by Piper Lennox
The curtains to the window that faces mine, though, are wide open.
I know I should shut my blinds. So she sleeps naked, big deal. So would I, if my family didn’t have the god-awful habit of barging in to wake me.
Easton shifts on the bed, and my heart rate goes through the roof when I see what I secretly hoped: she’s not sleeping at all.
She’s touching herself. Right in front of me.
Now I should definitely shut my blinds.
I can’t bring myself to do it, though. Something feels wrong about this so-called coincidence.
Or, rather, so completely right.
Fourteen
I can tell myself lies all day long—and at first, when I’m lying awake with the memory of Ford’s abs embedded into my palms, or all those nights years ago spinning through my head, I do.
This is my room, and what I do here is my business. If he happens to see, that’s not my problem.
It’s so dark, he can’t see me, anyway.
He’ll just think I’m sleeping.
What’s one time? One tiny give, in the endless temptation that I’ve had to fight since the second he kissed me in my car?
But when the excuses run dry, and my hands finally do what I wish his would do instead, I know I have to face the truth. I want Ford to watch me.
I begin slowly, reveling in the slow build he was always so good at: a quick brush against my sex with the back of his hand, or inserting a single digit, just to make me beg.
I wet my thumb and forefinger and roll my nipples until they’re hard, pretending it’s his tongue. My heart is pounding. I know he’s in his room by now; I saw him leave his house for the garage a few minutes ago. He must have seen me.
Then I panic, suddenly worried that he didn’t. For all I know, I’m shattering my willpower for nothing.
I glance at the window.
He’s on the edge of his bed, watching me.
As soon as our eyes meet, he stands. My pulse grows frantic when he rakes his teeth across his lip, stare intensifying when I turn myself on the bed to give him a better view.
He moves closer to the window and rests his arm on the molding at the top, then puts his forehead on his arm. I watch, the pressure in my core multiplying, as he pushes down his boxers.
No man I’ve been with has come close to matching Ford. Not in size, not in technique. Certainly not in that heavy-lidded stare of his, so powerful it makes me do things I never would dare. Like touching myself in front of someone.
He strokes his erection slowly, deliberately, and smirks when he sees me tip my head back and moan.
My fingers plunge in and out of my slit, soaked and pulsing, begging for him. I wish so badly it was his hand inside me, fingers readying me for that part of him I know I can’t have, ever again.
But you can.
It would be that simple, too. Stop, sit up, and wait. He’d be here in ten seconds flat, so we could finish what we started. One of many things.
That’s the problem, though. When it comes to Ford and me, there’s just too much left unfinished.
When I see her moan, I can’t help but smile. I missed that face.
Easton fingers herself harder the faster I pump myself. It’s like some kind of silent deal: if I give in a little more, you have to, too.
I would give in completely, if I knew she’d do the same.
Who says she wouldn’t?
Easton. Easton herself said that, when she assured me sexual attraction was no guarantee she still wanted me. She made that abundantly, painfully clear.
But come on: touching herself in front of her bedroom window, directly in my sight? Giving me a private, all-access pass to watch her masturbate? There’s vague sexual attraction—and then there’s just plain lust.
She wants me. I could go over there, right now, and take her.
I don’t, though. Even when she starts to lift her hips from the futon, thighs quivering so hard I doubt there’s any blood left in my brain, I don’t move for the door. I don’t dare ruin this one good, high moment between us by asking for more.
If there’s one thing Easton and I have always been, and will always be, it’s tentative. Fragile.
Temporary.
Ford’s muscles might be more defined, his hair might be a little longer, and his overall presence might be even larger than when we first crossed a line like this, giving in to the temptation that followed us like shadows.
But his stare...that hasn’t changed one bit.
I’m impossibly close, chest radiating heat as a flush spreads across me. My wrists ache, I’m moving my fingers so quickly, so hard, trying in vain to fill myself the way only Ford can.
Still, I don’t slow down, and I definitely don’t stop. Not even once.
I wish he could hear me moaning his name into the pitched ceiling. I wish he was here to bite my lip until my brain couldn’t decide what was pain and what was pleasure, his mouth swallowing up every gasp he’d draw out of me.
His chest rises and falls with a noticeable heaviness. He’s as close as I am.
That stare burns even harder.
My fingers press hard into my G-spot, palm sliding against my clitoris as I finish and arch my back. Try as I might, I can’t keep my eyes on his; I have to close them, the tremors are so strong.
Just after the peak, everything still fuzzy and glimmering, I manage to find him again through the blur. He pumps faster, then slows down, his strokes deepening.
He comes with an exhale, shoulders falling as his release pools on the glass and slips down its surface, milk-white and glowing in the moonlight. As the last convulsion tears through my body, I stare at the fluid and wonder why I so badly want it inside me, instead.
Our orgasms finish. We make eye contact again, panting, and pull our hands away like duelers dropping their weapons.
He cleans himself and the window with the shirt he removed. I clean myself with the pajama pants I originally planned on wearing tonight, no nudity involved whatsoever, and drop them into the hamper on my way to the window.
“Goodnight,” he mouths, almost smiling. But not quite.
I mouth it back, then reach to the panels I tied out of the way. Ford reaches for the cord to his blinds.
It’s another challenge. But instead of trying to be the first, both of us wait for the other to follow—making sure we cut off our views at the exact same time.
Fifteen
“Oh, sweet Jesus, no. Summer Fest? Really?”
Caroline slides the flyer at me again, jutting out her lip until I take it. As though I even need to read it: Hillford’s annual summer festival is older than indoor plumbing. The lineup rarely changes: petting zoo, pie contest, pie-eating contest, watermelons absolutely everywhere, and so much country music they’d hear the fiddles at the county line.
On the Pro list: as the daughter of April Lawrence, Agricultural Display Subcommittee Chairwoman—whatever that means—Easton might be there.
I’m flying so high this morning you’d think I got laid, instead of jacking off to a sight that wasn’t much different from internet porn.
Who are you kidding? Porn’s got nothing on what I saw last night.
Not ten minutes after we said goodnight, I did it again. How was I supposed to sleep after that? Watching Easton shake uncontrollably as she came, remembering exactly how it felt to be inside her when it happened....
I blink it all away and get up for more coffee. Note to self: think about literally anything else, when in the company of other people.
“I’ll go,” I tell Caroline, “but only if you promise not to make me do the super touristy shit. No pig races, no history walks—”
“The teahouse tour is a tradition!”
“—and no shopping. I know you love the boutiques and jewelry booths, but that’s where I draw the line.”
Caroline sighs, but nods. “Deal.”
“Wait, what about Bentley?” We look at the bouncy lounger in the corner, where the kid’s been
snoozing for the last two hours. “Dad’s truck didn’t magically grow another row. What happened to Calder selling you his hatchback?”
“Changed his mind.” She shrugs like this doesn’t bother her in the slightest, but the way she stares into her cereal tells a different tale. “He’s taking it to Florida.”
“I thought he and Gentry were staying here.”
“Changed his mind,” she says again, sounding annoyed with me. “It was harder sticking around Hillford than they thought.”
I sip my coffee and pretend I’m not analyzing that twitch in her eye. “Did they even come see Bentley, before they left?”
“Gentry did, for a couple hours.”
“When did this happen? And where was I?”
“Why? All you would have done is hover over our shoulders.”
“Isn’t that in the big-brother job description? Making sure boys don’t get fresh with my sister?”
Caroline gets up so fast, her chair hits the wall. She carries her bowl to the sink. “First,” she snaps, “thanks for assuming I’m so slutty and emotionally stupid, I would hook up with someone less than four months after Bennett died. Really, that makes me feel great.”
The crack of her voice knots my throat. I reach for her. “Caroline—”
“Second,” she continues, tearing out of my grasp and stalking to the fridge, “I would never get with one of Bennett’s brothers. That’s just wrong. And third: you don’t really get to tell me who I can and can’t hang out with, do you? It’d be one thing if you were a normal big brother. I’d get the whole ‘pulling rank’ thing, but....”
She trails, then stops. The fridge cycles on, struggling to compensate for the wide-open door as she stares inside.
I clear my throat. “...but...I’m not a normal brother, huh?” When she doesn’t respond, I turn and pretend to mess with the coffee pot.
The fridge closes. “Ford, I didn’t—”
“You’re right: I haven’t been here. I haven’t been involved in your life beyond, what—five or six phone calls a year, at most? A few emails? Enough to know some of what you had going on, but...not enough to deserve an opinion.”
“I want your opinion. And I appreciate your help.” She opens the fridge again and grabs a water. “But trust me: I don’t need help or advice when it comes to boys. I’m done with dating.”
“I think that’s healthy. Waiting until enough time has passed, and you’ve gotten through the grieving process.”
“No, I mean I’m done.” The ice maker rattles as she leans against the fridge and sips her drink. “No more dating. Ever.”
I manage a laugh. “You’re sixteen. Don’t commit to a convent just yet.”
“It’s impossible.” Caroline chews her cheek and shoots a look at the lounger. “No one’s going to want me, now that I’ve got a kid. And even if they do, I don’t want them. If I can’t have....”
My throat closes up again as she wipes her eyes. The guilt flares in my stomach.
“She needs you, Ford.”
“I know, right now, having Bennett back is all you can think about,” I whisper. “And thinking about loving someone else feels impossible, or wrong. Or both. But it’s not always going to be like that.”
She takes another sip, blinking hard until the tears are gone. Caroline will cry about a lot of things, but not Bennett. I think she’s afraid to. If she starts, she might never stop.
“Fine. I,” I announce, as I rummage through the cupboards for something to bring the Lawrences when I ask for their minivan, “will go into one boutique with you. But that’s my limit.”
Caroline sniffs. Her smile is small, but I’ll take it. “Deal.”
“Thank you. Again.”
“You’re welcome, again.” Easton adjusts the rearview and asks Caroline if she’s comfortable. “Sorry there’s not much space back there. I keep all my midwifery supplies on me at all times. Never know when they’ll come in handy.”
“They sure came in handy when I needed them,” she says, and all three of us laugh. Bentley is sound asleep, but that doesn’t stop my sister from checking on him every time we hit even the smallest bump.
As it turned out, April took the minivan to the festival. When I handed Jason the tin of cookies and told him to keep them, anyway, he snapped his fingers and said, “My car’s in the shop, but Easton’s got a second row in hers. Maybe she’d give you a ride.”
I’d forced a smile and thanked him for the suggestion. As I kicked my way through the dirt and gravel to their garage, my heart started to thunder. I couldn’t tell if I was thrilled or terrified at the thought of facing her, today.
I opened the garage door instead of the side one, to give her some warning, then knocked on the door to the stairwell. “Hey, it’s me. Um...Ford.”
The silence that met me was thick. Finally, I heard shuffling.
“Come on up.”
I think we both blushed as soon as we made eye contact. Thing was, I didn’t feel embarrassed about what we did, just nervous. Where did we go from here?
“Hi.”
She was pulling back her hair at the desk, a bottle of dry shampoo in front of her. “Hey.”
God help me and my one-track mind, but all I could do, suddenly, was look at the futon. It was folded back into place now, her pillows and blankets stacked neatly on one end.
“Ford,” she blurted, blushing even more when I snapped my head back to her, “what...what are you doing here?”
Oh, right: I had a purpose in coming up here, one that didn’t entail reliving last night.
Fuck, how I wished we could relive last night.
“Summer Fest,” I stammered, just to try and jump my brain onto the right topic, even if I couldn’t yet remember the rest. “Your car? I mean, I was wondering if— Caroline wants to go, but the car seat?”
Easton’s brow creased as she listened, then relaxed. “You want to borrow my car, so Caroline can take the baby to Summer Fest?”
“Yes.” God, I felt like Lassie. “That’s...what I was trying to say. You could come with us, of course. Actually, I’d—I’d like it a lot. If you came with us.”
She seemed surprised, but happy. “Okay. I’d like that too.”
So here we are, crawling through the crowd leading to Main Street, pretending we’re not replaying every single detail from last night in our heads. At least, I am.
“Caroline!” After we finally find a spot to park, two teenagers appear by the window. “We didn’t know you’d be here!”
While the three of them squeal and hug each other, Easton and I get Bentley’s carrier hooked into the stroller and wheel him onto the sidewalk. The girls immediately fawn over him, and I have to bite back the attitude: where the hell were these two, whoever they are, when my sister was nine months pregnant and lonely as shit?
“He’s so cute,” one gushes. “Oh, my God, Caroline, his little polo shirt! I can’t.”
Caroline takes the stroller and walks ahead with them, their chitchat and laughter filling the street. Easton and I follow like chaperones.
“Jeez,” she whispers, bumping me with her hip, “I’ve never seen a grown man glare at two teenagers that hard.”
“I’m not glaring. It’s just annoying, her friends popping up out of nowhere and going crazy over her kid, like he’s a Cabbage Patch doll instead of, you know, a baby, when they’ve barely talked to her for months. They damn sure haven’t visited, I know that much.”
Easton tilts her head, like she’s trying to see them as I do. “Maybe they felt weird about it. With Bennett being gone, and Caroline about to give birth, it’s not like they could really relate to what she was going through.”
“Yeah, well, that’s their fault. They didn’t even try. Caroline doesn’t need that fair-weather bullshit.”
“They’re kids, Ford.” Easton motions to the girls—or, I guess, their little tennis socks with sparkly cotton balls on the back, the outfits you can tell were chosen for flash and not comfort, and t
he way they giggle and basically skip their way down the sidewalk. One still has braces on her teeth.
They are kids. Easton’s probably right: they just couldn’t relate to such grown-up life changes, so they did what kids do and ignored them. I should know how that goes.
“They’re hanging out with her now,” Easton adds. “That’s what matters, right?”
“So, what—Caroline should just forget they basically ditched her, when she needed them most?”
As soon as I say this, I feel some kind of charge pass between Easton and me. Molecules crashing. Brainwaves tangling, the same thought passing through our heads: that’s what I did to Easton. Hell, it’s what I did to Caroline, only dropping back into her life once it was convenient for me. I’m way worse than these girls in front of us.
“Ford?” Caroline lets one of the girls take over the stroller and rushes back to us. “Annika’s dad is here with his milkshake booth, and then Chrissy’s mom has her booth with all this stuff we can try on, and her sister—”
“Go, have fun.” I dig a twenty from my pocket and hand it to her. “You want me to watch Bentley for you?”
“No, I want him to meet some more of our friends. Annika says, like, half our class is here already.”
“Are you sure? We don’t mind.” I pause and correct myself. “I don’t mind.”
“We don’t mind,” Easton repeats. When I glance at her, she just gives Caroline a reassuring smile.
She thanks us, but shakes her head. “I’ve got him. You guys have fun.” I could kill her for stretching out “fun” the way she does.
“Looks like motherhood suits her well enough,” Easton remarks, as we reach the festival and watch the girls disappear into the crowd with the stroller.
“She never takes her eyes off that kid. Getting her to let anyone watch him is like pulling teeth. I’m legitimately worried about her.”
“Has she gone for a follow-up appointment with her OB?”
