by Emma Chase
"Wait, no, don't." She covers my mouth with her hand, blocking me. "There's a reason I woke you up."
"For the fabulous fucking we're about to do?"
She laughs, pecking my lips. "After. But first . . . the green flag's up! I forgot about the flag, Garrett. Isn't that crazy?"
The park service puts a flag out on the lake, letting people know when it's frozen all the way through and safe to skate. When the green flag comes out, practically the whole town shows up--kids play ice hockey and race, couples hold hands, and Girl Scout troops sell cider and hot chocolate on the sidelines.
Callie's eyes are so wide and joyful--her excitement becomes mine.
"Do you think your parents still have your old skates?"
"Are you kidding? They're one step above hoarders--they don't throw anything away."
I tap her ass and sit up. "All right. Let's go get them then--we'll be the first ones out on the ice."
~
And that's how it goes--our life, here, together--for now.
We work, Callie helps her parents, we go to the movies and dinner. We go out for drinks with Dean and play Cards Against Humanity with Callie's sister and her brother-in-law. Callie drops by the weight room when I'm working out with the team, just to say hi, and I swing by the theater during rehearsals, just to look at her. We cuddle with Snoopy on the couch and spend practically every second we can together.
One Sunday, I go out for my run and leave Callie sleeping warm and pretty in my bed. When I come home, she's dusting the living room, wearing my old football jersey--and seeing my name across her back does things to me. She's got her phone playing "Out in the Street" by Bruce Springsteen, and she's bouncing and dancing and singing--as Snoopy barks along with her, running up and down the couch.
And seeing her--my amazing girl--here in my house, dancing with my dog . . . that does something to me too. And the words tear out of me, clear and true, and straight from my pounding heart.
"I love you. I really fucking love you."
I don't know how I lived without her for all those years and thought it was okay.
Callie's head is tilted, watching me, and the sweetest smile plays over her lips. She throws the dust rag on the floor and jumps onto the couch, using it as a trampoline . . . to jump into my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist and her hands around my shoulders.
"I really love you too, Garrett Daniels."
And then she kisses me.
Running her hands through my hair, making the best sounds. Things get hot pretty quick, and just a few minutes later Callie's back is against the wall and I'm pulling the front of my running shorts down, freeing my cock, and sliding her silky underpants aside. And then I'm pushing inside her.
There's the tight, wet squeeze that makes my lungs seize up and Callie's breathy little voice as she sucks and bites my earlobe.
"Love me, Garrett. Love me, fuck me . . . love me forever."
"Forever," I swear.
My fingers dig into her ass as I pound into her--shaking the pictures on the walls. And Callie writhes against me, rolling those hips, going for it, getting herself off on me. She bites my bottom lip when she comes and the pain and high-pitched whimper in her throat send me flying over the edge with her. I curse as my ass clenches and my cock jerks, spilling deep inside her.
Afterwards, my heart gallops like a racehorse . . . I gotta work on my cardio more.
Callie looks up at me with glazed, satiated eyes . . . and then they flare, widening to the whites.
"Oh shit, you're bleeding! I'm sorry."
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting copper. And then I smile. "Best way to start a Sunday."
~
Callie
By March, my parents' soft braces are off their legs. They're still going to physical therapy to strengthen their muscles, they still need to be careful and take it easy around the house, but they're mobile again, driving again--doing God knows what in the Buick again.
The second week in March, Garrett and I fly to San Diego for the weekend for Bruce and Cheryl's wedding. And there's a wonderful, excited pulling sensation in my chest when we get off the plane and make our way through the airport. I love San Diego--the sun, the warmth, the smell of the ocean, the laidback friendliness of the people. It feels invigorating to be back.
Coming back to my apartment is a little stranger.
It's a lot like coming back to your college dorm room after the summer break. It looks the same, but feels different--because you're a little bit different than when you left it. I open the door and Garrett puts our bags down in the small living room, looking around, taking in the brand-new, plastic-covered beige couch--courtesy of Bruce and Cher--the white walls and throw pillows, a few matching gold frames, and the vase of glass lilies on the corner table.
"Looks like you bought out the whole Pottery Barn catalog, huh?" he teases.
I gaze around the room, trying to see it through his eyes. I've always liked a streamlined decor--neat, simple, elegant. But coming from the mishmash warmth of my parents' house all these months, or even Garrett's homey lakeside bachelor-chic place, my apartment feels bare in comparison.
Empty. Cold.
But there's one thing that turns my insides sizzling hot. And that's the view of Garrett's broad, gorgeous body standing in my living room. I love the way he looks here, surrounded by my things--that could become our things. I can see us living here together--I can see it so clearly, I practically taste it on my tongue.
Actually making that a reality on the other hand . . . that's more complicated.
Garrett knows Lakeside in and out and over the last few months, I've rediscovered it with him. But now's my chance to show him my city. I bring him to the Fountain Theater, with its giant crystal chandelier, old polished leather seats, and grand red-curtained stage. We hold hands and throw a penny, making a wish, in the magnificent white marble fountain out front that gave the theater its name. I introduce him to my coworkers, the actors and the crew--even Mr. Dorsey comes out of his office to shake Garrett's hand.
And to tell me they can't wait to have me back.
I bring Garrett to Sambuca's, my favorite Italian bistro, downtown and Grindstone Bakery that makes the most orgasmic croissants. We spend all day Saturday in La Jolla--shopping in the boutiques, visiting the gardens, walking along the coast. I show him my dream apartment building that still has vacancies waiting for me, and we spend an hour watching my seals sun themselves on the jetty.
On Sunday, Bruce and Cher get married in an intimate ceremony, in the Japanese Friendship Garden near Balboa Park. Though I've been an absentee best friend, Cher still has me as her maid of honor. I wear a backless silver dress, and Garrett's eyes burn for me as I walk down the aisle and stand at the altar. I cry when Bruce and Cher say their vows and kiss--they're two of the best people I know. I love them and am so happy they have each other.
The reception is held on a rooftop terrace of the Andaz, in the Gaslamp Quarter. White Chinese lanterns illuminate every table, and glass-enclosed, water lily candles fill the rectangular pool in the center of the terrace. The bright, bursting stars in the midnight sky are our ceiling and the sound of the ocean fills the air. Garrett and I drink and laugh--the last song of the night is "Remember When" by Alan Jackson, and Garrett holds me so close while we rock softly to the music--and I tear up a little then too. What can I say . . . I'm a crier. And love is beautiful.
Garrett is quiet on the ride back to my apartment. I don't turn on the lamp when we walk inside. He loosens his tie, and leans against the window sill, looking out--the city lights glowing on his handsome face and turning the color of his eyes to dark brandy.
"What do you think of San Diego?" I ask him.
But there's so much more in the simple question than just those words.
What I really mean is, could you live here? Would you be happy here? Could you, would you give up the whole amazing life you've built, to come be here with me?
How ca
n I ask him that? To give up his kids, and probably coaching and the things he loves so much? The things that make him who he is?
I can't.
I would never. Just like he won't ask me to stay in Lakeside.
We're stuck.
"I like it," Garrett says. "It's a beautiful city."
He turns and walks up to stand before me, sweeping my hair gently off my cheek. "It's even more beautiful with you in it, Callie."
My blood turns to liquid sugar, and I melt at the sweetness of his words.
I take a breath and push away any sad thoughts. Because we still have time. Garrett and I can still pretend for a little bit longer that we can have everything. Have each other and still keep the lives on opposite sides of the country that we love.
In the meantime . . . sex. We can focus on sex. Making love and filthy, fabulous fucking.
Sex with Garrett makes everything better.
I wrap my finger around his tie--reeling him in towards me.
"You know what's super awesome about this apartment?"
His mouth nudges into his sexy grin.
"What's that?"
"The shower--it has a great shower. Specifically, the floor of the shower . . . it's super comfy to kneel on."
I slide my palm to his crotch and stroke his big, thickening cock through his soft, black dress pants. And I run my tongue up his neck slowly, licking over his stubble to his jaw--so he has no doubt what I'm thinking about doing to him.
"Want me to show you?"
"Yes, please," he practically squeaks. I've never heard Garrett squeak--it's hot.
Then he grabs me, caveman style, and throws me over his shoulder, smacking my ass as he carries me down the hall to the bathroom.
Where I give him a very thorough demonstration.
Chapter Twenty
Callie
Sometimes teachers have to learn their own lessons. Sometimes . . . we forget.
For all my bold talk to my students about the unexpected parts of life that will knock you down and steal your breath away, an unspoken part of me figures that Garrett and I are on easy street now. We'd found each other again, worked everything out, and are ready, willing, and able to build a future together.
It's so good between us--so right, so meant to be. Subconsciously, I feel like our love will keep everything around us good too. Happy and light. Like a couple in a fairy tale . . . nothing bad ever happens to them once they get their happily ever after. They ride off into the sunset, always kissing, always smiling, immune to any darkness.
But life surprises you. It shouldn't--we all know the rules--but when loss comes to your door, it's always a heartbreaking surprise. The hardest lesson to learn.
The Sunday after we fly back from San Diego, Garrett and I are at his house, and the night's like any other--unremarkable--no different than the dozens, maybe hundreds now, that we've shared over the last eight months. We eat dinner on the back patio, looking over the lake. We watch ESPN . . . well, Garrett watches it, while I read . . . on the couch, with my legs draped across his thighs, as he rubs and massages my calves and feet, just touching me, with Snoopy curled up between us.
Later, I take my makeup off, we brush our teeth. I climb into bed wearing one of Garrett's T-shirts and he comes wearing nothing at all. We make love, and it's hot and hard and beautiful at the same time. We fall asleep spooned together--Garrett's arm around my waist, his chest against my back, his chin resting on top of my head.
And it's all perfect . . . exactly like it's supposed to be.
And then, a few hours later, it all goes wrong.
It starts with a sound, a crying whine, a long, high-pitched whimper--that wakes us both up, our eyes opening and finding each other's at the same time. It's Snoopy. Out in the living room, stretched out on the floor . . . he's panting hard and unnaturally and he can't stand up, his legs won't hold him.
Oh no . . . oh no . . . please no.
Garrett swallows hard, the pain already rising in his eyes, because both of us know, something is very wrong.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Get a blanket. I'll get the address for the emergency vet. You hold him while I drive."
We throw on clothes, and Garrett wraps Snoopy in a blue, fleece blanket, murmuring soothingly to him while I drive two towns over to the 24-hour animal clinic. Colleen's taken her pets here, and so have two of Garrett's brothers, all with good things to say about the staff and treatments.
And that's a comfort--to know we're not bringing Snoopy to some shyster veterinarian.
It's a comfort Garrett's going to need.
Because an hour later, after an ultrasound and an exam and blood work, an older, white-haired doctor with kind, weary eyes comes to talk to us. Snoopy lies on the exam table, breathing hard, but more comfortable after the sedative the doctor gave him.
The veterinarian explains that Snoopy has a large tumor in his stomach.
Garrett's brow furrows and he shakes his head. "But he's been fine. He's been eating, running around, everything has been normal."
The doctor nods. "Sometimes, especially with a dog Snoopy's age, these things aren't a problem . . . until they're a problem."
I hold Garrett's hand. "So, we can operate, right? To remove the tumor?"
The doctor's eyes catch and I know what he's going to say before he does.
"I'm sorry. Surgery is not possible."
Garrett shakes his head. "But I'll pay for the surgery. Whatever he needs, it's not--"
"Garrett," the doctor says softly. "Snoopy's eighteen years old. He won't survive an operation."
"I don't . . . what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I understand how difficult this is, but I believe the best course of action is to put Snoopy to sleep. That is the most humane thing. He won't suffer, you'll have time to say goodbye, and he'll just go to sleep. It will be more peaceful than letting him expire on an operating table or endure the pain or the tumor."
Garrett's eyes pinch as he gazes down at Snoopy, shaking his head. "I don't . . . I need some time to think about this."
"Of course."
The doctor leaves and Garrett rests his head against Snoopy's--petting him gently, whispering to him. I wrap my arms around this amazing man I love, lay my cheek against his back . . . and we talk about it--a hard, teary-eyed conversation about possible second opinions and hope and wanting to shield Snoopy from any pain.
When you're an adult, you're supposed to know how to handle things like this. Pets get old--people get old--and eventually, everything dies. It's a brutal, basic part of life. As a grown-up you understand that, recognize it, accept it . . . but that doesn't mean, for a single second, that it doesn't still hurt.
And God, does it hurt. Like your heart is being torn out from your chest.
"Can I hold him?" Garrett asks, in a ravaged voice, when the vet comes back in.
He nods and drags a cushioned chair out from the corner, closer to the table, and nods to Garrett. So gently, Garrett lifts Snoopy in his arms and Garrett sits down in the chair. Snoopy pants hard and lets out a weak whine.
"It's okay, it's okay, buddy," Garrett soothes in a sure, steady voice. Gently, he strokes Snoopy's white fur. "You're gonna be okay . . . it's not gonna hurt anymore, I promise."
I try to hold it together. I try to be strong. But I can't stop the flood of tears that fill my eyes and flow down my cheeks. Because there's nothing harder than watching someone you love in pain and knowing you can't take it away. You can't make it better, no matter how much you want to. I sit on the arm of the chair, squeezed up next to Garrett. I put my hands on his shoulders, his arms, loving him, holding him.
"You're such a good boy, Snoopy. I love you so much. You're such a good boy." Gentle and steady, Garrett's hand slides down Snoopy's back, calm and soothing. The sweet boy dips his snout and presses his nose against the crook of Garrett's arm, his eyes closing.
Garrett's throat sounds tight, clogged with wetness as he talks to the puppy who's been
with him for half his life.
"Remember when you found that dead skunk and you left it under my bed, as a present for me and Callie? Good times. Remember all those summers in the boat on the lake--you and me together. Remember . . . remember when Tim snuck you into the hospital after I hurt my knee? You stayed with me, under those blankets, you wouldn't leave my side." Garrett inhales, his voice trembling . . . then breaking. "You're my best friend. Thank you for always being there when I needed you--every time."
From the corner of my eyes, I see the doctor move around. He puts the tip of a syringe into the IV connected to Snoopy's leg, then slowly injects a thick, white liquid. I press my face to Garrett's neck, and hold him tight.
"You're gonna sleep now, Snoop, you're gonna rest," Garrett soothes, his voice rhythmic. "And when you wake up, you're gonna be healthy and happy--running through sunshine and chasing the geese. And there won't be any pain. It's okay, my good boy. I love you. It's okay . . ."
I watch Snoopy's midsection expand and contract with each of his breaths. It rises and falls. Again, and again.
Until it doesn't. Until it stops.
And the best dog in the whole world goes quiet and still.
Garrett lets out a soft groaning whimper and gathers Snoopy closer, hiding his face in the downy white of Snoopy's fur. His shoulders shake and his back shudders. I wrap my arms around him, enfolding him in my embrace, squeezing and clasping him to me. I kiss his hair and rest my forehead against his neck, and I sob.
Together, we both do.
~
A few hours later, we walk into Garrett's house. He lays Snoopy's collar on the hook next to the door, smoothing it reverently over the dark-blue leash that hangs there, below the metal plate etched with Snoopy's name. Our movements are heavy, weighted and slow. Mournful.
I don't let go of Garrett's hand or arm. I don't stop touching him. As deep and wrenching as my own sadness is, I know his is a hundred times more. Silently, we walk to the bedroom. Garrett sits on the edge of the bed, his feet braced on the floor. I unbutton his shirt and strip it from his arms. I skim the white cotton shirt beneath it up his torso and over his head. I unbutton his jeans and slide them down his legs, leaving him bare except for black boxer briefs.