I’m sitting at his dining table, an industrial chrome masterpiece, wearing only his t-shirt. He’s making lunch. A very late lunch. We just left his bedroom for the first time in three hours. I’m all weak-limbed and deliriously happy. We didn’t even have sex. Oh, but now I can picture it so vividly that it’s almost enough. Almost. I have never thrown caution to the wind like I did with Maverick. The liberating feeling was a rush. I didn’t worry about if I was doing something right or if my butt looked big. He made me feel comfortable in my own skin without even trying.
“How exactly did you disappear that night? A security guard told me you left in a taxi, which I’m beginning to think is not a fact,” Maverick says.
“Your human lie detector must be off kilter.” I smile. “Gretchen picked me up. She owed me that night for…well, you remember what happened,” I trail off. So damn embarrassing. He turns back to the stove and I take this opportunity to check my messages.
“You should really be a little more thankful. I think she does fine work,” he says, laughing. I groan.
It’s not because Maverick seems to have forgotten about the second-degree burns Gretch graced me with, but my mother called and texted me today. One of them readsI need you. She’s stooping to new levels to get my attention. She couldn’t be bothered to call or visit or be a mother during most of my formative years, but now she needs me. She wants me to visit her.
I sigh. “I have to visit my Mom soon. I read on Google that Navy SEALs go through some pretty horrible, intense training. You don’t sleep for days, they torture you, and so on.” I swallow. I’m about to ask him something I never thought I’d ask anyone else for the rest of my life. “I know you have some time off before you leave, you know, to deploy. Do you want to partake in my personal brand of torture? Maybe visit Kathy with me?” He’s leaving in a month. I think it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. It’s sort of scary, and odd because I have no idea what I expect when he leaves. Will he pause the relationship and we’ll just pick back up when he returns? “I have no idea why she wants me to visit. We’re like oil and water. She’s horrible, Maverick.”
Still shirtless, he comes over to me. He lifts my chin up. “I would be delighted to meet your mom. If she’s half as horrible as you make her sound maybe I can scare her a little for you. Throw off the bad guy vibe,” he tells me, flashing his dimples. “I wanted to ask you to come on a trip with me before I left anyway. We can stop in Georgia before we head out. If you say yes.”
I scoff. Is he serious? “A secret trip and you’re wondering if I’ll go? Of course I’ll go. That actually makes me feel a little better about visiting Kathy. I know it’s just a means to an end. I even have vacation days to use. Where are we going?” I ask.
“I have a training trip in San Diego. There’ll be a lot of down time though, so I want to take you with me. You like the beach and dolphins right?” He remembers my long ramble from our horrible first date. He sits down in the chair opposite from me.
“I love the beach and dolphins. Do you love the beach and dolphins?” I ask, but he knows I’m asking a much bigger question. What the hell does he like? I feel like he never gives out details unless I ask for them. He’s so internal in all ways.
“I actually do like the beach, even though I’ve spent many a nights freezing my balls off in it. I won’t go in the Pacific without a wet suit, though.” The huge smile crinkles his eyes. “Dolphins are okay, but they can be mean too. We have trained dolphins that help catch bad guys in the water. Training with them is painful. I got a cracked rib one night,” he explains and I just kind of stare at him blankly. Normal isn’t something that will ever be associated with Maverick. Getting used to that will take some time. “I can show you them when we visit, if you want.”
“Wow. Okay,” I reply. I look around his spectacular home filled with very expensive, yet tasteful furnishings, and wonder what exactly I’ll find if I can peel away a few more layers of Mr. T. H. Stone told me things that makes some of it make sense, but I feel like there has to be more. I chew on my lip a little bit, searching my thoughts for the right question. He gets up and walks back to the counter.
“I’m sort of a Renaissance man, Windsor. I try to do a little of everything,” he says. I look up at his unexpected confession. When I smile, he goes on, “I built the Chevelle from the bottom up. I enjoy cooking and can even do a little sewing. I can speak a couple foreign languages. During my last deployment I finished up my Masters degree. I appreciate good art and music, electronics make me happy, as does playing a little guitar,” he says. He puts a plate with a pressed Panini sandwich on it in front of me. He takes his seat again in front of me. “I also know that you never button the bottom button on a suit jacket. Tell your friends that tidbit.”
Maverick takes a deep breath.
“I have a bad past, but I don’t like talking about it.” He takes a bite of his lunch and stares at me as he chews. He’s trying to decide what to say next.
I stuff a bite in my mouth, hopeful he’ll keep his mouth running. It’s so uncommon. He swallows.
“My favorite things vary because I get wrapped up in whatever I’m trying. Whatever I’m doing at the moment is my favorite. I want to perfect things. Make them better, make them my own,” he says.
“You’re sort of an anomaly. You know that? You’re not the average Joe,” I reply.
“I don’t deal well with comparisons. That’s something else you should know. I only care about comparing when I’m at fucking Best Buy picking out a new television,” he says. I laugh.
“Don’t compare you to other men. Check,” I say. “I like this free flowing information. It makes me less self conscious about my verbal diarrhea problem.”
Maverick grimaces. “I’m eating, Win,” he says, shaking his head. I guess that was sort of gross.
We finish lunch in silence and I just process everything he’s said. He is so unlike anyone I’ve ever met that I’m not sure what to label him. I suppose he gets his own label. I’m sure he’d appreciate being in that mental category anyways.
“I’m going to jump in the shower,” he says, leaving me alone to process his confessions.
I’m cleaning up his kitchen. It’s so nice and everything is so modern that it’s sort of like a playground figuring out how to conquer the appliance. The minute after he leaves me alone, I hear knocking on a side door and I freaking panic. I don’t have much time to decide what to do because Stone blazes into the house.
I yank down the hem of Maverick’s shirt when he sees me. He stops in the middle of the living room, raises his hands over his head, and screams. I cover my ears because it’s so loud. “Fuck yeah!” Stone cries. “Morg, get your pretty little ass in here.” The door still wide open, Morganna walks through and closes it behind her. She shakes her head.
“God, Stone. Leave her alone,” Morg says to her husband, who seems to be in the middle of some weird freaking touchdown dance. To me, she says, “There’s rules, Windsor.” She sighs. “Even if I don’t agree with them I guess it’s time to spill them. We’ll talk later.”
I just stare at her. Rules? What in the hell does that even mean? I’m so shocked I forgot what I’m wearing and what I look like. This looks like I’m having a sex-filled romp at Maverick’s house. Of course they would assume the worst. Even though I feel like what we did was just as hot, and just as intimate, it still wasn’t sex. We’re going slow. Because Maverick wants to, and I think maybe that’s best for me too.
“I told you she would be here. I told you!” Stone says, pointing at Morganna. She swats at his outstretched hand. “Who is the king, baby? Who is the fucking king?” His dance shifts to some sort of robotic sway. Morganna looks to the ceiling, like she’s lost all patience and faith in humanity. I almost wish I wasn’t here so she didn’t have to endure Stone’s…dance moves.
“You’re the king, honey. You are,” she says, exasperated, merely placating him to save time.
I take this opportunity to flee into Maverick’s bedroom. At some point he grabbed my suitcase out of his car so I have all my things. I hear his shower running so I poke my head in and let him know he has guests. He seems surprised, but not really shocked. So, he does have houseguests that are “just friends.” It’s just the slutty variety he doesn’t allow in his personal realm.
