Page 8 of Clay
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“What do you think?” I ask my sister, Lisa, “you don’t think it’s a bit much?”
“I think it’s goofy,” she says, “but that’s perfect. Because you’re a total goofball.” Then, turning to my daughter she says, “what do you think, Olivia? You want your dad to be happy?”
“Yes!” Olivia yells back, wrapping herself around my leg and smiling at me with that perfect, gapped tooth face of hers that melts my heart and reminds me every day what I’m fighting for.
“But, she hasn’t even messaged me back.” I pick Olivia up and hold her on my hip, playfully tickling her in a lame attempt to hide how nervous I feel. “Clearly she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I don’t know what I’ve done. But, turning up at her place of work with a bunch of roses… maybe it’s best to just forget about her and move on with my life.”
“Clay,” Lisa says, “this past week you’ve been a living nightmare. It’s obvious you can’t get her out of your head. And, at least this way you’ll know for sure. Maybe she is a total idiot and she doesn’t want to see you again. But you won’t know unless you go and see her.
“Besides, I’ve been trying to get you to meet a woman for years and this is the first time you’ve even been remotely interested in the idea... I think you should go for it.”
“Okay.” I kiss the top of Olivia's head and put her down. I take one last, quick look in the mirror and run my fingers through my hair. “Thanks for this, Lisa. I mean it.”
“What else are little sisters for,” she says, “besides, me and Olivia are going to have a heap of fun.” Then, leaning close so she can whisper in my ear. “Don’t worry about coming home early, if you know what I mean.”
I roll my eyes and head out the door. The chances of me being out late seem incredibly small. I’ll probably be back at home within the hour, sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of ice cream, a pizza, and a couple of beers to keep me company. Wondering how I could have been so stupid to go and proclaim my love to a woman who won't pick up my calls.
The whole drive I try and think of what I want to say to her, but my mind keeps coming up blank.
Do I ask her why she hasn’t messaged back? or picked up my calls? Or do I tell her how much I’ve been thinking about her? Do I tell her I’ve driven past the bookstore about a hundred times hoping to catch a glimpse of her?
That, when I go to bed I close my eyes and I remember what it felt like to have her in my arms. The sweet, flowery smell of her perfume filling up my nose. That I rub myself raw three times a day imagining my fingers between her legs, her breasts in my mouth, my cock claiming her wet, tight pussy.
“Well,” I say to myself, getting out the car, “here goes nothing.”
My heart pounds in my chest and I wipe my hands on my jeans. I’d rather run into a burning building or face a blazing inferno for twelve hours straight than do what I’m about to do. But Lisa is right. If I want Megan in my life, I’m going to have to put myself out there and take a chance. If it all blows up in my face, then that’s just a risk I’m going to have to take.
“Hello?” An elderly lady greets me as I enter the bookstore.
The place is cozy and the heady waft of published paper greets my nose.
I look around for a second, taking in the room, hoping to see Megan. I can totally understand why she loves working at this place so much. It's warm and inviting.
“Is Megan here?” I ask.
“Megan?” The lady walks up to me, her eyes land on the roses in my hand, and then a melancholy smile spreads across her face. “She doesn’t work here anymore, I’m afraid.”
“She doesn’t work here?” I stutter, the words catching in my throat. “Since when?”
“Yesterday was her last day,” the lady says. “I’m getting too old to run this place, and I’m closing down. She said there wasn’t anything keeping her here, so she’s moving up to the city with her friend Kate.” Then, breaking a long, awkward silence, she says, “you wouldn’t be Clay by any chance, would you?”
I tell her I am, and she clicks her tongue a couple of times and tut-tuts me before folding her arms across her chest. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. But, if you hurry you might be able to catch her. Her flight isn’t leaving for another hour or so.”
“She’s at the airport?” I ask, suddenly full of hope.
“Well, she better be. Otherwise she’ll miss her plane.”
I hug the lady, kiss her on the cheek and run out of the shop.
A group of teenagers are in my way as I rush along the sidewalk, and I end up having to push past them to get to my car faster.
“Hey,” one of them shouts at me, “why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“I know exactly where I’m going,” I whisper under my breath. “I’m going to the airport. I’m going to get me my woman.”
7
