I could smell her on my sheets.
An assortment of pastel lace bras lay in my top drawer beside a pile of cartoon character panties ranging from Ninja Turtles to Hello Kitty.
An array of hair products specialized for curly hair neatly lined one corner of my vanity.
Her moisturizer sat on my nightstand.
Her presence was everywhere, especially in my thoughts.
I hadn’t slept alone in my bed in thirty-three days.
I missed her. My heart missed her.
And then I remembered she lied.
It was such a stupid lie. That’s what caused my logic to argue I was overreacting. It truly was ridiculous when I thought about it. At least a dozen times since leaving her apartment my finger hovered above her number in my cellphone. And then that pesky conscience of mine instigated if she could carry on such an absurd story, what else could she lie about?
But that wasn’t Haven, and I knew that better than anyone. Then again, she played me like an idiot for weeks.
Back and forth the seesaw went in my fucking head. The tug and pull between wanting to forgive and being so angry that I couldn’t see straight went on all night long.
I doubted I’d be hearing from her. An early class on Monday mornings meant it was mid-afternoon before she normally checked in. Prior to her moving in with me, if she needed me to know something important she’d send one of her cute annoying emails. After she moved in, she’d leave a sticky note on the coffee machine.
At five a.m. I gave up on sleep to go make myself coffee.
No note.
Today, I missed that damn note.
I missed her.
My brilliant plan to take time and think things through no longer seemed so brilliant. Haven and I never went a few hours without speaking. One of us always forced the other to talk it out. Usually it was the one of us who thought she was right in the argument. Her silence right now worried me.
I also felt like a fish out of water. If others got on my nerves, she was the first I called. If an asshole wronged her, I was the one she called. Over the years, I depended on my own friends less and less for advice. Most of the time, they were clueless in that department anyway. A natural weeding-out process occurred when you found the one person who just got you. Sure, we each had friends, most of them in California, but none of them would be considered our inner circle.
In the advice department she was half of my circle, and the other half was Lizzy. But if I called Lizzy, I knew without a doubt what she’d say.
Talk to her, Vaughn.
I couldn’t do that yet. I needed to be sure I could move on from the lie. Mainly because I knew by seeing her my desire would take over my logic. I needed to stay away from her to think straight… away from her curvy, sensual body… those damn sexy curls… her raspy voice calling my name when I slid into her warmth.
Fuck.
I missed her.
With my coffee in hand, I walked over to my windows and sighed. Even with her absence last night, I lowered the blinds because she preferred privacy in the “fishbowl” she claimed that I lived in. Goddamn, she could still influence me even when I was so angry with her.
A point of the remote had my window treatments slowly rising to reveal the darkness that blanketed the city. Not many were out and about yet. As I stood there staring at a deserted and quiet 64th Street, the hours of my day stretched as ominously as my view.
I downed the rest of my coffee, refilled, and powered up my laptop. The absence of an email shouldn’t have surprised me. She could be as stubborn as a mule when angry. Oh, I had no doubt she was angry. I imagined her stomping around her apartment, silently cursing me for being so narrow-minded, not seeing the big picture, solely focusing on the lie.
I got the big picture.
I understood her motives.
As I admitted to her last night, it was the continuance that I couldn’t wrap my pragmatic brain around. In the role of therapist, I shouldn’t fault her for lack of lucidity. Emotional decision-making wasn’t in my vernacular. Haven’s make-up was purely emotional, as were most women’s, which made this my issue. Entirely mine. The therapist in me knew I needed to find a way to move past it or move on.
The thought of the latter squeezed my chest painfully… yet the fresh memory of how she disappointed me dominated my mind.
“Good evening, America. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got nothing. So, my friends, I’m turning the show over to you guys. Have something to say, something to confess, something you’re curious about? Call in, and we’ll chat.”
Even before Natalie hit the On Air light, calls were already standing by waiting to be taken. Most nights, I couldn’t get through half of them before time was up. Tonight was no different.
Natalie was a bit surprised with my lack of theme. I couldn’t blame her since it wasn’t my style to wing it. But they were lucky I showed up for work at all. Hearing and trying to solve strangers’ problems held no appeal for me. I had my own battle to navigate, if only I knew how to.
The first half of the show progressed with caller compliments, raunchy stories meant to impress my listening audience, and the occasional need for advice. Nat’s boyfriend called in to rib us in his usual way. Daryl engaged in an adolescent throw down with a listener who claimed he was the jerking-off professional.
Through it all, I interacted when needed, otherwise remained in my own world. It was when a woman named Peggy stood out on my call list. The subject listed that she wanted to discuss was trust. Normally, I’d jump on her call. Tonight, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to navigate those familiar waters. I kept her on hold for a solid ten minutes before I decided to take her call.
“You’re on with Vaughn. How can I get you off, Peggy?”
“Hi, Vaughn. I love your show.”
“Thank you.” Even though I knew why she called, I asked, “What do you want to discuss tonight?”
She sighed audibly over the phone. “Well, a few years ago my husband cheated on me. He’ll debate he didn’t cheat. But flirting with another woman, sending suggestive text messages and photos is cheating in my book. Don’t you agree?”
“Emotional relationships venture into very dangerous territory. Most who engage in one truly believe they are just having innocent fun. The fact is, if a man or woman is communicating with someone other than his or her significant other in a way that crosses a line, all while deceiving their partner, then that is indeed a form of cheating.”
“I agree. They communicated for months without my knowledge, and when caught were probably a step away from making it physical. It almost ruined our marriage. I couldn’t help but think, what would have happened if I hadn’t found out?”
Her words hit a bit close to home. In spite of my own “what if” scenario, I said to her, “You can’t live life consumed with what ifs.”
“I agree. And I’m trying to look forward and not back. We wanted to start having a family, but because of what happened I now have trust issues. My husband said I was being ridiculous, and it meant nothing to him. We did seek therapy, and have come a long way. The problem is, I still don’t trust him. How can I move past this?”
“Peggy, it takes years to build up trust, and seconds to destroy it. But having said that, with work, communication, and patience it can be rebuilt,” I said with pure conviction. “If you love your husband, you need to work on rebuilding your trust.”
“I do love him.”
“Then you know what you need to do.”
“Thank you, Vaughn.”
The rest of the calls went the same way as the first half of the show. Without my charming personality, they might as well have been talking to a wall. Time ticked by at an excruciating slow pace, and when the clock read eleven, and Daryl’s finger spun in his wrap it up way, I couldn’t hold back my sigh of relief.
“Thank you for spending your time with me. This is Dr. Vaughn Lair. Remember to fuck with all your heart, and fuck like your life depends on it. Good night.”
Natalie twisted her chair in my direction. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” After a long pause, she narrowed her eyes. Undeterred by her CSI approach, I smiled and said, “I’m heading out.”
Before I could take one step, her hand gripped my forearm. “Is it Haven?”
“Nat, I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I could feel her eyes on me as I walked out of the studio. On autopilot, I hailed a cab, got in, and recited Haven’s address. By the time the cab reached the red light on the corner, I said, “Actually, can you make it 64th and Central Park West instead?”
“Sure thing, man,” he said with a nod.
Showing up at this late hour not having a clue why I was there was not the solution. I needed more time.
While waiting for my ride to come to an end, I pulled out my phone and texted her.
Making sure you’re okay.
No response came then, or even later.
Father Time most definitely had a sense of humor. Answering my wish, the time I needed dragged on at a pitiable rate. Even while I rushed through a quick shower and brushed my teeth, because wherever I looked in my bathroom I was reminded of her, it crept on. It was no different when I crawled into bed, punched my pillow, and stared into space while my mind refused to settle.
Tick… tock… tick… tock.
Hours later, I muttered, “Fuck this,” and bolted out of bed. I stormed into my living room, found my favorite textbook on the subject of why humans need to love. I’d read that damn book at least a dozen times in my professional career, yet I still flipped it opened and started at the beginning.
Chapter One ~
What is Love?