To Catch a Falling Star (22 page)

Strong arms swiftly sweep me off the ground. Before I have time to react, I recognize Tarry’s citric scent.

“Let me take you home,” he says quietly. He gazes down at me and his eyes emanate tenderness and worry.

I want to fight him. But I don’t. His gentleness undoes me. Besides, my capability of a sane judgment is impaired at this moment, clouded by untrusting emotions. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I feel weak. Exhaustion seeps through my bones and soul. So, silently, I let him carry me home.

I’M AN INSENSITIVE piece of shit. Really, I am. Mel’s sobbing, etched with pain, hurts the fucking hell out of me. Her body, frail and delicate, quivers inside my arms. Her hair, spilling over my shoulder, emanates her scent. Unconsciously, my body stirs to life. Weirdly, I want more of her. No, I need her. It kills me that the need is not reciprocated. Yeah, she reacted like fire when kissing the face of gasoline. But that was it for her. A fire kindled for a carnal need. Mel relinquished to my constant bombarding of her.

I can’t bring myself to regret what I did, but seeing Mel this broken pierces my conscience. A novelty, I never felt this turmoil of emotions toward anyone. A strange sense of remorse swamps me. These foreign emotions, crash head-on with the certainty that this was the best sex I’ve ever had.

Sex with Mel was fucking unexplainable. It was the closest to nirvana that I’ve ever achieved. Any drugs I’ve used merely imitate the high I had while moving inside her. Consequently, no other sex I’ve had—and I’ve had plenty—came remotely close to the wholeness of uniting my body with Mel’s.

Why, then, does it hurt?

Pathetic doesn’t describe me as I waited for her to return home from her date with the douche. The feeling grinding inside my chest is foreign and unbidden. Fuck. It pisses me that she chose him, even though I begged her to stay.

With long strides, I get to the Jeep, and place Mel on the passenger seat. She avoids making eye contact with me, which stings. But I try not to think about my screwed up feelings. At this moment, I just want to sooth the broken woman before me.

Silently, I drive the short distance to her house. I park in the driveway and open the door for her. She feebly steps onto the pavement. Before she protests, I scoop her into my arms. Without a peep, she hides her face on my shoulder, but her body trembles slightly.

Opening the back door, I carry her inside, heading straight upstairs. Instinctively, I head down the hall and enter her room. Grateful, I spot the queen bed bathed under the moonlight coming through the window.

I settle her on the bed, remove her shoes, and pull the covers over her shaking body. For the first time since I saw her at the graveyard, Mel’s stare meets mine.

Life harbors surprises. In my case, they make rare appearances. But what happens next astonishes me.

Behind her lush lashes, Mel’s eyes are clouded and teary. Her lips tremble when she speaks. “Tarry, please don’t go yet. I don’t want to be alone.”

I search her vulnerable eyes and identify undiluted loneliness in them. A realization hits me, the deep abyss of sadness I see engrained deep in her soul, matches my very own.

Unwilling and unable to refuse what she offers, I kick my shoes off, and lie next to her small frame. Our bodies fit together perfectly. She presses her soft curves against me and I know, at this very moment, a small part of me belongs to her. The awareness is troublesome because I suspect the particular piece to be my very own heart. I inhale deeply, knowing that the whole of me will soon follow and surrender to the woman inside my embrace. The implication of the sudden knowledge strikes me with nuclear power. I’m falling for this woman, who refuses to belong to anyone other than her deceased husband. I have a dead man as a rival.

Pushing the fears and doubts away, I barricade them in a corner of my heart. I focus on being present in the moment, which is a luxury stolen from me during my long years enslaved to drugs. Burying my face in her hair, I inhale deeply and relish on the incomparable thrill of holding her.

For most of my life, I’ve dedicated to chasing after some nameless shit to obliterate the ache on my soul. I found something better. Mel sighs inside my embrace. And it is the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard.

BEFORE I OPEN my eyes, images from the previous evening, tumble through my sluggish mind. Fearful of finding Tarry by my side, I keep my eyes closed. The morning is quiet. The air smells faintly of him. It’s a novelty. My bed used to smell of outdoors and soap, Tim’s scent. Redirecting my thoughts, I risk opening my eyes. Disappointment melded with relief runs through my body. The other side of the bed is empty.

I glance at the bedside clock. It’s five thirty. It’s too early to collect Ella from Will’s, so I allot myself another half hour in bed.

Daylight, pouring through sheer curtains, floods my room with warmth and light. Vibrant colors pulse from the maple tree, as its leaves sway gaily, like the fluttering of little butterflies’ wings. Soon, these branches will be bare, but right now, they’re breathtakingly sublime. Everything in life has a designated season.

Musing on my journey since Tim’s death, I wonder if I’m allowing the natural flow of grief to run its course through my life. I’ve tried to surround Ella and I with little things and actions to keep us happy. But Tim is a constant. In a way I impose his desolate presence as a way of honoring him. Today I wonder if these artifices are only distracting us from the crude reality of not having Tim near us.

The thought is sobering, but daunting. Ella deserves better than to live imprisoned by my memories of her dad. I love—and always will love—him. I want her to love him as well. But is this obsession healthy for either of us? Can we continue to live in the world I created, where his presence lingers and hinders us from experimenting with new things and new people? To which extent should I reinforce his obsolete presence, when it stagnates our lives?

In the midst of my mourning, I allowed the line to blur. For the first time since his death, I question the motivation behind the barrier I raised around me and, in a certain way, around Ella. I sadly conclude that I’m selfish. Fear and passivity keeps me from living my life. The worst part is, without realizing, I trapped Ella with me.

My mind reels, overwhelmed with a swirl of never-ending questions. Knowing I won’t be able to unscramble all the jumbled thoughts, I swing my legs off the bed and stride to the bathroom. My half hour is up.

The glow of after sex clings to the tiles of the bathroom. Exasperated, I shake my head. I need to learn to stop overthinking things. I climb under a jet of scalding water. Slowly, the shower appeases the confusion of my agitated nerve endings.

I close my eyes and thoughts of Tarry’s skilled fingers flood my mind. Even considering my limited experience, I suspect that the man has mastered the lovemaking task as no one else. Unfortunately, my female instinct hints that now that he has gotten inside my panties he won’t bother to glance my way. The thought slashes my chest. Call me naïve, but I want to believe in a connection deeper than raw and primal sex.

Tim and I married as virgins. Please don’t judge. I’m the daughter of a pastor. Tim respected my abstinence. Our first night could’ve been a disaster had not Tim researched with friends and books about the sealed secrets of a bedroom. He bought a book called
A Hundred and One Sex Positions.
Well, we did our homework and the result was a spicy bedroom life that would make the proper ladies at our church blush.

Tim was an apt sexual partner. Everything about our intimacy was deliciously perfect. He had this mixture of bad boy and gentle. The combination made him excel in the art of mating. We knew every nook and curve on each other’s bodies, every like and dislike, and the secret triggers.

I know I shouldn’t do it, but I’m comparing what happened last night with my prior sexual experience. I want to understand the difference. I conclude: It was not better, nor worse. Just different.

Tarry had been consumed with a degree of desperation. His eyes had begged. They penetrated inside my soul in a way Tim never had to. Tim knew me too well.

I scramble out of the shower and dry my hair. I open the medicine cabinet and swallow my birth control pill. After Tim died, I found myself depressed, which got severe around my menstrual cycle. My gynecologist insisted that I remain on birth control for the hormones or take an antidepressant. I opted for continuing on the pills. I’m so relieved. Tarry and I were reckless last night. I hope Tarry is clean. The man is very sexually active.

Naked, I set my iPhone on the same playlist as yesterday and scrub the bathroom until it is spotless.

Satisfied with cleaning the bathroom, I don a comfortable pair of jeans, a tank top, and a black cardigan. I gather a knitted scarf and tie an elaborate knot to hide the hickey Tarry left. Note to self: Keep the scarf on, no matter what. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I decide to apply some mascara and lip gloss. All the while, I fiercely attempt to convince myself that the possibility of meeting Tarry has no influence on the sudden care over my appearance.

Having had sex with Tarry changed something inside me. I’m uncertain to the extent or dynamic of the change. But the surge of new emotions makes me giddy. I embrace the feeling. It is far better than the guilt and sadness of last night.

Considering the way I’ll handle the new me, I drive to Will’s house to pick up Ella. At the spur of the moment, I stop at Starbucks and indulge myself with a cup of coffee and a scone, courtesy of Tarry. With a wistful smile, I hand the one thousand dollar card that Tarry generously donated to Larry, to the drive-through cashier. I might as well use it since Larry is no longer with us. His body finally succumbed to the unforgiving hold of cancer. The day I heard of his passing, I tried to return the gift card to Tarry, but he had refused to take it back.

Along the road to the farm, the lake entices me to stop and admire its beauty and splendor. I park facing the glacial water and savor the rich coffee. I split the scone in half and toss crumbs to the ducks, expectantly loitering near the car. The water reflects a smudged orange and red from the trees. It is glorious.