He brushes another kiss against the corner of my mouth, his cheek rubbing across my skin as he moves to rest his forehead against mine. He lets out what feels like a long, slow, overdue exhalation, and his warm breath fans across my chin just before he wraps his arms around me and folds me into the tightest embrace.
Frogmore Stew
DINNER WAS AMAZING. She did the right thing by dragging me out of the house, out of myself, and the place couldn’t have been more perfect. We were outside and away from the touristy scene, it was casual and uncrowded, and in a way we felt like we were in our own little bubble, the only two people in the world. I hadn’t realized how low I’d gotten, but I did realize tonight how vital she is to me. No, I’m not even close to being my old self again—I’m not sure when that will happen—but I am significantly better than I was just a few hours ago, and that’s all because of her.
I know they say happiness can’t come from others, it has to be found within, but well, she is in me, and if we’re off, I’m off. There’s nothing I can do about it.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, looking over at me from the driver’s seat.
“Not much. Just enjoying the ride,” I tell her, reaching over to lay my hand on her thigh. Usually I’m a stickler for driving, but I like her behind the wheel of my truck. She’s so tiny, and she has the seat pulled way forward. She’s wearing a cute little dress that shows off her legs, and there’s something about those high heels on my pedals that turns me on. Granted, most things she does turn me on. I can’t help it; I’m insanely attracted to her and I’m not ashamed of it. She’s beautiful inside and out.
She frowns at my response, and I crack a smile, shifting in my seat. She asked me to talk to her more, and I will, but I don’t think she wants to know about this. Maybe I should tell her I’m thinking about the hushpuppies. That’ll satisfy her curiosity; after all, they were damn good, and we’ll be returning soon to get some more.
On the radio, a song sung by Will Ashton from the Blue Horizons band comes on. It’s a duet where he is singing with his wife, Ava, and the lyrics speak to me. They describe a love between two people who are each walking their own path in life, but at the end of the day they know how to find their way home, to each other.
Does Meg hear the words? Does she see that this can be us? Over the last nine months, she’s become my home, and it’s why I ended up here in Charleston with her. She grounds me, and she’s my safe place. When I’m with her, I don’t have that itch to be thinking, doing, going somewhere else. I like when she’s standing in front of me and my world stops moving. Doesn’t she like it when I’m standing with her? In hindsight, when she asked me to talk to her, I should have put that back on her as well.
Pushing the skirt of her dress away, my hand finds her skin, and I lightly squeeze before sweeping my thumb back and forth. She glances over at me once, but she doesn’t push me away, and I settle more into my seat with my hand never leaving my girl. Man, do I love to touch her, feel her, smell her, and her legs—they drive me crazy.
By the time we get home, my fingers have explored more of her leg, from behind her knee up to the inner thigh. Mostly it’s all just innocent, but given the state we’ve been in for the last two weeks, it’s easy to see it’s affecting her as her chest is moving up and down and she’s gripping the wheel tighter than normal. Her presence alone is certainly affecting me.
Silence falls over us after she parks the truck and turns it off. We’re both looking at each other, and I know I’m not crazy when I say the air around us feels charged. Without even thinking, I lean toward her, and she does the same to me. My hand moves from her leg to gently wrap around the side of her face, and I bring her lips to mine—right where they belong.
This kiss is not like the one earlier on the dock. That one was more of an apology, a reunion kiss after an extended period of distance that said I need this connection between us to right itself. This one, however, is slow, deep, and deliberate. I want to drown myself in the taste of her and never come up for air.
Over and over I kiss her. I kiss her lips, her jaw, the spot under her ear, and when I finally reach for her arm and gently pull in my direction, she simply follows, understanding me. Climbing around the center console, she straddles my lap, and my hands slide up her thighs, under her dress, and around to her ass, where my fingers easily slip under the soft edge of her underwear. Her skin is so smooth as I lightly grip and drag her closer to me.
No one can see us here. The road is mostly empty, rarely are there pedestrians, and the windows are super tinted. Even still, part of me is surprised she’s allowing this since she’s been so adamant about just being friends, but the other part of me isn’t surprised at all. I know she doesn’t want to admit it, but we are good together and good for each other. She feels so much more for me than she’s allowing herself, but I have to believe she’ll eventually come around. She’s worth the wait, and so am I. I’m worth it, too.
With her hands on my shoulders, she shifts so she’s seated exactly where we both want her, and involuntarily, I roll my hips against her. She groans at the friction, the sound getting lost between us as her mouth returns to mine.
Why does this feel so perfect? Why does she feel so perfect? It’s like she was made for me, and that’s the only way to describe it.
With my fingertips digging in, I rock her back and forth across the length of me, swallowing the gasps she’s giving me and dying a little each time she does. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t think of anything else other than having this, having her like this, every single day.
Moving my hands out from under the dress, I slide them up her ribcage and wrap them around her breasts. The plumpness of her flesh pushes up over the neckline, and as she tips her head backward with her eyes closed, my lips and tongue find their way, painting a trail from one side to the other.
I breathe in, the lingering scent of her citrusy floral perfume filling me. It’s an added aphrodisiac that makes my head fuzzy and the desire for her even stronger.
“Just . . . once more.” She breathes heavily as my forehead rests against her shoulder.
I pull back to look her in the eyes and say the truest statement of the night. “You know as well as I do it won’t be just once.” My voice sounds rough, deep, and even I can recognize I’m sitting at the point of no return.
“Jack . . .” she says, sounding pained.
Why she fights this, fights us, I don’t understand . . . but at the sound of my name, my resolve cracks even further. I need more, more from her.
Gripping the back of her head, my fingers hide themselves in her hair as I pull her mouth back to mine. Taking her bottom lip, I roll it between my teeth as my willingness to not have my tongue wrapped around hers dissolves. Diving back in, I immerse myself in the taste, feel, and smell of her. These kisses are wet, bordering on rough, and if I could consume her, I would.
Feeling her hands slide down my chest and stop at the button on my jeans, I briefly hold my breath to see what move she is going to make next. After all, she’s the one who has to make the move. When she hesitates for only a second and then undoes it, everything in me from the chest down shudders with a fierce need.
“Meg.” I say her name in warning; she has to know she’s crossing a line I’m not prepared to go back from, and her eyes fly up to find mine. The longing in them nearly undoes me, and instead of replying with words, she does so by pulling down the zipper, shifting my pants out of the way, slipping her hand in, and wrapping it around me.
I am hers.
One hundred percent hers if she’ll have me.
As I lean my head back on the headrest, my eyes fall to half-mast and I take in the gorgeous mess that is this girl. My girl. Wild hair, flushed skin, swollen lips, dress halfway unzipped—perfect, just perfect.
“Would you rather go inside?”
She knows what I’m asking her, and I need to know if it’s now or later.
“No,” she sa
ys breathlessly just as her hand moves up and down me.
Groaning, I slip my fingers under the front of her dress and find the place we both need.
Yes, we could slow down. Yes, we could take our clothes off. But no, we don’t want to or have to. Sliding her underwear to the side, my fingers gratefully find that she is more than ready for me, so I pull her forward, positioning myself, and she sinks down.
Perfection. So much so I damn near black out from the feeling—that is until she starts moving.
I am thirty-two years old. I have lived my life to the fullest for as long as I can remember, and only now, here with her, do I finally feel complete.
Fuck my life.
I have a sinking feeling this isn’t going to end well for me, but I can’t stop the direction I’m heading. It’s too late. After tonight, after this, there’s no going back. She’s either mine or she isn’t; there’s no in between—not for me, not anymore—and I can’t pretend there is.
I’m all in with this girl. I just hope she’s all in with me.
Hushpuppies
WHITE: THE COLOR that stares down at me as I lie in Jack’s bed looking at the ceiling. Yes, I know ninety-five percent of ceilings are white, but it’s this whiteness that has my thoughts racing from one thing to the next. The ceiling fan is on medium speed, and as the blades blur into a circle, I realize here in the early morning light that although I wanted things to go back to normal, now I’m certain they never will. I find I’m mourning what we used to have, not dreaming about what might be.
I told myself just once, but now that’s turned into twice. Even I am logical enough to know there’s not really such a thing as friends with benefits, so why I crossed the line again, I just don’t know. I allowed myself to get swept up in the moment, in the reprieve of the emotional distress we’d been skirting for days, but I know this is going to do more damage than good. No matter how great it felt, no matter how wonderful he feels, no matter how much I’m beginning to wish things could be different.
Turning my head, I continue to lie completely still. Jack is sleeping, and I don’t want to disturb him. His face is so relaxed and his features are so familiar to me that I could get lost in them, but I won’t. I can’t. I also don’t want him to wake and see the emotions I know are present on my face. Regret. Longing. Admiration. Fear.
Fear, like the white ceiling, spurs on a memory, one I do my best not to think of daily.
It’s funny how different moments alter and shape people’s lives, and it’s also funny how some moments shine clear and bright while others fade. I remember when my high school boyfriend broke up with me after we left for college, I remember the moment my parents told me they were moving to Florida, leaving this life behind, and I remember my acceptance email to culinary school. These are just a few, but with each of them, I don’t remember very much else. The time of day, what I was wearing or ate that day, or even what style my hair was in—I went through phases of highlights, purple strands, and even an attempted keratin treatment to smooth it out and make it straight.
However, I do remember just about everything from when I was told I had cancer.
First of all, I had gone to see the doctor at the student health complex. That’s where we went for flu shots, gynecological exams for birth control, whatever. It was after I explained my symptoms and she did a routine exam—you know, where they have you lie back on the table and they push around on your stomach—that she recommended I see an actual gynecologist. The staff scheduled the appointment for me. I was to have blood work taken first thing in the morning, stop by imaging for an ultrasound, and then see this new doctor afterward.
It was at this appointment I was told there was a mass on my left ovary and they needed to do a laparotomy to see what was going on. I didn’t ask the question I should have and they didn’t mention what I suddenly feared, so I blocked it out of my head and went about making plans for the surgery.
Three days later, my aunt came with me, and she was the one holding my hand when the doctor came in and said cancer. I think I was expecting bad news, but I didn’t think it would be cancer. Cancer is one of those things you know happens and affects people, but you never think it’ll happen to you. Did you know only two percent of ovarian cancer sufferers are under the age of thirty?
The room was bland and beige with a dark green chair. There was a generic sailboat picture on the wall, and I was wearing a red shirt. I remember as my aunt started asking questions about what happens next, a blanket of realization came over me: I’m going to die.
Having actually verbalized the words, the doctor assured us that since we had caught it early, survival rates were high. Apparently, the type of ovarian cancer someone in their twenties gets is likely to be one of the more uncommon but more treatable types. While they stared at me, waiting for me to ask more questions, the only other one I wondered was, Does this mean I won’t be able to have children?
Children.
It’s not normal to think about having children at twenty-one—if anything the goal is prevention, to not have them—and now there I was, being forced to talk about my potential future, one I wasn’t sure of, one I now didn’t have any control over.
With my world spinning, I felt out of control, and I desperately needed something to hang on to. So, that night, while lying in bed, I decided I would determine how I reacted to this, to life, to my life, and how I pushed through. Several times over the next couple of months, I made heartfelt promises to myself, and so far, years later, I haven’t broken any of them.
For breakfast, my aunt made my favorite blueberry scones with lemon glaze. I’ve never worn a red shirt again, my hair was too long so I kept it braided, and the ceiling was white just like this one now.
Closing my eyes, I run my hand over my face to block out the whiteness and the memories, and I breathe him in. His room smells so male, like dryer sheets, a sporty body wash, and sandalwood. I love this smell, and as for him, my heart aches for the conversations I know we’re going to have later today.
Slipping quietly out of the bed, I head upstairs to my room and then into the shower. The warm water eases the soreness of my muscles, and with my forehead resting on the wall and the steam surrounding me, I allow myself to replay images of the night.
Large warm hands, which he whispered he couldn’t keep off of me, sweeping the length of me, gripping when needed and tender when not. Embraces so tight and so intimate I’m certain I could hear his heart whispering to mine. Ownership as we each handed over our most exposed selves, knowing the vulnerability in this was met with complete trust.
In a different world, if I were a different person, it would be so easy to let myself fall. But I haven’t and I won’t, because we’re just not written in the stars. I’ve had to make hard decisions before, and I can do it again. He’ll see reason, if he hasn’t already, and I’m not going to waver. We can only be just friends.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I dry off and dress to go to work. Distance this morning will be good for us, and it’ll give him time to clear his head. I’m prepared to deal with the fallout later, but what I’m not prepared for is having to answer questions now. A look of betrayal from him and what I’m certain will be a wounded heart is not something I can handle.
A need to see him one more time before I head out rises inside me, and although I shouldn’t, I tiptoe down the hallway to peek into his room. What I find is him awake, facing my side of the bed, with his arm stretched out where I was not too long ago. Dark tired eyes stare at me as I stand in the doorway, and as he processes what I’m wearing, his brows pull down and his forehead wrinkles.
“Where are you going?” he asks, his voice deep and rumbly with sleep.
“I need to run over to the restaurant for a little while.” It’s a lie—I don’t really need to go in—but the space will be good for both of us.
“Now?” He doesn’t need to look at a clock to know it’s still very early in the morning.
“Yeah. I was
awake, so I figured why not.” I shift my weight from one foot to another; the floor is cold.
There’s a long pause as he considers what I’ve said. He’s replaying in his mind how I told him last night at dinner that I wasn’t needed at the restaurant today as it’s a slower day and I was certain Taylor would have it covered.
Frowning, he reaches up to run his hand through his hair, and the blankets slide down his torso. Dark gorgeous strands stick up perfectly all over his head, the scruff from last night is longer and thus appears darker, and inches and inches of his bare skin call out to me. He is so handsome.
Letting out a deep breath, he contemplates what to say to me, and then he says the thing I dread the most. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.” He lowers his arm, rests it on the bed just in front of him where I should be, and watches me.
Why is this so hard when being with him is easy?
“I can’t. I’ve got to go.” I shake my head and lightly shrug one shoulder.
His perfect pouty lips press into a line, which turns down into a frown.
Blinking at me, he finally sees my emotional walls are up, and in that one second his open vulnerability is gone and his are slammed in place. The muscles tighten around his eyes and jaw and seeing the transition in his facial expressions kills me, but this is for the best. He shifts to his back, no longer looking at me, and says, “Then go.”
“Jack—”
“Don’t, Meg. Not right now.” He rolls completely over, giving me his back, and my eyes well with unwanted tears.
I was wrong—it isn’t the betrayal that’s trying to break me; it’s his disappointment. I’ve hurt him, again, and the pain of this is almost unbearable.
It isn’t supposed to be like this.
We aren’t supposed to be like this.
But I don’t know how to be any other way. I made a promise to myself, and standing behind that, I quietly slip away.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 19
