When It's Love (6 page)

The waitress finally brings our juice and I guzzle mine in five big gulps.

“Sheesh,” Henry says. “I have to make sure you eat more often.”

I ravenously finish everything on my plate. Henry cleans his plate, too. As soon as the waitress clears our dishes, I reach into the pocket of my parka for my phone, pull up my email, and prepare myself to read to Henry. Suddenly, after all my rush to share with Henry, I’m a bit self-conscious. But it’s Henry, I remind myself. This kind of thing is right up his alley.

“Ready to hear?” I ask.

Henry raises his eyebrows and says, “Go for it, sweetheart.”

I take a deep breath and exhale loudly. I read the first two lines without any problem, but then I pause. I start to blush. I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I get to the words “crotchless black panties,” and I can’t go on reading. I hand my phone to Henry and put my forehead down on the table. Henry grabs it and reads. “Syd, this is hot. Don’t feel bad.”

“I don’t feel bad. I’m just really embarrassed. “

The waitress comes by to ask if we need anything else.

“Toothpicks,” Henry says. He loves to chew on toothpicks. Talk about no manners! He’s grinning at me now and I think it’s the biggest smile I’ve seen on his face. “I knew you had a sexy past back in high school, but I had no idea you were such an animal,” he says.

“Grrrrr,” I say, making my best attempt at a growl.

“Do you really think there’s a straight guy on this planet who wouldn’t go crazy from a message like this?”

“I’m worried it’s too self-centered. It’s all about how he makes me feel.”

“The fact that he’s turning you on will turn him on even more,” Henry reassures me.

“I hope you’re right,” I say. “I hope he’s not cracking up at me, or worse … He could delete my email without reading it like it’s one of those ‘make your penis grow’ spam messages.”

“Trust me,” Henry says, “your message is all he needs to make his penis grow.”

“Very funny,” I retort.

Henry says he has a great idea. We don’t have classes, and neither of us has any plans all day. “Let’s go shopping,” he says. “I want to see you in the five inch heels you’re imagining.”

“Yeah, right,” I say.

“I’m serious,” Henry says. “Send that email and let’s get out of here.”

I think my blood pressure skyrockets as my finger approaches the screen on my phone. Sending a message like the one I’ve composed could change my life. This could be the beginning of something very big. I count out loud: one, two, three. Then I hit ‘send’ and immediately close my eyes, squeezing them tightly shut.

“Deep breath, Syd,” Henry says. “It’s all good.”

As we get up to leave, Henry waves to the waitress and calls out “ciao.”

Henry and his ciaos. He picked up the word on his family trip to Italy last year. Ever since he’s been saying
ciao
so often it’s like an uncontrollable tic. He must be the only person in the state of Michigan saying
ciao
. People around here might say “later” instead of bye. Adios might possibly pass as cool. But
ciao
? If Henry weren’t so well respected in Addison, he’d be a laughing stock.

Henry opens the door for me on the way out of Kuki’s. “I’ve got to run a few errands,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at noon and we’ll go shopping.”

Henry drives west to Cherrywood Mall, the only decent place to shop in this part of Michigan. So many stores have closed down since the recession. It seems like only the big chain stores have survived. I find it unsettling to be sitting in Henry’s brand new silver Camaro, running my hands along the smooth black leather interior, when on the wet road all around us are tall trees hiding homes that have foreclosed. Henry’s family has been lucky. The recession hasn’t hurt them significantly. It breaks my heart to see what has happened to so many people in Michigan.

Henry interrupts my thoughts about money to talk about just that. “Sydney, I am buying your clothes today.”

“No way!” I say loudly and firmly.

“This shopping spree is going to be my Christmas present to you. Don’t argue. I have plenty of money in my account, and if I didn’t, I’d sell my car to pay for your wardrobe,” Henry lets out a chuckle. “It’s time the world sees the sex goddess inside of you.”

I give Henry a little punch on his bicep. “You’re so hilarious,” I say, my voice oozing with sarcasm. I reach into my pocket and feel for my phone. It’s time to see if Professor Sparling has replied. I’d promised Henry I wouldn’t check for at least an hour after breakfast. “Self control is key, Sydney,” he’d said. It’s been 67 minutes. I pull out my phone and tap on my Gmail app.

“Sydney …” Henry admonishes.

“I said I’d wait an hour. It’s been more than that.” As I finish my sentence, P.Sparling’s message appears on my screen in bold type. “Whoohoo!” I shriek.

“I suppose that means you’ve gotten a reply,” Henry says flatly.

All I can say is
holy shit
. I can’t answer Henry because I’m too busy reading, and gasping with surprise.

Dear Sydney,

Would you be flattered to know I got hard as I read your email? I’m imagining your arousal and the way your body would begin its surrender into my arms. If you were here next to me in the clothing you described, I’d hold you close and give you a kiss that starts off gently like a caress, but gets more powerful as my tongue enters your mouth, moving in synch with yours like a dance. While kissing you I’d slowly pull the straps of your wife-beater down until your braless breasts were exposed, bare, and pressed against my chest. I’d start to kiss my way down your neck, one little kiss after another while my hands explored lower until they were cupping your gorgeous breasts.

Sydney, let’s talk in present tense, so it doesn’t feel like we’re pretending, but rather like you’re right here next to me and all of this is NOW. Your firm, round breasts are in my palms and I’m running my thumbs over your nipples. They harden at my touch. Your head tips back and you gasp and shiver with desire. When you pull your face back up to meet mine, your blonde hair falls over your shoulders until it almost touches your perfect breasts. I look into your eyes – so pale and blue – like a wolf’s. Oh, Sydney, baby, you are so beautiful. It’s time for me to kiss you again, but first I want you to want me more. Tell me how much you want me.

Wishful,

Paul

“You’re panting,” Henry snaps at me. “I can’t believe an email makes you pant.” Now he’s giving me that wry grin of his. “Is little Miss Sydney getting all hot in my Camaro?”

“Shush,” Henry! “Yes, I’m hot for Professor Sparling. You already know that.”

I have so many questions about Professor Sparling. Aside from what he wrote in his book about his painful divorce, I know nothing about him. His ex-wife Madeline suffered from severe depression, and much of what he wrote about in his memoir were his conflicted feelings of wanting both to save her and to leave her. Does he think I’m someone who needs saving, too? Was that his takeaway from my essay? I surely do not want to be viewed as some damsel in distress. And the last thing I want is to be saved, and then left, like his poor wife.

Henry is driving too fast for the slick road. As we zoom towards the mall, the tall leafless trees on the roadside are a blur. My head is spinning with both exhilaration and trepidation. I desperately want to stop everything and answer Professor Sparling’s message right this second. But a little voice in my head reminds me that I might be setting myself up for a big fall.

In the mall Henry moves behind me and puts his hands over my eyes. “I have to stop you from going to Footlocker for your clothes,” he jokes. “And you can’t go to North Face either. No more fleece, my friend.”

“Please, Henry,” I fake whine. “I just need one more really sexy oversized gray sweatshirt.”

Henry doesn’t take his hands off my eyes. I’m leaning my back into his chest (he’s got a great chest!) and we’re shuffling our way along, the scents of both fragrances for sale and food court hotdogs wafting through the air. It kind of makes me want to puke. “I hate this mall,” I tell Henry.

“You just be quiet now,” Henry says.

Two minutes later Henry turns me to the left and pulls his hands off my eyes. We’re standing in front of
Oui
, an overpriced Midwestern chain store that sells Euro-style clothing to young women in Michigan, Minnesota, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Ohio, who want to dress like they live somewhere else.

“Eeeek,” I squeal. “I’m not shopping at
Oui
!”

“Oh yes you are,” Henry says. “And I’m paying.”

The lights in
Oui
are too bright and the techno music is loud. I can’t believe this is where Henry has brought me to shop. The store is crammed with dozens of versions of the little black dress – backless, sleeveless, lace, A-line, ultra-mini, chiffon, spaghetti straps, you name it,
Oui
has it. There is a rack devoted to white tops, a section of loud prints, an entire wall shelved with folded jeans, and a special Christmas table covered in red and white cashmere sweaters and accessories.

A tall, elegant woman in the ultra-mini little black dress comes over to us. She flips her silky black hair back revealing her right ear whose length is covered in piercings, all tiny silver hoops, like a spiral notebook. She flashes Henry a smile through her full lips. She’s wearing deep red lipstick, fishnet stockings and fierce black pumps that accentuate her long, sensual legs. In her heels she’s Henry’s height. She looks more strip club than Cherrywood Mall. But I guess that’s what
Oui
is all about, trying not to be Cherrywood Mall.

“What’s up, Marina?” Henry says. He steps away from me and opens his arms to give her a hug. He pulls back without taking his hands off her waist and eyes her up and down. “You look great,” he says, staring a little too long for someone offering a greeting.

It dawns on me that Marina is probably one of Henry’s one-nighters. He likes to call them disposable babes. He knows it makes him sound like an asshole, but I don’t think he uses the term with anyone but me. It’s one of our many private jokes. Henry and I always laugh about his disposable babes, but I’ve never been face to face with one before. I’ve heard plenty of details, most of them so repetitive I wouldn’t know one babe from another. The amazing thing about Henry is that no girl seems to mind being his disposable babe. He has a solid reputation as nothing but a player, and girls still want him. His mother and I are the only females consistently in his life.

Marina does a little twirl for Henry, still flashing that huge smile. “You really think I look great?” she says. “I feel like I’ve gained so much weight.”

“Never! You couldn’t,” Henry says smiling back at her, slouching a bit with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His blue eyes are studying her closely. “You could never look anything but great.”

I get a sinking feeling while Henry admires Marina and I can tell by the way he’s looking at her that I should get out of here, so I spin on my heel and run out of the store. As I exit, I’m overwhelmed by the food court hot dog smell and now I really think I’m going to throw up. “Sydney!” Henry calls. “Come back.”

Henry runs out after me. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. And I mean it. Nothing is wrong. I just don’t want to shop in Oui and I don’t want to watch Henry pick up chicks in the mall. Those two things do not constitute something being wrong. If that’s the case, though, why do I feel the beginning of tears stinging my eyes? Why am I choking back a sob? I’m behaving like a jealous girlfriend and it’s truly embarrassing. “I’m sorry, Henry,” I say. “I think I’m distracted by the Sparling emails. I’m not feeling like myself. I should probably get home and figure out how I’m going to reply.”

“Not yet,” Henry says. He grabs my hand and drags me back into
Oui
without letting go until he’s pulled me all the way to the dressing rooms in the back. When we get there, an entire rack of clothes is waiting, along with a bench piled high with jeans and sweaters. “Everything here is in your size,” Henry says. He explains that Marina is an old friend from elementary school. “We’ve known each other forever and I called ahead, described you to Marina, and asked her to prepare items for you to try on. I knew you’d be short on patience.”