A Life More Complete

---Chapter 1---

It’s been exactly ten years to the day since I left home. I roll over and groan at my alarm as it does its steady stream of ear-piercing beeps. Five fifteen, my usual wake-up call. Rolling to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, I pull on my running shorts and a tank top. I fumble with my laces and eventually slide my feet into what I know as home—my running shoes. Running is an addiction that I can’t overcome, and as far as addictions go, I guess it isn’t so bad.

Eight miles, my morning routine, and without it my day will be shot. Running keeps my OCD at bay and curbs my insomnia. Today is a Tuesday and added to my morning run is my beach yoga class.

I step out of my condo into the cool morning air that is only created in California. I live in the Sand section of Manhattan Beach, my condo, a total steal when I bought it six years ago, but a total dump, too. I breathe in the smell of salt as I long to feel the pavement pounding against my feet. I love the summer, the long, extended bursts of lasting sunlight, but as August impedes the sunlight recedes, leaving too early and appearing too late. I have an irrational fear of the dark. The kind of fear that grips you and makes your heart feel like it may explode out of your chest. It’s like watching a horror movie. I picture serial killers lurking, along with mask-wearing lunatics and gun-wielding psychopaths hiding in the darkness. Like I said, irrational. My outdoor runs will end due to this fear somewhere near October. Yet, today I know the sun will rise at 6:01am. I have to know this or else the fear will take over. I set off on my usual route down to the beach, taking Moonstone to Ocean and Ocean to 42nd Street, 42nd to the beach, then just slightly east of the pier for yoga, knowing that by the time I hit the sand the sun will begin to rise. The route is fully memorized.

The date floats around in my head as I eliminate my first mile: Tuesday, August 8, 2006. I left potholes for sinkholes, construction for gridlock, tornadoes for earthquakes; most would think it a lateral move. I walked away from a lake for an ocean, snow for sunshine, quietly explosive dysfunction for comfortably unfamiliar calm. Running allows me to reflect on my life and the choices I have made. I know without a doubt that I have no regrets. But I also steal a few minutes to recall all the memories of my former life that I still long for and desire in my moments of weakness. Deep-dish pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs. The oppressive extreme humidity and heat of a Midwest summer, something most would grow to hate. Not me—I loved it, I craved it. It was like being hugged by a warm, wet blanket every time you left your house. Summer thunderstorms and heat lightning, something my mother feared, forcing me to love it unconditionally. My undying love for the Chicago Cubs and Wrigley Field imposed upon me by my grandfather. We spent countless summers together pressed against strangers in the bleachers, eating peanuts and drinking lemon shake-ups. The sun burning down on us so intensely it actually blistered my shoulders once.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I press my feet firmly into the ground and my quads begin to burn as they always do around mile four. When I left home, this is what I envisioned and my dream had focused into a reality. And although successful, it’s difficult to be truly happy with where I ended up. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m following a path closely related to my mother and it scares the shit out of me. I’m not surprised. Built from the same DNA, alike in so many ways, too many to outrun. I knew it would find me, like a long-lost puppy. My youthful idealism out the window, shriveled like a dead flower. I settled, sold myself short, all in the name of money. Yet money means freedom and freedom means work and work is what I do.

The sky is beginning to brighten up and welcome the day by fading from a deep blue to a pink as the sun makes an appearance. I can’t help but take it in and enjoy the loss of the night. My feet hit the sand hard, almost knocking me down, but I steady myself and adjust to the change in surface. I scan the vast ocean, taking in the early morning surfers but looking for one in particular. Then I spot him and as always, a smile spreads across my face. Bennett Torres.

I met Ben a few weeks after I moved into my Manhattan Beach condo six years ago. On my morning run, his adorable Boxer, Roxy, followed me for two miles. I ignored the dog under the pretense that this was this slick surfer dickhead’s way to pick up women on the beach. Yet, I heard the panic in his voice as he called for his dog. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see him running the length of the beach the opposite direction we were heading, calling her name and whistling as his voice became more and more riddled with fear and anxiety. I stopped my run, I turned to the dog, I said her name, and she did that adorable head tilt that all dogs do and I caved.

I turned and headed back in the direction of Roxy’s owner with Roxy trailing behind in such close proximity to my feet that I thought I might kick her. When we finally reached him, his dark brown eyes were wide with fear and he dropped to his knees in front of Roxy, engulfing her face in his hands. He rubbed his fingers vigorously over her ears, speaking to her as if she were a small, errant child.

“Roxy, you bad girl! Don’t you ever run away again. I was so worried!” All along, Roxy was tilting her head in different directions as the inflection in his voice changed. Everything about this was endearing: this man on his knees, the way he spoke to the dog, the kindness and love he bequeathed upon her, and his genuine concern for her safety. My words pulled him from his reverie. They left my mouth before my brain could stop them.

“Your dog is adorable.”

He glanced up at me, placing his hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He paused for a brief moment, then a shy smile crossed his face and he responded lightly with, “You’re adorable.”

The smile fell instantly from my face. I wasn’t prepared or ready to welcome any advances that would allow me to feel. I couldn’t bear the thought of allowing anyone into my life that might possibly end with me getting hurt, or even worse, me hurting them. Quickly and silently I tapped the pads of each one of my fingertips on my right hand. Counting each one in rapid succession till I reached ten. This was my OCD at its best. A situation I wasn’t in control of, calling for stimulation to calm my senses and relax my overwhelming urge to bolt.

He stood in front of me, his smile faded based on my response. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s not every day that a beautiful girl returns my wayward dog to me.” He extended a tanned, yet well-worn hand to me. “Ben,” he said with a weak grin. I didn’t take his hand, but I responded with, “Krissy. Krissy Mullins.” The thought of touch overwhelmed me and again I tapped my fingers.

“I’m glad I was able to help. I’d hate to see what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been found.” I smiled timidly.

“It would have been bad. She’s my life.” He glanced down at the dog, who was now resting at his feet, leisurely licking her paw. “Let me take you out as a thank you for finding her.” His eyebrows rose as he awaited an answer.

“I don’t think so, but thank you. I need to be going. Have a good one.” I turned and walked away. Somehow when he didn’t follow me, I knew my point was made.

Ben would outlast me, which to this day I don’t understand why. Months would pass and I would wave to him while he surfed and I ran. Roxy would trail at my feet, making me feel some semblance of comfort in her proximity. We would chat briefly as I returned Roxy to him, basic conversation: weather, running, surfing, never delving too deep.

Eventually I caved and had coffee with him one Saturday morning. It became a regular occurrence for months. He became a friend and a close one at that, and over the last few years we began to teeter on the edge of that muddy line between friends and something more.

I wasn’t looking to fall in love. Nope, not me. Been there, done that and boy, oh, boy did the ending suck. I’m serious, ambitious, goal driven, at least that’s how I want to be perceived, but I know my view might be a little skewed. I’m the girl who wears white pants and assumes they won’t get dirty. I’m clumsy and silly, but long to be taken seriously. Yep, that’s me. A damn fool. With Ben it falls to pieces. I can only see him and the warmth that spreads through my body. He makes me laugh. He makes me smile. He makes me weak.

I remove my shoes and begin to unroll my yoga mat as Ben strolls up. Drying himself with a beach towel, he commands Roxy to sit, his deep brown hair still damp from his morning surf, his muscular body tanned and flexing as he dries his hair again. He in turn unrolls a mat directly behind me, giving me a coy smile. I know his game and I giggle at the thought. He’s only here so he can be with me and he reminds me of that with a shy grin on his face.

“It’s been ten years today,” I whisper for some unknown reason. I guess if I say it loud enough I might will it to go bad. After the words leave my mouth I have to suppress the urge to tap my fingers and to my surprise, the urgency subsides rather quickly.

“Well, I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself, Miss Mullins. Not bad for a midwestern girl.” He smiles and it melts me. I want to reach out and grab him. Pull myself against his chest and seek the comfort that only his embrace brings me. I trust him implicitly with every part of my being, but he wants more and I can’t give it to him.

Placing my feet squarely on the mat, I bend forward into down dog and he slaps my ass. “One day,” he says and winks at me.

Again I giggle like a schoolgirl. I part my legs and glance at him, “It took five years to get to this point, hope you got another five in you,” I respond.

I’m good at seduction. We both know that. It’s my heart and my commitment that he wants, not my body. Yet my body is so easy to give away—a few choice movements and he becomes mine. His words “one day” bounce around in my head and I know he wants what I can’t give him. It’s the only point that we argue about and it always comes back to the same thing. He wants a title, ownership, commitment... love. I’ve never fully loved him, always one foot out the door, that way when the pain invades I can break away without feeling or guilt. But I want to change for him and I’m compelling myself to be a better person, starting today.

I glance back at him as I move into warrior pose, his board shorts hanging from his hips so low that I can’t help but think inappropriate things about him. He’s absolutely and incomprehensibly gorgeous and he wants me the way most women would kill for. His short dark brown hair drying into an adorable faux hawk. Stomach muscles clenched while the sun shines off his tanned body. A body that only surfing and manual labor can create.

As the class draws to an end I move swiftly into his chest wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. I nuzzle my head under his chin where it fits perfectly. I breathe deeply taking in his smell and basking in his comfort. Rarely do I touch him without warning or provocation.

“What’s that for?” he asks pulling away from me just slightly. I don’t answer his question. I can’t because admitting I need him shows weakness, which is a term I’m not comfortable with.

“Do you want to shower at my house today?” I ask and the look on his face is priceless as he grabs my hand, tugging me toward the public parking lot as I reach to pick up my shoes. I climb into the passenger seat of his old Toyota 4Runner. The SUV suits him perfectly and I love the smell of worn leather and ocean that radiates from within it. Without delay he hauls his surfboard onto the roof of the car and calls Roxy into the backseat. His smile is plastered across his face and his hand rests quietly on my thigh. He drives quickly toward my house before I have a chance to bail on my question. He whips into my driveway, knowing we have little time to spare before the impending workday will begin. Understanding what I have started, I do what I do best. I saunter to the keypad on the garage and punch in the code. The door rises slowly and as it does, I bend at the waist, ducking under the door. Standing at the door to the house, I bite my bottom lip and lift my tank top over my head while simultaneously hitting the garage-door button. Roxy trailing behind him, he runs at me and I squeal with delight. I turn quickly and jet into the house with him straggling behind. I pull off my bra and shorts mid run and stop in the doorway to the bedroom. I stand in only a pair of black underwear. He stops dead his mouth open slightly as he stares.

I long to feel him against me. Everything in my body is warm. It moves from my fingertips, heating every part of me as if I am climbing into warm bath water. Ben places me on the bed, straddling me, his hands on either side of my face. Gazing up at him a small smile crosses my lips and I whisper, “You’re my most wonderful downfall.” I feel my eyes soften at the corners and I swallow hard. His mouth presses firmly against mine, his tongue parting my lips and invading my mouth. I’m gone. I moan as he enters me and he responds, moving quickly. I feel my pulse and breathing increase. He matches my hips as they move against him. His breathing turns erratic and his lips cover my body in kisses so rapid that I can’t locate where they have touched. When he stills inside me and says my name, I come with him. His eyes are soft as he leans down and kisses me slowly. This is what I do to him. It’s heady and relaxing, yet frightening that I have this much control over him. I’m falling for him wholeheartedly and it’s all consuming.

I notice every detail about him, and like a favorite movie, I can recall almost everything he has ever said to me. I love the way he smells like nature, the outdoors—a smell that will forever remind me of him. He’s reserved and casual to the point that he might be called aloof. He chews Trident original flavor gum and on particularly trying days he greets me with a quick kiss because the smell of cigarettes lingers on his body. A habit he claims to have broken long ago, but I know he still seeks the comfort of a cigarette on occasion. He loves beer and surfing. He refuses to discuss politics with anyone, because in his words “it only causes avoidable arguments.” He’s the kindest, gentlest, and sweetest person I know. He’s perfect, perfectly wonderful. And I’m pretty sure he loves me. It is killing me.

Ben knows very little about my life before I met him. I share nothing, especially regarding my former serious relationship. I don’t want it to seem like I’m hung up on my ex, which obviously I am. But there’s no need to be so clearly desperate. Even without its mention Ben somehow knows not to ask. I, in turn, give him the same respect. There has always been a sadness in Ben’s eyes, something that called to me the day we met. Even though I know without reservation that Ben is damaged, I can’t bring myself to bear anyone else’s burden, too. So the past stays silent.