When did life get so complicated? That's what I'd like to know. It used to be that I meet a girl, we'd hook up, have a whole lot of fun and then after a while, we'd decide to go our separate ways, with no regrets on either side. Well, in the main. There were a few times when it got nasty. And one or two evenings when I just about drank my own body weight in beer and woke up every hour, on the hour, with a desperate urge to pee. Dating was just one of these things – everybody did it, and in the main, we knew it wasn't serious. But this is different. This is completely different, because this feels serious, like something that grown-ups do.
Wow. Exactly when did I become a grown-up and start thinking about behaving like a responsible adult? About two weeks ago, I guess. Right now I can see my future stretching out before me with one woman – the only woman for me and that seems just right. I think I'm in love with Kensi. No, scratch that. I know I'm in love with her. My days of roaming free and easy are over and that feels fine.
"I've got it bad, haven't I?"
Monty just looks at me and then does one of his moans, the sort that normally mean he's constipated and that when we go out I'm going to have to stand there, holding onto the lead and looking desperately in the other direction as he goes through a series of uncomfortable-looing contortions, complete with sound effects. Being a dog-owner isn't all wagging tails and happy puppy smiles, you know. But this time I reckon I'm safe: Monty's just empathizing with me, as far as a dog can – especially a dog who is rather lacking in certain accoutrements most males treasure.
Before you say anything – that was not my doing. As if. Talk about the cruelest cut. Monty was like that when I got him. Or rescued him. Whatever. Rescue always sounds so dramatic and they probably wouldn't have euthanized him anyway, not really. Only nobody else seemed interested in giving him a home, for some strange reason so I wasn't about to take that risk. It's not like Monty's one of these dogs that's aggressive or barks a lot or anything like that. You just have to look at Monty to see he's one of the most laid-back creatures you're ever going to meet. But that was the problem: people looked at Monty and they didn't see one of those cutesy dogs from the commercials; or a muscle dog that would make his owner look mean as they prowled the streets together. They just saw this kind of apathetic looking dog. So people just passed him by.
Of course, I've always been a bit of a sucker for the underdog – and I fell for Monty. There was just something about the way he looked at me… kind of like I was his last hope. Anyway, don't read too much into all that. When it comes right down to it, Monty needed a home and I wanted a dog. So we found each other. End of story. And we muddle along pretty well together. I think he's happy – it's just that he hasn't got the sort of face that can express joy real well. Just because he looks miserable most of the time doesn't mean that he is.
All this starts to make me feel bad about going away and leaving him, and Monty must sense this, because he starts giving me his pleading look, complete with pathetic whimper. We've had some great roadtrips in the past, me and Monty. And then I remember that we had Chinese takeaway last night, and there's still the remains of a bag of prawn crackers. Great – I can make myself feel better about going away with Kensi and Monty can have some fun and exercise at the same time. We spend a pleasant hour, with me lying on the sofa and lobbing prawn crackers around the room, so that Monty can amble after them, and then crunch them rapturously, leaving a trail of sparking white crumbs everywhere. Monty doesn't run, you see, far less jump. It's only in moments of extreme animation that Monty will go so far as to break into a brisk trot, and only until he realises what he's doing and then puts the brakes on. Which is not dissimilar to what I normally do when I find a relationship is getting just a bit too serious for comfort.
That was the old me. That was the Marty Deeks who ran a mile whenever the 'c-word' was mentioned – 'c' as in 'commitment'. That was then and this is now and I've done a lot of growing up without realizing it. Even if I am lying here, throwing food all over the room for my dog to hoover up. Now I look at everything in a different way, and I want different things. I want Kensi. I want her now and I want her forever. And I think she might want the same thing. God, I hope she does.
Eventually, Monty tires of the game and hops up onto the sofa beside me and then starts to lick the remnants of prawn cracker from my fingers. The sun is pouring through the window, and I experience the singularly soothing sensation of having my dog wriggle his way in between me and the back of the sofa and then we both let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Life is pretty simple when you're a dog: all they want is enough food, some fun and exercise and someone to love. That's what I want too, now I come to think about it. That's not too much to ask is it? Monty lays his head on my chest, and we just lie there, basking in the sun, both of us dreaming about how sweet life is. And then it strikes me like a thunderbolt, just about the same time as Monty starts to snore – I don't need to be frightened of making a commitment, because I made one months ago, right at the time I pointed to Monty and told the guy at the pound that I was taking him. Once you love someone enough, there's nothing to be scared of any more – because you're in this together.
"You're sure you've got everything?"
Callen gives me a long-suffering stare. "Deeks- I'm looking after Monty for two days. If I need anything, I'll go buy it, okay?"
"Don't give him liver," Kensi advises, and then shudders at the memory.
"Don't give him raw liver," I amend.
"Who would give a dog raw liver?" Callen clocks the guilty expression on Kensi's face and shakes his head.
"How was I supposed to know? You see them throwing raw meat to lions all the time."
"Except Monty's a dog," he points out, with impeccable logic. "Don't worry Deeks, I'll look after him. How hard can it be after all? It's not like he's a baby."
Kensi smirks. "He's Deeks' baby."
I rise to that, mainly because a) Kensi is quite right (although I would never admit it) and b) I'm too busy wondering who the hell would ever let Callen look after a baby. "You've got my mobile and the vet's number, right?"
"Why don't you just give me the number of the canine beautician and be done with it?"
Actually, that's quite simple: because I bath Monty myself and then sneak home the clippers Callen keeps in his locker at work when his fur needs trimmed. Monty's fur that is, not Callen's. Callen has hair, after all. Just not very much of it. Anyhow, I don't reckon he'd be too happy about me using his clippers, which is why I've not mentioned it. Yet. I'm holding that fact in reserve. You never know when you might need a secret weapon.
"Very funny, Callen."
"Go on – get out of here, or it'll be dark before you reach Carmel." Callen makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "And Kensi – don't crash the car."
Kensi gives him a dark look. "Very funny, Callen."
"You and Deeks have been spending way too much time together. You're even beginning to talk alike."
We're very careful not to look at each other when Callen says that and suddenly we can't get out of my apartment quickly enough.
I've just got time to give Monty a pat farewell before Kensi drags me out of the door. And I guess this is when our weekend away really starts, with our bags in the trunk and us tearing down the freeway, leaving LA and our old lives behind, driving to Carmel where nobody knows us and we can finally be ourselves.
"I don't think he guessed – do you?" Kensi's got the hang of the manual transmission now and the Porsche is almost purring as she drives north.
"Callen? No way." Yeah, like I'm going to blow everything right now, just when everything is finally going well for us. If Callen doesn't realise something is going on, then he's not half the man I think he is.
"That's what I thought." I can tell from the tone of her voice that Kensi is no more sure of this that I am. "But what could be more natural than one partner helping out another?"
"Exactly." And whatever Callen is or is not thinking, it's too late now, is what I'm thinking. Anyway, I'm more concerned about how he's going to manage looking after Monty. And how Monty's going to manage with Callen looking after him. Monty is actually very sensitive, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd had an abusive owner in the past. Supposing Callen doesn't talk to him? Or won't let him listen to talk radio? Stability and routine are important for dogs, you know.
"There's not much we can do about it now, is there?" And funnily enough, Kensi doesn't sound too concerned about that.
"Absolutely nothing at all." So I guess we'd better just make the best of things. Okay – Carmel, here we come. With no excess baggage at all.
By the time we arrive, LA seems a very long distance away. The sun is just starting to set, and the whole town is bathed in this golden light, and when Kensi gets out of the car, her hair seems full of the most amazing amber hues and her skin is the colour of ripe apricots. She looks good enough to eat.
"This is the house? Really?" Kensi looks at me in amazement. "No kidding?" And then, without waiting for answer, she runs her hand lovingly over the wooden sign on the low gate. "Cypress Breezes – could it be more perfect?"
Probably not, no. As romantic getaways go, this is so near perfect it's incredible. Last time I was here, I was in my mid-twenties, part of a group of guys who'd come to Carmel for a beer-fueled weekend. The house had barely registered, except as somewhere conveniently close to the beach and with enough room for us all to crash out. But now I'm seeing it through different eyes – and noticing all the little details, like the garden filled with sweet-smelling lavender and roses, the shingled roof and field-stone chimney.
"It's like something out of a fairytale – it really is." Kensi is just about skipping with joy. "I mean, I know they call them 'fairytale cottages', but I never thought it would look like this."
"It's kind of cute." It's the kind of house you can play make-believe in – and we're going to do just that. We're going to pretend we're just an ordinary couple, with no secrets at all. And with any luck, a little of the magic might just rub off on us both. So we're only borrowing it for a couple of nights? Who cares? For the next two days (and nights) this is our fantasy and nothing is going to spoil that.
"Cute? It's adorable. It's a dream come true."
If this was a movie, I'd tell Kensi that she's my dream come true, only I can't quite imagine me saying that, or Kensi reacting with a straight face. Which is a pity, because it sounds kind of romantic. But maybe I can make up for that. The key is tucked away on top of the door lintel, and once I've turned it in the lock, I swing Kensi up into my arms.
"Deeks – what are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
"You shouldn't do that." It's a purely token protest, because Kensi is laughing, and clasping her arms around my neck and kissing me so hard that I stumble over the doormat, just as two old ladies stroll by and give us indulgent smiles.
"Young love!" one of them says in a piercing whisper, and Kensi burys her face in my shoulder and starts shaking with laughter
"I'm fine. And it's too late now." For the first time in weeks I feel like a man again, rather than some invalid who has to be pampered and cosseted. I've got the woman I adore in my arms and the weekend has just begun.
"I surrender." Kensi lets her head drop back dramatically, like she's swooning and I manage to kick the door shut behind me. I don't want these two old dears to have twin heart attacks when I start on stage two of my master-plan.
One hour later, and we're sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, drinking champagne and eating smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, which was the best I could arrange at short notice. There's a roaring fire, which is just as well, because neither of us is wearing terribly much in the way of clothing.
"You think of everything, don't you?" I don't think I've ever seen Kensi look quite so beautiful as she does right now, sitting here in the firelight, with her hair tumbling forward.
"I try my best." It didn't take much organizing – just a couple of phone calls. And a credit card, of course.
"It's perfect." Kensi takes another sip of champagne and sighs. "Everything is just perfect. The picnic, the cottage – and you."
Nobody's ever thought I was perfect before. Least of all myself. "I still can't work out what you're doing with me." Damn, the champagne has gone straight to my head.
"Really?" Kensi rolls onto her stomach, places her chin in her hand and looks at me seriously. "Want me to tell you?"
"Go on." The firelight is casting these flickering shadows onto her skin, which seems to be glowing. I look at her, trying to drink in everything about her, to imprint it onto my memory so that one day, when I am old and tired I can look back and think of this moment and remember when I was truly happy and life was golden and perfect. It's almost like this is too good to be true.
"Okay." She waves her legs in the air briefly before crossing her ankles and I'm seriously distracted by her butt. Kensi has the best butt in the world – round and high and firm and just inviting a man to… and you've got to concentrate Deeks. Just look at her face and concentrate on what she's saying. Do not let your gaze wander. Do not think about making love again. Well, not for at least ten minutes. You can do that – can't you?