Reagan's Revenge and Ending Emily's Engagement

by Tammy Falkner

  Emily

  He looks like I just punched him. “Oh, my God,” I breathe out. I walk to him and try to take him into my arms.

  He sets me back from him, his face a storm cloud of fury. “What?” he asks.

  “Oh, that came out wrong,” I say.

  He squeezes my upper arms tightly, so tight that it makes me squirm a little. But what makes me even more nervous is the look in his eyes. Logan can be intense, but this is different. This is reserved only for me. “It better have come out wrong,” he bites out.

  He dropped a shopping bag on the floor when he grabbed me, and I stare down at it like a fool. It looks just like the one I just shoved into the couch cushions. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to it like it’s a snake that’s about to bite me.

  “Why do you want to end our engagement?” he asks. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the peg by the door. “What the fuck are you thinking, Em?” He’s shaking, and I suddenly realize what I’ve just done.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean break up, Logan,” I say. A frantic giggle busts from my lips.

  “I am not amused,” he says.

  I wring my hands. “I just meant…maybe we could…maybe we could get married. Like soon.”

  We talk about getting married all the time, but it’s just not something either of us has felt a great desire to do. I don’t want the pomp and circumstance, and he would just as soon avoid the crowd. So, we wait.

  “Why?” he asks.

  I walk to the sofa and get my bag that looks just like his. I hand it to him. He opens it and deflates like a balloon. Then he starts to laugh. When Logan laughs, there’s a part inside me that splits open with sheer happiness. My insides start to freaking glow when he’s happy. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s the truth.

  He picks his bag up and hands it to me. I open the and look inside. Then I grin, too. He laughs, grabs me to him, and spins me around. “I fucking love you so much,” he says by my ear.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “I know your body, Em,” he says softly. He cups my breast in his hand and sweeps across the suddenly turgid tip. “Your boobs are bigger, and you didn’t eat the pie.” He laughs.

  “And I’m late,” I admit.

  “How late?” he asks.

  “Like a month and a half.”

  “Thought so.” He grins like a fool. He jerks a thumb toward the bathroom. “Go pee on the fucking stick, Em,” he says. He starts opening one of the boxes and motions for me to follow him to the bathroom. He won’t even leave the room while I pee on the stupid stick. He stays. I lay it on the counter, my heart lighter than it has ever been. I wash my hands and look in the mirror to brush my hair back from my face. I chew on my fingernails and wait.

  Logan steps up behind me and looks at me in the mirror, and I can remember the first time he looked at me like this. We were in a bathroom at a restaurant and he had just kissed me for the first time. He looked into my eyes in our reflection, and I was gone. He had just shown me the tattoo that unlocked my world, and I was his. I haven’t looked back since.

  “Are you afraid?” he asks as he sweeps my hair to the side and kisses my neck.

  “I was,” I admit. “But not anymore. Now that you’re here, I’m fine.” He’s the peace in my soul. He’s all I need. I lay a hand on my belly. And there might be another little piece of him and me together.

  He picks up the stick and looks down at it. He stares at it for a second and then looks up at me. His eyes fill with tears, and he blinks them back. Then he nods. It’s a quick jerk. Just one. I fall against him and sob into his shoulder.

  “You and me, Em. We’re going to have a baby,” he says softly.

  He hitches me up with his hands on my bottom and I wrap my legs around his waist. Logan carries me to the bedroom and pulls my shirt over my head. He unhooks my bra with deft fingers and lays me down. He hovers over me, pulling my pants down over my feet and then my panties, until I’m naked and exposed.

  I don’t move because my heart is swelling and my blood is thumping. When he’s naked, he comes back to me, but he doesn’t kiss my face. He bends and kisses my belly. He lifts me and moves me higher in the bed, where he can hover over me. “Me and you, Em,” he says again, his fingers tickling over my belly.

  My tummy is still flat. This is too new for it to show, but I am moved by how reverently and tenderly he touches me. He lays a flat palm on my belly, and I cover his hand with mine.

  “What if our baby is like me, Logan?” I ask. My voice suddenly cracks. “I’ll never be able to read her a bedtime story.”

  He takes my hand and clutches it to his heart. “But I can.” He takes in a deep breath through his nose with his eyes closed, and then his blue eyes stare directly into mine. “I didn’t even have a voice until I met you, Em,” he says. “You gave me that. Let me use it. I’ll read to him. I’ll read until my throat hurts.”

  “But what will I do?”

  He smiles softly. “You’ll do what I can’t. You’ll sing with him. You’ll teach the baby about music. I can never do that.” It’s true. Logan feels the beat of music, but he doesn’t get much more than that. He will never appreciate music the way a hearing person can. “We complement one another, Em,” he says. “We always have. You punched me in the face because I was being a douche, but in all reality, you took my breath away and I wanted you. I wanted every part of you. He picks my foot up, brings it close to his mouth, and starts kissing from my ankle to the back of my knee. A shiver runs up my spine, and I raise my other foot to his other shoulder. He grins and pushes my feet toward my shoulders, sinking inside me in one slow push. If I turned my head right now, I could kiss my ankle.

  He takes me in slow, lazy strokes until I whimper and wiggle under him. “What’s wrong?” he teases. He knows I hate slow and composed. He pushes inside me, my bottom turned up as high as it can go as he gives me every wonderful inch of him.

  “More,” I whimper. He kisses my ankle and parts my legs, letting them fall down by his sides. I shove his shoulder and he flips us over, our bodies still connected. This is what Logan and I are – connected in the most elemental ways. We always have been. We always will be.

  “Use me,” he teases. “Take me however you want.”

  He folds his arms behind his head, his elbows pointed out, a lazy grin on his face. I squeeze him in my depths, and his eyes close. “What’s wrong?” I coax, rising and sinking on him in quick, fulfilling strokes.

  “Too good,” he complains, as he closes his eyes. “Too tight. Too much.”

  He puts his hands on my hips and stops me from moving, his steely grip holding me tightly. “Will you still be able to do this when your belly is all full of my kid?” he asks quietly. His thumbs trace circles on my hips.

  “You mean when I get really fat?” I ask. I laugh, and he winces when I squeeze him.

  “Not fat, Em,” he says. He cups my breasts in his hands and squeezes tenderly. “Full of us,” he whispers.

  “Easy,” I complain. “They’re sore.”

  He looks up, his brow furrowing. “Really?” he asks, but he doesn’t stop his slow sweeps with his thumbs across the turgid peaks. “I’m sorry they hurt,” he says quietly.

  He’s taking my body almost like it’s new to him. “Just be gentle,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Oh, this from the woman who doesn’t like soft and slow. You really should make up your mind.”

  I ride him quickly, my strokes long and true and fast, taking him deeper and deeper inside me with every surge. He reaches into my curls and does that little thing he’s so good at. He strokes my clit and finds a rhythm I like. My legs grow shaky, and I have to brace myself with my palms flat on his chest. “Logan,” I cry.

  “Now,” he says. “Please come. I can’t hold off much longer.”

  He doesn’t break eye contact with me. Just like in everything else, he watches my body, taking cues from the vibration of my throat, the hitch in my breath, the shakiness of my th
ighs. “Now,” I say, and my back bows with the force of my feelings for him. I come while riding him, and he pulses beneath me at the same time, grunting loudly as he fills me up.

  I collapse onto his chest. His hands stroke lazily across my back, up and down and back and forth. Then he moves and rolls me beneath him. He lays his ear on my belly and looks up at me. “There’s part of us in there,” he says reverently.

  I run my fingers through his hair and smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.” I tug his hair so he’ll look up at me. “Are you happy?” I ask.

  His blue eyes are so deep and so true that I don’t doubt his sincerity at all. “Couldn’t be happier,” he says. And I believe him. I’ve always believed him, even when he couldn’t believe me. “What are you going to do about school?” he asks.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I say. “We always do.”

  “Yeah,” he breathes, and his eyes close, his ear pressed to my belly like he’s listening for the subtle clues that there’s life in there.

  There’s life in there. Ours. Together. “Want to get married?” I blurt out.

  He nods and comes up to kiss me. “Yeah,” he says with a nod. And I don’t doubt for a minute that he means it.

  Pete

  Reagan is going to kill me when she gets home and sees all these kids here. I knew Gonzo was coming because he called and asked if he could spend the night. He does that sometimes. I genuinely like the kid, so having him over is not a problem. But he must have called his girlfriend, who just happens to be Edward’s younger sister, a boy I met when I was in prison, and they’re on their way over too. I am pretty sure that Reagan just wanted a quiet night at home, particularly since we have to spend pretty much the whole day with my family tomorrow.

  I take some grapes out of the fridge and wash them off, because Gonzo eats like no one I have ever seen. The boy has a tape-worm, it seems at times. He’s sixteen now, and he’s finally hit his growth spurt. He starts popping them into his mouth as soon as I set them on the counter. Thanks, he signs with a grin.

  “How are things going with Susan?” I ask.

  He blushes and swallows his grapes.

  “That well, huh?” I tease. I chuck his shoulder.

  She’s different, he signs. He can’t speak because he has a tracheostomy tube from his MS. He’s in a wheelchair and has been for years, but there’s nothing at all slow about his mind.

  “Different is good,” I say. I raise my brow at him, waiting for him to confirm or deny. “You kissed her yet?” I ask. I pull up a barstool and get comfortable.

  His face gets even rosier.

  “You done more than kissing?” I ask. Gonzo’s dad isn’t in the picture, so he doesn’t have a man to talk to. I had my brothers. So, I try to be that for him.

  He nods, avoiding my gaze. Not much, he signs. Then his eyes meet mine. She’s got more experience than me.

  Susan was sexually assaulted. We all know that. She was raped by her mother’s boyfriend and then she was abused in a foster home as well. “Good experience or bad experience?” I ask.

  Both, he admits. The rape was rape. The second guy, the father in the foster home, that was consensual. She wanted to please him. And she already felt dirty from what happened before and thought it would wash her clean if it was done on her terms.

  Regardless, the man was decades older than her, so it never should have happened.

  How do I know when she’s over the rape? he asks.

  “Oh, wow,” I breathe. I scratch my chin. “I don’t think assault victims ever get over it,” I say. “But the mistake some men make is thinking of them as victims. Their experiences have been tainted when something that’s supposed to be beautiful is turned into something tragic, but tragic things happen every day. Will it affect her for the rest of her life? Yeah, probably. But does it have to stunt her growth in every area of her life? Definitely not.”

  I don’t know how much I can tell him and not betray Reagan’s confidence.

  Reagan told Susan about what happened to her, he admits.

  “But did she tell her how poorly I handled it after?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “I did. I was even more scared than she was. I wanted to show her how much I loved her that I held back. I couldn’t be myself. I wasn’t letting her be herself. I tried to keep everything soft and sweet and slow and calm. But it wasn’t what she needed. She needed for me to love her completely so she could love me completely, too.” I tap my temple. “After I figured that out, we had it all straightened out. So, quit worrying if you’re doing anything wrong,” I say. “Ask her if you’re doing it wrong. Let her guide you. Don’t assume you know what she’s feeling. Ever.”

  He smiles. Okay.

  “And don’t rush it,” I warn, shaking my finger at him. “I remember being your age and wanting to get my rocks off. But it’s about more than that. And once you realize that, that’s when your life changes. That’s when it starts.”

  I squeeze his shoulder and he grins at me.

  “And wait a few years.”

  I’m not always sure I have a few years, he tells me. My gut churns. I can’t imagine a world without this boy in it.

  “Be careful,” I say instead. “Do you need condoms?” I can’t stop a teenaged boy from doing anything he wants to do. But I can be sure he’s prepared.

  He shakes his head. Got it covered.

  “You better keep it covered,” I warn, pointing my finger at him.

  He grins and throws up his hands like he’s surrendering.

  A knock sounds on the door so I go and open it. Edward walks in, and Susan is right behind him. Her face lights up when she sees Gonzo, and she goes to kiss him on the cheek. He pulls her to sit in his lap, and she lands there, giggling. Her brother snaps, “Find your own chair.”

  She scowls, but she scampers off of Gonzo’s lap. Gonzo starts to sign to her. When they first met, he used a computer to talk to her, but she learned some basic signs and it grew from there. She can get what he’s saying. They go the living room and sit down side by side, with her in a chair and him in his, and he takes her hand.

  Edward follows me to the kitchen. He can still see them, so he’s okay with moving across the room. He growls low under his breath.

  “Quit your breathing fire,” I say. “He’s good to her.”

  “She’s still my sister,” he grumbles.

  “You can trust him,” I say. I’m not one hundred percent sure of that, but I’m close.

  “I don’t trust anyone with her,” he says quietly.

  “He won’t hurt her.”

  “If he doesn’t hurt her, she can still hurt him,” he says.

  Oh, he’s worried about Gonzo.

  “What if she’s with him because he’s not threatening?” he asks me.

  “What if she is?” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “What if he’s what she needs?”

  He’s a sweet boy, he’s smart, he makes her laugh, and he doesn’t intimidate her. And she offers him unrestricted love, which is often difficult to find when you’re in a wheelchair.

  “Let them work it out,” I suggest. “How are things going for you?” I ask.

  He nods and smiles. “Good. School is going great.” Edward just started at the community college. He wants to be an automotive technician, and he’ll be really good at it.

  “I’m really proud of you,” I tell him.

  He blushes, much like Gonzo did a few minutes ago.

  I hear the front door open and look up to find the woman I love walking into the house. She stops when she sees all the people who are here and raises her brow at me, but then she grins and shakes her head. “Hey, Gonzo,” she says. She gives him a high five and leans down to hug Susan. Susan and Reagan share the memories of their violent encounters and it has made them pretty tight. I’m glad Susan has Reagan to be her role model, because I have never met a stronger woman than Reagan. And she’s mine.

  Reagan kisses Edward on the cheek, and he bl
ushes a little. I love that she treats him the way she does. When I met him, I called him Tic-Tac in my head because he needed a lot of dental work and had really bad breath. I had no idea what kind of childhood he’d had or that he was in prison for killing the man who had repeatedly raped his little sister. He said something to me once. He said something like, “I feel like he stole who she could have been.” But I don’t think that’s true. She has Edward to guide and protect her, and she’s willing to accept love and give love in return. Yes, she has a long road to go, but she’ll get there.

  Reagan looks at me and says, “What’s for dinner?” as she rummages around in the fridge for a bottle of water.

  I shrug my shoulders and grin at her.

  “Why don’t I call for a pizza or two,” she says, “while you take the boys and go get some snacks at the corner market?” She makes a motion between herself and Susan. “We need a little girl time, anyway.” She winks at Susan, and the girl grins.

  “Looks like we’re going for snacks, boys,” I call as Reagan picks up the phone and starts to order the pizzas. I can hear her ask who the delivery driver is. When the person on the other end of line answers, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. What’s that about?”

  I kiss her quickly.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. She’s suddenly avoiding my gaze. That’s not like her.

  She nods. “I’m fine. Get some sour cream and onion chips, will you?” She pats my arm absently. But I know her well enough to know that something is going on.

  I rush the boys out into the hallway and into the elevator. They’re bullshitting with one another the whole way, so they take my mind off Reagan a little. What can go wrong in the thirty minutes it takes me to get snacks?

  Reagan

  I only have about thirty minutes before Pete and the boys get back. The pizza is guaranteed to be here in ten, though, so it should be enough time. A week ago when we ordered pizza, I immediately knew that the man who delivered it was the man who had raped me. He made the mistake of looking into my eyes when he delivered the pizza. When he did it, he jerked his eyes away, but I don’t even think it was because he knew me. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t remember who he pushed to the floor that night. Who he pushed himself inside and violated. He probably sees me as a nameless, faceless victim. But I’m not. I’m a person and I needed to know, so I did my research.