CHAPTER 21

Sunshine and Rain

Thanks to the bar examination, my appreciation for the Shawshank Redemption and every other prison break movie reached astronomical proportions. Charging out of the David Lawrence Convention Center door felt exhilarating and liberating, but my body was too exhausted to enjoy it. "Hey, Aggie, didn't you say something about making-out with the first guy you saw after the bar?" I asked.

"I vaguely remember saying something like that. Why?" she asked.

I pointed to a homeless guy pushing an old shopping cart down the street. "There's your man."

"Maggie," she said, "I guess it's his lucky day because I'm too tired to kiss anyone. Let's go to Starbucks, I'll buy him a cup of coffee and a bagel instead."

"Aggie, I'm beat," I replied, wondering how it could be possible that even my armpits felt fatigued.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me along, insisting that her blood-caffeine level was dangerously low. Tom trailed along with a dazed look in his eyes. All it took was one shot of espresso to turn his life back on. After downing a second espresso, he gushed about Steph. I nodded appropriately, pretended to listen, and sipped my steaming latte. Surprisingly, their love was still going strong after a whole seven weeks.

The three of us exited the coffee shop together, agreeing that home and sleep held infinitely more appeal than going to dinner and rehashing the test.

A week later, I lounged poolside, soaking up the Boca Raton sunshine. Initially, I decide to leave my laptop at home. To sit, staring at a computer screen all day, would be an insult to the sun and ocean. The idea of a low-tech couple of weeks appealed to my inner beach bum. With the fantasy of being cut off from the world, I left my apartment with one suitcase and a satchel, holding a couple of trashy novels and some gossip magazines.

I made it half way across the lobby of my building before caving. Violently poking the elevator up button, I was disgusted myself for repeatedly becoming addicted to Nick, first his body and now his typing. I huffed the whole way to the car, computer case slung over my shoulder.

I indulged in major self-justification during the flight. Nick was just an old friend, and this pen pal via keyboard relationship was actually entertaining. Face-to-face communication with him always caused problems for me. His face and body distracted my brain, and I forgot how to string words together to form sentences. When his eyes or mouth were inches from my face, I was grateful my heart beat without my conscious assistance.

After day three, my grandma asked me why I carried my laptop everywhere. I shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. "Gram, it's the new magazine, book, and newspaper all rolled into one."

The answer satisfied her because she said maybe it was time to break down and buy one. I offered to take her computer shopping before I left.

On the first Friday afternoon, stretched out on my favorite poolside recliner reading an online celebrity gossip site, I noticed the Hi, Mags, had popped into the lower corner. I shook my head. How does he do it? All he has to do is type the letters of my name and blood gushes to my face.

Hey, Nick, I typed back.

Still soaking up the sun? As much as I enjoy envisioning you in a thong bikini, I'm starting to worry about skin cancer. Please wear a hat and don't forget to reapply the sunscreen every half-hour. I don't ever want some half-assed skin guy hacking into you, marring your delicious everything, he wrote.

Nick, I'm not sure which answer would be more appropriate, 'thanks, Mom,' or 'you're sick.' Let me say it this way. Thank you for your concern and I am taking all safety precautions. Excuse me for a minute. I'll be right back. I have to re-coat my whole body in coconut oil. I smiled as I hit the send button.

I hate you, he typed, bolding the font.

I felt my fingers fly across the keyboard. Wait, I think I missed a spot on the back of my upper thigh.

Bitch, he typed, and I could actually imagine the twinkle in his amazing green eyes.

Before, I could type back another text box popped up. Why did he leave you, Maggie?

My smile went away. I looked at the screen. What difference did it make if I told him? He was in Philly. We'd never see each other again. The worst that could happen was that he would stop our chat dates. But the thought of not chatting with him always brought an ache to my chest.

Maggie? Hello, Mags are you there?

Give me a minute, I finally typed.

The words, Are you still in love with this guy? appeared on my screen.

I knew I had to answer and I didn't want to, but I didn't want to lie either. Inhaling, I typed, I'm not sure. Maybe.

So the break-up wasn't mutual. He really did just leave, Nick typed back.

No, there wasn't anything mutual about it. I came home from the supermarket one Friday afternoon and found him packing, I confessed.

It's totally unbelievable that this ass could walk away from you without a gun to the head being involved.

You left, I wrote.

We've been through that, Maggie. I didn't leave you. You didn't leave me. It was an immature communication problem. Get over it and on with this damn story.

Nick, I'm afraid to tell you why he left. I typed the words and meant them. My body quivered with fear. I couldn't define it, but I knew that the shaking originated in the same place as the tears on the bus. I didn't want to say good bye again.

Whoa, strong words. Why would you be afraid of me? I'm sitting hundreds of miles away. I can't beat you or scream at you. Sucks, though, because there are quite a few other things I'd like to do, but I assure you, nothing to fear, he quipped back.

I'm afraid that if I tell you the truth, you won't want to write to me anymore, I hit the send button and willed the tears in my eyes to go away.

What? Give up writing to you and miss out on my daily sweaty palms and throbbing heart. Drag your mind out of the gutter at the word 'throbbing.' Shame on you, Maggie, for even thinking such a thing. :)

I stared at the screen for a few moments, mentally flipping the coin. Tell him or not tell him. I'm bipolar. There, I said it.

The relief that confessions supposedly bring didn't happen. Instead I felt like vomiting.

That explains a lot. So, Bipolar 1 or 2? he asked.

Nick, does it really matter? And what do you mean by "that explains a lot"? I asked.

No, it doesn't matter. But I'm a doctor, remember. I'm trained to ask that stuff. Sorry. But, Maggie, now, I'm really confused. Why would someone leave you because of something that simple? he asked.

I straightened in the lounge chair at the word simple. Feeling a bit of hope, I typed, He couldn't live with my moods. You didn't answer my question, Nick.

Did you go off of your drugs? Nick asked.

No, I didn't have any drugs. I didn't know what was wrong with me until after he left. I just thought I was weak because I couldn't control my emotions. Answer the question.

The words on the screen flashed at me, but for an extended moment, new words did not appear.

It was July 4^th weekend. I remember because the traffic sucked, and I didn't get into OC until 12:30 a.m. I walked up the steps to the apartment and heard music blaring. When I walked in, you jumped on me and started pulling me toward the door, insisting we go dancing. I was exhausted from work and the drive, but I let you drag me to Margate, Nick typed.

I remember that night. We closed that club and then walked the beach until dawn, I typed and inhaled, knowing exactly where he was going with this.

Every time I suggested we sit in the sand, you insisted we keep walking. I don't even want to know how many miles we covered that night. The whole time we were on the beach, you talked incessantly and chased seagulls. I yawned and tried to keep my eyes open.

After the sun rose, you finally agreed to go back to the apartment. When we climbed into bed, my legs felt like they were still walking. But, you weren't even tired. You kissed me goodnight, picked up your book and started reading. I don't know when or if you finally fell asleep, but I remember that you barely slept the entire weekend, he typed.

I stared at the screen. The energy lasted until Tuesday, and then I crashed, I wrote. I missed three days of work. It was the only time I called in sick all summer. Nick, are you still going to write to me? I know that you left Miss Walnut Street because she was psycho. I thought that when you learned that I really am psycho, you would stop typing.

She was not bipolar, he wrote. She was a mean, evil, jealous, diva. I could have forgiven her if she had a medical excuse. Maggie, seriously, in case you have forgotten, we have spent a lot of time together, and believe me when I say this, there isn't an ounce of psycho in your beautifully structured bones, muscles, arteries, veins, nerves, synapses, and heart.

The blur in my eyes made the screen look fuzzy. How could he be sleazy and wonderful in the same sentence?

Thank you, and to answer your question 2, I wrote as relief loosened the obnoxious knot in the back of my neck.

It's the truth, Maggie. You're sweet to a fault. The guy was an ass to leave. The son-of-a-bitch doesn't deserve you, he typed.

The bad thing about South Florida was rain clouds could move in fast and unnoticed. Large drops began falling on my head.

Rain falling. I have to close the computer quick. Thank you.

I grabbed my computer and towel and ran into the building lobby. While standing patiently waiting for the elevator doors to open, a man, woman, and their two small children ran in from the rain. The kids slogged around their parents, faces flushed and clothing drenched, begging for permission to run back outside. The father scooped the little boy under one arm and the little girl under the other. He did an imitation of a car engine as he rushed back outside for just a second. The kids squealed as he ran and the glowing mother stood inside the door, clapping in delight. I got into the elevator and watched the door close.

During the first week of vacation, I enjoyed the quiet. My grandparents left me alone to do nothing during the day, and each evening we would have dinner together, talk, and watch movies. Stephanie crushed my plans for the second week by informing me that she and Tom were spending the week at his parent's condo in Myrtle Beach. I couldn't decide if I should be happy that they were still going strong or angry at her for dumping me. Stephanie told me to drop the do-not-hurt-him warnings. After too many glasses of wine one evening, she called blubbering about how much she loved him and there would never be another. He was The One. I let her ramble and at the end of the conversation threatened to pluck out each hair on her head individually if she hurt him.

When vacation ended, I kissed my grandparents good-bye near the security check and flew home. A few weeks later, I found myself hanging pictures of Kelsey and the rest of my family on the walls of my very own cubicle. I couldn't have been happier.

The nights that I didn't chat with Nick, were lonely. A few times, I tried to email Sam, but a neon light flashing in front of my mind's eye always flashed the words, "defective" and "bipolar."

A couple of days before receiving my first paycheck, I called the one company in Ellwood that manufactured tombstones. The lady on the phone was really helpful in explaining the ordering process until we reached the part where I had to tell her what I wanted engraved on the front.

"Well, I would like her name to be in the center and around it, carved daisies linked together by their stems. Then in each of the four corners--"

"Excuse me, Maggie, you lost me at the 'carved daisies linked together by their stems.' Slow down and start over."

I tried again to describe exactly what I wanted, but she wasn't getting the picture I was sending. After a half-hour of miscommunications, I offered to create the image and email it to her.

The monument--the lady did not refer to it a tombstone--cost a lot more than I anticipated, so instead of paying cash, I put the down payment on my credit card. No big deal, I thought to myself. Ella was worth a few dollars of interest payments. The lady told me the stone would be ready to set sometime after Thanksgiving. The minute she hung up the phone, I placed a call to my Aunt Rose to tell her about my order and to see if she could come to the unveiling. We chatted about Ella and the stone for a while, and she promised to come.

That evening, I flipped open the computer and started looking for good clipart daisies. Hi, Mags, popped up in the usual corner.

Hey, Nick.

What are you doing? he asked.

Looking for clip art daisies I can use in the design for my Aunt Ella's tombstone, I typed back.

A few conversations ago, I had told him about Ella and my plan to buy her a tombstone, and he sincerely sounded--typed--disturbed when I told him that she spent her entire life locked up in that awful hospital. Nick didn't freak out when I mentioned other family members with mental illness. One evening, he cracked me up by insisting that Steph wasn't normal, and he started listing potential disorders for her. I think we finally diagnosed her as an anomaly in the hoarder category. She replaced junk and cats with men and purses.

He began his second year of residency on September first and was spending more and more time at the hospital, but he didn't let it decrease our chat time.

Sorry, can't help you with clip art, he typed. I just figured out emoticons a few months ago :) I'm a straight text type of guy. Graphics are beyond me. Of course, if you would like to share a graphic of you in the shower, I would learn to download JPEG files.

Ha, ha, like that will ever happen. You would plaster it on the internet and destroy my future political career, I shot back.

I didn't know that you were interested in politics, he wrote.

I'm not. It's just another reason to keep you out of my bathroom, I replied, smiling as I hit the Send button.

Ah, you're just plain mean, he wrote.

For a few seconds, I shifted my eyes from the screen to the ceiling, in an effort to think of something funny to type when an idea hit me.

Okay, Nick. Here's the deal, I promise if you are ever in my neighborhood, exactly when I am in the shower, I will let you pull up a chair and watch.

Tease, flashed across the screen.

No, really, Nick, I mean it. If you ever happen to find yourself in Pittsburgh, near the Pitt campus, which is my neighborhood, you can stop by my apartment, and if I am about to step into the shower, I will grant you a front-row seat. I hit the Send button.

Deal, he typed back.

Now, let's switch to a topic that does not involve my personal hygiene. What are you doing now?

I left work and I'm now sitting at my usual booth, waiting for the greasy-haired man to cook my dinner, he wrote.

Anything good? I didn't wait for an answer. Hey, Nick, do you remember the night you decided to cook me and Steph a crab dinner?

Yeah, it cost me a fortune. Who would guess that crabs only needed to be in the boiling water for six minutes? Six minutes doesn't seem like enough time to cook anything, well maybe ramen noodles, he typed.

I'll never know why you thought they should boil until the water evaporated. Rice soaks up water, not crab. Anyway, the restaurant you took us to was nice. No crayons with the place mat.

That night was fun, he typed.

Yeah, it was, I wrote while thinking, There were a lot of fun nights.

Hold on a sec, Maggie. Greasy man has my cheese steak in his hairy claw.

I gazed at the screen, at his words. I wished we could have been this easy together back then...

***

"Maggie, let's go walk the beach or something. I'm tired of sitting in this apartment. I don't care if it's raining."

My feet hurt from waitressing all day and my head felt weird, but I didn't want to sound whiney. "Sure, Nick, let me change my shoes."

I felt his fingers entwine with mine. We walked down the boardwalk steps shoulder to shoulder. As always, when we were alone together, my stomach cramped with dread. I feared saying the wrong thing and sounding stupid, because he'd realize I wasn't very smart, and once he knew, he would disappear.

Nick squeezed my hand. "Rainy days at the beach aren't so bad. Look around, Maggie. It feels like we're the only people on earth right now."

I looked down the beach and saw waves pounding the shore, a few gulls, and zero people. "I like it this way, too. Sometimes it seems like the beach has moods. You can tell when it's happy because the sun shines, and the water is calm and deep blue. Storms, of course, are angry. But, days like today are interesting. Right now, I think the ocean feels blah. You know, kind of depressed, but..." My voice trailed off. "Maybe there really isn't a word in English for it."

As the words left my mouth, I could feel the corners of my eyes becoming wet. Do not cry, do not cry. I clenched my free hand and willed my eyes to dry up. Mentally smacking myself in the head, I thought, When will I ever learn to shut up?

"Interesting perspective," he said, bending down to pick up something.

***

I'm back, flashed across the screen. Is it impolite to type with your mouth full?

You're a doctor. Shouldn't you be eating something a bit healthier? And don't worry about it, type and chew away, I wrote back.

Born and raised in Philly, remember. Cheese steaks are an important part of the food pyramid, he said.

Don't you get heartburn eating this late? I asked.

No. My body is used to eating at odd hours. I can eat this stuff at six a.m., too, he replied.

Don't eat too many, you'll get fat and clog up your heart. Hey, Nick, I just found the most perfect daisies for the stone. Now I have to figure out how to get them from the website to my document.

Glad you found them. Paste a copy into the body of an email, so I can admire your creative skill.

Sure, I'll let you see it--you can be my design editor. Tell me if it looks okay and if not, what needs to be fixed. I'll e-mail it to you tomorrow. But right now, I have to end this conversation because I'm tired, and I have to be at work really early. So, enjoy your dinner and I'll talk to you tomorrow.

Let me guess, shower and sleep by 10:30.

You know me too well. Good night, Nick.

I closed the computer and set it on my coffee table. Walking down the hall toward my room, I couldn't help but notice I felt really good. Long live my miracle pills.

Pulling off my sweatpants, I looked down at my legs and scared myself. Disgusting--forget the razor and plug in the weed whacker. I turned the shower head to pulsate and enjoyed the massage. I shaved my legs and for the first time in a very long while, I sang.

"Okay, okay, stop pounding on my door," I yelled. Tying my robe together, I mumble a few unkind words about Mrs. Livingston as I dripped my way to the door. Just because she couldn't hear didn't mean I couldn't. I opened the door and was about to say, "What do you need, Mrs. Livingston?" Instead, I froze--paralyzed. Only two thoughts remained in my mind: I need to buy that ginkgo stuff. My memory is shot, because he is ten times more beautiful than I remembered.

"Damn," he said staring at the belt of my robe. "I'm too late. Parking really sucks around here. I should have jumped on a bus." His black fringed emerald eyes shifted to the towel wrapped around my head. "Please tell me there's still soap in your hair."

Stuck in my spot, I could only shake my head.

"Damn," he said, striding through my apartment door like it was nothing unusual. "This place is much better than your dump down by the shore."

A word finally released from my mouth. "Nick?"

"Yeah, unless you invited someone else into your bathroom. Since I missed the show, do you have any ketchup? I flew out of the 'O' without grabbing any." He looked at me with this totally disappointed expression.

I managed to walk over to the sofa and sit down. He continued opening cabinets in my kitchen. "Ketchup is in the fridge, on the door," I said.

"Makes sense. Do you have any paper plates?" he asked.

"Bottom drawer on the right," I heard myself reply.

It started to sink in. Nick was standing, gloriously, in my kitchen with a bag of 'O' fries and a cheese steak. "What the hell is going on? You're supposed to be in Philadelphia." The words just blurted out of my mouth.

"No, I'm not," he said. "My residency is at UPMC. I've been in Pittsburgh for over a year now."

"But your Facebook profile says that you live in Philadelphia."

"No, it doesn't. It says that Philadelphia is my hometown. I never bothered to put in a 'current city,'" he replied and leaned out of my kitchen doorway with a "gotcha" look on his face.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

"You didn't ask," he replied.

"That's slimy, Nick."

"Shoot me."

Watching his long stride cover the distance from my kitchen to the sofa stirred up feelings I hadn't felt in a very long time. He folded down next to me on the couch and leaned over, setting the bag, plates, and ketchup on the coffee table. "Well, the way I see it, first, we can eat the high-quality grease in this bag." Leaning back, he casually extended both of his arms across the top of the sofa. "Or if you want to, we can have wild sex."

I shot him a furrowed-brow look.

"All right, I guess we could just sit here and talk. I really would prefer we get the sex out of the way, and then we can throw this stuff in the microwave and eat it while we talk," he said, dropping his left arm from the back of the sofa and plastering an irresistible smile across his face.

I couldn't control it any longer, the absurdity of the situation. The most stunning man on the planet was gazing at me with his glowing emerald eyes and all I could do was laugh. I laughed until my sides hurt and kept laughing. "How did you get in without using the buzzer?"

"That was the easy part. I walked into the lobby and a saw patient of mine. I asked her if she knew you, and she offered to walk me to your apartment. I know her hip hurts, so I told her I could find it myself. She really likes you, by the way."

My hands flew to my face as the realization smacked me--hard. "Mrs. Livingston is your patient. Oh my God, you're the reason she wants me to drive her to her appointments." It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. "I can't believe it--Mrs. Livingston was trying to fix me up with you!"

He shifted a bit, dropped his other arm down, and reached forward, clasping his hands together. "Why didn't you ever come with her?" Then he shook his head. "No, I'm glad you didn't. It would have been lousy timing. Anyway, she's a great lady, and she insists I look like her grandson," he said, obviously pleased with the comparison.

I started laughing again. "Nick, she says that to every guy that walks into the building. She doesn't have a grandson, but she does like to flirt."

He looked a bit deflated. "Oh, well, she let me in and that's what counts. I've waited a lot of years for that invitation."

Still laughing, I wiped away the tears rolling down my cheeks. I reached over to hug him, a nice friendly squeeze. A jolt electrified my nerves and muscles the minute he wrapped his arms around me. There was nothing friendly about the hug. Heat, suddenly, so hot. He squeezed me in close, and I could feel his breath on my neck as his hand moved down my back. Suffocating, I lost the ability to breathe. I threw my head back to gulp air, and his lips started working their way up my neck.

A bit of light streamed in from the hallway, and the green letters of my clock glowed 12:00 a.m. Skimming his finger slowly around my belly button, he whispered. "See, Maggie. I told you it was better to get the sex out of the way."

I rolled over and curled my body to his. Luscious, absolutely delicious, his skin, his hair, his smell, the taste of his lips. I couldn't pull my hands off of his chest. A small part of my brain preached this was wrong and only Sam should be in my bed. The rest of my brain and body ignored the sermon and prayed the moment would never end.

Making love with Sam was warm and sweet--like pancakes on a cold winter morning. Nick was a tsunami that drained every ounce of energy from my every limb and left me begging for more.

"See Maggie, we're perfect together," he whispered in my ear.

He rolled on top of me, his kiss stifling every thought in my head and electrifying every single nerve ending in my body. God, I'd missed this.

Later, with his leg thrown over my thighs, we both stared at the ceiling. He broke the silence. "You can't begin to imagine..." His voice trailed off.

Rolling over, just to look at his eyes, my finger languidly roamed across his perfect features until they reached his silky black curls. Quickly kissing him again, I said, "We got the sex out of the way, time to talk. Nick, could you start at the beginning and explain the how and why you are in my bed?"

"Well, you wouldn't know this, but UPMC has an excellent orthopedic department, hence the residency here," he said.

"Why didn't you call when you first moved here?" I asked propping myself on to my elbow.

"That was my original plan, but then you created a Facebook page, and I saw your status--'in a relationship.' Man, was that a punch in the gut. You can't believe the control it took driving past this building every day on my way to work. More than once, I parked the car with the intention of just banging on your door until you let me in. Then one day, your status changed."

I punched his arm playfully. "Hey, its sounds like you spent a lot of time creeping on me."

"Yeah, I did. I wanted to drive over here and bust through your door that day, but I waited--waited for what felt like forever. I didn't want to contact you if you were still getting over him, and I didn't want to just be a rebound. Then one day, out of the blue, I got a message and friend request from Steph. She didn't say, 'Hey, Nick, how's life? What are you doing?' None of that mundane polite stuff for Steph. She got to the point. I memorized it. 'She loves you, just too stupid to recognize it. Don't be an asshole, go get her.' Have to love that cousin of yours," he said.

"Oh," I said. "She's a charmer."

"When Steph posted she was going to your graduation, I thought, what the hell, you never know until you try."

"But I still don't understand why you didn't tell me you lived in Pittsburgh and in my neighborhood?" I asked, flopping onto my back.

He started kissing my neck, and I felt the vacuum cleaner start to suck the air out of my lungs, yet again. Mustering a bit of control, I pushed him away. "Talk now--kiss later."

"Talking is so overrated." He flopped onto his back and began to answer the question. "I really did want to tell you the truth. In the beginning, I didn't because I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me. After we had been chatting for a while, I realized you were much more open when you typed. I know you're a little shy by nature, but sometimes when you were quiet, I didn't see shyness in your eyes. I saw fear, and I didn't know why. So I didn't tell you about being in Pittsburgh because I didn't want to lose the new talkative Maggie."

I stared at the ceiling.

"But the main reason I didn't tell you was this." His hand started roaming across my stomach. "This would have happened. It's always been this way with us. Typing was a way for me to keep my hands to myself and still be with you. Maggie, I've loved you since our first night together, but I was afraid you wouldn't be interested in trying again. Then I worried about restarting something, and you keeping me at a distance. I thought if we stuck to just talking for a while, it would remind you of how much fun we had together, and I hoped that one day you would make the first move to see me."

My mind reeled at his words. He said he loved me. I knew I heard it, and I felt his eyes on my face before I looked into them.

"Maggie, say something. Please."

My eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. "Nick, I don't know what to say. I told you, I truly believed I was a fling for you. I never understood why someone like you was wasting time with me. Remember, the first night you showed up at the shore? I was beyond shocked and when you left that Sunday, I never imagined you would come back. But you did. Nick, you're perfect, smart, funny, sweet, and a hundred times prettier than me. You can have any girl you want."

He wrapped his everything around me--arms and legs engulfed me. Between kisses, he spoke. "That would be you, forever and ever. I want a whole life with you, Maggie--the kids, the dog, the suburbs, the matching Range Rovers. I spent years dreaming about you before I even got to kiss you. I love you."

I couldn't respond. Thoughts exploded in all directions: children, defective, bipolar, ineffective drugs, bad DNA, Sam, Sam, Sam. I'm supposed to marry Sam. This was a huge mistake.