Like Jazz (22 page)

“I much prefer your reaction,” Sarah said.

I glanced at her dubiously, but her heartfelt smile, which made her eyes twinkle, put me at ease. I exhaled in relief, pleased she’d forgiven my lecherousness. “You can’t moan like that,” I said, lightly chastising her. “You do that, after engaging me with stories of the great things you’re doing at the Foundation, and, well…damn.”

Sarah’s face fell. I should have kept my mouth shut. “You misunderstand me,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to toot my own horn. It’s a team effort. We couldn’t achieve half the—”

“Sarah.” I raised a hand to cut her off. I was thankful she wasn’t upset by my half-assed flirtation but annoyed by her tendency to slight her magnanimity. I spoke with more bite than I intended. “You’re so far from tooting your own horn, you border on pathological. Suffice it to say I’m sure your father was—and is, from wherever he’s watching—extremely proud of you and everything you continue to do for the Foundation.”

My irritation quickly faded as I focused on her face and saw the emotion there, emotion I was sure stemmed from my mention of her father. I leaned forward, reached out my hand, and though neither of hers was on the table, she lifted one and placed it in mine. I squeezed it gently and spoke in a softer voice.

“You know it’s true.”

Although I hadn’t really known Luke Perkins, I’d never been more certain of anything. Their complementary roles at the Foundation, the esteem for the father-daughter duo held by all their colleagues, their years of working together, the continued financial support they received from old and new donors alike that told of unyielding respect for and trust in them—all these combined into indestructible proof of the mutual love and admiration Luke and Sarah held for each other.

Sarah lifted her other hand and dabbed a knuckle at the corner of her eye where a tear threatened to crest. She nodded and squeezed my hand in return. “Thank you.” She pulled her hand away and swapped her napkin for her knuckle.

“Shall we?” I indicated the door. Sarah nodded again. Though reluctant to end the evening, I signaled the waiter for the check.

Once we got back to her place, I stayed seated in the Toyota as she opened the passenger door. It was well after ten o’clock. After placing a foot on the driveway, Sarah turned to me.

“I know it’s late, but would you care for a glass of wine?”

“You sure?” I didn’t want our day together to conclude, but didn’t want Sarah to feel pressured to extend it, especially given our proclivity for moving into emotionally charged territory.

“Please. Besides, I never gave you the tour.” She exited the car and stepped to the front door, letting us in with her key. She tapped her shoes off toe against heel, and I removed my sneakers.

“You’ve already seen downstairs, so let’s go upstairs.” She took the stairs at a quick clip and I followed. At the top of the stairs to the left was a bathroom and straight ahead was a guest bedroom. We turned right down the hall and she opened a door on her left. “Office,” she said, standing aside to let me peek in. Along with the usual accoutrements of a desk, bookshelf, and chair, the room was similar to her office at the Foundation in an important respect: it was covered with corkboard full of letters and cards that presumably were written with gratitude and appreciation from Foundation beneficiaries. I was too far away to read them but knew exactly what they were. Though I had no hand in her accomplishments, I was strangely proud of Sarah and what she did for the Foundation. And I was happy to see her take private pride in her work as well.

We walked to the end of the hallway, where she stepped inside of what was obviously the master bedroom. I peered in. She gestured to a couple of doors with her chin. “Bathroom. Walk-in closet. The usual,” she said, glancing around.

My eyes landed on the king-size bed beneath a delicately carved cherrywood headboard. Although we’d shared many playful moments together in the theme park, I doubted she’d be much amused if I indulged my sudden shameless fancy of diving onto the bed, burying my face in a pillow, and inhaling the Sarah scents to which I’d be treated. Following quickly on its heels were far less chaste imaginings involving my hostess, and while hardly troubling, they weren’t exactly in the spirit of the house tour. Before I said or did something foolish, I hastily backpedaled and let her lead the way downstairs to the kitchen.

“Home sweet home,” she said, pulling a couple glasses down from the cabinet and grabbing an opened bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the counter.

“It is sweet.” I took the wineglass she offered and followed her to a couch that overlooked the city below. We didn’t sit on opposite ends of it, but didn’t cozy up to each other in the middle either. We maintained a casual, comfortable distance and spent a few quiet minutes enjoying the view, the wine, and the company.

“Today was fun. Thanks for taking me,” Sarah said, breaking the silence.

“Thanks for coming out to play.”

“It made me feel like a kid again.”

“Speaking of which, you were really good with that little girl. Emily.”

“So were you.”

“Hardly, but thanks.” I turned to her. “Ever want one of your own?”

She gave me a look that told me I’d crossed a line, but tried to hide it by glancing away. She picked up her wineglass and swirled the contents, seeming to mull over a response. I stopped myself from apologizing for my directness, given everything that had transpired between us since our reconnection at the bar two weeks prior. Sarah had asked me all sorts of personal questions.

“Not any more,” she said stiffly.

Ouch.
That couldn’t be good. And it did nothing to curb my curiosity. My question was out before I could stop myself. “Will you tell me what happened between you and whoever hurt you so badly?”

Seeming annoyed and disappointed, she set her glass down. “It’s water under the bridge, Cazz. It doesn’t matter.” She waved her hand as if to settle the question.

I stared at her. “Doesn’t matter? It hugely matters. Whatever happened deeply affected you, and I want to know what it is.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Talking about it makes it seem more important than it is. I don’t like to give it that weight.”

Trying to rein in my rapidly rising irritation at her stubbornness, I adopted an even tone I wasn’t feeling and kept my voice low. “Whether or not you talk about it doesn’t change how you feel about it. It’s a weight you live with regardless.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Damn it, Sarah!” I jumped to my feet, gesticulating and losing all pretense of calm. “You need to get over whatever the hell it is, and ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away!” I spoke louder than I’d intended, wondering at the depths of my frustration.

“No,” she said coolly, slowly getting off the couch and crossing her arms. “
You
need me to get over it. I need to do no such thing. I told you before that I wasn’t looking for anything complicated, and I meant it. But you ignored me because it’s not something you wanted to hear.”

I shook my head in exasperation at hitting the cement wall that was Sarah. “Shit.” I pinched my tear ducts with a thumb and forefinger, trying desperately to maintain some composure. “Okay.” I was reeling from the rapid turn of events, displeased with myself for being the instigator of an argument I hadn’t intended to start. I crossed my arms and studied her, mirroring her stance. Then I shook my head again and dropped my arms, knowing my welcome was worn out.

“You’re partially right.” I moved to the entryway. “I do need you to get over it.” Dropping to the floor, I tied my laces. “I think you’re remarkable and phenomenal, and I can’t get you out of my head,” I said with annoyance instead of appreciation. “But you do need to get over it.” I popped up to my feet and stood inside the door. “For you, not for me.” I was on a roll now. “If I’m not in the running, so be it. Let’s take me out of the picture altogether.” I swallowed hard, not wanting to say the words but believing the truth in them. This wasn’t about me. It was about a one-of-a-kind, generous, and loving woman who deserved to be loved.

“You have so much to offer, Sarah.” My tone was softer, more resigned. “You’re selling yourself short. People get hurt, absolutely they do, but love is worth the risk. I can’t imagine cutting myself off from it like you’re doing.” I pressed the heels of my palms to my forehead in a display of frustration. “Fuck, listen to me.” I sounded like an idiot. I pivoted away from Sarah, turned the knob, and tugged the door open, only for it to be ripped out of my hand and slammed shut in front of me. The loud noise punctuated the gulf between us. Sarah had thrown herself between the door and me and was standing before me, seething.

“You hypocrite! How dare you tell me you can’t imagine cutting yourself off from loving someone! You’re going to stand there and honestly tell me you’ve never done it? That you’ve never been afraid to risk your heart when you loved someone?” Her light-blue eyes were wide and threatening with fury.

“No!” I replied sharply. “God damn it, no. What are you even talking about?” Her intensity and insinuation completely took me aback.

“Okay, then tell me this. Why didn’t you ever call or write?”

I took a step back as if she’d slapped me. The question lay before me like a minefield. “Jesus. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Answer me.” Sarah’s expression was punishing.

I shook my head, wondering how to respond and dreading the possibility of irrevocably alienating her. It was one thing for her to be angry with me. It was one thing to tell her some of what I’d been feeling since seeing her again. Those were adult feelings, and given our scene in the hotel room, she’d been feeling at least a little of the same toward me. It was a wholly different thing if she were to freak out because of how I felt about her—how I’d always felt about her. It would make me seem pathetic if she knew I’d never gotten over her. I felt ashamed. A stronger person wouldn’t have clung to her teenage memories as sacred treasures the way I had.

I leaned against the door and bowed my head. No. I couldn’t answer.

“Hell, Sarah, I don’t think you need to hear that. I need to go.”

She pushed off from the door and stood in front of me. “I thought I meant something to you back then.” Her expression was laced with hurt and there was an edge to her voice.

“Jesus Christ.” I tugged off my shoes and threw them down. “Meant something to me.” I muttered as I marched to the living-room window and, pacing, pulled my hand through my hair.

“Jesus, Sarah. Are you kidding? You didn’t mean
something
to me. You meant
everything
to me.” I gulped and spoke softly. “You really want me to say this?” I stopped pacing and looked at her, desperately hoping for a reprieve.

She didn’t give me one but simply nodded. She’d moved away from the doorway and was standing next to the couch in the living room, her eyes following my every move.

“Sarah, I…fuck.” I started pacing again, shaking my head and crossing my arms protectively. “I didn’t call or write because I boxed it up. I had to box it up. I…I don’t know how to explain it. I was…devastated. Devastated when we left L.A. You had Dirk. I had…feelings for you that I shouldn’t have. I had no money, no transportation, nothing to offer you after that except grief. And I couldn’t grieve because that felt wrong. So, I boxed up that time in my life for what it was: a gift. I finally found happiness when I thought about it that way. Finally found…” I stopped moving and faced her.

She was watching me, listening intently.

I put my hand out, palm up, and gestured in her direction. “You. I found you.” Tears stirred in my eyes and I resumed my pacing. “I couldn’t ruin that gift—your gift—by turning it into a sad thing. A desperate, pining thing. College was around the corner and we’d both be going our separate ways anyway. I didn’t…I didn’t keep in touch because I didn’t want to taint my memories of you with sadness or sorrow. If I kept in touch, I’d feel emptiness because I’d want you with me. And empty was the furthest thing from how I felt when I was with you. I’d never felt so full. I didn’t call or write because I just wanted…”

Now the tears were rolling, and I could only whisper. I stopped and gazed out the window, holding myself tightly. I involuntarily shook my head again and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I know this doesn’t make sense, but I just wanted to hold onto my beautiful, amazing Sarah.”

Excruciating silence met my confession.

“Damn,” Sarah finally said softly behind me.

I was frozen in place, wondering how I’d managed to tell her how I felt about her back then and frightened at the repercussions. Scared she would freak out and leave me with only my memories. Then I suddenly had so strong an urge to escape, it eclipsed everything else. I wiped my eyes again and rushed to the door, wedging my foot into the first of my sneakers.

Sarah was suddenly blocking the door again. “I’m not letting you leave like this.” She pressed her back against the door handle.

I felt like a trapped animal. My foot wouldn’t slide into my other shoe, so I crushed the heel down with my body weight. I struggled futilely to suppress my crying, embarrassed I couldn’t speak and mortified by my admission.

Sarah entreated me to stay. “Cazz. Please.”

I shook my head again and gave her a look that must have conveyed my desperation to depart, because she reluctantly stepped aside. I immediately reached for the doorknob and heaved the door open, then bolted for my car without glancing back. Shoving the key into the ignition, I threw the car into reverse, then forward as a trail of tears coated my cheeks. Though it was difficult to see along the dark and narrow streets with water pooling in my eyes, I couldn’t extricate myself fast enough.

I was in agony, fearing Sarah would put two and two together and realize I was in love with her. It was a bitter irony, wanting so much to let her know, yet not wishing to admit I’d never wavered from the feelings I’d developed all those years ago. Doing so would make it sound like an unrequited, forbidden, tormented thing that spoke of endless longing and regret. I never felt that way myself: my love for Sarah was a special, joyful, bursting thing. Having told Sarah how I had to isolate my teenage feelings for her in order to hold onto the tenderness and hope they instilled in me, I feared she’d make the logical leap and conclude that I’d never stopped loving her, and, as a result, that I was pitiable and unworthy. After all, it had been
ten years
! Who wouldn’t have let go long ago?