Bess
Saturday and part of Sunday flew by in a whirlwind of taking runs with Lane along the beach, eating leisurely brunches together at the local diner, sharing a candlelit dinner in a tiny tucked-away Italian joint, and walking along the shoreline, stealing kisses any chance we had. There was something about Lane that both put me at ease and also unsettled me.
I think it was his eyes. They were confusing, often saying something different than the rest of him. His gorgeous baby blues were mostly open and honest, but every so often they would darken with something secret. A small shade of hesitation, a concern or worry would transform his eyes, and I would stare deep into them, trying to understand what it was or where it came from.
Like the first day I spotted him all buttoned up in his suit in the WildFlower restaurant waiting for a table, it was as if he was in some kind of weird trance where he was wrestling with inner demons. Which was strange, because to the casual onlooker, it didn’t appear that he had any problems, any demons.
Of course, I was the last person to think everything was always rosy. Looks could be deceiving. If you went to an AA meeting, you wouldn’t believe the normal-looking people there who struggled with addiction.
So it bothered me, this knowledge that there was something not quite right with him; I just didn’t know what.
It was usually during those odd moments when Lane would change the subject or come up with something I had to see. The steps where Versace was murdered, the gym on the beach with all the muscle heads, the funky pedal taxis with advertising hanging from the sides, and my favorite distraction—the hammock swing in the courtyard of the Dylan where we both climbed in and swung gently from side to side while holding hands.
With my head nestled in the crook of his neck, Lane asked, “Wouldn’t it be great to do this year round?” while kissing the top of my head, making his way around to nibble on my ear.
I couldn’t see his eyes, so I had no idea if their blue was burning bright like the sky or if they were clouded with some dark emotion.
“I think so,” I said, “but this isn’t real. At least, not for me. I have a routine, which is how I survive. I go to work, walk my dog, spend time on my quiet piece of the mountain, and go to meetings. I don’t think that translates into life here.”
It was Sunday afternoon, and the shadows were drawing long. My room beckoned to me, the satiny sheets calling my name. But not just my name. Lane’s too. We had had another earth-shattering make-out session at my door the night before, and I felt the frustration when Lane made his way back down the hall, leaving my panties soaked and my heart racing.
But now we were in the hammock, swaying in the breeze, and I wanted to make love to Lane more than I ever wanted to catch any buzz. The only thing stopping me was that I was leaving soon, and the reality of me coming back, let alone staying for good, was nonexistent.
“I know,” he said, and pulled me closer. “But this is fun, more than fun. I like having you here, and I never spend time like this with anyone.”
He kept making reference to this over the weekend.He never spent whole days with anyone. He never invited anyone to Florida for a weekend. He worked all the time, only making time for the occasional dinner or social event with a woman.
“It is fun,” I said softly, “but you have to know. I came with a piece of paper tucked in my pocket with an AA meeting time and location scribbled on it.”
“I don’t care about that,” he whispered, then dropped a foot outside the hammock and swung it, picking up a little speed in our swaying.
I closed my eyes, somewhere between being lulled to sleep and feeling myself spiral out of control. “You’ve been so kind. Not drinking at dinner and all. It’s not necessary. I’m not falling off the wagon anytime soon, but this life wouldn’t be for me. The high energy that envelops this place is not for me. Not long term, I’m afraid. That’s my reality.”
Then out of nowhere, Lane asked, “What if I am? What if I’m for you long term?”
I tried to twist out of the hammock, but he held on tight.
“I can’t think like that, Lane. When I left rehab, I thought I would never get involved. That it would be my dog and me forever, and then when you first invited me to dinner, I questioned that, which led to something so stupid—”
“What?” he interrupted.
“Well, I got involved with my sponsor. It was foolish, and he caught me in a weak moment. Maybe my weakest since sobering up. Could have even been the time when I reached for an illegal pick-me-up. The feeling of being alone, the isolation, it was choking me, and my sponsor made me feel that I didn’t have to be alone. And then you kissed me in the staff hallway on Christmas, and I was destroyed.”
He pulled my face back toward his, twisting my neck, but I didn’t care. “I could kill this fucker,” he joked when he released my lips.
“It’s fine, Lane. It’s fine.” I said it twice, once for him and another time for myself. “I got my head on straight and found a new support person, but the reality is that I live in the middle of the woods for a reason, and you live here for another. I don’t think I can change for anyone.”
“Well, who said anything about you changing?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer.
Lane flipped us out of the hammock and onto the ground, going first and taking the brunt of the fall, pulling me in for more kisses.
We were a sight rolling around on the grass of the Dylan, lips and bodies locked, holding on for dear life, not caring one bit about the ridiculous public display of affection we were putting on for the whole world to see.
And then Lane whispered for my ears only, “Can we go to your room, Bess?” He leaned back and observed my reaction, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“Yes,” I said, and he lifted me in his arms and ran to the elevator.
