by Cassia Leo
“Take off your panties.”
I bit my lip as I slid my white cotton underwear off and tossed them aside. “Okay.”
“When was the last time you shaved your pussy?”
My breath caught in my throat. I loved when he talked dirty to me.
“Not since the day before our counseling session.”
“Did you shave it for me?”
I smiled as I ran my fingers down my abs, stopping just above the small patch of freshly grown hair. “Yes.”
“Because you wanted me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Do you want to touch yourself right now?” he asked, a note of dark hunger in his voice.
“Yes,” I replied, tracing my fingertips along the crease of my thigh.
“Are your eyes closed?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He let out a heavy breath, and I hoped he was touching that beautiful cock. “I want you to imagine your finger is my tongue. Can you do that, baby?”
“I can do that. What is your tongue doing?”
He groaned softly. “Spread your lips for me, pixie. Spread your lips so I can stick my tongue inside that beautiful pussy. How does that feel?”
I moaned as I slid my middle finger inside my pussy, which was already slick from our conversation. “That feels so good,” I breathed.
“I’m tongue-fucking you now. Do you like that?”
“Oh, yes… Oh, yes.”
“Stop.”
My other hand slid up to pinch my nipple. “Don’t stop, Jack.”
He was silent for a moment, making me wait for it. “I’m licking my way up your slit now, finding that juicy center. Swirling my tongue around that sweet clit.”
I matched his words with action and my body soon began to tremble with the beginning of an orgasm. I exaggerated my moans so he could hear what was happening as he imagined it.
“Are you going to come?”
“Yes!” I groaned as the muscles in my core began to contract.
He waited until I finished moaning, then he let out a sexy laugh. “You fucking slay me. That moan has to be the most beautiful sound in the world.”
I smiled as I tried to catch my breath. “Did you come?”
“I’m saving myself for you, pixie. So I can unload on you when I get back.”
I shook my head. “Very funny. When do you think you’re coming back?”
He was silent again, longer this time. “I don’t know. Could be another two to three weeks.”
My stomach clenched at this news, but I didn’t want him to hear the disappointment in my voice. He had enough to worry about. “I won’t schedule the next counseling appointment until you’re back, but… do you think you’ll be back by September 13th.”
September 13th was a little less than three weeks away. It was also my mother’s birthday. I really wanted to visit her grave with Jack by my side, but I didn’t want him to feel guilty if he couldn’t make it back by then.
“I’m going to try real hard to make it back by September 13th. I promise.”
I smiled my chest flooded with warmth. “I love you, Jack.”
He took his time responding again. “I love you more than you can imagine. Have a good day, baby.”
I left work at noon and stopped at the grocery store to get stuff to make lasagna with Isaac’s tomatoes. I hadn’t made lasagna in months. I also hadn’t eaten lunch yet. By the time I was done assembling the pasta in the casserole dish and topping it with slices of fresh mozzarella, I was ravenous.
I would just deliver the dish to Isaac then go out and get myself a burger or a burrito. I hadn’t had a burger or a burrito in more than a year. I had to take advantage of this craving before it was gone.
I knocked on Isaac’s plain wood door and rang his doorbell, not really caring if I seemed eager. I was eager. Eager to get this over with so I could go get myself some greasy food.
When I heard movement inside, I put on a smile and stood up straight.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Isaac asked, his face beaming with that eye-crinkling grin.
“Hi! I just came by to drop this off as a gesture of my appreciation for the tomatoes and for everything you did yesterday,” I said, holding out the foil-covered lasagna dish. “It’s all ready to go. You just have to put it in a 400-degree oven for about 40 minutes. You’ll have lasagna for days.”
“Lasagna?” he said, taking the dish from me. “I love lasagna. Have you been spying on me?”
I shrugged. “You caught me.”
He shook his head. “I knew it.” He looked over his shoulder then turned back to me. “Hey, why don’t you come inside. I’m making tacos. You like crispy fried tacos?”
The phrase “crispy fried tacos” made my mouth water. “I really shouldn’t. I was just about to go grab something to eat, actually.”
He looked confused. “Who says no to tacos?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Okay, but I can’t stay long. I have to get to work on the weeds in the backyard.”
He opened the door wide so I could come in. “I’ve got a special tool you can use for those weeds. It will make it ten times easier.”
“I have a spade and a hand rake, but two years is a long time for weeds to take root. I have my work cut out for me.”
He laughed as he closed the door behind me. “I’m sure your tools are just fine, but mine are better.”
I couldn’t help but notice again how the light-gray walls were completely devoid of pictures, the way my mom’s were now. But the starkness was offset by the savory aroma of fried garlic and roasted peppers. I was ravenous before. Now, I was fucking starving.
The living room we passed through on the way to the kitchen was spacious and sparsely furnished in a modern style, which I had thought of as Scandinavian in nature. But the more I saw of it, the more I realized it was very clean, utilitarian. Almost militaristic. But the small touches, like the Roman blinds and the plaid throw blanket draped over the boxy gray sofa, made it feel warm and inviting.
As we passed the dog bed where Boomer was out cold, Isaac directed me to sit at the round kitchen table while he finished cooking.
He slid the lasagna into the freezer and wielded a pair of metal tongs to gently lay corn tortillas into a cast iron skillet. The oil in the skillet popped as he molded the fried tortilla into a shell, placing each one on a napkin-lined baking sheet.
He even blotted the oil before he moved onto the next tortilla. It was truly a joy to watch him cook with such care and efficiency, the way he seemed to do pretty much everything.
When he was finished, I helped him set up our taco building station in the center of the table. Spread out before us were crispy taco shells, shredded chicken and lettuce, shredded pepper jack cheese, avocados, diced tomatoes, sour cream, and salsa. There was even a couple bottles of ice-cold beer and a small bowl with a mixture of diced onion and cilantro.
I laughed as I sat down and gaped at the spread. “Are you secretly a chef?”
He smiled as he took the seat across from me. “Just call me Bobby Filet.”
I laughed harder. “It’s Bobby Flay.”
“What’s the difference?” he replied, sounding genuinely confused. “Hey, I called a couple of glass contractors today and I think I can get your window all fixed up by next Thursday.”
“How much is it going to cost?” I asked, trying not to sound too worried, but I was unsuccessful.
He waved off my obvious concern. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got it covered. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to town on these tacos. I’m dining on my guts here.”
I laughed as I took his cue to begin building my taco. “Dining on your guts?” I asked. “Is that some kind of military saying?”
“Not really. It’s just something my dad used to say all the time. I guess it’s a Minnesota thing.”
“Minnesota? So you’re not from Oregon?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
I never reall
y believed he was a native Oregonian. Actually, now that I thought about it, that accent I couldn’t quite place did sound sort of Midwestern.
He stuffed his taco shell with all the fixings. “No, ma’am. I know my Oregon accent is very convincing, but I did not grow up here. I’m a Midwestern boy through and through. Though, if I’m being honest, I don’t really miss shoveling snow all that much.”
“Thanks for lunch, by the way. I was ready to stuff my face with burgers after I dropped off your lasagna. I’m starving.”
“Starving, huh?” he said, then he took a loud, crunchy bite from his monstrous taco.
I stabbed a slice of avocado with my fork and laid it gently on top of the shredded chicken in my shell. “Yeah, I know. You probably think I’m this skinny because I don’t eat, but it’s not by choice. I just… can’t really eat when I’m anxious, and lately, that’s pretty much all the time.”
He smiled as he reached for his bottle of beer. “Well, I’m glad you’re not anxious now. I must be doing something right.”
I took a bite of my taco and cherished the silence as I tried to think of a less awkward topic than my anxiety. “I’d say you did a lot of things right yesterday. But I do have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said before I could stop myself. My curiosity was getting the better of me.
“Ask away,” he said, then he shoved the rest of the taco into his mouth.
Even watching him eat was satisfying. But I told myself it was just my motherly instincts kicking in. I enjoyed watching him eat the way a mother would enjoy watching a growing boy eat. My stomach ached a bit at that thought.
Somehow, I was able to take a breath and push past it to carry on eating. “Actually,” I began, grabbing a bit more cheese for my taco, “I hope I’m not overstepping, but I was wondering if you might tell me what’s up with all the text messages and voicemails on your phone.”
He paused to finish the enormous bite of food he was still chewing. “Did you listen to those?”
My eyes widened with shock. “Of course not.”
He laughed. “I’m kidding,” he said, grabbing another taco shell. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not out here trying to break hearts. That’s why I make it clear I only do no-strings-attached flings. But some girls just have a little trouble letting go.”
I took a long sip of beer then set down the bottle. His blasé attitude about having no-strings-attached sex seemed to contradict the helpful, salt of the earth Midwestern boy I thought he was. Maybe the country boy thing was just a shtick.
“So all those missed calls and messages are from spurned ex-lovers?”
He smiled again. “Nope, now I get to ask you something.”
I scrambled for another question to ask before the tables were turned. “Wait. One more question.”
He shook his head. “One more, then it’s my turn.”
“Deal. What’s the first thing people usually ask when they find out you served three tours?”
“If I’ve killed anyone,” he replied flatly, then he was silent for a moment. “Wanna pass me the avocado?”
He didn’t have to answer the question. His avoidance made me think it was a subject he didn’t want to expand on, and I didn’t blame him one bit.
“This is really selfish of me, but I have one more question.”
He nodded as I passed him the avocado, but he didn’t look up at me. “Shoot.”
I waited a moment, trying to talk myself out of asking the question, then I realized I couldn’t. I was just too damn curious.
“Why was your phone in my pocket yesterday?” I held my breath as his body froze. “Sorry, but you have to understand it’s a little… disconcerting.”
He drew in a long breath, releasing it as he sat up straight. “Laurel, you seem like a smart lady,” he began, and my stomach clenched as I prepared myself for something bad, though I had no idea what it could be. “You’ve probably deduced by now that Boomer is my service dog, and I’m not missing any limbs.” He looked me in the eye, but I waited for him to continue. “I am, however, missing a few screws, as they say. I… I suffer from fairly severe PTSD, and sometimes, when I get very stressed, I disassociate.”
“Disassociate? Does that mean, like, you have another personality? Or do you mean that you lose time, like blacking out or something?”
“The second one. I lose time. Sometimes, when I have trouble dealing with… stuff, my brain will just go into autopilot. And I’ll find stuff I’ve done that I have no recollection of, like putting that phone in your pocket.” He shook his head as he looked at his hands. “I must have picked up the phone when it dropped and slid it into your pocket while I was carrying you or when I put you in the truck. I honest to God can’t remember. And that’s… really fucking scary. I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer for you.”
I smiled. “That’s a more detailed answer than I anticipated. Thank you.”
He looked confused. “For what?”
“For being honest. But… you still didn’t fully answer my question about the missed calls and voicemails.”
He set down his taco shell. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“Well,” I said, grabbing my beer again, “I actually do want to know. I mean, if you’re getting calls from bill collectors or something, I’d like to know so I don’t let you pay for my stupid window.”
He chuckled. “I paid cash for this house we’re sitting in. I have zero debt. Does that ease your mind?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I guess I can deal with that… for now.”
He nodded. “Hmm… I do enjoy a persistent woman.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, his eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
I waved off his apology. “I know. It’s fine.” I took a few more bites in silence. “So, do you think you have time to teach me a little about gardening? Tomorrow’s my day off and I’m…” My voice cracked and I coughed as my throat suddenly went dry, as if my body was trying to prevent me from saying these words. “Excuse me. What I was going to say is that I’m trying to get the garden mostly cleaned up and replanted in the next two to three weeks. I could use the help.”
He nodded as he leaned back in his chair. “I think I can do that. What is it you want to learn?”
“Well, honestly, everything my mom taught you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you noticed that sometimes you talk about your mom in present tense and sometimes you refer to her in past tense.”
I paused as a wave of emotion crashed over me. “You’re not the first person to notice that,” I said, as I began wringing my hands. “Before I moved into her house, it was easier for me to pretend that she was still there, in that house with that beautiful garden, than to accept that I’ll never see her again.”
I grabbed the untouched napkin and dabbed the corners of my eyes.
He watched me unguardedly as I wiped a steady stream of tears. “I’m thinking about getting another property with more land to cultivate. Most of the time, I feel like I’m outgrowing this house,” he began, as if I hadn’t just admitted to pretending my dead mother is still alive.
I covered my face with the napkin as I felt irrationally used. I knew Isaac wasn’t using me for anything. I was the one who’d been on the receiving end of his kindness and generosity. But I had just shared with him something I had yet to admit to anyone, not even myself, and he wanted to talk about cultivating? It was almost as if he was pretending the conversation hadn’t taken a turn the same way I pretended my mother was still alive.
He cleared his throat. “When I came home after my last tour, I found out my twin brother, Dane, had gotten my fiancée pregnant.”
I slowly removed the napkin from my face to look at him.
He had a far-off look in his eyes as he stared at the surface of the table. “I survived three tours in enemy territory, only to come home and be stabbed in the back by my own blood.”
I sniffed loudly. “The on
es we love are the ones with the power to hurt us most.”
He looked up at me with fierce anger. “Family should mean something,” he began. “But what did I do when my brother tried to ask for my forgiveness? I ignored him like a piece of trash on the side of the fucking road.”
I thought of Jack and his motto that he repeated so many times: Fuck forgiveness. All I want is revenge.
I wiped the last bit of moisture from my eyelashes. “Forgiveness isn’t that easy. You can’t be so hard on yourself. If those missed calls are from your brother, that means he still cares. You’ll call him when you’re ready.” Even as I said the words, I knew I was reassuring myself that I would go home to Jack when I was ready, too.
He flinched at my words. “You don’t understand. I left everyone back home behind and moved here four months after my tour ended. I hoped I’d never see them again.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Two weeks later, my brother hung himself.”
His hands were balled up in fists, the muscles in his forearms corded with anguish. I worried he would split the stitches on his hand, but he didn’t seem to mind the pain. He probably welcomed it.
“I don’t know if the nightmares and flashbacks will ever go away,” he continued, “but I do know that I learned an important lesson in the Marines: family isn’t always the people you share blood with. I lost brothers overseas — not just to violence, mostly to madness. It’s hard not to let that shit consume you when you feel so isolated. That’s why I try to avoid meeting new people, unless I’m drunk out of my gourd. I feel like everyone’s staring at me. Like they can see all the horrible things I’ve done just by looking at me.”
The tears returned, but now they were for Isaac. This man who had obviously decided he’d caused enough death, and now he was busily trying to fill the world with as much life as possible.
I sniffed a few more times before I responded. “Trust me when I say that you can’t blame yourself for something someone else did. I’ve been doing it for two years and it destroyed me and my marriage.”
He glanced up at me, then turned away again. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’ll always wish I had forgiven him. Or that I’ll never be able to face my family again.”
