Virtuous(23)

She knows every word to every song in The Sound of Music, and her voice is crystal clear, angelic even. Singing about how she must’ve done something right to find the love of her life, she can’t bring herself to look at me. Her color is high, and I detect the slightest tremble in her hands. It’s all I can do to refrain from pulling her into my arms and kissing her senseless. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more desperately than I want to kiss her right now.

We’ve engaged in a spirited debate about what exactly constitutes schnitzel with noodle, and I want to send her something inside a brown paper package tied up with string. Perhaps some schnitzel with noodle? My mother and sisters love this movie. I’ve always considered it saccharine torture, but watching it with Natalie and witnessing her love for all things Von Trapp, I’m even more captivated than I was before.

Who am I kidding? It’s not the movie. It’s her. She’s sweet and unaffected and adorable. And I have absolutely no business spending time with her, let alone allowing myself to wonder what might be possible. She’s too pure for my world. Being with me would ruin her, but knowing that doesn’t stop me from wanting her like I haven’t wanted anyone in longer than I can remember. Perhaps ever…

I have to hold myself back so I won’t give in to the urge to run my fingers through her long dark hair, to stroke the sweet heat that floods her cheeks whenever she looks my way, to press my body against hers to show her what she does to me just by sitting next to me singing silly songs with such unabashed glee.

She’s far, far too good for me, and if I weren’t such a selfish *, I’d take her home and forget I ever met her. That would be best for her. But I already know I won’t do that. I can’t do that. She hasn’t yet left my home and I’m already craving more of her and making plans to see her again—hopefully tomorrow.

Her lips move in time with “Edelweiss” as the captain performs at the music festival, and I notice her eyes are suddenly bright with unshed tears.

“Natalie?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

She nods. “It’s this song… It gets me every time. Makes me homesick.”

“When was the last time you were home?”

She seems to consider her answer carefully, which I find odd. “It’s been a while. A long while.”

“You didn’t go home for Christmas?”

She shakes her head. “Not this year.”

“You miss your family.” I pose it as a statement rather than a question, eager to see how she replies.

Without taking her gaze off the TV, she nods. “Yeah.”

I have a sudden, powerful feeling that there is much more to her story than what she’s let on.

“This is my favorite part,” she says of the nuns holding up parts from the Nazis’ cars.

“You gotta love a clever nun.”

She smiles at me, and I’m slayed, ruined, destroyed. Though it would be best for her—and probably for me, too—if I call it a night and try to forget about her, I won’t do that. I can’t do that. I want to know why she hasn’t seen her family in a long time. I want to know everything there is to know about her.

But she must never, ever find out everything there is to know about me.

The movie ends with the Von Trapps crossing the mountains on foot, and I offer to take her home. I hope she’ll ask to stay a little longer, but she agrees it’s time to call it a night. I retrieve her coat and hold it for her, again fighting the powerful need to touch her in any way I can. But I don’t. She’s made her feelings clear, and I want to respect them even if I don’t agree with them.

We take the elevator to the garage, and I help her into the Bugatti. The ride downtown is quiet, even as my mind races with things I’d like to say to her. I want to see you again. I want to be with you. I want to know you. Please come to California with me. I’ll show you my life, introduce you to the people I love. I want to beg her to tell me what she’s thinking. Did she enjoy herself tonight? Does she want to see me again? Will she come to the Globes with me?

Christ, Flynn. Act like you’ve been here before, will you? Yeah, I’m a mess over this woman, and I like how it feels. I like how I feel when I’m with her. I want to continue to feel this way for as long as I possibly can. These thoughts are reckless in light of who I am—not who I am to the public, but who I am in private. I have no business or right becoming involved with someone like Natalie. Yet I’m already involved with her. I’ve been involved with her since the moment she crashed into me and her little beast of a dog bit me.