Page 63 of False Start
I reach out with my other sense and filter through the Quarter’s many sounds until I first hear the melody and then the words. Inside an open air cafe on the corner, there sits a man with a guitar on it’s stage. I can’t distinguish his features from here, other than the curly brown hair and black fedora over his head, but he sounds an awful lot like Eddie Vedder singingLove Me Tender.
“Come here,” Bryant softly says, even though there’s no way to get any closer. “Let’s do something spontaneous and fun.” And then he takes my hands and lifts them into the air until they’re laced behind his neck. “Dance with me, Z.”
God. I miss having fun with him. He was my best friend and my husband, so I lost both. And honestly, life hasn’t been all that amazing since we split. I can’t seem to move past it to either forgive him or tell him to fuck off for good. With his hands on the small of my back, he pulls me a hair closer and presses a kiss to the top of my head. And then we dance for the length of the song as Bryant sings to me in his beautiful voice. I’m thankful he can’t see the tears streaming down my face. I don’t want to answer questions about why I’m feeling this raw and emotional. I just want to be with him in this moment as I let my guard down long enough to give it to him.
He croons in my ear and rubs his thumb underneath the hem of my shirt on the sensitive skin of my lower back. If I wasn’t so aroused, this would lull me to sleep–being in his arms, hearing his voice, and having him touch me intimately. As it were, I can’t get my hormones off the hardness pressed into my stomach. Long after the man in the cafe moves onto another tune, we continue to sway to the song we danced to on our wedding day.
It isn’t until Bryant abruptly pulls the hem of my shirt down and stiffens against me that the moment is over. “We have company,” he says.
I come back down to earth and reality. “Fans?”
“Appears to be. Want to make a run for it?”
I don’t want anyone to see I’ve been crying, so I nod and bury my face into his chest for a moment. And then I wipe my face.
“Zhanna,” he says so reverently I almost sob from the emotion it elicits. “You’re crying.”
I keep my head tucked down to prevent anyone from seeing the evidence. “Can we get out of here?”
His fingers interlace with mine as we turn to the street closest to the therapist’s office and make a run for it.
“That’s him!” A man shouts.
“Bryant Hudson!”
“Shit,” I say as I pick up the pace until I’m in a full out sprint through the Quarter with my 6’5 football player of an ex-husband dragging me behind his long legs. “Slow down.”
“Speed up, baby! They’re going to maul us.”
“My legs don’t go any faster, you freaking giant!”
We round the corner to the parking lot of the therapist’s office when Bryant pauses to stoop down, pick me up, and throw me over his shoulder. Then he takes off running again until we reach his SUV where he deposits me at the passenger door and quickly rounds the front of the vehicle. I narrowly escape the grabby hands of a fan as I crawl inside the car.
Bryant makes it inside in the nick of time and turns the ignition over before he backs out and takes us a few blocks over to his place. He stops at the gate and call box to his house and looks over at me with concern in his eyes. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“No, I’m okay.”
He pulls into the drive as the gate slides shut behind us. “I can have someone deliver your car.”
“There’s no need. I can call an Uber to retrieve it in a few hours.”
We both exit the vehicle, and I follow him inside the back door of the home which opens into the large kitchen. “Stay. Let me order us dinner. We can watch television while we wait, and the coast should be clear by the time we’re finished eating. I can drop you by your car then.”
I hesitate, not sure what I’m doing with him anymore. I’m going to therapy with him, dating him for at least fourteen dates, and having dinner with him. I’m dancing with him in the middle of the street to Elvis songs, and I’m feeling things I don’t know that I want to feel.
“You have to eat,” he says.
“Sure, I’ll stay. What are we watching?”
We trek into the living area now sparsely filled with new furniture. The old drapes have been brought down and retired and in their place are thick white sheer curtains designed to allow light into the space while also providing adequate privacy. The brown leather couches are oversized and look as comfortable as a bed. The walls have been painted a bright, cherry marigold yellow.
“Leslie has outdone himself,” I say as I continue to slowly spin and take in the empty new floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
“I like the space a lot better now,” he admits. “It’s much more comfortable even if it doesn’t quite feel like home yet.”
“It’s big, but it’s cozy. And it’s not obnoxiously big like the place in California.”
He clears his throat. “Have a seat wherever, babe. Make yourself at home.”
