by Casey Winter
His hands are firm and warm on my bare skin, since I took off my hoodie earlier when I was helping Angelica and Joe-Joe. A tingle moves over me. Goose pimples prick my skin. I’ve never had a reaction like this before, not from a man just touching me. He’s so strong, but he holds me delicately. I get the sudden, crazy urge for him to grab me like he means it.
We meet eyes. I can tell he’s feeling the same inexplicable passion.
“Um, care to put me down?” I say, more breathless than I’d like.
“Gladly,” he snaps, dropping me and making a beeline for the stairs.
“And don’t disturb me when I’m practicing,” I call after him.
Part of me hopes for some kind of a response, but mostly I’m glad when he disappears. But it does take me far longer than I’d like to refocus on my skating. And, when I do, I find myself looking up at his office window to see if he’s watching me.
When I see that he’s not, I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved.
—
Later, I drive Mom out to the hospital for her chemo treatment.
Little Fall Medical Care looks totally out of place in the middle of the forest, the evergreens contrasting markedly with the sleek, science-fiction exterior of the hospital. It’s been rebuilt in recent years, and now it’s all hard edges and big windows. It looks more like a billionaire’s lair than a hospital. Especially in the setting sun, it looks eerie. But their quality of care is incredible. So it could be a fricking gingerbread house for all I care.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Mom as we walk down the corridor to the treatment room.
She shrugs. “Like a test pig. What’re they called? Los conejillos de indias?”
“Guinea pigs,” I smile. “Well, I’ll be with you the whole time. Unless I start to get on your nerves. Then you can tell me to GTFO.”
“GTFO?” Mom giggles.
“Get the, um, frick out.”
“Oh, no,” she exclaims seriously. “You’re a good daughter, Hannah, keeping your old mom company. Don’t be silly. Alejandra needs some time off, too. The way she has been visiting, you’d think I was paying her.”
When we get to the treatment room, I’m stunned to see Graham Fitzgerald striding toward us in hospital scrubs. Graham was my friend in high school. Well, sort of my friend … until he drunkenly declared his undying love to me at prom and then sort of hounded me for two weeks after. Now, he’s short and has a slight belly, but otherwise his freckled face looks basically the same, boyish.
I remind myself to be nice. That mess was a long time ago, after all. I’m just glad I never told Mom about any of it, or it’d make her chemo super-awkward. I had no idea he worked here, but I guess that’s to be expected when I’ve purposefully ignored goings-on in Little Fall for so long.
“Hannah, it’s good to see you again,” he says, nodding professionally. “And you, Teresa. How wonderful you look this evening.”
Mom gleams. “Thank you, doctor.”
Graham beams. I find myself liking him already. High school was a different universe, and people change. Well, some people more than others … and no, I’m totally not thinking about gruff, rough Luke Nelson.
“How many times, young lady?” he quips. “I’m not a doctor. I’m just a nurse.”
“Oh, hush,” Mom giggles. “You’re as good as a doctor in my eyes. Just a nurse. What a silly thing to say.”
My heart breaks a little as I watch Mom being set up for the chemo. I’ve been with her every day this past week, but it doesn’t matter. It’s always hard seeing her hooked up like that, the poison being pumped into her body. Obviously, it’s good poison, or at least productive poison. But it still makes me angry that she needs it. I still want to scream.
I sit with her for a while, holding her hand. She just settles into her chair with a sad smile on her face. A long silence passes, stretching from minutes to almost an hour. Then she smiles cheekily at me.
“Do you mind if I put my audiobook on, changuito?”
“Of course not, Mom,” I say. “I’ll get it for you.”
I get her old-style portable CD player—just try getting her to move to an MP3 player instead—and her retro headphones. She puts them over her bandana and sits back, closing her eyes. I can hear the Spanish words through the phones.
In Spanish, Mom whispers, “Get a coffee if you want, dear. We’re going to be here for a while.”
I give her hand a squeeze in acknowledgement, and then stand up and head for the door. Graham intercepts me, walking out from a small office at the side.
“Hannah,” he says. “I just wanted to say hello … properly. I was on holiday when you returned to Little Fall. I only got home yesterday. So that’s why you haven’t seen me around.” I can tell he’s nervous, maybe because he thinks I’m holding a grudge about the high school stuff.
“It’s good to see you, Graham.” I nod at his wedding band. “So, who’s the lucky lady?”
He blushes deeply, shifting from foot to foot, looking every inch the anxious kid. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me when I tell you,” he chuckles.
“What, is it the Queen of England?”
“No.” He pauses, I guess for dramatic effect. “It’s Denise. Denise Brown. She—she kept her maiden name, but we’re very happy. It was a whirlwind romance, you know. We actually, um, we actually started it soon after prom. Did you not hear about it? It’s not like you moved to Australia or something.”
“Maybe I did hear about it. I might’ve forgotten.”
“Can you believe it, the nerdiest kid at Little Fall High with the leader of the cheer squad?” he grins.
“Of course I can,” I say.
But, actually, it does take me a second to process. Denise Brown was always the angel of high school, the most popular girl, the girl everybody wanted to be or be with. She was sexy and sassy and seemed like a grownup at fifteen. She was it. And Graham, well … He was nice, in his own way, but not exactly a sought-after match or anything.
“Any children?” I ask.
“Yes, five.”
“Woah,” I say, laughing. “You’ve been busy.”
His blush deepens. I’m worried I’ve offended him, which I really didn’t mean to. “Twins and then triplets. Can you believe it? More chance of being struck by lightning, the doctor told us.”
“I’m happy for you,” I say meaningfully. “Really.”
He beams, though his eyes look a little panicked, which is understandable with a brood of five. “A whirlwind romance and five beautiful children. Who’s luckier than me, huh?”
Once the conversation has come to a natural end, I leave the treatment room in search of the coffee machine. I’ve just found it—getting Mom a hot cocoa, her favorite—when I hear somebody approach behind me. I turn to find none other than Denise Brown standing there. But she’s changed, a little larger now, wearing no makeup whereas before she’d never leave the house without it. She chews gum loudly and her hair is a bit frizzy. She’s still beautiful, and her eyes are as sharp as ever.
“Are you almost done?” she snaps, clearly not recognizing me. “My kid’s got the flu, and it’s bad enough I’ve gotta wait around for what feels like a thousand hours. But if I don’t get coffee, soon, I’m gonna start properly freaking.”
“Um, Denise?”
She pauses in her chewing. “Do I know you?”
When I tell her my name, a smile breaks out across her face. But it’s more a mean-girl teeth-baring, rather than a genuine show of affection. “Wow, chick, you’ve really flowered, ain’t you? I remember you as a boyish little thing. But damn, girl, now you’ve got some curves.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “Graham was just telling me about your whirlwind romance. It sounds very romantic.”
She gawps at me like I’ve just told her Satan is riding through a frozen hell on a flying pig. “Whirlwind … what? If by that he means I pity-screwed him at a house party a week after prom—he was crying about how muc
h he loved you, by the way—then, yeah, it was whirlwind alright. We didn’t even talk for two months after. But then I found out I was pregnant. Twins. And then, genius that I am, I screwed him again a year after the birth. Soon after, the triplets came, because apparently I’ve got crazily fertile ovaries or something. So, yeah, now I spend every day caring for five brats and trying not to throw myself into Lake Sugar.” She pauses, grinning viciously, victoriously. “Ha, kidding. Nah, I love my family. Well, my kids. But whirlwind romance? Not on your life, Ortiz.”
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I just take my coffee and offer her a bland smile. “Well, have a good day, Denise. It was nice to see you.”
She just nods, turning to the coffee machine, immediately forgetting I exist, the same way she did with all non-cheerleaders in high school.
I guess some things never change.
Chapter Five
Luke
For the rest of the day, and into the evening, I can’t stop thinking about that chasing game between me and Hannah. I don’t even know how it happened, how she drew me into it. One second I was standing there, debating thanking her for helping with those kids, and the next … I froze, realizing what I was doing, realizing I couldn’t thank her because that might lead to other things. Then, she was goading me, teasing me, and it ignited this hunger in me.
Chasing her felt right.
Admiring the agile way she moved, my eyes fixated on the tightness of her legs, the way her pert breasts bounced as she back-stepped and pirouetted, I felt like a predator hunting prey. But willing prey, because she wanted it too. I could tell. The heat between us was undeniable, a fury of passion neither of us was in control of. When I picked her up, I felt her skin prick with goose pimples. I heard her sharp intake of breath.
It’s that breathy moan that goes around and around my head. It’s all too easy to imagine her making that noise as I peel down her yoga pants inch by tempting inch, gripping onto her thigh. Squeezing and smoothing her well-worked muscles, I’d watch as shivering yearning rioted through her.
“Huh,” she’d whimper, as I slid my hand toward her underwear. But I’d still be gripping her hard, so I was more dragging my hand up, leaving a trail of reddened, sinful skin.
As I drive home, my manhood is a solid rod in my pants. It presses against the inside of my jeans, trapped. I white-knuckle the steering wheel, the veins on my forearms thick engorged vines. My body feels tight, full of tension I need to release. I can’t stop picturing Hannah’s sassy expression, the come-get-me glint in her eyes.
I’m hungry.
No, I’m starving.
I try to fight it, but she’s too damn sexy. I go into my bedroom and lock the door. Lying on my back, I tear down my pants to around my balls. My manhood flips up eagerly. I take it in hand, closing my eyes and sinking willfully into the fantasy, already slick with pre-come.
I rub myself furiously as I imagine catching up with Hannah. But, this time, I don’t lift her out of the way. This time I spin her around and shove her firmly, but respectfully, in the upper back. She leans forward, smiling sassily at me over her shoulder. And then, not so respectfully, I tear her yoga pants, leaving a hole for my manhood. Her sex glistens pink and wet and I take her right there, in the rink.
She grips the handrail, pushing back on her skates, sliding up and down on my manhood. In the fantasy, she moans in Spanish, begging for more. Her fine, strong ass bounces against my hard abs. I crush into her deeply, wetly, intensely, and then—
The sound I make as I finish is like a man coming up for breath. Which is fitting, since I’ve been drowning in dreams of Hannah. A brief image of her hands splayed in her own climax flits into my mind, and then passes. I’m left panting and lightheaded, come pooling and cooling on my belly.
“Dammit,” I mutter, looking down at myself.
I can’t believe I let that happen. I wonder if women understand that: the animal impulse to masturbate we feel sometimes, like a beast called Desire just took hold of me. But now I’m back, Luke Nelson, big brother to Noah Nelson. And what I just did was plain wrong.
Crap.
I clean myself up, taking a quick shower, making the water hot as I curse myself for letting my mind go there. She was Noah’s girl, the love of his life. She was the dorky kid in rollerskates I barely even noticed growing up.
But now?
Crap, crap, crap.
Stepping out of the shower, water dripping down my taut-muscled body, I tell myself never again. That was a onetime indulgence.
I get dressed and head downstairs, wondering if my old man is around. Even he’d be enough company to distract me right now. We haven’t been getting on great since I returned. It’s not that we’ve been getting on bad, either. It’s more just that he’s a changed man since Mom and Noah passed. Withdrawn, mostly silent, he’s like a shadow of the old Russel Nelson. He’s in the living room, standing at the window, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. From behind, he could pass for a much younger man, he’s still so fit.
“Would you look at this?” he mutters.
“What is it?” I ask.
He gestures at the window with his coffee, causing steam to move around like mist. I join him, gazing through the glass.
Together, we watch as Hannah splits logs in about the most amateurish way I’ve ever seen. She’s not committing to her thrusts enough, so that when she hits them, sometimes she slides off to the side, the momentum carrying her toward the ground. Her balance is good, and she’s not weak, so she hasn’t fallen or hurt herself … yet.
“She needs to be careful,” I mutter.
As usual, she’s wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, sporty and sassy. As she lifts the axe over her head, the hoodie climbs up, revealing a tanned slice of her belly. I have to bite down until my jaws throb to stop myself imagining sliding my hand over her skin, feeling for goose pimples, inching under her yoga pants and … Dammit, I fail. I fail hard. As she brings the axe down, her ponytail flails, begging to be grabbed, guided.
An odd protective urge rises in me when I watch her clumsy downswing, the axe skidding off the side of the log and thunking into the stump upon which it sits.
“What the hell is she doing?” I growl. “She could lose a foot by doing that.”
Dad snorts. “Let her,” he grunts. “What do we care what that clan gets up to?”
“Clan,” I growl. “Didn’t realize we were in the Wild West, old man.”
Shrugging, he goes to his chair in the corner of the room and turns on the old TV, staring at it like it’s not even there. It’s more like he’s looking at something only he can see, Mom or Noah, maybe, or even his time in the Army. He scratches idly at his shrapnel scar. After about a minute, he glances at me.
“You’re still watching her,” he comments.
It’s true. Though I’ve moved from the window, I’m sitting at the far end of the couch, and I keep looking her way. “Just stupid, is all,” I mutter uncomfortably. “If you don’t know how to chop wood, don’t chop it. Pay somebody to do it. Or learn how to do it properly. There’s no point risking injury.”
Dad sips his coffee slowly. “She broke your brother’s heart,” he says after a long pause. “And now he’s dead.”
I find myself fidgeting. “You say it like the two facts are connected,” I mutter, defending her on instinct. I don’t even know why. “Noah was killed by Somali pirates. We both know that.”
Dad just shrugs, saying nothing.
I try to focus on the TV, some black-and-white movie, but it’s hard when all I can hear is the thwack of axe on wood. Or, sometimes, the more dangerous scraping noise of the axe slipping. I keep imagining the axe flying from her grip, cutting into her shoe, taking off her toes and stealing her skating career, her hobby, her passion.
Grimacing, I bolt to my feet and pace to the door. I move quickly, partly to not give Dad enough time to comment on it, and partly to not give myself enough time to consider what I’m doing. Striding across
the road, I stop at the edge of her garden. “Hannah,” I snap. “What the hell are you doing?”
She flinches. Hair in a ponytail and bouncing like a coiled whip, axe in hand, sweaty and vivacious, she looks like a warrior princess. “What does it look like?” she fires.
“It looks like you’re fixing to amputate your goddamn foot. You’re not putting enough heft into the swing. You’re clipping the edge of the log too often, meaning you’re skidding off. You’re hitting at the log, instead of aiming through it. And your grip keeps slipping. You should be wearing gloves if you’re not well-practiced. Hit through it until you make a decent crack, and then wedge your axe in, and keep hitting until you’ve split it down the middle. If you get really good, you might be able to split it in one. But that’s difficult.”
This all comes out in a rush. Without thinking, I step forward and hold my hand out. She meets my eye. Biting her lip in that cute, unsure way, she finally places the axe in my hand and steps back a few paces.
“Watch and learn, twinkle toes,” I growl, and get to work.
It doesn’t take long for me to make good progress on her woodpile.
“Why are you doing this now, anyway, in summer?” I grunt, bringing the axe down powerfully.
“You’re one to talk,” she says.
She’s moved around so that we’re facing each other, standing on one leg with her raised foot pointed like a ballerina’s. It looks like some sort of balance exercise, and she does it unconsciously, skillfully. She looks beautiful and it’s hard not to study the fine form of her body. So I look into her face instead … which is just as gorgeous.
Damn.
“I saw you chopping wood the other day, remember?” She lowers her foot, dropping into a yoga squat of some kind. “I’m guessing you’re drying and storing it for autumn and winter, right? Well, we’re doing the same. I want to, um, do stuff for winter, for the future. To stay positive.”
She blushes fiercely. She’s talking about her mom’s cancer, I realize.
“I was sorry to hear about Teresa,” I tell her sincerely. I’m almost done with the wood already, there’s so little of it and I’m so well-practiced. I purposefully go a little slower. I don’t let myself question why. “It’s an evil thing, cancer.”
