Full Circle

So I'd tried to push it all away, the same way I'd pushed away everything else. But something was different this time. I'd been foolish to think that I could send them away and just return to life as it had been before they arrived.

I felt a sudden urge to see Sandra. I glanced at the clock: four p.m. She'd be home from work. I stopped by the bookshelf to grab the sketchpad that Katie had left, then hopped into my truck.

When Sandra answered the door, she didn't look surprised or happy or angry. Her face was simply blank. She stared at me, her hand resting on the doorknob.

"Katie left this," I said, holding out the sketchbook. "Thought she might want it back."

"Thanks," Sandra said, taking it from my outstretched hand. "I'll make sure she gets it."

She started to close the door but stopped when I pressed my palm gently to the wood.

"I'm sorry," I said. "About the way I handled things. I was an ass."

Her eyes shifted to the door. "Move your hand."

She waited until I removed my palm. I expected her to close the door in my face, but she kept it open. She stared at me for a long time before she spoke again. "What you did was really shitty."

"It was," I agreed.

"You're the one who kissed me, you know."

"I know."

She sighed. "But I suppose you should never have been put in that position. You were expecting dinner with Katie and me. Not a date."

"That's okay. I liked our date."

"I did too."

I paused. "I'd like to have another one. If you'll give me the chance."

She gave a pained smile. "James, I like you. I really like you. But Katie is the most important person in my life. She comes first. Always."

"Absolutely. That's how it should be. I'll find a way to make it up to her."

She shook her head. "I can't put her through this again. It's too hard. Especially when you're not even sure what you want."

"What do you mean? This is what I want. You're what I want."

She smiled. "You don't know that."

"How can you say that? Of course I do." The words sounded more defensive than I'd intended.

"A week ago, you shut me out and broke off all contact. Now, you're asking for a date. Does that sound like a man who knows what he wants? What happens when you change your mind again tomorrow?"

"I won't."

"I can't take that chance." She glanced at the floor, then back at me. "Do you want to know why I think you're here?"

I nodded.

"I think you're here for the same reason Katie and I came to your farm that first morning. You made a mistake, and now you want to make amends."

"That's not true," I said, but even as I spoke the words, I wondered if she might be right.

"James, you're a good person. You hurt me. And you hurt Katie. You feel bad about that, and you want to make it better somehow. That's admirable. But it's not a reason to start a relationship. It's not the foundation on which you build."

I was embarrassed and angry that Sandra seemed able to read my feelings better than I could. Was I really that selfish? Had I really come just to make myself feel better?

"So you think I'm only here out of guilt?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure why you came. I don't think you know either."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you should take some time. Figure out what it is you want. And why you want it. After that, if you decide you're ready to talk, then I'll listen."

I should have walked away. I should have thanked her and agreed to think things over. But my pride was wounded. I didn't want to admit that she might be stopping me from making yet another stupid mistake.

"I don't need time." I stepped closer to the door. "I'm ready now."

She placed her palm on my chest. "Well, I'm not."

*******

I finished winter wheat harvest in July, averaging sixty-two bushels per acre, my best yield in years. I should have been ecstatic, but my mind was elsewhere.

As disappointed as I'd been after my visit with Sandra, I knew she was right. I needed time to sort out my feelings.

I decided I'd give myself to the end of the season. The milo harvest would finish in November. By then, the emotions that now felt so raw and intense might have dulled to simple regret.

Regret I could handle. It was an old friend.

The days wore on and I slipped back into the comfort of routine. Luna was happy the wheat was harvested because it meant we could spend more time together. On some afternoons, though, she would sit and stare at the gravel driveway, maybe hoping to hear the crunch of approaching tires.

The arrival of fall knocked down the temperature, but it also brought an unusual amount of rain. I knew the stretch of luck I'd had during summer harvest was too good to last.

It got so bad that I started to wonder if the milo would ever be dry enough to cut. Soon, the stalks would start to fall over, and then I'd be in real trouble.

The weather broke just in time to finish the harvest, but it left the combine caked in dirt and speckled with dust. I devoted extra time to getting it ready to store in the shed for winter. After I'd hit it with the pressure washer and let it dry, I greased every nook and cranny: bearings, fittings, the whole deal. Next, I oiled the chains and checked the tensions on the belts. Then I checked the filters—fuel, oil, and hydraulic—and removed the battery.

After all that, I checked everything again.

It was a pain, but that combine was the most important machine in my life. And when something is important, you take care of it. You invest your time and effort. Because the minute you take it for granted, well, that's when everything falls apart.

A week later, I walked into Creekside Public Library and made my way to the children's section. Sandra was transferring books from a gray metal cart to bright white shelves along the far wall. She spotted me as I started walking toward her.

"Morning," she said. If she was surprised to see me, she didn't show it. "Picking up another Agatha Christie novel?"

"Nope. I'm looking for something in this section."

"Oh? What is it? Maybe I can help."

"I need a book about how to say you're sorry."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, we have plenty of excellent apology-themed books. It really depends on the child's age and reading level."

"I'm gonna need something really basic. I mean, this kid ... well, he's not too bright. He tried it on his own and botched it pretty badly."

"He did, did he?"

"Yep. Made a real mess of things."

She gave a small smile. "Well, apologies can be hard. They're more than just words. You have to show you're willing to change."

I nodded.

"Okay," she said. "Follow me."

She led me past two shelves and down a long row in the middle of the room. As we walked, her index finger skimmed along the books' spines. Then her hand froze. She slid her finger to the top of a narrow book, tipped back its corner, and plucked it from the shelf.

"Here," she said. "Start with this. Big pictures, small words. Should be perfect for him."

"Great." I took the book from her outstretched hand. "I appreciate your help."

"Just doing my job."

I turned and began to walk away. When I reached the end of the row, Sandra called out.

"You'll have to let me know how it goes," she said. "That apology."

I smiled. "How about over lunch tomorrow?"

The next day, Sandra and I ate at the same diner we'd visited before. We met again for lunch at a pizza place the following week. I was surprised by how quickly we eased back into comfortable conversation.

Two days later, she joined me for a walk in the park after her shift. The leaves clinging to the trees had dulled to a pale brown. They shook and rustled as gusts of wind struggled to rip them from the branches.

I took Sandra's hand and laced my fingers through hers. "I've missed you."

"Is that so?"

I nodded. "Thought about you every day. Even on days when I tried not to. Especially on those days."

"I might have thought about you a few times too."

We passed a family walking their dog.

"How's Katie?" I asked.

"Good. Still adjusting to high school."

I glanced at our hands. "Does she know about ... any of this?"

Sandra shook her head.

"Smart," I said. "Better to wait. See how things go, right?"

"Something like that."

"And how would you say they're going?"

She squeezed my hand and smiled.

I took Sandra to dinner the following week. Neither of us had wine this time. I didn't try to kiss her when I dropped her off at her apartment. She didn't look disappointed, and she didn't invite me in. I figured she was being cautious and giving me space after what happened last summer. If anything was going to happen between us, it was clear that I would have to initiate it.

Two days later, we stood together admiring a painting in the local art museum. It was my first time visiting. Sandra had suggested it.

"Katie loves it here," she said.

"I'll bet. This is right up her alley."

She brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "I told her. About us."

"How'd it go?"

"Okay."

I smiled. "That bad, huh?"

"She just needs time."

When I took her home, Sandra paused outside her apartment door. Her eyes looked nervous. "I'd like to have you over for dinner sometime," she said. "Just the two of us. But only if you're comfortable."

"Are you kidding? I've tasted your cooking. There's no way I'd pass up a dinner invitation."

"Great. Saturday night?"

"It's a date."

*******

"Fritada de chancho?"

I enunciated each word with care, doing my best to mimic Sandra's pronunciation of the meal she'd prepared.

She beamed. "Very good! There might be hope for you yet."

I pointed my fork toward my plate. "Tastes like pork."

Sandra nodded. "Slow-cooked in orange juice with onion, garlic, and some cumin. My mom would make this on weekends back in Milagro. It's cheap and easy. It's also my dad's favorite."

"No wonder. It's delicious."

"You should try my mom's."

I dabbed the corner of my mouth with the napkin. "Do you get to see them often? Your parents?"

"We FaceTime every few days. Sometimes more. Katie adores them."

"When's the last time you saw them in person?"

"About three years ago. They flew up to surprise Katie for her birthday. They were planning to come earlier this year for Katie's quinceañera, but ... "

She poked at a piece of meat with her fork.

"You don't have to tell me," I said.

"No, it's fine. Katie didn't want one. We had a big fight about it."

"What happened?"

"It was my fault. I pushed too hard. I just wanted her to have a day when she felt really special, you know?"

"Of course." I didn't know much about quinceañeras, but I knew they were a big deal.

"Maria was going to come down. My parents would fly up. We'd invite her friends. I had it all planned."

"Why didn't Katie want one?"

"At first, she said it was too expensive. I told her not to worry about it. We weren't planning anything extravagant. Just something simple. Then she got defensive and angry. Claimed she didn't want to be the center of attention in some stupid tradition."

"I bet that went over well."

"Oh, I was furious. I told her that she was being selfish. That this 'stupid tradition' was as much for her family—for me and her abuelos—as it was for her. That's when it finally hit me."

"What?"

"The quinceañera is big on customs. Some of those customs involve the girl's father. The father-daughter dance. The changing of the shoes."

"I see the problem," I said.

"We could have skipped those bits. Or her grandfather could have filled in. But either way, those traditions were bound to remind Katie of her father's absence. The day I hoped would make her feel special would make her feel the exact opposite. In my push to make plans and get Katie excited, I hadn't stopped to consider any of that."

She took a long sip of water. "I thought Katie was being selfish. Turns out, I was."

"Katie loves you," I said softly. "She admires you. I'm sure she understands."

Sandra smiled. "Well, she won't understand if I forget to save her some leftovers." She pointed to an empty plate on the side of the table. "Would you mind?"

I passed her the plate. She slid a generous chunk of pork into the middle and added a large mound of rice to the side.

"Will she be home soon?" I asked.

Sandra shook her head. "She's sleeping at a friend's house."

I didn't bother asking whether Katie had made those plans to avoid seeing me.

Sandra stood and carried the plate to the kitchen. I gathered some of the other dishes and followed her.

"Don't worry about those," she said. "I'll get them tomorrow."

"No way. I'm doing the dishes. You try to stop me, and we're going to have a problem."

She laughed. "Fine. You wash; I'll dry."

I rolled up my sleeves and filled the sink. We settled into a rhythm, working side-by-side in comfortable silence.

I enjoyed being close to Sandra. I liked watching her hair sway as she worked the dish towel around the wet plates. I loved the flutter in my stomach when I passed her a dish and her hand brushed mine.

I tried to keep my eyes focused on the sink, but they kept drifting toward Sandra. Now and then, I thought I caught her stealing glances at me.

I handed her the last plate and removed the stopper from the sink. Sandra swirled the towel around the plate in slow circles, again and again. She seemed to be studying the plate's surface, but her eyes were unfocused, as though lost in thought.

"I think that plate is as dry as it's going to get," I said.

The towel froze in Sandra's hand. She lowered it and the plate to the counter, then turned toward me. Her eyes met mine.

"I need you to know something," she said. "I would never try to replace Heather."

The sudden change in subject disoriented me. "What?" I said, not sure that I'd heard her correctly.

"I'm sorry. That sounds so stupid now that I've said it aloud. It's just ... sometimes I feel there's this... space between us. Like even when you're right next to me, you're still far away. Does that make any sense?"

The last of the water swirled down the drain.

"Yeah," I said. "It does."

"I just want you to know that I respect what you had with Heather. What you lost. And whatever you might feel for me, it doesn't mean you have to forget any part of her."

I smiled. "I know. It's not that."

"It's not?"

I shook my head. "Heather wanted me to be happy. She hoped I'd find someone else. She told me so before she died."

"Then what is it?"

I picked up the towel, dried my hands, then set it back on the counter. "You make me feel things I haven't felt in years. Things I thought I'd never feel again. Not just happiness. Joy. That's what I feel when we're together."

Her brow furrowed. "But if you're happy, then why—"

"I found something special with Heather. And when I found it, I knew it was forever. With all my soul, I knew it. Nothing that wonderful could ever vanish." I took Sandra's hand in mine. "And then it did."

She squeezed my hand. "You're scared."

I nodded.

"I'm scared too," she said. "I wish I could promise that you'll never feel that pain again. But I can't. I don't know what the future holds. It's terrifying. Believe me, I get it."

She touched her palm to my face. "But you can't escape fear by shutting out the world. You may think you're avoiding pain. You're not. You're causing your own."

I slipped my arm around Sandra's waist. Her breath caught in her chest, then I pulled her tight and kissed her.

At first, our connection was gentle, unhurried. Having waited this long, I wanted to savor every nuance, absorb every detail of our embrace and burn it into my brain. But as soon as her lips parted and her tongue found mine, I was lost.

Sandra's body melted into me. The gentle pressure of her breasts against my chest felt exquisite. I stiffened in response, my hardness straining against the fabric of my pants. I pressed myself into her, needing her to feel my desire, how desperately I wanted her. She moaned into my mouth, her teeth grazing my lower lip.

I backed her against the counter. The dishes clattered loudly as she placed her hand on the countertop to steady herself. She laughed into my mouth, her breath hot and moist, then gave a sharp intake of breath as I moved my lips to her neck. She ran her fingers through my hair as I trailed kisses up the delicate arch of her throat.

When my lips returned to hers, I clasped her face in my hands and pulled her into a deep kiss. The urgency of my need was overwhelming. It was as though a match had been dropped in a dry field, the fire sparking to life in an instant and blossoming outward, until soon it threatened to consume everything in its path.

Sandra pushed her palms against my chest, breaking our connection.

"Bedroom," she breathed. "Now."

We raced down the hall to her room. She shed her shirt as I backed her against the bed, smiling as she watched my eyes descend to the swell of her breasts under her black demi bra. I untucked my shirt and pulled it over my head.

I flinched as her fingertips skimmed over the ridges of my abdominal muscles, then watched as she unfastened my belt. I stepped free of my pants, then guided her backward onto the bed. She lifted her hips and I slid off her skirt, leaving her lying on the bed in her bra and matching thong.

She raised her hands above her head. Then, holding my gaze, she began a languorous stretch, arching her back, pressing her breasts toward the ceiling, tensing the firm muscles of her thigh, inviting me to leer at every inch of her lithe body.

I obliged, drinking in the sensuality dripping from every pore of her skin. She watched me watch her, eyes heavy with lust. Her nipples were taut points, pressing against the fabric of her bra.

My head descended toward hers and she rose to meet me, our mouths hot and hungry. I smothered her body with my own, determined to feel every inch of her, astonished by the heat of her skin against my bare chest.

I raised myself on my arms long enough for her to unclasp and shrug off her bra, then I lowered my head and took her erect nipple in my mouth. She hissed and grasped the back of my head, holding me to her chest as my lips and tongue explored one breast, then the other.

My hand trailed along the smooth skin of her abdomen and slipped beneath her underwear. I parted her slick folds with my finger, smiling at the sudden catch in her breath and the flutter of her eyelids.

The more I teased her with my fingers, the more she whimpered and writhed against my hand, desperate to force more contact.

I trailed kisses down her stomach until I arrived between her legs. I inhaled her wonderful, musky scent and kissed the moist fabric covering her sex.

She lifted her hips, and I slipped off her underwear. As I kissed the inside of her thighs, her legs spread farther in invitation. She shuddered when my tongue parted her folds, then moaned when it found her clit.

I took my time, allowing her body to tell me when she wanted more or needed me to back off. When she seemed ready, I slipped a finger inside her and curled it upwards, applying gentle pressure as I continued to caress her with my tongue.

The effect was immediate. She stiffened and arched her back. Her hands clenched the bed sheet. Her breath came in quick, staccato gasps.

I maintained a steady pressure with my tongue and finger. She clamped her thighs around my head and gave a long, low wail. Her hips arched even higher off the bed and a series of brief tremors wracked her body.

Then, with a gasp, she collapsed onto the bed and her legs fell limp. I lifted my head and watched the beautiful rise and fall of her breasts as she recovered her breath. Strands of sweat-soaked hair clung to her forehead.