“I’ve read a lot of romance poems,” Callie says.
“You have?”
“Don’t act surprised. But the sentiment that all love comes from power was never posited by Emily Dickinson.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite.”
“Should I explain?”
“Only if you wish to maintain the slightest hope of getting in my pants.”
“That might actually happen today?”
“After our jog.”
I smile. “Funny.”
I start to speak, but she places her index finger over her lips and says, “Think this through, okay? Don’t screw it up.”
“Okay.”
She waits a moment, then says, “Ready?”
“I am.”
She nods. “Okay then. Say what you mean.”
“Every drop of love you give costs a drop of your power. The more power you lose, the more vulnerable you become.”
“What’s the power
“The power to not be hurt.”
“You’re saying the more you love someone, the more power you give them to hurt you?”
“Exactly.”
“And that’s why you don’t fall in love easily.”
“That’s right.”
“And this is all part of your abandonment issues?”
“Probably.”
She looks down long enough to make me wonder what she could possibly be thinking. When she finally looks back up, there are tears in her eyes.
Lots of tears.
But there’s something else going on in her face I’ve never seen before.
Hope.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes. Very.”
She motions me closer, then slaps my face so hard it knocks me back.
“What the hell?”
Callie breaks into a huge grin and says “Omigod, Donovan!”
“What?”
“I just slapped your face! Again!”
“So?”
“You never saw it coming!”
“What, your hand?”
“A month ago you would’ve blocked that slap in your sleep.”
“I’ve heard this before. What’s your point?”
“You love me!”
“I already
“Yes, absolutely.”
“So even if I see it coming, I have to allow it?”
“You’re the one who said that bullshit about giving me the power to hurt you.”
She laughs. But there are still tears. She’s laughing and crying at the same time.
“You love me!” she says. “You honestly, seriously,
I frown, thinking about the slap. “Try it again,” I say.
She bursts into laughter. When it dies down, all that’s left on her flawless face is her radiant smile.
“You love me,” she says, “and it’s okay.”
“It is?”
“Uh huh. Because I love you, too.”
“You do? Still?”
“With all my heart.”
“What about Gwen?”
Callie laughs. “You need to work on that.”
“On what?”
“Romance.”
“What are you talking about? I’m romantic.”
“Being romantic isn’t the same as romance.”
“It’s not?”
She says, “I just told you I loved you, and you said, ‘What about Gwen’?”
“It’s a fair question. You’re living with Gwen.”
“What about your ex-wife, Janet?”
“What about her?”
“When you said you loved me I didn’t ask, ‘What about Janet?’”
“That’s different. You
Callie smiles. “Not after today.”
She lets that comment hang in the air between us like a giant, heart-shaped balloon.
I reach for her hand and kiss it. Then slap her face.
“Ow!” She yelps. Then says, “I could’ve blocked that, if I wanted to.”
Then she says, “What are you grinning at?”
I smile. “You love me too, Callie.”
She rubs her cheek and smiles and says, “I know.”
55.
Two Weeks Later.
Cincinnati.
“YOU DON’T LOOK like a claims adjustor,” Connie says.
“No?”
“You look like a movie star.”
We’re sitting in Connie’s living room, on her L-shaped sofa. She’s on the sofa, I’m on the L-shaped section. Our knees are a foot apart. She’s a bit over-dressed for the occasion, wearing an Alexander Wang V-neck sleeveless wrap dress, and black zip-front wedge sandals. I have no idea why she thinks a claims adjustor would be talking to her about her late husband’s life insurance policy. All I said on the phone was I needed to get some additional information before the insurance company could pay the death benefit.
Whatever. It got me in the door.
“I said, you look like a movie star,” she repeats.
“Thanks,” I say, and throw a punch that catches her exactly where it was aimed, on her chin, effecting the exact result I intended, an instant knock-out.
When she comes to she finds herself naked, hanging upside down by her feet in her den. She screams, but the
