Love's Awakening (6 page)

In any case, Celia saw nothing wrong with wanting to buy a stain-free shirt to commemorate dinner with someone new.

Celia plucked a dress in size eight, her pre-pregnancy size. The dress was a sleek black number that, in other circumstances, would end right above her knees.

“That won’t fit,” Janet said with a grimace.

Celia rolled her eyes. “Give me some credit. Looking isn’t a crime.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Celia grabbed a few shirts. “Be right back.” She locked herself in a dressing room stall. A pumpkin was her reflection in the mirror.
Awesome.
I’m
a
walking
advertisement
for
Halloween.
Black sweat pants, orange T-shirt. The pinnacle of fashion. Oliver’s invitation for dinner had come at the perfect time.

*****

Oliver had to look twice to make sure the woman who met him outside the apartment building was Celia. She looked fifty. Beaten down. Worn out. Her eyes were raccoon-like. Not so different from Oliver’s own eyes.

But then Celia smiled, and the twenty extra years flew off.

Oliver shook off the
pitter-patter
of his heart and indicated his building. He lived only fifteen minutes from his father and stepmother, but Celia had never been inside Oliver’s apartment. Perhaps she had driven by the building once or twice. Whatever. Oliver had no idea.

“Welcome,” Oliver said. “Nice peeling, huh? Reminds me of a bad sunburn.” His building stood out among the renovated homes on the street.

“Cafeteria mystery meat color is nice.”

Oliver chuckled. “Yeah, I couldn’t resist. Well, come on in.”

Oliver led Celia through the house. He had separate keys for the main entrance and for his own unit. No buzzers, which was why he’d had to meet Celia outside. “I’m on the second floor,” he said.

They walked up the staircase. The staircase Oliver had fallen down not long ago.

Once they were in the apartment, Celia surveyed the living room, and Oliver tried to see his place through Celia’s eyes. Was she comparing the apartment and the townhouse? Well, yeah, of course she was. She must think Oliver’s place was shit when stacked next to her own expansive townhouse. Of course, that townhouse was David-bought, David-furnished. Oliver would take his apartment over his father’s townhouse any day.

Oliver was a naturally tidy person—reasonably tidy—but he had not vacuumed in a while before today. So, he had spent about an hour cleaning, and he hoped his effort was not too obvious. The scent of Pledge lingered, and Oliver tried to remember when he’d stopped straightening up for Lori.

He couldn’t recall exactly. Maybe six months into their so-called relationship.

“You get the grand tour by standing right there,” Oliver said, making his voice light. “Well, except for the bathroom.” From where Celia and Oliver stood in the middle of the living room, they could see into the bedroom. A short hallway led from the bedroom to the bathroom. The kitchen adjoined the living room. All there was to it.

The furniture was eclectic and scrounged from Goodwill. Oliver did not have a true couch, but instead a loveseat. And a plaid Laz-Boy, a reupholstered monstrosity from the 1980s.

“I love this place,” Celia said.

“You do?”

Lopsided grin. “It’s you, Oliver.”

Oliver averted Celia’s gaze. Otherwise, his gaze would hang with hers a heartbeat too long—several heartbeats too long. “We should go back outside and wait for the pizza.”

“Can I use your bathroom?” Celia asked.

“Sure. I’ll go on out and wait.”

Celia’s lips tugged up in a radiant smile. “Oliver, I needed to get out of the house badly. You have no idea. Thanks for having me over.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. Too bad in an hour or so, Celia would wish she’d never come.

*****

Celia unbuttoned her elephant maternity jeans and sat on the toilet. Her urination took a few seconds to get going. Hopefully there would not be blood. That had pretty much stopped, but yesterday brought some spotting.

She kept replaying the shadow that crossed Oliver’s expression when she thanked him for the invitation. The shadow and Oliver avoiding her gaze had disabused her of any notions that dinner was purely social. Oliver had something to say about his father. Something bad. Celia would compartmentalize and keep functioning. She would get through it.

*****

Oliver was on the loveseat when Celia emerged from the bathroom. “Pizza’s here.” He indicated the box on the coffee table.

The thought of eating, of cheese and grease and a secret, made Celia sick. But she forced a smile. “Smells great.”

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Do you have Sprite?”

“Coming right up.”

Celia sat and tried to steady her nerves. What would Oliver tell her? David had cheated? David was leaving her? Huge surprise. Huge secret.

Oliver returned with two cans of Sprite, one tucked under his chin because of the cast. Celia grinned and lowered her gaze to the smothering of signatures. “Guess there’s no room for my John Hancock.”

Oliver shrugged. “Sign on top of whatever.”

Celia opened both of their Sprites. “You and I, sometimes it’s like walking through a minefield. We’re basically the same age. It’s weird, I know.”

“It is, yes.”

Celia sipped from her Sprite. “I broke my leg when I was twelve. Most of my classes in middle school were on the third floor. Pain in the ass. I had to crutch up and down several times a day.”

“Hmm.”

Celia searched her stepson’s face. He really was a handsome man. “Will you come by sometime? Meet the baby?”

“I met him already.”

Celia stiffened. “You met him for one second.”

“Shit,” Oliver muttered. “That came out wrong. I meant—yes, of course. I’ll come by. Is he a good baby?”

“He was good the first few days. Now he’s a crying beast.” Celia leaned in, the urge to confide in someone overwhelming her. Oliver would be a good person to tell. First of all, he was a man. And he didn’t want kids. He wouldn’t get that
look
in his eyes. That look of surprise, of disappointment.

“I don’t feel like Caleb’s mother. Like a mother,” Celia admitted.

A penetrating gaze. Shifting browns and greens. Oliver smelled good. Like sweat. Like a man. Celia had a sudden flash of him cutting wood—with his shirt off. His muscles rippled as he drove the ax into –
Whoa.
Where
did
that
come
from?

Celia shivered, suppressed the image and continued: “I might as well be on
Candid
Camera
. I’m acting. I hold Caleb, and I can tell he’s cute. He’s sweet. I pat him, I rock him, I breast feed him. But there’s a part of my heart that insists I’m missing something.”

“Do—do you have postpartum depression?”

“I don’t think so. I looked up the symptoms. Agitation or irritability. Changes in appetite. Feelings of worthlessness or guilt. Thoughts of death or suicide. A long list of blah blah blah. Trouble sleeping.
That
one I have. My doctor says to give it time.”

“You’re dealing with a lot. My dad and all.”

“Can you sleep? What’s your trick?”

“No trick.” Oliver indicated the bruises under his eyes. “You think I go around looking like this for the fun of it?”

Celia laughed. “I’m up all night. Either pacing and thinking, waiting for the baby to cry, and then trying to calm him down, or wondering how your grandmother can snore so loud. She’s a bulldozer. An artillery tank. A machine gun.”

“It doesn’t bother Granddad?”

“He sleeps on the couch. The pull-out.”

“Oh,” Oliver said thoughtfully.

“Yeah. So at night, I can’t even go down and veg on the couch or watch TV. I’m stuck in my bedroom. Ahh. I don’t mean to talk negative. Shirley is at the hospital a lot of nights, and Richard sleeps in the spare bedroom then. So I do have plenty of opportunity for crappy late-night TV. Your grandparents are a great help. Wonderful with the baby.”

Oliver offered a tentative smile. “Good. That’s good.”

Celia pictured Oliver again, pictured his sweaty, heaving, glistening chest as he cut wood. She pictured snug jeans, the bulge in his crotch.
No,
no.
This
won’t
do.

“Look, Oliver,” she said briskly.

“Yeah?”

“Why am I here?”

Oliver blinked. “Uh, to have pizza. Which is getting cold.”

“Bull. You have an ulterior motive.”

Oliver sighed. “Yes. But do you want to eat first?”

“Let’s get this over with. Was your dad leaving me?”

Oliver licked his lips. “He, uh, Dad uh…”

“He was cheating,” Celia supplied. “He was leaving me for another woman. Do you know her name?” Celia attempted a bright, helpful smile. “It’s okay, Oliver. You can tell me.”

“Dad was transgender,” Oliver mumbled.

Celia was sure she misheard. “Pardon?”

“Dad was transgender. He told me six months ago that he was a woman in a man’s body.”

Celia stared at Oliver a long moment, took in his thick, curling eyelashes. He shared his father’s dark, alluring lashes. Then she moved her focus to Oliver’s windows. Out his windows. The sky was darkening, and Celia became vaguely aware of Oliver moving closer to her. She dropped her gaze to Oliver’s hands. His fingers were long and slim. David had thick, blocky fingers. Their hands had fit perfectly. Key word: had.

Transgender.

Really?
No
way.

The revelation burned and scorched, but Celia was too shocked to do anything.
Transgender.
Transgender.
The word bounced off the windows and off Celia’s nonabsorbent brain. “Transgender,” Celia echoed stupidly. Like Oliver had said David was an orangutan, or a time traveler, or the secret king of England.

“Transgender,” Oliver said morosely.

“Transgender.” The word was a lumpy, alien object on Celia’s tongue. She wanted to peel it off and hide it in the pizza box.
Orangutan.
That word was better.

“Transgender,” Oliver repeated. Continuing their word tennis.

Transgender,
transgender,
transgender.
“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Celia wondered what she should be feeling. Outrage? Betrayal? Because right now all she could think about were orangutans. Their reddish hair and shiny eyes. Their scampering.

“Celia,” Oliver said.

“Orangutan.”

“What?”

“Orangutan. Like a monkey. I don’t think they’re monkeys, though.”

Oliver frowned. “They’re not.”

David
a
woman?
Transgender?

“Do orangutans eat pizza?” Celia asked.

Oliver gripped her hand. “Celia—”

Celia snapped her hand out of Oliver’s. “Answer me,” she demanded. “Do orangutans eat pizza?”

“I doubt it. But pizza beats leaves and shoots or whatever the hell they do eat.”

“Can you spell orangutan?”

“Can you?” Oliver shot back.

Pain. Exquisite pain in Celia’s breasts.

“Six months? You’ve known six months?”

Oliver gave a helpless, despairing sigh. “If I could do it again, I’d tell you right after Dad told me.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I wrote you a letter. Want to read it now?”

Celia should have pumped milk about five minutes ago, in the bathroom. She’d thought she could wait. But no. She’d been relatively lucky so far. Hadn’t experienced severe engorgement. Elephant, weighty breasts, sore nipples, yeah, but not the swollen, rock-hard breasts many women experienced.

Oh,
God.
The pain caused her to bend over for a couple of seconds. She felt like she might pass out. “I have to pump. My breasts are killing me.” Celia got to her feet and grabbed her baby bag. In the bathroom, she took her shirt off. Under it, she wore a low-cut top. She sat on the toilet, clamped her jaw shut and mashed her teeth together.
Shit!
The pain infiltrated every part of her.

She pulled the left side of her shirt down. The cup of her bra was detachable, and she attached the pump. It was manual, and Celia squeezed. She would take maybe five minutes. Because she wanted to stop breastfeeding, she just needed to relieve the pressure. Draining her breasts dry would simply signal them to produce more milk.

A tentative knock at the door. “You okay?”

“Fine. Moo.”

“Did you say ‘moo?’ “

“Yes. Moo. Get it? I’m expressing milk.”

“Anything I can do?”

“I’m fine. I’m a cow, okay? But fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“You think I’m slitting my wrists or something? That I keep a butcher knife in my baby bag? I’m a milk cow, not a meat cow. I’m fine, Oliver. This is normal.”

“Cover yourself with a towel. I’m coming in.”

“What? No, you’re not.”

“Yeah,” Oliver declared. “I am. You have ten seconds.”

Fine,
fine.
Celia switched breasts and draped her first shirt over her chest. “Come in if you must,” she called.

Oliver edged in.

“See,” Celia said. “Milk cow, not meat cow.”

Oliver smiled. “Do, uh…” He watched the slowly rising level of milk in the collection bottle with a mixture of fascination and dismay. “Interesting contraption,” he said. Meaning a scary-as-shit contraption.

“Like I said. Moo.”

“Moo. Yeah.” Oliver perched on the edge of the tub and fixed intense eyes on Celia. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Yes, well.”

Oliver leaned in, and his knee brushed Celia’s. “But I guess you’re okay.”

“Sure. Never been better.”

“You’re funny, Mrs. Milk Cow.”

Oliver’s grin was contagious, and Celia smiled. “Moo.”

Oliver kept his knee, his touch, where it was, and Celia was glad for the contact. Glad for the distraction. She suddenly ached, not only her breasts, but all of her, for someone to curl up with in bed and laugh with and cuddle with. Kiss, too. Laugh and kiss. Not sex. She was nowhere near ready for sex, and Oliver probably liked his sex rough and—