Days Forgotten But Not Lost Ch 04

Early April 2001

Counselor:

You don't see this as taking advantage of her?

Patient:

I guess it could be seen that way, but not if it's clear I have her best interest at heart.

Counselor:

The road to hell...

Patient:

Oh, shut up.

Counselor:

Have you decided what to tell her... and when?

Patient:

No. I... I just can't.

Counselor:

You know you have to, right? It has to come from you. If someone else tells her, or if she finds out in some other way...

Patient:

Yeah... that could get ugly. But... that look in her eyes, the way she sees me now. I can't bear to lose that.

Counselor:

You're going to lose it, you have to reconcile yourself to that idea.

Patient:

Dammit, you're supposed to be helping me feel better, not raining on my parade!

Counselor:

(smiles) Sometimes the quickest way through the storm is to run

through

it, not

away

from it.

*******

I let the matter sit for the next week. The ball was really in my court, and Scott had said he would wait. Besides, men and sex and thoughts of such things were a weekend matter for me. Not that I could easily shut thoughts of Scott out of my head for a week, but I resolved not to

do

anything until Saturday.

When Saturday came, I still wasn't sure what to do. But I knew I wanted to see Scott and to feel close to him again. But I didn't want to just come out and say that. Conveniently, my work in the garden had reached the point where I needed a few more bags of soil. On Saturday morning, I called Scott and asked him to come over to my place after I went to the nursery. I asked him to lend me the use of his strong back. He laughed and said, "My pleasure."

I might have bought a little more than I needed, mostly to justify in my own mind asking for his help. Once he had finished piling up the large plastic sacks on my small patio, Scott stood at the sink and washed his hands. I walked up behind him and slid my hands under his shirt, rubbing his abdomen slowly.

"How can I thank you for helping me?" I asked in an exaggeratedly sultry voice.

Shaking his hands dry, Scott turned around and said, "By sharing a snack with me, something I picked up on the way here this morning." He opened the fridge and pulled out a small pastry box. Grabbing a plate and some forks, he put the odd-looking item on the table and cut it in half.

"That's not what I had in mind," I said, giving him a curious look as he took a seat at my kitchen table.

"Maybe you'll change your mind after you taste this," he replied, completely serious. When he saw me hesitating to sit down, Scott took one forkful and raised it to my mouth. "Just try one bite," he urged. I pulled my head back instinctively. I wasn't particularly adventurous about new foods, or at least I hadn't been since my accident.

"What is it?" I asked, taking the fork in my own hand and studying the morsel.

"It's called

baklava

," he answered, sitting back down. "I picked it up at the Lebanese restaurant near my place. You said you're part-Lebanese, and no self-respecting Lebanese person can say no to baklava."

"Oh really," I challenged. "And you would know this

how

?"

"My dad was Lebanese, and my grandmother insisted I have a complete culinary education of her home culture. Hurry up and take that bite, because I can't promise I'll save any for you once I start." He picked up the other fork and cut off a piece for himself. Taking the whole thing in one bite, he moaned in appreciation, slumping back in his chair. Hesitantly, I raised the fork to my lips. It smelled sweet, which wasn't a bad sign. I nibbled a corner but only got some crust. Scott made eye contact with me as I opened wide and took the whole bite at once.

It was sweet and nutty and amazing. Scott laughed out loud at my reaction, which mainly consisted of me sitting down, pulling the whole plate in my direction and cutting off another piece. "You're right," I confessed through a mouthful of

baklava

, "I can't say no to this."

As we sat at the table and finished off the pastry, Scott asked me about my plans for the garden. I had been using Ginny Bowers' book as my guide and was happy with the progress I'd made in just a week. Still, much of it was just empty space where seeds had been planted.

"It's weird, though," I told him. "It's almost like I can picture the final result in my mind. It's mostly just dirt now, but I can see the colors when I look at it."

Scott sighed and looked towards the window. "I know what you mean," he said. "Part of any creative activity is being able to see what isn't there yet. Artists do it, authors... gardeners, too."

"So are you a gardener, too?" I asked.

"Me? Oh, no no no," he laughed. "I can't even keep a cactus alive."

"Then what's your creative outlet?" I pressed him. "Did the aspiring author take a job as an English teacher until he could get published?"

"No, it's not like that, either," he smiled. "Though it wouldn't be the first time that happened, I'm sure. I've never done more than dabble with writing." Then he leaned back and looked around. "I was really into photography for a while. But, now that you mention it, I guess I haven't done much of anything lately. I kind of lost my creative spark." He looked pained and seemed to be thinking about saying more, but then he sighed, shrugged, and looked at me with longing in his eyes.

"Awww," I pouted. "There's a sad story there." Not sure what else to do, I rose from my seat and grabbed his hand, trying to pull him to his feet. "Come on, let me cheer you up!"

I expected him to eagerly follow me to the bedroom. I mean, why wouldn't he? But instead, he held my hand and pulled me back towards him. I stumbled a bit at the unexpected resistance, then steadied myself with a hand on the table. Still holding my hand, he pulled firmly, drawing me onto his lap.

"Millie," he sighed (and it was funny how my heart warmed at his little nickname for me), "you

are

cheering me up. I enjoy spending time with you - talking with you. There will be time for... other stuff... later."

Tilting my head in disbelief, I asked, "Are you really saying you don't

want

to have sex with me? That you don't

want

me?"

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me even closer. I rested my cheek on his shoulder and enjoyed the little bit of closeness that gave me.

"No," he protested. "No, that's not true. God

knows

I want you - I want you all the time. But... I don't want you to think that that's all you are to me. Or to anyone else."

I felt so suddenly transparent. It was like he saw through all my desperate weekends, like he had watched from across the room as I took men home, somehow knowing why I threw myself at them.

Unable to stop myself from opening up to him, I whispered next to his ear, "But I want to give you

something

. And... and this is all I have to give." I was strangely unashamed of the tears that had begun forming as I spoke.

"No," he said softly. "No, that's not true at all. Don't

ever

let yourself believe that."

"It

is

true, Scott," I insisted. "You say you want more of me, but there really is no more. And I'm worried that if you keep expecting me to be this whole person you can relate to, then you're just going to be disappointed." Lifting my head, I pulled a little bit away from him, my hands needing room to gesture my frustration. "So I'm

sorry

if I keep throwing myself at you, but since I don't have a life I can open up to you, I can at least open up my legs. If you can't be happy with that, then maybe you should reconsider spending time with me."

Scott's jaw twitched as he clenched it shut. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he responded in a controlled, tense voice, "I know it's hard to believe, and I know you're hurting in ways I can't begin to fathom, but just because you can't remember your past doesn't mean you don't have a future. You are free to choose that path, and I'm just asking to be a part of it."

I had so seldom talked like this that even our short conversation had me feeling emotionally drained. So much was pushing its way to the surface, but I didn't want to deal with it. Not then, not with him there. I leaned into him, resting my forehead on his chest. He placed a hand gently on my back. He smelled so good. Why did he smell so good? I just wanted to keep breathing him in.

I opened my eyes and saw the front of his pants. Reaching down, I unzipped them.

"Millie," he warned as I tugged his pants down to his ankles.

"Since you're so intent on me choosing, you need to consider

this

," I said, sliding onto my knees in front of him. "I

called

you here. I

invited

you back to my room. And you're not the

only

one who enjoys sex."

"Amelia," he groaned as pulled out his soft cock through the opening in his boxers and began massaging it to hardness. I lightly traced lines through the short black curls around the base of his cock, causing him to shiver when I ran along the sensitive skin of his scrotum.

"You let me do this for you," I suggested as his member began to rise, "and then we'll go somewhere and talk or do whatever you want. You can take me to that restaurant and buy me more of that baklava, OK?"

"Mmmm," he moaned as my hand slowly pumped his cock to full strength. "Maybe I can see if they deliver."

I smiled, knowing he was joking and glad that he wasn't protesting. In the full light of the late morning, I examined the stiff member in my hands. It was long enough that the tip stuck out when I wrapped both hands around the shaft. I knew he was circumcised, but I wasn't sure I knew what it would look like if he wasn't. I felt the warmth of it in my hands and noted its gentle throbbing in time with his pulse.

Slowly, I slid my hands up, then back down just as slowly. A few strokes like that and then it was time to do what I'd been planning to do all morning. Removing one hand, I rested it on his bare thigh and replaced it with my lips. Scott's soft, drawn-out, "

Ooooooohhh

," told me I was doing exactly what I should be doing, which meant my instincts were a reliable guide.

My lips curled around my teeth, giving me the ability to close down and provide tighter pressure without scraping him. Before long, Scott's hands were on the back of my head, gently guiding my motions. His hips pressed up towards my mouth, and my hand around his base ensured that he didn't press too far. I didn't mind that he would lose a little control; I knew what that felt like. I knew what it was like to be worked up by someone's lips, to be so hot in pursuit of the pleasure building up within you that your focus blocks out - momentarily - all thought of your partner's well-being. I knew that oral sex was partly a selfless act for that reason. I went down on Scott embracing the knowledge that he would be using my mouth for his own pleasure, and not - for that moment - considering how to return that pleasure to me. Turnabout would be for another time.

For now, there was his warmth running past my tongue and teasing the back of my throat. There was the cadence of my well-timed breaths through my nose, preserving my seal around his erection. There was the sound of him starting to grunt and gasp as I sped up. There was the way my ears were tuned in for something I couldn't express until I heard him moan my name. "

Amelia

." To the extent my lips were able to, I smiled.

Scott was breathing heavily, and every now and then his hands would push a little more firmly on my head, suddenly releasing when my hand would slide all the way to his base. I sped up, and the sound of my suction and saliva competed with Scott's intensifying moans.

"Almost!" he warned me, which was considerate, even though I had no other plans than to let him release into my mouth. A few seconds later, he did just that. I tightened my grip on his base, sliding up and down just a little bit to urge his load out. His shaft pulsed against my lips, eventually slowing as his hand on my head relaxed. I pulled off a moment too soon, however, earning myself one last spray on my lips. I giggled at that, and Scott breathed out, "Sorry."

"No problem," I smiled standing up. I picked up the napkin that still smelled of

baklava

and cleaned my mouth with it. Then reaching for his unfinished glass of tea, I swallowed a few gulps of the cool beverage before leaning over and kissing Scott. I was happy to take his release in my mouth, but the taste wasn't something I enjoyed on its own merit.

"Would you like me to return the favor now?" he said, still somewhat out of breath.

"No, not now. I'm actually more interested in lunch."

"OK. Just give me a minute and I'll drive us."

*******

Not long after, we were at the Lebanese restaurant, which was such a small place I'm not sure I would have even noticed it if I passed by on the street. Only six or seven small tables filled the dining area, and it seemed that the owner was also the cook. He greeted Scott affectionately, calling him some foreign word. Once he had taken our order and returned to the kitchen, I asked Scott what the name meant.

"Beats me," he confessed in a low voice. "He's called me that for a while. I'm just hoping it doesn't mean 'moron' or something like that."

While we waited, Scott told me about his grandmother and her cooking. It didn't take long for our dishes to be served, and each one made me marvel at the time I had wasted over the past year - so many meals that could have been spent there! Smiling at the way I wolfed down our food, Scott asked, "So does any of this bring back memories? Meals from your childhood maybe?"

I thought for a moment, ate another stuffed grapeleaf, and answered, "No, no memories, I don't think. But tasting it isn't like tasting something new. It's like having again something I've been missing, something I know but haven't had in a long time, so you're probably not far off."

"Well, I'm sure Johnny will be glad to know I've won him a new customer."

"Johnny? Doesn't sound very Lebanese."

"I'm sure he's got another name, but Johnny's the only one he tells me." Johnny himself walked up at that moment, and he talked with us about neighborhood gossip and old Lebanese sayings. Scott asked about delivery, and Johnny went on and on about the cost and benefit and why it won't happen this year but maybe next year if his nephew moves into town.

By the time Scott was paying our bill, I was thinking about how normal I felt. Normal wasn't a feeling I often enjoyed. I usually felt odd, out of place. My life always felt like walking into a conversation after all the important stuff had already been said, making me and the people talking feel a little awkward. But Scott had a way of pushing those feelings aside for a while, which was probably one of the reasons I wanted to keep spending time with him. I had hoped to take him back to my place to pick up where we had left off that morning, but Scott apologized and said he had an appointment that afternoon. As he dropped me off at my place, we arranged to meet for dinner the next evening.

There was a message on my machine when I got home. I watched Scott drive away and listened to Vicky's voice.

Amelia, it's Vicky. Um... call me as soon as you can. It's urgent.

The message had been left only minutes earlier. I called her number and she picked up right away. It sounded like she was driving.

"Are you alone?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, a little puzzled.

"Good, I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Vicky, what's this about?"

"I'll tell you when I get there," she said, then hung up.

*******

I was worried for my friend. Vicky had been a good listener on the rare occasions I had felt like talking, but we had never really talked about her life other than superficial topics. For her to be coming to me like this made me wonder if something really bad had happened. Then, as I thought about that, I felt unprepared to deal with someone else's emotional mess. What would I say? What words of wisdom or comfort could I possibly offer? What did I even know that was worth sharing?

Before I could get too worked up in my anxiety, Vicky was knocking at the door. She must have already been on her way over when she called. I let her in and was about to offer her something to drink but she brushed past me and headed straight for the kitchen. She looked flustered and almost angry as she sat down at the table. I bit back a smile at the thought of what Scott and I had done in that seat just a few hours earlier. I considered that, under other circumstances, I might have even told Vicky; she probably would have loved to hear it.

But then she started talking, and I had to refocus my thoughts. Vicky's face was between her hands and she was trembling. She looked up at me with a sad smile and said, "Six years without a smoke and I still crave them. I guess some things just never leave your system, huh?"

I didn't know what to say, so I shrugged and sat down across from her.

She took a deep breath and said, "I saw you leaving a restaurant today. I was finishing my run and was across the street. I didn't... I went home and changed and called you as soon as I could."

So far, this didn't sound like quite the emergency she had made it out to be. "Yeah, I had lunch with Scott, the guy I told you about. He wanted... "

"

That

was Scott? Really?" She seemed even more agitated. "OK, that's... " then she sighed and calmed a little. "He might not be who you think he is, Amelia."

I felt my gut tighten. "You... know him?" I asked, afraid to hear her answer.

She gave me a look of genuine pity and said, "Yes, honey. I'm afraid I do. But first, tell me what he's told you, what you know about him."

I told Vicky how we had met, how I had approached him at the bar and how we had gotten to know each other. I told her how easy it was to talk to him and how we seemed to click. I still omitted any mention of our sexual relationship, since it didn't seem relevant yet. As I talked, I realized I didn't know all that much about Scott. I knew he was a teacher, I knew about his interests, I knew a little about his family and that he was divorced. I didn't know anything about his past, though. Maybe since I never talked about mine, it didn't bother me that he avoided talking about his. Now, however, it started to look like a red flag.

Vicky seemed very satisfied with my answer. "It's not too late, then," she said softly, smiling at me. "You had me worried, dear." Then she reached out her hand and stroked my cheek softly. "Has he... hit you?"

I jerked my head back in surprise. "Hit me? No! No, of course not! Why would he... Why would you ask that? He's been so sweet and kind."

"They always are at first," she said. "The abusive ones, I mean."

I just stared at Vicky, not believing what she seemed to be implying.

"I know...

Scott

." She emphasized his name with clear disgust. "You see, he used to work at my school. He's a real charmer, isn't he? He figures out just what you like, and then he gives it to you. He gets into your head that way, makes you feel like only he really understands you. But then he gets obsessed and possessive. And before you know it, he's trying to control you. And then the hitting starts."

"No," I whispered. I couldn't picture him hurting me... or anyone. But I could see the other things she mentioned- getting in my head, figuring out what I liked. He

was

a little obsessive! I had chalked it up as him being 'romantic', but maybe that was naïve.