Читать книгу The Object Of Love - Sharon Cullars - Страница 10

After showering, Lacey pulled on a comfortable gray sweater, another pair of jeans, then went to the hallway closet to get fresh towels and washcloths for Sean. She walked them to the first guest room, the one Estelle used when she stayed over, set them on one of the bathroom shelves. She brought out fresh sheets from the room’s closet, remade the bed. Hoped that Sean wouldn’t be turned off by the floral pattern on the cover.

Strange, she felt lighter today. The pain would, of course, always be there. It just wasn’t as acute today. Maybe her mother was right. Being alone wasn’t always good for you. And keeping busy kept her mind away from darker thoughts.

As she finished straightening up, she began to reconsider her aversion to seeing a counselor. But that would come later. It was too soon, too raw. She wasn’t ready to open herself up yet, to divulge the pain that had been swirling inside her. She wasn’t ready to talk about Calvin…not the way she needed to talk about him.

She went back downstairs into the living room. Sean was rooted to the sofa, the television going. A suitcase was parked near the leather chair. The wool coat he’d worn to the burial was thrown over the case.

“Your room’s ready. It’s the second one on the left, past Cal…past Calvin’s room. Why don’t you take your suitcase up.”

He got off the couch, picked up his coat and case. As he walked past her standing near the entry, he accidentally brushed her shoulder. He turned, probably to apologize. But that small action brought his face just an inch away from her own. She smelled the coffee on his breath, felt his breath on her lips.

She saw him glance at her lips for a second, and in that second she thought he was going to lean in. To actually kiss her.

The thought should have repulsed her.

Instead she felt herself moistening, and that frightened her.

She saw in his eyes that his thoughts were following hers…and that he was waiting…but for what? He couldn’t possibly…

She broke the spell, moving back a step. His face was flushed, his breathing unsteady.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, then beelined to the kitchen, denying to herself what had just happened. Right now, she couldn’t be in the same room with him. Not until she’d gotten the flurries out of her head.

Good Lord—what had she done, inviting him here?

Upstairs, Sean placed his still-packed suitcase in the guest room closet, not comfortable with using any of the drawers. Right now, he wasn’t even comfortable being here. He’d passed Calvin’s closed door, not daring to look at it. Not after what had almost happened today…and what had happened five years ago.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about what might have occurred a few minutes ago had he not been rooted to the ground.

Had he misread her look? He could have sworn she’d been waiting for him to make a move.

“Forget it, stupid!” he mentally kicked himself. Of course, she hadn’t been waiting for anything but for him to get out of the way.

But what would have happened if he’d kissed her?

So many times, he’d imagined how her full lips would feel beneath his own, how she would welcome his tongue, let his hands roam her curves…and downstairs, suddenly it seemed it was about to happen.

He lay down on the bed, realizing that reliving his fantasy had made him stiffen. He was on his way to a full boner if he kept thinking these thoughts, entertaining these feelings he hoped he’d purged from his mind years ago.

Coming here had been a mistake. He was dredging up things that needed to stay buried. He should just go back to the hotel for the next couple of days. After that, he would fly back to Indiana and leave everything behind. He needed to stick to his original agenda.

There were a couple of friends he wanted to see, to catch up on old times with. Suzanne, especially…

And there was the house. His old house. He pictured the expansive California bungalow, the garden bed that was always populated with more weeds than the hydrangeas his mother tried to grow. He remembered his basketball court out back, with the bent rim and half-tattered net. He had gotten a lot of wear out of that court. He and Cal.

He hadn’t seen his former home in almost a decade. Probably another family was living there now, imprinting it with their own memories, hopefully happier ones than those he and his family had left behind.

Lying on the bed, he felt the walls closing in on him. He needed to get out of here, get on his bike and ride around, clear his head.

He grabbed his coat, headed down the stairs. Even though he knew he should let her know he was going out, he couldn’t bring himself to call out.

He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him.

For most of his life, Calvin had wanted to be a baseball player. Though most people assumed his preference was basketball (he’d had a mean slam dunk), there had been something about the feel of the wood connecting to the ball, the explosive power as it whipped into the distance—sometimes over a gate perimeter to the shouts of the onlookers in the stands—that had decided him which path he would take. He’d had it all mapped out: Little League, followed by a tenure as first-string hitter in high school. And even though Columbia hadn’t been his first choice (his mother had wanted him to go to a prestigious school “just in case” he decided he wanted to pursue something other than baseball), the school had had a decent team. And most of all, it was in New York. Home of the Mets. He’d get his degree in business, then head for the minors, probably in Binghamton. Just a year there to prove his skills, pay his dues. Then he would detonate large onto Shea Stadium to the roar of the crowd. And no way would he ever fuck up. Not like Strawberry and Gooden. No drugs, no drama. He’d play until his body gave out, then retire with a sterling record and generations of adoring fans. That had been the plan.

His plan hadn’t included an 80-mph, head-on impact with a Buick that appeared out of nowhere. He’d thought he had time to pass the slow-moving car in front by shifting to the other lane, then quickly moving back. He would have sworn there wasn’t any oncoming traffic. It had been so late…or, rather, early. Nearly three in the morning. But then the Buick rose up on him. He remembered the face of dawning fear on the other driver, a woman. Her mouth formed a perfect “O” as she let out a soundless scream as both their cars met in a deadly kiss.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not this way. Man…everything gone in a smash of metal. All his dreams, his plans.

Now, he watched his mother hacking at one of the rose bushes with the shears, her motions almost vicious. Why was she doing that? It made no sense.

Then again, nothing was making sense.

Like, why he was here instead of…where? Where was he supposed to be now?

Heaven? Hell? Lord knew he had earned points for both places. Guess it kind of evened out. Maybe this is where people went when the scales were too balanced, no points favoring either. Maybe they got to walk the earth, tied to their former home, haunting their loved ones.

Only, his mother wasn’t aware that her son was haunting her. He’d been here since he felt the car tear him apart. A whoosh, a bright light…and then he was here.

Was here when the call came telling his mom that he was gone.

If ever there was a hell, that had been the moment he should have felt the flames. Standing there, watching his mother crumble to the floor screaming, tears and snot wetting her face, he’d never felt more helpless. He’d reached out to touch her, but his hand only met a barrier. He’d tried to tell her he hadn’t gone anywhere, that he was still here. But, of course, she hadn’t heard him. And then, finally, when she’d gotten up from the floor, she’d walked right through him. So, she could touch him, but not the other way around.

He had visited hell again, watching Grams and Aunt Estelle come to the house, their bodies worn down with grief, aged in a way he had never seen them before. And to see his Uncle Joe cry, a man who had never shown anyone his tears, had made him tremble with fear.

Seeing his own body lying in the coffin had totally creeped him out, as though the body had no right existing without him. And all that makeup they had piled on his face, making him look like a damn fag. Man, he hadn’t even looked like himself.

When his mother crumbled again at the cemetery, he’d been stunned. A woman who’d never left the house with a snag in her panty hose or a wrinkle in her slacks, had sat down in front of everybody like a child, crying, inconsolable. Until Sean…He tightened his hand into a fist.

Later, he’d watched from the shadows as everyone gathered at his house—his mom’s friends, their neighbors, his friends from school. Jake, Tiffany, Rashad, even Chris had been there, standing together in his living room, looking lost. Which had been weird. Especially, seeing Jake looking down at his feet, not saying a word. Jake, the perpetual clown who had been silent maybe a whole two minutes since Cal had known him. Tiffany looked like a ghost of herself, eyes rimmed with tears, her hair pulled back so tight until the scalp paled against her already pale skin. She and Cal had only been going together for a few months; it’d been too early to admit feelings that he hadn’t been sure of, but he’d known that she cared for him. During the funeral and burial, he had spotted Angie and hoped she and Tiffany wouldn’t come face-to-face. Not that it had been likely. They weren’t the type to talk to one another. Besides, Angie was a long time ago. A quick fling when he was fifteen and trying to prove something to himself.

Calvin walked through the wall into the kitchen and sat down in the chair that Sean had occupied that morning. In the days of his ghosthood (was that even a word?), he’d determined that he could fake out the physical world; chairs would hold him, he could lean against walls without going through them, if he believed strongly enough that he was real. Each day, he learned something else to manipulate. After a few more days, maybe he would be able to make himself real enough to be seen. To be heard. To be felt.

Then he would take pleasure in kicking Sean out of his home. He’d pitch him through the door on his ass, kick the shit out of him. And get him away from here. Away from his mom.