Chapter Eleven Elise
“Oh, perfect, you’ll meet Naomi!” Ma says to Randall, her cheer overshadowing his confusion.
“Sit down, Lily,” I call to my friend who had been holding Naomi all day and needs a break. “I’ll take her this time. Or maybe Randall will.”
I put my hands on his shoulders—still illegally wide and shapely, by the way—and turn him around to face the stairs. It takes a nudge to get his legs moving.
When we’re upstairs, he whispers, “I had no idea Lily has a baby.”
“Naomi is her sister. That’s why she has to stay in town.” That’s the shortened version.
The full story is more complicated. Their mother has been suffering from postpartum depression since Naomi was born seven months ago. She recently changed medication, so the last few weeks have been an even more difficult adjustment for everyone.
“How old is Lily?”
“Twenty-nine. Her mom had her when she was eighteen. That wasn’t easy, but can you imagine having a second baby at forty-seven years old?”
“My mom had me at forty-one. I’m a dozen years younger than Jim, my oldest brother,” he says and keeps walking. That’s all he offers. Before I can ask him to elaborate, the urgent cry of a small creature shuts down our conversation.
Randall and I enter the darkened guest bedroom. The playpen is at the foot of the bed, and I see Naomi’s limbs squirming while she hollers for attention. That girl should be recorded for a soundtrack of a horror movie. I’m rather proud of her lungs, to be honest.
“Nay-Nay, Auntie Elise is here.” It’s as if my voice is a switch—she stops wailing immediately.
The playpen is on the floor, so I have to bend down and reach out to lift the precious bundle. Once in my arms, Naomi’s marshmallow cheeks are irresistible. Inhaling, I get a whiff of linen and something sweet and fruity.
“Babies smell so good! Here, take a hit,” I tell Randall, holding the baby between us.
“I’ve never held a baby before.”
“Just smell her.”
He looks at the pink bundle suspiciously. Meanwhile, Naomi’s saucer-shaped eyes and blinking lashes could belong to a cartoon, they take up so much of her face.
Leaning in cautiously, Randall mutters, “She smells like old milk.”
“She does not!” I protest, pulling the baby to my chest. “That, sir, is the precious aroma of innocence.”
I meant to be playful, but the sir sticks in my dirty mind. The image of Randall looking down at me and demanding my pleasure hits me. I’m suddenly very conscious of being in a darkened bedroom with a man who seemed to know, instinctively, what my body needed.
He’s standing close, eyes suddenly afire like they’re lit up from inside.
“Innocence smells like sour milk?” he asks with a raised brow while he rocks on his heels, thankfully oblivious to my thoughts.
I stage-whisper in Naomi’s ear. “Don’t listen to him, Nay-Nay. Randall doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Lifting Naomi by her armpits, I bring her butt to my nose.
“Do you think she pooed or farted?” I ask, lifting the diapered tush up to Randall.
“I’m not sticking around to find out.” He steps back, but I don’t miss the glint of amusement in his eyes.
“I’ll change her diaper, just to be sure. Go ahead downstairs,” I instruct with a tilt of my head.
Spreading a clean blanket at the corner of the bed, I change Naomi’s diaper, cooing at her the whole time. “You’re already scaring big hockey players, aren’t you? That’s my girl. Where’s my smile, Nay-Nay? There it is! There it is!” Her gurgling laugh in response to my nonsense is addictive.
I’m surprised to find that Randall remains standing by the doorway, watching the whole time.
“Wanna bring her downstairs? She’s all clean.”
“I’ve never held a baby. She’s so…tiny.”
“I’ll show you how to hold her. Trust me, babies are not as fragile as they seem.”
He’s shaking his head when Naomi reaches out to clumsily whack Randall’s chest.
“I think she wants you to try.” Cartoonishly round eyes are trained on him, curious and sweet.
“OK, I’ll hold her for a bit. I’m not going down the stairs with a baby though.” His tone is apprehensive.
He’s solemn when he takes Naomi, intent on guiding the baby’s head into the crook of his elbow and protectively wrapping an arm around the bundle. Naomi continues to brush the back of her fist on his chest while kicking and giggling.
When Randall looks up at me, his eyes are crinkled. “She laughed.”
“Yes, she did,” I say, taken by his cute smile and fluttering blond lashes.
When his eyes lower to my chest and darken, it’s impossible to miss. My nipples tighten harshly, pinched by the force of his attention.
I should turn away and hide my body’s reaction to him, but I’m paralyzed. Swallowing takes effort. Does he feel it, too? The fleeting moments of our intimacy invisibly tattooed on my body, achingly etched on my skin when we’re close.
“You’ve got white gunk on your shirt.”
“Huh?”
Did he say gunk? I look down, and there’s chunky baby spit between my tits.
“Oh, she did burp when I first picked her up.” I’m wearing a black long-sleeved shirt. The spit practically glows.
So much for intimacy and whatnot. He’s probably grossed out.
“I’ll change my shirt. Want to see my room?” I offer, since it’s down the hall.
We enter my space and I see it through his eyes. The bed is framed by two big bookcases filled with paraphernalia, books, binders, and various trinkets from my travels. On the walls are two of my favorite vintage show posters: a 1950 Guys and Dolls illustration and a 1957 Endgame poster with Bert Lahr as Hamm. Not that most people would recognize one of my favorite actors unless they closely inspected the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. The rest of my poster collection is rolled up and tucked under my desk. On top of that surface, I’ve got a laptop, notebooks, and charging wires.
Hoarder vibe much?
Across from the desk is a comfy chair where I’ve laid my favorite quilt. I’m not surprised when Randall is drawn to the colorful cover. “Are those shirts sewn together?” he asks.
“Yup. It was my parents’ graduation gift after high school. Grade school and high school productions usually make shirts to commemorate performances. They saved each one and made a quilt.”
“There are dozens!” His finger grazes the quilt’s sashing between Into the Woods and Beauty and the Beast.
“You already knew I was a theater kid.”
I enter my walk-in closet and close the door slightly, though not all the way. He’s no Peeping Tom. There’s nothing he hasn’t already seen. Still, my skin prickles with awareness when I whip off my shirt and dump it in the laundry basket.
Then, I see it. The perfect change of clothes.
“Tada!” I say when I exit the closet wearing his Mavericks jersey.
His back was to me, rocking Naomi and reading a wall board with random notes and old playbooks and group pictures. When he turns to see what I changed into, his jaw slackens. Randall bites his lower lip and looks down at the baby. His chest moves slightly, mid-chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
Did I do something wrong? Is there some kind of hockey rule that you can only wear jerseys in the arenas? That can’t be right.
“I only saw you wear the jersey from afar.”
“Now you get to see it up close.”
Walking toward the door, I don’t see his reaction. But I hear it.
“Damn, Elise.” His voice is ground in glass. I look over my shoulder. Our eyes catch. “Seeing my name on your back is so fucking hot.”
The words grip my chest, and everything tightens. My lungs, my stomach, and lower, where my body seeks to be filled.
“We should go downstairs. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard. “Sorry, it just came out. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know we have an agreement.”
“It’s fine,” I say and have to summon my meager acting skills to seem unaffected.
Texting Randall the last few weeks has been a welcome break from the everyday. All my friends are part of the world of theater, one way or another, so having someone outside who doesn’t try to fix or solve or advise me—he just listens and lightens the load—was a precious gift while I struggled with my insecurities.
Randall might have started out as a one-night stand to, as Lily so delicately put it, “end a dry spell.” That is no longer true. Somehow, although I have no sense of the demands of his life and he has little understanding of mine, we’ve been exactly what the other needed.
The sexy fling Randall and I shared is in the past, because today we are much more. I don’t want to lose this connection we’ve made. If I give in to the physical chemistry with a person I consider a friend, what then? A few hookups would ruin something special.
Even if we try to figure things out as more than friends, I’m positive that won’t last. He’s a playboy with the face of a prince and a naturally carefree personality. I’m a workaholic who has neither the time nor the ability to be a decent girlfriend. Dating is incompatible with my job; or at least the way I do my job.
That’s my predicament, really. Dating someone from inside the theater community can feel almost incestual and claustrophobic. Dating someone beyond the performing arts sector can be exhausting. In the past, I constantly had to justify my passion as an obstacle to being a decent girlfriend. No matter what angle I consider, pursuing more than friendship with Randall will only lead to disappointment.
Which is why I better get us out of this bedroom where my bed might as well be a neon sign. I can’t stop looking at it. Protecting our friendship from the volatility of another fling is the right thing to do.
“I’ll take Naomi down the stairs, since you’re so chicken.” I cuddle baby squishiness against my chest. “Now that your hands are free, I need a favor,” I say when something occurs to me.
“What?” he asks, looking hopeful.
Lifting my chin toward the desk, I indicate the Sharpie. “I need an autograph from the great Randall Haughland.”
His mouth tilts up while he picks up the pen. “Where do you want it?” He licks his lips, as if he’s asking me where I want that perfect mouth. Randall’s voice has lowered to a sultry whisper.
“Where do people usually get autographs?” I manage.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I almost say yes, sir, barely stopping myself in time.
“Right above the number is a good place,” he says.
Our breathing increases in tandem. We’re standing in place but might as well be sprinting.
“Can I move your hair?”
“Yeah, sure, since my hands are full.”
Randall’s fingers graze my ear while gathering my hair over my left shoulder. Heat blankets my back. The hand that moved my hair wraps around the long strands. I remember the sting on my scalp when he took me like this. From behind, my hair in his fist. Like he read my mind, Randall tugs slightly. My body clenches in anticipation. I have to stop myself from rubbing my thighs together to relieve the pulsing ache.
The Sharpie rasps against fabric in confident strokes. I imagine what it would be like for Randall to sign his name not on the jersey, but on my skin. How the pen’s felt would create a cold trail in contrast to the heat of his fingers. How the black ink would seep into my pores and mark me like a thing. His thing.
What the hell is wrong with me right now?
When he finishes, he caps the pen and steps away.
“Thanks. Now I can count it as a collector’s item,” I say to distract myself from inappropriate thoughts.
He doesn’t hear me, because Randall has already left my bedroom.