18. Straight From the Hip…
18
Straight From the Hip…
Paige
I lay wide awake under the light of a small bedside lamp, listening to the sound of Mac brushing his teeth in the bathroom across the hall. He’s also humming a little tune, which is both sort of endearing and terrifying at the same time. Endearing because it’s a happy song, which means he’s happy to be here, which I have to assume means he’s no longer annoyed by my ‘high-maintenance’ self (which I’m not). Although that may not be accurate. I did give him a hefty portion of vodka, so it could be that he’s feeling good because of that, and that alone.
It’s terrifying because what if he’s picking up what I’m putting down and he’s actually going to make a move? In my fantasies, it would be an earth-moving, toe-curling, rocking good time, but the reality might be totally different. After all, I get the feeling he’s done this a lot, and he knows all the moves, whereas, I’ve had limited (and disappointing) results in the bedroom, and as I’m lying here under the sheet, waiting for him to come to bed (come to bed? Gah!), I’m suddenly freaking out. What if the reason the sex was bad was because I’m just bad at it? What if we get started and I screw it up and it’s horrible and awkward and he never wants to go near me again and we’re stuck here for another twenty-five years just trying to avoid eye contact.
Why? Why did I leave his things in the rain? Stupid, Paige. Stupid.
Now I’m also rethinking my choice of sleepwear, a pajama set I got for free when we did a campaign for Nordstrom, consisting of a pair of satin shorts and a tank top in a light pink with a lacy trim. It’s the sexiest thing I own, and after a couple of iced teas, I felt brave enough to throw it on, but now that he’s about to stroll in here and get into this bed—which I suddenly realize is teeny tiny—I think I’d be better off in an oversized t-shirt and baggy pants. That would send the message that I meant what I said and we’re just here to get a good night’s rest. Whereas this outfit makes it look like I’m trying too hard. As if I planned the whole thing, which I have a feeling he suspects already anyway based on that little smirk he’s been wearing all evening.
I should change. Really quickly before he comes in. Do I have time? I don’t think I have time!
I stop breathing, trying to hear what he’s doing just in case it helps me to figure out how long he’ll be.
Oh my God, what am I doing?
If I’m going to change out of these come-hither pajamas, I need to act now, before it’s too late.
I throw off the sheet and hop over to my suitcase, which is laying in the far corner of the room. Rifling through it, I find a big tee with a picture of Bugs Bunny and the words, “That’s all folks! Time to sleep!” on it. Yes! Very unsexy.
I continue digging around until I see my yoga pants. Too tight. They’ll keep me up all night. What can I wear for bottoms? Heart pounding. Dig, dig, dig. Listen for the bathroom door opening. Dig, dig, dig. Why is there nothing?!
Okay, calm down. Just change your shirt and jump back into bed. The shorts aren’t a big deal. I rip my tank top off and toss it in the suitcase, only to hear the bathroom door open. Gah! NO!!!!! He’s going to see me!
I fumble with the t-shirt, but it’s too late—the bedroom door swings open and I’m standing in the corner topless. I manage to hold the shirt in front of my chest, not knowing how much he saw, but based on the look on his face, I’m guessing it was an eyeful. Maybe two. Shit. Well, that backfired. So much for being modest. “Oh, whoops!” I let out a chuckle. Shoot me now. “I was just too … hot in my other top.” As in too hot to trot.
“Sorry, I should’ve knocked,” he says, his eyes sweeping over me. “I just assumed you’d be asleep already and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“No, it’s all good. I’m wide awake,” I tell him with a little shrug. “So, anyhoo, I should finish putting this on.”
“Right,” he says with a nod. “Just call when you’re ready for me.” He winces, then says, “To come in. When you’re ready for me to come in.”
He quickly closes the door behind him and I shut my eyes for a second, trying to block out the embarrassment coursing through me. I tug Bugs over my head and hop over to the bed. After I climb in, I make sure I’m as far to the edge of the bed as possible and pull the sheet up to my chin. “Okay, it’s safe to come in now!”
Oh yeah, you are so not having sex with that sexy, sexy man. Not tonight. Not ever. Which is probably a good thing, for all of the aforementioned reasons, including me being crap in the sack. Well, maybe. I actually have no idea .
Mac opens the door again, shirtless as promised, and I can tell he’s trying not to grin as he crosses the small room. He turns away and sits down, the bed dipping under the weight of his body. Then he lifts his legs and slides them under the sheet. Everything he does is swift and purposeful, and makes me want to roll onto my side to face him, then reach over and run my fingertips up and down his arm. But I don’t. Instead, I carefully reach as little of my right arm out from under the covers as possible to shut off the lamp. Then I lay here, listening to the silence that grows louder each second that neither of us speaks.
It’s as if we both are suddenly keenly aware of what a mistake this was. We don’t know each other. Not well, anyway. And this could be a turning point, a pivotal moment for us, only it’s a pivot we shouldn’t make. But I really, really, really want to pivot. With every red-hot cell in my body. My hands are itching to reach out and touch him. My lady business is calling to me, “Get it, girl. This is the best idea you’ve ever had!”
Say something, idiot. Anything. No, not anything. Something smart. Sassy. Sexy. Fun. Brilliant . Ooh, that’s way too much pressure. “Umm, well, thanks so much for all your hard work today with our ad campaign.”
Oh. My. God. That’s what you came up with?
“Oh, yeah, you too. Really great stuff today. And thanks for supper,” he answers. I can tell by his voice that he’s turned his head toward me. “It was delicious.”
We’re both quiet again, then finally, I say, “You were right.”
“About what?”
“About this being weird. Now that we’re lying here, I realize it does feel a little odd to share a bed with someone you’re not in a relationship with.”
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, his deep voice doing all the things to me that it shouldn’t. “It’s okay if you want me to leave. I won’t be offended.”
“No, I don’t,” I tell him, which is the God’s honest truth. “I just thought it was the elephant in the room and so if I brought it up, maybe it would get smaller. Or go away. Not that I don’t like elephants. I do. But … just … you know what I mean.”
He chuckles a little, then says, “I think so, yeah.” He turns to face me, and I can just make out the outline of his body in the dim light. “I haven’t slept with a woman like this since I was married.”
“Really? I thought you had lots of women all the time.”
“No, not all the time. Just sometimes. But what I mean is, I haven’t gone to bed with a woman with the intention of just sleeping since I was married. Toward the end, that was the only reason either of us got into bed.”
Oh, the disappointment. That was a cold slap of water to my chocha. “Did you like being married?”
“Some things,” Mac answers, his voice sounding a little sad. “I was young and totally naive about the whole thing going in. To be honest, I think I liked the idea of it more than the actual institution itself.”
Institution . Spoken like a man who’s been burned. “Huh. And what was the idea of it for you?”
“Having someone I knew was just mine, and that wanted me to be just hers.” He shifts a little, causing the sheet to tug me in his direction ever so slightly. “That felt good. “After my mom died, I never felt like I belonged to anyone. My grandpa was terrific—he really stepped up—but he wasn’t exactly a hands-on type of caregiver.”
My heart aches as I listen to him talk. “Do you remember much about your mom?”
“Not too much, but I do know she made the best mac and cheese in the world—she always cooked the noodles just right, like you, actually—and she was a real hugger. I can remember the way her face would light up when I’d walk into a room and she’d reach out for a hug or to drop a dozen kisses on my head,” he says, his words coming out slowly, as if he wants to make the memory last a little longer. “She used to help me make forts out of the couch cushions and some sheets, and we’d crawl in and she’d read to me with a flashlight. She was a great reader. She’d have different voices for each character and could do all sorts of accents. She could get me laughing like crazy, even when she was sick.”
My nose feels suddenly tingly and tears fill my eyes, imagining Mac, this big, strong, tough man, as a little kid, losing his mom. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was the best,” he says, and even though I can’t see his face, I know he’s smiling. “What about you? Your mom sounds … interesting.”
“She’s an extremely driven woman with her own special way of showing she cares,” I answer.
“That was diplomatic.”
I chuckle a little, then say, “I learned that from her. The art of saying what you mean without actually having to say it.”
“Useful,” Mac says. “And not something Grandpa Jack ever taught me.”
“I’m guessing he’s more of a shoot-from-the-hip guy.”
Mac laughs a little. “How’d you know?”
“I’m clairvoyant.”
“Another skill for your resumé. And your dad? What’s he like?”
“He’s every bit as competitive and ambitious as my mother. That’s one of the things that makes their relationship work—they both need to be the best at being married,” I say, my heart squeezing at the thought of them probably hating me right now. “They work hard to be better than all the other couples at the country club. They wanted to have the best children—the smartest, most talented, best looking, best manners, most athletic, highest achievers. If you’re not in it to win it, just stay home.”
“So you grew up being the best in your class at everything?”
“Not even close. My sister and brother were. But I never quite fit the mold.”
“That ‘being the best’ stuff, it’s all just nonsense. You know that, right?” he asks, and I swear to God, I can feel him moving closer to me even though he’s not moving at all.
“It’s extremely important to most people.”
“Not to me.”
“What’s more important than being successful?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Being happy. Doing work you love. The way you make other people feel. Lending a hand to someone who needs it.”
“Huh, that’s a great answer,” I tell him, my voice thick with emotion. Okay, lust. It’s thick with lust.
“Why do you think you haven’t found the right guy? Is it because you work so much?”
“That’s what I tell myself anyway,” I say, surprising myself with my answer. But something about being alone here with him in the dark with the rain coming down outside draws out an honest answer I didn’t know was lurking in my heart. “The truth is, I haven’t given myself a chance to be loved. I’ve always had this voice in the back of my head telling me I need to be a success first.”
He’s quiet for a second, then he says, “Is that because love will get in the way of your career or because you don’t think you’re worthy of love until you’ve proven yourself?”
His question cuts right to the heart of the matter, and makes me think. When it takes me too long to respond, Mac says, “You don’t have to answer that. It was a nosy question.”
“No, I don’t mind. You’ve already shared a lot with me so it’s only fair,” I say, wanting so badly to reach up and touch his cheek. “I guess the answer is both. I’m afraid that if I fall for some guy right now, we’ll get married and have kids, and my shot at the big time will disappear while I’m busy wiping noses and running to soccer practice.” I chew on my lip for a second, then add, “But maybe there’s a part of me that doesn’t think I deserve it the way I am.”
“No offense, but that’s stupid.”
“Offense taken.”
“Seriously. Of course you deserve love. You’re a good person, you work hard and you care about other people.”
“Yeah, that’s nice of you to say, but you don’t know me that well. If you got to know me better, you’d see.”
“I’ve gotten to know you pretty well over the last few days, and I can’t see anything wrong with you.”
Sighing, I say, “Oh God, there’s a list as long as my arm of my personal defects. I quit college, so it’s not like I achieved what I set out to there. And my job title isn’t exactly impressive. Most people think I’m just a secretary, including my parents. There’s always that last pesky fifteen pounds to lose and my hair never does what I want it to do. When I get dressed in the morning, there’s always a little something off with what I’m wearing. I can’t spot it until I get home at night and look in the mirror again—a skirt that’s not exactly the right length or a heel that doesn’t flatter my calves. You saw me with my orange spray tan. I should’ve gone for a light one, but I always, always seem to pick the wrong thing. I’m never quite polished enough. Not like my mom and my sister, Tiffany. They just … know that stuff and they get it right.”
“That’s all superficial shit. None of those things determine your worth,” he says. “And I have to disagree with you about your clothes and hair. The spray tan was a little much, but anyone could make that mistake. Otherwise, I think you look really pulled together. Gorgeous, in fact.”
Gorgeous. I blush and grin, glad he can’t see my face. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
“I know, but I’m not going to just lay here and listen to you shit talk about yourself without setting you straight,” he says, sounding a little angry. “The only thing wrong with you is that you think there’s something wrong with you.”
“Look, that’s very nice of you to say, but?—”
“But nothing. You’re a very beautiful woman, and you’ve got a great voice. It’s smooth and strong and I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth next, which is a little bit exciting, if I’m honest,” he says in a low tone. “And as far as your figure goes, you’ve got curves for days and I think it would be a real shame if you gave them up. A real shame. If you want my opinion—and I know you don’t, but I’m going to give it to you anyway—I’d say the only thing you need to lose is the idea that you need to live up to some bullshit standard of perfection that doesn’t exist before you can let yourself be happy.”
“Oh,” I answer, trying to process everything he’s just said. It’s as if he’s just taken everything I’ve ever believed about myself and dumped it into the trash, while simultaneously replacing it with a much, much better way to see myself. “Okay then.”
“Okay then? That’s all you’ve got to say?” he asks, and I know he’s giving me a smug grin, even though I can’t see his ridiculously handsome face.
“Yes, well, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Good. Because you deserve to be happy. Exactly the way you are right now. And not just ‘as happy as one can be given the circumstances’ or whatever the hell you called it the other night. Actually happy,” he says. “If that includes a husband and some kids, go out and get it. Find some guy who’s willing to take on wiping noses and soccer runs so you can focus on your career. He’s out there, but you’ll never find him if you’re hiding in your office twenty hours a day.”
And just like that, my heart drops right through the mattress and onto the floor. For one brief, shining moment, I thought maybe this man, who seems to be able to see me in a way that no one else has, might want me. But then he immediately made it clear that he doesn’t. He knows who he is and what he wants out of life, and that isn’t going to change, no matter how much my heart wishes it would.
When I don’t answer him, he says, “You okay? Did I upset you?”
“No, not at all,” I lie. “You’ve just given me a lot to think about.”
“I hope you do think about what I said, because it’s all true. You’re an amazing woman, Paige. Let yourself have it all.”
Paige. Not New York. Paige. Hearing my name come out of his lips is like the sweetest music ever played. How awful is it that he’s saying all the things I need to hear from a man—all the most wonderful, kind, loving things—at the same time that he’s rejecting me? Doing my best to sound bright and happy, I say, “Thanks. Well, we should get some sleep. It’s been a long day. ”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Mac answers. “Good night, Paige.”
“Good night, Mac.”
I turn over to face the opposite way, curling up as small as I can make myself in the bed, wanting to be as far away from him as possible. The truth is, I’m falling hard for him. In fact, there’s a very good chance that it’s already too late for my heart. But he doesn’t—and won’t—ever want me back. Not the way I need him to.