by R. S. Lively
"But they were all three!" Emma says.
"Oh, I know," I say. "Do you know how hard it was for the artistic director of the studio to find a sequined tutu big enough to fit her?"
Emma laughs again.
"I guess you have to respect her for being authentic," she says. "When she said she missed out on taking ballet class when she was a little girl and wanted to make up for it, she really meant it."
"Absolutely," I agree. "Complete with being in the recital with her class. The best part about it was not a single person in that audience made fun of her. No one laughed or judged her. I didn't hear a single mean comment.”
"I'm glad to hear that," she replies. "She sounds like she was a really good sport about the whole thing. It takes a lot of courage to get up on a stage with thirteen toddlers and perform a beginner ballet dance just because you never did it when you were actually three. I don't think I'd have the courage to do something like that."
"I'm sure you would," I say. "You think far too little of yourself, Emma. I've seen you throw yourself into things you probably never would have thought you were going to do, and be fantastic at them."
Emma shrugs, looking down into her takeout container and swirling the cold noodles around with her chopsticks.
"I still don't think I could do something like that. I don't have it in me to do something so vulnerable."
"You think that's vulnerable? I have a feeling she would far rather be up on a stage in a sparkly pink tutu with a bunch of toddlers than go through some of the shit you have. Don't sell yourself short, Emma. You're worth so much more than you think. And you make a waffle cone better than anybody I've ever met."
She smiles.
"It's a skill I'm considering adding to my resume," she says.
We eat for a few more seconds before she looks into my eyes again.
"How about you?"
I shake my head.
"I can't make a waffle cone," I say.
"You know that's not what I meant."
"What about me?"
"Is there something you haven't done yet that you wish you had?"
I shrug.
"I can't really think of anything," I say.
"Come on," she says. "You're the one who told me that everybody has a bucket list. What's on yours?"
"I wish I would have known what it was like to not grow up in the most looked-at family in the community," I say.
Emma gives me a sour expression.
"Oh, yes, growing up with all the money in the world, and every opportunity that can possibly exist, must have been terrible."
"I'm not saying it was," I say. "I know I’ve had a lot of privileges. I'm not going to pretend like I had to struggle or suffer, but that doesn't mean I necessarily loved being a part of the famed Laurence family. It might not exactly be a bucket list item, because it’s not possible, but I think that would be it."
"Why is that?"
"When you're in a family like mine, somebody is always watching you and evaluating everything you're doing. Even if they say they aren’t, you know they are. You have all these expectations weighing down on you. There's this strange sense of ownership, like we’re the representatives of Magnolia Falls, and because of that, we’re held at a higher standard than anyone else.”
"Everyone always loved you, Grant. People worshipped the ground you walked on when we were in high school, and it seems like they haven't stopped."
"As much as they admired me, and praised me for everything I did right, there were just as many who secretly hoped I was going to fail. It's human nature. Everyone compares themselves to the people around them. It's how you push yourself to be your best. You compare yourself to the people around you and adjust accordingly to make sure you're better. If you can't be better, a part of your brain will always hope the other one will fail."
"That's a pretty jaded worldview," Emma says.
"It's just realistic," I say. "I'm not bitter about it. Why should I be? It's not like I never did it to other people, too. It's just part of being human."
"You really think they wanted you to fail? You can't believe people actually wanted you to do well, and were excited for you?"
"Of course, they were. And I don't take it personally. They thought the same thing about all my brothers. About my father. It's just how it is. They don't want me personally to fail. Well, some might. Most of them, though, just want to see that I'm human. There were times when I just wanted to do something completely absurd to throw everybody off. Just do something completely ridiculous and unexpected of me."
“I think you did that,” Emma says.
I shake my head.
“People always expected me to get married,” I say.
“Wasn’t talking about that, but thanks for making me feel like your teenage rebellion that’s running late by a decade.”
I laugh.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs.
"Take it from me," Emma says, "people like when you fail, even if you aren't part of the famous Laurence clan. But I guess I understand what you're saying. There is a certain niceness about feeling anonymous. Even in a place like Magnolia Falls, where everybody knows everybody, I could still go about my life. Expectations of me were always pretty low. That made me mad when I was younger, but in hindsight, maybe it wasn't so bad. At least people weren't breathing down my neck, and I could surprise people in a good way. I’m not sure I actually did that, but I had the opportunity.”
I laugh.
“I think you surprised people,” I say. “You definitely surprised me.”
“How?” she asks.
I reach out to wipe a droplet of sauce from her bottom lip.
“A lot of ways,” I say softly.
Emma looks away, and I let my hand drop.
“What about you?” I ask. “What are some things on your bucket list?”
She looks up like she’s thinking.
“Boring things, really,” she says. “I want to climb a mountain. Run a marathon. See the first sunrise in the world on New Year’s Day.”
“Do you really want to climb a mountain or run a marathon?” I ask.
She promptly shakes her head.
"No. But they sound like good things to round out your life with."
"I guess I never really thought about it. The things I wanted in life were always more practical. They were the goals I had, and I went after them."
"And accomplished them," I point out. “Seriously, though. What else?”
Emma looks sheepish.
"Ok. There's one thing. But it feels silly to even say."
"Why? What is it?"
"You're going to think I'm ridiculous, considering everything."
"What is it? Come on. Tell me."
"I never went to prom."
I laugh, and Emma tosses a noodle at me. I try to dodge the flying sesame-flavored strand, but it still sticks to my cheek. I nod as I peel it off.
"Really?" I ask.
"Yes," Emma says. "Really."
"Alright, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh at you."
"Yes, you did, but I forgive you."
"Did you really not go to prom?" I ask.
"I really didn't," she says. "And I regret it. It's why I completely understand the hurt Mr. Bernheimer is still carrying from not being able to go to his, and why it would mean so much to him to have that chance again."
"Why didn't you go?"
Emma sighs.
"A few reasons," she says. "It started with the guy who asked me to go with him. My boyfriend at the time and I were in the middle of one of our infamous breakups, so I didn't have a date. This guy was in one of my classes, and we'd been doing the flirty eyes at each other for a while. He asked me to go, and I was excited until I realized he wasn't really asking me to go with him as his date, but as a part of a group. It was really embarrassing when I figured it out, but I managed to play it off like it wasn't a big deal. The more I thought about it, th
ough, the less excited I was. Remember that outfit I wore as the Virgin Berry for the Halloween dance? Yeah, that was supposed to be my prom dress. I’d bought it at a rummage sale and smuggled it into my closet so my mother wouldn’t see it and forbid me from wearing it. Then when it became a possibility I might go, I looked at it again and knew it just wasn’t an option. It didn’t fit me right. It looked dated. That started a cascade of shit. My family couldn't afford the expense of a decent dress, getting my hair and nails done, or paying for dinner at the expensive mainland restaurant the group decided on. So, I decided not to go. I went to an after-prom party instead. At the hotel I stayed at on the way to move back here, actually."
"How was that?" I ask.
"You could probably just go ahead and add it to the list of things I’ve done but wish I hadn't," she says with a laugh. "It was a total disaster."
I can see how much the memory upsets her, but Emma tries to push the conversation forward. "Maybe I could rethink the whole climbing a mountain thing. That might not be so bad. I mean, I'm not going to jump right to Kilimanjaro or Everest, or anything. That's where dreams, and ill-prepared people, go to die. But if I could find a slightly smaller mountain, maybe one with a nice walking path, I could consider making that an actual item on my bucket list."
"So, what you really want is to go hiking."
"No. I want something with some incline. Something mountainy."
"Maybe you could just have Space Mountain malfunction while on it and have to be evacuated up the emergency escape stairs."
"I think I could work with that."
Emma seems to relax as she rattles off a few more things she'd like to do. They're fairly predictable, but the longer she talks, the more adventurous the ideas become. By the time she gets to wanting to go on safari and sleep in a tent, as long as it has very good mosquito netting, I know she's starting to get into the spirit. I put down my empty dinner plate and slide closer to her on the couch.
"All of those are really good ideas," I tell her.
"They're pretty boring," she says.
I shake my head.
"Start small and work your way up. It just so happens, I know some people who can help you out with those things. And anything else you might be interested in."
"Oh, really?" she asks.
I nod, leaning closer to her.
"Mmm-hmm. And I can give you the wifey discount."
Emma tilts her head toward me, and I accept her invitation. My mouth settles over hers, and I feel her lips part to welcome my tongue. My hunger for her burns low in my belly after so long away from her, and I want nothing more than to ravage her right here on the couch, but I force myself to slow down. I want to experience every bit of her.
I take hold of the bottom of her shirt and guide it up over her head. Dropping it to the side, I brush my lips along one side of her neck, and then the other. My hands find the waistband of her pants, and I ease them down over her hips. I stay intently aware of her, but she doesn't hesitate. Once her beautiful, bare body is revealed, I step away from the couch and hurry into the bathroom for a condom, then return to the living room. Emma has taken her hair down, and I reach forward to run my fingers through the smooth strands. Lowering myself to my knees on the floor in front of her, I begin to explore her body with my mouth.
I can feel Emma trembling beneath me. Everything else disappears as I worship every inch of her. I don't know how much time has passed, and I don't care.
By the time I've finished tracing her every curve with my tongue and lips, she’s breathless and her eyes burn bright with lust. I kiss her lips, sucking the bottom one into my mouth. Sitting down beside her, I roll the condom into place, then reach for her. Guiding her toward me, I lift Emma, settling her into my lap. Her legs rest on either side of my hips, and I hold her up gently for a moment and position the tip of my erection at her wet entrance. She gasps as I dip inside her, and relaxes when I lift my hips up to sink further into her. Her breasts rise and fall against my chest with each breath, and when she arches back, I lean down to catch one of the swells in my mouth. Sucking her breast, I press my hand to her lower back to help guide the roll and grind of her hips against mine.
The movement keeps me buried deep inside her, and Emma picks up the rhythm quickly, and takes over the movement. We're both silent. There's nothing we need to say to each other in this moment. Nothing exists but each other, and the blissful, indulgent space we've created together. I look up and find her staring at me. The eye contact makes the sensations rolling through my body even more intense, and I can feel the pressure coiling in my belly as my orgasm rushes forward. Emma begins to cry out with sharp little gasps in response to each thrust, grinding her hips forward against my pelvic bone. All at once, the pressure within me spirals out of control, and I feel myself tumbling into oblivion.
Emma's sweet little body crashes down around me, and I press her down harder into my lap to maintain as much contact between us as I can. She tucks her head into the curve of my shoulder and neck, kissing my skin and drawing in gasping breaths as she rolls her hips in tight circles against me, seeking out every last drop of pleasure she can. In one movement, I stand up, scooping Emma up so her legs wrap tightly around my waist. I stay buried inside her as I carry her toward the bedroom. I don't bother to stop by the bathroom on the way. I've already stashed a new box of condoms inside the nightstand.
Chapter Eighteen
Grant
The next morning…
I almost never sleep in, but my body is completely spent after last night, and by the time I finally open my eyes, the sun is high in the sky. The smell of coffee, cinnamon, and bacon lures me out of bed and into the kitchen, and I pause to watch Emma standing in front of the stove, cooking in nothing but one of my T-shirts and a pair of fuzzy blue slippers. I know her legs must be cold, but I'm grateful for the glimpse of her bare ass peeking out from under the hem.
"Good morning," I say, walking over and wrapping my arms around her waist, and kissing the curve of her neck.
Emma coos happily, and nuzzles into me, then points at the pan.
"Cinnamon rolls," she says. "My mother's recipe. She might not have taught me the chocolate chunk cookies yet, but I got this one out of her. I used to make it every Christmas."
"You didn't make them this Christmas," I say, reaching out to dip my fingers in the cinnamon and sugary goo on the top of the rolls.
She playfully smacks my hand.
“That’s hot,” she says. “You don’t want hot sugar stuck on your fingers.”
I nip at her shoulder.
“Maybe I do,” I growl.
Emma laughs, and wriggles out of my arms.
“I said I used to make them every Christmas,” she says. “I haven’t made them in a few years.”
“Why not?” I ask. “They smell amazing.”
“They are amazing,” she says with a sassy wiggle of her shoulders. “I haven’t made them in years, though. I don’t know why, but when I woke up this morning, I had the strongest craving for a pan of hot cinnamon rolls."
I spin her around, and fill my hands with her ass, yanking her up hard against me.
"I have a craving for you," I say.
She kisses me, then dips her finger into a bowl sitting beside the cooling rack. Walking over to the other side of the kitchen, she takes her place behind an ironing board I haven't used since buying this house. Emma looks so cute standing there, though, I would happily roll around in my shirts a few extra times a day so I could watch her.
"Could you get the bacon out of the pan?" she asks. "It should be done. I don't want it to burn. I'm just going to finish this up, then I'll make some eggs."
I fish the bacon out of the pan, then turn to watch her carefully lay out one of my shirts across the ironing board.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Ironing your shirt," she says. "It needed some attention."
I laugh.
"You're adorable. But you don't need to tr
y so hard. It's not like you're really my wife."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could scoop them out of the air and shove them back in. Emma's face goes pale, and then a flush floods her neck and chest. She sets the shirt she's working on aside, and repositions the iron in its nook on the board.
"Emma," I say, stepping toward her as she comes around the side of the board. "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head.
"It's fine," she says. "You’re right, after all. I just remembered I'm supposed to go shopping with Mom today. It totally slipped my mind. I've really got to hurry if I'm going to get to her house on time. I'm sure you know how to scramble up a couple of eggs. Enjoy your breakfast."
"Emma," I say, trying to follow her, but she speeds up when she gets to the hallway, and closes the door to the bedroom before I can get there.
I wait outside the door until she opens it again, but she brushes past me without acknowledging I'm standing there.
"I don't know how long I'll be gone," she says.
"Emma, just listen to me for a minute."
"I don't have a minute, Grant. I've really got to get to my mother's house. She has all kinds of errands she wants us to do together today, and I don't want to be late. I'm going to be really busy from now until the end of the school year, so every minute really counts. I've got to stay focused."
She slips out of the front door, closing it in my face. I slam both fists against the door, growling in frustration at myself. How could I be so fucking stupid and say something like that? I meant it as a joke. It was supposed to be teasing, playful. I didn't think about how it would sound when it came out of my mouth, or how it would feel when it sank into her heart.
I try to distract myself for the rest of the day while I wait for Emma to come home. I can't seem to focus on anything, and find myself bouncing from task to task throughout the house. I spend a few minutes in the living room, trying to make sense of the rest of Emma's belongings, but feel like it would be an invasion of her privacy if I opened any of the boxes. I move into the kitchen and wash the dishes from breakfast. The cinnamon rolls sit uneaten in their pan, the cream cheese frosting congealed in the bowl. Part of me is tempted to warm both back up, and ice the rolls, but I stop myself. I sit down at my desk and sift through some of the papers for the prom project. A folder sits on the corner of the desk, containing information I found in my own research I did while I was at my office. I had meant to share it with Emma but hadn't gotten the opportunity to yet. I drum my fingers on the folder now, thinking about what's inside. Now I wonder if I should tell her yet. I've just scraped the surface, and there's so much more. Maybe I should keep it to myself for now.
