Page 43 of Missile Tow
My thoughts differed from his explanation. In my insecure mind, he was probably thinking about this James guy all night after we returned home. Perhaps Sadie reminding him of the upcoming dinner had cooled his jets concerning me.
I understood the attraction to Sadie’s grandson, even if I’d never seen him. Chip obviously knew him from the past, and whether James was hot as a teenager. So naturally, I assumed hewas majorly hot. The guy was going to be a doctor and wanted to reconnect. Why wouldn’t Chip be excited about seeing him again?
“I enjoyed visiting with Sadie,” I began. “But you sort of quieted down when we came back to the cabin. I’m wondering if my intrusion of your space is bothering you.”
“Of course not!” he exclaimed. “I invited you to stay.”
He didn’t turn around, basically confirming in my head that he was uncomfortable with the discussion. I stood behind him quietly; the silence adding to my belief about James’s upcoming visit.
“I’ll be gone before Christmas Eve, so you won’t miss the dinner,” I stated softly. “You’re right; it’d be uncomfortable for me to be here when James visits.”
He quickly spun around. “I never said it’d be fucked up when he came to town,” he defended.
“I didn’t sayfucked up, Chip.”
He tossed the spatula into the sink and walked to the fireplace. I’d pushed a button. This was a feeling I was far too familiar with. When Evan didn’t want a confrontation, he’d walk away and leave me to accept I was the problem. The similarity freaked me out.
“I said uncomfortable,” I corrected, moving next to him.
“Fucked up. Uncomfortable. Whatever. But I never said that, or meant that, Van,” he appealed, standing and facing me. “But I did forget he was coming, and I’d promised I’d go there for Christmas Eve.”
“And I simply said I’ll make it easier by making sure I leave before then.”
This was the time in my past when, if I continued arguing my point with Evan, there’d be hell to pay. Historically, Evan absolutely refused to be questioned and never wanted to explain his position other than to say he was right.
Chip reached a hand toward one of mine. I accepted his kind gesture, relieved that he may be a tad more mature than my ex. We stared into each other’s eyes; his were damp, and he appeared serious.
“Ido notwant you to leave,” he whispered, daring me to look away from his locked-on gaze. “And truthfully, I don’t know why I feel so strongly about that.”
I slowly exhaled. Relieved, I suppose. His words weren’t what I expected. The honesty and heartfelt tone of his voice stabbed at my heart. He’d voiced that he didn’t want me to leave. Not many men had the ability to be so vulnerable.
“And truthfully,” I parroted. “I don’t know why I feel so strongly about wanting to stay, but I do.”
“Just to be clear. I’m not thinking about James twenty-four-seven,” he clarified. “I wasn’t even thinking of him before you showed up in Missile. Who Iamthinking about twenty-four-seven… isyou.”
I swallowed hard at his declaration. The confirmation he felt exactly like I did sent me over the moon with happiness. My focus was also on him and what I was going to do after Christmas. Fear had convinced me, as usual, that I wasn’t good enough for this man, or certainly not able to compete with the grandson of someone he’d known his entire life. A doctor-to-be, no less.
I squeezed his hand. “Th… thi… this,” I stuttered, motioning my hand around the room for emphasis. “You. Me. My stopping in Missile. The whole ‘universespeaking to me’ journey, nonsense I mentioned, has been a huge surprise.”
“So you think all this is nonsense now?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore, Chip,” I began. “I wish the universe were speaking to me. I wish I could find the perfect husband and live a perfect life. I wish for all kinds of shit, to behonest with you. But most people think I’m crazy when I talk about miracles and stuff.”
“You want a husband? To be married?” he asked.
I laughed out loud. “I spilled my guts about messages and wishes, and all you heard was that?”
Chip walked across the room and sat on the distressed leather couch, moving three pillows out of the way. I studied him carefully as he stared into space for a few moments, bringing his hands behind his head and relaxing into the couch. And of course, looking like such a dude when his tank hiked up his stomach.
“My whole life, I wanted to be someone’s husband,” he confessed.
“Yeah?” I asked, sitting in the chair across from him. “What about your ex?” I pushed.
“I was going to ask him to marry me on Christmas Day last year.”
Before I could prevent the urge to cry, a tear sprang from my eye and slid down the side of my nose. I swiped at it as fast as I could. I don’t handle sad stories like his very well. My emotions always get the best of me.
A sad movie, or commercials with mistreated pets, while a gloomy song plays in the background. All these things cause me to cry. History reminded me that men aren’t attracted to criers like me. I’d been told many times to grow up and act like a man.
