9
claire
Chris flies out of the Kansas City International Airport every Monday morning and returns on Thursday night, spending Fridays in his office at the company’s headquarters. He’s now the director of sales for a large software development company, and from what little he’s shared with me, the culture sounds dreadful. “It’s ridiculously competitive,” Chris said, shortly after starting, but the tone of his voice made me think he was more than a little excited about the challenge.
Even when he’s not at work he is always working, sitting on the couch with his laptop or in the office with the door closed. He’s on the phone a lot, too. Once he walked into the kitchen and I thought he was talking to me, so I answered. But when he turned his head and I saw the Bluetooth headset I realized he wasn’t talking to me at all.
He gets in late bearing overpriced souvenirs—small stuffed animals for Jordan and unique gadgets or toys for Josh—purchased mostly from airport gift shops. In the two short months he’s been back to work he’s been elevated to the preferred parent, and I’ve become mean Mommy, the one that makes the kids eat their vegetables and go to bed on time.
“This is a bad habit to start,” I warned Chris, but I know why he does it. I wanted to tell him that Josh and Jordan are too young to hold a grudge, and that their memories of the last year are already fading. Kids are remarkably resilient. More so than their parents, apparently.
He had to travel an extra day this week and we were asleep when he got home last night. The kids’ summer vacation is in full swing and when Chris called from the airport he promised them a trip to the water park in Kansas City. The sun shines bright on this Saturday morning at the end of June, and the predicted high of eighty-five makes it a perfect day for careening down waterslides and splashing around in a wave pool.
Chris walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. Josh puts a forkful of waffles and sausage into his mouth. “Are you still gonna take us to the water park, Dad?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and taking a large drink of his orange juice.
I hand him a napkin. “Finish chewing next time,” I say.
“Yep,” Chris says. He heads toward the coffee pot and pours a cup, then sits down at the table and yawns. Jordan smiles and Chris reaches over and tweaks her nose. “How’s my baby girl this morning?”
“I’m good, Daddy,” she says, smiling. She finishes her breakfast and climbs into Chris’s lap, throwing her arms around him in a spontaneous hug.
He holds her tight and says, “Aw, thank you.”
“If you’re done eating, put your plates in the sink,” I say.
“Can we change into our swimsuits?” Josh asks, barely able to contain his excitement.
“It’s a little early yet, but go ahead.” They tear out of the room, eager to get this show on the road.
“I can’t go with you today,” I tell Chris. “I’m putting the finishing touches on a big project and it’s due by noon. I was supposed to turn it in yesterday, but I asked for an extension so I could take the kids to the zoo.” Thankfully, my client understood; she’s a working mom, too.
“That’s okay,” he says. “We’ll be fine.”
Chris is more than capable of handling this outing alone, but since he started traveling we’ve lapsed into tag-team parenting, which means the kids spend plenty of time with each of us individually, but we spend very little time together as a family. I add this development to the long list of worries I already have.
“You don’t need to work so much now, you know,” Chris adds.
Oh, the irony.
“I’m not accepting that many new projects,” I say. “This one is just time sensitive.” I don’t explain to Chris that my desire to scale back has more to do with the kids being home this summer than any desire to curtail my workload; I plan on adding as many projects as I can handle when school starts again. I like the independence and the satisfaction of earning an income, and there’s a small part of me that also thinks I might like the idea of a safety net. That if I’m ever truly alone I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet.
“I’m going to get my oil changed and do the grocery shopping,” I say. “I’ll drop off your suits at the cleaner’s.”
Chris nods, running his fingers through sleep-tousled hair. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” There are shadows under his eyes and I’d tell him to get more sleep, but he won’t listen. “Can you refill my prescription while you’re out?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him. “I’m just not ready to stop taking the pills yet.”
“Chris, it’s okay. Really.” Besides, what can I say? I’m the one who insisted on the antidepressant in the first place. I top off his coffee cup and give his shoulder a squeeze. He reaches up and grabs my hand, squeezes back. It’s the first touch I’ve received from him in months.
When Chris and the kids leave for the water park I buckle down and finish my work, then head out to begin my errands. I finish the grocery shopping quickly, amazed at how much I can accomplish when I’m not dragging two squabbling kids along. After dropping off the groceries at home, I get my oil changed, deal with the dry cleaning, fill the prescription, and then pull into the Starbucks next door. I order an iced latte, sipping it at one of the shaded outdoor tables. The marquee for a nearby movie theater catches my eye. My family won’t be home for hours, so I wander over and buy a ticket for Sex and the City 2; I’ve been dying to see it. My mood instantly improves when I find a seat in the half-empty theater, the air-conditioning a welcome contrast to the rising temperature and the blazing afternoon sunshine.
I love going to the movies; I always have. There’s nothing quite like the anticipation of the story that’s about to be played out on the big screen. I’ve never been to a movie by myself before, but once the lights go down and the previews start, I wonder why I waited so long.
That’s where Chris and I met back in 1998, sitting next to each other in a movie theater when we were twenty-two years old. Kendra, a girlfriend I’d met during my internship and that I still kept in contact with, had called me up late that afternoon. “A bunch of us are getting together to see There’s Something About Mary tonight. Are you interested?”
It was August. I’d moved into my own apartment after graduation, a cute studio in a quiet neighborhood that was within a few miles of my first postcollege, full-time job. I had no one to help me if my blood sugar got too low or too high, so managing my diabetes became more important than ever. It made my parents nervous and they tried to talk me out of it, but I’d looked forward to having my own place, relishing the thought of peace and quiet after the noise and chaos of the three friends I had roomed with for the past two years. I craved independence and wanted to prove to my parents—and myself—that I could live on my own. It wasn’t until after I moved in and spent the first few nights alone that I realized how much I missed those girls and their constant companionship. The company I worked for was also very small, and even though I enjoyed preparing visual presentations for a handful of clients, it was quite solitary compared to the large groups I’d worked with on school projects.
So when Kendra called I said yes immediately, jumping at the chance to surround myself with people and noise and get out of the studio apartment that had once seemed so perfect and quaint and now just seemed lonely and claustrophobic. “Great. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” she said.
We met the rest of the group outside the theater, and I noticed him right away. He stood off to the side a bit, this perfect boy with blue eyes and blond hair, wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt, as if he eschewed everything about the slovenly, multipierced, and tattooed student body he’d recently left behind. He looked like he didn’t belong and he also looked as if he couldn’t care less about things like that. I’d eventually find out that he had been way too busy holding down two part-time jobs and earning straight As to worry about what others thought of him. I realized I’d been staring and looked away quickly, but not before noticing that he seemed to be looking at me, too.
When we were standing in line to buy tickets, Kendra told me—when I inquired, casually, as if I really didn’t care—that he was the former roommate of someone in the group. There were seven of us and we bought popcorn and found seats in the theater, and somehow he ended up sitting right next to me.
He introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Chris.”
“Claire,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Clean-shaven and clear-eyed, he lacked the run-down, bloodshot, hard-partying look my previous boyfriend had worn like a badge of honor. I had dated Logan for almost a year but we parted ways when it became clear that I had neither the stamina nor the desire to keep up with him. I had no interest in abusing my body the way so many of my peers did; I had enough to worry about without taking additional risks. I overheard Logan tell a friend one time, “Claire’s hot, but she has issues.” He was probably referring to the time my blood sugar dropped too low. I got shaky and started sweating and luckily I had glucose tablets within reach because he was no help whatsoever. Logan would have freaked out if he’d seen me during a severe low, because it isn’t pretty. I say random things. I sweat profusely, and I cry. I can become belligerent pretty easily. Though Logan never came right out and said it, I always felt as if my diabetes—and my need to follow a strict schedule—put a damper on his spontaneous ways. My disease was manageable, but it required vigilant monitoring and making sure that insulin was readily available. Logan thought nothing of road-tripping two hundred miles to see a concert with only an hour’s notice and he felt more at home in a smoky bar, tossing back shots of Jäger, than he ever did in a darkened movie theater. The stress of trying to fit into his world and the ups and downs of my blood sugar became something I started to hide around him, and I had enough sense to know that it wasn’t a good sign. I ended the relationship a short time later and was more than a little heartbroken when he didn’t seem to care.
After the movie everyone went out for pizza and beer and Chris lingered near me, making conversation and asking if I needed anything. He drove me home that night. “Can I have your number?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, digging a business card out of my purse and scribbling my home number on the back in case he didn’t want to call me at work. I thought he might try to kiss me, but he pocketed the card and made sure I was safely inside before he walked back to his car. I would have let him. Even back then there was something solid, trustworthy, comforting about him. Or maybe I just liked the way he looked.
He called the very next day and invited me to another movie the following Saturday, a matinee this time. “I thought we could have lunch first,” he said.
“That would be great,” I said.
He picked me up and thus began one of the best dates I ever had. It was one of those idyllic summer days where the humidity seemed to vanish and the temperature hovered at a perfect seventy-five degrees, so we sat at a sidewalk table at a small bistro and ordered Bloody Marys with our lunch. I didn’t often drink alcohol, but there were times when a drink sounded good and that day was one of them. I remember the way the vodka made me feel even more relaxed and carefree than I already did. Chris told me he hated olives and since I love them he laughed and popped his into my mouth, and all I could think about was the feel of his fingers as they touched my lips. When our food came we shared our entrees, feeding each other bites off our forks. To the casual observer, we probably looked like we’d been dating for a while. There were no awkward moments, and I felt instantly comfortable with him. We were having such a good time that we arrived at the movie—Saving Private Ryan—late, missing the previews and sliding into our seats just in time for the main feature.
When the house lights came up Chris asked, “Do you want to get some dinner? You’re probably getting tired of me, but I’m hungry again and I thought you might be, too.”
I looked at my watch. I didn’t wear an insulin pump back then, and I needed to check my blood sugar and give myself a shot before I could eat anything else. “Maybe some other time,” I said. He tried to hide it, but the surprise at being turned down when we were clearly having a great first date showed on his face. “It’s just that I have to go home,” I said. We walked silently to his car and he opened the door for me. When we reached my apartment and he walked me to the door, he made no move to leave. I unlocked it and he followed me down the short hallway and into the kitchen. I walked to the refrigerator and after I pulled out the bottle of insulin I filled a syringe, pulled up the hem of my skirt to expose my upper thigh, and plunged the needle in. Normally I hated giving myself a shot in front of anyone. People seemed to freak out about needles and it didn’t help that Logan used to refer to it as “Claire shooting up.” Chris watched, silently, his eyes lingering on the tan skin of my leg. I capped the syringe and threw it away, then looked up at him.
“I have diabetes.”
He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “I see that.” He looked confused, as if he couldn’t figure out why I was being so secretive. “Now what?” he asked.
“Now I can go to dinner with you.”
He smiled, his features instantly softening. “Then let’s go.”
He took my hand, lacing his fingers with mine as we walked to a nearby diner. “Wouldn’t it have just been easier to tell me?” he gently chided.
“I didn’t want it to matter.” I told him about Logan and how I’d always felt that my diabetes bothered him. Like it was a burden. And even though it was way too early for what I was about to say, I said it anyway. “My disease has lifelong implications. Not everyone can handle that. Especially guys.”
“Logan sounds like a tool. Taking care of you should have been his top priority.”
I smiled at him, feeling sudden, inexplicable tears that I blinked back. “I can take care of myself,” I said, because I didn’t want him to think I was incapable of it. That I was some damsel in distress that needed rescuing. I just wanted him to know what he was up against.
“I have no doubt that you can,” he said.
And this time, after we finished dinner and he walked me home, he waited until I unlocked the front door. Then he leaned in and cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. His lips were soft but there was something commanding about his kiss, something that told me that underneath his good manners and respectful demeanor I would find a guy who liked to be in charge. Who might not be so polite when we were alone in a way that I would very much enjoy. I could have stood in the doorway with him forever on that perfect summer night as he pressed the length of his body firmly against mine. I remember thinking as I lay in bed that night that Chris was the kind of guy you could plan a future with.
I went out with him three more times and the more time we spent together, the more I discovered I was right about that prediction. He had goals and dreams, and I’d never met anyone who had his life so mapped out. The girlfriend he’d had through most of college wasn’t remotely interested in settling down. “She wanted to go backpacking in Europe. Stay in youth hostels and avoid getting a job for as long as she could. Things like that,” he told me. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”
He was already climbing the ranks at work, selling cell phone packages for AT&T and working toward a position in management. Home ownership was next on his to-do list and he told me he hoped to buy within the next year. He spoke fondly of his parents and always treated me with respect. He didn’t play games, and if he said he’d call, he’d call. He made me laugh, he made me feel like I mattered, and he made it so very easy for me to fall for him.
He took me out to dinner one night a week later and then we went back to his apartment. After he unlocked the door he didn’t bother turning on the light. Silently, he pulled me by the hand and guided me past the kitchen and living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, he kissed me and then slowly pulled my T-shirt over my head, throwing it onto the floor. I kissed him back and he nudged me gently until the backs of my knees made contact with his bed. He tumbled onto it with me and we kissed with abandon, both of us breathing hard when we finally came up for air. He removed my bra and I gasped when he cupped my breasts, bent his head down, and took one of my nipples in his mouth. Logan had seldom bothered with this step, and I’d forgotten how good it felt. Chris took his time, sucking on one nipple and rubbing his thumb back and forth lightly across the other, and I made sounds I hadn’t made in a while. He brought his mouth back to mine and his kisses became urgent, unrestrained, and after a few minutes I broke away so I could take his shirt off and run my hands over his chest. The smell of his skin, a combination of soap, cologne, and his own scent, intoxicated me.
His fingers tugged on the button of my jeans, popping it open.
“Chris, wait. Do you have any condoms?” I should have thought of that earlier.
Oh God, please say you do.
Trailing kisses down my neck, sucking and almost biting the tender skin, he whispered, “Yes.”
He slid my zipper down and took off my jeans. He listened to my quick and shallow breathing as I waited for him to touch me again. Slowly, tortuously, he finally reached out and slipped his fingers under the elastic waistband of my underwear and pulled them off. Grabbing both of my wrists, he extended my arms over my head and used one of his hands to hold them firmly in place. With the other he eased my knees apart and put his hand between my legs. The sun was setting but there was still enough light coming in through his bedroom window for me to see him touching me and to know that he was watching his fingers moving inside me. He added the gentle pressure of his thumb rubbing in a circle. It felt incredible, and I came embarrassingly fast, shuddering and crying out, but I didn’t care, because Logan had never once taken the time to do that to me.
Chris brushed the hair back from my face and kissed me. “You are so beautiful.” Then the mattress shifted as he rolled away and stood. He unzipped his jeans, and his belt buckle hit the floor with a clink. I heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper and Chris’s body covered mine. He raised himself on his forearms and looked into my eyes when he entered me, his breathing as ragged as mine had been; we fit together perfectly. And after he came, when he was holding me in his arms, he whispered, “Claire Jones. I am falling in love with you.”
Nine months later he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife, and six months after that we stood up in front of our friends and family and promised to love and obey and cherish each other for as long as we both shall live.
I turn my focus back to the present when I realize the previews have ended and the main feature has started. I focus on the film and lose myself in the romantic comedy. It isn’t so bad seeing a movie alone. I even manage to laugh spontaneously a few times.
When the lights go up I stand and follow the couples out of the theater and drive home, suddenly feeling very alone.