Page 16 of Cloud Nine Love

“Don’t be. She was…she had issues. Growing up, she was, um, she wasn’t well. She was an undiagnosed bipolar alcoholic.”

I nodded in understanding. My mom had suffered several long bouts of depression. “Yeah, my mom was… For the first nine years of my life, she was amazing, but then after my dad died, she…she had some issues.”

“How did you lose your dad? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she quickly stated.

“No, it’s fine. It was sort of a freak thing. He was totally healthy, and then one morning before work, he had an epileptic seizure in the shower. They rushed him to the emergency room, and a few hours later the doctors came out and told me and my mom that they did everything they could, but he was gone.”

She exhaled, and I could feel empathy radiating off of her.

“What happened with your dad? If you don’t mind saying.”

“No, um, yeah. He was in a car accident. Another driver fell asleep at the wheel and hit us head-on.”

“Us?” I repeated.

She nodded. “I was in the truck, too, riding shotgun.”

“But you are; you were okay?” I knew that I was stating the obvious since she was sitting right in front of me, but for some reason, I needed to hear her say it to confirm that she was okay.

“Yeah.” She brushed her hair to the side, and I saw a scar that ran the length of her hairline above her left eye. “I hit my head on the window. They had to remove glass from here, and I got seven stitches.”

Without thinking about it, I lifted my hand and brushed my thumb along the scar. She closed her eyes as her lips parted. I had the strongest urge to lean forward and kiss her. It was more than a desire or a want; it was a primal need. A surge of primitive drive to close the distance between us and claim her mouth in a kiss that would leave no doubt that she was mine overtook me. But I resisted it. As much as I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to get to know her more.

So, instead of giving into my base instinct, I lowered my arm. Her eyes opened, and in her emerald gaze, I saw the same desire I’d just felt mirrored back at me. Just like my own craving, I ignored it and focused on my hunger for food.

We sat, eating our noodles and rice, and volleyed questions back and forth. I took mental notes on what all her responses and stories revealed. I absorbed the information like a sponge. It was like everything she said—each word she spoke fused into my DNA. It was unlike any conversation I’d ever had. It felt as though each response connected the dots to paint a complete picture of who she was.

When asked what her most memorable birthday was, she relayed that it was the time her mother planned a surprise party for her ninth birthday with no children her own age and only alcohol to drink, which happened to be not only on the wrong day but also the wrong month. Her mom had made a big show of apologizing when it was pointed out to her, and then started crying and playing the victim, which sounded like the textbook definition of gaslighting to me. She said that experience, along with others from being raised by a bipolar alcoholic, led to her hating not only surprises but also apologies. She valued actions, not words.

Other stories revealed that she was excellent at compartmentalizing her life. A psychologist she saw when she was young explained how to put things into files in her mind and then take them out when she was ready to deal with them. It was a skill she’d learned early on, and it had helped her in her adulthood deal with missing people and a high-stress job.

Not that I knew what that job was.

Another clue she gave me about her career was that she mentioned something that served her well in crisis situations; she never got nervous. Whenever a situation occurred that she felt unsure about, she instantly went into problem-solving mode, and she shut off emotionally. Even though she didn’t relate that particular trait to her childhood, I assumed it was also a result of her upbringing.

Also, she revealed she loved rules; they made her feel safe. She loved rules so much that she’d even implemented a three-strike rule for the men she dated. I also took note of some of the infractions that had sent other men back to the bench. I knew that if I was lucky enough to get up to the plate in her dating game, I would do everything humanly possible not to strike out.

6

TAYLOR

“Falling in love produces the same high as cocaine.” ~ Tim Rhodes

Well, this backfired. I told myself as I listened to Kyle, or whatever his name was, tell me what his perfect day would be.

I’d only suggested this activity because I thought I’d shot myself in the foot when I admitted I hated small talk because I did want to get to know him better. However, I didn’t think that whatever magic, voodoo, or sorcery these questions held would actually work.

But they were. I was feeling all sorts of intimate. I’d given myself a quick mental checkup, and my diagnosis was clear.

My heart was pounding. My pulse was racing. My palms were sweaty. My hands were trembling. My face was flushed. My stomach was filled with butterflies. I felt like I was floating in a euphoria bubble, sort of like when I tripped on ecstasy during college. And, despite the fact that I’d barely slept in the past few days, I had enough energy to run a marathon.

All of my vitals pointed to one conclusion. I was falling in love.

Physically, I knew exactly what was happening in my body. My system was releasing noradrenaline which explained all of my symptoms. The problem was that it wasn’t just all butterflies and euphoria. The other side of the noradrenaline-rush coin was reduced activity in the frontal cortex and diminished judgment.

Basically, I was all hopped up on the love drug and could easily do something really stupid without thinking of the consequences. I always thought about consequences. I had to. All my life, the buck stopped with me. Despite my unplanned pregnancy, I wasn’t reckless. My daughter had been conceived with a man I loved, just not a man I was in love with.

But as I sat across from Kyle, I wasn’t considering or examining the possible repercussions of what this night could bring. All I was thinking about was how badly I wanted to examine his body, and for him to examine mine.

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