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I couldn’t have her. I didn’t deserve her. But neither stopped me from wanting her. When I started dating, all the other girls were fillers, temporary distractions. Dee was my every thought, my every breath. I invented reasons to be around her. Every day. To get my fix, to catch a whiff of vanilla and flowers, to touch her in subtle ways.
It didn’t take me long to fall in love with the rare smiles that playfully tilted up one side of her mouth. Or with the single-minded determination she had to attend law school and become an advocate for foster children. Or with the way she bit her bottom lip in internal debate and chewed the end of her pen when thinking through a homework problem.
I discovered that Dee wasn’t shy at all. Rather, she wore a cool reserve as a self-protective shield, but beneath it she was generous and warm.
I knew she had her secrets. I had mine too. All I wanted was to protect her, please her, impress her. I loved that she looked at me and saw past the façade of the popular jock. Loved that she believed in my talent as a writer. Loved the way I didn’t feel the darkness when I was around her.
I loved her silently for four long years. And the day that I confided in her my ugly truths and she bandaged my cut and tenderly traced my bruises with her delicate, healing lips…Christ, I couldn’t silence it anymore.
I kissed her. In the midst of one of my darkest days, one in which I thought I might die, that kiss—a simple touching of lips, of sharing breaths—was my oxygen, my salvation.
I couldn’t get enough. Of her sweetness, her passion, of the way she numbed my pain and gave me hope.
I’d written about it, but hadn’t allowed myself to expect that Dee could ever be mine. She’d suffered through so much neglect and rejection. Afraid to trust, she didn’t form any friendships and even with her foster family she sat on the sidelines. Yet she’d let me past her guard, giving me her sweet, untouched body and her battered and scarred heart.
I promised to make her happy…to always be there for her.
But I fucked up on both counts.
The guilt from failing Dee all those years ago is still speared in my gut like a hot, damning poker. So, hearing the sudden shift in her breathing and seeing her anxious gaze as she watches me pull on my cap and shades, plunges the spear in deeper. I know what she’s thinking. I can feel it resonating between us, tangible and intense—the intrusion of my fame into our perfect weekend. I hate that.
“They’re just precautions, Dee.” I shove away a flood of regrets. “No reporters are outside. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I’d made sure of that.
I’ll do everything in my power to protect you from the media.
A promise I intend to keep, no matter what I have to do. I want our relationship to be a harbor of happiness and pleasure. I want her to feel safe and secure. I want to give her a life insulated from the stains of our past and the threat of my fame.
She looks up with those amber eyes. Trusting in my assurances. Trusting in me.
I press my lips to hers and feel all the tension unwind.
Dee
The hour-long drive upnorth is a scenic treat. Cows graze in sprawling green meadows and dense woods are filled with autumn trees that resemble giant puffs of yellow and red cotton candy.
I watch Mick across the console. Once we hit the country roads, he’d removed his cap and shades. The breeze through the slightly ajar sunroof stirs his inky waves, and his grin crinkles the corners of his eyes as he entertains my many questions about the family and shares the funny stories he’s so good at telling.
But beneath the laughter, my nerves frizzle. It’s the lingering doubt that I don’t deserve all this after the way I left. It’s seeing Maria for the first time in fifteen years, meeting her family…little Mason. I haven’t been around many babies. What if the haunting memories overwhelm me? What if I can’t hold it together?
“We’re here,” Mick announces a short time later, giving my hand a quick squeeze before he unlinks our fingers to gear down.
I look through the windshield at the white wooden sign painted in green block letters.Whole Fresh Organics. I’d learned from Mama T that Maria, studying agribusiness, and James, agriculture, had met in a Harvest for the Future student group during college, and married in their final year. Maria got pregnant almost immediately, and James took an environmental job with the government. But their dream was to own an organic farm.
Mick turns onto a long, gravel driveway. His Porsche rocks over the uneven surface, kicking up dust clouds. I crane my neck to take in the rolling acres on either side, lined with a split-rail wooden fence. The property is a mix of orchards and growing fields.
My eyes widen when a large single level ranch house with a wrap-around porch comes into view. It’s built on a rise and nestled among a canopy of trees. Set farther away, separate from the living space, are several outbuildings, tractors, and a barn.
“They operate all this?” I ask.
“Every acre,” Mick says proudly. “Last year their sales to grocery stores and restaurants grew by 112% and their new online farm-to-table business is on an upward trajectory too. Maria is great with social media, but mostly it’s word of mouth from satisfied customers. They’re doing what they love.”
“With help from you.”
“It was no big thing,” he says with a modest shrug. I know better.
“Mama T said they couldn’t get the kind of loan they needed so you bought the farm for them.”
