MAGICAL THINKING
The cottage is private, at the end of the property just a few yards from the lake, which is tranquil at night. Dylan’s sitting quiet in the corner, his eyes closed. He’s finally meditating and I’m not going to interrupt and tell him about creepy Fan. I read the letter three times and each pass it feels a little less weird. It’s probably nothing.
His eyes blink open and for a change he looks relaxed. “How do you feel?” I ask.
“Good. Calm, centered. I can think more clearly.”
“Excellent,” I say.
“I have a few questions.”
“Hit me.”
“Do I have to empty my mind completely when I meditate? Or can I imagine kissing you, then sinking my cock into your sweet, wet pussy?”
I bite back a smile. “The goal is to release all thoughts. Concentrate on one word that brings you back to peace.”
“What if my word is ‘Evie’s sweet wet pussy?’”
“That’s four words. Besides, that’s not the best way to empty your dirty mind of dirty thoughts.”
“I’ve got a way. Come here,” he says, pulls me to him, pulls me on top of him and kisses me thoroughly, teeth scraping my lower lip, tongue exploring my mouth. He tangles his hands through my hair, pulls back a little and tugs on one long lock. “Mom likes you.”
“I like your Mom,” I say.
“I like you in a different way than Mom,” he says, his erection growing in record time, pressing insistently against my pelvis and the V between my legs throbs. He pulls my top over my head and tosses it onto the braided rug on the white wooden floor.
“I hope so,” I say, and tug the zipper down his jeans, his erection springing free. We make love like furtive teenagers, quietly, passionately, trying not to wake the folks in the main house a few hundred yards away. I come in soft moans and he follows shortly thereafter. We lie spent and sweaty, limbs entangled on the bed in his parents’ bungalow.
“Turns out coming home wasn’t all that bad after all,” he says. “Turns out coming home is pretty sweet with you here. You might be a miracle worker, Evie.”
The Saturday Summer potluck at Lighthouse Cathedral has been on the calendar for months.
Dylan plunks our beers down on a picnic table in the middle of the tree-lined park between Lighthouse Cathedral and a modern building with ‘Prayer Hall’ painted in giant metallic gold letters on the side. “You sit here. With Mom,” he says. “I’ll get us plates from the buffet table. Anything special you want, Evie?”
“You pick,” I say.
“Mom, you want anything?” he asks.
“Danica already took my order,” she says.
Ten minutes pass. Rosemary’s surrounded by friends and parishioners hanging on her every word. I doubt any of them knows her surgery’s coming up in a few days, and she’s not the kind of person to play the sympathy card.
A short, pretty brunette wearing jeans, platform sandals, and a cotton floral print peasant shirt walks up to our table and drops off a plate of food. “Can I get you ladies refills on drinks?” she asks.
“We’re good, Danica,” Rosemary says, and holds out her hand.
Danica squeezes it tight.
“Thank you. Have you met Evelyn?”
“No,” she says and extends a French manicured hand, diamond tennis bracelet sliding over her chunky gold watch. “Danica McAlister. Pleasure to meet you, Evelyn. If I knew Dylan was going to leave you here so long with the prayer ladies I would have prepared a plate for you too.”
I get a sweet vibe from her. “Call me Evie.”
“Evie it is. How long are you in town for?”
“Not very long.”
“Danica!” Patrick calls from a dozen yards away on the opposite end of the park and beckons. He’s surrounded by doughy middle-aged men who look like they were just carted in off the golf course.
She rolls her eyes. “The ball and chain beckons. Chat soon?”
“Yes.”
She walks in Patrick’s direction.
I crane my neck and see Dylan a dozen yards away holding two jumbo-sized paper plates heaped with food, talking with three guys his age. He meets my eyes and nods.
“I’m Becky Littlefield.” A coiffed thirty-something woman with dragon red lips and fingernails plunks down opposite me at the table. “Pleased to meet you.” She extends her hand and we shake.
“Evelyn,” I say, and try not to cringe. Her acrylic nails press so hard into my palm I fear they’re leaving indentations.
“Becky Littlefield of the North Dallas Littlefields,” she says. “Not to be confused with the Houston Littlefields.”
“Right.” I pull my hand back, wondering if it needs triage.
“I took back my maiden name after I got divorced. It’s so nice to see Dylan again. It’s been too long. How’d you two meet?” She sips from her fruit-adorned red plastic cup.
“A set-up.”
“A matchmaking service? I’ve been thinking about doing that too. Is that how Dylan finally got past the whole Dixie debacle?”
“I’ll let Dylan tell that story.” I sip from my beer.
“I don’t know if he shared with you or not.” She stares at Dylan and when he glances in our direction and waves, she says, “But the four of us hung out together during college summer breaks.”
“The four of you?”
“Dixie, Dylan, Patrick and me.”
“Oh.” She hung out with Dylan’s ex-wife? Awkward.
“We boated on Lake Grapevine. The McAlister brothers talked us girls into skinny dipping with them more than a few times. They’re so handsome. A little wild for pastor’s boys.”
I glance at Dylan. He smiles at me and winks as if we have a secret. I guess we do. I doubt he’s told anyone about how we really met.
“I got separated right around the time Patrick got married,” Becky says. She stares at Patrick who’s standing next to Danica, her bejeweled hand resting on his arm. “Bummed I missed my window, but Danica’s seems sweet, and she’s from a good family, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“The Dixie thing. Don’t believe every story you hear about how that went down.” She picks at the potato salad on her plate. “In my humble opinion, I think everybody was a little to blame. Where are you from again? Obviously, not from around here.”
“Chicago,” I say and tip back a cold beer, staring pointedly at Dylan, wishing he would get his ass back here.
“Dixie had her eyes set on the McAlister boys since freshman year in college. She wanted Patrick but he wouldn’t pay her the time of day. He wanted someone with a better pedigree.”
“Pedigree?”
“Respectable parents. Breeding. Background. Dixie’s parents were trailer trash. Patrick always planned on taking over the family business and he wanted a girl who came from a good family.”
“Patrick’s a pastor?”
“No, sugar.”
“Isn’t the family business…” I gaze up at the Je-normous cross on the lawn, “Lighthouse Cathedral?”
“Oh, Patrick’s not interested in the preaching part,” Becky says. “He’s got an MBA. He wants to manage the money. He wanted to marry a girl who came from a good family because he knows how judgmental church people can be.”
“Got it,” I say, glancing around the crowd of at least a hundred people ranging from squidgy babies in bouncers to octogenarians in wheelchairs. The babies look the least judgmental.
“Are you and Dylan an item?”
“Yes, Evie and I are an item, Becky.” As if on cue he hustles up and unloads the plates heaped with casserole and salads, fried chicken and biscuits. He takes a seat next to me. “Sorry! I got stuck in the deadly Texas triangle of former high school football friends one hasn’t seen in forever.”
“Nice to see you, Dylan,” Becky says. “Can’t blame a friend for asking. I didn’t hear you were dating anyone special after, well, you know, your unfortunate breakup. I never forgave Dixie for that, just so you know who’s side I’m on.”
Well clearly she’s on Dylan’s side. As well as his front, back, center, and any other square inch of him that she can eye fuck right now while she leans across the table, touching her throat and batting her eyelashes.
“Evie and I also go way back,” Dylan says, leaning in and kissing my cheek. “Right, honey?”
“Right.”
“Evie says you all were set up.”
“Yes. A mutual acquaintance. I spotted her and thought, ‘That girl’s special. She’s got a look in her eyes.’” He squeezes my arm and grins.
“The look was a smudge of eyeliner and mascara,” I say.
“And super cute on you. Technically, we didn’t start dating until recently.”
“I had a feeling it was recent,” Becky says, a relieved look washing over her face. She scoops up her designer bag from the picnic table. “Gotta say hi to Patrick. Other folks. Great meeting you, Amy.”
“Evie,” I say.
“See you around Dylan.” She walks away, then pauses. “I told you I got divorced, right?”
“Yes,” he says.
I lean into him and whisper, “The hot stripper vibe is already working its magic back in your home town.”
“I’m spanking you when we’re back at the cottage,” he says and we both cover giggles.
Saturday afternoon the McAlister family takes the boat out on Lake Grapevine. Patrick, Danica, and Dylan take turns water skiing. Rosemary hands me a wrapped sandwich from a cooler. Dylan climbs up the boat’s steps, and grins as he deliberately shakes his wet head, spraying water in my direction.
“Stop!” I shake my finger at him.
“You ever water ski, Evie?” Reverend McAlister asks from behind the steering wheel.
“No.”
“You’d love it,” Danica says, tipping back a beer.
“I’ll teach you how to water ski,” Dylan says.
“I’ll pass. I’m not the best swimmer in the world.”
“Come on,” Dylan says. “Live life!”
“She doesn’t have to ski if she doesn’t want to,” Rosemary says, squeezing sun screen out of a tube onto her palm. “Stop being so pushy.”
“We should get back in time for the reception tonight,” Bill McAlister says and turns the boat around.
“I’m not going,” Dylan says. “I have a game.”
“I thought you canceled that,” Patrick says.
“I told him not to,” Rosemary says. “Stop being so bossy. I’m not going either.”
“Do I have to go?” Danica asks.
“Yes,” Patrick says.
“Do you have to meet with these people tonight, Bill?” Rosemary asks. “Why can’t you do that tomorrow after services?”
“This has been on the schedule for months, Rosemary,” he says. “The Bethany Synod elders flew in from Oklahoma. We need to hammer out the details for the convention next year.”
“I don’t know if I have ‘next year’,” she says. “I’d rather spend the rest of the day on the water with my family.”
A hush falls, just the sound of the engine and the boat cutting through the water.
“You said you didn’t want to talk about that this weekend,” Bill says.
“I changed my mind.” She juts her chin out defiantly. “If I don’t say things now, when in the hell am I going to say them?”
Patrick and Danica gaze pointedly out across the water rushing by the motor boat’s wake. Dylan eyes me, his board shorts wet, his legs already turning pink because they haven’t seen sunshine in God knows how long.
“It’s the elephant in the room,” Rosemary says. “I’m having surgery in a few days. If we can’t talk about our feelings now, when are we going to talk about them? Why don’t we just get it all out the next couple of days? Let the shit fly. Let the love fly.”
“Hear, hear,” Danica says, grabbing another beer.
“Not a great idea, Mom.” Patrick runs a hand through his hair.
“I love you, Mom,” Dylan says. “I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.”
“I love you too, Dylan,” she says. “I forgive you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick says. “Can we just go home?”
“That’s the point, Patrick,” Rosemary says. “That’s what we’re finally doing.”
Danica walks with me from the dock to the main house. “I confess I’ve only met Dylan a few times,” she says. “But this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. I think you’re good for him.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome. Look, I know what happened between him and Patrick. A world of hurt feelings. But Patrick wasn’t the only shithead responsible for that mess.”
“Dylan?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He handled it the best he could. Dixie was a shithead. She was mad at Dylan for not wanting to be a bigger part of Lighthouse, not taking a more substantial role. She walked out on him and slept with Patrick, who was drunk. Afterwards, he felt like an asshole but Dixie had already bragged to Dylan and the damage was done.”
“Yikes,” I say. “That explains some things.”
“Patrick apologized to Dylan but that fell on deaf ears. What a mess. Possibly the biggest shithead in this whole mess was Lighthouse Cathedral. So many expectations. The bar is set so high that failure becomes more the norm than success.” She pauses before walking in the main house. “You coming inside?”
I look at my watch. I have to meet the Ma Maison client at Sycamore Springs Country Club in a few hours and there’s something I need to finish with Dylan before I go. Just dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. “Nope. I’m wiped from the day.”
“Time out on the boat and the sunshine can do that to you.”
“I think it was the Lighthouse picnic.”
She frowns. “That too. Don’t let these Lighthouse holier-than-thou assholes get to you, Evelyn. Trust me, someone’s going to try. They did with me.”
Dylan lies naked in bed. His skin is flushed either from too much sun out on the boat or because I’m straddling him, caressing his face, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach – basically everything on his glorious body except for his dick. His cock’s rock hard from me brushing my wet pussy across his stomach. Yes, I’m turned on, but more importantly I’m determined to get to the bottom of his messed up core wound, and find the bitter belief that’s shutting him down.
“Baby,” he says, his breathing coming faster. “You’re killing me.”
“Me too. Remember a few days ago when you found the scar on my head when we were fooling around?”
“Yes.”
“I think we were onto something. We were close to finding the thing that’s zapping your mojo. You’ve got a game tonight. Want to try again? You know — before the game?”
“What do you want to do,” he asks, eyes wide.
I know he wants me to let this go because right now he just wants to fuck me. That would be the easy thing. I’ve never really done this before, this sex and empathy and healing thing blended together. I might just make a big fat mess of this and then hopefully we’ll both have a good laugh at my expense and I can live with that. What I can’t live with is knowing I got this close and I gave up. That’s not who I am.
“Mold your hand onto my skin. Mold your hand into the scar.” I take his hand and place it on the scar on my head, an inch into my hairline. “Every scar has a story.”
“Why are we doing this, again Evie? Are you sure we can’t just have sex?”
“No. Trust me, Dylan. Close your eyes. Feel this scar, tell me its story, and then we can have sex.”
He closes his eyes. “Scars happen after you’ve been sliced open. Injured. Suffered.”
“Tell me more.”
“Scars happen when the body tries to repair tissue because pain has torn into the body. The worst scars usually happen with the toughest injuries.”
“Yes. What does my scar feel like?”
He crinkles his forehead. “It feels like it’s pushing me out. Pushing my hand away. Something bad happened to you Evie.”
“It did.”
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Queasy asks, flip-flopping dramatically in my stomach.
‘Keep going,’ Hope says, throwing an encouraging fist punch, and I get a hit of adrenaline.
“Let’s not talk about me right now.” I still my hand on his chest. I close my eyes and silently count three, two, one. I move into the empathic layer within me. The outside world drifts away and I feel.
I simply feel.
Heaviness fills my chest. I wade into the ocean of Dylan’s sorrow, the waters rising. The weight of the world wears on my shoulders and I am eighty-four years old, not twenty-four. His core wound is within me. It’s furtive, panting, eyes darting, sneaky, staying one step ahead of me. But it’s been stealing from him for a while now, and like any thief who hasn’t been caught in a while, it’s growing bloated from its undeserved, vampiric success.
I circle it, my hand skimming across Dylan’s body as the predator twists inside him. It disappears behind a black veil of fear. Dare I go there? Dare I pull back the curtain? Who am I to confront Dylan’s shitty belief? I’m no hero. I boast no supernatural abilities to lift myself up. I’m just a rental date who met him a few weeks ago wearing a borrowed dress.
But I’m also the girl who willed life back into Wyatt Wolfe. I’m the girl who puts others’ needs first – my mom’s my sister’s. I’m the girl who has to try. I need to identify these sensations. The heaviness, the drowning, feel familiar. And then it dawns on me that I’ve already been given the answer.
Guilt.
“I love you, Mom,” Dylan said to his mother on the boat. “I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.”
“I love you too, Dylan,” she said. “I forgive you.”
Dylan found out Dixie cheated with his brother and it wrecked him and he left. He bailed. He stayed away. He’s felt guilty ever since. It’s killing his mojo. But the funny thing is, that guilt’s not going to make his mom better.
Losing his game, screwing up the life he built is not going to make his mom better. On the other hand, owning these feelings is a big first step toward healing Dylan, healing his relationship with his mother, and getting on with all the love that they share.
I open my eyes and stare into his. “You feel guilty,” I say.
“About what?”
“When did you leave home?”
“When I found out about Dixie. Five years ago.”
“You left to keep your sanity when your marriage fell apart. You left in anger.”
“Yes.”
“Now your mom’s sick and you’re blaming yourself. Magical thinking,” I say. “We think we can control everything. We can’t.”
“But she is sick and I did leave.”
My hand on his stomach starts sweating as that fucked up belief tries to wriggle away from me. I grit my teeth and hold onto that belief. I’m not letting this sucker go. “If your career crashes and burns, it justifies you returning to Texas and Lighthouse Cathedral. In a strange way, it’s doing you a favor, a service. It’s making the decision for you.”
“That can’t be.” He props himself up on his elbows, looking a little pissed.
“This life no longer suits you.” I don’t move my hand and yet I pull that angry predator out of Dylan inch by squirrely inch. “I get a feeling this life has never suited you. You know how on the boat today you mom forgave you for not coming home?”
“Yes.”
“How did that make you feel?” I pull the guilt into my hand and I capture it. I can almost see it squirming in my palm all, slick and whiny and entitled. I close my fingers into a fist. What a fucking asshole his guilt is. He doesn’t need this wound anymore. He needs to work on healing and get on with it.
“Sad.”
“She forgave you,” I say.
“I shouldn’t have left her.”
“Tell me that you could have stayed.” I lean forward, run my other hand across his face, a finger across his full lips. I kiss him. This man – this delicious man. “Tell me you could stay after what happened with Dixie.”
“You don’t know the worst of it.”
“I do, Dylan.” I slide my hand over his hard dick and he moans. I straddle his thighs, circle his cock with my hand, and lightly run my fist up and down it. “Lighthouse might have a huge congregation, but at the end of the day it’s a relatively small, close-knit community. People talk.”
“Becky?”
I nod. “And others.”
“Do you think I’m an asshole?”
“No. I think you are deserving. I think you are kind. I think you are a bright star on a dark winter night.”
“Really?” His eyes are dark with lust and something else – I’m not sure what.
“Look, Dylan.” I stop stroking his cock and move my core over his. I hold my closed fist in the air and open it.
“What?”
“Remember when you asked me to wish you good luck at the game in Chicago when we met?”
“I do.”
“This is your guilt. Here. In my hand. It’s no longer in you. We’re letting it go. Releasing it to the wild where it can stalk about, grumble that no one understands it anymore. This guilt is no longer yours. Let’s wish it good luck and kiss it goodbye.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I say a silent prayer.
‘Dear God, take Dylan McAlister’s guilt. He’s carried it long enough. It’s time for him to heal. Thank you. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’
“What will I do without it?” he asks as I center my core over his beautiful cock and lower myself onto his hardness. He moans.
I lean forward and fuck him. “Positive things, Dylan. We can work on mantras. ‘I am enough.’ ‘I am forgiven.’ ‘I am calm.’ ‘I am strength.’ ‘I am respect.’ Say the words, Dylan. Say them as you fuck me.”
He says them. “I am strength. I am calm.” He turns me over. He’s on top of me now, staring down into my eyes with a fierceness. “I am forgiven. I am enough,” he says and thrusts into me harder.
“You are.” I wrap my legs around his waist as he penetrates me deep and deeper. He says the words over and over as he fucks me and on the fourteenth or fortieth time, I know he believes them. There’s something different in his touch, in the tone of his voice. It’s clearer. “Evie. Evie!” He climaxes, groaning, chest slick with sweat.
He owns his pain instead of his pain owning him. I know in my bones, that bent, battered, Dylan has broken through.
My beautiful, broken man is finally healing.