It was just after four when I parked in Lance's driveway. His Camaro was there, but his truck was nowhere in sight. I walked around the patio for about ten minutes, waiting for him. I thought about texting him to see where he was, but finally, my phone rang.
"Hello."
"Hey, I’m sorry. I'm on my way home. Are you there?"
"We're at your place, yeah."
"Who, you and Sheila?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry I'm late, baby girl. I got in a bind at the office trying to move some jellyfish."
"I hope everything's okay," I said, imagining all sorts of possible jellyfish mishaps.
"It's all good," Lance said. "It just took longer than I thought. I’m sorry I'm late. You can go inside. You know where I keep the key. We need to just get a copy made so you can have it on your keyring."
My head was spinning. He was saying so many things that caused butterflies in my stomach. First, he called me 'baby girl', and now he was talking about giving me the key to his house. I was almost glad he couldn’t see me because I was grinning like a kid at Christmas.
"We're fine out here," I said. "Sheila's been stuck in the house all day."
"All right, well, you know where the key is if you change your mind. I'll be home in ten minutes."
I was still standing outside when Lance got home. He parked his truck next to the Camaro, and I watched as he climbed out of it. His windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see his face until he stepped out and closed the door. I stared at him in wonder. He was wearing his work clothes, and I had just seen him a few hours before, but even still, I could hardly remember to breathe as I took him in. Sheila had been sniffing around the yard, but she ran up to Lance as soon as he got out of the truck.
"I have a bully stick for her," he said, yelling at me. "Can I go ahead and give it to her?"
"Yes," I said, starting to head that way. I watched as he handed Sheila the bully stick. I usually bought her the little six-inch ones, but the one he handed her was huge—at least a foot long. Her eyes got comically wide as she gingerly took it from him, trotting off to find a comfortable spot to chew on it.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked, knowing he'd been at work since he left the park.
"Mom gave it to me the other day. It's been in my truck. She buys them for Tank, and she told me to take one to Sheila."
Lance was carrying a backpack, which I knew contained his laptop and some paperwork. He hoisted it onto his shoulder as we walked toward each other. He also held a thin parcel, which he trucked under his arm. He grinned at me and sighed like I was a sight for sore eyes. Funny because I had just been thinking that about him.
"Hey, jellyfish," I said, teasing him.
"Hey angelfish," he returned without skipping a beat.
I stretched up to kiss him on the cheek, and he returned it, smiling down at me. My smile shifted to a look of concern as I stared at the side of his face. He had on that same bandage. It was so full of blood that some had dripped out of it and was now dried on the side of his face. I let out a heartfelt whimper when I saw it and manually turned his face with my hands so that I could get a better look. Gently, I kissed his cheek and jaw several times in an effort to make it feel better. I had to stand on my tiptoes to do it, which meant I was leaning into him. He smiled at me for kissing him and bent to offer me his mouth.
"I'm sorry," I said after a chaste but tender kiss on the mouth.
"It's really nothing."
"May I help clean it up?" I asked. "I think you need a new band-aid."
"Yep," he said. He took me by the hand and pulled me into his house. "Do you want her inside?" he asked with a flick of his head toward the right side of the patio to let me know he was referring to Sheila. She had been to his house enough that I trusted her to roam around the backyard… plus, I figured she wouldn’t do much roaming, anyway—not with that giant bully stick.
"I don't think she's going anywhere," I said. "New record?" I added, pointing at the telltale square, flat package under his arm. Lance had a nice stereo system with a small collection of vinyl. I had fun playing records and often chose one for us to listen to while we were hanging out.
"Yep," he said. "I think I know what it is, too."
"What?"
"Something I ordered weeks ago."
"Why's it just getting here?"
"Backorder, I guess."
"What is it?" I glanced at him.
"Open it," he said, handing it to me. "I'm gonna jump in the shower. I'll only be a few minutes."
"I'm not opening your mail," I said at his back as he walked toward the bathroom.
"Open it!" he repeated, hollering from over his shoulder. "It's for you."
I stared at the package. I was tempted to be stubborn and wait for him just in case it wasn't the record he thought it was—or wasn't the record at all. But, ultimately, I was too curious. There was a little tab along the side that made a strip of the cardboard easy to tear, and I pulled it, wondering what album I would see when I peeled back the panel.
Van Morrison's Moondance.
It was an absolutely classic album. So classic. So many good songs.
I stared at the close-up images of Van Morrison's face on the front. He reminded me of my dad. I didn't have a clear memory of exactly what my father looked like, but from what I could recall, he was a nondescript looking white man with facial hair sort of like the image I saw on the cover of that album. My mom had listened to this album quite a bit, but we didn't have it on vinyl, so I'd never seen the cover of it. I flipped the record over, and there was another close-up image of Van Morrison—this time with no facial hair. Not my dad, I thought.
The songs were listed on the right edge of the back of the album sleeve.
Side one:
Stoned Me
Moondance
Crazy Love
There it was.
I didn't have to read any further. I remembered the dance I shared with Lance at Abigail's wedding, and my eyes locked on the title of the third track. I didn't even look at the other songs; I simply turned the cardboard sleeve in my hand and gingerly slipped the record out of the sleeve. It was a thick black record with an army-green label in the center, and I carefully placed it on the turntable before turning on the power and putting the needle in place on the edge of the disc.
The familiar popping sound preceded the music. I smiled as I listened to the beginning of the first track, glancing down the hallway constantly and hoping I could time Lance's arrival with the beginning of the third one.
The song was almost over when I ran to the record player and started it from the beginning. I forgot about his cut, and I knew I needed more time. I figured tending to it would be the first order of business after his shower, so I went and got the first aid kit from his kitchen cabinet.
I made a little station at the table with an antiseptic wipe, some cream, and a couple bandages of different sizes. The first song on the record was drawing to a close again when I heard him walking around in his bedroom. I ran to the kitchen to wash my hands, thinking he would be out immediately, but it took him a couple of minutes. He came out looking clean and wearing dark athletic shorts riding low on his hips and a tight white t-shirt—it was as basic as it got, yet on a man with that body and that face, he looked like a million bucks.
"Is this that album?" he asked, squinting at me as he walked my way.
"Yeah, is it not what you thought?"
"I thought it was gonna be Crazy Love," he said.
I smiled. "It is Crazy Love," I said. "But there are other songs on the album, too."
"I know, but I want to hear that one."
"Why?" I asked, looking confused even though I wasn't.
He stalked closer, squinting his eyes at me as if daring me not to know why.
I giggled under his scrutiny. "It's track three. It's next," I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest and an effort to keep from squirming.
"What's track three?" he asked.
"Crazy Love."
"Do you remember what's special about it?"
I nodded. "It's the song we danced to at Abigail's wedding."
He came close to me, staring down at me with a hungry expression. I swallowed hard. I wanted him to take me right there, cover me with his kiss, but the last thing I wanted was for him to start bleeding while I was trying to pay attention to other things.
"Let me check on your cut real quick," I said, patting the chair next to me.
He sighed, but he obeyed, sitting in the chair. "It's fine," he assured me again.
It didn't look fine to me. From what I could tell, it was on the verge of needing stitches. It was about a quarter inch long and equally as deep. It was close to his hairline and a little lower than his eyebrow, and I stared at it feeling terrible that it had happened with one of my students.
"I wish you would've had Michelle look at this," I said. "She's a nurse, you know."
"I do know," he said teasing me.
"But I have a fine nurse right here."
"I'm serious. It maybe could've used a stitch or two."
"It's really okay," he said. "I washed it with that tea tree soap. Just put a band-aid on it. Make it tight so it'll close back up."
"No pressure," I said with shaking hands as I opened the bandage.
I set the wrapper aside, looking at the cut again and making a plan of action. There was a tiny drip of blood under the cut, and I dabbed it with the antiseptic wipe. I stood so close to him that my legs were touching his, and he rested his palm on the back of my thigh. It was warm and big, and it caused all sorts of sensations to happen inside me.
"I love you," I said.
"What?" he asked, glancing at me like he didn't hear me.
"I'm sorry. It's just that I was thinking about you getting hurt and then your hand on the back of my leg, and I just…"
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
"Say it," he said, looking straight at me as he gripped me tighter.
The song started.
It had no intro at all… it just started with the first words and the soft, subtle music kicked in instantly…
I can hear her heart beat from a thousand miles.
Yeah, the heavens open every time she smiles.
And when I come to her that's where I belong.
Yet I'm running to her like a river's song.
We stared at each other during the whole first verse. My heart was pounding as I stared into his dark blue, stormy eyes. There was a band-aid shakily dangling from my fingertip, but I didn't even notice it.
"Put the band-aid on my face," he said impassively.
"What?"
He turned to the side. "Get it on there, Sidney, so I can hold you."
I was shaking as I did it. The beautiful chorus, singing about 'crazy love' was a soundtrack in the background as I delicately administered the bandage.
"Okay," I whispered. "Done."
Quick as a wink, Lance stood from his chair, causing me to gasp as he took me into his strong arms. He pulled me to him, holding me close as we began to sway. I felt like I could melt—like I was in actual danger of turning into hot liquid right there in his arms. I could not get enough him. I wanted more. I clung to him for dear life as we moved to the gentle rhythm of the song.
"Say it, my sweet love," he said.
His mouth was close to my ear, making it nearly impossible for me to take in the words he was saying.
"Say what?" I asked since I was relatively sure he just asked me to say something.
"Tell me you love me, Sidney."
His request sent shaky, hot, liquid lightning through my stomach.
"I do," I said nervously.
We held onto each other with unrelenting but gentle pressure as we swayed.
"Say the words," he said in a pleading tone—holding me, moving with me.
I reached up, running my fingers through the hair on the back of his head—gripping onto him and causing a sound of approval to come deep from his chest.
"I love you, Lance."
He kissed me.
He crushed my mouth with his, just like I wanted, opening to me instantly. He kissed me long and good—a lasting caress where our mouths moved and danced to the slow sultry music. It was full of tender passion, sweet barely-restrained desire. We didn't notice when the song ended. Nor did we notice when the following song ended. By the time we broke contact, side one of the record had finished, and all that could be heard was the slight popping sound of the needle moving along the middle of the record.
We stood in the middle of his living room, still holding each other tightly. Both of us struggled to regulate our breathing. It was a beautiful feeling—our bodies pressed against each other while our lungs rose and fell.
"My precious Sidney, my love, my fate."
I smiled against his chest.
"Guess what?" he said.
"What?"
"I love you too."