Page 22 of Wine & Dine

9

Kiss and miss

[Dolores]

I shouldn’t have kissed him back.

Shaky fingers come to my lips as I slump against the door. My body vibrates with desire. My sex screams for attention. A tremor ripples up my center.

I couldn’t help myself, I argue. I don’t know who stepped first, but once his mouth brushed mine, it’s like he unleashed a suppressed beast, and I took his mouth, hoping to devour him.

I haven’t kissed like that in years.

I haven’t been kissed like that in years either.

Rusty’s kisses are open-mouthed and sloppy, and his lips too wet, often from drinking. I don’t like to kiss him, and I allow it to last only seconds. I’m not a shy sexual partner. I take what I want, which is one thing Rusty appreciates about me. Unfortunately, the relationship stops at sex. No emotions. No friendship. Just sex. And I thought I could handle that when it started, but after ten years, I’d like something more. My brother just got a second chance with the girl of his dreams. I want my turn, only there’s no boy of mine.

When James Harrington fell for Evie, I lost faith in men. As the boy next door and forbidden fruit, he was my first everything, but he wasn’t loyal to me. My trust in the opposite sex was already on shaky ground because of my father and his unfaithfulness to my mother. I didn’t know what a stable relationship should look like. George Harrington and his wife, Elaina, are my image of a perfect marriage, but even they had issues, especially when it came to their son and me getting caught in his bed when we were eighteen.

My thoughts jump back to Garrett.

Is he still standing on the other side of the door? I’m afraid to look through the peephole.

Garrett is a player, like the other men in my life. I’ve seen the blonde although I haven’t seen her lately. Still, I have no reason to believe Garrett isn’t without someone in his life. Like I told him in the car, he’s rather pretty. The wave to his hair. The scruff on his jaw. His light brown eyes. He’s perfect—to look at.

Would I trust my heart with him?

Absolutely not.

Although he was sweet tonight, allowing me to rest my head on his thigh. His fingers traced down my spine and twirled in my hair. For a moment, I forgot we were friends. Only neighbors, actually. His kind gesture was a way to thank me for watching his dog. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything more than what it was—a movie in the park. A classic black and white movie on a dark fall evening with a spontaneous picnic. A romantic comedy about a girl who runs away and the man who needs a news story. It happens to be one of my favorites. The decision to take me to such a place, have such an experience, was thoughtful and considerate.

But it didn’t mean anything.

Garrett takes care of women. His sisters were excellent teachers. Their tutelage of him has paid off. The details in scheduling my shopping trip and the salon experience are a testament. His respectful distance each time we take a walk is another. Tonight, Garrett was a gentleman beneath the good looks and playboy status.

And then he kissed me.

Finally, I press off the door. Not one to typically drink alone, I head for the unfinished bottle of wine I opened before I dog sat. I turn off the lights and press the bottle to my aching chest. Falling onto the couch, I stare out the dark balcony doors. I’m suddenly exhausted.

Tired of Rusty Miller. Why isn’t he here with you?

I miss my mother.

She didn’t approve of Rusty and our arrangement. Her bitterness toward men suffocated me.

I loved a man once, she said. It wasn’t my father.

Men are meant to disappoint, she added.

Sometimes, I think she meant my brother, who took off at eighteen and never looked back. I didn’t fault him, though, because he had his reasons. Sometimes, I faulted her. She should have stood up for us better. On the other hand, she was one of my best friends, and I sympathized with her plight.

The duplicity splits me in two most days, reminding me I’m tired of my life.

+ + +

The next day, I awake with a new outlook. I can’t keep rotating between the bed and couch. I need to see Los Angeles and the surrounding community, so I devote the following days to an adventure. Finding the courage to use the Uber app, I travel the city. The Chinese Theatre. The stars on Hollywood Blvd. The Santa Monica Pier. I take in the sites of the entertainment playland.

I miss the four o’clock dog walks on purpose. Instead, I take long walks on the beach in the early morning hours.

I consider calling my cousin, Tommy Carrigan, and his wife, whom I haven’t met.

But I don’t.

It’s late November, and Thanksgiving is in a few days, but I won’t be home. There’s no one to cook for without Mother. Denton says he’ll take Magnolia to the Harrington’s. Rusty and I don’t celebrate holidays. There would be nowhere to go.

Despite days of avoiding Garrett and travels around the West Coast city, I’m sad. Mostly, I’m terribly lonely. It’s as if I’ve never left Georgia. Everything I’ve done the past few days I’ve done by myself, just like at home.

Then one afternoon, I see the diner. An old railcar tucked off the popular path. The neon sign advertising its name radiates bright pink in the gloom of the day. From the outside, I can see the booths along the steamy windows and the thin counter with stools before it. It’s similar yet different from my place. The sharp fluorescent lights inside scream come on in like the welcome sign by the door. I bet it’s warm. California has swung back to cold, and I shiver in my sweater. I forgot my coat in the condo.

A waitress walks the length of the place. She wears the stereotypical waitress outfit in turquoise, playing into the persona of the restaurant—a 1950s dining car. The menu board proudly displays all their specialties and features of the day. The place looks fresh, sparkly, and clean.

Moisture fills my eyes, and I realize it’s raining. Rivulets of water stream down the outside of the windows before me. The condensation blooms on the inside of the panes. The droplets tap in a steady rhythm on the chrome exterior of the building, and the sound mesmerizes me.

Then I feel him. The rain that has been pelting my body and stinging my cheeks for I don’t know how long disappears as an umbrella covers me. His breath hits my damp hair as his body stands near mine. I hear him shuffle behind me. Something heavy and warm covers my shoulders. My eyes close for a second, melting into the comfort, but the water continues to leak from my lids.

“Sweetheart, whatcha doing out here?” he asks, but I don’t know how to answer.

I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.