Can't Always Get What You Want (18 page)

We eventually stop outside a set of wide wooden doors decorated with a large metal frying pan and elegant swirling script.

“The Creperie!” I exclaim.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorite spots,” Brett answers. He’s trying to act all cool and unaffected, but I can see a ghost of a smile twitching his mouth upward.

He opens the door for me, and I can’t help but blush. I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of his good manners and general, all-around yumminess.

Yes. “Yumminess” is the word.

Oh, shut up.

—

Two hours later, I can barely move. We had an appetizer course, salad course, main course, dessert course, and wine all around. Well, wine all around for me. Brett refused, saying, “I have to drive.”

What a responsible little sweetheart.

We’re walking back toward the truck. Well, Brett is walking. I’m more like stumbling/
being dragged along so I don’t fall on my arse.

Note to self: never wear high heels again on a date in which you plan to drink. Although I give myself an internal high five for having the foresight to wear a loose, lightweight dress. It’s hiding my rounded belly quite nicely.

On the drive home, I sit beside Brett rather than against the far window. He wraps an arm around me, and I lay my head on his shoulder. His fingers brush up and down the length of my arm, and occasionally twirl in my hair.

My booze-addled brain is feeling a bit frisky, and so I start rubbing my hand on his knee. I can hear his breath hitch slightly, but he doesn’t do or say anything. Taking this as encouragement, I delicately rub the top of his thigh. He takes a deep, cleansing breath, as if steadying himself.

Yes! This is so fun.

I slide my hand toward his inner thigh, stroking a bit harder now. I start to run my hand upward and…

“Please, Soph. I’m driving.” Brett lifts my hand away, and kisses my fingers. He rewraps his arm around my shoulders, squeezes, and focuses on the road.

Humph.

So much for that. Although he was looking a bit hot and bothered. And, I suppose I don’t want to get in a car crash any more than he does. Okay, I won’t take this as a full- out rejection. On the contrary, this is a mini-victory! I know I affect him.

I can wait. Yes, anticipation is key.

Are we there yet?

—

After what feels like the longest car ride of my life, we eventually climb out of his truck and walk toward my house. I purposefully brush my arm up against his, casting suggestive looks up at him through my eyelashes.

Reaching the front door, I fiddle with my purse and keys.

“Thanks for the lovely evening, Brett. I had a great time.”

His eyes appear dark and intense. He licks his lips, and stares at mine.

“Good night,” I whisper, and stand on tiptoe to kiss him.

And before I know it, we’re a jumble of arms and legs, lips and teeth, ragged breaths, moans, and gasps. I remember that we’re standing on my doorstep, so I awkwardly steer our lip-locked bodies behind the cover of some bushes on my front lawn.

Our kisses escalate to a fever pitch, our hands exploring newer and newer territories. Pure heaven.

I don’t even care if I have mangled pubes. At this point, I’m sure he won’t care either.

“Want to take this inside?” I exhale huskily between breaths.

Brett pushes me away and takes a few steps toward the street. He turns from me, and rests his hands on his knees as if he’s just finished running a marathon. He noisily blows out a puff of air.

Okay…what just happened?

“Brett?” I call out weakly. I have no idea what to think. “Are you all right?”

He slowly turns toward me, his expression apologetic.

“Soph, I can’t.”

Can’t?

What does that mean? I immediately come up with three theories.

1)  He’s gay, and just realized that he’s not actually attracted to women.

2)  He’s impotent.

3)  He’s training to become some sort of monk, and is about to take his vows.

But, I know those are crap theories. I could “feel” how excited he was to be making out with me. So there go theories one and two. And I’ve never heard him say anything like, “I really admire the Pope,” or “The Hare Krishnas seem nice.”

Does he have intimacy issues? Did his last girlfriend make fun of his penis or something?

All right. Time to say something soothing.

“O-okay,” I stutter, my voice high-pitched and shaky.

So much for soothing.

“Care to share why?”

Brett tenses his jaw and pulls his lips sideways. I walk up to him and place a hand on his chest. “Please? Just talk to me.”

He takes a deep breath, and then all the words tumble out in a rush.

“I’ve decided not to have sex until I’m married.”

My brain chokes and stalls. “Are you a virgin?”

He snorts, grinning somewhat. “No.”

“Okay. So, you’re celibate?”

He nods.

Did not see that one coming. Nope, not in a million years would I have ever thought my sexy, adorable, charming boyfriend would choose celibacy over hot monkey sex.

“Why?” I ask. Not that I’m in any place to judge. I haven’t done it in five years, so I suppose I’ve been celibate too. I just didn’t have anyone around that I wanted to “do it” with. That is, until now.

Perhaps I could have played this better. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed, he would have eventually taken the lead.

“As you know,” he begins, looking uncomfortable, “I haven’t dated anyone in two years.”

I nod.

“I’ve told you before that I used to date casually. Well, there was this girl…”

I don’t know if I want to hear this.

“We’d met a few times, gone for drinks. One thing led to another and, well…we had a pregnancy scare.”

I can barely find my voice. “Do you have a child out there somewhere you’ve failed to tell me about?”

“No! It was a
scare
. A false positive. No babies.”

“Are you serious? Women lie about that all the time. She could have gone off and had the kid, and not told you.”

“No, not possible. She took more tests, and got her doctor to check her out. She had done the first test wrong and gotten a false result.”

Phew. I feel like I can breathe again.

It’s not that I’m against kids or anything, it’s just that adding another person to this would totally complicate things.

“Well, you obviously
can
have sex,” I say.

“Yes.”

I look at him, feeling hurt and confused. “You just don’t want to have it with me.”

“Sophie,” he says. I look up at him, fresh tears matting my eyelashes. “Don’t cry. It’s nothing to do with you. That pregnancy scare shocked me. I barely knew her. It made me realize that despite using birth control, I could have been linked forever to someone that I didn’t even really like.”

Great. Is this his way of saying, “
Sorry, I like you, but not enough to have sex
”?

“Which is why I take this very seriously,” he continues. “I don’t want to be intimate and attach myself to someone I can’t see a future with. But I do see a future with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“If you can see a future for us, what’s the problem?” I ask.

“I want to do this right. It can’t be just sex; it has to mean something. I don’t want to risk having babies, or getting attached to something that isn’t going to last.”

We’re silent.

“Just so we’re clear…you do want to sleep with me?” I ask.

“Of course I want to!”

He gestures roughly toward his groin and raises his eyebrows.

I guess this is good news. Kind of.

My boyfriend isn’t some freaky celibate monk, or secretly gay, or impotent, or dealing with past girlfriends who made fun of his penis.

Hmm…I suppose we didn’t exactly establish if that last one is true, but I somehow suspect it’s not.

Brett licks his lips and reaches for my hands. “Is this something you think you can do? Wait?”

“What if I said no?”

He freezes. “Then, that would be it.”

“Really? It would be over, just like that?” A stabbing pain runs through me at the thought of losing him.

“I just need a minute to think about this,” I say.

Okay. Let’s think this through.

Pros:

1)  I’m already used to not having sex, so it’s not like anything will change.

2)  My boyfriend is being considerate of our feelings and our futures, and cares deeply about the sanctity of marriage.

3)  He won’t see my massacred pubes.

Cons:

1)  I’ve wanted to ravish him since our second date, and I’m about to explode.

I rub my hand over my mouth, contemplating.

“It’s going to hurt. A lot. And we’ll drive our water bills up from the cold showers we’ll have to take.”

“I can live with that.” He grins.

“Okay. I can wait.”

We kiss, and I feel desire bolt through me. But I can’t do anything about it.

What have I just signed myself up for?

Chapter 15

Beast of Burden

“What do you mean, your basement’s flooded?” I ask.

“It’s all the rain we’ve been getting,” she says, sighing.

It’s my mom, Julie.

“How much damage is there?” I ask.

“Quite a bit. We’ll have to rip out all the carpet and replace the drywall. At least the bottom half of the walls anyway.”

“What a mess!”

“No kidding. And we have so much junk down there, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s a lot of work for your old dad and me.”

Ah. That’s what she’s after.

I sigh inwardly. It’s not that I mind helping out my parents. I know they’d help me. It’s just that Brett and I had planned on hanging out today. I suppose I could drag him along with me.

Is it too fast? Asking him to meet my parents already?

Oh shut up, Sophie. You practically agreed to marry him last night. As if he’d freak out over meeting “the parents.”

Did I really agree to that?

Hmm. Perhaps in an offhanded way, I did. You know, waiting for “marriage.” And I agreed to it. A delicious mix of happiness and anticipation swirls through me.

And an aftertaste of panic.

Ugh—why do I keep panicking?

I’m not completely over Aaron yet
.

No, that’s not true. I am. I am over him. Aren’t I? Ugh.

Mom is still talking about the junk she and Dad have been hoarding in the basement.

“…and you still have all your boxes from college down there.”

“Do you and Dad want some help? I could bring my boyfriend with me to lift all the heavy things.”

Mom pauses for a moment. I can’t even hear her breathing over the phone.

“You have a boyfriend?” she eventually says.

“Yes. I’ve mentioned him before. You know, Brett?”

I’ve dropped Brett’s name every now and then, but always in a group context. Things like, “Narayan’s best friend, Brett, is going to the concert with me,” or “I had Brett, Sam, and Narayan over for a barbecue last night.”

I just conveniently left out the “I got piss-tank drunk in front of them too, and fell asleep with him on the couch and kissed someone new for the first time in five years, and…” etc.

“Oh. I suppose you have,” she replies. “That’s lovely, darling. I’m glad you’ve met someone.”

“Thanks, Mom. What time do you want us out there?”

After hanging up the phone, I text Brett.

You up for hard manual labor today? I’d love to see all those muscles in action.

Ha—that should do it. I doubt he’d pass up an opportunity to show off for me.

Are you after me only for my body? I feel so used.

I roll my eyes. What a goober. Another message comes through.

And I’ve never been so happy in my life. My muscles are at your command, gorgeous. What do you have in mind?

—

We decide to go in my car, as it’s a longish drive and I’d rather have him relax and take in the countryside. That, and my parents can fit less crap into my car than Brett’s truck.

“Where do they live?” Brett asks while handing me my coffee. We’d stopped at Tim Hortons on the way.

I take a sip before answering. Hmm…not bad. I might convert someday. Not that I’ll admit that to him.

“An hour or so northwest of the city,” I reply.

“Did you grow up there?”

“No, I grew up in south Edmonton, across the street from Samira. My parents moved out here six years ago, after Dad retired.”

“Your dad’s retired already?”

“He’s twenty years older than my mom, although he doesn’t look it. He was a history professor.”

I smile to myself, thinking about Dad. The history buff. Well, “addict” is more like it. He watches the History Channel all day long, muttering things like:

“What a load of crap! Julie! Come take a look at this—they’ve got it all wrong.”

Or…

“Julie! Pack your bags, we’re going to Vienna. I’ve got to see this Kunsthisto
risches Museum for myself.”