The Other Side of Someday (17 page)

At the height of my pity fest, party of one, there was a knock on my door. Sport perked up, a low growl building in his throat. Knowing it could only be one of a handful of people, I padded toward the front door and pulled it open.

“How did it go?” Sebby asked, running his hand through his hair. He peered into my condo, probably to see if I had a guest. Thanks to him and his prodding, I didn’t.

“Well…” I spun on my heels, heading into my kitchen. He followed, taking a seat on one of the barstools at the island. “For your information, he’s
not
gay.” I bent down and rummaged through my pantry, pulling out the flour, sugar, and baking powder. I intended to cross one more item off my mother’s list — cook something with all the goodies I got at the farmer’s market.

“You’re shitting me.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, his voice oozing with disbelief. “Or are you just saying that to make me think you were right.”

I looked up at him and rolled my eyes. “Yeah. I don’t think so.” I turned from him and opened my refrigerator, pulling out the carton of strawberries he had bought me earlier in the day. “Especially considering he stormed off after I pushed it a little. All the signs are definitely there. I guess we just read them wrong.” I rinsed the strawberries and handed them to Sebby. “Make yourself useful and slice those for me.”

He jumped off his stool and headed to the sink to wash his hands. Then he returned to the kitchen island and got to work on chopping the strawberries. “What are you making?”

“Strawberry shortcake,” I answered, my eyes glued to a recipe that had been handed down in my family for generations.

“The list?”

“Yup.” I grabbed a measuring cup and sifted the precise amount of flour the recipe called for.

The next half-hour passed in comfortable silence as Sebby and I worked on the strawberry shortcake. The tension and guilt I had been feeling for the past hour slowly eased its way out of my body as I mixed, chopped, and tasted. The aromas coming from my kitchen reminded me of Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house. She would always make strawberry shortcake and regale me with stories of my mother, a nostalgic twinkle in her eye as she reminisced.

“
She always sat exactly where you’re sitting, Baylee Grace
,” she had said. “
Whenever I was baking, she made sure to lick the bowl and spoons clean, covering her face with chocolate or whatever the dessert of the day was.
She loved strawberry shortcake, too. It was her absolute favorite, mainly for the whipped cream.
”

“
Why?”
I had asked.

“
She loved having it squirt in her mouth. I couldn’t even make fresh whipped cream with her around. Whenever I asked if she’d like whipped cream on any of her desserts, she’d smile and respond ‘In my mouth, please’ and open her mouth wide.”

I laughed to myself as I recalled my grandmother’s stories. My memories filled me with warmth, and I could have sworn I felt my mother in that kitchen. Every little girl has memories of learning to cook and bake with her mother. I didn’t. However, as I popped the shortcake into the oven, I knew she was there with me. With each item I crossed off that list, I had a deeper understanding and connection to the woman who gave her life for mine.

“This smells delicious,” Sebby commented a short while later, dishing out a portion of the lemon chicken and ratatouille we made for dinner. I didn’t remember the precise moment I went from simply baking a strawberry shortcake to preparing dinner for the two of us. I didn’t want to stop cooking, needing to feel that bond with my mother.

“If you weren’t here, I’d go straight for that strawberry shortcake and bypass dinner. It’s been one of those days.”

Sebby met my eyes as we sat down at the kitchen island. The dining room table Marcel had urged me to sign off on would take a few more weeks until it was ready. “I can get on board with that.”

We indulged in our dinners as if we hadn’t eaten in days, all conversation ceasing. It wasn’t an awkward silence, like it was when we first met. It was comfortable, like we had known each other most of our lives and didn’t need to say anything to fill the void. I
had
known Will most of my life. I even had photos of us in diapers together. Still, during the course of our relationship, I never felt this at ease with him. As I sat eating my dinner, I struggled to come up with one thing Will and I had in common, even if it was the same favorite cheesy movie.

The old adage that opposites attract was never the case with Will and me. We were polar opposites. He didn’t envision a life outside the small town we grew up in. I wanted to spread my wings and see the world. He liked the fried comfort food so typical of southern country living. I preferred fresh organic food full of flavor and low on fat. Hell, we even had trouble agreeing on what song we would use for our first dance at our wedding. I wanted something a bit more traditional, like “The Way You Look Tonight”. As ironic as it was, Will insisted on Journey’s “Faithfully”, claiming that was what the radio was playing when he picked me up on our first official date. I never corrected him, although that should have been a giant red flag. The radio in his car was broken that night. It stood out in my mind because he had acted like a child, complaining that his parents wouldn’t give him the money to get it fixed. Apparently, getting a job never crossed his mind.

“Earth to Baylee,” Sebby’s voice called out, snapping me back to the present. “Where’d ya go?”

I glanced down at his plate and saw that it was practically licked clean. Mine still had a few bites of ratatouille and half my chicken left. “Sorry.” I shrugged, slicing into the chicken. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Polar opposites.”

“What about it?”

“You know the saying that opposites attract?”

He nodded.

“Don’t you think it’s complete bullshit? I mean, how can two polar opposites find happiness together when they have absolutely nothing in common, especially when one or both of them are pretty stubborn and set in their ways?”

“I don’t think it’s bullshit,” Sebby responded. I could sense I might have struck a nerve in regards to his relationship with Mercedes. From the little information he had shared, they seemed to be on opposite sides of the spectrum, too.

“Well, I’ve been there,” I said.

“Will?”

I nodded, taking a sip of my wine. “We were complete opposites. It’s exciting at first, but when my dreams and aspirations conflicted with his, there was no compromise. He always won. I was the one having to sacrifice what I really wanted to make him happy. So no. I don’t think two people who are complete opposites have a real shot. Not in the long run.”

“If there’s compromise, like you mentioned, two people who appear to be opposites could certainly make it work. Plus, being with someone like that keeps things interesting. You’re both constantly learning from each other, keeping each other on your toes. How boring would life be if you had the same interests, same dreams, same taste in wine? It would get monotonous and, after time, you’d be desperate for something different, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose, but what if one person isn’t willing to compromise?” I asked guardedly, recalling his stories about Mercedes and how she refused to entertain the idea of ever leaving Manhattan.

“If you truly love someone, you’ll do whatever it takes to make it work, even if it means sacrificing your dreams to support your partner’s aspirations.”

I wanted to say it sounded like there was a thin line between making a sacrifice and being a pushover. Instead, I kept my thoughts to myself. “Then I guess it wasn’t true love between Will and me,” I said, lightening the heavy air as I stood up from the table. Grabbing our plates, I headed into the kitchen. “Hell, when you’re eighteen, your concept of love is pretty much limited to the first guy who buys you flowers and some cheap necklace at a shitty department store jewelry counter. Not to mention he was the first guy I had slept with, and I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t love him, right?” I laughed. “If you can even refer to our first time as having sex. I still have my doubts.”

Sebby followed me into the kitchen, taking the plates from me and helping to clean up. “From a guy’s point of view, there’s a lot of pressure to…perform that first time.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Perform is a nice way of putting what Will referred to as having sex. It felt like he was on a pit crew for Nascar, rushing through everything to get back to the race. Just as soon as the car pulled into the pits, he was sending it back on its way, confused about what the hell just happened.”

Sebby turned the water off, keeping his back toward me. He was still for a moment before an all-consuming laugh bellowed against the walls, his shoulders shaking. He turned around and leaned against the counter, crossing his muscular arms in front of that defined chest I had the pleasure of seeing bare a few days ago.

“Baylee,” he began, wiping his eyes, “you may be the first person I’ve ever known to equate having sex to being in the pit at a Nascar race.”

“Not just any sex,” I corrected. “
Bad
sex.”

He shook his head, wiping down the counters. “For your sake, I hope you find someone to help erase that experience from memory.”

“Think I should put an ad on Craigslist?” I joked. “Short white female looking for sex that isn’t like screwing an impact wrench.”

“Impact wrench?”

“Yeah. That’s one of those things they use to take off and put the tires back on. Will made me learn all the terminology,” I explained, plating strawberry shortcake for us, finishing it with whipped cream on top of each. I resisted the temptation to squirt the whipped cream into my mouth, although it was nearly impossible. “He loved watching racing, football… You name the sport, he followed it. I tried to be the supportive wife and watch with him as he drank cheap beer from a can.” I shivered dramatically, walking from the kitchen with my strawberry shortcake and sitting on the couch, Sebby following my lead. “We had plenty of money, but Will refused to drink anything of higher quality than Milwaukee’s Best.”

“How about you?” Sebby asked, eyeing me.

“What do you mean?”

“What did Baylee like to do?”

I shrugged as I shoveled a bite of the strawberry shortcake into my mouth, moaning when the sweet buttery combination hit my senses. “It was never my decision. Whenever Will came home from work, even if I was watching something on the TV in the family room, he took the remote and put on whatever he wanted. He definitely had that good ol’ boy mentality. When the man’s home from work, the wife should cater to his needs.” I rolled my eyes. Will often forgot I was the main earner in the family, despite my light work schedule.

“Well, Will’s not here now.” Sebby grabbed the remotes off the coffee table and handed them to me. “What do you want to watch?”

A childish grin on my face, I placed my strawberry shortcake on the table and greedily took the remotes, scanning through all my movies to find the one I was looking for. “This,” I said, smiling. “A
real
cinematic masterpiece of the twentieth century.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Sebby scoffed as the opening measures of “The End” by The Doors filled the room, the image of palm trees and helicopters appearing on my large screen television.

“Are you really going to sit there and tell me that
Apocalypse Now
isn’t a great fucking movie?”

“I would never demean Coppola in such a way.”

“Good.” I settled back into the couch and watched Martin Sheen stare at the ceiling fan in his hotel room in Saigon. The conversation with Sebby ceased as we were consumed with a movie both of us had probably seen more times than we cared to admit. During some of the scenes, we mouthed certain well-known lines with the characters as they spoke them.

The sun had set, leaving my entire condo dark, apart from the glow from the television. Exhaustion caught up to me and I lay down on the couch. Sport snuggled up next to me, and I propped my feet on Sebby’s lap. As if on autopilot, he took one in his hand and massaged it, lulling me into a deeper sense of comfort. The last thing I remembered before dozing off was The Chef screaming about never getting off the boat.

~~~~~~~~~~

“B
AYLEE
.” I
FELT
A
slight shaking on my foot and struggled to open my heavy eyelids.

“What?” I whined.

“The movie’s over. You dozed off.”

“I know I did,” I retorted. “And I’d still be sleeping if some inconsiderate prick didn’t wake me up.”

“I couldn’t just leave you sleeping on the couch. Only a true inconsiderate prick would do that.”

Groaning, I stretched and opened my eyes to see Sebby’s form looming over me. He held his hand out to me and I took it, allowing him to help me up.

“Whatever you say, Nosebleeder.”

I shuffled away from the living area, Sebby following me as I walked to the front door. “Sorry I fell asleep on you,” I offered, then grew flustered when I thought of the double meaning behind my words. “I mean, I didn’t fall asleep
on
you, but fell asleep with you.”

He raised his eyebrows at me, his butterfly-inducing smile growing wide and more devious. I loved his smile. I could stare at it for hours. There’s nothing creepy about that, right?

“Ya know what?” I shook my head, knowing there was no way for me to say what I was trying to without the double meaning. “Let’s just drop it.”

“You’re the one who fell asleep on me.” He winked. A stiff silence settled between us as we stood there. I should have been angry that he essentially ruined my date earlier, but tonight was the perfect ending to my day. I couldn’t picture it any other way now.

“Well, thanks for dinner.” Sebby broke through the awkwardness, shifting from foot to foot.

“Thanks for the company.”

He studied me for a brief moment. Maybe I was simply imagining something that wasn’t there, but I could have sworn I saw desire within those eyes. It was the look you gave someone when you were about to kiss them. I swallowed. I had wanted Sebby to kiss me from our first meeting, but things were different now. It wasn’t just the girlfriend. It was the friendship we had been nurturing over the past few days. I valued that more than my unruly libido.