My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (34 page)

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. And I hated how things ended.” He set his tea down on the end table and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “I came by to apologize.”

I came by to apologize.
Before now, that was my key phrase. I used it all the time, even when the conflict wasn't my fault. I always said I was sorry, just to diffuse a strenuous situation, or even one that had that potential. Yet here I sat, being apologized to. Nobody else knew it, but this was a monumental occasion.

Cinco continued, “You were right. I should've never brought all that up in front of the class. I'm used to dealing with conflict publicly, but that doesn't mean it's always appropriate. I'm really sorry, Leah. I would've never intentionally embarrassed you.”

I prayed the tears in my eyes wouldn't fall. “Cinco, it's okay.”

“No, it's not okay. But will you forgive me?”

I nodded. And then I said, “I'm sorry that I lied to you about Edward. Or that I kept lying to you. The night we had dinner I should've told you he wasn't my brother.” I laughed a little. “You already knew it, but I should've said it.”

“You're forgiven. And just for the record, I don't normally go around hitting people. This reporter had promised to do a story on my father's accomplished and respected career in journalism, but it ended up basically being part of a smear campaign. He attacked my father's integrity, spread as many lies as possible, and then had the gall to tell me to my face that everything he said was the truth. And to top it all off, he used a long-lens camera and took a picture of my mother in her bathrobe. I gave him a chance to apologize to my family, to my father, but he said he'd rather eat dirt. So I smashed his face into the ground. The bathrobe thing was just the last straw.” He threw his hands out. “What can I say? My family's honor was at stake.” He paused, then said, “So is two weeks enough time?”

I wasn't exactly following the subject change. I was trying to absorb what Cinco had told me, meld his actions with what I knew so far about who he was. “Enough time for what?”

“For you to feel comfortable if I asked you out.”

I laughed that laugh that always blurted out when I was nervous. It wasn't even really a laugh as much as it was a cleverly disguised shout. I thought I might not ever be able to shake it. Cinco didn't seem the least bit deterred. A small smile curled the edges of his lips, and he stared at me like he wouldn't blink until I answered him.

I, on the other hand, couldn't stop blinking. “I would feel . . . feel, well, that would be just fine . . . and completely appropriate, and sure. That's not problem. A. A problem. It's not.”

“Good, Yoda.” He leaned back as he picked up his iced tea again. “So when is a good time for you?”

“Oh, well, you know. I'd have to check my—”

“How about now?”

The laugh again. Oh, how I wish I could drive a stake through it. “Now?”

“Are you busy?” He raised an eyebrow, indicating he knew perfectly well that I was not.

However, I was in cotton sweats and an old T-shirt. “I'm not really dressed.”

“Now, that would be embarrassing if it were true. And by the way, you're dressed perfectly for what I have planned.”

“Run!” Cinco shouted. “Hurry up! You're going to die!”

Thick, dirty, oily sweat covered my face and dripped down my chin as I stumbled along the small path lined with trees and shrubs and sticks. As we entered a denser part of the woods, the sun nearly vanished from view. But it was still hot. Especially as we hadn't officially hit summer yet. Cinco pulled me into the shadow of a large tree trunk. He put a finger to his mouth to indicate I should be very quiet.

I could hardly breathe, and though I tried not to gasp for breath, it was nearly impossible. But equally impossible was ignoring the fact that Cinco kept grabbing my hand, pulling me from hideout to hideout. As our backs pressed against the tree and Cinco listened for any movement, two of his fingers intertwined with two of mine. The fact that we were in grave danger was not making my heart pound nearly as much as this small detail.

I tried not to let it distract me. Suddenly Cinco ripped his hand from mine and fired his gun through the woods. “Come on!” he shouted, and we ran the opposite direction. And then I saw a man, twenty-five yards away, hiding behind a cluster of bushes. He peeked out and then ducked back again. Cinco apparently didn't see him.

I stopped, and Cinco sensed it. He turned and I beckoned him behind a nearby tree. “Stay here,” I whispered.

“Where are you going?”

“Trust me.” I smiled. I then worked my way around another small grouping of trees. Cinco hadn't followed my instructions and was following close behind me.

Then I saw the man, still squatted down, trying to get a glimpse of where we might've gone. I aimed my gun and shot.

Splat!
Right on target! The man groaned as a patch of blue spread itself over the middle of his back.

“Yes!” Cinco said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Good job! You're a natural.”

“You can thank all the hunting trips I was forced to participate in growing up. Imagine a bunch of stuffy politicians walking around trying to shoot quail. It was a ridiculous sight. Trust me. Paintball is much more exciting.”

He laughed, but then he pulled me behind a tree again. “There's one more out there, and he's not going to let up until he gets us.”

“Are you sure this isn't personal for this guy? Maybe he recognizes you from your radio show or something?”

This really made Cinco laugh. “I do get recognized, but typically not in this kind of setting.” He pointed to his protective eyewear. I knew we both looked like complete idiots in our getups, but for once, I didn't care. I was having way too much fun.

“Where is he now?” I whispered.

“I'm not sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say he went up that hill to try to get a better angle on us. It's two against one, though, so we definitely have the advantage.” Cinco checked his watch. “We've got three minutes to find him, or it's a tie. And I always like to win.”

Cinco grabbed my hand again, and we wound our way through the woods to the edge, where we could see the small hill. A made-to-look-dilapidated shack rested on top, and at that second we both saw a small movement.

“He's there!” Cinco said, and just then, we heard the guy's gun fire. Paint splattered right above my shoulder on the tree behind me. “Duck!”

We squatted down, and Cinco said, “You've got to cover me.” I tried not to laugh. He said it as seriously as the star of some intense cop show. I nodded stoically. “Fire on him. I'm going to try to move up the hill to get closer.”

“Gotcha.”

He raced toward a group of trees ahead. I fired, hoping I wouldn't accidentally hit him. The guy in the shack fired back at me, so I fired again, allowing Cinco to move forward even farther. I fired two more shots and then noticed I couldn't see Cinco anymore. He'd disappeared.

The guy inched his head out the window, trying to get a location on Cinco, so I fired again, and he fired back. This went on for a few more seconds until I saw Cinco again. This time he was coming from the back of the shack. Somehow he'd made it around to the other side of the hill. I fired, trying to distract the guy so he wouldn't see Cinco. A paint pellet whizzed by my head and hit the ground behind me. And then I heard gunfire up on the hill, followed by Cinco's shout. “Game over!”

I slowly rose and could see the other man coming out of the shack. The two were laughing. They shook hands. Then Cinco trotted down the hill toward me, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Good job!” I said.

“Couldn't have done it without you. You fired at just the right time so I could get into the shack. If you hadn't, he definitely would've seen me.”

“How'd you get around there so fast?”

“It wasn't hard. He said he was expecting me to move up the front by using the trees and rocks. But when he ducked, I ran to the side of the hill, fell on my belly, and scrambled up the back. His attention stayed on you.”

“What draws you to this?” I asked, gesturing the paintball field.

“It's a safe place to take out my aggression, rather than on the radio.”

“Or on ruthless reporters.”

He laughed. “That too.”

“Maybe I'm mistaken, but it seems like your entire radio program is aggressive. Don't you kind of obliterate people?”

“No,” he said smoothly, “I just argue with them until they admit they're wrong.”

Suddenly, several places on my body were beginning to ache where I'd been hit with paint pellets.

“So what did we win?”

“A great deal of satisfaction and a hundred bucks.”

“Cinco?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise me we'll never, ever play paintball again.”

He laughed. “You didn't like it?”

“It was entertaining. But the only thing I liked was that it was with you.” I smiled to myself. Never in a mil lion years would I have protested a date activity in the past. I would've pretended to like it so I wouldn't make the other person feel bad.

He brushed a sweaty piece of hair out of my face. “I promise. And the good news is that we now have plenty of money to go out on the town tonight.” And then he took my sweaty cheeks into his hands and kissed me.

Chapter 29

[She takes in the view.]

I
couldn't get enough of Cinco. We spent every moment available together for four solid weeks. During that time I spoke to my family only occasionally on the phone, basically just so we could reassure one another we were still alive. I didn't hear from J. R., nor did I care to.

My absence perplexed Elisabeth. “You're always home,” she complained one day on my answering machine. “That's one thing I love about you. I know where you'll be.”

But I didn't care. I was with Cinco and falling madly in love with him. This man, whose sense of adventure might have terrified me once upon a time, was everything I ever wanted. And not once, since we'd been together, had I splotched.

I celebrated by buying a nice V-neck cotton top for the next time we went out. When I returned home from shopping, the phone was ringing. It was Mother.

“Leah, we're having Sunday dinner. Tonight. I insist everyone be there. There's been enough of this nonsense. We are family, and we are going to spend time together if it kills us, which it might, but at least we'll be together.”

Another
remark indicating she still blamed me for almost killing Dad with my news about Edward.

“I don't know if I can,” I said, closing my eyes. “I might have plans.”

“Plans? What could you possibly be doing that's more important than a family dinner?” Mother asked. “Your father is getting stronger each day, but it would still do him some good to get things back to normal.”

As far as I was concerned, things would never be back to normal, but I wasn't sure Mother would ever acknowledge that. I sighed into the phone, loudly enough for Mother to hear. I didn't have plans with Cinco, so I had no excuse.

“What time?”

“Seven o'clock. Lola has the night off, so I'm cooking rosemary chicken, our favorite.”

I laughed. Mother always referred to that dish as the family's favorite, but really the only person who liked it was Mother.

“Okay. I'll be there.”

A satisfied acknowledgment came through the receiver, but Mother didn't know how dangerously close she was to hearing that I couldn't come. I recognized, however, that I needed a nice slap of reality. I'd been living and breathing Cinco Dublin for weeks, and everything else had been set aside, including my work. I'd accepted some editing jobs for money until I knew what else I would do.

“I'll see you tonight,” Mother said and hung up the phone, just as I started to ask if Cinco could come.

The rosemary chicken was providing the only real conversation at the table. Kate was still sulking, but, unlike Mother, she didn't seem to be blaming me. Mother kept asking if the rosemary was too overbearing.
It's not the
rosemary,
I kept wanting to reply. But the new and bold Leah didn't include unnecessary insults. And truthfully, the rosemary chicken would've been exceptional if Dad hadn't kept using it to illustrate how his surgery was performed.

I slumped against the straight-backed chair. I wanted to be with Cinco, where things were comfortable and good and I felt accepted for who I was. But then something occurred to me, something that Cinco had told me on one of our dates. I had asked him how he was capable of being hated by so many people simply because of what he stood for. He said, “I try to love everyone, but I serve only One.”

I try to love everyone.
I knew it to be true. As combative as Cinco's show sounded, his words were almost always filled with love. Other people said hateful things, while Cinco tried to offer them love. But his words definitely drew out the worst in people. I'd learned firsthand that he was a persuasive and sometimes pushy debater. But people mostly hated hearing what he had to say about God and about truth. Amazingly, their reactions never deterred him from saying it. Or from loving them.

And within those few seconds, I suddenly felt free to love my family. Because I realized loving them didn't mean they made choices for me or had power over me. Maybe that was why I'd been so reluctant to fully love them all these years. Maybe it was because I thought loving them meant giving up control of my life to them.

Cinco was saying that I
did
have to give up control . . . just not to them.

“I love you,” I said. All eyes shifted to me. With utter horror, I realized I'd said it out loud. There had been a lull in the conversation, and my remark hung out there like a lonely tree ornament.