I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(54)

“So-o-o,” Chase says slowly, looking up from where his golf pencil is no longer moving, “does that mean it’s been four whole years since you last…” He trails off and coughs, but I swear I hear him say “f*cked” under his breath.

Not only is it all kinds of hot to hear Chase say the word “f*cked” in reference to me, but what he’s asking is pretty clear. Even if his words weren’t enough—and, trust me, they were—his quirked eyebrow and questioning gunmetal stare put to rest any doubts.

“Oh my God,” I sputter. “I can’t believe you just asked me…that.” My cheeks are surely red. Not pink, red. Good Lord, is the beautiful Chase Gartner really asking me to confirm that I haven’t gotten laid in four years?

Chase shrugs and gets back to writing on the scorecard. “Just keeping it real, blushing girl. We talk about everything else, right?”

“True,” I say, because he’s right.

We share a lot, more and more each day, and far more than I’ve ever shared with any other person. I think the same is true for him. In fact, I’m sure of it. The things we tell one another we’d never share with anyone else.

For instance, just last week, I ended up telling Chase about my fractured relationship with my parents. Right after he shared with me that he still loves his mom, even after all that’s passed between them. But he wishes every day that things had turned out differently. I told him I knew how he felt; I often wish the same for myself.

We were coming back from lunch at the time, and when Chase noticed my eyes misting, he stopped and pulled me to him. He gave me a hug of epic proportions. It was a sweet and simple gesture, full of warmth and caring. And I hugged him back just as big, thinking maybe he needed holding as much as I did. As we held tightly to one another, like two lost ships on a sea of confusion, I breathed in the guy I’ve grown to care for so very much. Chase smelled clean—a hint of paint, soap and shave cream…and just pure, delicious male.

A day later, Chase and I were discussing music over lunch. He mentioned he’s been listening to some old albums he found up in his attic weeks ago, classic rock that once belonged to his father. Chase said listening to those old songs—songs his dad had once loved so much—makes him feel closer to the man who left his life too soon.

“Way too soon, Kay,” Chase said that day at lunch, his blues melancholy.

I knew right there and then the hole in my boy’s heart gapes as wide as my own. I wanted to share something important, as well, it seemed only fair. So I told Chase about my journals for Sarah. I even shared the details of my weekly ritual. I told this man who always gets me how every week I visit my sister’s grave and recite three things I remember about the little girl I lost. I confessed that even with my soothing ritual, my heart still aches. I told Chase how I always write those memories down in a journal, for safekeeping, so time can never sneak in and steal them away.

Someday I’ll show Chase the things I’ve written. I never thought I’d show another soul, but Chase’s soul is becoming entwined with mine. I also know I’ll eventually tell him my secret—what really happened the night Sarah died. But I am not quite ready yet. Unloading that secret requires more courage than what I’m currently holding on to.

So what Chase just said is true, we do talk about everything; “keeping things real” is how we roll.

Even today at lunch, Chase, to my surprise, opened up about prison. He said not every day was horrible, most were just boring. Or “boring as f*ck,” as my dirty-mouthed boy put it. Chase said he found things to fill his time—he read a lot, lifted weights, and sketched for hours. “If you don’t find outlets, the never-ending boredom will drive you insane,” he told me.

Chase also shared that prison is more than just boredom. It’s learning to live with no freedom and no privacy. You discover these things quickly, he said, like as soon as you go through central intake, right at the beginning. There you are strip-searched and whisked through medical assessment. Part of the process involves being tested for everything under the sun. In fact, you’re tested periodically. When Chase mentioned testing he eyed me pointedly. I guess it was his way of telling me he’s clean and healthy, he has no diseases. I quickly told him I’d been tested as well, at my last gynecological exam. That’s about as personal as it gets, no doubt. And it’s, for sure, “keeping it real.”

I scoop my pink ball out of a little plastic cup on the green. “Yep, Chase,” I say as I’m about to keep it real. “Sad but true, but I haven’t done it”—I mime little air quotes with my fingers—“for four long years.”

He’s quiet so I continue. Only now I ramble, like I do when embarrassment floods over me. “Hey, there’s always the convent. I figure I already have an ‘in,’ seeing as I’m involved with the church.” I sigh dramatically so Chase will know I’m trying to make a joke, cover this embarrassment. “And, I hear if you successfully make it to the five-year mark with no sex you revert back to virgin status by default. One more year, woo-hoo, I’ve so got this covered.”

A smile plays at my ever-perceptive boy’s beautiful lips. He knows this conversation needs this levity. And he knows just how to play along, what to say next.

We step up to the next hole, and he shoots me this utterly sexy sidelong glance. “Virgin status, huh? Is that so?”