Pocketful of Sand

by M. Leighton

  I smother a growl when I hear a knock at the door. Emmy looks up from her perch on the back of the couch, her green eyes wary. She doesn’t like visits from Jason either.

  “Who is it, Momma?” she loud whispers.

  I put my finger over my lips. “Jason,” I answer quietly.

  “Don’t let him in!”

  “I’ll try not to, but I can’t be rude.”

  “Yes, you can.” She grins impishly.

  “I can, but I shouldn’t. Smarty-pants.”

  I ruffle her hair as I pass and she smoothes it right back down. I fix my pleasant expression in place and open the door, but not fully.

  “Ms. Independent,” he says, trying to be cute.

  “Jason,” I respond mildly.

  “Just letting you know I’m here to get the truck. Brought some gas to put in the tank. I’m pretty sure that’s the problem.” I say nothing because I’m aggravated. If it’s not the problem then his vehicle is going to be stuck here until he gets someone who knows what the hell they’re doing to come and fix it or pick it up. “I would’ve come sooner, but I had to wait on Jep to bring me. Jordan’s over at Cole’s, drinking. Don’t know how long she’s been over there. Maybe since yesterday.”

  My heart stutters in my chest. Almost like it stopped completely for a few seconds while I digested his words. Jordan is at Cole’s? Drinking? Together? Since last night?

  I don’t know why, but I wouldn’t have pegged Cole as much of a drinker. Then again, I thought he wasn’t interested in Jordan either. It appears that I was wrong on both counts.

  Sickeningly wrong.

  “Oh, uh, okay. Well, I just hope it starts.”

  “Me, too. I don’t like being without a vehicle. I can’t bring my favorite girls soup.” His smile is so presumptuous I want to slap him. That might be a bit of a drastic overreaction, but I’m not in the mood for his audacity.

  “We’re doing fine, but I’m sure you need it to get around.”

  “I was thinking that if you and Emmy would like to, I’d–”

  “Sorry, Jason, you’ll have to excuse me.” And I shut the door in his face.

  Suddenly, his unwanted attention is just too much. On top of my rising distress over Cole and Jordan being together, and the swimmy feeling in my stomach, my patience is at an end.

  Inexplicably, I feel near tears. I thought Cole and I had a connection, something real. Something that was as rare for him as it has been for me. But if he’s drinking and playing with Jordan, he’s not the man I thought he was.

  And the disappointment is crushing.

  I didn’t realize I had put so much hope, so much emotion into the brief and innocent run-ins I’ve had with Cole. I mean, why would I? Why am I so desperate to get to know him? Why him?

  I’ve gone my whole life without the need–or really the desire–to have a man around. I’ve taken care of myself, taken care of Emmy. What is it about Cole that has changed all that? Why, all of a sudden, does it make me so happy to think of Emmy having his hands to help her build sandcastles on the beach? To hold her when she’s afraid, to comfort her when she has one of her nightmares? Why now? Why him?

  I don’t know. I have no answers. No way of getting answers either. I only know that some part of me was hoping, wishing. Wanting. But it seems I’m better off without hoping, wishing and wanting.

  ⌘⌘⌘⌘

  The house is getting chillier by the hour. Without Emmy asleep in my arms, I’d be cold. Colder than usual in here. I glare at the empty fireplace. The cottage has oil heat, so I didn’t give the fireplace much thought, knowing that we’d have heat as long as I kept the oil tank out back full. Which it is. According to the guy who came to check it right after we moved in, there was still twenty-one inches of oil in it. I guess that’s his non-technical way of checking–measuring the contents with a long dip-stick–rather than doing some complicated math.

  It’s almost eleven when I finally carry Emmy to her bed. I turned on her electric blanket earlier to make sure it was nice and warm for her. She doesn’t even move when I lay her down and pull the heated covers up over her. She sleeps like a baby. Most of the time.

  I’m going through the cottage, turning off lights, when I hear a knock at the door. It’s loud and heavy, almost thump-like. My first thought is that it might be Jason. His persistence seems to know no bounds.

  I creep to the window beside the door, prepared to peek through one corner to determine who it is before I answer it, when I hear a voice. It’s deep and familiar, and it sends a tingle of awareness down my spine.

  “Eden?”

  It’s Cole.

  My heart lurches. It’s late. Something must be wrong.

  I wrench open the door to find him leaning against the doorjamb with his head hanging down. My first thought is that he’s hurt.

  “Cole, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  I look him over, using the light coming from my open bedroom door to check for blood on his clothing. I see none, which only calms me minimally.

  “You,” he says quietly.

  “Pardon?”

  He raises his head and pins me with his potent stare. “You. You’re what’s wrong. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I don’t know what to say to that and he doesn’t give me much time to think before he slides his hands into the hair at my nape, his thumbs holding my face still, and crushes my mouth with his.

  I welcome it, welcome him. I’m not even going to deny it. I crave him like I crave sunshine and air and water and love. His scent, his taste, they weave a sensual spell around me, flooding my blood with heat and need.

  He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his tongue playing alongside mine, promising delights that I’ve never known and never had much interest in.

  Until now.

  Until Cole.

  When he pushes inside, I don’t resist. I’m lost in all that he’s making me feel and my brain is turned completely off. I hear the slam of the door as he kicks it shut and that’s the last thought to register until I feel his hands at my breast.

  My nipples are painful points and I moan into Cole’s mouth when he pinches one between his fingers, rolling it through the material of my lacy bra and single-knit sweater.

  “I need to be inside you,” he groans, his other hand falling to my butt and squeezing, pulling my lower body into his. I feel the long, hard ridge of his erection and moisture floods my panties. “I can’t think. I can’t eat. I can’t even grieve anymore. It’s all about you. Everything is about you.”

  It’s as he speaks that I smell the alcohol. It serves as a bucket of cold water in my face. Apparently Jason was right. He’s been with Jordan. Drinking.

  I push at his chest. “Cole, wait.”

  His hands are everywhere, teasing and taunting, awakening feelings I doubted I’d ever feel at the hands of a man. But I have to ask him about Jordan. I have to know before this can go any further.

  “Cole, please.”

  “Please what? Please take off my clothes?” he says in his throaty voice, his hands tugging at the hem of my sweater. I push them away, but they come right back. “Please touch me? Please taste me? Because I will. I’ll touch you until you can’t think. I’ll taste you until you beg me to let you come.”

  Part of me thrills at his words, but part of me needs room, needs time. Needs him to stop for just a minute. Another man and another voice is standing between us, touching me in the same ways, but scaring me rather than pleasuring me.

  “Cole, stop. I need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk. I want to feel. I need to feel.”

  He’s not listening to me and the scent of alcohol seems to be getting stronger and stronger, dredging up memories I’ve tried for years to bury.

  “Cole, please,” I plead, pushing at his hands, trying to keep my composure. My chin is trembling and I feel the icy fingers of panic clutching at my heart.

  “’Please.’ I love that word on your lips,” h
e confesses, still not grasping the hysteria that I’m spiraling toward.

  “Cole, stop! I mean it!” The more insistent I become, the more it seems to provoke him. “Cole.”

  “Eden,” he whispers, the slight slur to the word taking me back in time.

  I have to get away. He has to stop touching me. I can’t breathe, but it’s not in a good way.

  I sink my fingernails into the backs of his hands, dragging them away from me. “Stop!” My words ring through the room, shattering the silence that falls between us when he finally lifts his head. I feel on the verge of a full-on panic now and I can’t hold back the tears. “Get out of my house!”

  He looks stricken, but also confused. Now I can see the dazed way his eyes stare into mine. He’s drunk. This isn’t the Cole I thought I knew. The Cole I knew would never do something like this. But maybe I didn’t really know him at all. Maybe the Cole I thought I knew was nothing more than a product of my imagination.

  My breath is coming in big, heavy sobs and I’m shaking. The fragile wall that I’d built separating my past from my present is eroding, melting away like the grasp I have on my composure. Memories are colliding with my five senses and suddenly the man in front of me is the same one who still haunts me, who still terrorizes my dreams.

  “Eden,” he begins, but I cut him off.

  “Get out, Cole.” When he doesn’t move right away, just stands staring at me, I shout, “Get out!”

  I double over, wrapping my arms around my middle in an effort to still my jittering insides. I see Cole’s snowy boots receding as he backs toward the door. I don’t move until the cold wind hits my face as he exits. But then I crumble to my knees and sob until I fall into a dreamless sleep.

  SIXTEEN

  Eden

  I FOCUS ON Emmy’s voice as she reads to me. This is part of her schooling. She learns best if I can make it fun for her. I guess most kids probably do. It’s one of the most magical parts of my day, too. Her intelligence and animation never cease to make my heart swell with pride.

  I watch her little mouth form the words, words far beyond the reading level of other children her age. I watch her little fingers turn the pages, faster and faster as she gets older. I watch her little eyes follow the sentences, sparkling with delight as the story progresses. This little girl, this little miracle, is my whole world. Has been since the day she was born. She saved me from…well, she just saved me. Plain and simple.

  I’ve always applied myself so fully, so deeply to loving her, to protecting and caring for her, so much so that nothing else mattered. And while I’m still applying myself to those same things, right now it doesn’t seem to be very effective in quieting the ache that’s been emanating from my heart since I opened my eyes this morning.

  Cole.

  My insides squeeze painfully at just the thought of his name passing through my mind. It drags with it the fright and disappointment from last night.

  How could I be so wrapped up in a man I hardly know? Why would I allow that to happen when he’s obviously got a metric ton of issues?

  It’s the same question over and over again–Why him? Why him? Why him?

  I’m getting no closer to an answer.

  The snow is pouring outside, burying us deeper and deeper in a wintery wonderland. Before, I was sort of looking forward to it in some strange way–being snowed in. But now, I just feel suffocated.

  It’s almost eight when the power goes out. I bathe Emmy by candlelight with the last of the hot water. She laughs and plays, thinking the whole ordeal is great fun. It’s when I get her out to dry her that I’m reminded how wise she is for her years sometimes.

  “Why are you sad, Momma?” she asks, cupping my cheek with her tiny hand.

  “I’m not sad, sweetpea. I’m just trying to hurry so that my daughter doesn’t turn into an ice sculpture right in front of me.”

  This does nothing to eliminate the worry I find in her eyes. It breaks my heart to see anything other than child-like love and awe and carefree happiness there. Her eyes have seen too much in her short life; I don’t want to add to her scars by letting her see too many of mine.

  “Are you scared?”

  I close my eyes and lean into her warm palm. “No, baby. Are you?”

  “I’m only scared of leaving you.”

  “Well then you shouldn’t be afraid. You won’t ever have to leave me.”

  “But what if I do? You’ll be sad and no one will make you happy anymore.”

  “You’ll always be here to make me happy, sweetie. And you’re all I’ll ever need.”

  I need to get past this Cole thing and get back to just Emmy and me against the world. We never needed anybody before. We don’t need to start now.

  Once Emmy is dry, I start stuffing her quickly into her clothes.

  “Do you think he’s still sad because he doesn’t have a little girl anymore?” she asks, holding onto my shoulder as she steps into her panties.

  I don’t have to ask who she’s talking about, but I’m very curious to know why she’s thinking about him. It seems that Cole has a hold on this household.

  “He’ll probably always be sad, but that’s not her fault. That just means that he loved her sooo much.”

  Emmy grins at me. “You make him stop being sad.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He looks at you different, Momma. He wants to kiss you. I can tell.” She giggles, all little girl now. “Momma and Cole sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” she sings.

  “I don’t think Momma and Cole will be kissing any time soon,” I tell her as I pull her pajama top over her head.

  “But you want to.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She giggles again. “Maybe if you kiss him, you’ll be happy, too.”

  “I thought boy kisses were gross,” I say, reminding her of her opinion of the stronger sex thus far in life.

  “Not for big girls. For big girls, they’re magic.”

  I sweep her up into my arms and she throws her arms around my neck. “The only magical kisses I know of are these.” I rain kisses all over her face and hair until she lets the subject drop.

  I hope, unlike me, she’ll just be able to put it from her mind. Put him from her mind.

  ⌘⌘⌘⌘⌘

  I envy Emmy’s ability to go straight to sleep. I pray it means that, despite all her worries and questions, her mind is for the most part worry-free. Unlike mine, which is keeping me wide awake. I’m still sitting in the dark, staring at the empty fireplace, covered in a blanket, thinking. That’s why I hear the soft knock. Had I been anywhere other than a few feet from the door, I’d never have heard it.

  My stomach clenches and I turn toward the offending sound, debating whether to answer it or pretend I’m already in bed. I tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear to it so that I can hear if my late-night visitor leaves. I hear a subtle scraping sound, as though a rough palm is rubbing the wood between us.

  “Eden,” comes the sandpaper voice. I don’t know how he would expect me to hear him. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he knows he shouldn’t be here and he’s regretting coming.

  Or maybe he’s sober tonight. And maybe this is the Cole I thought I knew.

  “Please be awake.” There’s a quiet desperation to his plea. It punches through the door and into my chest like a fist. “I need to talk to you.”

  I shouldn’t even consider opening the door. I should write him off as a lost cause and move on with my life. Go back to the way I was before I met him. But there’s a part of me that wants him to make this right, wants him to clear things up. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me he was wrong. To promise he’ll never do that again.

  Something in me wants that badly. So, so badly.

  It’s that part which shushes all the other voices and pushes my hand to reach for the lock.

  I crack the door and peek out just enough to see Cole pulling his palm away–the soft rasping I heard. His eyes find mine and, even in the dark, I can see t
he cornucopia of emotions in them. Right now, they aren’t hooded. Right now, they aren’t hiding his thoughts from me. Right now, they’re open.

  He’s open.

  And that’s why I let him in.

  I step back and he slides past me, not moving beyond the entryway. I close the door, crossing my arms over my chest as we stand watching each other.

  “I know it’s late, but I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”

  “Well, here I am. Talk,” I say, unable to keep all the bitterness from my tone.

  Cole runs his hands through his chin-length hair, pushing dark blond strands away from his face. Thick stubble shadows his cheeks. He looks haggard, unkempt. Like he hasn’t slept since I saw him last. And maybe he hasn’t.

  It’s only fair, I think childishly, since I haven’t slept much either.

  He drops his hands like he just realized something, the familiar frown finally marring his smooth brow. “It’s cold in here.”

  “It’s cold everywhere.”

  He turns to look back over his shoulder. “There’s no fire.”

  “No.”

  I don’t add the Duh that I’m so waspishly thinking. I think the reason I’m inordinately aggravated is that I’m so glad he’s here, so happy that he’s sober and back to the Cole that I was growing so fond of. I shouldn’t feel this way. I should still be mad. But I’m not. Not really. Not nearly as mad as I am relieved that he came back. That he feels enough for me that he would experience regret over what happened.

  “May I?” he asks, indicating the empty fireplace.

  “I don’t have any wood.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He exits into the cold night and I wish for a second that I’d told him no. Just to keep him from walking out that door again. I’m beginning to hate it when he leaves. Things…this house…life feels better when he’s near.