do,” I muttered under my breath, making my way upstairs to the spare bedroom, where I began packing my things. I pulled the drawers from the dresser, hurriedly dumping their contents into my suitcase.
Six-hours,
I reminded myself, referring to my time back to the city.

I heard the water running in the bathroom down the hall. Assured he was taking a shower, I hastily carried my suitcases, as many as I could at a time, and loaded them into Charlene. “‘Do whatever you need to do, Harley,’ that’s what he said,” I talked to Charlene, just a car to some, a confidant to me. “Running his fingers through his hair.” I shut her door, heading back in the house for my last suitcase.

As I neared the top of the stairs, the water quit running in the bathroom. Sure he finished his shower, I barged through the door. “And just exactly what do you mean by...” I stopped short of my complete question, my senses instantly taking a beating.

He was not taking a shower. He soaked in the bathtub; the same bathtub I had grown accustomed to while staying there, an old claw foot tub, wide and deep. It provided the most relaxing, enjoyable bath. I wanted to take that tub home with me. And there he was, all lathered up, smack dab in the middle of it.

The ceiling lights were dim, the room moist from humidity. My ears locked in on the sound of the water dripping slowly from the spigot as it made a tiny splash into the tub below. The smell, a mixture of ivory and aloe, soap and shaving cream, appealed to me, very basic, masculine. I could feel myself crumbling, warm in the pit of my being at the sight of him, his hair wet, his skin glistening. I closed my eyes, shaking my head, as if I could erase the image so deeply engrained in my mind.

Reviving, “‘Do whatever you need to do,’” I quoted him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I focused on his face, trying to ignore the fact it was attached to his body, his naked body, every blissful inch of it.

He stood up from the tub. Yes, that’s what he did. He simply stood up, brandishing himself, as if it were no big deal, like he was an exhibit I had come to see. “There was no hidden message. Do what you have to do,” he replied, hastily wrapping a towel around his bottom half.

“It’s not what you said. It’s how you said it, your tone. If you’ve got something to say, go ahead.”

“You don’t want to hear what I have to say.” He stepped out of the tub.

“Try me,” I challenged smugly, folding my arms one over the other.

“Quit pushing me, Harley.”

I stood there inside the doorway.
Who did he think he was, my savior?
“I’ve had it with this protective thing you’ve got going on. Self-righteous doesn’t look very good on you. You think I can’t handle what you have to say?”

“You want to know what I’m thinking, do ya?” He pulled the plug from the bath, allowing the water to drain. He stood purposefully, walking to me with intent. “Do you love him?”

“He has a name, Xander.” Jeremiah always referred to him as
him.

“I don’t care to know his name. I said, do you love him?” He stepped closer to me. I stepped back. “I want to know why you can’t stand to be close to me?” He backed me up, until my back pushed against the wall with nowhere else to turn. He slipped his arm around behind me, his mouth hovering over mine. My breathing instantly quickened, I moaned as he pulled me closer, making full contact with his body. “Does he affect you the way I do? Do you love him?”

“Yes,” I forced the word from my mouth as a shield.

“Still lying to yourself,” he said, taking his arm from me, he turned around, walked back to the sink, and propped himself against it.

“Why bother asking if you’re going to tell me how I feel?”

“Somebody has to, Harley. You’re scared to admit how you really feel, always have been.”

“You’re stuck in the past. You’ve got me pegged for that confused, scared little girl I used to be. I’m not that girl anymore, Jeremiah. What do I have to do to prove that?” My voice grew louder. “For crying out loud, I’m engaged!” I threw my hand up, showing him the ring. “Doesn’t that say something? What do I have to do to prove I’m done running? That I’m making a real effort here?” I slapped by hand against the wall behind me.

“I am not stuck in the past. And you’re not done running. You’re running scared right now. Look at ya.” He threw his arms out in my direction. “It’s written all over your face. You can’t get away from me fast enough. And
Xander”
he quoted his name disdainfully. “That poor sap. You’ll run from him, too.”

“I will not,” I defended. “If I wanted to run from Xander, I would have done it by now. I had ample opportunity over the past few weeks. I could’ve jumped in bed with you, but I didn’t. I made a promise.”

“You could’ve jumped in bed with me, huh? Like I’ve got no other options. I’m just waiting around for Harley to say the word.” He paced, running his fingers agitatedly through his hair. “Tell me something. How can you make promises you know you can’t keep? You think you promised this guy your heart, when it’s not even yours to give. You gave it away years ago, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Oh, and let me guess, I gave it away to you? You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself,” I said, walking from the room as the conversation ventured into uncomfortable territory.

“I can see how well you’ve stopped running,” he called after me, as I made my way to the bedroom to collect the last of my things.

On my way back down the hall, I looked into the bathroom. He sat on the counter beside the sink, his head leaning back against the mirror. I put my suitcase down in the doorway at my feet, thinking about what I could say to smooth over the situation. I didn’t want to leave things this way, not with him.

He turned his face to me. His eyes reflected my insides, painfully damaged. “You think I can’t feel it,” he spoke somberly. “Every time you’re close to me. You want me, but you don’t. You give a little then you take it away. How do you do that? You get close to me, I want you. I hear your voice, I want you. You look at me and I want you. You do things to me, Harley-girl. You move me, affect me, in here,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I don’t know how you do it, push me away. I’ve tried to push you away. Talk myself out of you. Get you out of me. But it never works. You’re just there. It’s always been you.”

And that did it. I was done. Done lying, done pretending, done pushing. I went to him, taking the ring off my left hand, laying it on the counter beside him. I knew what this meant, what I was doing, throwing away my future with Xander. Completely cognizant of my choice, I was prepared to face the consequences. I could bear that. What I could not bear was leaving here without giving myself to him, and taking a piece of him with me. I had always been his, as he was mine. I took his hand, leading him into his bedroom. Neither of us assumed any future beyond tonight; he knew I would be gone in the morning.

His hospital bed, removed days ago, had been replaced with his bed, the same one he had when I used to climb up the fire escape. Tonight, he would share it with me, no sleeping in the rocking chair. I removed his towel, the only thing separating his flesh from my own, gently coaxing him down on the bed. I stood in front of him, pulling every stitch of clothing from my body, no need to drag it out. He saw it all before.

He swallowed hard, looking at me, all of me, as he slid his arms around my waist, pulling me to him, his lips meeting my stomach. I ran my fingers firmly through his hair before kneeling in front of him, replacing my abdomen with my lips, reveling in his taste.

I moaned with the contact, the release, as I had wanted to kiss him for the past month. His lips felt full, his mouth moist, hot, arousing. I coaxed him onto the bed, flat on his back, as I did not want him to do anything to strain it. He was recovering so well. His hands busied themselves with my body as I kissed my way down his, following that happy little trail to its end. I looked up at him, his eyes mesmerizing, provocative. I wanted him. He throbbed, hard and ready.

I took him in my mouth, causing him to groan, pushing his shoulders back into the bed, his hands wound in my hair. I continued, enjoying every sound, every move he made. I wanted to please him beyond reason, until he had all he could stand. Nearing that point, he pulled me up to him, his breathing fast and ragged. His eyes searched mine, reciprocal in their desire.

“You gotta slow down.” With total disregard for his plea, I kissed him crushingly, urgent, committed as I guided him into me. I didn’t want to slow down. I wanted him as fast as I could get there. It had been three long years since I had him last, and it would be complete torture to wait any longer. I needed him, now.

“God, you feel good,” he groaned, feeling me around him, wet and warm. I rocked against him slowly, taking him every time, all of him. “Harley,” he warned, steadying my hips.

“Let it go, Miah,” I hovered over him, one hand supporting my weight, as I stroked his hair with the other. “I’m ready.” He looked at me dubiously through sex-laden eyes. “That’s what you do to me,” I confessed.

“I love you,” he lamented, as if he wished he didn’t, before pulling my mouth to his. I cried out with the severity of his kiss, biting down lightly on his lip. I stayed there above him, my eyes steadily reflecting the look in his, hungry.

“Aw, baby,” he whispered. He was almost there. I sat upright, taking him definitively until he had no other option but to release himself inside me, as I, in turn, came to him rapidly in full contentment.

My mind slowly returning to itself, my body quivered. “I love you...I love you...I love you,” I whispered, unable to keep my mouth from expelling those three little words. My body collapsed to his chest, as he pulled the blankets up over us. His arms, strong, familiar, the two things in life that made me feel safe and secure beyond compare. This man, he was my friend, my love, my muse, and my hero. The world could have ended that night, and I would have perished completely and utterly fulfilled.

M
orning found me New York bound, once again on the run. I cried the entire way, my
almond,
apparently on vacation. Seems I cried a lot lately. I was a wreck. Leaving Jeremiah again, facing Xander, and Gram’s passing, taxed my emotions. My once dysfunctional family finally functional, I felt like the dysfunctional one. I had completely lost me while attempting to find myself.

I quit my job at the hospital, returned the engagement ring to Xander, and left the city as fast as I could. Xander was willing to forgive, forget, and move forward. I can’t believe he still wanted to marry me, after I betrayed him so. I declined, fully convinced he deserved better. Jeremiah was right, I couldn’t promise Xander anything, certainly not my heart.

I did give it away years ago. I didn’t intend to. I had no plan to give it away, no recollection of it, really, until the words came out of Jeremiah’s mouth. And why couldn’t I admit that to him? Why wouldn’t I?

Sure, I was who I was because of, in spite of—however you want to look at it—my father, my upbringing, and my environment, coupled with all of my experiences. We all are, right? But I made my own choices. I was who I was, because I chose to be so. Why did I always fight my own heart? Why did I push against what it wanted?

I wanted to succeed in life, maybe even love, acting as though I could have it all, but never truly believing I would. I was a prime example of someone who tried hard and wanted to make things happen, but never dared to believe those things would actually happen for me. I never believed it when I sat alone in the quiet of the moment, when it really mattered.

Afraid to go for it, all the way, what if I put it out there and someone didn’t like it? I was so easily inclined to believe that one person who thought I wasn’t good enough. I wanted to please everybody.

I allowed myself to dream while disbelieving it could actually become reality. I always had a Plan B, as if my Plan A were automatically doomed to failure. I assumed I would need something, anything, to fall back on. When would I ever believe I was enough, that I deserved what I wanted out of life?

What the hell did I really want? What do you do when you want to do everything? What do you do when you can’t find that one, special little thing you just know you were born to do?

Sometimes I felt like a lost soul, searching for something to hold me, affect me, keep me, something I could dedicate myself to because I couldn’t imagine life without it. Isn’t that what a person is supposed to find, that one thing that drives them? Was I so used to detachment I refused to dedicate my life to something, anything?

Or was I too scared of the commitment it takes? I had the attention span of a two-year-old, jumping from one thing to another. Sometimes I even caught myself in the act, getting close to something, things starting to go my way, and I would find some reason to jump ship, changing my mind about what I wanted to do, sabotaging my own efforts.