Strung (16 page)

Chayton picks up the empty bowl that the pups are pushing around the kitchen floor and strolls over to the
door, which leads outside.  He opens the door and orders the two pups out with a single word.  I am stunned when the pups obey instantly.  He waits until they have both sniffed around on the cold ground and found a place to piddle then he closes the door on them. 
Oh, this is cruel!

I am
glaring at him in horror as he waits until he hears a whine outside the door.  Then, to my surprise, he knees down and pushes a large-enough-for-Dog flap that has been neatly camouflaged in the wooden door.  He does not hold the flap open for the pups, but rather sets it swinging gently, letting the pups work out how to use it. 
Brilliant!  Sexy, talented, alpha dog and brilliant! 
Discomfort settles over me the instant I think the words ‘alpha dog.’  I am ready to go home now!

~.~

"Um, what time are we going?
”  I ask Chayton, quietly.

He is just finishing his lunch and looks up at me, his face darkening
, a small frown forming between his eyes.  "We can leave in about half an hour, if you are in a hurry to go," he answers just as quietly.

"Yes, please.  I have a lot of stuff to catch up on."

"Okay." 

I spy Savannah watching us both thoughtfully. 

~.~

31st March

I gather my very small package of personal belongings.  I am still pissed that I cannot just drive my own vehicle back.  Last night Chayton had been adamant that my ankle was not ready.  He objected to my argument that if I was fine enough to hit the dance floor, I was fine to drive.  He warned me that I would be feeling the effects of my exhibition this morning and he was right.  My ankle is very stiff today.  Still, I am desperate to get my independence back and it shouldn't be his decision to make.

He is
waiting for me outside in the blue jeep and climbs out to open my door. 

"Thank you."  I mumble as he takes his seat.

"It's my pleasure."

"No, for everything."

He turns and leans against the door, gazing at me with an unreadable expression.

"Why are you so anxious to leave?" he asks eventually.

"I told you.  I have things to do, a shelter to run, I've been missing for a whole week."

"Are you sure that's all?" he asks, stroking his finger along his bottom lip.
  I bite my lip apprehensively, my thoughts torn between his stroking finger, his lip and his question.

"Yes," I eventually manage.

He gazes at me a moment longer, then seems to make a decision about something and turns to start the jeep.  I watch him pensively as he steers us out of the drive and we hit the road leading down the mountain.  Realising he is not going to share what is on his mind; I turn my attention to the scenery hurtling past.

It is
nearly an hour before the oppressive silence is broken.

"You won't have much work to do in the morning.  It's
Sunday," he says, throwing me an accusatory glance.

"I'm moving from my flat, into the shelter."

"How are you moving?"

"What do you mean?
”  I ask, confused by the question.

"Who is helping you move?" he rephrases, glancing quickly at me.

"Oh, um – I don't have much.  Just a few boxes, I can manage on my own with a taxi."

"I'll bring your Camper-Van tomorrow and help you," he offers quietly.

"I would appreciate having my van back, but you don't have to help with the move."

"I want to."

Oh! 
"Why?”  I whisper.

He glances at me again then pulls over onto the verge of the road.  "Because I want to see you again," he sighs, staring ahead at the empty road.
  I stare at him for a long while, unable to respond.  He turns to me eventually and takes my hand in his.  "What do I keep doing to offend you?" he asks, his expression pained.

"What?  No, Nothing!  You don't offend me," I splutter.  Why would he think that?

"So what's the problem, Acacia?"  I shudder as his thumbs stir up strange sensations on my knuckles.

"I'm just not ready for anything.  'No strings' remember," I mutter, eyes fixed on his thumbs.

"It is still 'no strings' - if that's what you want."

"It's complicated.  It feels like something I can't control and I just...can't," I whisper and hear his sharp intake of air.

"It doesn't have to be controlled," he whispers.

"For me it does."

"Does this mean we won't be together again?"

"I..."  I swallow hard.  I
had not thought about my withdrawal in such a permanent way. 
Never being with him again?
  It hurts.  Maybe it is a sign that this is how it should be.  "I guess so," I reply, unwilling to commit.

"Okay. 
However, if you change your mind, Acacia, I am here.  I'm willing to change the terms of our agreement if that's what it takes." 

He places my hands gently on my lap and turns back to the driving position, leaving me pondering the meaning behind his words.

"Please let me help you move tomorrow?" he says as he pulls back onto the asphalt again.

"Okay," I reply because I really don't know what else to say.

~.~

Even though it
is not the expected time of the month to be suffering from PMS, hormonal is the only plausible explanation, I can find to describe my mood this morning.  Before I had even opened my eyes and lifted my head off the pillow, I was in full green 'Hulk' mode, ready to wrap a lamp post around anyone who so much as looked in my direction.

I tackle a jammed zipper on one of the suitcases with gritted teeth and a few choice words.  Thankfully,
or maybe not
, I had yet to have contact with any members of the human race, today.  I hate feeling like this and I do not remember ever having it this bad.  I idly wonder if it might be unfair to Mike Tyson if I challenged him to ten rounds - just to get it out my system. 

"Here we go again!
”  I grumble, just as the offending zipper slides free.  The phone has already rung five times.  Each time, I have hurdled over furniture, risking life and limb, to answer it in time.  Each time, only to find another lady or gentleman from Calcutta or Mumbai called 'Mary' or 'James' wanting to take 'just three minutes of my time' to conduct a Consumer Survey.  Do the marketing experts, who think it necessary to gather this information, honestly assume that the public are so stupid, that we would believe a call centre is based on U.S. soil, just because the heavily accented speaker is named James, and that we might be more willing to be harassed by another American?

I could just ignore it, but
I have disconnected the answering service and it might be someone important. 

"Hello.
”  I answer.

"Good evening Madam, am I speaking to Mrs. Acacia Ward?" 

"Probably not, who is this please?”  I ask abruptly.

"My name is Mark, Madam and I'm phoning from the Washington Consumer Council.  Madam you are being entered into a prize draw..." 
Here we go again.

"What's your real name?"

"Sorry, excuse me Madam?"

"I said, what is your real name?"

"Um Madam, we are not allowed to disclose personal information," he replies sheepishly.

"But you expect me to disclose personal information?"

"I'm sorry Madam," he says with just the right levels of remorse.

"Well
Mark
, the Acacia Ward you're after has just been dragged out in a straight jacket, for trying to eat a door to door salesman."   

I slam the phone down, determined to ignore if it rings again.  I know
they are only doing their job, but really?  Perhaps when I have finished packing, I will expend some energy doing sit-ups and push-ups.  What I really need is to pound the pavement for a few miles but my ankle isn't ready for that yet.

I have my worldly possessions packed up in record time.  I really
do not have much, just two suitcases containing clothes, linen and shoes, a box of kitchen paraphernalia and a box of papers and old photos.

When I de-cluttered my frenzied psyche, I had applied the same abstemious assault
on my personal possessions.  With callous intent, I had sorted then donated, disposed or destroyed the bulk of my chattels, retaining only what I deemed necessary.  I repeated the process again and again, until my entire life's accumulations amounted to the approximate volume of a supermarket trolley.  It had been brutal but felt so very, very necessary at the time.

Victoria and I still disagree on my motivations.  She firmly believes that it was a clear demonstration of Passive Self-Aggression
, one of apparently many.

I rip the packing tape a little too vigorously across the top of a box in frustration.  Victoria sees my denial as a
symptom
of this so-called Passive Self-Aggression.  I find it annoyingly typical that every unpleasant psychological malady has
denial
as its number one
symptom
, making sure that any repudiation by the patient is an automatic confirmation of the
diagnosis
.  It is no wonder psychiatric patients do not have a hope in hell! 

I pile my effects by the door and give the small, furnished apartment the once-over to make sure I hand it back to the
Landlord in good condition.  Satisfied that everything is in order, I glance at my watch.  Still an hour and half before Chayton is due to collect me.

I forfeit the exercise, not relishing the effort of unpacking clothes, toiletries and shower cleaner just to exercise off a bad mood.  I decide to indulge myself instead and head down to the fifties-style diner, one street down from my apartment. 

They have the most amazing pecan nut pies and my mouth is watering in anticipation as I place my order.  I glance around the diner.  It's empty so no one will notice if I pig out.

"Oh, and can you throw in a banana float?
”  I manage to add before the waitress disappears.

I gaze out the window
, not seeing anything.  I wonder pensively where I'm going with my life.  At Donavan's Pass, I had been determined to get back into... into what?  My old life?  Is that what I want? 
Ugh, this is frustrating!
 

The waitress interrupts my introspection with my meal and I push my strained thoughts aside for the moment.  I take a small scoop from the ball of
ice cream floating in my banana milkshake. 
Yum.
  I smack my lips together and release a long, contented sigh. 
Heaven in a glass.
  I dig into the pie.  It is delicious and I give it my full appreciative attention for a few mouthfuls before returning to the questions nudging at me.

So, do I want to go back to my old life? 
Define 'old life!’ 
I realise that I am delving into that big nasty suitcase of messy issues and panic stricken I mentally slam it firmly shut, sipping instead on my milk shake. 

The milkshake is undeniably hard work and my cheeks ache as I encourage the viscous liquid through the thin plastic tube.  All junk food should be like this.  You work off the calories as you eat them.  I gasp as the cold liquid finally floods my mouth and I have to press a palm against my forehead. 
Brain freeze! 
I giggle.

"That's a charming sound." 

My eyes fly up at the unexpected but very welcome voice.  I have been so lost in my thoughts; I had not noticed anyone else enter the diner.

He is sitting a few tables away, cradling a coffee in his hands and looking devilishly hot. 

"It takes a very brave person to dine alone!"  He murmurs softly into his mug of coffee.  I can feel the growing smile on my face reaching goofy proportions but I just cannot help it.

I feign indifference.  "Is that so?"

"The trick is to look confident about it," he explains, "to look as though it was always your intention, to eat alone."

I recognise the conversation from an old movie with Sandra Bullock.  I
do not remember the name of the movie or if he is quoting, word perfect.  However, it is amusing, considering the movie was definitely a chick flick.  I frown, trying to remember how the conversation goes. 
Um, okay.  Here goes!

"Would you care to join me?"  I lay on the sugar batting an eyelash.  If I remember the scene correctly, he declines and leaves the diner. 
Oh, I hope not
.

"I might just do that." 
He is oozing charm and humour as he settles onto the bench opposite me, bringing his coffee with him.  He smiles and life in general seems to light up.  A flash of perfect gleaming teeth and two adorable dimples sweep my previous distraught thoughts and foul mood away.