Saturday, October 17, 2009
I'M A SLAVE TO this pull that Casey's heart has on mine. I'd thought that not seeing him in so long would dull it. It never did. If it wasn’t love, then it was something equally unconditional.
When my eyes fell on him earlier that day, I almost didn't recognize him. His face looked hollow and lackluster where it used to glow and shine.
He'd cut off his beautifully wild hair, and in place was a short buzzed replacement. I can't say that it didn't look good, but it didn't look as good as his curly locks did. I missed them. I missed the way they would automatically wrap around my fingers like they were holding me close. The way they moved when he was animated.
But it was his eyes that were the most changed. The light that was there had dimmed. I felt bad for thinking it, but I hoped it was because of his mother's passing and not because of me.
I’d tried to call his phone, but then I absolutely couldn't take not hearing from him anymore. So I called Bridgett to see if I could work out of the San Francisco office for a while.
It worked out well for us both, since Melanie was on a month-long trip to Costa Rica and they were a little short staffed while she was away.
Grant didn't like it when I let him know I was going to be gone for a month, but he eased up when I told him I would come home for a long weekend in the middle. It wasn't like we were going to see each other that much anyway.
We never did.
I busied myself cleaning while Casey removed the husks from the fresh corn outside. I'd taken the trash out to the bin that I'd seen on the side of the house out front when I arrived. I loaded the dishwasher and tried to make some order of the counter space. The whole house wasn't a colossal mess; it was concentrated into one central place. The kitchen.
I'd looked in the cupboards and found some vegetable stock and decided a light vegetable soup would do just fine. There were some chicken breasts in the freezer and I had them thawing in the empty sink.
I could tell that it was a kitchen that got used a lot.
It was a home. It even felt like one to me.
Grant and I had renovated an entire house, but it didn't have a feeling like this place did. It didn't have any of the natural charm. It didn't have the notched wood in the pantry marking every inch of two boy's lives. It didn't have the calendar with birthdays and anniversaries scribbled down months in advance.
My heart was heavy for Casey, and Cory, too. But Casey mostly. Cory was starting his own family and he had Micah, who no doubt would be supporting and caring after he'd lost his mother. But Casey seemed to be alone.
I didn't have time to think about those things. It wasn't the best time to talk to him about how I'd made such a terrible mistake. And how if only he could give me some time, I was going to ask Grant for a divorce.
But I couldn't do it right away. We'd only been married a few months. But crying on your honeymoon behind big black sunglasses, and saying it was just a bad hangover wasn't normal newlywed behavior. It had instantly felt wrong. It felt like an injustice, to both me, Casey and Grant.
I loved Grant. I cared for him a lot. But I never felt as powerfully consumed by him as I did by Casey. Sadly, it took seeing the grass on the other side of the fence to prove to myself it was greener.
But all of these thoughts were for another time. Another day. I prayed Casey would allow us to have them. Even though, he didn't owe me anything.
I heard him at the door just as the broth was beginning to boil with the potatoes I'd quickly cut up. So I wiped my hands on the apron I'd found hanging in the pantry, and went to open the door for him.
“All done?”
“Yep, probably not as good as you would have done, but to be fair I'm not a chef.”
“This is very true.”
“It looks better in here.”
I looked around and agreed. It did.
“It wasn't that bad, I told you,” I repeated, even though my initial reaction was shock when we came inside earlier.
“Whatever, it was bad. Thank you. It even smells better in here. What is on the stove?” He talked as he walked over to the pot that was perched atop the six-burner range. Like I’d said, his mom's kitchen was pretty amazing.
He still didn’t have a shirt on and I could see how the sun had scorched him badly. “Just a quick soup and some chicken, then we'll take a bath. Wash your hands and sit down.” I took the corn, rinsed it, and then stood them on their ends, running a sharp blade down the long sides scalping the cob. “Need another beer?”
“Yeah, I'll take one, but I can get it. Are you ready?”
“Sensuous,” I said playing his game from our former life.
He chuckled and it was music to my ears. He seemed different than when I'd first showed up. Hopefully, he decided not to hate my guts like I deserved. I'd made a decision before I even got on a plane to California that even if he hated me I would help him somehow. I had to. So, now with the change in his attitude, it seemed like things might be all right. And all right was better, because we were at least in the same room. Fighting or otherwise. If we did fight, it would be because he was right and I had been so very wrong.
I couldn’t concentrate on that in that moment though. I just needed to be there. For him.
He opened the cold bottle of honey-brown lager and placed it where my empty stood. After discarding the old one, he took a sip and sat across from me, watching as I cooked. We were both quiet, but there wasn't the monstrous tension from before.
With us, sometimes it was like dipping your foot into a very hot bath, you had to go in slowly or it would scald you. We were readjusting. Something we actually were good at.
He cleared his throat and asked, “So you're in town for work?” as he traced imaginary circles on the counter top not meeting my gaze.
“Well sort of,” I answered. “Do you know where there's a colander?”
He pointed to above my head behind me and I turned to locate it. It was nestled atop the cabinet, along with some matching handmade, I guessed, pottery bowls. They were beautiful. The paint was blue and it faded into a teal green color at the bottom. They looked like they were fired when they were still wet, because each had unique drippings down the sides.
I turned around, but knew that it would be a stretch. I wasn't super short, but it was up way high.
I'd met Deb a few times and she wasn't taller than me. I assumed there was a footstool or a step ladder close by, but when I didn't find one with one glance around, I decided to make a go of it and pray I didn't drop his mother’s beautiful colander.
I got as close to the cabinet as I could and firmly grounded my left hand on the counter top, stretching my right arm as high as it would go while pushing myself up as high as I could with the other. Two hands startled me when I felt them wrap around my hips and lift me into the air like I was but a feather.
Casey steadily held me up high so that I could clutch the dish with both of my hands and held me there until I said, “Got it.”
His body was close to mine and I felt his hot skin through my T-shirt on my way back down to the floor. My body reacted like it always had with him. I grew warm and tingly, and my panties were beginning to dampen. That was familiar.
I felt my lungs beg for more air and I had to cough to clear passage for the influx of oxygen they demanded.
Casey must have taken that as a sign that I was good to go, but he didn't move away completely. Left were his hands, still firmly holding me by the waist.
The air in the room was humid, from both the boiling stock and from us. Of course, he was sunburned and I was merely hot by association.
Finally I made a move to the side and around him, smiling as I turned, “Thanks.”
I collected my cut-up veggies and ran them under the water in the garden sink on the island. “I love this kitchen,” I said, trying to break the silence and distract myself from his nearness.
Getting frisky in a kitchen was one thing, but getting frisky while cooking was dangerous, and we were already dangerous enough together.
I turned the soup down and let it simmer as the chicken baked in the oven. We drank beers and walked around the family room that was open to the kitchen.
We'd stopped in front of pictures and I'd try to guess who was who, only getting it right about half the time. Casey and Cory were easy to tell apart for me, with their different styles and looks, but when there were children, it was almost impossible to know the difference. They were both very cute boys. It's funny how life makes you look different.
Then we stopped at one on the mantle that wasn't that old. It was Casey, his mom, and Cory at Foster’s birth. I wasn't able to make it in time for his arrival, but both Casey and his mom were there.
The look on her face was perfect. The boys were both looking into the camera for the photo, but Deb didn't take her eyes off her grandson. Her mouth was open, smiling wide and you could almost hear her cooing at the infant. The picture was priceless.
“She liked having lots of pictures of you guys around,” I said facing him.
“She liked the real thing more.” He shrugged and started back toward the kitchen saying, “So did I.”
The soup was good and the conversation came back. He had his moments. I'm sure that was normal.
It killed me he was in pain. That he was suffering. I needed to show him I was here for him. Yeah, showing up was nice. And making dinner was a thoughtful and necessary gesture, but I'm sure many people had done those things for him over the past few days. I needed to give him what no one else could.
Selfishly, I hoped no one else was.
“Thanks for helping me clean up,” I said as I handed him the last dish. We'd hand-washed the few we’d used, deciding it was easier to clean them in the sink.
“Thanks for dinner.”
Things between us had been very cool in comparison to what we were used to in our past. Before, when we'd see each other, he’d be inside me within hours. At the very least, we'd touch each other reconnecting for our time apart, almost instantly. That day was different.
It didn't feel forced, it simply felt slower. And that was okay considering our circumstances.
His mother had just died.
I was about to cheat on my husband, instead of my boyfriend or fiancé. Like it was any worse, but my actions were about to lead me into commandment breaking territory. Thank God himself that I wasn't religious enough to feel His guilt, too.
But enough time had passed and I longed to touch and rediscover him.
“You need a bath, you're getting smelly, Lou.” The use of my old pet name for him brought some of the old twinkle into his iridescent eyes.
“You know what, Betty? I, too, could have sworn I smelled something. It smelled like recirculated air. Maybe you're the one who's smelling up the place.”
It was wonderful to have him playing with me. For us, sarcastic banter was as common as arguing. But that night, I was determined the keep the conversation like that. Easy, friendly, and sweet.
Perhaps, I needed it, too. Maybe even more.
“Well what are we going to do about it, both of us smelling so damn awful like we do?”
“I suppose we should take that bath.” A rascally smirk spread across his face. I was proud to help put it there.
“We'll this is your place and you need it more, you should go first. I'll go get my bag from the car and—” before I could finish he'd wrapped me up in his arms and pulled me to his bare chest.
“You're not going anywhere. Except the bath tub with me.”
“But my stuff,” I queried. I had my luggage in my rental car that was parked in Casey's drive.
“Well, I guess that's tough shit,” he sweetly whispered into my hair above my ear. Then he lifted me off my feet and carried me down the long hall that led to the west side of the house.
He walked us into a large room, which I would think was the master bedroom of the house. “Is this your room?”
“Yeah, it was my mom and dad's when we were kids, but when they divorced, she moved into the spare room on the other side of the house, closer to our rooms. She said that she liked the view out to the back better and it has its own door to the patio.”
“Oh, this is big.” I blushed after realizing the double entendre.
“This room was the spare room for a long time. I moved my stuff in here, but when she was sick, I felt better sleeping down on the other hall, in my old room.”
That made my heart ache, so I placed a soft kiss to his neck. His breath hissed through his teeth and he stopped walking until I lifted my lips away.
Then he walked us into an impressive bathroom. It was as excellently furnished as the incredible kitchen was. Everything was white. The large soaker tub, white quartz double vanities, and a white-tiled floor. Everything else was chrome or glass. There was a giant walk-in shower on the opposite side from of tub and there was even a towel warmer.
I was impressed. I bet she had people wanting to visit all the time for the lavish spare bathroom alone.
He sat on the edge of the tub, I still straddled him, and he reached behind us turning on the oversized faucet. When his eyes met mine again I found the same smolder there that I remembered.
“Lift your arms. Unless you want to take a soak with your clothes on. And that’s okay. You are a married woman now,” he said in a joking voice, but it soured me.
Instantly, the thoughts in my head spun. They were familiar, too. The jabs.
I focused on a place on the wall, but I still raised my arms as he'd instructed. My body always did do exactly what he commanded of it. Some things never changed.
He took my shirt off but didn't let his eyes roam my flesh, instead they searched mine looking for the extra script to my inner dialog. He read me well.
“Hey, honeybee.” His voice was laced with remorse. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He cupped my cheeks and rained kisses all over my face. Repeating, “I'm sorry.” Over and over. I felt the shift in his apology. It intensified with his mouth on me.
When he pulled away, his eyes full of emotion, he took a long look into mine. He looked uncertain, which probably mirrored me.
“I'm sorry, too.” I felt a buildup of tears begin to seep from my eyes. “I'm sorry for a lot of things,” I whispered and looked down at his chest.
Casey lifted my head, with shaky hands that were still at the sides of my face, and took a lengthy uneven breath.
“We've both said things, done things, and made mistakes,” he admitted.
He kissed my nose, then pulled back far enough to stare straight into me. “It doesn't mean that they were true, that we wanted to or that we won't do it again. We have right now, honeybee, and as bad as we are—we're good too. You're here. For me. I know you are. That means something. It means a lot.”
Hot tears streamed down my cheeks now, and with the outpouring of them I felt like I wanted to bare my soul.
“I don’t want to be married to him.” Then I sobbed. “I'm staying in California for a while. I don't want to go back, but I have to.” My chest constricted at the thought.
The water in the tub filled and began to lap at my feet that dangled in the basin. He stood, holding me and then turned to sit me on the edge. Casey, kneeling before me, ran a gentle hand down my shoulder and my back, stopping at the latch on the back of my bra. When it was unfastened, he slid the straps down my sides and then pulled it away, tossing it to the floor where my shirt laid.
“Stand up,” he said. “Let's get in this tub and we'll figure it out.”
When our clothes were removed and we were situated inside the large porcelain tub, facing each other again, I almost felt like I could do it. I almost felt like I could say the words.
I wanted him. Not Grant.
I wanted to be Casey's wife.
I wanted all of it. This house. His kids. A life here. But I didn't know how to do either, how to make it all happen or even say the words.
Instead, I asked him something that had been haunting me for over a year. “Why didn’t you ever sleep with me? Why didn’t you ever just stay?” My voice was low and somber, but my question sort of was, too. It always bothered me that he never wanted to wake up with me in his arms.
He reached for a large cup that was positioned on the tub shelf beside us and filled it with warm water. He poured its contents over my head, wetting my hair.
“I never wanted to leave, Blake. I had to.”
“But why?”
As he sunk the cup again to refill, he paused his work to think about what he was about to say.
“Because it hurt too much to wake up with you and then not wake up with you. Does that make any sense?”
His answer did make sense. I remembered that first morning and I ached to feel that with him again. That morning was a gift, and had I known how dear and precious it was, I would have paid attention to every single small detail and laid there with him for hours.
“I understand. I'm sorry I did this to you. To us.” This time I looked back at him, giving him the focus he deserved. Sometimes I felt like I was looking at him, but not allowing myself to see him. It was much too hard not seeing him when I needed to most.
“Will you sleep with me tonight?” I didn't mean to sound as desperate as I did; it just came out that way.
He looked torn. Then poured the water over my head.
“Are you really going to stay here?” he asked. I took the cup from him and repeated what he’d done to me, pouring the water over his practically bare head.
“I want to, if that's all right. I know you're going through a lot. I don't want to be something else to add to your stress. I’ll be in San Francisco for a little while. Maybe a month. I don't know about every night, but I know I want to stay tonight.”
Truth.
“What does Grant think about you staying here for so long? Did you have a fight?”
We didn't have a fight, we rarely did, and I’d left before it was possible. If I would have waited for him to get home from work and told him face to face about my trip, I wouldn't have been able to get here as fast.
So I only sent him an email, which was normally how we communicated during the day.
Yes. I emailed my husband that I was leaving for a month. It was cold, heartless even. It felt disgusting, but I did it. Guilt ate at me as I typed it, but ease replaced it when he sent one back like it was the customary way to do that sort of thing.
I got his reply when I was waiting to board the plane. He wasn't happy about me being gone for so long, but I was often gone for weeks. He asked me if I could come back, for a weekend, in the middle of my trip and I agreed. That seemed to be enough for him and he replied to travel safe and be careful.
I never felt like he missed me. Not the way Casey did.
Every time I saw Casey after a long break, his face would split into a wide open smile, his teeth were so perfect and bright, and he'd come to me like he couldn't wait another minute for me to walk all the way to him. That always felt so good.
“No, we didn't fight. We never really do.”
How weird was that? Something that should have been a good thing in a relationship was such a bad thing for our marriage. There was never a fight. No passion. No desperation. It just was.
“Not like we do,” I said and tried to smile.
“We do know how to fight, don't we? It's becoming a second language fighting with you. Over and over and over. I think by now we're almost fluent.”
I dipped the cup under and tipped the whole thing on him, more on his face than on his head.
“I miss your hair, Casey. I don't like it this short.” I couldn't help myself and I inched closer to him. Wrapping my legs around his waist and rising up higher on his lap. His hands found my backside and pulled me even closer. I could feel him growing hard between us. My hands moved over his short hair and my thumbs ironed out the fine red wrinkles on his forehead that the sun had made and time had creased.
I touched his face and lips.
“I miss your mouth.” And then I kissed him chastely on the side where his lips met in the corner. “I miss the way your eyes undress me the moment you see me.” I dotted kisses along his jaw to his ear, feeling him harden even more under my lap, his hands firming their grip on my ass. I said into his ear, “I miss the way your breath feels in my ear. I want you, Casey. I always want you.”
His mouth moved around my face to find its mate and they devoured each other. Nothing in the moment was rushed. We had no place to go. We were where we needed to be.
I rose up and felt him at my entrance and without a guiding hand, I sat myself on him and didn't stop until he was all of the way inside me.
Nothing felt like Casey Moore.
“I miss you, too,” he said over and over like a mantra as I rose and fell slowly over top of him. He wrapped his arms around me tightly and kissed me everywhere his mouth could find.
“I hate it when you're gone. I hate when I can't talk to you. I hate thinking about you with him. It’s killing me. It's killing me not being the one who gets to have you. Stay, Blake. Be mine.”
He spoke loving words in my ears and told me how much he needed me. We moved so slow that the water barely lapped in the tub, taking our time. Savoring the sensations.
As we got closer he brought a hand between us and touched me the way only he did. His thumb dancing delicately over the sensitive spot he was so familiar with. He stroked it like a flint catching my body on fire.
“Tell me you're mine, honeybee, and I'll let you come.”
My orgasm was on the precipice of ignition, so I had no other choice. “I'm yours. I've always been yours, Casey. Please.” I begged, craving my time-denied release. “I'll say whatever you want.”
His thumb slowed and moved away from the epicenter of my building climax. “No, Blake. I don't want you to just say it. I need you to mean it.”
My body was wanton and throbbing for its orgasm. I ground myself onto him and moaned my truth, “I always want you. Only you.”
Our mouths met feverishly, out teeth hitting together as we feasted on one another.
He relieved me, bringing his hand back to my screaming body, and in less than three or four deft strokes we were coming. I stilled and let the feeling of him emptying inside me claim all of my senses.
I didn't have my bag, and therefore I had no clean clothes in the house to put on. When we left the confines of the tub, when the water grew cool and shivers peaked on both of our flesh, I wrapped myself in a large towel and stood there like I was waiting for further instruction.
“Did you mean what you said?” I asked as I watched him rummage through the cabinet under the sink.
Absentmindedly, he replied, “Yeah.” Finally popping his head out, holding a new toothbrush out to me.
“You did?” I retorted, knowing he wasn't paying attention to my question.
His face looked befuddled, as if he didn't follow.
“You just answered yeah. I don't think you heard me.” I quirked an eyebrow at him. He looked so calm and almost like the easy-going man I knew months and months ago.
“I heard you. You asked if I meant what I said and the answer is easy. Yes. I don't know what you were talking about.” He stood and smiled wrapping his arms around my shoulders, while I gripped the toothbrush in between our bodies. “The thing you don't understand is that I've meant everything I've said tonight.” He kissed the top of my head. “Now brush your teeth. It's time for bed, Betty. I hope you're not tired.”
I prayed that it was real. All of it.
The wicked grin on his face made my heart beat double time.
I stood beside him at the sink. Even though there were two, we shared. He already turned the water on and was dispelling the paste to his brush. He looked at me expectantly in the mirror and offered me a squeeze. I pointed the head of the new toothbrush at him and he gave it a stripe across the bristles. We brushed our teeth smiling like it was the most normal of activities.
He also found a comb and brought it with him into the bedroom. We walked to the end of the bed and it was like we didn't know what to do. We'd been in beds together plenty of times, but that time, I was nervous. It felt poles apart from before.
“What side of the bed do you sleep on?” I asked him, a little shyly.
“Are you serious?” He looked at me like I was being audacious. “It doesn't matter to me. I've been dreaming of sleeping all night with you for so long that I don't give a f*ck if you sleep side to side at the end of the damn thing.”
I giggled. It really was irrelevant, because I didn't care either.
“This is a bit weird, isn't it?” I asked. My pulse was racing. I heard what he'd said earlier and I wasn't sure what this would mean. I wanted it, but I didn't want to do more damage to him than good. Of all things, this is what I stopped to consider. All of the things I've done to this man, and that was the thing that caused me to pause. I felt silly.
“It's new. We've never got in bed knowing that neither of us were going to run.” He laughed and pointed at me with the comb. “You're not running, are you?”
“Not planning on it,” I said sarcastically. The truth was I really wasn't planning on it, but my plans always seemed to change.
“Well, then. Get up there, Betty. Make yourself at home.” He still wasn't wearing any clothes, just a towel and my eyes wandered over his skin. He'd lost a little weight, which only made his muscles seem more prominent. The lines in his back were strong and defined as he began walking to the closet.
He returned with a pair of boxers and a T-shirt.
“Are those for me?”
“One of them is. Which one do you want?” He was being playful and it was nourishment for my heart. So, I chose the least likely of the pair.
“I'll take the boxers.”
His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “That's my girl.”
He handed me the plaid boxers, which were way too big and didn't want to stay up after I pulled them up my legs. I let my towel fall, going topless.
Casey threw the shirt on and dropped his towel. He clapped his big hands together, and then rubbed them conspiratorially. “Now this is a sleepover!”
He smacked my ass as I climbed onto the four-poster bed and I crawled my way to the center. He followed and scooted behind me. He unraveled the towel, which was holding my wet hair up, and let the cool locks hit my shoulders and back. It gave me chills. He pulled at me and wedged my ass between his legs.
After leaning over to the bedside table, he threw the remote control onto my lap, telling me, “Find something good.” Then he moved my hair to the side and kissed the nape of my neck, finding a surprise there.
“You got ink?! Let me see.” I held my locks up for him to examine hoping he’d like it. I’d got the tattoo on a whim, praying that one day he’d see it and knowing that if he never did, I’d still have a reminder of him with me forever.
“It's a hook. You got a hook tattoo?” he softly said, so close to my skin that gooseflesh appeared down my arms and legs.
“I did. Do you like it?” I didn't know what he would think of it. After I’d got it, I badly wanted to send him a picture.
“It's beautiful. Perfect.” he added and kissed it. The hook was thin and delicate, centered barely under my hairline. I'd had the artist draw the thinnest of strings that tied at the eye of the J-shaped piece of metal. I'd instructed him to hide a C and an M in the line and to have it wrap the throat and shank. Yes, I’d studied hooks. To anyone else it would have looked like an unassuming hook and string, but to me it was a secret tribute to the man I deeply missed.
“It’s your initials hidden in the string,” I said.
He kissed my neck once more and then said, “Thank you, honeybee,” like I’d given him something precious. Casey’s simple words were full of meaning and the swallow I heard after he spoke didn’t go unnoticed.
I channel surfed, passing sports and sitcoms alike. I wondered if he had any of the good channels. It was getting late and I'd just about lay money that I could find something we'd both enjoy. Then I stumbled onto a skin-flick and tossed the remote aside, after turning the sound down.
I felt the comb slide smoothly through my hair, which I was sure would be littered with rats and tangles from the many rushed knotted ponytails I'd hastily thrown up throughout the day's travels.
Over and over, he dragged the comb through my wet hair running a hand behind it, almost like he was petting me. I watched the naked couple on the television touch each other and felt both relaxation and desire seep into my pores.
When I'd tired of not seeing him after minutes of viewing the erotic movie, I caught the comb behind me and captured his hand. I turned where I sat partway and found his eyes, hooded and glazed over.
“Do you always watch porn topless at slumber parties, or is this new?”
“It's been a while,” I said coyly. I released his hand and placed mine on his leg. He licked his lips, and on its own, my tongue came out to wet mine. “I'm usually completely naked.”
“Your dirty talk is improving. Tell me more,” he said bringing a hand around me grabbing a free breast.
“I've been doing some reading on it,” I said, trying to keep the smile out of my voice, which has always been my problem. “Studies show that men love it when you tell them how wet you are.”
His breath caught and he held it, nodding his head slowly. He closed his eyes like he was soaking in my words, then muttered under his breathe. “Finally, a study I can get behind. What else do they say?”
“They encourage the use of genital slang.” I turned towards him fully and away from his grip on my chest.
He leaned back and I crawled up his body, keeping my legs between his. My arms holding my weight above him. His hands found my sides and held me there.
“They also say to ask for things that you want—to beg if necessary—and to repeat your lover's name.” My voice was husky and low. Watching him swallow hard almost made me lose it, but I stayed the course. Holding back all the humor from my face, as best I could.
He asked weakly, “Have you tried any of their theories?”
“Not yet. I've been waiting.”
“I think now would be a good time. Education is very important.”
I took a breath and lowered my mouth to his ear. I licked the lobe and said as seductively as I possibly could, “Casey?”
He exhaled a long rumbling, “Hmm?”
“Can you feel how wet my p-ssy is? Please?”
That was all it took. In one fast move he lifted me and rolled us over. Kicking my legs apart, he masterfully switched our positions.
I was in Heaven.