The Romance Novel Cure (8 page)

— and landed in her bed in the cottage by the marshlands. She sobbed with relief, not letting go of Silas’s hand.

“Where —? How on earth?”

“I brought you home with me,” she said, her voice shaking. “Figured we were up to our third date by now.”

She opened her eyes to see Silas looking down at her, wonder in his eyes.

“How?” he whispered again.

“You think I’d let the man of my dreams go? Just like that?” she whispered back. “I found my power. It took — it took almost losing you.”

“Do you have any idea,” he asked, anguish drawn in heavy lines on his features, “how many times I’ve lost you? My soul knows the cost of these losses, Sera.” His hands traced her face and his lips pressed kisses on her brow…

* * *

Greta was silent. I waited.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered.

“You’re sure you don’t want to get some sleep?” I asked softly.

Ben’s face was pale; dark circles beneath his eyes.

“I can’t,” he said. “Are you tired of reading?”

I shifted uncomfortably. Read the next part? I took a deep breath. I read:

* * *

Sera reached up and held his jaw, tracing his scar, caressing his neck and slipping her fingers into the neck of his silk shirt. He reached up and pulled it off.

“Everything, everything,” murmured Sera, “all of it — off.”

He pulled off his boots and trousers and stretched on top of her, burying his head in her neck, pulling her shirt up so he could touch the smooth, warm skin of her belly.

“I’m shaking,” whispered Sera.

“You should rest,” said Silas, gritting his teeth. He knew the power she expended had been monumental. He must put her needs before his passion for her.

“Please,” she said softly, “I need you, right now, so much.”

Silas began to remove her clothing, carefully and gently, restraining himself. He said a swift prayer of thanksgiving, kissing her shoulders and stroking her arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips.

“You came back for me, Sera, you saved me. You dreamed me into living, into your world,” whispered Silas, into her hair, kissing her jawline and down onto her neck.

“I love you,” she said in a small voice.

Silas stopped, frozen. He felt his heart crack.

“I love you, too. Always,” he rasped…

* * *

I read the rest until I just couldn’t – it was too much. I swallowed, my mouth dry. I took a sip of cold tea from Ben’s cup.

“Damn,” he whispered.

I blushed.

He turned his head and squinted at me. “Are you blushing?”

I placed the backs of my palms on my cheeks. They were burning. “I sure am.”

“I think I am, too.”

Ben looked so handsome in the dim light, his cheeks flushed. I couldn’t believe how gorgeous his shoulders, chest, and back were, when I’d seen him for the first time in so long, without a shirt. All long, lean, defined muscle. When did that happen? I wondered what his legs looked like.

I shifted, crossing my legs, leaning against the bed, looking up at him.

“I don’t think I can read anymore,” I said softly. “Do you think you can sleep?”

“I know what I’ll dream about,” smiled Ben, sleepily.

“Silas and Sera?” I whispered.

“No way.”

I caught my breath at that. I didn’t know what to say. “Sweet dreams. Let me know if you need anything. I hope you feel better.” I left the doors to our bedrooms open.

I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

In the morning, I cracked one eye open, and moaned in relief. I opened and shut my eyes a few times. No more pain.

I got ready for work. Greta had left some gluten free oatmeal for me, in the fridge, with a drawing on the napkin that covered the bowl. There was a simple drawing of an open book, and a heart on the pages. I leaned back against the counter, grinning, and ate every bite. The drawing gave me an idea.

Work was a blur of catching up, yoga, lunch, frantically catching up and finally it was 5:30.

“I say make, you say over,” chanted Scott, coming into the cubicle area. “Make!”

“Over!” shouted Laura and Alma.

“Make!”

“Over!”

“Oh, brother,” I sunk my head into my hands. What had I gotten myself into? Then I looked down at my old cargo pants and layered, baggy tee shirts and stood up, holding my arms out to the side. “Project Make Over Ben begins!”

I had texted Greta first thing after I got to work, when I realized that the make over plan was on. All I said was that I had plans after work with Scott, Alma, and Laura and would check in. She had texted back at lunch with an x and an o, which, I’m not ashamed to admit, made my knees weak.

“First stop, my place,” said Scott, as we headed for the parking lot.

We piled into Scott’s jeep and were at his house in the northeast quadrant, in a small, gated community, in several minutes. Patrick greeted us with hugs and ushered us into the kitchen, where he had an assortment of hot and cold appetizers set out.

“These are all gluten free, and these over here are dairy free too. I’ve written labels. See, these have aged gouda, the only ones with dairy, okay?” Patrick looked at the trays and platters, making little adjustments.

“Thanks, wow, everything looks so good. Whoa, did you write in calligraphy?”

He just waved his hand as though it were no big deal.  Sparkling water and virgin sangria were passed around.

“So, here’s my brilliant idea,” said Patrick, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin. “You may have noticed that I’ve had my own make over thing going on and am now extremely buff.”

We all made admiring remarks while Laura and Alma grasped his biceps and rubbed his shoulders.

“To be honest, it has been a way to cope with all the adoption drama and heartache,” he said, softly.

“I’m sorry it has been so hard,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t been more aware of what had been going on.

“Thanks. We still have hope. Well, so anyway,” continued Patrick briskly, “I have all these fabulous clothes that don’t fit my new, muscular frame. I would love to pass them down to you if you don’t mind hand me downs. I think we’re similar sizes, I mean, my pre gym addict size, anyway.”

“Thanks, wow, sure,” I stammered.

We all followed him into their bedroom, where Patrick gestured to stacks of pants, shirts, and sweaters. He worked as a manager at a local fabric store, and taught some sewing classes there, and had majored in theater arts at UNM, focusing on costume design.

“Try these on,” he said, taking a few items of clothing and separating them from the rest, and then come on out to the living room so we can plan alterations.”

Alterations? This guy meant business.

Feeling embarrassed, I shut the door and tried on the pants, tee shirt, and sweater. I thought everything fit fine. The tee shirt felt so much thicker and heavier and somehow stretchier than any of my tee shirts, and the sweater felt incredibly light and soft. It was a reddish brown color. I went into the living room. Everyone stopped talking and looked at me. I crossed my arms, feeling that old dread of being looked at that had been with me for so long.

“Hop up here,” said Patrick, placing a chair in the center of the room. He held a fabric measuring tape.

I stood on the chair, and then Patrick and Scott began speaking in what sounded like code.

“Flat front. And the
fit
. What a difference.”

“I know, right?”

“Who knew he had
shoulders
?”

“The break, right here?”

“But he doesn’t have shoes on.”

“Okay.”

They had me put my shoes on, then I got back up. The measuring and muttering continued.

“Seriously, we could be twins, except I’m three fourths of an inch longer in the legs,” said Patrick. “Did I call it or what?”

“You’ve got that eye,” said Scott, admiringly.

“That’s why you married me,” said Patrick. “Did you know him before he met me? Did you see how he dressed?”

“The pants seem fine to me,” I said. “Thanks so much.”

“I will be feverishly hemming them, like those mice in that Beatrix Potter story,” he said, “they need to break just so over your shoes or I’ll be unable to focus on anything else. Ever again. I’ll be rocking in some corner, mewling softly.”

“Just let him, he means it,” smiled Scott, kissing his husband on the cheek lingeringly.

“Next stop, haircut!” said Laura.

“I usually go to Speedy Snips,” I said.

“Mmm hmm,” replied Laura neutrally as we got into the jeep again. “We’re going to stop by my salon. My friend Camille owns it. She has been cutting my hair since college.”

Next thing I knew, we were in front of a small hair salon by the university, in the Brick Light District. Camille, a short woman with a short, choppy hairstyle, was holding the door open and smiling. Within moments, I was wrapped in a cape and getting my hair washed, which I felt really awkward about, and then I was sitting in front of a mirror, with four people in earnest discussion around me. Camille tilted my chair back, placed a towel over my eyes, and then I felt something warm and sticky being wiped between my eyebrows. Then something like a cloth was pressed onto it. I smelled some sort of beeswax scent and then:
ouch
. The heck? My chair was raised back up, the towel removed from my eyes, and I was peering into the mirror, my eyes smarting. The skin between my eyebrows was red, and now hairless. Camille delicately smoothed some kind of green lotion on the red skin.

“Don’t even begin to complain,” said Alma. “Just think of these two words. Bikini. Wax.”

I cringed.

Alma nodded solemnly, tilting her head to the side, her expression stony, holding her arms out wide, all tough. I laughed and she grinned, her eyes sparkling.

“The volume,” said Camille, agreeing with something that Scott and Laura were saying. She turned the chair so that it faced away from the mirror. Then, my friends stepped back, sitting on what looked like a couch from the forties, and Camille got very quiet, snipping her scissors and circling me. I didn’t know if I should make conversation or be quiet, so I chose the latter. In silence, Camille began cutting my hair quickly, seeming to enter some sort of zone. Finally she stepped back, set the scissors down, and smiled.

“Come on over,” she called to the three on the couch, and they scrambled up. She turned my chair toward the mirror.

Laura, Alma, and Scott let out breaths they’d been holding, and smiled.

“There it is,” murmured Laura. “The haircut his hair needed, all this time.”

“Right?” said Alma.

“Sending picture to Patrick,” muttered Scott as he held his phone up. “Brava, Camille. Brava.”

“Aw, shucks,” grinned Camille.

“Thank you,” I said earnestly. I didn’t know anything about haircuts, but my hair was a lot shorter now, and sleeker. There weren’t any parts sticking up and puffing out, they way there usually were.

“I will see you in six to eight weeks, preferably six.” Camille handed me a card. I reached for my wallet.

“All taken care of,” said Laura, and Scott and Alma nodded.

“What? No, guys, thanks!” I felt a wave of gratitude, that I had friends like these, who would care enough to help me.

On the way back to Scott’s house, he cranked up the volume on the radio and they sang loudly to the chorus of Jason Derulo’s “
Talk Dirty to Me
.”

I just grinned, sat back, and watched them.

At Scott’s house, Patrick opened the door and put his hand to his heart.

“Oh, that picture did not do him justice! Come in, let me look at you. Yeah, that works.” He gestured to a pile of clothing. “I’ve got the sweaters folded, with cedar and lavender between them. I know you’ll give them a good home. I know you will never, ever hang them up.”

I promised, but something in my face must have given him cause for concern.

“It would stretch them out! They’re
cashmere
!”

I promised, with more conviction, this time.

“I got a few of the pants hemmed, and will finish the rest and get them to you, soon.”

I thanked him. He waved my words away.

We drove back to the parking lot, and I thanked my friends again.

“Just remember,” called Scott, as I got into my car, “cleanly shaved
neck
!”