CHAPTER ELEVEN
STERLING
Women have a unique ability to go from thinking they look cute to heinous in five minutes flat. And with over fourteen hundred minutes in the day? Well, you can do the math. So the blue maxi dress I thought would be perfect for the hot Alabama night suddenly isn’t looking so perfect anymore. I know it’s because I’m tired and still have a long night ahead of me, but I’m not going to look back at pictures of myself at my parents’ anniversary party in that thing. I refuse.
Pants will be too hot. I can’t wear a short dress because the breeze from the water may blow it up, and it’s too damn humid to wear anything tight. I pull out a see-through mesh top designed to wear a bra underneath. It would be cool enough, but I don’t want to give off a sexy vibe. I’ve caused enough trouble for my parents.
I hear a knock on my door, and Rorke’s voice right behind it. “Sterling, guests are starting to arrive. ETA on our parents being here is twenty minutes.”
“Ugh,” I groan, prompting Rorke to peek in. “I’ve got nothing to wear.”
“What’s wrong with what you have on?” he asks.
What a stupid man he is! You never ask a woman in the middle of a clothing crisis that question, unless you want a dissertation on every body insecurity in her repertoire. “I don’t know. I hate it.”
“Then why’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t hate it then.”
Chuckling, he pulls me to my feet. “You look beautiful, as always. You’re just nervous.”
Giving him a little nod, I go back to my closet. Rorke starts to roam around my room a little bit. He’s never been in here. I probably should’ve exorcised my teenage paraphernalia. He picks up my Magic 8-Ball. I think that thing was vintage when I got it at a thrift shop, but my girlfriends and I used to have so much fun with it.
He gives it a little shake, asking it, “Will Sterling find something to wear?”
Rorke cracks up reading the ball’s response, “That is hazy. Try again later.” I try to steal the ball, but he holds it up, asking another question. “Do I love Sterling Jamison?”
I stop struggling to get the ball away from him, staring at him in disbelief. Did he just say love? And he’s counting on the Magic 8-Ball to tell me? Holding my eyes, he gives it a hard shake, then turns it to me, revealing its answer.
It is certain!
“In case you didn’t know, let me make this real clear,” he says. “I’ve been in love with you for most of my life. I was made to love you.”
I’m not sure why, but I start to back away from him. He places the ball down on my dresser, stepping towards me. Like a scared kitten, I continue to back up until my legs hit my bed, forcing me to stop.
“It seems fast. I know that,” he says. “But for me, it seems like forever. I’ve waited over a decade to tell you how I feel. I’ve never been able to say those words to any other woman, except my mother.” He flashes me a little grin. “Sterling, you look scared to death.”
“I am.” All I can think is that I’m not staying in Alabama. That my life is in New York. That he can’t possibly love me. That this is too fast. “Aren’t you?”
“Not even a little bit,” he says. “For years, I never told you how I felt. I promised myself if I got another chance, I wouldn’t make that mistake again. I always regretted not telling you the morning after our night in the barn. The morning you went back to college. I always wondered if things would’ve been different if I’d told you then.”
“It would’ve changed everything.”
His eyes close like it hurts him to hear that. I swallow hard, remembering our goodbye the morning after. He was going back to college and so was I. We’d be thousands of miles apart. We’d never even been on a date, yet we’d just slept together, lost our virginities together. Of course I wanted more. Of course I wanted him to say he loved me, to promise we’d make it work. Instead, we promised to stay in touch. It wasn’t awkward or sad, even. We stayed together until the last possible second. And when I had to go, we kissed and hugged. We didn’t make promises we knew we couldn’t keep. I simply ran my fingers through his hair one more time and walked out the door. I didn’t know it then, but I left some part of me behind that night. It wasn’t my virginity. It was my heart. And he’s kept it safe all these years.
Music starts up outside, the Shirelles’ song, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” I pull away, having completely forgotten about the party. He captures my hand. “Don’t freak out on me,” he says.
My head shakes. “I’m not used to this, Rorke. Part of the reason I came home was because I’d forgotten what it felt like to be surrounded by people that love me. I don’t have that in New York. The more successful I got, the lonelier I got.”
The air leaves his chest in one big swoosh, like I just punched him hard. “So you need to get used to it again. Being loved. What that feels like.”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“I’m going to keep telling you,” he whispers, pulling me close. “Until you trust it. Let me love you.”
My heart is pounding out of my chest. Aren’t you supposed to be excited when someone loves you? Shouldn’t you feel peaceful and safe?
My heart worries. Worries that for one reason or another, this won’t work out. And while it hurt to lose past relationships, this is different. Losing Rorke would wreck me. I know it. I’ve held him in a safe place in my heart all these years. He represented hope, love, youth, a dream. And if I lose him, then I lose all that.
“It’s like you and these clothes,” he says, pulling something out of my closet. “You have to try it on, see what feels right. See what you’re going to like, even though you’ve worn it a hundred times.”
I start laughing. “You’re an English teacher, and you can’t think of anything more romantic to compare love to than a girl’s closet?”
He chuckles. “I thought the Magic 8-Ball was pretty romantic.”
“It was,” I whisper, still trembling.
Pulling me close, he whispers a Margaret Mitchell quote from Gone With the Wind, “You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.”
*
RORKE
Every tree in the backyard is streaming with white lights. One whole side of the yard is flanked with banquet tables of food. There are two bars set up, a makeshift dance floor, and every white flower Sterling could order in the state of Alabama.
The band is playing, the backyard is full of people, the stars are out, and Sterling is the only thing I see. She’s across the yard making small talk with the guests, while I’m standing in a group of guys, mostly my buddies, some from as far back as high school, others I play baseball with for charity, even a coach from school. But I’m not paying attention to them. How can I?
She’s wearing a purple . . . Well, I’m not sure what it is. It’s one of those things where the top and shorts are attached. Like a baby onesie for women. I think she called it a romper. She looks sexy, her long legs seemingly endless, but that thing is a guy’s nightmare. We prefer easier access. I’m not sure how to go about getting that damn thing off her. Houdini couldn’t figure it out.
Her green eyes are sparkling as she glances around the party at everyone having a great time. Her parents are dancing and laughing alongside mine. The drinks are flowing. Plates are filled with food, and everyone has a smile on their face.
Sterling’s smiling, too, but hers is different. Guarded. She doesn’t stick with any group of people too long. It’s polite, cordial, but not meaningful in any way. Yes, she’s busy with the party. But it’s more than that. She knows she’s on display, the topic of all the whispers and speculation. Ours is a small town, so when the local vibrator inventor comes back home, it’s big news.
It’s probably a lot easier for her to blend in up in New York. But a woman like her shouldn’t just blend in. She glances at me, giving me a little smile. At least she doesn’t look scared out of her mind anymore. She didn’t say she loved me back. I didn’t expect her to. It’s too risky for her right now, and I get that. I’ll just have to teach her to trust her heart, to trust my love for her. This may be the greatest teaching job I’ll ever have to do.
Sterling reaches down, playing with the branches of the honeysuckle bush, pulling off a flower. Sucking the nectar of the honeysuckle plant is a favorite pastime of most children raised in the South. Her delicate fingers snap the end, pulling on the long string. I watch her lift it to her mouth, the small drop of nectar falling to her tongue.
“Think you can handle her?” one of my buddies asks. I must be giving him one helluva mean look because he holds his hands up. “I just meant, how good does a guy have to be to get with her? She developed a fucktool, for God’s sake. That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m not worried about it,” I say. She’s already admitted that nothing can take the place of being with the right man. And I know that’s me.
Sterling continues to be the topic of conversation. How she must really like sex. How wild she must be in bed. How much money she has. How many men she’s screwed. And this is the talk among guys I consider my friends.
“She’s a woman. A girl. Just like any other,” I say, hoping they’ll shut up.
“I heard she’s a lesbian,” one of them says.
“She’s not gay,” I say, rolling my eyes.
All eyes turn to me. “You’ve fucked the Clit Queen?”
Something in me snaps, and I lunge at the guy. If it weren’t for the other guys holding me back, I would’ve laid him on his ass. But it just took that brief second of hesitation for me to collect myself. I’m not about to cause a scene at her parents’ anniversary party.
The guy starts laughing. “Lighten up, Rorke.” I walk off, hearing the fucker say, “I guess hers isn’t the only pussy she whips.”
I know those guys don’t realize how I feel about Sterling, but I can’t just shake it off. A couple of my other buddies try to follow me and apologize. I appreciate it, but need a few minutes alone with my beer. Standing on the outskirts of the party, I’m reminded of all the times in high school I had the same spot. But it’s welcome tonight.
A couple hours ago, I was certain I could handle this, but now I’m not so sure. Do I let comments roll off my back? Do I kick the shit out of everyone who talks about her? What am I supposed to do?
Sterling gives a toast to her parents, and I wonder if she can hear the snickers from a few guests or if she long ago learned to tune them out. Maybe she’s just learned to focus on the good. Most of the guests are smiling and having a good time, seemingly uncaring about the occupation of their host. Perhaps the saying that one bad apple can spoil the bunch isn’t entirely true. Perhaps it’s just what you choose to focus on.
She pulls her parents aside and gives them their gift—a month-long vacation to Ireland and Scotland. Her father has always wanted to go, and Sterling is making it happen. Their plane leaves right after the party, in just a few hours.
Maybe being able to do that kind of thing for someone you love makes up for all the other bullshit.
The party’s winding down, and Sterling glances around the yard. The fireworks should be starting soon. I start for the dock when her arms slip around my waist. “Don’t,” I snap, sliding her hands off me.
I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve waited years to feel her hands on me again.
Holding back tears, she glances around the party. All her hard work, paying off. The party is a huge success. Then her eyes land on the group of men still talking, still obviously gawking at her.
“Oh,” she says. “It’s not as easy as you thought, is it?”
A loud firework shoots into the sky, causing all the partygoers to move closer to the water. Sterling and I don’t turn our heads to watch the explosions of color. Instead, we just stare at each other.
*
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Sterling saying goodbye to guests as they head out. Ms. Mirabelle from the bookstore seems to be twisting her arm to come to book club. The party is basically over. Everyone is almost gone. Her parents are on their way to the airport, and I’m helping her clean up, but feeling like a fucking fool. I catch my own reflection in the window of her house and hate the look in my eyes. I know she’s probably seen it from every other man in her life.
Doubt.
I don’t doubt how I feel about her, not one bit. I doubt my ability not to get thrown in jail every time I hear someone talk about her that way. Sighing, I lean my head against the window, hating being a moody bastard. Maybe I need to cut myself a little slack. I wouldn’t say I handled it well, but I did what I had to do to get through the night. It’s not like I actually punched the guy, but I was a shit to her, avoiding her and snapping the way I did. This was my first time thrown into this position. Sterling will understand that, right? She’s had years to get used to this. Perhaps that’s all I need, too? Time to get used to this. The best thing to do is to talk to her.
At the very least, I want her to know I’m not leaving her. That if I have to walk away from a situation, it’s not that I’m leaving her. I’d never do that. But I’m not sure she knows that. Hopping off the back porch, I start for the side of the house. It’s dark. She must’ve unplugged the twinkling lights. Quickening my pace, my gut twists a little.
Ever have that sense deep in the pit of your belly that something isn’t right? I’m having it. Probably because I’ve been such a bastard to her tonight. Then I hear her cry out a little. A thousand things go through my head. Is she crying because of me? That thought hurts my heart. Did she hurt herself? That thought hurts my stomach.
As I round the corner of her house, Sterling is heading right for me, her cheeks stained with tears. She tries to walk past me, but I take hold of her waist. “Why are you crying?”
“Because men are assholes,” she snaps, shaking me off. “Dammit, I hate that I cry when I’m mad.”
“What the hell happened?” I ask.
“The usual,” she says. “Why do men think they can just grab our asses? Do they really think that’s a compliment?”
In case you’ve never experienced it, it’s true. I actually see red. Some switch flips in me. I don’t care how evolved we’ve become. A man feels his woman is threatened and all progress and civilization fly out the window. The only thing I want is to make him bleed. The only thing keeping me from beginning my hunt for this asshole is my need to make sure Sterling’s okay.
Running my hands along her face and body, I ask, “Are you hurt? What happened? And don’t tell me the usual.”
She releases a deep breath. “I was saying goodbye to the last of the guests. You know, smiling, a few hugs. And one of the guys just squeezed my ass.” She twists her hair a little. “Why when something like this happens do I always freeze? I should’ve hit him or something. Instead, I just freeze up.”
My chest hurts, wishing she had kneed him in the groin, but mostly because there’s something in her voice, a twinge of self-blame. And it wouldn’t matter how she reacted, something tells me it would still be there. As if these kinds of things happening to you are just par for the course of being a woman. Is that true? Has this happened to every woman at some point?
“Who the fuck was it?” There were dozens of men at the party, some guests, some workers. It could be anyone. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, either trying to remember his name or preparing to lie to me.
“I don’t know.”
Lie! “Who was it?”
“Rorke, let it go.”
“The fuck I will. Now tell me who!”
“It doesn’t matter. Because he isn’t the first and won’t be the last.”
Now this is the perfect example of one bad apple spoiling things for the rest of us. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“I should’ve known that just because I’m at home, in a small town, that doesn’t change anything. Men like that are everywhere. I should’ve had security just like I do in New York.”
My head lifts slowly. “You have security? Has this kind of thing happened before?”
“Not exactly,” she says. “I get some creepy mail. I’ve had guys follow me before.”
“What’s the worst of it?”
I feel her body tremble. “Almost two years ago, there was this one creep. He stalked me on social media. I blocked him, and he started showing up at my office. I tried to get a restraining order, but once they found out who I was, they practically laughed in my face. Said it was an unintended consequence of my profession. Like I asked for that kind of attention.”
What the hell? I’m not sure who I’m pissed at. The world, maybe. Because if this is the way it works, we are in deep shit.
“What happened with the guy?”
“He broke into my apartment. This was before I moved into my place by the park.”
“Were you home? Did he hurt you?”
“I wasn’t home. He . . .” Her head shakes. “He jerked off on my bed.”
“Jesus Christ, that sick motherfucker,” I curse, pulling her tighter to my chest. “Thank God, you weren’t there.”
“I never went back inside,” she cries. “Momma and Daddy came up. Got what I needed out of my place, and I left the rest. I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t know what he’d touched. Where he’d been. I just left it all.”
“Oh, baby.” I gently kiss the top of her head. “I remember your parents being gone off and on for months, but they never shared why.”
“One of them was with me for about four solid months after.”
“What happened to the guy? They catch him?”
“He’s dead. He resisted arrest and was shot and killed.”
I push all the hair out of her face, tilting her chin up. She’s been through entirely too much. No wonder she’s shut herself off. No wonder she doesn’t trust easily.
“Police found all kinds of pictures of me, articles taped to the walls of his bedroom. He knew my schedule. My dry cleaner, my favorite restaurants, my dentist. Every little detail.” She draws a deep breath. “I’m okay. But that’s why I’m extra careful, usually.”
The worst part of this is that Sterling expected that reaction. This is exactly what she expects from the male species.
“Rorke,” she says softly. “You should go home. I mean, why are you still here?”
“Where else would I be? I love you,” I say.
“You can’t handle this,” she says. “I saw it in your eyes.”
“You’re right,” I say firmly. “I will not handle you being treated like this. You may have accepted this as a symptom of your profession. But I will not. I understand why you don’t fight it anymore. Why you’ve just locked yourself away. I imagine that’s a difficult thing to try to fight all by yourself, and you were so young when it started.”
“You can’t fight this,” she says. “What are you going to do? Beat everyone up?”
“I can’t if you don’t tell me who it was.” She shakes her head. She’s not going to tell me, and I doubt she ever will. I lean down, holding her eyes. “I love you.” She nods a little. It’s not very convincing, but I’ll take it. “Where’s your suitcase?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Because you aren’t staying here alone.”
“I’ll get Daddy’s shotgun, and I’ll keep the lights on.”
“When’s the last time you shot a gun?”
“It’s been awhile. But Momma and Daddy are gone for a month. I promised to watch the place.”
“We’ll check on it tomorrow,” I say, leaning in, my eyes on her mouth. “You’re staying with me. Do you think you can handle that?”