All I Know

by Tamara Lush

  “Now, Kathryn. You’re twenty-eight and I’m not going to ask you to account for your time. You want to go out and party, you go right ahead. But when you’re home and you don’t return as expected, I’m going to stay up. And worry.”

  I sit on the edge of her bed and grab her free hand, bussing a kiss on the pale skin of her fingers. “Sorry. I’ll text you next time I’m planning on being late. Damien Hastings and I have been hanging out. He came into the bar one night last week, and we ended up…”

  Talking and making out like teenagers.

  Mom’s green eyes go wide. “Hanging out.”

  “Yeah. That. He’s home for a few months before his next assignment.”

  She nods thoughtfully. I never told her that I crushed on Damien hard in high school and certainly never mentioned our kiss or the fallout from it. But Mom has an uncanny sixth sense—probably all moms do—and I suspect she knew then that something was up.

  “How’s his mother? I heard that the Hastings were considering selling the resort so she wouldn’t have so much stress.”

  I shrug. We haven’t really talked about her or their family business because we’re too busy grinding against one another in the back of his car and laughing like crazy. “Okay, I guess. I’ll find out more tonight, maybe. He’s picking me up after work.”

  “Picking you up at eleven at night?”

  “Yeah. We might go to the mainland. Or something.”

  I’m hoping for the or something, personally. We’ve been taking things organic and slow, but things reached a fever pitch last night when I practically begged him to touch me under my skirt—and he said he wanted that kind of thing to take place somewhere other than the back of a car.

  “Well, have fun. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She winks. “Or would have done, before I became bedridden. Is this serious, with you and Damien?”

  I shrug. No way will I tell my mother that this is a temporary hookup, a longtime itch that needs scratching, a way to make a difficult few months less sucky. Nor will I tell her that there’s a solid chance I might really be falling in love with him, after all the talking and hand-holding and smooching. And how it will slay me when he leaves.

  God knows what will happen when we do sleep together. I’ll probably spontaneously combust.

  My heart’s finally resumed its normal cadence after my run. I stand. “Nothing’s ever serious with me. And you’re not bedridden. You’re recovering. The doctor says you’re doing great. I had a chat with her yesterday about your chemo schedule. Everything’s going to be okay. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

  Mom waves her hand in the air. “Oh, I helped myself to a yogurt while you were gone. And speaking of doctors, don’t you forget your treatment Monday morning. Don’t get so focused on the bar or Damien that you space out. You sometimes become so hyper-focused. And don’t skip your medicine.”

  Ugh. She’s probably referring to the time in Chicago when I was a freshman in college and took a freelance job and forgot to show up for an exam.

  Her gentle chiding makes me snort like a girl. “I won’t forget, Mom. I’m an adult now, remember? I rely on my Google Calendar to keep me straight.” Well, I once did. Now my days aren’t that busy, and my calendar is filled with lots of blank, white space. “Anyway, this will be the last treatment until I can figure out my insurance. I’ve got to make some calls on that soon.”

  “We’ll think of something,” she calls out. “You need your apheresis.”

  A growl blooms in my throat. Ever since I was diagnosed with genetically high cholesterol a few years ago, I get a treatment called apheresis. It basically takes the plasma portion of my blood and runs it through a machine to remove the bad cholesterol.

  I shuffle into the kitchen, a sense of dread settling into my chest. Somehow, I’m breathing even heavier than when I was running, and that’s when it hits me: I’m having a panic attack.

  This has happened a few times since I’ve been home and probably because everything seems so overwhelming and out of control. Mom’s cancer. My health. The uncertain future.

  I’d had decent insurance in Chicago, but moving to Florida screwed everything up with the Affordable Care Act, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what to do. Somehow, I slipped between the cracks, and the insurance plans I’m eligible for are crazy expensive. For any regular person, this wouldn’t be a big deal. A normal person would wait until they got a job or some cash.

  For me—someone who has a condition that requires expensive medication and the twice-monthly blood treatments—a lack of health insurance is downright dangerous.

  Eating low-cholesterol food and running five miles a day is essential to staying healthy, but it might not be enough to save me from heart disease. I grab the carton of eggs and some greenery out of the fridge, concentrating on every step to calm my nerves.

  I try not to think about my bank account, and how much I’ve spent since returning. There’s some savings left, but not much. My nest egg was supposed to be for my trip to Europe to meet up with Lauren. To pay for cheaper blood treatments over there.

  It’s a trip that’s looking more impossible and distant, as far as I can tell. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  I reach for the bowl. Crack the egg, avoiding its yolk and its dastardly cholesterol. Separate egg by shifting yolk from one half the shell to the other. Think about how I’ve read that one shouldn’t separate egg with the shell because of salmonella. Put yolk into a plastic tub, wonder where my mother’s cat is, since he likes the raw, yellow goo. Repeat with four more eggs.

  Consider the dangers of salmonella as I cook the egg whites. Sprinkle some wilted parsley into the omelet, flip it in half, slide it onto a plate. There. Panic attack averted.

  I grimace at the omelet. It’s the third morning I’ve eaten the same thing, and I really need to pick up some oatmeal at the store to widen my breakfast choices.

  After I snarf down the ghostly white, gelatinous breakfast, I grab the phone, antsy to get the insurance calls and the day over with, so I can head to the bar and see Damien again. I guzzle a glass of water, feeling a little better. Maybe it wasn’t a panic attack at all. Maybe jogging on an empty stomach was to blame.

  Still, if my blood is like the liquid equivalent of a ticking time bomb, I want to enjoy the minutes I have left. I’m hoping those minutes involve hot sex with a gorgeous Marine.

  He slips into the tiki bar at ten-thirty, right as I’m serving the regulars their final drinks of the evening.

  Tonight he’s even more handsome, in a tight gray T-shirt and cargo shorts that reveal his muscular legs. There are scant few guys who look sexy in flip-flops. Damien is one of them.

  “Hey,” I say, my face getting warm. “How was your day? Want a drink?”

  “My day just got infinitely better, and I’ll have water, thanks.”

  I pass him a bottle of spring water, fighting the urge to come around the bar and give him a kiss. The idea of him wrapping those thick arms around me already has me flashing hot. No, I need to play it a little cool, so I grin coyly.

  “I’m going to clean up; I’ve got about a half hour.”

  “Take your time, girlie. We’ve got all night together.”

  His words make my belly tighten with desire, and I’m back to being giddy. While he makes small talk with one of the regulars—a guy who owns a hot dog cart that’s usually parked on the sidewalk near the beach—I flit around, preparing to close up the hut.

  The half-hour flies by, regulars stumble out, and now it’s only Damien and me. I’m straightening the chairs at a table when he swivels his stool in my direction.

  “C’mere,” he calls out.

  I look up, feeling the sexual tension in the air crackle and pop. Of course, I obey. By the time I get to his stool, he’s standing, and he roughly cups my face in his hands.

  “Thought about this all day,” he murmurs then lowers his head to kiss me.

  Ohh yes, please. “I di
d, too.”

  He breaks away, and I study his face. I take his chin in my fingers and turn his head gently, one way, then the other.

  “What?” He grins.

  “I’m glad you didn’t shave.”

  He presses a softer kiss to my lips and slides his tongue toward mine.

  “I want you,” he whispers against my mouth.

  God, yes. Clearly, it’s been too long since I’ve been with a man, since I’m practically ready to do it right here. I pull away and inhale. “I think the past couple weeks of making out have scrambled my brain.”

  He chuckles. “Wanna get out of here? I was thinking we could go to my house after all. I told my parents I might bring you over to watch a movie.”

  “Oh, isn’t that what the kids call it these days? Netflix and chill?” I glance at him, unsure. It’s a little awkward, actually, since we’re both adults. But under the circumstances, I get that it’s the best we can do.

  While it might be hot to have a quickie here at the bar, I’d kinda prefer something more comfortable. And he’d been insistent the other night that we didn’t screw each other in the car like monkeys—something I was actually grateful for because my calf had cramped up something fierce while we were contorted around each other.

  We walk outside. Like he did last night, he helps me pull down the heavy plastic tarps, then offers to drive.

  “I’ll bring you back to your car later tonight or whenever you want.”

  “I need to—” my voice fades away. I was almost going to say, need to be home in a few hours because I have to take my medicine before I go to sleep, but I refrain. There’s no use in telling him about my medical problems. That’s like an instant erection-killer, discussing physical maladies.

  But he’s probably also not expecting me to stay the night at his parents’ house. Duh.

  “You need to what?”

  “Make sure my car’s locked.” I make a show of taking keys out of my purse and pressing the remote, so the beep of the alarm echoes against the palm trees.

  Damien’s house isn’t far; we probably could’ve walked. My mom’s house is on the other side of the island, in the poorer neighborhood, while the Hastings home is a sprawling, Key West-style, three-story beach home. It’s white, with pink shutters, and is a block off the island's historic downtown Main Street. It’s not the largest home on the island, but it’s one of the most beautifully landscaped, with lush tropical foliage and blooming flowers that pop with color even in the dark.

  “You know, I’ve never actually been inside your house,” I say as we walk up the steps to the front door.

  Damien frowns. “I guess you didn’t come over when we were in high school. Hmm. Not because I didn’t want you to, though.”

  Before I get a chance to explore that statement, the front door swings open. It’s his mother, Ginger. She’s the closest thing to a celebrity on Paradise Beach, mostly because she’s been involved in several charities over the years and because she’s like a glamorous boho queen.

  From the community garden to the volunteer beach cleanup, Ginger Hastings is a one woman cheerleader for the island. And did I mention gorgeous?

  “Hello!” It’s eleven at night, and she’s radiating happiness. As disappointed as I am to not immediately get naked with Damien, I can’t help but grin when Mrs. Hastings folds me into a fierce hug and steers me into the kitchen.

  There’s no time to take in the Hastings’ decor, because Mrs. Hastings is fluttering around like Tinkerbell, consuming all the oxygen in the room. She’s practically sparkling, she seems so joyful. It’s difficult to imagine her with heart problems because she’s so effusive.

  “How’s your mother, dear? Such a terrible thing, breast cancer. And how are you doing, running the bar?” Literally everyone on the island knows our business, I swear.

  “She’s doing much better, thanks. And she asked about you today.”

  “She did? Oh, well tell her I’m fine. Good as new. Only a little heart scare.” She brushes her mane of long, silver hair out of her face. Mrs. Hastings is tiny, bubbly, and very much a hippie. Tonight, she’s wearing black leggings and some sort of yellow paisley poncho with silver embroidery that hangs nearly to her knees.

  “Ma, we’re going upstairs to watch a movie. We’ll be in the den.” I notice that Damien emphasized the word den. I fight the urge to giggle, feeling like we’re teenagers sneaking around.

  He opens the fridge. “Kate, you want something to drink? Beer? Water? Juice?”

  “Water would be great, thanks.” As much as I wish I could have a drink to calm my nerves, I won’t. I shouldn’t be drinking at all, not with my condition, but sometimes I slip up, like that first night Damien walked into the bar.

  Just then, a loud snorting noise comes from the corner of the kitchen. I swivel my head in its direction.

  “Damien, take Chunky up with you, please. I’m going to bed since you’re home now.” Mrs. Hastings goes to her son and stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Can’t he stay downstairs with you?” He scowls.

  “No dear. You know how your father feels about dogs in the bedroom. Good night, Kate. Tell your mother I’ll give her a call this week.”

  “Will do.” I give her a little wave as she glides out of the room. I’m small, but Mrs. Hastings is at least two inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than I am.

  There’s another snort, and that’s when I see the source of the noise: it’s a pug. An extremely fat, extraordinarily cute, pug dog. I snicker.

  “I take it that’s Chunky?” It’s impossible not to laugh when looking at the rotund canine.

  Damien sighs. “Yeah. My brother Tate adopted him last week. But he’s out night fishing so Mom and Dad are babysitting. Tate’s put him on a diet, and Mom thinks he needs to be watched at all times. Like he’s going to steal food or something.”

  This dog looks like an obese seal. He’s not stealing anything but the love I have in my heart for all dogs. My bestie Lauren and I had talked about getting a pupper in Chicago, but since she travels a lot and I was planning on going with her eventually, we’d held off.

  “Aww. Is he friendly? Looks like we’re babysitting him tonight. I adore dogs. Especially pudgy muppets like Chunky.”

  “Yeah, he’s super friendly. He’s a great dog.” Damien pauses, scratching his chin. “Mostly.”

  I approach, and Chunky pants in excitement when I stroke his sable-coated fat rolls. “Well, let’s get him upstairs. He’s a good boy.”

  “I’ll carry him. Here, hold the water. I don’t want you throwing out your back.”

  I giggle as I follow him up the stairs. With Chunky tucked firmly under his arm like an oversized pillow, Damien leads me into a large room that’s dominated by an overstuffed brown sofa. There’s a giant TV on one wall and assorted books, game consoles, and magazines strewn about.

  “This is basically where Remy and I live. Well, I do, when I’m home. Remy lives here, at least when he’s not on the boat.”

  “How is your twin?” Remy’s a champion fisherman, has been ever since he was a teenager. Because he was in so many competitions, he’d been homeschooled by Mrs. Hastings—which is why I knew Damien well, and his brother not at all.

  “He’s okay. He’s out with Tate tonight on a fishing trip.”

  Damien settles the porky dog into a plaid dog bed on the floor and presses the square-shaped foam with his hand.

  “Check it out; it’s orthopedic.”

  Laughing, I plop down in the middle of the sofa, resting the drinks on the coffee table. I can already tell that the Hastings home has a cozy, loving vibe. Photos of Remy holding various fish line one wall, and photos of their gorgeous sister Natalia line another.

  “You didn’t want to go out on the boat tonight?”

  Damien adjusts the light switch so only one dim lamp is illuminated. Mood lighting. I like this vibe. My belly becomes all squirmy in anticipation of all the kissing we’re about to do. />
  He sits next to me and turns in my direction, sweeping my long hair behind my shoulders. “No. I had far better things to do than go fishing with my brothers.”

  His big hand slides across my jaw, toward my neck, and he pulls me to him. It takes about five seconds for me to straddle him, and I hold his face in my hands.

  “So much for the movie,” I whisper.

  “I don’t even know where the remote is, and I don’t care.” He chuckles and grabs my ass, grinding me into his erection, which is already evident and quite hard. Our lips graze against each other’s, lightly, sensually. And then the tension between us ignites and explodes.

  Our kisses turn hot and wet. Lots of tongue and soft moans.

  He slides one of his hands up my T-shirt, and when he cups my breast, Chunky snorts. I giggle. Damien closes his eyes and lets out a laugh, all while kneading and holding my breast.

  I wore my thinnest bra tonight. It’s light pink lace, and Damien’s thumb and forefinger immediately find my nipple that’s practically poking through the flimsy fabric.

  “Look at what I found,” he growls. “Fuck, you’re turned on, aren’t you?”

  I whimper a yes.

  He pinches, and I gasp.

  And that’s when the smell hits us.

  “What,” I nearly gag in Damien’s ear, “is that?”

  “Oh God, I was afraid of this,” he whispers, putting his face against my chest. Probably so he won’t die from smelling whatever it is that suddenly caused the entire room to reek of rotten eggs, dead fish, and a hint of burning plastic.

  “What the hell? Is that…Chunky?” I snicker and bury my face into Damien’s lime-spice scented hair.

  He nods, his face still pressed into my chest. “This is why Dad doesn’t want him in the room at night. Tate’s put him on this new salmon diet and it’s going to kill us all.”

  By now I need to breathe through my mouth, and Damien and I tumble onto our sides, away from the dog, clutching each other and mashing ourselves into the folds of the sofa.