Page 38 of I'm Not Yours
We fell into a happy rhythm and I ignored the screaming in my head.
I ignored the voice that said I was being deceptive and dishonest, lying by omission.
I ignored my dad’s voice, echoing back and forth, telling me I was trailer trash, Jace was too good for me, I wasn’t enough, I was stupid.
I ignored the hurt I would cause Jace when he knew the truth, which was the worst thing of all.
I ignored it all. I was inexcusably selfish.
He worked, I took care of the animals, and I actually grew to like my father’s home, now that almost everything of his was gone. My mother’s flowered quilt was on the couch, Pearl’s apple tree hung above the fireplace, and my vases were filled with flowers.
I baked pies for hours.
On a whim I took three to a nearby café and they ordered two dozen.
I was contacted again by the high-end retail stores in Seattle, Boston, and Houston. I put them off, told them I would have an answer for them soon. I did not miss my couture clothes and impossibly high heels at all; jeans and boots were suiting me perfectly fine.
Maybe I didn’t need to hide behind my clothes anymore. If so, why was that? What had changed? Was it simply my love for Jace? Was it me coming into myself? Was it my father’s death?
I played with those questions for a long time.
When he wasn’t working, Jace and I were together.
We hiked, rode bikes, had picnics, and we lay on our backs at night on his deck, or in a field, and located the constellations.
I read Jane Austen and crime thrillers beside him in bed while he read medical journals. We rafted down the Deschutes River one weekend, and drove to the beach and ran through the waves another weekend. We kissed under a water fall, and it tasted as sweet as before.
He took photos of us and of nature, a hobby he said he had stopped since we broke up. “No time, and no Allie to come with me when I took the photos.”
I held his hand. He took a photo of our hands, entwined. Then he kissed each finger, up my arm, across my chest to my lips, and we were soon stripping quickly. We put together a puzzle of Mammoth Hot Springs in Yellowstone.
“I haven’t put together a puzzle since you and I broke up, Allie. Hurt too much.”
“Me neither, Jace.”
He leaned over to kiss me. I ended up naked on top of the puzzle on the table.
We talked, the flow easy, of the most serious of subjects, and down to the tiniest and most inane detail, like what kind of salad dressing was our current favorite.
We made hot, simmering love all the time, three times under the constellations, as if catching up on what we’d missed out on. We used birth control. I didn’t tell him the truth.
It was one more thing that he needed to know, he had a right to know. I told myself I was selfish and unforgivably hurtful. If he knew the whole truth, he would not only be hurt by what happened, by my secrecy, he would not be rolling around under the covers with me.
I would vow to tell him, and then I’d look at him, at his smile, those gentle eyes, his hardened face that softened up just for me. Soon I’d be in his arms, comfortable and thrilled at the sametime, hoping to be naked, laughing and feeling like I was going to cry, all at once.
How I loved Jace.
And every day, when I wasn’t lit up by this golden light of love for him, when we weren’t together, I fell further and further into a swirling, sad, lonely pit.
I reached for Jace one more time when the sky was still dark. He kissed me before he left for the hospital and drew his finger over my lips. “I love you, babe,” he whispered.
“I love you, too, Jace.” I brushed my fingers through his black hair, cupped his face.
When his truck was down the hill, I headed home and began packing.
I left the note for him on his kitchen table. I told him I’d be back in a week. I left him an apple pie. I told him I loved him.
He would say I was running away again, and he was right, but I had to do it anyhow.
