In Search of Mr. Anonymous by J B Glazer (9)

Chapter 8

I wake up to sunlight streaming through my window. It’s mid-January and the sun hasn’t been out for months. As much as I love winter, the days of endless gray sometimes get to me. Today is a gift—in more ways than one. I turn over and smile when I see that he’s still here, sound asleep in my bed. I prop myself up on my elbow and watch the rise and fall of his chest. His dark lashes sweep against his chiseled cheekbones, now covered in a light layer of stubble. He really is so beautiful. I never thought I’d use the word chiseled when describing someone’s facial features. But his truly are. He could be a model, and he’s all mine—for now. Feeling inspired, I pull out my worn, leather journal that I keep in the top drawer of my nightstand. I thumb through to find a blank page and begin writing.

“Whatcha writing?”

I let out a startled cry and my hand flies to my chest. “You scared me!”

“Sorry. Can I see?” he asks, peeking over my shoulder.

“No!” I quickly hug the journal to my chest. “It’s private.”

“Babe, with what we’ve done, I’d say we’re well past private.”

My cheeks heat at the thought. “This is different. I write down the things that I’m thinking but could never admit. All the raw and real emotions that I don’t let anyone see. And I write poetry.”

“Poetry. So what are you writing about? Me?”

“You’ll never know. I never show anyone my poems.”

“Why not?”

“You know how sometimes you say something when you’re really thinking something else? But it’s never something you could say out loud?”

He nods.

“It’s like that. They’re my most personal thoughts. Thoughts and feelings I’d never feel comfortable sharing with others. Not my family. Not my friends. But in here,” I say, tapping my notebook, “there’s no one to judge me.” I don’t add what I really feel—it would be like giving him a glimpse into my soul.

“You’re a very private person.”

I shrug.

“I know. I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am. But if it makes you feel any better you’ve gotten to see more parts of me than I’ve shared with any other man.”

He studies me with those dark eyes of his. Eyes that are intense and seem to dig deep into places I don’t want him to reach. Maybe I should let him read my journal. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel like he can already see what’s inside.

“It’s a start,” he says as he plants a kiss on my neck. His mouth is hot against my skin. I close my eyes and shiver as he trails his tongue up to my ear. “What do you say we make this a weekend thing?” he asks.

Right now I’d agree to just about anything. I nod and pull his lips to mine.

“What time is it?” he asks as he rolls off me.

“I have no clue.” I look at my alarm clock and it’s twelve ten. “It’s already past noon.”

“I’m starved. Do you have anything to eat?”

Once again, I have no clue. I throw on a shirt and pad to my kitchen. I open the cabinets and find a box of cereal. Fortunately it hasn’t expired yet.

“I’ve got Special K but no milk.”

“It’ll do,” he says.

I pour each of us and bowl and we sit facing one another at my island.

“This is crap,” he says.

I take a bite and immediately spit it out. “It tastes like cardboard.” I look again at the box and laugh.

“What?”

“It’s expired. I misread the date.”

“Shit! I just ate some. How old are we talking?”

“A few months, give or take.” He looks horrified and I find this hilarious. I can’t stop laughing and soon I have tears streaming down my face.

In the meantime he pokes his head in my fridge. “There’s a loaf of bread. I can make us toast.”

“Check the date,” I warn him. “I don’t remember buying that.”

He lifts it up and it’s as hard as a rock.

“What the hell? You can use this as a weapon. Don’t you go shopping?”

I’m doubled over at this point. Once I catch my breath I’m able to respond.

“Not really. I usually get takeout. Wait! I think I have a frozen pizza in the freezer. One of my vendors gave it to me at a recent event.”

“Define ‘recent.’”

I giggle again. “Within the last month. I’ll pop it in the oven.”

“How long do we have?” he asks.

“About twenty minutes.”

“Good. Because seeing you in that shirt is making me hungry for something other than lunch.”

He chases me to my room and the shirt is soon on the floor with the rest of our clothes.

The timer dings and I run to the kitchen to pull out the pizza before it burns. It’s probably the only edible thing in my apartment. Coffee Guy comes out wearing just his boxers, looking sexy as hell. He looks over my shoulder skeptically.

“I’ll take the first bite,” I promise.

“I won’t have you being the guinea pig,” he says as he takes a slice. “It’s good,” he confirms, his mouth still full. We eat our pizza and Coffee Guy asks me to turn on CNN. Once we’re caught up on the headlines he asks when I started writing.

“I don’t remember. Probably around age six. That’s when I first came to live with my parents.”

“You’re adopted?”

I nod. “I’ll be right back.” I go and retrieve the framed picture of my parents. “Here’s my mom and dad.”

He takes the frame and studies it. He doesn’t make any comments about our lack of resemblance. Instead he asks what they’re like.

“My mom’s a homemaker. My dad is a science teacher.”

“Is that how you got into astronomy?”

“Yes. I showed an interest and he jumped on it.”

“So back to your writing.”

I was hoping he wouldn’t go there. That’s why I brought out the frame: as a distraction. He senses my hesitation. “If you’d rather not say you don’t have to,” he says softly. “I’m not trying to pry. I just want to know you.”

I look at him and realize not many guys have wanted to get to know me. The real me, at least.

“My biological father was abusive. I don’t remember much but I know he hurt my mom. I’d hear them yelling and she cried a lot. He never touched me though. Until one day when I was around five. I remember them arguing and I begged him to stop. I’d never stood up to him before. He grabbed my arm in a vice and wouldn’t let go. I began to cry and told him he was hurting me. My mom grabbed a kitchen knife and told him he was never to touch me again. The next week she sent me away to foster care. I’ll never understand why she chose him over me.”

“Jesus! I’m so sorry.”

I shrug. “I spent a few months with a foster family and then my parents adopted me. I was pretty traumatized and didn’t speak. They took me to a specialist who said there was nothing wrong with me. When I was ready, I’d talk. He suggested they give me a notebook so I could write out my thoughts. At that time I couldn’t read or write, so it was more about expressing myself through pictures. My mom would read to me every night before bed. She’d look at my pictures and make up stories about the little girl in them. Eventually I learned to trust them. I started speaking but still held onto the notebook. As I got older I found I expressed myself best with words no one would ever see. I think the anonymity allowed me to be brutally honest.”

“That makes sense then.”

“What does?”

“Why you don’t want to tell me your name.”

“That has nothing to do with it. Total coincidence.”

“If you say so. But keeping this anonymous between us is freeing. It makes you willing to do things maybe you wouldn’t do otherwise.”

He has a point.

“Or it could be that I know we’re only spending the weekend together. So I don’t have to worry about the repercussions after.”

I swear his face clouds over when I mention it.

He pulls me close. “Your parents sound like incredible people.”

“They are.”

“Now I know where you get it from.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” he raises his eyebrows at me.

“Everywhere,” I confirm.

“This looks like a good place to start,” he says as he leads me over to the couch. Soon my cries drown out the background noise of the TV.

We’re snuggling on the couch and decide to watch a movie. We flip through the channels and nothing’s on. He looks through my recordings and laughs when he sees a listing for The Wedding Planner. I’ve never seen it and had to watch it at some point for obvious reasons. He makes a comment about girls and their chick flicks. I swat him on the arm.

“For that I’m making you watch it.” When it’s over I ask him what he thought and he rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad,” I say. “I thought it was sweet how they fell in love.”

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks.

I shake my head, not wanting to go there. “You?”

“Once. With my high school sweetheart, Callie.” When he mentioned her name he seemed to take on a bitter tone.

“What happened?”

“She broke my heart.”

I’m surprised. He seems like he’d be the heartbreaker.

“I’ve never said those words before,” I admit. I don’t know why I told him. I guess because he shared something personal with me.

“I love you?”

I nod. “Even to my parents. I mean, I do love them, but I’ve never used those words. They say it first and I always respond with ‘me too.’” I don’t add that sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of loving someone else. He brushes a strand of hair away from my face. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

“Callie was my everything. We met my junior year in high school when her family moved to the area. Her dad was Army, so they moved around a lot. We spent every day together. We even applied to the same colleges. I saw a future with her. But she didn’t feel the same.”

“What happened?”

He rubs his hand across jaw before he speaks. “She moved away senior year.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“That’s not the worst part. I was devastated. She saw what it did to me when I found out the news but said she had no control. It’s been that way all her life. Having to pick up and start over. But she lied. I found out her mom was willing to stay with her so she could finish out her senior year. Callie said no. She chose to leave me.”

I take his hand while he talks in an attempt to offer him comfort. I know it happened years ago, but it obviously hurt him deeply.

“When I confronted her she said it was for the best,” he continues. “We should choose a college based on what each of us wanted, not chase someone else’s dream. She said we needed to grow as people without the crutch of the other. I never thought of her that way. It’s like she thought I’d bring her down. I was so pissed. After that I never spoke to her again.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been really hard to deal with at such an impressionable time in your life.”

“I was a mess after we broke up. It took me a long time to get my shit back together. That kind of heartache just isn’t worth it. So I vowed to never let myself be that vulnerable again, to really let someone in.”

I pull him to me and nestle my head against his chest.

“I’m sorry you got hurt. And I understand you not wanting to get close to someone again. More than you know.”

He strokes my hair and I relish being in his arms. He makes me feel safe, something I’ve never felt with any other man before. He shifts and I sit back so I’m facing him. The way he’s looking at makes me sense there’s something more. I give him a few minutes rather than trying to pry.

“My mom walked out on me when I was a kid,” he says as he rubs his hand across his jaw. I’ve noticed he does that when he’s uncomfortable talking about something.

“What?” I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“She left us,” he says. “So everything you said earlier, while it’s not the same, I get it. The feeling of abandonment and betrayal.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just being with you makes everything better.”

He leans over and plants a kiss on my lips. He kisses me tenderly at first. But soon all thoughts of melancholy are funneled into passion.