by Shayne Ford
And on that note, I’m not going to make friends either, rely on them, depend on them, and allow them to break my heart whenever they want to.
Fuck that.
And fuck them for forgetting about me.’
I put the journal down again, a shudder falling through me.
I sigh before I train a vacant stare on the orphaned pages as if his very past parades in front of my eyes, imbued with his pain and desperation and powerlessness.
Absently, I drink more hot chocolate. My drink is no longer hot, but it’s still delicious, yet it can’t lift my spirits.
I check the date of that last entry again.
He was fifteen when he wrote that specific paragraph, and then it hits me.
“Oh, my God...”
What seemed like a distant, long-buried past, happened six years ago.
It feels as if it was a lifetime ago if nothing else for the man he is today.
And yet, the question remains.
Has he separated himself from the rebellious teenager whose life was crazy chaos? Whose existence was threatened by his parents’ tribulations?
Has he torn himself away from the broken, younger version of himself? The teenager who couldn’t find his place in the world, and couldn’t deal with the heartache fueled by the thought that he had been abandoned? The boy who couldn’t forget that he was forgotten?
I shake my head.
It must all be in him.
That deeply hurt boy has shaped his life and made him the man he is today. Six years is a drop in a bucket.
I’m sure that the young boy still lives in him.
Perhaps, he’s not that powerful or willing to whip up a storm at a moment’s notice as he used to, but he’s still hurting and reacting and crying when the slightest thing reminds him of the past and gets filtered through his conscience.
Like that night when he learned that I was about to leave New York.
He thought that I was leaving him...
As far as he was concerned, I hadn’t taken him into account. And it was true.
I made a decision that changed his life.
I was probably one of the very people he was willing to take a chance on, and inadvertently I pulled the rug from under his feet. Now I know what he meant when he said there was something else.
I realize how damaging it must’ve been. And how lucky I am to be here now, read this and have the opportunity to benefit from his trust again.
I slacken in my seat as I pull the notebook closer and continue reading, still having a hard time to believe that this happened only six years. Not ten, or sixty.
A boy wrote these paragraphs, yet a man gave me the journal.
The last chapters cover the next few years and the dissolution of his parents’ marriage.
His take on it is colder, more clinic and starkly unemotional.
He delves into his more significant sexual experiences too. He stays away from girls and stirs rapidly toward the older women, a way to explore his sexual prowess and to procure himself what he had missed when he grew up amidst his parents’ war.
He finds these women more reliable, understanding, well adjusted, emotionally available, and, as he so well puts it, easier to deal with, and a pleasure to learn how to satisfy them.
From them he learns a lot, their experience dissolving some of his angst and distrust but never compelling him to toss his cynicism to the side and love them fully.
They play a major role in quieting down the boy and letting the man take over. And also in teaching him to become independent, self-sustained, and in control of his emotions.
What he couldn’t accomplish by being at war with his parents, he surely gained by spending time with his lovers.
The last entry is from a year ago.
He talks about his life in a different country and learning how to become a fighter. He mentions a woman named Abby, and although he speaks fondly of her, he admits that he’s not able to love her as he’d like to.
‘Hard to tell if I’ll ever cross that line,’ says a more mature, insightful man. ‘In the meantime, I am still fighting for my freedom.’
This entry was dated May, 29th. And that was that.
Slowly, I close his journal and tie the leather strings together, my gaze trailing down.
I wonder if making me privy to this information helps us in any way. And then it dawns on me.
Of course, it does.
He just gave me the roadmap to his heart.
9
TIAGO
“Eve?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I close the door behind me and step into the hallway.
Soft music permeates the air. Her place smells like food, shortbread cookies, mulled wine, and her perfume.
“What are you doing?” I ask shrugging out of my leather jacket and kicking off my boots.
“The food is ready.”
Her voice comes from the bathroom, her answer ignoring my question.
I veer toward the kitchen.
It’s warm inside, a nice change from the cold streets of Manhattan. The morning was filled with sunlight, and by the time it started to feel like spring, clouds clump up on the sky, and everything turned dark.
Soon after I got home, took a shower and changed my clothes, it started to drizzle, a mix of rain and snow that came with wisps of fog and gusts of cold wind.
Nasty weather.
It’s early afternoon, but you can’t tell by looking at the window. The glass is fuzzy gray.
Good thing, her kitchen brims with color.
She set the table for us–– red linens, white and purple flowers, apple-green candles.
I pull the fridge door open and slide the cake box in.
“Hey,” she says just as I close the door.
I turn around.
“Hey. What did you do?”
She looks at me with sparkling eyes, her hair cascading in waves on her shoulders.
“Took a shower. I washed my hair.”
My eyes stay on her lips for a moment before I lock her gaze.
She’s changed into thigh-high wool stockings and a soft tunic. I can smell her skin and feel the warmth of her body even though there’s space between us.
“I thought that today, I’d bring them myself,” I say, handing her a bouquet of flowers.
Her eyes light up with a smile.
Between her cream sweater dress and stockings, her blue eyes, raven hair, and pink lips, my eyes get washed with color and life.
“Thank you so much,” she says, taking the flowers.
She winds her arms around my neck.
I lock her in my embrace and press her into my chest, her body melting into mine, her scent–– a mix of wildflowers, and ripped tangerines entering my nostrils.
She lays her head on my shoulder and stays like that as if we haven’t seen each other in a long time or I’d been gone and just got home, or she had lost me for a while and now just found me.
“What is it, baby?” I ask as we break away.
“I’m happy that you’re here,” she says, spinning around and avoiding my eyes.
She walks to the table and sets the flower in a vase.
“You look good,” I say, my eyes lingering on the patch of skin visible between the hemline of her dress and the edge of her stockings.
She flicks her eyes over her shoulder, catching me staring at her butt. I tip my gaze up, smiling.
“Overall...” I add softly.
A naughty smile comes my way before she closes the gap between us again, curls her arms around my neck, and pushes up to her toes, her body lining mine.
I drape my arms around her as well, inhaling her scent as our lips come together into a soft kiss.
She’s tender and affectionate, and she smells like summer.
“I missed you, Tiago.”
“I missed you too, baby.”
She smiles.
“In more ways than one.”
“Same her
e,” I say, growing hard inside my jeans. “But I’m not sure if that’s what the doctor ordered. You still need plenty of rest.”
She tips her head to the side and cocks an eyebrow at me, grinning amusedly.
“I feel good. Besides, I’m sure there are ways to do it so that I don’t get exhausted,” she says, a sly grin creasing her lips.
“I’m sure there are,” I say, winking at her.
Tipping my chin, I motion to the table.
“Let’s eat first.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re still sitting across from each other at the table.
I’m drinking mulled wine, while she has coffee in front of her when my phone rings.
I see Theresa’s name flashing across the screen.
“Excuse me,” I say before I take the call.
I hear my mother’s voice in my ear before I greet her and tell her that I’m going to call her later.
Eve’s eyes stay linked with mine as I end the call and set my phone on the table.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Her gaze tips down as she picks a piece of food from her plate.
“I read what you left for me,” she says in a quiet voice, not looking at me.
I watch the tips of her eyelashes for a moment and then the corners of her lips as they slowly lift with a smile.
“I know what happened that evening...” she continues, finally swinging her gaze up and looking at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I know.”
I set my cup down.
“I realized after I left,” I say, a bitter smile brushing my lips. “There was nothing you could’ve done at that moment. And I, on the other hand, couldn’t suppress the way I felt. That’s why I said it had nothing to do with you.”
A few moments of silence slip by.
“I wish I dared to come and talk to you,” she says.
“Why were you so afraid?”
“It wasn’t fear.”
She searches my eyes for a moment before she continues.
“It wasn’t the right moment for what I wanted to say to you.”
“Is it now?”
She tosses me a flirting smile that lights up her face.
“Probably not.”
“Why?”
Her eyebrows flick up.
“We just got to know each other. Besides you’re only––”
She stops abruptly as she registers the flick of my eyebrow.
“It has nothing to do with your age,” she continues. “It’s just that asking someone to move to another state is a big deal.”
“I know.”
“Although it is your brother’s business and hometown.”
“I know that, too,” I say, smiling.
“Yet, all your business is here,” she says, gauging my reaction.
I slowly nod.
“That’s correct.”
Pressing my lips together, I push back a smile.
“And we don’t know what our future looks like,” she continues.
“Something like that.”
She smiles.
“You’re not helping me here, Tiago.”
“It’s not my intention to help you,” I say, grinning.
“It’s serious,” she says, yet she smiles as well.
“I’m perfectly aware.”
“Seriously,” she mutters, no longer grinning. “How can we talk about it when we’ve already pulled away from each other twice, and we’re not even living together. And now, we can’t even talk about moving in together.”
“Is that what you’d like me to do?” I ask quietly.
She looks at me, her eyebrows lifted, her lips stripped of words.
“It’s not possible, is it?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I say. “But first things first. I’d say we need to take small steps,” I add, taking her hand and rising to my feet.
Her eyes follow me as she pushes to her feet. She loops her arm around my neck, the scent of her perfume rolling over me.
Her cheeks burn, her lips too.
She teases me with a soft kiss before I sweep her off her feet and carry her to the living room. She giggles against my chest.
I set her on the couch.
“I’ll put on a movie,” I say, turning off the music.
Propped on her elbow, she looks at me smiling.
“Sure.”
I press play but mute the TV, the light coming from the screen glowing around the room.
My eyes fall on her legs and that portion of her thighs where the skin’s slightly exposed. Her dress is short, the hemline hitting mid-thigh.
A naughty smile sits on her lips as she beckons me to her with a come hither look.
“Fuck it,” I murmur as I grab the back of my top and peel it off.
“That’s what I said...” she slings at me, her shoulder blades pressing against the back of the sofa.
I toss my top on an armchair before I slide next to her on the couch. She presses herself into me the moment I wrap my arms around her,
Her fuzzy sweater dress tickles my torso as I run my hands on her, giving her a smooth sweep.
Everything becomes unmistakably alive–– the curvature of her spine, the swell of her butt, her pert tits pressed against me.
My hands fill with her curves as our lips touch. It’s a soft kiss, yet she moans against my lips, satisfied that we reacquaint with each other.
“You didn’t...” I murmur as I run my hand on her bare skin, trailing her thigh, riding her hemline up.
“Why don’t you check?” she murmurs against my lips before her hand slides down my abs and I feel her touch pressing along my bumpy groin.
“I think you know the answer,” she says, rubbing the ridge of my erection through the fabric of my pants.
“I think you’re looking for trouble and you just found it,” I say, my fingers trailing around her thigh to her butt and then back to the front, sensing the heat coming from her bare pussy.
She parts her legs so that I touch her.
I’m rock hard, and she can certainly tell that as her fingers massage my dick, running up and down my length before she squeezes me.
I know her pain.
She looks at me, waiting for my lips while I start to stroke her pussy, looking straight into in her eyes.
I flip the hemline of her dress up so that I see what I’m now only touching. She looks down as well while I stroke her clit. I feel her wet and warm, her flesh quickly swelling.
She looks up, and I lock her eyes. She’s too distracted to continue stroking me while all I want is her hand or mouth on me.
Smoothly, I curl my finger and slip it into her. She’s soaking wet.
There’s something so powerful and irresistible and arousing in reconnecting with someone who you’ve missed for a while. Someone you’ve never thought you’d get back and touch again. Someone who’s your body’s drug of choice. Especially after a break like ours and particularly now that we’re both horny as hell.
Shifting to my side, I line my body with hers, adding another finger as I start to move them into her. She pulses around them, quiet like a mouse, not even breathing–– I don’t think so, as she experiences one of those quick orgasms that sneak up and break without the slightest warning, not intense enough to whip up a storm but just as pleasurable. The expression of relief on her face and her heavy eyes tells me that I’m right.
“Is that it?” I ask, watching her smile, not increasing the cadence at all, yet still playing with her, feeling the vibrations of her body as she transitions to another peak of arousal.
“That’s my girl,” I say, watching her face–– she’s so beautiful aroused, sensing her unable to fight the pleasure building in her body.
I push deeper, curling my fingers, and rubbing her magic spot while using the heel of my palm to massage her clit and stroke her folds until I sense my hand washed with even more wetness. She’s so wet
and hot, I’m dripping pre-cum inside my jeans.
“Oh, Tiago...” she mutters in a trance, spreading her legs, and looking at me with bedroom eyes, her stare foggy and burning, her lips giving me a drunken smile. “I... fucking... love... it,” she murmurs, her words and expression of abandon, making me twitch in my jeans,
I make an extra effort to keep my dick inside my pants only because I want to prolong this moment as much as I can and solely because I want to see her lost before I take her.
“What is it, baby?”
My voice vibrates against her lips as I plunge my fingers into her. She releases a crying moan as she flashes a smile at me.
“It feels so good,” she says, rubbing me.
“I bet it does,” I say, working around her hand and sliding my zipper down.
“Let’s see how far you go.”
She laughs a quiet, wanton chuckle.
I want her mouth on me so badly, but there’s no time for that. Her wetness trickles on my hand while she cuffs the root of my erection.
Smoothly, she spreads the moisture dripping from my tip, yet it’s not enough to cover my length.
“Let’s do this,” I say as I take my hand away from her and slide my hard cock into her all the way until I reach the deepest of her depths, wet my dick, and pull it back.
A vocal protest lifts from her lips as I feel her clenching and pull out of her, but I have to do it, or I’d be done too quickly, And I want the first one to be memorable for both of us. I’ve been waiting for too long.
I plunge my fingers back into her and slip my tongue between her lips, killing her crying moan and giving her something to suck on. She buckles against me and rolls her lips, and I can feel she is right there because the rocking of her hips becomes erratic and she truly sucks on my tongue as if it were my dick, not to mention her iron grip on my shaft that turns my balls to rocks.
Her instinct makes her run her fist on me vigorously, spreading her wetness on my hard meat, making me throb beneath her touch.
This spirals up fast, and it’s just as intense as I expected it to be.
Her free hand slides into the back of my hair before pulling me to her, our lips pushing frantically against each other, or tongues entangled, the bobbing of her head as she moves her mouth as if she’s sucking me making me tense like fuck.
