Fearsome (19 page)

“Okay,” Dylan rasps and then he turns me around so my back is against the wall.

He unbuttons his jeans and pulls a condom from his wallet then hoists me up using his weight and the wall to brace me in place before he’s in me. I wrap my legs around his waist and move frantically with his thrusts.

I want more; I want it faster and harder. I want my body and mind to explode so I can feel good and not think about us arguing over the time I spend on painting and work versus the time I give to Dylan. At least that’s what goes through my mind as the term
“fucking my brains out”
races through my head.

It also occurs to me that anyone could drive up to the house and see Dylan’s naked ass nailing me against the house in broad daylight. Then I imagine Carson driving up and seeing us just before that image of him turns into the image of Carson screwing me here against the wall. I keep my eyes closed as Dylan pulls my bra down to fondle my breasts, imagining that it’s Carson’s tongue on my nipple and Carson ramming himself into me, bringing me to the edge.

“Oh God, I love this. I love you,” Dylan groans and rubs two fingers on my clit. “I want us to come at the same time.

I can tell he’s ready to climax, but he strains to hold off until I’m a moaning mess. I shudder and fall into Dylan; spent, both physically and emotionally.

“So, you still want to go on that picnic?” I ask as we retrieve our clothing from the porch and quickly dress.

“It’s not that big a deal. I was planning on just screwing around with you since we’d have a blanket and a nice view.” He smiles. “You beat me to it.”

“Oh, so the picnic part was really an excuse to have sex in another location.”

“Yep.”

“I’m hungry,” I whine, ruffling his blond curls.

“Then I’ll cook for you.” He kisses me softly on the lips, quickly enough to be tender, yet innocent as though he wants to prove that not all of our physical encounters are about sex.

Dylan outdoes himself on our dinner. He grills rib eye steaks on the old charcoal Weber out back and sears scallops and leeks in the kitchen. He also makes some kind of buttery asparagus and mushroom dish that is divine. He tops off all the butter and fatty foods with homemade pie and ice cream from Bonnie’s.

I watch Dylan finish his second serving of pie. “I’m going to get fat if I keep eating like this,” I tell him. “I think I’ve already gained a few pounds.”

“You haven’t gained an ounce. I know. My hands have covered every inch of your body.”

“Funny. But I’m serious. This food is delicious, but you’re going to turn me into a cow with these meals.”

Dylan pulls me into his lap and begins kissing my neck. “I worship your body. Even if you gained a hundred pounds, I would still love you.”

“I call bullshit,” I say and stand up. “Guys always say crap like that. It’s such a lie, though.”

“I don’t say crap like that,” Dylan says. “I’m serious. Do you think fat women are unloved?”

“Oh, don’t turn it around. I didn’t say that. Of course there are fat couples who love each other. This is a stupid conversation!”

“You started it.”

“No, what I started was a conversation about how men say things they don’t really mean.”

“Fine. Here’s what I know. I love you now. I love you thin and I’ll love you fat, should it come to that.” He laughs.

“Sure, plenty of guys still love their girlfriends when they get fat, but then they stop having sex,” I say, putting dirty dishes in the sink. “Then the relationship goes to crap and that’s when the guy resents the woman for gaining weight.”

“And this is based on?”

“Oh please, it’s part of our culture. Don’t play dumb.”

I have constructed a towering mound of dirty pans and dishes in the sink and I contemplate how they will get clean when Dylan wraps his arms around me.

“I love you, Jess. You worry about so many things that you don’t have to worry about.” He is so tender and kind, I want to believe him. I want to feel as sure about him as he feels about me, however, I don’t. I’m as anxious and cynical as I ever was.

I sigh and continue to study the mess in the sink as though it’s a great conundrum.

“You know those dishes can’t be washed when they’re jammed in there like that,” he says.

“I know. I’m waiting for that damn dishwasher Carson said he’d install.”

Dylan takes me by the shoulders and leads me back to a kitchen chair where he sits me down. Then he pours a glass of red wine from an open bottle and places it on the table in front of me. “You, relax. I’m going to do the dishes.”

I sip the wine and watch Dylan’s back as he works over the sink. I wish I was in a more forgiving mood, but I’m still angry about his behavior in front of Tom.

“Dylan, what you did while Tom was here; you can’t ever do that again,” I bring up the conversation again.

He turns around and dries his wet hands on his thighs and leans back against the sink. Dylan’s expression is kind and confident, nothing like what I saw earlier on the porch.

“I thought I was helping you. I was trying to be supportive, hoping you wouldn’t take on too much work.”

“You made me look like I don’t have control of my own life. You looked like a jealous boyfriend in front of someone I respect, someone who is the only person who supports my artistic endeavors.”

“I support your art.”

“When was the last time you walked through my studio? The day I set it up? You never ask about my paintings or ask to see them,” I say, trying not to sound angry.

“When was the last time you came to the workshop to see what I was working on?” he asks, although his tone isn’t accusatory like mine.

“Exactly. You’ve made my point, Dylan,” I reply. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, but let’s not pretend that we are so close that we can make career choices for one another.” I hear what I’m saying and yet I don’t stop. I feel sick by my own words, but I continue. “We do not share in life changing decisions.”

“I’m not pretending, Jess.” Dylan’s hands clench the sink edge as his arms flex. “You
are
my life changing decision and, whatever you are passionate about, I want to support you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. My voice goes from angry to timid. “How am I a life changing decision for you?”

“I’m here every day, Jess. We both work and then we’re together every night; every dinner, every movie, every walk out by the creek, every night in the same bed.” He walks over to where I’m sitting and leans on the table, hovering over me. “Do you think I take this lightly?”

“We’re dating, that doesn’t make you a decision-maker in my life. It makes you my boyfriend.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t think you’ve ever had a boyfriend like me, right? Did you ever date anyone that you let stick around?”

“No, I wasn’t serious with anyone and you know that because I already told you.”

“I guess the question is, are you serious about me?” Dylan’s voice becomes angry and it causes Bert to perk up from his slumber and leave the room.

“Now you’ve scared Bert. I hope you know what you sound like.” I’m saying any stupid old thing I can think of and it sounds lame even to me.

“Answer the question,” Dylan demands. “Are you serious about me? Because your reaction to Tom and this idea that working around the clock doesn’t have anything to do with me, makes me wonder if I’m even a priority in your life.”

“Of course, you are,” I say quietly, looking up at him. “But my reaction to Tom was about the work he was offering, not Tom himself. You seemed jealous—”

“I am jealous. I’m jealous of any guy who can make you smile the way you did today. You were jumping out of your chair like a kid. I’m jealous that he can give you something I can’t. I know you love painting more than designing computer software. I get that. I get that you need to spend hours every day in your studio and it makes you very happy. I’m jealous that there’s a guy in New York City, hell, there are a lot of guys in the city who can sell your paintings so that you’ll feel like a real artist.”

“I’m not interested in Tom,” I add.

“I know that!” Dylan yells. “I already think of you as an artist, but you don’t unless you’re being paid for your work. You need validation from others, experts like Tom. He makes you feel like a real artist and I don’t. That’s what pisses me off. I want to be the one…”

Dylan backs away from me and then goes back to the sink. “Go paint. It will make you feel better,” he says in a soft tone. He’s not being glib. “I’ll finish up the kitchen; you go work in the studio. Okay?”

“Yeah. Dylan?”

“Jess, I don’t want to argue,” he says with his back to me as he resumes washing dishes. “And you need to paint. Go. I’ll meet you in a bit.”

I walk over and wrap my arms around his waist and hug his back. He stills to let me have my moment. Then I plant a kiss on his back between his shoulder blades.

“The kiss doesn’t count unless it’s on bare skin,” he says. “Go paint.”

I paint until midnight, hours of uninterrupted painting, and I only decide to go to bed when Bert’s noxious gas makes my studio unbearable. I change into a slip of a nightie and look for Dylan. I find him in the library, sitting on the couch with his long legs stretched out resting on the coffee table. He’s working on his laptop and has a pen and pad of paper next to him.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Surfing porn sites.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m kidding. I’m reading the Fed announcement that came out today. It moved the market one percent.”

“Really, you’re reading that at this hour?”

“No, I’m kidding. I’m just catching up on some work.”

“Oh, you’re a funny man when there’s a full moon.” I sit down next to him.

He’s perusing the website of a high-end store in Manhattan I recognize. It lists locations in Brooklyn and D.C.

“They’re a client,” Dylan informs me. “I want to see what they currently have on hand and if I need to push our New York sales rep into adding more pieces. I have about fifty sites I like to go through every month. Sometimes I find new stores I think would be a perfect match for our product, so I send notes out to the sales reps.”

“I didn’t know you handled the business end, too. I thought you made furniture all day.”

“That’s my primary job, working in the shop, however, Carson has me going out into the field more, meeting store buyers and talking to sales reps. I help train them with our furniture. I like talking about the wood, the work, the process. Then I think the reps are better at selling it.”

A slew of spreadsheets pop up on the screen and I watch as Dylan flips through them. Revenue, Inventory, Sales Expectations, Current Orders, Sales History. His eyes flit around the screen quickly as he reads the numbers before going to the next screen.

“So you’re a businessman, too. You help Carson with the financial part?”

Dylan looks at me amused. “Well, golly gee, I think I can add and subtract a few numbers, Ms. Channing,” he says in a Gomer Pyle imitation.

I laugh and am relieved we’re back to our regular banter, that the tension from earlier is gone.

“I don’t know, Dylan. These fancy numbers and charts and that sexy accent are kind of turning me on.”

Dylan puts the laptop on the table and then lifts me like a bride as he stands. “We’re going to have to do something about that right now,” he says as he carries me off to bed.

I wake when it’s still dark, my mind murky with a dream that is now fading. The nightstand clock says it’s three o’clock in the morning while Dylan’s quick breaths tell me he’s awake, too.

“Dylan?” I turn towards his back. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” he says, rolling over to face me. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. Something woke me up. I’m usually a heavy sleeper, but sometimes those owls and crickets make a peep and then I’m wide awake. Country noises are creepy compared to the city.”

I can see Dylan’s smile in the moonlight as he reaches over with one arm and pulls me closer.

“Why are you awake?” I ask him. His smile is not convincing, I sense something closer to anguish from him. “What’s wrong, Dylan?”

“Sometimes I have insomnia.”

“How often?”

“A lot, but then sometimes, on the weekends, I crash and sleep like a log.”

“How long has this been going on?” I ask, wondering if it started with my arrival.

“About six months. I stopped taking the anti-depressant I was on because it made me sleepy. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Dylan,” I say urgently. “When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

“I saw the shrink about a year ago. I took the pills for about six months and then stopped. Except for the sleepiness, I was feeling pretty good. You don’t have to worry about me, Jess. I’m fine.”

“Don’t you think you were feeling good because of the medication? It’s supposed to balance you out.”

Dylan gives a tired laugh. “Jesus, I know what the meds are supposed to do and I know Carson told you I’ve been at this a while. I’m fine. I’m taking on some new responsibilities at the shop and I don’t want to let Carson down. Maybe I’ve been worrying a little too much about it and it keeps me up at night, but it will go away.”

“Why can’t you see your doctor, or a new doctor, and try a new medication that doesn’t make you tired?”

“I don’t need another anti-depressant or anti-anxiety drug. I’ve taken so many pills since I was a teenager, enough to disable an elephant. I’m done with the pill regimen.”

“That’s not how it works and you know it. You took those meds over many years. The doctors didn’t keep you loaded and drugged up.”

“How do you know?” Now Dylan is propped on his arm, in my face. “Do you and Carson discuss my medical history a lot? Do you think I’m sick?”

“I didn’t mean to be intrusive,” I say, my voice trying to find a soothing tone. “I think you’re trying too hard to be perfect. Believe me, Dylan; I know what it’s like to worry about pleasing other people and always trying to be the best. I lived like that my whole life, living the life my parents wanted for me, but you don’t have to do that.”