Checked Again (23 page)

I
think of the
----
in his message. Is
that—

His
eyes change, moving quickly…urgently…to the side, directing me to look at Dr.
Gabriel.

Onetwothree.
Without wanting to, but knowing that I have to, I turn my eyes, my head, to my
traveling companion. His head is just turning my way, turning back toward me.

“Ready?”
He definitely sounds like he is irritated with me. Had I known that he’d be
annoyed with me for so long…and not trying to talk to me for so long, I
would’ve arranged for Mandy to take me to the airport long ago.

No,
I’m not ready, Dr. Gabriel. I’m not ready.

I
nod, though. Then I start to move my feet toward Dr. Gabriel, forcing myself to
look straight ahead. Not back.

I
don’t get very far.

“Go
ahead first, sir. She’s kind of slow today.” Dr. Gabriel speaks (rudely). To
HIM. About ME.     

My
eyes and head move before I can stop them, trying to see
his
reaction.

And…and
he has his game face on. He smiles politely at Dr. Gabriel and then quickly at
me, his eyes landing on mine for only a beat before he moves out to the aisle,
grabs a bag from the above compartment, and turns to walk toward the plane’s
exit.

“Go
ahead, Calista.” Dr. Gabriel’s voice reminds me to stop watching
him.
To
stop seeing his every move.

I
look back at Dr. Gabriel. He is motioning for me to go ahead of him…to start
walking down the aisle. Right behind Dr. Blake.

Okay.

One.
Two. Three.

I
hold my purse close to my body and scrunch in, moving past Dr. Gabriel without
brushing up against any part of him.
Thank God.

Then
I walk slowly. Right behind
him.
Black pants. White collared shirt.
Sleeves rolled up partially on his arms.

We
only take a step or two at a time. In between steps, we stop as passengers get
into line, step out into the aisle to collect their luggage.

Each
time we stop, I just stand behind him. Inches away. Breathing in and out, in
and out, in and out…taking in his cologne. The closeness of him, the smell of
him, almost consumes me…leaving me with only a faint awareness of my now
grumbling stomach, of the people I pass who are still sitting in their seats,
of Dr. Gabriel, who is mercifully leaving adequate space between us as he walks
behind me.

I
keep myself scrunched together. No one bumps into me or touches me. I stand
only a step behind the one person I wish I could reach out and touch…and
hug…and more…right now.

Eventually,
too soon, it is time for him to step off the plane. I watch him move onto the
platform below. A moment later, I follow, stepping one foot back onto normal,
solid, not going to take off, ground.

He
turns his head briefly, so briefly, as I walk my other foot off the plane. A
quick look, a quick smile, and then he turns back around just as Dr. Gabriel
gets off the plane behind me.

I
push my body to turn toward Dr. Gabriel and then we walk side by side through
the airport, to the exit doors. I walk carefully, not bumping into the people
and luggage moving around me. Not bumping into Dr. Gabriel, who talks the whole
time we walk—about the pre-session, about the conference, about a bunch of
things that I don’t even hear. I force my head to turn to him occasionally as
he talks…but my eyes, I just can’t control.

They
look ahead. Far ahead. At a familiar back. A familiar walk. Familiar dark
tousled hair. I watch him until I can’t anymore, until he disappears into the
masses of people swarming around the airport.

Chapter
15

pre-session

IT’S
5:00 P.M. AND I HAVE to go to the bathroom.

Not
this second. I can still hold it for another hour or so. But eventually, I’m
not going to be able to hold it anymore. I haven’t been to the bathroom since
around 7:30 this morning. At my house. In my bathroom.

But
I’m not going to be able to go to my bathroom this time. Obviously.

And
I’m not going to go into any of the bathrooms here…not in the lobby…not in the
hallways between the conference rooms…not in the hotel restaurant…not in my
hotel room—the room where Dr. Gabriel apparently sent my travel bag. The room
I’m supposedly going to fall asleep in tonight.

None
of these places, these bathrooms, are going to work. Too many people have used
them. Too many germs. Too many diseases.

So
I need a miracle. A bathroom miracle. And it needs to happen in the next hour
(maybe an hour and a half).

In
the meantime, I need to try to concentrate on the current speaker, the current
presentation going on in front of me. I cross my legs tightly and try to focus
on a lecture about contemporary genres of fiction.

I
can’t focus, though. My focus is spent for the day. I’ve already sat through
hours of sessions. Writing lectures. Literature lectures. Lectures and lectures
and lectures. I’ve taken enough notes to fill almost half of a notebook (a
certain yellow notebook…a notebook with a   
----
in it).

And
that’s another reason why I can’t focus anymore. I’m using his notebook. His
pen. I’ve been using them for hours. And I haven’t seen him for hours. Not
since I lost sight of his back as I walked through the airport. Hours and hours
ago. Hours and hours of waiting to see him…of looking for him. Where is he?
What is he doing?

My
eyes wander around me, around the conference room, searching all of the faces
in the chairs scattered around…the faces of grad students, professors, writers.
No sad psychologists. No miserable blue eyes.

I
scan the faces of the people leaning against the wall and—

DAMN
IT.

My
eyes land on Dr. Gabriel. And he’s looking at me with a smile.
Shit. Shit.
Shit.
I fake a return smile and then look down at my lap.

Unfortunately,
Dr. Gabriel doesn’t seem to be irritated about the Mandy taking me to the
airport thing anymore. Or if he is still irritated, he’s not showing it
anymore. He’s no longer trying to be aloof, no longer trying to ignore me. Now
he’s trying to be Prince Charming instead. Holding doors open for me. Offering
to bring me food and drinks (which, by the way, I haven’t accepted, but somehow
I still have to go to the freaking bathroom. Oh, and I’m also starving).

I
have a feeling this change in Dr. Gabriel has something to do with the fact
that I was so nice, so genuinely thankful after the car he hired to take us to
the conference hotel pulled up at the airport. A shiny, new-looking (inside and
out) black limo. Obviously expensive to rent. Obviously not used by as many
people as, well, taxis, or vans, or shuttles. Obviously also probably hired in
advance (before Mandy called him, I’m sure) to impress me. To try to get me to
date him or sleep with him or whatever.

And
I’m pretty sure Dr. Gabriel thinks his limo plan worked. I’m pretty sure he
took the fact that I was so pleased about the car to mean that I want him. He
obviously didn’t realize, doesn’t realize, how relieved…how excited…how
grateful…I become when things are clean. Especially unexpectedly clean.

Now
I have to be on serious guard around him.
That means not accidentally
catching his eye in the middle of conference sessions, Callie!

I
keep my eyes glued to my lap as the presentation goes on. At 5:25 p.m., the
speaker dismisses us, giving us a five minute break. Five minutes to try to
avoid Dr. Gabriel. Five minutes to not go to the bathroom. Five minutes to not
fill my empty stomach.

I
get out of my seat quickly, trying to beat Dr. Gabriel out of the room. In
between every session so far, he’s cornered me and tried to convince me to have
dinner with him. I’ve said “no” over and over, reminding him that I need to
write, to work on my first article—the one that Dr. Hause will expect me to
send by 10:00 tonight.

I
keep giving the same excuse, but he keeps asking. And I’m sure he’s planning to
ask again now.

I
don’t want to give him the chance. I sneak a fast, super fast, glance his way.
It looks like another professor, the one standing next to him against the wall
(for some reason, a lot of the professors seem to stand along the back wall
during these sessions—I don’t know why and I don’t care why…I’m just happy that
Dr. Gabriel stands there instead of sitting beside me), is talking to him right
now.

This
is my chance. I don’t waste any time. I bolt out the door without another
glance in Dr. Gabriel’s direction. I’m the first one out of the room. I take
about six steps out into the hallway and then—

And
then I see
him
. Leaning against a doorway to my right. Black pants.
White shirt. Blue tie. Hands in his pockets. One leg crossed over the other.
{Etta
James draws out the opening of
“At Last
.
”
}
His eyes are
watching me…as though they were waiting for me.     

Before
I get a good read of the emotions on his face, he raises his eyebrows and nods
to the doorway behind him, silently telling me to come over to him.

I
glance back, behind me. No Dr. Gabriel yet. No one else either.

I
turn back to Dr. Blake. He’s now holding the door open, waiting for me to walk
past him. Eyes still on mine.

My
feet start moving, walking toward him without breaking contact with his eyes.
His faces starts to crinkle into a smile.

{Etta
James keeps singing. Slowly. Soulfully.}

When
I get to him, I quickly realize that I don’t have a lot of doorway space to
work with—as I move past him, only about an inch of air remains between
us…between my shoulder and his chest.

His
cologne immediately takes over my head. It stays with me as I take a step past
him. Into a small, dark closet. A coat closet, it appears. A coat closet with a
lot of hangers, but no coats. This perhaps has something to do with the fact
that we are in Florida.

{Flo
Rida cuts in with
“Lo—
}

I
feel him move beside me. The door shuts. The light from the hallway disappears.
The smell of his cologne does not. It gets stronger.

We
stand inches apart in the small space between the hangers and the door.

Not
touching. Not seeing.

No
longer breathing.

Well,
I’m not breathing.

I
hear him inhale. Like he’s about to talk.

He
whispers, “I know there isn’t any space in here, but it’s the best I could do.”
He pauses. “I am sorry.”

I
swallow. I push out my own words, my own whisper. “It’s okay.”

I
wait for him to continue talking. My eyes search through the darkness, trying
to see him. But I can’t. So I listen.

He
exhales and inhales. And exhales again. And—

And
my stomach groans. Loudly.

Oh
my God.

As
I feel my cheeks heat up, I am all of a sudden overly thankful for the pitch
blackness in here.

He
says nothing. He inhales and exhales again.
Is it really possible that he
didn’t hear—

“Callie.”
Another whisper. “You have to eat.”

Okay.
So he heard. Obviously.

I
nod my head pointlessly. As usual, he can’t—

He
whispers again. “You have to start taking care of yourself.” His voice is sad,
distant.

I
nod again. Then I remember (again) that it’s dark. But I don’t say anything.
Can’t say anything right now.

He
doesn’t talk. He breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale.
Another whisper. Quieter than a whisper. “You have to start taking care of
yourself.” He says it again.

Is
he trying to tell me that he doesn’t want to help me anymore? That he doesn’t
want to take care of me?

Pretty
much got that message when you left my hospital room, Dr. Blake.

But
why would he come here to—

“You
need to eat.” He pauses. “And I’m pretty sure you need to get to a bathroom
soon. I’m working on that.”

What
the hell?

My
lips start moving, but no real words come out. Just noises.
How can he
possibly know—

He
cuts off my noises.

“I’ve
been watching you…checking in on you occasionally during your sessions.”

He
has?

“I
could tell…can tell.”

Oh
my God
.
So I’ve been sitting in these sessions trying to be all professional, and
really I’ve just been squirming around like a three-year-old? Maybe I
should
tell other people that I’ve brought a babysit—

“Don’t
worry, Callie. I’m sure no one else has noticed.” He sighs. “You just—you
crossed your legs in a certain way…you made subtle movements that, well, that
Mom used to make when—”

He
continues to fumble for words, to talk about how his mother acted when she was
far away from home, from her personal bathroom. I can’t focus on his words,
though.

Because
I’ve done it again. I’ve reminded him of his mother. Again.

And
I’ve made him miserable. Again. How is it possible that I can so closely
resemble—

“Callie?”

Shit.
He must’ve
asked me a question. I have no idea how—

“Callie?”
As he says my name, I feel his breath on my cheek. He’s moved closer.

Everything
but him, everything else, starts to fade away. My hunger. My need to go to the
bathroom. My desire to not be at the conference. I don’t feel any of it
anymore. Not right now. I do, however, somehow realize that he’s waiting for me
to talk. So I open my mouth and hope to come up with something to say. If I can
just—

“Callie?
Are you okay?” More urgently this time. More breath on my cheek. He’s moving
even closer to me. He—

He’s
touching me.

Whole
body touching me. Arms touching arms. Chest touching chest.
Stomachs…legs…touching.

His
heart starts to pound against mine. He breathes in.

His
lips can’t be more than a second away from mine.

His
breath. His pounding heart. His cologne.
{And Damien.}

That’s
all that there is.

The
sound of waves pounds through my ears. My neck, my arms, my legs—everything
starts to tingle. Everything.

If
I could just make my arms move…make them reach out around his waist…make them
grab him…if I could just pull him into me…if I could just—

“Callie.”
A deep whisper. A groan.

His
forehead meets mine. Burning skin against burning skin. He rocks his head from
side to side. Back and forth.

{Alias.
“(I
Need You Now) More Than Words Can Say.”
Voices and instruments. Pleading.
Aching.}

His
head stops moving. He is still. His forehead fused with mine.

We
stand there. In limbo.

On
fire.

Standing.
Standing. Burning.

{Alias.
Singing. Singing. Begging. Wanting.}

Eventually,
it happens.

My
phone buzzes in my purse. I knew it would.

I
don’t move to answer it. I know it’s Dr. Gabriel. I know the presentation is
about to start up again.

“You
have to go,” he whispers. He doesn’t move.

I
nod slowly, moving his forehead, his head, down and up with mine.

He
whispers again, “Have dinner with me.”

I
nod again. Moving both of our heads again. Unable to say “no” to him. Once
again.

Again.
Again. Again.

“Thank
you.” Another whisper. It sounds like his mouth is smiling. “Now, I guess I
have to let you go to your session.” Another pause. “One.” Pause. “Two.” Pause.
“Three.” {Frank Sinatra enters with “My—
}

As
he finishes his count, he pulls back, taking his forehead, his body, a step
away from me. The door creaks open a crack. A tiny bit of light shines through.

“The
hallway is clear,” he whispers yet again as he pushes the door open further. I
blink my eyes to adjust them to the sudden stream of light, and I move my feet
slowly out of the closet, out into the hallway. Out to where he is standing.