Homecoming (Speakeasy)

by Rebecca Norinne

  “Says the woman who struts around in tight little leggings that hug her every curve.”

  She let out a disbelieving huff. “What I wouldn’t give actually to have some curves.” She coasted her hands slowly over her trim waist and down past her gently flared hip. “Blake used to get so upset if I gained even a pound,” she confessed with a pained grimace.

  I swallowed deeply, my eyes hungrily devouring the path her hands charted along her body, imagining they were my own. True, Rosalie was on the thin side, but in the short time she’d been home, she’d put on a few pounds, and as far as I was concerned, they were in all the right places.

  I shook my head to clear the fog of lust that had suddenly come over me. Don’t even go there, man.

  “Fuck him,” I bit out, my voice sounding hoarse and scratchy. “He didn’t deserve you. I’ve seen pictures of the two of you together, and he was definitely punching above his weight class.” It wasn’t that Blake wasn’t good-looking. He was, just in a generic sort of way. With brown hair that he wore gelled back to show off a clean, blandly handsome face, he reminded me of the type of guy you’d see anchoring your local nightly news.

  And then there was Rosalie, one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met. With long blonde hair that cascaded down her back in silky waves, mossy green eyes framed by dark sooty lashes, and a plump bottom lip that just begged to be kissed, she was the quintessential all-American girl next door. The type men secretly imagined while they were in the shower, and then dreamed about again later that night. And by men, I obviously meant me. Every time she glanced my way, I fell deeper and deeper under her spell—no matter how hard I tried to fight it.

  No matter how forcefully I denied it.

  Her eyes danced with laughter. “All I heard was that you think I’m hot.”

  My lips quirked to the side as I smiled down at her. Briefly, I let my gaze roam over her face, for once not bothering to disguise my appreciation. “You have excellent hearing.”

  She smiled back and took a small step toward me, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. Our gazes locked and held as she lifted her hand to hover tentatively over my left pectoral. But then her brow furrowed, her hand fell back down to her side, and she turned toward the kitchen door. “Is that music?”

  All I could hear was the whir of my blood pumping furiously through my heart, the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump a drumbeat of anticipation between my ears.

  “She didn’t,” Rosalie whispered hotly, her hand fisted as she marched through the swinging door. “I will murder her with my bare hands.”

  Wanting to prevent a case of matricide, I rushed after her and out the front door, coming to an immediate stop when I stepped out onto the porch to find it awash in the glow of a hundred candles of varying shapes and sizes. A wrought iron bench that was covered in a flannel throw and soft sheepskin sat at the far end, a small matching table off to its side that was topped by a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a Bluetooth speaker with the sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get In On” wafting out into the night.

  Rosalie turned to me with a look of pure dread on her face. “I had nothing to do with this! I would never …” She trailed off as her eyes slowly panned the romantic tableau, eventually landing back on me. “This is completely uncalled for. I’m so sorry.”

  I couldn’t lie—the acute look of horror on her face just now had stung. Had I misinterpreted that moment in the kitchen? Was she revolted by the idea of seducing me or just the lengths to which her mom seemed intent on throwing us together? With her eyes glimmering with the sheen of unshed tears, I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  “I think it’s fairly obvious your mom is trying to push us together,” I told her, shoving my feelings of rejection to the side for examination at a later date.

  “Yes! That’s exactly it. I asked her not to, but she won’t listen. I’m so embarrassed right now.” She lifted her hands to her face and covered her cheeks with her palms.

  “Hey,” I said, taking a step forward to loosely circle her wrists and gently pull them downward to expose her face. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “But she’s practically throwing me at you,” she winced.

  My lips quirked to the side in a small smile. “I’ve had worse things thrown at me.”

  She chuckled lightly. “Be that as it may; it’s still mortifying.” She took a step backward and then moved quickly around the porch blowing out the candles.

  I got the impression she wanted to put as much distance between us as possible so I moved to the opposite side of the porch, flicked off the speaker, and extinguished the remaining candles. Once all the flames were out, I gestured across the yard. “I’m going to head back to my place. Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”

  She smiled, but I noticed it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re welcome. And thanks for not freaking out about all this.” She gestured wildly around her as if to encompass the entirety of the world.

  “Nothing to freak out about,” I assured her, making my way down the stairs and across the yard that separated our houses.

  Nothing except that I couldn’t stop asking myself what might have happened if she hadn’t been the one to freak out.

  10

  Rosalie

  Several hours later, I flung myself onto my side and tightened my grip around my pillow. I lay on my bed in the pre-dawn gloom, the only sound in the room the frustrated huff I let out as I failed to fall back asleep. After a few minutes, I flopped over onto my back, my arms and legs akimbo on the mattress as I stared up at the ceiling, my brain’s synapses firing with memories of last night.

  What was my mother thinking? The candles had been bad enough, but Marvin Gaye, too? She hadn’t even tried to be subtle.

  I screwed my eyes shut and prayed for sleep—or amnesia—to claim me. When neither did, I reached for my phone to check the time.

  “Goddamnit.” I tossed back the covers and shoved my feet into my slippers, dropping my phone into the pocket of my robe after I wrapped it around my body. Next, I made my way down the stairs to start a pot of coffee. I was going to need it if I wanted to survive the day ahead.

  Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at the kitchen table sipping my first cup of what would likely be many when my mom slipped through the door.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, setting her palm to her chest in surprise. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.” I lifted the mug to my lips only to find it empty. I pushed my chair back and shuffled over to the counter for a refill, meeting her at the coffee pot.

  “Up all night thinking about Preston?” she asked as I passed her the carafe and she handed over the creamer.

  “Could we not do this right now?” I grumbled. I had every intention of discussing how badly she’d embarrassed me, but not until the caffeine kicked in and I felt capable of forming full, coherent sentences.

  “I don’t know why you’re upset,” she said as we returned to the table and she dropped down into the seat across from me. “I’m just trying to help you get back up on the horse.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  When had my mom turned into this person, I wondered. True, she’d always been relatively sex-positive, but she’d never been so blatantly over-the-top about things. At least, not that I recalled. Now, it seemed we couldn’t go even one day without her commenting on my sex life—or lack thereof.

  I set down my mug harder than I meant to, and coffee sloshed over the side. “I am not going to have sex with Preston, so you can stop all that.” I reached for a napkin to sop up the mess with angry swipes over the vinyl checked tablecloth.

  The problem with that statement was that I kind of, sort of really wanted to. Maybe. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure. All I knew was that I’d really wanted to kiss him last night. The only thing that’d stopped me from pushing up onto my toes and planting my lips on his mouth was the sound of Marvin Gaye crooning about sensitive people with so much to give and knowing th
at my mom had crossed a line I hadn’t thought her capable of.

  She set her hand gently atop mine. When I raised my eyes up to meet hers, they were filled with concern. “I’m worried about you, sweetheart. You said it yourself: you don’t feel wanted anymore.”

  I shook my head. “What I said was Blake didn’t want me anymore.”

  “Well, yes. But you also flung yourself into my arms, crying about how you were a disgusting pile of crap. You said it was no wonder you couldn’t keep a man happy.”

  “I was feeling sorry for myself,” I whispered, shame heating my cheeks as the memory of that night washed over me. I’d only been home for a few days and had just received a text message from a supposed friend with a picture of Blake with his arms around a tall, beautiful woman at some fancy event. She was younger than me, and more glamorous than I could ever hope to be. Was it any wonder I’d felt like an utter failure as a woman sitting there in my childhood home wearing torn leggings and a flannel with a dollop of ketchup caked on the front?

  “Is that what’s preventing you from pursuing something with Preston? You don’t think you’d make him happy?”

  “No,” I blurted before I could take the time to consider my response fully. “At least, I don’t think that’s it.” Honestly, I’d never stopped to consider whether or not I’d make Preston happy. I was too busy telling myself that I needed to nip my attraction to him in the bud.

  “Then what? I see the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

  “How do I look at him?” I asked quietly, suddenly worried that I was making cow eyes at him without even realizing it.

  “Like he’s a piece of chocolate cake that you can’t wait to sink your teeth into.” She smiled then, her kind eyes twinkling with humor. My fondness for a slice of sinfully decadent chocolate cake was well known in this house. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

  “But more importantly,” she continued, “I see the way he looks at you.”

  “How does he look at me?” My heart thumped wildly in my chest, and I held my breath as I waited for her response. I didn’t want to admit I cared, but I did. Too much.

  She tilted her head to the side. “Sweetheart. He looks at you the way a man is supposed to look at a woman. He looks at you the way Blake never did. He sees you.”

  I slid my hand out from under hers, a small part of me rebelling at the notion that the man I’d married and spent the last several years of my life with had never desired me the way the neighbor I’d known for only a handful of days did now. My relationship with Blake had been far from perfect, but once upon a time, he’d loved me. I was sure of it. Mostly. “Blake saw me.” If my words came out sounding weak and hollow, neither of us mentioned it.

  She sighed deeply, and her mouth flattened into a hard line. “I’ve kept my opinions to myself—” She paused when I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Mostly to myself,” she quickly amended, “because I love you, and I saw how much you loved him. But honey, that man took a bright young woman with so much talent and turned her into a shell of her former self. If he saw you the way you think he did, why’d he convince you to give up your art? Any man that truly loved you would have encouraged you. Even if you weren’t good—which you are—he should have been your biggest cheerleader. Instead, your husband turned out to be your biggest critic.”

  How could I argue with such a damning critique of my marriage when everything she said was in some part true? Blake hadn’t encouraged me. But then, I’d asked him to be brutally honest with me.

  If only he hadn’t been quite so brutal.

  I used to carry my camera with me everywhere I went, but by the time our third wedding anniversary had rolled around, I hadn’t picked it up in months. I hadn’t seen the point when the thing I’d poured my heart and soul into for so many years was viewed as nothing more than a cute little hobby. Eventually, I’d packed all of my equipment away, and he’d never mentioned my photos again.

  The real irony was that my lack of ambition eventually became a massive turn-off for him. What happened to the woman I used to know? became a familiar refrain during our many arguments. The problem was, I couldn’t disagree with him. By then, I had become a different woman—someone he’d created only to toss away when she didn’t excite him anymore. Was it any wonder I was a mess now?

  I pushed my cup of coffee away, the contents of my stomach turning to acid from this wretched trip down memory lane. “Even if what you say is true about the way Preston looks at me—and I’m not saying it is—I’m not ready to fall for someone again. I need to work on falling back in love with myself first. And besides, I’m not sure he’s ready for a relationship, either. He’s been burned, too, you know.”

  She nodded slowly, and I could tell my words had their intended effect. For the first time since I’d come home, I finally felt like my mom was listening to me.

  “Did I ever tell you how Vernon and I got together?” she asked, the right side of her lips tipping up in a small, secret smile.

  When I was six, my mom had introduced Vernon to me as her “very good friend.” Whenever she had friends over for dinner, he was there. Six months later, she sat me down again to tell me that they were dating. Being young, impressionable, and hopped up on Disney princess movies, I’d asked if they were going to get married and move into a great big castle. She’d chuckled and told me that life wasn’t a fairy tale, and besides, our house was her castle. Six months after that, Vernon moved in with us. I’d loved him and had been heartbroken when they’d broken up three years later.

  “I guess I figured he started out as one of your crazy hippie friends, and you guys just fell in love.”

  “Oh, he was definitely one of my crazy hippie friends.” She laughed fondly, but then her tone sobered. “But Vernon was more than that, too. Before he and I got together, I’d had two serious relationships in my life—my first husband, and … well … someone else.” She stumbled over this last part, but took a deep breath and then forged on. “Vernon brought me back to life. He made me feel cared for and cherished. He made me feel like a woman again, if you get my drift.” Her eyes locked with mine, her eyebrows slightly raised.

  For someone typically so blunt, particularly about my sex life, Mom’s sudden subtlety about her own was surprising. Then again, she didn’t need to spell it out. I understood precisely what she was getting at. Vernon’s magical cock had changed my mom’s life, and now she was hoping Preston’s could do the same for me. “I get it now.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she beamed. “Trust me, you’ll—”

  Before she could go too far down this celebratory path, I put my hand up to stop her. “I said I get it. As in, I understand why you’ve been acting so crazy lately. I didn’t say I was on board with your plan for Preston to become my personal vagina shaman.”

  She harrumphed, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Fine. But I want it on record that I think you’re making a big mistake. Preston is exactly what you need to move on from Blake.”

  “Your objection is duly noted,” I said, pushing back from the table and dumping my mug into the sink. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a long day ahead of me.”

  “Oh? What are you up to?” she asked, obviously excited by the thought of me leaving the house that it would have been funny if it weren’t so incredibly sad.

  “First, I’m going to sit on my childhood bed and pretend my life isn’t a complete shambles, and then I’m going to stare at Instagram and wonder which of my former friends are gossiping about me behind my back. Finally, I’ll wrap it all up with a giant bowl of rocky road ice cream to drown my sorrows before showering. That is, assuming I can muster the energy. It’s honestly touch and go on that last part right now.”

  She smirked. “Well, as long as you’re keeping busy, I suppose that’s all that matters.”

  11

  Preston

  “It’s been a week without so much as a peep from Gloria. If I hadn’t seen her car coming and goi
ng from the property, I might be worried about her,” I told Mikey, lifting my hand to hail a passing waitress to ask for a refill.

  “You sound almost sad about it,” he said, stabbing his fork into his pot roast pie to break into its filo dough shell. He hefted a chunk of gravy-coated beef to his mouth that I eyed hungrily, my mouth watering.

  I had leftovers sitting in my fridge that I needed to eat before they went bad, so I’d only ordered the fried chicken skins. Unfortunately, I’d inhaled them almost as soon as they’d arrived, and I was still starving after a long day on the job. I should probably order a second helping when I asked for my refill just to be safe. Or maybe I’d get the wings instead.

  “I’m not sad about it,” I told him after the waitress left with my order. “More like curious. In all the time I’ve lived next door, she’s never gone more than a couple of days without seeking me out for one reason or another.”

  “You said it yourself; she was lonely. With her daughter home, you’re back to being the tenant or handyman.”

  At face value, that explanation made perfect sense. And yet …

  “I dunno,” I said, unrolling my napkin and setting it over my thighs as I spied a basket of wings and a full glass of beer heading my way. “After the Marvin Gaye incident, Rosalie must have laid into her good. She was mortified.”

  Mikey chuckled. “Gotta give the old lady points for creativity, I suppose.”

  “So many points,” I agreed with a chuckle of my own. “Is it wrong that I’ve never gone to even half as much effort as Gloria did that night to try and seduce someone? Between the candles and the wine and the music, that was some next-level shit.”

  He tipped his bottle of beer back and drained it, his eyebrow raised. “Of course you haven’t,” he said, setting the empty bottle down next to his plate. “You just flash those stupid fucking dimples of yours, and women drop their panties for you.”