Plus One Page 14

  Am I the same?

  My argument mounts. I’m not the same. I’m strong and successful. However, the tears cascading like waterfalls down my cheeks present an obvious objection to my case.

  Instead of sad, I focus on mad. Telling myself that anger is the more appropriate emotion of a strong adult… irrational rage buds to life and blooms within me.

  For no apparent reason, I’m suddenly obsessed with the posters decorating my pink walls. Why are they still there? I haven’t listened to those boy bands since high school. No one has. It doesn’t matter that the Backstreet Boys was my first concert, that I was madly in love with each member, or that just the sound of their songs coming from my iPod made my heart race.

  Giving myself permission and an acceptable outlet, I stand and reach for the curled edge of the thick paper.

  “It’s over,” I say to the smiling faces as a sob resonates from my chest. “It was never real. I was just some little girl in the twenty-seventh row at the Fieldhouse in Indy.” Why do I remember that? “You never cared about me. It was never meant to last. It was all pretend.”

  I pull the paper.

  Years and years of exposure to sunlight makes the poster’s paper brittle and easy to tear.

  Rip!

  The sound echoes through the room. I tug more. As the tacks tightly hold to the drywall, the larger shreds of poster flutter to the floor. For only a moment, I stare at the wall. Framed by four corners of torn paper, an un-faded pink rectangle remains. Although the members of the band never truly cared for me, they left a lasting imprint on my wall.

  I was so naive when I hung these pictures.

  At the time it seemed like a good idea. I loved them. They brought me happiness. Yet none of it was real, only a stupid girl’s illusion. The boys in the poster weren’t even smiling at me, but at a camera. They never promised me forever. They hadn’t lied to me; I’d lied to myself. And now, looking at the un-faded rectangle, my wall will be forever changed.

  Stupid! I was stupid.

  It was and is all pretend.

  Another muffled sob hiccups out of my throat at the irony.

  Suddenly, it isn’t enough to remove the pictures from the wall. I fall back to my knees and shred each piece. Smaller and smaller I tear until I’m left with a pile of torn pieces that can never be put back together.

  My chest aches as I repeat the process with the Jonas Brothers and NSYNC. By the time my walls are bare, I’m exhausted and my tears are dry. When I stand, I see the woman in the mirror. Her eyes are puffy and red, but her back and shoulders are straight.

  “They were just bands. They had too many fans to really notice me,” I say aloud. “It’s time to move on.”

  The woman in the mirror nods her head in agreement. In her swollen eyes, I see her pain as well as resolution. Moving on won’t be easy, but it was never meant to last forever. Bands come and go. Each love is a rite of passage… my mother’s and grandma’s words of wisdom come back.

  When one door closes, another one opens… blah, blah, blah.

  I make my way back to the bathroom, thankful it’s clear, and turn the shower to hot.

  “There are always going to be new bands,” I mumble as I step under the hot spray. Like needles, the water prickles my skin. Instead of turning it down, I let it wash away the bands’/his touch.

  Last night, Duncan told me that the plane would be ready after breakfast. There was something he needed to be back to New York to do. I didn’t ask what, though I wondered who. It’s over. Just like the Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, and the Jonas Brothers… life moves on. He doesn’t owe me an explanation. He doesn’t owe me anything. His debt is paid.

  After my shower, I braid my wet hair, dress, pack, and do my best to clean up the torn shreds of my posters, scooping them and many scattered hairpins all into the trashcan. It’s as I’m prying the last of the tacks from the wall that my bedroom door opens.

  With the same confident, almost cocky smirk he’s had since the first time I saw him, Duncan looks at me. I turn away, unable to gaze back. I won’t. I’ve already picked up the pieces of my heart. It’s time to move on.

  If only I had my own airline ticket.

  Stop making childish wishes. Their time is over too.

  “Kimbra, what happened to your posters?”

  I take a deep breath and shrug. Still looking at the wall and the tack, I reply, “I decided I’m a little too old for boy bands.”

  He takes a step closer. “But they were cute. And now I know what to get you for Christmas. I’ll be watching for NSYNC reunion playlists.”

  I straighten my neck and face him head-on. “Maybe the next guy I bring home won’t think they’re cute. Better safe than sorry.”

  Duncan’s face contorts but for only a millisecond. “I see your point.” He turns toward the suitcase open on the bed. “Are you packed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mom has breakfast downstairs.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I answer truthfully. “We should get back. You have plans.”

  He nods and lifts his phone. “Jorge said the plane will be ready by eleven.”

  The clock says nine-thirty, but it’s over a half-hour drive to the airport. I guess with private aircraft the need for early arrival is eliminated. “Okay. I should say goodbye to everyone.” I take a deep breath as Duncan takes one step closer. It’s all I can do not to reach out and touch him. His faded t-shirt stretches over his wide chest and his gym shorts hang low. I know that if I lift his shirt, I’ll see the defining V of his lower abdomen and the way it disappears under the nylon shorts.

  “Kimbra, what’s wrong?”

  Swallowing, I shake my head and feign a smile. “Nothing. Thank you.”

  His green eyes narrow. “Don’t thank me for coming here. I had a great weekend.”

  My entire body stiffens as he reaches out to touch me.

  Immediately he pulls his hand away. “I’m sorry if you didn’t,” he says, still staring at me as his eyes grow a deeper shade of emerald.

  “I did,” I admit. “I promise I’ll do my best to avoid any potential negative consequence with that woman at Buchanan and Willis if she contacts HR.” I push away the growing sadness. “And I won’t say anything to Mr. Buchanan.”

  “Kimbra?”

  I purposely look directly at him. “Is there anything else, Mr. Willis?”

  “Umm,” he tilts his head. “No, Miss Jones. I think that about covers it.”

  I turn, close my suitcase, place it on the floor, and wheel it past Duncan as he stands barefooted for the last time in my bedroom. If only I could sweep him into the trashcan to never face him again.

  As I carry my suitcase down the stairs, I work to mentally put Duncan in the same place as my posters. At the turn in the stairs, I come face to face with Susan.

  “Kimberly, are you two leaving so soon?”

  I smile, swallowing the threatening tears and remember Kevin’s secret. “Yes, we need to get back.” I put the suitcase down and reach out to my sister-in-law. As we hug, I say, “I’m so happy for you and Kevin.”

  Susan’s eyes open wide as she pulls back. “He told you? You don’t look happy. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, he told me. I promise, I haven’t said a word.”

  She looks at me with the same bashful eyes she’s always had. “This was Scarlett’s weekend. I didn’t want to take away from her.”

  “Well, her weekend is done. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m finally feeling better. The first two months were rough.” She smiles. “To be honest, I’m ready to get back to our place, too.” Kevin and Susan have a home they built on the neighboring farm.

  “I’m glad you guys were here. It was fun to be all together.”

  “Judy wanted everyone here. She kept saying that if I wasn’t up for it… but I couldn’t disappoint her.” She rubs my arm. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

  “Stop worrying about Scarlett and Mom and me. Take care
of yourself and Kevin and that little Jones.”

  Susan leans in and kisses my cheek. “You too.”

  “Me?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “Yes, take care of yourself and Duncan. He’s a keeper.”

  The lump in my throat springs back to life as I shrug. “Please keep me posted on everything. Now that I know about the little one, I want weekly updates. Oh, and you need to let me know when the shower will be and the due date! Oh my goodness, I don’t even know when you’re due.”

  “The middle of December.” She giggles.

  I have the sincerest smile I’ve had all morning. “A Christmas baby! I’ll definitely be sure to be home.”

  Susan hugs me. “I like him—Duncan. The whole family does. Maybe one day—”

  I cut her off, unwilling to perpetuate the plus-one any longer than necessary. “You, Kevin, and my little niece or nephew. That’s all you need to worry about.”

  As we part ways, I worry that she won’t listen.

  I know she won’t.

  If my sister-in-law weren’t concerned about everyone else, she would have announced her pregnancy at Scarlett’s bridal shower. She would have told everyone the news when we were all enjoying the pig roast and watching Kurt and Scarlett open presents. Instead, she let others have the spotlight.

  Bringing Duncan to Indiana was a mistake.

  My family may drive me nuts, but they’re too good to be lied to. Instead of letting Duncan disappear like the faceless Timothy, each and every one of them will have pieces of poster to clean up.

  I step into the kitchen, ready to confess the truth about my plus-one.

  “MAY I GET you anything, a drink or snack, before we take off?” the woman in blue asks. Her name tag says Cindy.

  “Kimbra?” I pose, very aware that she chose to sit in the seat across from me instead of next to me.

  “No,” she says. “Thank you, Cindy.”

  “Sir?” Cindy asks.

  Though I have a new desire for alcohol, it is only eleven o’clock in the morning. “I think we’re fine. We’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  “I’ll be just a phone call away,” she says, nodding toward the handset in the armrest.

  I can’t help but stare toward Kimbra. She’s still the most beautiful woman I know, yet the light in her eyes has dimmed, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what happened.

  This morning when I woke, I lay for longer than I should just watching her sleep. The sheet had fallen, exposing the round swell of her breasts. With each breath, they moved as a soft swish of air exited her parted lips. I wanted to wake her and spend our last morning as we had the morning before.

  My cock ached at the prospect while my fingers longed to simply stroke her long hair and touch her soft skin. The irresistible pull grew increasingly stronger until I knew the best thing to do was to let her sleep.

  The weekend had been everything I’d hoped and more. I loved getting to know a new side of Kimbra as well as meeting her family. As she slept, I imagined taking her to meet my parents. I even imagined introducing them to Oscar, Judy, and Helen.

  Those thoughts are completely out of character. Instead of introducing any of them, I should probably seek intervention.

  Maybe it’s because my grandparents are gone, but there is something about Helen that I truly like. She’s fun and outrageous and, unapologetically, a straight shooter. She’s the type of person whom in business I respect, whose opinion matters—like Kimbra.

  Instead of waking Kimbra as I’d wanted, I showered, slipped back into my shorts and t-shirt, and made my way to the kitchen. Coffee, two eggs, bacon, toast, and many laughs later, I went to find Kimbra. Her entire family was curious as to why she hadn’t joined us. I was too.

  Since the moment I opened her door to the redecorated or undecorated bedroom, my stomach has been in knots. I can’t put my finger on why things changed or on what I did.

  We fell asleep with her amazing tight ass nestled against my satisfied dick and her soft body wrapped in my arms. Eight hours later and she’ll barely make conversation or maintain eye contact. The only thing I can come up with is the mistake with the condom.

  The silence builds as the plane taxis down the runway. Finally, I can’t take it any longer. “Kimbra, if you’re upset about the lack of condom, I can show you a medical report. I promise I wouldn’t—”

  Her cold blue stare stops me. “I told you I was fine. I mean, based on the reason that I was able to get you here in the first place, I should question you. But I’m not. If you say you’re clean, then I’m sure you are.”

  My skin heats as I contemplate the best response.

  Her lips press together before she speaks again. “I told you. I’ll keep your secret from Mr. Buchanan and do my best to keep Buchanan and Willis from a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  I slap the armrest as the plane takes flight. “I told you his name is Mike. He already knows. I told him. What the hell happened between last night and this morning? Whatever it was, I’m clueless. Tell me. Tell me why you’re being a bitch.”

  The coldness of her eyes melts as they flood with sadness. She turns away, but not before I swear I see tears.

  “Fuck,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

  An alarm dings as the phone in the armrest rings.

  I stumble toward Kimbra and fall into the seat beside her.

  Her damn eyes are glassy as she turns my way. “Duncan?”

  Buckling my seatbelt causes the alarm to stop. I reach for her hand. “Talk to me. I’m sorry. You’re not a bitch, but you’re being cold and I don’t know why. Tell me what I did.”

  Her neck stiffens. It’s exactly the same as when we were in her room earlier today. Though her hand beneath mine twitches, she doesn’t pull it away.

  “Did I snore?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you mad that I ran over Jimmy during the cousins’ football scrimmage? I’m competitive. Besides, Kevin was happy. We won.”

  Kimbra turns her face toward the window, yet her hand stays in mine.

  “I know,” I say. “You think I let Helen win the last night of poker. I didn’t. I swear. She kicked my ass. What she does with that twelve dollars and seventy-five cents is not my responsibility.”

  Kimbra turns back. Her eyes are red and cheeks damp.

  “Fuck,” I gasp more than say. “Talk to me.”

  “Damn it, Duncan.” She pulls her hand away. “You’re not this dense. You’re a businessman. A successful one. You’re a player. You always have a date—you’re surrounded by women. We’re not that fucking hard to figure out!”

  You know those pictures, the ones where one person sees a kitten and another sees a lion? That’s the sensation I have as I look at Kimbra. In one way, I see the lion. A proud, majestic, beauty who has the power to eat me alive, who has the power to take my world, cause irreparable change and chaos. And at the same time, I see a kitten—soft and adorable, one I want to hold and pet, one I want to hear purr in my ear as we sleep through the night.

  “I disagree,” I say, “…on many counts, by the way.”

  She wipes more tears from her cheeks. “Just never mind. Thank you for everything. My family loves you. It’s going to break their hearts when I tell them the truth, but I decided I need to. I almost did…” she rambles on about everyone in the kitchen, how she wanted to tell them, but they were too happy.

  Finally, I stop her. Not with words. I pull her tear-dampened face toward mine and kiss her.

  “Duncan, stop.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “It’s over. We’re almost back to New York. I won’t ask any more of you than you can give. I know you said you couldn’t help me with marriage, 2.5 children, or a dog. I get it. Our deal was for this weekend only. It’s done. Congratulations, the powerful businessman fulfilled his responsibility.”

  I reach again for her hand. “If you want a dog, I can take you to the shelter.”

  Her tits move up and down and h
ead shakes as she turns back to the window. Her stare lingers as if she’s suddenly enthralled with the way the sunlight reflects off the tops of the clouds. Finally, she mutters, “I don’t want a damn dog.”

  As my chest fills with something, something that makes both talking and breathing difficult, I begin to speak. It’s a story that few know. My mom and dad. Mike Buchanan, because he was there to pick up the pieces and put me back together, and the therapist whom my mother insisted I visit. The list stops there, except for her—Tessa.

  “Maybe someday you could meet my parents—”

  “Duncan, don’t.”

  I turn on her, my voice and expression sterner than I intend. “Let me talk. Let me explain.”

  Kimbra sucks in a breath and nods.

  “My parents, they’re good people. They raised me and my brother in a decent middle-class family. They both had good jobs, and I never worried much about anything other than winning my next football game or getting good grades. I’ve always done all right in the looks department. I’m not being conceited,” I add. “It’s just that I have good genes. I never tried. I also never cared too much about girls, any more than any other hormonal teenage boy…” I take a deep breath, determined to be honest, more honest than I’ve ever been with any other woman. “…until she transferred to our high school. We were juniors.

  “That’s just fucking seventeen years old. Now I know that was young, but you know what? When you’re seventeen, you know everything. Her name was—is—Tessa. She had the most beautiful light-chocolate skin. Her grandma was from Jamaica. She didn’t have to work at her looks either. She had the genes, an amazing combination of exotic and all-American.”

  Kimbra’s blue eyes are now dry as she turns her hand palm up and we intertwine our fingers.

  “She was an only child and her mom was a partner in some big financial firm. That’s why they’d moved to New York. Her dad,” I went on, “was a psychologist. I remember thinking how cool it was that he moved his practice because it helped his wife’s career.

  “Maybe that and my mom working is why I’m as impressed with women’s abilities as much as men’s when it comes to Buchanan and Willis. I’ve had good examples.