Taryn – Day eleven

It was reassuring to know that Marc had experienced infidelity. It was impossible to accurately explain the heartache, the damage to one’s self-esteem, and the incessant desire to fix something that couldn’t be fixed to a person who hadn’t experienced it.

We sat and stared out at the ocean. I had spent the thirty-minute drive to his home dreading what I felt I needed to share with him. Yet. The evening ended up being a memorable and rewarding experience. Whether Marc and I stayed together or ended up drifting apart, this night with him would hold a cherished part in my heart, always.

I glanced at him. At the same exact moment, he looked at me. We locked eyes and seemed to get lost in a moment of admiration. He smiled before he looked away, and then he slipped his arm over my shoulder.

I had no idea if what he was doing was intended to comfort me, or if what I was experiencing with him was an advance our relationship had made. I hoped the latter.

He glanced at his watch and then looked at me. His mouth curled into a boyish grin. “Do you like malts?”

I looked at him in disbelief. It sounded like he asked me if I liked malts. It seemed really random, especially considering where we were and what we’d spent the night talking about. And, really, who doesn’t like malts?

“What?” I asked. “Malts?”

“A chocolate malt. You know, chocolate syrup, milk, ice cream, malted milk. A malt. Do you like them.”

My mouth watered at the thought of it. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a malt. “I haven’t had one in forever. Yeah. They’re pretty awesome, why?”

“Come on.” He stood. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make some.”

The man who two hours earlier had tried to tell me that he wasn’t opening up wanted to make malts. He could believe whatever he wanted to believe. I knew the truth.

I smiled. “A malt sounds great.”

He lifted my chin slightly and leaned toward me.

Oh God. You’re not going to…

His lips pressed against mine. It wasn’t soft, but he certainly didn’t assault me, either. Our mouths became one, and for that instant, I was lost. Completely. He pulled away, and when he did, I opened my eyes.

He looked right at me. He didn’t smile, but his eyes did. Then, he kissed each of my lips individually, encompassing them fully with his as if they mattered to him independently of my mouth.

Our mouths parted.

I opened my eyes.

His gray eyes looked back at me. For the first time, I wasn’t intimidated by them.

What did you just do to me?

It wasn’t my first kiss. But it was the first kiss I’ll never forget.

* * *

We sat at the kitchen island sharing a malt out of the metal cup he made it in. I was hesitant to categorize what I was experiencing as part of my love life, but I couldn’t help but make comparisons as if it were. My past had been filled with a cheater, and more one night stands than I could recall.

Yet.

In one evening, my life had somehow transformed into my very own happily ever after. It was quite possible that anyone else would have simply dismissed the night as thought provoking or mildly romantic, but I couldn’t dismiss what I felt as anything other than what it was.

Magnificent.

As unbelievable as it was, at least for that moment while we each sucked liquid ice cream through a straw, I was experiencing it with a man who I had yet to have sex with.

I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

With our eyes locked on each other, we sucked like our lives depended on it. Eventually, the sound of slurping resonated from the bottom of the cup.

I lifted my head and let out a long breath. “I’m going to barf.”

“I can’t believe we did that.” He wiped my mouth on the back of his hand. “That’s it. I’m done. No more.”

I giggled. “What? You’ve never had three malts back to back?”

“No.” He pressed my forearms against his stomach and rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m going to have to run six miles tomorrow to get rid of this.”

“But we laughed,” I said. “That’s the most important thing. We laughed.”

“We sure did.”

“Do you run every day?”

“I do.”

“Run for real, or on a treadmill?”

“One foot in front of the other, and it propels my body forward. That kind.”

“Treadmills freak me out,” I said. “I feel like I’m being punished or something.”

“I feel the same way. I can’t do it. Do you run?”

“Not as much as I should, but a few times a week, yeah. You?”

“Every day. Three miles.”

“I’m glad. Not that you run three miles. I mean, not really. I’m just glad you’re not one of those guys that looks physically fit and does nothing to maintain it. You know, the people that lay around and eat pizza and drink beer but never gain weight? I’d like to slap them with the hand of reality. If I didn’t eat decent food and exercise, I’d be three times this size.”

“I have no idea what I’d look like if I didn’t exercise. I’ve always done it. Hell, I might be one of those guys.”

“Let’s just say you’re not, okay?”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“If you had to pick your biggest fault, what would it be?” I asked.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I want to know more about you. You snuck in a kiss, so I should be able to sneak in a random question.”

His face transformed to a playful scowl. “I didn’t sneak shit. I announced it.”

“Well, I didn’t get the memo. It shocked the crap out of me.”

“Good shocked or bad shocked?”

I smiled. “The good kind.”

“I thought the same thing,” he said. “It seemed the right thing to do when I did it. Then, when it was over? How could anyone describe it as wrong?”

With each passing day, it was as if he allowed me to see a little more of who he truly was. At that moment, as I gazed back at him, I felt that I was finally seeing the real Marc. A much softer Marc.

I looked him over. His strong jawline was peppered with a day’s growth of stubble. His tee shirt clung to his broad chest, and his biceps left little to the imagination as to what else was hiding beneath the thin layer of cotton. His short dark brown hair was, as always, perfectly situated.

He was handsome, no doubt. He was also kind, considerate, and caring. Although I never would have guessed it, somehow those three qualities edged out handsome and muscular to take the spot as being his most redeeming assets.

The thought of losing him in nineteen days sickened me.

“I don’t think anyone could,” I said. “It was as right as a kiss could be.”

He pushed the stool away from the island and stood. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

“Okay.”

I followed him to the far end of the house, and into a large bedroom. In the center was a king-sized bed. At each side of the head of the bed, a white night stand sat. On the left, a lonely digital clock. On the right, a small speaker.

The white walls were bare.

The wall that faced the ocean was glass, and without any window coverings that I could see.

He reached for my hand. “Follow me.”

He slid a door open at the corner of the room and reached inside. The room illuminated. With an opened mouth, I stared. A closet that was larger than my apartment was lined with shelves on one side, and hangar rods on the other.

White, as was the rest of the home, the closet was the most incredible sight I had ever seen. It resembled a work of art, not in structure, but in form.

On each of the shelves were folded clothes. Gray shirts, folded in perfect squares, stacked on top of each other. On the next shelf, blue shirts, stacked in the same manner. Beside them, white shirts.

Below the shirts, carefully situated on the shelves, were jeans. Perfectly folded. Stacked six high, side by side. Each stack was placed on an individual shelf.

Shirts, sweats, boxer shorts, exercise clothes, athletic shirts, jeans. All situated flawlessly with the edges clean and crisp. Each stack was so impeccably positioned that it resembled a fabric box.

I looked at the other side.

Slacks, dress shirts, and jackets lined the first third of the closet. Separated by color there were three of each, side by side.

There were no boxes. There was no clutter. No socks, no dirty clothes, and no hamper.

“Seen enough?” he asked.

“I uhhm. Sure.” I was awestruck, but tried to act indifferent. “What are you showing me?”

“My biggest fault.”

“Which is?”

He turned out the light. “Perfection. I strive to reach it in everything I do.”

“Things could be much worse.”

“Walk a mile in my shoes and then say that.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Ever seen a hoarder’s house?”

His face washed with worry. “You’re not a hoarder, are you?”

“No, but I’ve watched that show on T.V. about them. It’s pretty bad. At least you don’t do that.”

He turned toward the door. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“Speaking of doing things. I’ve never asked. What do you do for a living?”

He paused, and then turned to face me. “I’m a cop.”

A lump shot up my throat like a rocket. I tried to swallow it, but it lodged halfway between my tongue and my heart. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Actually, I’m a detective.”

“You’re a detective?”

“I am.”

“Like Danny Reagan on Blue Bloods?”

“More like Gibbs on NCIS. I work the gang unit, so my cases aren’t simple. Generally, they’re pretty detailed investigations, and they can get pretty gruesome.”

“Gruesome? Like that one show? The Blacklist?”

“Pretty much. Murder. Torture. Those kinds of things.”

My eyes went wide. “Does that stuff really happen? The stuff on that show?”

“Absolutely. Sometimes worse, why?”

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they did.