by Kim Bailey
“Hey, Mom,” I answer, walking inside to grab another beer.
“Oh, darling, please don’t ever call me that again,” Chantal’s seductive voice replies.
“Enchanté. What’s up? How’d you get my number?”
“Well, I was bored and lonely, watching everyone else have a good time . . . and thought . . . who else around here could possibly be as bored and lonely as me? So, I stole your number from Aunt Sylvie’s phone and called you.”
“Sounds like you’re calling me pathetic.”
“Not at all, chéri. I was hoping we could be bored and lonely together. Want some company?”
“Aren’t you at the wedding?” I ask.
“I was, but now I’m sitting in your driveway, watching you through the front window. You really should get some better curtains.”
“Get in here, stalker,” I grunt, hanging up the phone and meeting her at the front door.
“Nice place,” she says, greeting me with a peck on the cheek.
“Nice dress,” I tell her. Closing the door, I inspect the blue silk gown hugging all her curves. “What are you doing here, Enchanté?”
“I told you—”
“And I’m having a hard time believing that a woman as gorgeous and magnetic as you could ever be bored or lonely in a room full of people.”
“All right, you caught me.” The smirk on her face doesn’t match the concern in her eyes. “This whole day just seemed like such a shit show. I mean, it was beautiful. Everything went very smoothly, and there was only one drunk hitting on me . . . Whatever, my point is, I knew you’d be here alone, and I didn’t like that idea very much.”
“You always talk this much?” I smile at her.
“Fuck off! I could be dancing with a drunk guy right now, but I’m here with your bossy ass instead. You should be thanking me for thinking about you. Osti de batard de marde!”
“You’re sexy when you swear at me. I like it even more when I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Something loosens in my chest when she rolls her eyes and frowns at me. It’s as if a bit of the tension that never seems to leave just floated away.
Laughing, I tell her, “I’m kidding! Don’t be such a princess. Come here.”
When I grab her by the arm and pull her into me, she comes willingly. Kissing the side of her head, I bracket her in a tight hug. Her arms wrap securely around me, her head resting softly on my chest. It feels good to have her here. It feels right.
And then it hits me.
I just called her princess.
And it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t feel strange or awkward that the pet name I’ve always called Jamie just slipped out. Although, it doesn’t suit Chantal. She’s probably the furthest thing from a princess that I could imagine. Still, even calling her that with sarcasm should make me feel uncomfortable. Shouldn’t it?
“You thirsty?” I ask, ignoring the warmth spreading through me.
“Sure. What are you drinking?”
“Well, I was about to have another beer. I don’t think I have anything fancy enough to match your outfit. Seriously, Chantal, you look stunning. You sure you don’t want to go back to the party and dance with the drunk guy? I was just sitting in the yard, looking at the stars.”
“Beer and stargazing sounds great,” she says with a subdued smile.
The old blanket I lay out for us is worn and fraying, the beer is cheap, and my ability to make polite conversation is shit. But Chantal doesn’t complain. She kicks off her heels, making herself comfortable beside me.
The evening air is starting to cool—refreshing after a day of oppressive heat. It feels good to stretch out under the night sky and just enjoy the peacefulness.
We relax in quiet contemplation for a long while. It’s nice not being alone. I like that she doesn’t try to fill the stillness with compulsive chatter. She’s easy, even when she isn’t. And it sure doesn’t hurt that she’s so damn fine to look at.
My eyes keep wandering from the beauty of the heavens to witness the beauty in blue silk at my side.
“Was it a nice wedding?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“It was. You don’t really want to talk about that, do you?”
“No, not really. I just figure . . . I’m going to hear about it eventually. This town is full of people who know practically everything about everyone, and they all love to talk about it. I’d rather hear about it from someone I respect and trust.”
Rolling onto her side and propping her head with her hand, she faces me. Her eyes search mine, the dark depths of her irises reflecting the glow of the moon.
“You do realize the only thing you really know about me is how divine my pussy tastes.”
“That’s not true.” I try to keep a straight face but can’t quite keep the smile from my lips. “I know you live in Montreal. I know that you’re really dedicated to your job. And I know that you make an incredibly sexy moaning sound right before you come. It sounds like you’re begging for it. It’s super hot.”
“Mon dieu!” She laughs. “That’s all you’ve got? But you say you trust me?”
“I’d trust you with my life,” I admit. “You don’t trust me?”
“I do. Probably more than I should. I’m an inherently skeptical person. When I’m told I can’t or shouldn’t do something, I want to prove that I can.”
“Don’t you get tired of it, though? I’m sick of trying to prove myself all the time.”
“So, stop,” she says. Moving closer, she presses her body to mine, placing her hand on my chest. “You can’t change the way the world sees you. You can try, but people will only ever see the things they want to see. The only opinion you control is your own, and the only person you can make happy is you. So, stop doing something that makes you so fucking unhappy.”
“Are you a psychiatrist? Or listening a lot to your uncle? Because what you just said was some pretty smart shit.”
Letting her forehead fall to my chest, she laughs. “Well, I’m not a psychiatrist, but I am a doctor.”
“For real?” I challenge.
She looks back up at me. “Well, I’m almost done with my third year of residency. So, no, not for real. Not officially, but I will be.”
She really is a hell of a lot smarter than I am.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” I tell her sincerely.
“Actually,” she says, cuddling into me, “I’m a little chilly. Maybe we should crawl into the tent?”
“No, not the tent.”
I’m going to have to get rid of that goddamn thing. It reminds me too much of Sean—with his big feet sticking out of it—which reminds me too much of other things I’d rather not think about in this moment here with her.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggest. “It’s been a long day. I’m ready for bed. You can stay over if you’d like.”
“I’m not here to force myself on you. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t alone. I can leave if you want.”
“Chantal, I want you to stay. Don’t make me regret having asked you so nicely. I don’t have the energy to spank you tonight.”
With a haughty laugh, she jumps to her feet, offering me her hand. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”
Shaking my head, I take her hand, but instead of allowing her to pull me up, I pull her back down to me, wrapping her in my arms. “Just because I’m tired and being nice doesn’t mean you’re in charge.”
With a quick kiss on her lips and a light slap on her bottom, I stand. Picking her up with me, I carry her to the house—to my bed.
“Is there a secret to taking off this fancy dress?” I ask, smoothing my hands down her sides.
“No. Just the zipper in the back.”
My hands find it easily. Too easily. Stepping behind her, I slowly pull the zipper down, exposing the delicate curve of her tanned back. As the dress falls away, so do my hands. The temptation to touch her is overwhelming, but I know touching her will lead to kissing her, which will lead to tasting her,
which will inevitably lead to not just fucking her, but taking her over completely.
“Don’t move,” I whisper in her ear. The clean, fruity smell of her hair lingers even after I step away.
She doesn’t question me. She simply does what I’ve asked—standing like a Grecian statue—the pooled blue of the dress at her feet making it look like she’s a goddess walking on water.
Leaving her motionless beside the bed, I go to my dresser and pull out my favorite T-shirt. It’s a shirt of no particular value or meaning, but it’s perfectly worn and comfortable, and it just happens to sport the logo of my favorite Montreal hockey team.
For a moment, as I’m looking down at the shirt in my hand, I question myself. Why am I so desperate to have her here when sex isn’t on the menu? How big of a prick am I that I’m willing to use her warmth, her comfort, to help me forget another woman? Maybe I should just fuck her—at least make it worth her while.
Turning back to her, shirt in hand, I’m struck by the beauty of her profile, all her gorgeous bronze skin—bare breasts, flat stomach, and the amazing curve of her toned thighs, ass, and legs. She’s achingly erotic, and my willpower’s already been pushed to its limits today.
Maybe that’s why I have no problem walking over and pulling the shirt down over her head, covering her tempting body. I’m a prick. A careless asshole. A dirty bastard.
But I’m working on it.
With the feeling of Sean’s mouth still fresh on my body, and the vision of Jamie in her wedding dress still fresh in my heart, I can’t bring myself to do anything more than cuddle. With Chantal secure in my arms, softly breathing into the crook of my neck, I drift off into a deep sleep.
My dreams are filled with falling stars, and I’m falling with them. Falling endlessly through a sky of blue silk.
The Labor Day long weekend comes and goes too quickly. But isn’t that what always happens when you’re having a good time?
I finally get to take Hunter on the camping trip I’ve been craving. We spend three days fishing off a dock and three nights hanging out beside a campfire. We roast hot dogs, hike in the woods, and watch the sun set over the lake. Realizing it’s the first time he’s done some of these things threatens to put me in a somber funk. My boy was raised a big city brat, far removed from my small-town life. So, instead of regretting all the time I’ve missed, I focus on having him here with me now. Every minute together is a blessing, and I’m not ever going to forget that. Not ever again.
Jamie and Eric are home from their honeymoon. Now that they’re back, I want to ask Hunter about them. I want to know if they’re happy—if his mom is happy. I want to know how far from her thoughts I truly am, but I know that’s a shit position to put my kid in.
Instead, I ask, “You happy, bud?”
“Yeah, Dad. You were right. Camping is pretty cool.”
Camping is pretty cool. He may not have grown up with it, but at least he can appreciate it now, and that makes for a pretty perfect weekend in my book.
Well, almost perfect.
Jamie wanted me to leave my phone on for emergencies, but the goddamn thing hasn’t stopped lighting up. I’ve ignored it most of the weekend—stuck it in my truck to keep it from my mind. Until now. It’s the last night of our trip and Hunter’s asleep.
My notifications show twenty-two text messages and one missed call. All the texts are from Sean. Every single one of them is a come-on.
How’s your shower?
Ready for round 2?
I miss the taste of your cum.
No “Hello.” No “How you doing?” Just innuendo and outright sexting—including one shadowy picture of his cock with his hand wrapped firmly around it.
I’d like to say that I delete them all without a second thought.
But I don’t.
Instead of clearing my phone, I climb into the back of my truck and jerk off to those messages, to that out of focus picture, and the memory of his lips sucking me off.
It’s a sad fucking truth, one that I feel immediately guilty for. Even more so after I listen to my voicemail from that one missed phone call.
Chantal. Her sensuous voice melts through the phone, every curled R like a finger beckoning. “Hey, Dylan . . . I thought you might like to know I’ve been made official. My doctor title is now the real deal. Also, you should know I stole your shirt. I plan to wear it tonight while I’m celebrating my success with a bottle of wine and my vibrator.”
That’s it. Her entire message is no more than twenty seconds, but it’s twenty seconds of pure bliss. Her thick accent wraps around me, enveloping me in her throaty buzz. I sort of wish I’d listened to this message first instead of looking at the ones from Sean. I’d like to get off to her voice and visions of her wearing my t-shirt, but I’m already spent. The truth is, even though I’ve given in to Sean and his advances, even though my cock gets hard when he antagonizes me, I don’t crave him the way I do my Enchanté. I react to him, but I’m hungry for her.
Sean is wild and reckless. He pushes my boundaries and challenges my control. He makes me feel like my old self—the guy I used to be before I had something to lose. Chantal? She’s dirty, but she’s thoughtful. She’s interested in more than just a quick fuck. She’s interested in me. She makes me feel like someone different, or at least a better version of myself—a guy with something more than unrequited love.
I guess, in the end, I want them both.
As I lay here, going over their messages again, I start to wonder if my feelings for Jamie are in my heart or if it’s just shit that’s stuck in my head. Either way, the other parts of me—the parts not obsessed with being broken—are waking up. Moving on. Leaving the damaged part alone to fester.
***
Passivity and inaction are the evil stepchildren of indecision. I hate them all. Especially when the uncertainty belongs to me.
How can a guy who gets off on being in charge of everything be so incapable of figuring out what he wants?
It’s never been much of a problem before now. Of course, until this point in time, the only thing I really wanted was Jamie. Love from Jamie. To raise my son with Jamie. To build a life with Jamie. All things fucking Jamie . . .
But I can’t have her. I’ve come to terms with that, I think. It disgusts me to realize how much I’ve let her dominate not just my thoughts but my entire life. I want—no, I need—to take that control back.
I want to want something new.
Things in my life are shifting, but all I seem capable of doing is standing by and watching it happen, waiting to see when I’ll get caught in the movement, and where I might end up when it stops.
I don’t know what to say to Sean. I’m not sure when to call Chantal. And I don’t want to have to choose between them. So, instead, I’ve done nothing. And I continue doing nothing, knowing the longer I wait, the less likely I am to ever do anything at all.
And I hate it.
Fuck, I’ve spent so much time hating things. Hating people, hating situations, hating myself. It’s tiring to be so full of hate for so long. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like me. Regret, shame, the worry of failure—those are feelings for other people, the assholes who don’t know who they are or what they want.
But that’s the problem, right? I don’t know what I fucking want anymore.
As if the devil can hear me thinking, my phone vibrates with a message from Sean.
Did you hear the news? Got traded. I’m moving to Montreal. Do you know how to say “Grab my cock” in French?
Montreal. What are the chances?
Without taking the time to think about my actions, I quickly type out a reply.
Taking over my favorite team? This I need to see for myself. Send me your schedule. I’ll plan a trip.
Fuck. Am I really going to do this? Without waiting for his reply, I send him another message.
BTW my French sucks. But I know someone who can help—if I tell her to.
Considering the number of times
he messaged me over the weekend, you’d think his reply would be fast, but it’s not. He makes me wait.
I wait through two bottles of beer and an entire episode of The Bachelor, getting more annoyed with each passing moment. It makes me want to scream every time one of the bachelorettes bats her fake lashes, giggles a response, or cries a fake tear over the douche they’re competing for. Not just because this show drives me up a wall with its ridiculous, unachievable take on dating and life in general, but because I miss having that kind of devoted attention directed at me.
I’m about to give up when Sean finally texts back.
Just tell me when & I’m there.
A simple, single sentence followed by a picture of his training schedule. It’s nothing, but it’s everything. Enough to have the blood pumping steadily through my veins. Enough to have me half hard just thinking about it.
Scrolling quickly through my contacts, I pull up Chantal’s number, and once again, without hesitation, hit dial.
“Oui?” she answers, her tone clipped and annoyed.
“Enchanté, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Dylan, hi!” Her annoyance melts, her voice now an invitation. “I was just reading. I hate being interrupted, but I’ll make an exception for you.”
“Glad to know I’m more important than a romance novel.”
“How’d you know I was reading romance? Maybe I’m a sci-fi lover.”
“You’re not. You’re a romance lover. That’s why I like you.”
“Really? You like me, huh?”
“Sure I do. What’s not to like? You’ve got that fancy new doctor title. That’s a pretty big turn on,” I tease. “Seriously, though, Chantal, congratulations. It’s well deserved.”
“Dylan, that’s so sweet of you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, don’t get too sugary. You’ll make me regret saying it. I’d hate to have to cancel my trip to see you.”
“Trip? To see me?”
“Would that be all right? If we scheduled it around work?”
“I’m sure we could make arrangements,” she purrs.
“Good, but there’s something you should know. Something I feel like I should tell you.”
