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Designed Intent
Chapter 33
Thursday Night
Malcolm helped clear the table and then took her in his arms, "Did you read my note this afternoon?" he asked softly.
Gleason did not pull away when he stepped into her; it felt good, him holding her like this. He wasn't as tall or broad as Bobby was and he didn't seem as strong, but it felt good. She nodded, not wanting to say it aloud.
"Well?"
Gleason looked up at him and didn't know how to respond. She stared into his eyes, wondering, wanting, but so unsure. She put her hands on his chest, gently pushed him away, then took his hand and led him to the bedroom.
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Bobby lay across his bed; hands limp on his chest, left foot on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He went straight home after he and Dr. Stephens finished this afternoon. He did not stop at the package store; he wanted to see if he could do that, come straight home. He knew he could still go out again, but didn't think he would.
This afternoon had been grueling and Dr. Stephens wanted to see him first thing tomorrow morning at her office; but he wasn't sure he could do it, what else was left to rip open? She said they would talk about what they had talked about today. Where's the sense in that, he wondered.
Nevertheless, he knew he would go. He would talk, and listen, because he wanted to be well – he wanted things to be like they were before.
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Malcolm's kiss was so different from Bobby's kiss. Stop comparing them she scolded herself. Malcolm's hand stayed on her back, it didn't take her neck and throat as Bobby's hand had. Malcolm's tongue was thinner, faster than Bobby's tongue. Stop it, she screamed in her mind. Malcolm's erection was sharper, harder through his trousers than Bobby's was.
"Wait, wait," Gleason gasped, pulling away. "Stop, Malcolm."
He pulled away, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing is wrong. I just, just –," she didn't get a chance to finish as Malcolm's phone rang in his pocket. Their eyes locked. The phone rang again. And again. "You should answer it."
He continued to stare at her. "No," and he kissed her again. Two more rings and the phone stopped. Gleason leaned into him and his hand came around her back to her breast. His lips moved to her neck and he sucked the same spot Bobby always took. She felt herself moisten.
Malcolm sucked hard at that spot and then said, "I want you, Gleason. Let me make love to you. Please." His lips barely left her flesh. His hand moved to her bottom and he pulled her toward his crotch, rubbing himself against her.
Gleason's hand moved to his belt and unbuckled it, moving toward the button. He stepped away, his hands going for the bottom edge of her shirt, he pulled it over her head and was surprised to see her undershirt. His mouth dipped to her breast and he nibbled her nipple through the fabric. Gleason's hand took his penis through his trousers and Malcolm jolted in the same way Bobby did.
Malcolm backed her to the bed and they laid down, he up on his left elbow the way Bobby did, bending to kiss her. His phone rang again and he pulled away. "Fu–!" he almost said it.
"Malcolm, see who it is. It must be important."
Reluctantly, he sat up and pulled his phone from his pocket. He flipped it open, glanced at the screen and then stood, "What's up?" he said, walking into the other room. Gleason sat up and watched him, listening. "Is he ok? . . . What happened? . . . How did he –? . . . I can hear him. . . . Ok, ok I'll meet you there. Don't speed, ok? Drive carefully. I'll meet you there. . . . Maevie, he'll be ok. I'm on my way."
Gleason had pulled on her top and was standing in the doorway by the time Malcolm had flipped shut his phone and turned around. "Is he ok?" she asked.
"It's Angus, my son, he's fallen down the steps and cracked open his head. Maeve is taking him to hospital. He's bleeding a lot and she's terrified. I, I need to be with my son." He took a step toward her, all sign of his erection gone.
"Go; buckle your pants," she said as she retrieved his jacket and held it for him to slip into.
"I'm sorry, Gleason, I wanted –,"
"Malcolm, go. They're waiting for you. Go."
He kissed her lightly and then left.
Dear God, she thought, what did I almost do?
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Bobby finally sat up and looked at the clock. He must have fallen asleep; it was after nine. He sat on the edge of the bed and then shuffled to the bathroom. He finished, flushed and returned to the bedroom to change.
The room was a wreck with dirty clothes strewn everywhere. While Bobby never really made the bed, he did straighten it every morning. Not this week, however, the sheet and coverlet made a tangled knot. Gleason's pillow lay in the middle of the bed, his sat half stuffed between the headboard and mattress. He kicked off his shoes; tossed his trousers on the pile that was falling off the corner chair, dropped his dress shirt in the corner where it looked like two others sat and then pulled on a pair of cotton plaid sleep pants. He headed down the hall toward the kitchen.
The mess of the kitchen came to life when he flipped on the light. Jesus, he thought. Dirty dishes sat in the sink, empty whisky and scotch bottles, some on their sides, glasses, food cartons, a bag of chips, covered the counters and table. All of it – the entire mess – resembled his father's kitchen when Bobby had gone there after getting word of his dad's death. The sight disgusted him, so he turned and shut off the light.
Bobby sat in his chair in the dark. He tilted back, thinking. He missed her so much. He knew that if she loved him again, everything would be all right. She kept him normal, she was his anchor, and he loved her and wanted her back. Bobby reached for the phone.
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Gleason stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the dishes and heard her phone ringing inside her bag. She turned off the water, wiped her hands and dashed to answer it. She glanced at the screen and stopped, unsure whether to answer or not. She flipped open the phone and said nothing.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
Neither said anything. What could he say? What could she say?
"How do you feel?"
"I'm ok."
"Anymore problems breathing or with that pain in your chest?"
"No, it's fine."
Silence . . . "I, I miss you." . . . Silence . . . "Do, do you love me?" . . . Silence . . . "Just tell me, yes or no, do you love me?" . . . Silence . . . He sat hundreds of miles away, in the dark, and wiped his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. "Glea –," he whispered.
"Yes, yes," she whispered back.
He heard her crying and he hitched a breath. They listened to each other breathe, and cry. "Gleason . . .," he didn't know what to say. Finally, he said, "Tell me what I need to do."
She didn't understand what he meant and so she said nothing. Silence.
"Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what to do."
Silence . . . "I, I don't know." . . . Silence.
"Gleason . . .," he had to put down the phone and dropped his head into his elbow and breathed deeply, not crying, but struggling to hang on.
"Bobby?" she whispered, hearing him breathing. Her heart broke for him. She loved him desperately, but she couldn't, she just couldn't do it any more. She was so tired of being tired, tired of waiting for the explosion, tired of the emotional swings. She was not strong enough to continue loving him. "Bobby?" she said softly. Oh, God she loved him. "Dearheart?"
He sighed deeply and returned the phone to his ear, "Honey?"
"Oh, Bobby." Their pain traveled the airwaves and filled each other.
"Go with me to talk with Dr. Stephens. Please."
She did not want to do this and was sorry she had said she would. Silence.
"Glea–? You said you would."
"I know, I know."
"Will you go with me?" . . . Silence . . . "Help me get better. Please."
She did not want to talk with a stranger about them, about herself. I don't want to do this, she told herself, don't do this. "When?"
He wiped his face with his hand, cleared his throat and said, "Dr. Stephens can see us at two on the Saturday after this, when you come home. And, and I, I got you an appointment with Dr. Creighton on that Friday at eleven, for your heart, she can't see you on Saturday. Can you come home Thursday night?"
She would have to cancel her Friday morning class. She didn't want to do that, but she was mildly concerned about these spells she'd been having. And her fatigue, dear God; she wondered if they were connected. "Yes, I can do that."
They listened to each other breathe. "Thank you, Sweetheart, thank you." She said nothing. "I love you, Gleason, I love you."
She heard his resignation and her heart swelled. "I love you, too, Bobby, forever," she whispered and she meant it.
"Talk to me. I want to hear your voice. Talk to me."
They talked of little things, silences punctuating their conversation. However, they did not talk about his four nights of serious drinking, his marathon therapy session with Dr. Stephens this afternoon, nor his session with her again tomorrow morning. And, they certainly did not talk about his blowjob and screw in the backseat of his car with the sweet young thing from the gym the night before.
Gleason did not mention the fact that she had prepared dinner for Malcolm tonight, she did not tell Bobby about the note Malcolm had left her, nor what it said. They didn't talk about how she and Malcolm had been on her bed, he erect and she wet and how they would have made love if his wife hadn't called with an emergency with their son.
They talked but said little.
Eventually, they said good night with a promise to talk again in the morning.
A man in New York and a woman in Evanston each prepared for bed and fell asleep; they dreamed of each other and a little boy with dark red curls.
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