Illusions Complete Series (7 page)

“No need, my car is over at Bristol’s.”

“Good, I guess you can just walk on over there when you sober up,” I said with gritted teeth. My head was starting to hurt because my jaw was so clenched as I spoke to this guy.

“You're angry. I don’t blame you.”

“Listen, I'm used to being treated like shit, so not sure why I ever thought that you would be any different.” I
was
used to this kind of treatment. Booty calls, no calls, text-message break ups, dropping off the face of the earth, any number of coward’s way out. Carrie Bradshaw stated  once that there was a right way to break up with somebody, and it didn’t involve “an e-mail, a door man or a missing person’s report.” That line always stuck with me, because that seemed to be the
modus operandi
of the modern male.

However, I melted a little as I looked at him. His beautiful face was contorted, and he appeared to be about to break down in tears. I made fun of tearful guys on
The Bachelor,
but, in real life, men’s tears got me every time.

As I looked at him, the memory of that morning came flooding back. I thought of the phone call from the ex-wife and to Sheldon, and his therapist.

I conveniently pushed aside the phone call to “Nick” in this analysis.

I suddenly had an epiphany. His therapist! He told me about going to see his therapist, and what did I do? I gave him the bum’s rush and didn’t even bother asking about anything.
No wonder he acted the way that he did. He probably thinks that I am insensitive at worst, clueless at best. What’s your problem, Iris?

Well, to be fair, I didn’t want to pry. But he probably wanted me to pry.

“Listen, Ryan….” I wasn’t sure how to broach this topic about how it suddenly occurred to me why he got distant and wanted to get rid of me, without even driving me home.

He wasn’t quite crying, but he had the puppy dog look again. He looked at me, saw that I no longer had the mask of anger, and his expression immediately turned hopeful. “Yes?”

“I, uh, I’m sorry.”

He looked perplexed. “Why’re you sorry? I was the one who dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t even drive you home. That was so shitty of me, I can’t stand it.” He shook his head, looking miserable.

“I think I know why you did that.”

He looked expectantly at me. I continued “You, uh, told me that you were going to see a therapist, and that was my cue to act concerned. But I didn’t want to pry. So I blew it off.”

He looked relieved. “I thought that you were scared off that I was over-sharing too soon. I thought that you had lost interest in me because I am weak and seeing a therapist.”

So, it was all a misunderstanding.
I smiled. “You’re not weak for seeing a therapist. God, I love that you’re getting help for whatever issues you have. It’s so much better than keeping it in. And, it takes courage to take that step.”

Now he looked really relieved. I noticed that the door was still open behind him, and he was still standing in the doorway. Kinda halfway in and halfway out. “Come on in, make yourself at home.” I smiled wryly “What’s mine is yours.” Which had no meaning whatsoever, considering Madison was the only property I really owned. Well, that and my furniture and computers. And my ancient car, Priscilla, of course.

He came in, and sat down on the couch. Madison leaped on his lap, purring loudly. I was stunned.
She never goes to anybody but me.
Madison is a sweet kitty, but usually very shy. Yet she goes to him like he is offering her Beluga Caviar. Well, maybe it was his seafood dinner he had earlier, and she smelled it on his breath. Still, I thought that it was a good sign – they say that animals are the best judge of character.

If he’s good enough for Madison, then he’s good enough for me.

“I, uh, would offer you a drink, but….”
Let’s see, what do I have.
“Actually, let’s see how this is.” I grabbed my vanilla soy milk and mixed in some butterscotch Schnapps. I tasted it.
Not bad at all.

He smiled as I offered him my new concoction. “I probably need another drink like I need a hole in my head, but if you’re offering, I am taking.”

He took a sip. “Say, that’s pretty good.”

“Well, it isn’t vintage wine from my own winery, but I guess it’ll do.” I suddenly realized that I was feeling more comfortable around Ryan. I really didn’t care that he saw my disaster of an apartment. Or smelled the disaster of a litter box. It occurred to me that the reason for my newfound comfort was because Ryan seeing a therapist made him seem more human.

I noticed that everything was not all right with him, though. He was staring down at the plastic cup holding the vanilla soy milk-butterscotch Schnapp’s concoction - all my glasses have long since been in the sink dirty, and I was reduced to drinking out of plastic cups when I wasn’t drinking straight out of the bottle or out of the milk carton - and I saw that he was shaking a little.

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

He looked at me. “No, nothing. I just feel bad for hurting you.”

I narrowed my eyes. I knew better, but I didn’t push.

He smiled, although it wasn’t really sincere. “This drink’s pretty good. Did you invent this?”

“Not really. It’s called throwing together whatever I happen to have on hand.”

“You’re a regular MacGyver.”

I had to laugh at that one. “MacGyver” is a word that I often use for people who are resourceful and are able to create things out of everyday household items. I realized that the fact that we were close in age was a plus, as we both get the same pop-cultural references.

“Yes, a drink MacGyver. You’d be amazed at the things that you can put together if you really make an effort.”

He smiled again, wanly, then sipped the last of his MacGyver cocktail. I sat down next to him, obsessing about the garbage bag of wine bottles, and, more importantly, obsessing about the dead roses in the smashed wine bottle. The roses were dead, and that wasn’t a problem – it’d been almost a week. But I never bothered to buy a vase for them. The inescapable conclusion was that I just didn’t care.

I took his cup. “Would you like another?” I asked, moving towards the kitchen. Surreptitiously, I grabbed the roses out of the smashed wine bottle, then threw the bottle away. I crammed the roses themselves in a drawer, and started to pour another drink.

“Actually, it’s pretty late.”

“Sure, you’re right. Um, I would give you my bed….”
Oh, please, act like you really don’t want the bed. I know that it would be the kind thing to do, but, trust me, that room is a holy mess.

Well, I could always just throw the clothes on the bed into the closet and shut the door. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

“No, I can’t put you out like that.”

“Really, it isn’t a problem,” I lied.

He looked up at me. “I hope that it isn’t too forward to ask if we could sleep together in your bed? I mean, I promise I won’t try anything. I know that we started out as a one-night stand, but I really want us to be about something other than sex.”

“Not a problem,” I lied, hoping that I wasn’t gritting my teeth as I said it. “Uh, do you mind waiting here? I have to use the bathroom.” The only bathroom in the apartment was attached to my bedroom, so it was a great excuse to do a whirlwind cleaning job.

“Sure.”

At that, I ran into the bedroom and shut the door behind me.
Shit, shit, shit.
I took the entire pile of clothes off the bed, and threw them into the closet on the floor.
That takes care of that.
I realized that I hadn’t vacuumed in there for awhile.
Oh, Iris, what’s your problem? You aren’t usually this messy.
Then I remembered my profound depression that week.
No excuse. You have to do better than this.
Still, without the pile of clothes on the bed, the room was passable.
You will just have to figure out later what is clean and what is dirty.

Oh, who am I kidding. It’s all dirty by now.

The clothes crisis resolved, I returned to my earlier obsession – my weight. Looking in my full-view mirror, I noticed that I had lost some weight this past week, but not nearly enough. Now I was only 25 lbs overweight, not 30 lbs, but on somebody 5’2”, that is a lot.
Stop. There is nothing that can be done about it. Ryan is out there waiting.

I came back out, and Ryan stood up, expectantly. I smiled nervously.
My nerves were back.
“Uh, come on back.”

“Thanks for accommodating me on such short notice.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m thrilled to have you.”

We lay down on the bed, fully clothed, on top of the covers. Ryan lay behind me, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist, his free hand gently stroking my hair. “Mmmm, this feels nice,” he said. “Really nice.” He reached his face around and kissed me gently on the mouth with little feathery kisses. I immediately felt his erection after the kiss, through his pants, even though his pants were somewhat loose, as they were suit trousers. He self-consciously turned his body slightly so that his lower half was no longer pressed up against me. “Sorry about that,” he said.

I lay there quietly, afraid to speak. I hoped that he thought that I had just magically fallen asleep. I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed.

He just lay there next to me, his lower half facing the ceiling, his torso still pressed up against me, his fingers still stroking my hair, his other arm still wrapped tightly around me. “Beautiful hair,” he purred. “I’ve always loved redheads.” His lower half remained facing the ceiling. I could feel his breathing, could feel his heart pounding. When he kissed me, his breath tasted of Dewar’s. He smelled of a very faint cologne. My breath was catching, and I was trembling. His hands never explored my body. I could tell that he was trying very hard to be a gentleman, but I really wanted his hands to explore my breasts and my private parts. I wanted his kisses on my thighs, back, neck. But we both were trying to behave.
With any luck, there’ll be plenty of time for that in the future.

Still, it was nice to know that I turn him on. The evidence was certainly there.
I fell asleep with Ryan wrapped around me, except his lower body.

I had never felt so safe.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, I woke up fairly early. Ryan’s entire body was now wrapped around me. He was still sleeping soundly. I attempted to extricate myself, as I had to use the bathroom, but, when I tried, Ryan held on tighter. He was mumbling. “Stop, stop, daddy. Daddy, please.” I didn’t quite know what to do.
What was he dreaming?

This guy was becoming ever more complicated. But I knew that I was at least starting to fall for him, and not because of his beauty and apparent wealth. I was falling for him more for his kindness.

He woke with a start, looking at me, not quite seeing me. Then he plopped back down on the bed, pulling the covers around him, facing the wall. I seized the opportunity to use the bathroom at that point. I then tiptoed into the kitchen.
Might as well tidy up while he sleeps.

As it turned out, I only had about a half hour to get my dishes in the dishwasher, the kitty litter changed, and my bag of wine bottles, with the old kitty litter mixed in, hauled out to the dumpster.
So much for the recycling dream. I’ll start again with the next batch of wine bottles.

Ryan appeared, still fully clothed.

“Hey,” I greeted him, Ajax coating the kitchen sink, and me scrubbing it diligently. My dishes were now in the dishwasher, which was humming quietly.

“Hey.” He looked beautiful, more than ever, because he now had a look of vulnerability. “I’m sorry about last night.”

I looked at him.
Sorry about what? I hope he wasn’t apologizing for his erection. Probably not, he is probably apologizing for coming over so late.
“Um, don’t worry about it.” That covered anything that he would be apologizing for.

“No, no. I was pretty shitty, coming over here in the middle of the night.”

I smiled. “Better late than never.”

“I, I should have called you.”

“Please, don’t mention it.” I looked in my fridge and found some turkey bacon. I also had some eggs and a tube of biscuits.
That should do it. It’s not a cheese strata and berries with cream, but it will do in a pinch.

I cut the turkey bacon in half, then started to fry it. “I hope you like turkey bacon.”

He smiled. “Actually, I love it. I like it better than regular bacon.”

“Me too.” I was half expecting him to make some excuse to dash out the door, realizing that he made a huge mistake in coming here, so I was relieved that he wanted to stay for breakfast.

“Can I help?”

“No, I got it.” After the bacon was done, I poured the eggs into the same pan, adding a little bit of olive oil and minced garlic to the pan. I had already put my Pillsbury biscuits in the oven, and they were almost done. I dug into my freezer and opened up a can of orange juice concentrate, and squeezed it into a container, adding water to mix it up.

Everything finished, I produced two plates - I had to interrupt the dishwasher cycle to get them- and piled some bacon, eggs, and biscuits on each plate. I set the plates down on the counter, and then got two TV trays out for us to eat on.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling embarrassed again, “I don’t have room for a dining room table, so I have to eat on these TV trays.”

He smiled, sincerely - the first sincere smile I have seen in awhile, to be honest. “Not a problem.”

As we ate, I was dying to ask him a million questions. About his ex-wife, about his therapist, about Sheldon (the non humper and pumper). About Nick. Most of all, about his dream.
What did his father do to him?

“So, what are you up to today?” Ryan asked.

Besides laundry? 
“No real plans.”

He seemed suddenly shy. “Would you, uh, like to hang out?” he asked, not looking me in the eye.
He seems afraid of rejection.