So Much More (14 page)

Returning upstairs to my apartment, I lay down on the couch and in no time I’m asleep. It’s sleep I desperately need—making up for all that was lost to worry this week.

Rap
rap
…rap…
rap
rap.

It’s Faith’s trademark knock, random and improvised. It’s never the same sequence.

I blink away sleep, but the pace of my heart is so erratic it has me sitting and reaching for my cane before consciousness fully engages.

“Coming!” I yell, even though we can see each other because she’s peeking in through the front window next to the door.

When I open the door, she’s standing with her feet centered between the remaining letters on the W…E mat looking down at them. “We,” she says. “Do you think it means something?”

I’m pretty sure I’m awake now, but the question catches me off guard. She lifts her chin and trains her blue eyes on me. I’d forgotten how deep they are, her eyes. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t move. “I mean the rest of the letters are gone. As if removed purposely. All that’s left is ‘we.’”

Her words ring in my ears.
All that’s left is we.
Her. And me. I shrug. “I suppose that’s true. All that’s left, tonight anyway, is we. You and me.” She smiles, and I feel the acceptance of my apology before I even say it. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I was laughing at her jealousy, not at you. I should’ve come to you sooner. Life’s been—”

She cuts me off with a finger held to my lips and repeats, “We.” And then she steps off the mat and enters my apartment. “What’s for dinner, Seamus?”

As she follows me to the kitchen, I scratch the back of my neck, wondering the same thing. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to make do. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week.”

She shrugs. “I’m easy to feed.” She’s always agreeable, and I wonder if that’s a direct reflection of her parents and how she was raised, if it’s just her, or if it’s something she works at.
 

I open the cupboard and the refrigerator and survey. “Looks like ramen, mac and cheese, cereal, oatmeal, or bologna sandwiches. Oh, or toast. Or any combination of the aforementioned.”

Looking over my shoulder to gauge her reaction, I find her smiling. “How about mac and cheese bologna sandwiches?”

“What do you mean, mac and cheese inside the sandwich?”

“Yeah,” she confirms. “I’ve never had that. But we have to fry the bologna. I don’t like cold, dirty meat. It makes me gag.”

I bark out a surprised laugh because that could be interpreted many ways and I don’t want to dive straight into the gutter, but I can’t help it. “Dirty meat?”

She laughs with me, blushing a bit, but standing her ground. “Yeah, dirty meat. Bologna, hot dogs, pepperoni. You never really know what’s inside. It’s dirty meat.”

Her rosy cheeks are adorable. “Gotcha. Please don’t mention that to Kira. She lives on bologna and hot dogs, and I can’t afford to cut any foods out of her limited diet.”

Faith fries the bologna while I make the mac and cheese. We even toast the bread, so everything about the sandwich is hot.

When we sit down on the couch with our plates, Faith assesses her sandwich. “Seamus, we might be on to something here. This is classy on a budget.”
 

Raising my eyebrows, I look around the room. “If you hadn’t noticed, that’s how I roll.”

She laughs as she bites into her sandwich and talks only after she’s swallowed. “Oh, I noticed. Me, too,” she adds with a wink.

While we eat, I decide now’s a good time to find out a little bit more about her. “Where are you from Faith?”

“Kansas City,” she answers.

I stop chewing and look at her because surely she’s kidding. She doesn’t look like a Midwesterner. “Really?”

“Really. I grew up there. I moved here a few months ago.”

“What brought you to California? You’re a long way from home.”

She smiles at me like she knows I’m going to be amused by what she’s about to say. “Research.”

I smile in return. “Ah, of course, research. Do your parents still live in Kansas City?”

She shakes her head as she chews a bite of her sandwich.

“Where do they live?”

“I grew up in foster care.”

The words, even though there wasn’t negativity behind them, concern me. I’m familiar with the foster care system due to my job. Counseling sheds light on all facets of my students’ lives. Most foster care parents are loving, giving individuals who want what’s best for the child. But, like anything else in life, there are always the bad apples. The ones responsible for tarnishing the reputation of the good. Those are the ones who stick out in my mind. The ones who shouldn’t be allowed around other human beings, let alone children. “How was that?” My stomach twists as I wait for her answer.

“Let’s just say, some families were better than others.” She takes in my worried eyes and adds quickly, “Some people are really good at making you feel valued. Like you’re worth something. And some people feed and house you.” She shrugs. “I survived. And it made me that much more grateful for the ones who cared. Gratitude isn’t a gift to the receiver, it’s a gift to the giver.”

“How old are you, Faith?” I’m more curious than ever now.

“Twenty-two.”

“How’d you get so wise in twenty-two years?” I mean it, she’s a deep thinker.

“Old soul.” She winks. “Growing up in and aging out of the foster care system is like dog years. About two to your one. Technically, I’m forty-four.”

I love her sense of humor. “Good to know. Should I start calling you ma’am? That’s how I address my elders.”

She shakes her head threateningly. “Never. Even when I’m ninety, no one will be allowed to call me ma’am.”

I’m finished with my sandwich—which was an unexpectedly tasty combination—and wait for her to finish before I ask another question. “How old were you when you went into the system?”

“Two.”

“So, you don’t remember your birth parents?”

She shakes her head to let me know I’ve missed something or that I have the story all wrong. “Long story short, my mother gave me up for adoption at birth. My adoptive parents…weren’t exactly up to the task of parenting after the newness wore off and they figured out babies, toddlers, were work.”

My heart aches. It aches because I can’t help but think of my kids. “Do you know the circumstances behind you going into foster care in the first place?”

“My caseworker shared my file with me when I turned eighteen. The neglect and abuse was all there in black and white. I’m glad toddler’s memories are purged as we mature.” She looks at me. “That’s one of the best gifts I’ve been granted in life, not remembering the worst. But it did make sense of some of the scars I have.”

I cringe at the pain she has no doubt suffered. “I’m sorry.”

Shaking her head, she says, “Don’t be sorry, Seamus. I don’t remember it—”

“That doesn’t excuse what they did,” I interrupt, feeling protective. I can see Faith in my mind giving hugs to strangers on the beach with a kindness that should’ve never been tainted.

“I’m not saying that because I don’t remember it excuses it. They both did jail time. I’ve never spoken to them. I’m just saying that not being plagued with the awful memories was a sympathetic act the universe bestowed upon me. An act that saved me a lot of money on therapy.”

I smile at her positive take on her life. “You’re pretty incredible, you know that?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m just a girl who fought like hell for her name.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was eighteen I legally changed my name to Faith Hepburn. And before you ask, it’s after Audrey
and
Katharine, because they were both amazing women. And it’s a pretty name.”

“That it is,” I agree. “Are you religious? Is that why you chose Faith?”

“Nope.”

“Faith in what then?”

Her eyes are bright, but slightly aged when she looks at me and answers, “Life.”

I nod. Of course. Everything is about living life to her, experiencing it.

“What about you, Seamus? What do you have faith in?” Before I answer, she adds quickly, “And you can’t say your kids. That’s obvious.”

Damn, that’s exactly what I was going to say. The only other answer that comes to mind is too depressing to verbalize.

“Well?” she prompts.

“I don’t know,” I lie, not wanting to bring this conversation down. “I can’t think of anything.”

“You have an answer,” she challenges. “I can see it all over your face. I can see it in the way your posture slouched. I can see it in the way your eyes dropped.”

I turn my head and look at her and then I sigh and slump back against the couch cushion behind me. “I have faith in decline; the decline of my health, the decline of my sanity, the decline of my happiness. Miranda’s going to make sure I hit rock bottom with everything she’s got. She’s going to strip it all away. I hate her, Faith. I really, truly, hate the woman.” She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to figure out what’s going on and I answer the question. “She’s taking me to court in two weeks to fight for full custody.”

“What? She can’t take your kids.”

“It’s all up to the courts. It’s not fair, you know? That total strangers are going to decide my future and my kids’ future. All because Miranda has a hard-on for revenge and power and flaunting her money. Have I mentioned how much I hate her?” The last sentence I mix malice with sarcasm because I’d rather do that than cry. Or scream and punch a hole in the wall. And I’m on the verge of either now.

“You have to fight. With everything you’ve got.” She looks determined. The kind of determined I want to feel in my heart, that leaves no room for doubt.
 

I have too much doubt. It’s the bastard child of fear. I hate fear. So doubt sidles up next to determination in my heart. It doesn’t outweigh it. They coexist.
 

I nod in agreement with her. “I can’t lose them, Faith.” My voice is thick with the sadness and frustration that’s clogging my throat.

“You won’t,” she assures me. And then she stands and walks to the front door and opens it. She bends over and picks up the W…E mat, steps back inside, and closes the door behind her. Then she walks toward me and sets the W…E mat down on the floor directly in front of me. And after she steps onto it she smiles and says, “I need to hug you. Now.”

I take her hand she’s extended to help me up.

She looks down at the mat we’re both now standing on and back up to my eyes. “We,” she says. “You’re not alone, Seamus. I’m here.”

I hug her, and I let everything bad drain out of me. But I don’t give it to her. I let it siphon down from my head through my torso and legs and out my feet, just like opening up the drain in the bathtub. I can feel the fear and tension escape, if only for the moment.

And I feel her doing the same thing. The hug that started out strong, more physical than emotional, as if we both needed to prove that we were here and present for each other, lessened in grip and shifted to something more emotional and supportive. And it feels every bit as intense in strength.
 

“So much more than thank you,” I whisper in her ear.

“So much more,” she whispers back. And in those words I hear my soft place to land again, but I also feel a change in both of us. That wasn’t just acceptance of my appreciation, it was also an admission. A desire.

I’m at odds with my conscience. All too aware of the
woman
pressed against me. A woman I want to get lost in, if only tonight. I’m mapping out boundaries and lines in my mind. Lines I shouldn’t cross. And then my mouth is working on the specifics without me. “Do you have a boyfriend, Faith?” I ask it softly, like a wish, into the indentation of her collarbone.
 

“No,” she whispers.
 

I hear the word. I understand its meaning. But what makes heat thread through my veins is the hesitant, sadly hopeful tone of her voice. Hope that pleads for consequences…immediate consequences.

Consequences that have me arguing away lines and boundaries and touching my lips to her skin. Her shoulders lift slightly into the contact before settling out on a silent sigh.

I chase the sigh with my lips…and then with the tip of my tongue, tracing the hard line of her collarbone to the base of her neck.

Her hands twist up the back of my t-shirt in response.

I’ve always romanticized that physical intimacy should be a conversation. A loving exchange back and forth. I’ve never had a partner who was a willing conversationalist.

Until now.

Fingertips brush faintly up the backside of an arm, wrist to shoulder, raising goosebumps in response.

Warm breath against skin, exhaled on a patient pause between kisses below an ear, elicits a shiver.

A shifting of stance tucks one leg between two, the two hug it in return.

The initiation of a kiss, soft and tentative, is welcomed by parted lips.

A shirt removed is reciprocated with the shedding of the other.

Touch for touch.

Kiss for kiss.

Heart for heart.

Trust for trust.

It’s all traded until the line I drew in my mind earlier is approached, if not mildly crossed already. I don’t retreat, but I don’t take it any further. She doesn’t push it either and seems perfectly content to continue the conversation without the introduction of sex.

Even when we move to the couch and she sits on my lap straddling me, all of the conversation happens from the waist up. The pace and intensity vary like the waves of the ocean I love to watch. Some swells are low, no break, just a gentle ease. And some swells are high, all whitecaps, intensely crashing in with passionate frenzy. The ebb and flow is so natural that I obey every instinct without hesitation. Hesitation requires doubt or uncertainty, neither of which are possible when I’m touching Faith.

An easy hour passes, and as it does our bodies begin to meld with each other as the blissful, satisfying blanket of exhaustion envelopes us. Slowly, so slowly, we’re pulled under until her head is resting on my shoulder, my head tilted, her forehead against my neck, our torsos contently accepting each other’s touch as the precursor to a final hug. And the last thing I hear before we both fall asleep, is a whisper, “So much more.” It sounds like an appeal to my soul.