At the Water's Edge (12 page)

“Do you want me there?” A more serious expression descends on Kay’s features. “When your mom comes over tomorrow?”

I do. God, I do.
“I think I need to face this one alone.” Also, now that we’ve kissed, a reluctance to let her see me like that again, at my uttermost vulnerable, has started to crop up.

“I’ll be around if you need me.” Kay extends her leg and lets her foot glide over my shin.

“Can I stay here tonight? In your guest room, I mean.” The touch of her skin against mine starts off another round of deep throbbing in my flesh.

“Yes and no.” She catches my leg between her ankles. “You can stay but not in the guest room.”

“Look, Kay,” I start. “I’m not sure—”

“I want you in my bed, Ella. Nothing will happen, I can guarantee you that, but I want you in my bed.” She leans her elbows on her thighs, bringing her face closer to mine. “I don’t need much, but I need that.”

I’m desperate to do something for her for a change, so I nod determinedly. “Okay.”

“Best lay off the booze then.” She cracks a smile.

In response, I empty my glass and stifle a yawn.

“You must be tired.” She deposits her own empty glass on the table. “We haven’t even talked about what was said at dinner. We can if you want to.”

“You’re not my shrink, Kay. Just being here with you is enough.” Should I email Dr. Hakim about this development? What if he advises me to break it off?

“Okay.” She bends her knees, retracting her legs from where they were resting around my ankle, and gets up. “Come on. I’ll get you a sexy nighty.”

In her bedroom, we slip out of our robes and into over-sized, faded t-shirts, our backs chastely turned to one another.

Sliding under the covers takes me back to the very first time I became truly aware of my attraction toward girls. I was fifteen and staying over at Sally McMullen’s house. Not having a clue as to why I was so uneasy in her bed, I lay stiffly by her side all night, not sleeping a wink until at dawn, exhausted, I fell asleep on her shoulder, waking up a few hours later so mortified I couldn’t speak to her for weeks after.

“I’m a light sleeper, so if you need anything during the night, just give me a shake. A gentle one will do.” Kay flips off the light and lies on her back. The room is dark enough to strip me of my nerves. The heat of her body radiating on my side. The presence of another human being in the same bed. The memory of the kiss. Instead of arousing me more, it calms me and, already, I can feel my eyelids closing.

“Good night, Kay,” I mumble.

“Are you falling asleep already?”

“I’m so tired.” Too tired to analyze what the tone of her voice means.

“Turn on your side.”

As if we’ve been sleeping in the same bed for years, I turn to face the wall and, seconds later, I feel Kay’s strong arm wrapping around me, her soft breasts against my back, and her breath on the back of my neck. Only extreme emotional fatigue keeps me from bursting into spontaneous tears at the kindness of her gesture.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I wake up alone in Kay’s bed. The room is flooded with light and when my eyes find the alarm clock, I realize I haven’t slept like this in months—maybe years. I can smell bacon and another realization hits me: I haven’t felt this cared for in a long time. Perhaps because I didn’t let myself, but with Kay, it’s all so effortless. I can’t stop questioning my motives—questioning even the smallest events in life has been my main occupation for as long as I can remember—but for a few seconds while stretching my limbs before pushing my nose into Kay’s pillow and inhaling her scent, I allow myself to forget why I’m here, and revel in the prospect of this brand new day.

Then I remember that my mother is visiting this afternoon. And that I’m supposed to prepare a fancy meal for Kay tonight. A stark contrast to how lazily I’ve spent my days so far at West Waters. Before I let today’s to-do list overwhelm me, I scan Kay’s room. No closet. No drawers. Just a king-size bed with a night stand on either side and a large mirror on the wall facing the bed. Sober would probably be the best way to describe her room, or, perhaps, designed for only a few well-defined purposes. At that thought, the memory of last night’s kiss floods my brain. Kay’s lips. Her smell. The tingle in my stomach. The pulsing between my legs. My head is filled with only Kay and the possibilities of our date tonight.

A knock on the door pulls me from my reverie.

“Morning Snorky,” Kay says, her hair still disheveled. She’s wearing the same t-shirt she wore to bed.

“Really?” Our first night in bed together and I kept her awake with my snoring?

“Just kidding. It was more of a gentle purr.” She brings in a tray with two plates heaped with eggs and bacon. “Are you hungry?”

“Always when you cook.” I take the tray from her, the delicious smell of another breakfast prepared by Kay making my mouth water.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Coming right up.” As Kay darts out of the bedroom, I wonder if I’ve somehow landed myself in the plot of the most romantic movie ever made, whether I’m still dreaming or I really did wake up in this magnificent woman’s bed.

Before I have a chance to pinch myself, Kay heads back into the room with two steaming mugs.

We install ourselves cross-legged on the bed, the tray between us, the coffee mugs safely deposited on the night stands.

“I slept like a log,” I say before popping a piece of bacon in my mouth.

“Glad to know I have such an exhilarating effect on you.” Kay raises her eyebrows.

“Did you sleep well?” I try to ignore Kay’s remark, not really knowing what to say.

“Honestly? No. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to invite you into my bed after kissing you while you were naked. Difficult image to get out of my head, you know?” She smirks. “But hey, I asked for it.” There’s a twinkle in Kay’s eyes. What are we waiting for? A note from my doctor? A permission slip from my conscience? I want her and, clearly, she wants me.

“No pressure, Ella. I’m attracted to you, but I have no expectations. I’m not some chick you need to put out for to keep interested.” Kay’s voice has gone all serious.

Again, I’m torn between the two extremes that seem to make up my emotional life. As much as I love having breakfast in bed with Kay, I can’t take her words at face value. I’m sure she means them—now—but she’s only witnessed about ten percent of my personality—and only the well-behaved side. After every failed attempt at building a healthy relationship, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, alone and heartbroken, and I knew for a fact that I wasn’t worth it. That I couldn’t do it. That once a woman got close enough to discover the real me beneath the shiny veneer that comes with a brand new love affair, she had every right to run.

“Ella?” Kay nudges my shin with her toe.

“Sorry.” I stack some eggs on my fork.

“Where did you go just now?”

The magic of the moment, of this beautiful morning with Kay, has disappeared. Another conflict pops up in my brain. Am I really trying to woo another woman by confiding my blackest secrets to her? And what does that make her? Instead of enjoying Kay’s company, of simply eating her food and engaging in some carefree banter, I’ve ruined it—again. Instead of Doctor of Biology, my business card should say: Ella Goodman, Ruiner of Romance.

The only way to go is right through it.
One of Dr. Hakim’s quotes stored in my phone.
If you want to heal, there’s no way back.

“You have no idea how much I wish I could just jump into this headfirst.” I can barely look at Kay, because, after the kiss, I see her differently. “But that’s no longer an option for me.”

“As long as you don’t run away from me for all the wrong reasons.” Kay pops a piece of bacon in her mouth, chews it unceremoniously.

But my usual M.O. of crash and burn is all I know. I have no idea how to play this slow game. It doesn’t help that Kay looks at me with that glint of desire in her eyes.

“I guess I’m just nervous about Mom’s visit.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

“I’ll be here for you afterwards.” Kay presses her toe into my leg again. “And if you’re too torn up after her visit, it’s an excellent excuse to get out of cooking for me.” A smile flits along her lips.

“Why do you want this, Kay?” I have no idea where I get the courage to ask that question, unless it’s just more self-sabotage: question it to death before it can grow into anything substantial. “Do you get a kick out of trying to save lost causes? Does it turn you on that I’m so broken?”

Kay’s fork clatters against her near empty plate. “First of all, stop referring to yourself as a lost cause. Second, that feeling-sorry-for-yourself schtick doesn’t work on me, so you might as well put a sock in it now.” There’s not a hint of anger in her tone. Nothing I can latch on to, because anger is what I grew up with. Anger, my very own blueprint for love.

I’m not allowed to apologize, so instead I shovel some eggs into my mouth. They taste divine. Kay is divine. Over my plate, I stare at her legs, her strong thighs disappearing into a pair of boxer shorts. Everything about her is magnificent and, like that one mosquito in the night that never gives up, the thought keeps hammering in my mind: what am I bringing to the table? How can this ever be a meeting of equals?

“Go for a swim. It’ll make you feel better. Clear your head,” she says.

“After a breakfast like this, all I want to do is go back to sleep.”

“Don’t you have to go shopping?” The smile is back on Kay’s face. “To prepare me some fancy city-style food.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Waiting for my mother at the cabin feels like a do-over of our failed attempt a few days ago. Only, this time, Kay won’t come to my rescue before we have a chance to say anything of meaning.

I sit on the porch and hear her footsteps approach. Small, clipped steps walking purposefully toward me on the graveled path.

When my friend Trish had her first baby five years ago, she told me that the love she felt for little Josie was so obliterating she couldn’t compare it to anything else. I remember wondering if that was a universal feeling among new mothers around the world—if my own mother ever felt that way about Nina and me.

After my mom has deposited her pie in the kitchen, she grabs me by the shoulders, turns me toward her, and hugs me so tightly I fear she may crack one of my ribs. When we let loose, we both have tears in our eyes.

“Do you have anything stronger than coffee?” she asks.

I arch up my eyebrows, unsure this is the best way to start a coffee date.

“Just the one, to take the edge off. I know we have some serious business to discuss and the pie is just dress-up.”

I’m not used to my mother being so forthright. Taken aback, I head for the fridge and dig up the bottle of white wine I had planned on serving Kay tonight. I pour us both a modest glass and put the bottle back.

“I’m glad we never sold this place,” Mom says after we’ve installed ourselves on the porch, both of us looking out over the lake. “Although I came this close.” She brings her thumb and index finger together, only leaving half an inch between them. “He brought her here. To this place where we vacationed with you and Nina, our girls.”

Although Dad’s affair hung over our lives like a dark cloud, after the big confessional moment, it was never directly talked about again, despite silently dominating almost every conversation in the Goodman house. Again, Mom surprises me with her forwardness.

“Are you kidding me?” I need to take a sip from my wine to process.

Mom shakes her head, but not in her usual victim-like way. “That’s how I found out. She left a pair of tights under the bed. How cliché is that, Ella?” To my utter amazement, she even manages a chuckle. Who is this woman sitting next to me? She looks like Dee Goodman, but seems possessed by someone else’s spirit. She takes a big gulp of her wine. “I have a confession to make.” She twirls the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Your father and I contacted your doctor in Boston this morning. Not to check up on you, just to ask for guidance on how to, uh, handle this.”

“You did what?” Pure rage flares in the pit of my stomach, quickly making its way up. It’s so typical that she would go behind my back.

“I should have asked first. I know that. And, for the record, your father was against it, but I needed to do something. I couldn’t risk coming here again and not being able to find a crack in this wall between us. It’s been killing me. I’m so scared, Ella. So scared of losing you forever.”

“You had no right.” My anger diminishes at the sight of her tears. It reminds me of an article I read on parenting not so long ago.
Never let your children see you cry or fight. Be strong for them. Resolve your conflicts behind closed doors.
For all the times I’ve witnessed my parents’ passive-aggressive argument routine, I’ve hardly ever seen my mom cry.

“I know. I know I had no right to, but I’m glad I called.” She fishes for a handkerchief in her purse. “We have so much to talk about. So much time to catch up on. I’m your mother, Ella. I wanted to do it right for once.” And just like that, my mother’s eternal problem rises to the surface once again: good intentions, flawed execution.

“What did he say?” It feels a bit like asking how things went after my mother went to a parents-teachers night when I was still in school.

“He sounded like a lovely man.” Mom pauses to blow her nose and wipe away most of the tears. “He seemed to understand why I called, put me at ease. Advised me to ‘listen without blinkers on’. Obviously, he was quite reluctant to engage in conversation about you directly, but just having the opportunity to talk to him for a few minutes was enough for me.” Another tear sits at the ready in the corner of her eye. “Ever since
that call
, every minute of my life has been consumed with worry.” A tear falls down her cheek. “But I’m here for you. I’m here to listen. I don’t want you to hold back, not on my account.”

I drain the rest of my glass, desperate for some sort of buzz to make this awkward moment more bearable. I have dreamed of an opportunity like this many a time, but every time the scenario played out in my head, it ended with yelling followed by more hurt feelings and misunderstanding—like any Friday evening at our house when I was a teenager. Now, it feels more as if I’ve landed in the middle of a very uncomfortable nightmare.