Chapter 9

"My sister Colleen is in town with her partner for the wedding I told you about,” Lee said on the phone early Friday morning. “I completely spaced out meeting them at The Baked Potato tonight after ball. She just called and reminded me. Come with me. My sister's partner, Arlene, is a real kick. I'm sure you'll like her. We can go straight from our game, since the restaurant is on Ventura, like three blocks from the club. I'd love you to join us. For once, just say 'yes.'"

I lay in bed stroking Face and staring out the side window at sunlight shimmering through the pines. Lee's voice was soothing, warming, like the comforter I snuggled under. I knew I should decline. If meeting his friends sent him, and/or them the wrong message, the same reasoning, even more so, applied to meeting his family.

"You'd really be helping me out," he continued. "My sister's been on my case since I separated. She's afraid I'm isolating too much."

"Are you?"

"Not since I met you."

I smiled, silently sharing his sentiments. He'd been distracting me from paralyzing loneliness since we'd met. Then recall summoned reason. The past few weeks I'd brought up the state of our relationship several times, iterating my commitment to just friendship between us. Lee had promised me he had no interest in a “rebound fling” after just divorcing, least of all with me, though intuition knew it a lie. His lavish attention, his consistent generosity, how he looked at me, the softness of his lips with his quick parting kisses told me he wanted more. The right thing would have been to walk away— end it, thank him for some great shared moments and then go, but I didn't. It felt as if I couldn't. After a month and a half of adventures, laughter, good food, great talks, easy company, and consistent hard ball keeping me lean, the idea of being without Lee filled me with the frigid cold I imagined accompanies death.

"Come on, Ray. If I'm the odd one out they'll spend most of dinner lecturing me on how to treat a woman, punctuated by weighted sighs of sympathy I'm back to being single. Help me out tonight and be the buffer between me and my sister.”

To displace the image of my mother's pinched expression reserved exclusively for her still single daughter, I got the clicker from the nightstand and turned on the morning news. The distraction did not dilute the guilt motivating me to repay his generosity. The least I could do is be a friend when he needed one, so I reluctantly accepted Lee's invitation. The Rodney King video was on KTLA. Stan Chambers was reporting on the pending police brutality case being moved to the all-White, very conservative community of Simi Valley, followed by another of his 'travesty of justice,' diatribes. I shook my head in disgust, but I didn't turn it off as I got out of bed to began my day.

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Of course we got high on the five minute drive from the courts to the Baked Potato in Universal City, which isn't a city, has no zip code, but is a group of businesses looking for cache' close to the studios atop the hill. The jazz club's façade was barn-like, black two by fours crisscrossing gaudy red paneling. A big box sign illuminated a brown comic potato holding music notes, the Baked Potato was scrawled across the side of the building in yellow neon.

Lee had made a reservation, and without delay the Glamour cover-girl hostess led us past the waiting crowds gathered at the entrance to our table. It was dark inside, no windows, the walls plastered with posters and photos of musicians and celebrities posing with the club owners. It held only twenty or so tables, in rows of five for prime viewing, most already filled. We were seated at the only corner booth in the place, along the farthest wall from the cramped stage. No musicians yet, and I was glad it was too early for the entertainment. Conversing over music isn't easy.

Lee seemed tense as he scanned the crowd, his eyes darting from person to person then finally landing on someone at the entrance. "Hey, there they are." He stood and waved to his sister and her partner as they emerged from the crowd now spilling into the dining room.

I stood to greet them as they approached the table. Colleen looked remarkably like Lee. She was about his height, and stocky—aka fat for a woman. She had long brown hair worn loose that fell over her shoulders and brushed the tops of her ample breasts. Arlene was lean, verging on petite, and virtually flat, with short, wavy auburn hair worn wild. They were both dressed casually, jeans and the like. Colleen's maroon sweatshirt had Northwestern printed across it, and upon inquiry she told me she got an MS in microbiology there in ‘78. Seated inside the dim club, she referred to her school days as ‘life simplified,' and the real world as a statistician for the Bureau of Land Management akin to being stuck in the Ninth Circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. She was smart, articulate, funny, and I liked Lee's sister.

Arlene was equally engaging. A veteran BLM commissioner, she vehemently expressed her anger at big lumber, and used mostly expletives to convey her frustrations with them "legally annihilating our forests," while we ate our stuffed potatoes filled with everything from bacon to salmon.

Colleen and Arlene did most of the talking during the meal. Lee and I listened attentively and questioned for clarity.

"Hey, why don't you both come up for New Year's?" Colleen asked. "We have a great ranch house nestled in the redwoods just outside Medford, Oregon. It'd be a blast to hang out together, cook some huge elaborate meal and play board games all night. We can watch the Rose Parade in the morning like we did when we were kids, remember Lee?"

"We'll clear out the solarium, put the inflatable mattress in there, make it cozy for you two," Arlene suggested. "It's a great space, and totally private in there."

Lee fixed his eyes on mine, searching. Hopeful, maybe?

"Oh God, I'm sorry." Arlene seemed suddenly mortified. "You aren't together, are you?" She glared at Lee, then at Colleen. "We thought you two were a couple."

"Lee told us all about you, raved about how smart you are, how you challenge him to think, unlike that flighty bitch ex-wife of his." Colleen glanced at her brother. "In all the years this kid's been dating, he's never been with anyone like you."

"His match, she means," Arlene chimed in. "You guys just seem so easy with each other."

Colleen meant it as a compliment, but it was really a slam on Lee. She inferred her brother had been with losers, either because he preferred women lesser than, as most men seemed to, or he couldn't get better.

Lee shook his head and looked out at the increasingly crowded room.

"You're both still welcome to come up for New Year's." Colleen said. "You can take the solarium, and Lee can sleep on the living room couch—"

"Absolutely," Arlene said enthusiastically. "Whatever you guys want to do, we can make it work."

Lee looked at me but he was expressionless, wore a poker face now.

"Actually, I'm going to Colorado in a couple weeks to be with a friend and her family for the holidays." I looked at the women as I spoke, knowing my words would likely hurt Lee. "It's an annual tradition, been going out there every year for years now."

There was an awkward silence, and then Colleen reiterated her offer to her brother alone. Both women spoke at great length about the astounding beauty of the Great Northwest, and suggested adventures from skiing to mountain biking to rafting.

"I'll let ya know if I can make it. I have to look at my calendar. Not sure what else is going on right now," Lee said lightly, but he avoided eye contact with me.

The opening band, before the actual band, both of whom I didn't know since I don't particularly like jazz, began playing. Four men in their mid-30s to late-50's were crowded on the stage, and they weren't bad, though very disruptive to conversation. We listened through the first set then Lee called for the check. He insisted on paying for everyone, put two $100 bills in the small black leather folder and then got up, paused for all of us to follow his lead, then led us out of the packed club.

At the valet booth, Colleen and then Arlene hugged Lee, then each hugged me heartily, as if I were part of the family, or like they wished I would be.

The moment the valet shut my door, Lee punched in the lighter, reached above his visor for the Marlboro pack and then took out a joint as he put the Mercedes in motion. The lighter popped out and he lit it with a long, deep draw. He did not look at me as he blew out the smoke, put back the lighter, and pulled rather abruptly out of the club's driveway onto Ventura Blvd.

"What's going on? What are you so pissed about?"

He glanced at me but still wore his poker expression. "My sister doesn't have a clue about my relationships, marriage or otherwise. We didn't talk for seven years, and even now I hardly ever get into details with her because she always has something critical to say."

"Why do you care what your sister thinks, unless you think she's right?" It wasn't meant to cut, but then, maybe it was.

"About what? That I've never had a relationship worth a damn?" He paused. "Maybe that's what I'm trying to change with you." He didn't look at me with his delivery, but kept his focus on driving as he pulled into the racket club's almost empty parking lot.

Shit. About the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him. I'd not meant for our attraction to run this deep. I knew he wanted more from me all along. And I selfishly listened to his words, instead of his feelings. I should have laid it on the line a month ago, made sure he heard me, understood I didn't want more with him, ever.

He pulled along side my car and turned off his, then finally looked at me. His focus was intense, like with racquetball or Tavli, except now, on me. It felt wildly connected, like he was inside my head. Then he brought his hand to my cheek gently, pulled me in to meet him halfway and kissed me. His full lips spread heat through mine, his thick hand on my cheek sent warmth down my neck and into my chest and right down to my crotch, igniting the pleasure centers of my brain, which instantly went to war with the smarter part of me.

Lee pulled back, clearly picking up on my trepidation, then fixed his eyes on mine, focusing all his attention on me again to glean what I was feeling, except even I wasn't sure. He dropped his hand from my cheek, leaving it cold and I convulsively shivered. He caught it, smiled, then took another hit, like a Pavlovian response to the joint in his hand, then offered it to me. I declined with a shake of my head to rid myself of my duplicity.

"You know, I don't know if you're messing with my feelings on purpose or not. You invite me in, but keep me away." Lee paused, put the roach in the ashtray.

Ah. A moment of truth. Tell him what he wanted to hear and maintain our friendship, or share my fears and risk losing him. I'd fallen in love with Lee's beauty, yet knew his beast and was so overwhelmed with opposing voices in my head I was speechless.

“I need more from you, Ray.” He sighed audibly. "I can't keep pretending this is enough for me. It's not. I want to be with you, all the way, in every way—show you how great we can be together. And I'm not looking for just sex with you. I want to make love to you, Rachel. I've had many fuck buddies over the years, my dear. I want more with you than that.” His eyes were locked on mine. “And though I'm not looking to marry you tomorrow, I want to be the last man, the only man you ever sleep with again." He paused, waiting, but I was still speechless, trying to formulate a response he would hear this time.

"It would be grand to live happily ever after with you, Lee. You know how much I love being with you. We've been together practically every day for the past month, and they've been some of the best times in my life .” I stopped there because I was repeating the same speech I'd delivered to him multiple times already, in which he'd said he was fine with remaining just friends. “But we'd be a disaster as a couple. We're both undeniable obsessives, forever teetering on the edge of self-control. Your 'frivolous indulgence' with weed is clearly an all day, everyday affair. And I'm with you, sweetie. I'd stay perpetually buzz if living numb actually made anything better in the long run. You're a self-proclaimed gambler, owe closed to half a million in back taxes. You own nothing, not your car, or condo, not even a credit card. You're clearly still irresponsible with money, spending it like you do. And I hardly make enough to support myself, let alone kids.” I stayed fixed on him. He maintained a poker face, and I wondered if my words were getting through. “I'm 33 years old, Lee. I'm looking to find a man who's ready to father children now, has the means to support a family, and stopped living like a kid after he graduated college." I finally did the right thing and told him the unvarnished truth.

There was a pregnant pause between us, and he looked away. I literally felt him tightened, walled up and disconnect from me. "I told you I quit gambling, and that I'm dealing with my tax issues. And I object to the ‘undeniable obsessive' remark. I can quit using weed any time. I don't believe in doomed to the affliction of addiction, like AA and NA and all the other bullshit Anonymous groups out there are peddling. Bad habits are just that— cast and fueled by poor choices based on a faulty premise. I take shit out there because I prefer living the extreme." He flashed a quick, punk grin. "But I can walk away from most anything when I choose to. And I don't get what the hell difference it makes anyway. Half the globe is on Prozac, or alcohol, or religion, or energy drinks and power bars. Most everyone uses something to get through the day."

"Whatever." Tension crept up my neck into the base of my head. "You are a master at rationalization, Lee,” I practically whispered to suppress screaming at him. “And that's why you scare the hell out of me."

He laughed, derisively, or maybe I was projecting.

"It's not just about weed, Lee. People like us are consistent prey to instant gratification. I have a hard enough time fighting my own cravings. I don't have the energy to be the arbiter of yours too. As much as I love being with you, I don't want to end up hating you in a month or a year down the line because you possess the very same frailties I hate in myself."

He didn't look at me. I felt his separation as silence lingered, like an expanding wall between us.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." He sighed, shook his head but still didn't look at me. “I want to be with you, Rachel, but only if you want to be with me, not some version of who you want me to be." It seemed like he was going to say more, but didn't.

The truth of his words cut. Humbled. I felt myself crave him all the more as he withdrew. But I knew Lee wanted more than my mind and body. He wanted my heart and soul, and those I could not give him. He couldn't be trusted with them— to put me, even our potential children before his obsessions. "I'm sorry, Lee. We'd be a train wreck together. And I just can't afford to waste any more time on boys masquerading as men."

He looked away again, let the silence linger, a chasm now between us. "You know, I'm thinking we should stop hanging out so much then, give us both some time to find what we need." He paused, as if carefully choosing his words. "I'm sorry, Ray. Unless we're moving towards something more intimate, I'm going to have to move on."

I stopped breathing. My body tightened. Ground slipped away and I was suddenly free-falling. Warm tears slid down my cheeks before I knew I was crying. "Are you telling me you don't want to be friends anymore?" I knew it was right to let him walk, but I couldn't conceive of my life without him in it. “We can just play ball.” I suggested softly, my voice small. Without racquetball we'd never see each other, maybe ever again.

"I think we need some time apart,” Lee said softly. “I want a partner, too, Ray, a best friend to share my life. And I won't be looking for one if I'm spending all my time with you." He volleyed my words to Michael back at me. He looked at me, scrutinized me, and in that moment we connected again. We stayed fixed on each other and I somehow knew he was giving me the moment to retract or modify what I'd just said and give us some hope for the future. But I didn't. I couldn't. It had already taken me way too long to do the right thing.

Lee shook his head and sighed, defeated. And he suddenly seemed a million miles away. "'A man never knows how to say goodbye.'"

His distance intensified my longing. "'And a woman never knows when to say it.'" I finished the quote from Helen Rowland, the early 20th century writer.

"Touché." He sighed again. "Rachel, you are brilliant, and beautiful, and broken, my dear, if you can't get beyond your fear." He waited for me to respond and when I didn't, couldn't, he finally spoke. "I guess we're done then. I'm gonna take off."

NO! Don't go, I wanted to beg, but didn't. Desperation pummeled reason, siding with Lee that weed was a non-issue I was making into a problem because I was afraid of commitment. I'd conjured the other issues as well. He was done with gambling, and was paying off his taxes, as he'd said. His ex was to blame for his divorce. His focus with racquetball, Tavli, food was passion, not obsession. But even desperation could not silence my intuition which flat out insisted anything beyond friendship with Lee would be emotional suicide. The void between us became a black hole.

"I'll miss you," he said softly. "I hope you find what you're looking for, get the life you want.” He glanced at me as if we were passing strangers. “Take care of yourself.” He started the engine. “Bye, Rachel."

I was being dismissed and dignity insisted I leave. After a moments pause I opened the car door. "Bye, Lee." I whispered, then counted to three, hoping he'd say something to stop me, but he didn't. I got out, shut the door, and the separation felt as if scissors cut the cord between us. I stood there watching Lee pull away, his headlights momentarily sweeping the half full parking lot, leaving blackness in their wake as he exited onto Ventura and drove away.

Then my skin started to crawl with the frenzied anxiety that comes from withdrawal.

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