19. Joey
19
Joey
I wake up with a sense of complete and utter contentment. Brent is pressed against my back, our legs entwined, and his arms around me. One hand is cupping my breast, the position similar to the first time we spent in a bed together. I’m grateful this time is so completely different from the night I barely remember. This time I can vividly recall every perfect detail of the night before.
I’m glad the sheet is draped over my nude body, even though Brent has seen and touched every part of me. It’s going to take more than one night to overcome a lifetime of being inhibited. I had even waited until he fell asleep to slip into his shirt before going to the bathroom, not turning on any lights for fear of waking him.
I need to go again. Gingerly, careful not to disturb him, I slide away from him and off the bed. Spying his shirt on the floor that he’d taken off me as soon as I’d gotten back in bed, I pick it up and slip it on again.
I just about have another orgasm when I catch my first glimpse of the massive bathroom in the bright light of day. It must be ten times bigger than my own cramped one with its minuscule shower stall. This one has a spacious shower in one corner and a giant tub next to the window overlooking the ocean view.
When was the last time I had a bath? I’m so tempted to take one now, but the thought of Brent walking in on me gives me pause. Instead, I use the facilities and freshen up, finding a new toothbrush in one of the drawers since mine is still in my suitcase.
Feeling a little more prepared to face Brent, I step back into the bedroom and catch my breath. The view here is even better, and it isn’t because of the blue waves beyond the glass wall. Brent is sprawled on the bed, the sheet low over his hips, his hands behind his head. He glances over at me and smiles, turning onto his side and leaning up on his elbow. God, I wish I could grab my phone and snap a picture.
“Good morning,” he drawls with a lazy grin, his gaze running over me.
Despite everything he’s seen, touched, and tasted, I can’t help the heat that rises to my cheeks. “Good morning,” I answer without quite meeting his eyes.
“That shirt looks better on you.”
It goes to mid-thigh, but I pull the edges down self-consciously.
“I was thinking since you’ve never been to San Diego, I’d show you around.”
“I’d love that. Thanks.”
“You can use one of the guest baths since they’re stocked with girl stuff. For my sisters,” he clarifies when I glance at him.
The guest bath isn’t as big as the master, but it’s still better than anything I’ll ever have in this lifetime with its gleaming tiles, marble vanities, luxurious towels, and top-of-the-line products.
After a quick shower, I dress in modest denim shorts and a T-shirt, tucking it in, then slipping on a loosely crocheted vest over it. Not wanting my hair to fly all over in the ocean breeze, I twist it into a French braid that hangs over one shoulder. I apply some light makeup, put on a pair of simple earrings, and head downstairs to where he said he’d be waiting.
We start by driving in his convertible, a Maserati he keeps at the beach house, to a tiny café for breakfast. From there, it’s a whirlwind as he shows me the seals at La Jolla Cove and the pandas at the San Diego Zoo before we stop at Balboa Park.
Despite his baseball-cap-and-sunglasses disguise, Sailors fans still recognize him and occasionally ask him for autographs and selfies. During these moments, I hang back and turn away from the curious stares. I have no desire to show up in the gossip pages as a “mystery girl” or, worse, with my identity and personal life no longer a mystery.
Having this kind of fame sounds like a nightmare, one I wouldn’t be able to handle. It makes me realize it’s just as well this is a one-time thing. His life is too public for someone who doesn’t like any attention on herself.
Brent is gracious throughout, sometimes having to say, “Not today, guys,” if he is approached while near a group of people. “It becomes a madhouse then,” he explains to me, “because everyone’s attracted to a crowd, wanting to know what’s going on. People who have no idea who I am want pictures, and it can go on for a while.”
Sounded horrible to me, but I suppose it comes with the territory of being rich and famous.
“It isn’t usually too bad here,” Brent says. “But I’m a little worried it might be a bit more intense in New York. I don’t know how Luc does it,” he says, referring to Lucien Saint, the star quarterback of the Firebirds. “The guy can barely take a piss without fans or cameras following him around. That’s a crazy life with no privacy whatsoever.”
“That’s going to happen to you too. Just wait. I’ve already started seeing you in the headlines, and not just the sports pages,” I reply.
“God, I hope not! I might have to hire a bodyguard like him to drive me around everywhere. What a nightmare.”
Since Balboa Park is twice as big as Central Park, we barely cover a portion of it. After eating our way around the world at the tiny International Cottages, we make our way to the Zoro Garden where butterflies flutter around us, one landing on my braid like a decorative hairpin.
Because of the large crowds on the beautiful Sunday afternoon, we opt to skip the museums. Instead we meander through the less frequented Desert Garden. Brent keeps his arm around my shoulders to hold me close, and he kisses me when no one’s around. Since there are only a few people on the paths, we spend a lot of time kissing.
We eventually leave the park and drive over the very long, very tall Coronado Bridge with views of the San Diego skyline, to the island and hotel of the same name. After a relaxing dinner at one of the more casual restaurants in the hotel, we walk to the beach. We take off our shoes and stroll barefoot, holding hands.
The sun set while we were eating, and only a handful of people are still on the beach, distant shadows in the rising moonlight. I breathe deep, almost tasting the salty air, the sea breeze on my face, and take in the sights and sounds of the crashing waves.
“Just like you imagined?” Brent asks.
“Even better.” Smiling, I raise my face, intending to kiss him on the cheek as a thank-you for remembering, but he meets my mouth and kisses me, letting go of my hand and tugging me close. I whimper in protest when he pulls away, leaving me breathless. The magic of the night has me ready to climb him and lose my inhibitions.
“Not here, baby. I want privacy for all the things I’m going to do to you.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, and we continue walking as he tells me about his time in San Diego.
I feel blessed for the first time since—I have to take a second to think about it—since I met the Hutchinsons and they took me in. Tears prick my eyes, and I hope, if he notices, he attributes it to the wind. I didn’t realize how lonely I’d been since I’d left their warm haven for college. Cell phones and monthly visits helped, but there was nothing like physically being with the people you cared for, and who cared for you.
As awkward as hugs and words of love were, I craved them and cherished each one the Hutchinsons gave me.
Of course it hadn’t been that way with Brent due to my shyness around him, but in this moment, he’s making me feel incredibly special, whether he intended to or not. For all I know, he takes all his dates on walks on the beach.
He squeezes my shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Tell me about you. I’ve technically known you for years, but I hardly know anything about you. Besides the big stuff, I mean.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask warily.
“Everything. But let’s start with your name.”
I laugh. “My name? Um, you already know it.”
“Smart-ass. I know it’s Josefina. So why Joey?”
Instead of laughing off a trite answer, I let the darkness give me the courage to open up. “My mother planned to name me Joseph if I was a boy or Fiona if I was a girl, after her parents. My father wanted a boy so badly that he started calling me Joey even before they found out the gender. Because of the way I was positioned during the sonogram, they didn’t know I was a girl until I was born.”
I pause and laugh, more than a tinge of bitterness to the sound. “Imagine his shock when the doctor announced, ‘Congratulations! It’s a girl!’ My mom decided to name me Josefina so they could keep the nickname.”
“I never met your father, and no one mentioned him when you came to live with us, except that he lived in Chicago and you didn’t want to go there. Why didn’t you want to go to him after your mother died.”
“He was a stranger to me by then.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Long story short, he divorced my mother when the doctor told them to stop trying for more kids after another miscarriage. He lost all interest in me when he realized I’d never be the son he’d always wanted.” I try to keep my voice flat, devoid of the hurt and anger that reaches all the way to my bones.
“Shit, Joey. I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss on my temple.
“It was bound to happen.” I shrug, though it still hurts.
“What do you mean?” He turns me to face him, his expression sympathetic yet curious. “What’s the rest of the story? Start with the son thing. What’s that all about?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to anyone about this. In fact, Charlie and my therapist are the only ones who know all the details.
I start walking so I don’t have to face him while I recall the painful details from the past.
“My father was determined to raise me like a son, and I wanted to please him so badly that I behaved just like a boy. Even tried to look like one. I started playing my first organized sport at age four—T-ball. A year later, I was also playing flag football and soccer. When I got older and the girls had their own teams, he fought to let me play on the boys’ teams. I was bigger than most of the boys, and since I was still young, they let me for a while. Then I began to…develop.”
Precocious puberty, the doctor called it.
When I get lost in my thoughts, he prompts, “So what happened then?”
“Some parents complained, and I wasn’t allowed to play with the boys anymore. Even though I had been binding my chest to hide my…growth.”
“Fuck, Joey.” Brent swears quietly.
Wanting to finish the rest of it, I continue. “He ended up marrying an Indian widow and moving to Chicago where she’s from.”
“I hope the fucker never got a son. Or any more children for that matter. He doesn’t deserve them.”
I laugh without humor. “If only everyone got what they deserved. No, besides the stepson, she gave him a son of his own. He might have a daughter too. The last time we spoke, after my mother died, there was a little girl in the background saying ‘Papa,’ and he said something to her in another language. I’d never heard him speak anything but English before. I didn’t know he could.”
It shocked me to realize I never really knew my father, about the estrangement from his family when he’d married my mother, and this whole other life he had before. My mother and I would have been better off if she’d never married him just because she got pregnant.
“You haven’t talked to him again since your mother died?”
Brent’s question pulls me out of my dark, bitter memories.
“No. I refused his calls and returned his child support checks until he eventually stopped sending them. I wanted nothing to do with him since he never made the effort to visit me after the divorce. He never even invited me to meet my half-siblings. It’s like he was ashamed of marrying outside his culture the first time and wanted no reminder of it.” I pause to smile without humor. “It would be pretty ironic if the two boys have no interest in sports whatsoever.”
“I’d say Karma bit him in the ass if that’s the case, and deservedly so for not appreciating what he had in you,” Brent says with some heat. He cups my chin and brings my head around to meet his gaze. “It’s his loss to not have you in his life and see what an amazing woman you are.”
My heart flutters at the sweet words, and I’m touched beyond measure.
“You know, Josefina,” he says in a sudden shift in tone. “As much as I love your name, it’s a little long to say in the throes of passion.” He grins at me, and I smile back, thankful to turn the conversation to a lighthearted topic. “It’s not good for my image to be shouting ‘Joey’ or ‘Jo’ in the middle of sex. What if someone hears me? My reputation as a ladies’ man would be ruined!”
I laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible. But my mother used to call me Josie sometimes,” I admit.
“Oh, I like that. I think it would suit you perfectly. Can I call you that?” he asks. “Unless you prefer Fifi,” he teases.
“You can call me Josie.” He kisses me, then takes my hand and breaks into a jog.
“Let’s go. My bed is calling us.”
I laugh and run with him, grateful to have this man in my life, wishing this weekend could last forever.