Page 43 of Torn
But there was one sweet treat I didn’t want to do without. “Hey!” I called after him; he was almost to the door. “Don’t think you can just leave here without a kiss goodbye.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He’d returned to give me a kiss so passionate that if it had gone on a second or two longer, we both would have been late for work, perhaps even absent from work.
And now I hoped the phone wouldn’t stop ringing as I groped for my keys and then hurried to unlock my door. Just like in the movies, I dropped the keys as I rushed.
I almost tripped over AJ, who lay cunningly in front of the door. I imagined him snickering to himself as I rushed across the room to quiet the ringing phone. I promised myself, once again, to get out to Target or Best Buy over the weekend and get myself an answering machine. It seemed like everybody had one but me.
Answering the call was critical because it could either be my mom, back in Ohio, who would only call this early if there was something wrong, a family emergency or the like, or Tom, missing me.
I did get to the phone in time. Turns out it was neither of my guesses. Turns out it was someone who was not calling so early at all—for his time zone.
“Ricky?”
The voice sounded familiar.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t wake you, did I? As the phone was ringing, I remembered you’re an hour earlier than I am. I almost hung up but then realized that would be even more annoying.”
Oh my God, it was Walt. Even though I knew that, technically, I had no reason to feel guilty, I did anyway, product of a Catholic mom as I was. A hot rush of shame burned my cheeks, as though Walt could see not only from where I’d come, but what I’d spent the night doing. His heart was broken, and I was a wanton slut.
“I was up,” I said. I always said I was up—even if someone woke me out of a deep sleep. I don’t know why. It seemed impolite not to. “Walt! It’s good to hear your voice.”
I could hear him breathe a little sigh of relief. “I’m so glad I didn’t get you out of bed.”
I didn’t mention that I had not been in bed at all—my own, anyway. Again, the rush of shame and guilt that felt like pure, liquid heat coursed through my veins. “Nah, I was just getting ready for work.”
“What is it you do again?”
I told him, glancing over at the marble antique clock I had on an old walnut secretary near the front door. My mom had given it to me for my birthday a couple of years ago. I couldn’t talk long. Even if I jumped into the shower this very moment, I would be cutting it close, especially with the vagaries of the Chicago Transportation Authority.
Ah, I’d just have to be a little late today. My boss was a fifty-something queen, bitter, cutting, and, I suspected, a little in love with me. I could trade on that this morning. He’d forgive me, especially if I wore my most faded and tightest Levi’s 501s with my cowboy boots. Besides, I needed to give a little time to Walt to assuage my guilt.
I told myself I had nothing to feel guilty about. Walt and I had had an amazing time together. And I saw potential for us, if we could manage, unlike so many others, to beat the long-distance romance thing. But we were hardly married, or even engaged. Hell, we weren’t even going steady.
Even though my head told me all these things, my heart wasn’t listening.
“Walt, it’s so good to hear your voice,” I repeated. “I’ve been thinking about you.” Hey, it was true. I had! “I miss you,” I added.
“I feel the same. Which is why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” I wondered if he was about to tell me he’d booked a flight to Chicago. Now wouldn’t it be interesting, perhaps even farcical, to have WaltandTom together in the same city? I imagined briefly being out on a date with both of them, perhaps in a restaurant with two rooms where I could keep them separate. I’d be madly dashing between the two, pretending I only had eyes for one.
And then I would call Walt Tom or Tom Walt.
I giggled. This was straight out of a situation comedy. Hadn’t I seen it, in fact, as a very little boy onThe Patty Duke Show?
“What’s funny?” Walt asked, yanking me out of my reverie.
“Oh, nothing. Just a thought. You were telling me why you were calling.”
“Yeah. I was hoping I could interest you in coming out east for a visit. As if I weren’t enough of an incentive—” Walt paused to chuckle. “—I can sweeten the pot with this: my friend, Lawrence, never Larry, who’s a pretty successful fashion designer, has a gorgeous home up in New Hampshire. His house sits on land that used to be a big hippie commune.” Walt laughed again. “And now he owns it, and it goes against everything the hippies stood for back in the day. Which is to say, the house is gorgeous, a capitalist dream. Beautiful pool, mountain views, rustic elegance in around five thousand square feet. The best part is—it can be our romantic hideaway for Labor Day weekend. Lawrence will be in Milan then, and who knows where after that. But he’s offered me the use of the house, and I immediately thought of you—and of us. Say you’ll come.”
Labor Day was only a few weeks away. Without warning or even conscious provocation, an image flashed into my mind. Tom, lying on his side, asleep next to me. There was something childlike and innocent about his slumber, in contrast the big-beast sexiness of him.
Did I really want to leave him behind? Did I really want to leavehisbehind?
Besides, I didn’t even know if I could afford a plane ticket this close to the holiday weekend. I was sure fares would be steep. In England, I’d made the mistake of treating pounds like dollars, and now, as the credit card statements were rolling in, I saw what an expensive assumption that had been.
