The Distance Between Dreams

by Sherry L. Brown

  Ryan

  I feel his hands warm on the outside of my knees. It’s a steady comfort when my emotions are in turmoil. The grief, guilt, anger are all swirling in my throat ready to explode out.

  His hands move up along my outer hip, up in a slow caress which he follows with his body.

  Once above me, he uncrosses the arms away from my face and kisses my eyelids, forehead, cheeks. Covering my entire face in soft caresses.

  A delicious slow burn begins deep in my core. He’s moved on to my neck and upper chest. He peels my tank top up and over my head. I pull his t-shirt over his own head in reciprocation. The view of his muscled chest, defined abs and ridges along his lats turns me up another notch.

  His warm chest is against mine, his arms around me as we kiss deeply. Tongues entwined in a dance while his body, his center presses oh so good right where I need.

  He breaks away, only to slide down to my hips, and kneel on the floor between my legs.

  He traces his tongue just above and along the waistband of my jeans. It tickles and arouses me at the same time.

  He pauses when his tongue reaches the center button. Exhales heat against my vulnerable belly.

  Undoes the button, and slowly drags the zipper down.

  Only when his hands dip into the waistband at my sides does he look up.

  I understand his want and lift my hips to aid in the release of my legs from the denim.

  I’m wearing my serviceable black hip hugger underwear. Sure it’s silky-soft to the touch but hardly sex kitten material. He drops his head to my pubic bone and inhales.

  “Babe, you're driving me crazy,” he breathes against my center. The vibrations and heat of his words go straight to my clit and I feel the moisture slick at my entrance.

  He rubs his nose against the fabric, while his hands smooth up the inside of my thighs.

  He tugs my panties down and off my legs.

  For seconds I am laid bare for him, and the tiniest niggle of insecurity slithers in my mind. He is looking down at me, and unreadable expression in his eyes. He leans down and kisses first, one inside hollow of my leg, where the lips meet the thigh, then the other. His repeats the movement, this time changing the kiss so his tongue gives a caress.

  The sight of his bent head between my legs coupled with these soft passionate kisses is my devastation.

  I close my eyes and sink into the sensations, as he continues to lavish tongue kisses and caresses on my outer lips, then inner lips, and even dipping down to do a broad stroke against my entrance. I’m torn. I want him to use his wicked tongue on my most sensitive button, but loving all the other attention. Suddenly his arms grip the outside of my thighs and he pulls me closer to him. The back of my legs are now pressed against his shoulders. His forearms on the outside of my thighs. I peek my eyes open and see his return gaze just as his right hand reaches the skin at my pubic bone and pulls - exposing my clitoris. He dips his tongue down to taste it. The sensation is heaven.

  He’s licking in broad flat strokes from my entrance to my most hot button. I grip the sheets and enjoy the strokes, but in my mind’s eye I’m picturing his magnificent cock, the hot steel velvet in my hands against the folds of my pussy.

  “Eric,” I breathe out, “please.”

  He speaks against my core.

  “What do you want baby?”

  “You.” I tell him.

  He stands up and drops his pants. He’s breathing just as hard as I am. And holy mother of all that is holy. This is what I’ve been waiting for. His cock, unabashedly, brazenly erect, free for all my pleasure.

  I sit up and cup his balls with one hand, while the other circles his thick phallus.

  My fingertips don’t meet. I bring my lips to the head. Feel the satin heat with them. Close my eyes and dart my tongue out to dip in the opening there. Swirl my tongue around the head. Tempting luscious flesh.

  I smile at Eric’s intake of breath. Look up to meet his eyes.

  “Jesus, Ryan,” he groans and pulls away from me.

  I lay back. He follows me down. The head of his dick is poised at my entrance.

  He grabs the sides of my head in his hands.

  “Say you’ll stay, Ryan.”

  I close my eyes, and thrust my hips up in an effort to get him to enter me.

  “Say it, Ryan.”

  I grunt in frustration. I grab his butt with both my hands, taut muscles in my hand. I attempt to pull him down while I thrust up.

  “Just stay and I’ll give you what you want.” He smooths the hair on the sides of my head.

  I open my eyes and read the need in his eyes.

  “Fine,” I agree.

  He thrusts home and the sensation has me spiraling to new heights. I lose myself in every heavenly thrust of his hips, whimper when the scorching heat of his dick leaves my body.

  The pressure builds and builds, until the explosion leaves my insides quivering and my mind blank.

  47

  I lay in his arms my head resting on his chest. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of his breath. He’s relaxed. I’m relaxed in a weird wrung out way myself. I find that words are choking in my throat- threatening to erupt in an undignified spewing. I want to talk to Broussard. Make him understand.

  “I was supposed to have the American dream. Married. Kids, minivan, soccer games, white picket fence, golden retriever.”

  He doesn’t say anything to my statement. Just rubs a hand down my back and sweeps it up again. His fingertips dance over the scar on my shoulder.

  “But,” I continue, “I knew after I hadn’t been able to Skype with David for three weeks that the worst had happened. He’d been K.I.A.”

  I take a deep breath in and hold back the tears threatening to squeeze out.

  Eric kisses my forehead and gives me a squeeze.

  “Sshh. Baby. You don’t have to tell me this now.”

  “No…” I tell him, “I want to. I need to.”

  “I didn’t make his funeral. His mom and dad, they didn’t know we were engaged. They just thought. I don’t know. That I was a casual fling?”

  He continues to rub my scar with his fingertips.

  “After school was out, I took a flight out to Boston, I met his parents, went to his gravesite. My sisters said I had to do it for closure.”

  He squeezes me in a bit closer to his chest.

  “When I was there, looking down at this tombstone, I just got mad. Mad at the whole fucking world for this stupid fucked up shit we were in. And mad that David had to die for it. I couldn’t understand. Hell, I still don’t. So, I made him a promise. I promised that I would do everything in my power to protect the men that were still over there. So that no other woman- girlfriend, fiancée, wife, sister, daughter – would ever have to feel this way. I vowed I’d never feel this way again- useless, you know? You think that’s stupid?”

  Broussard is quiet a moment.

  “No, I don’t think it’s stupid. I think it’s courageous.”

  “Well, you might be the only one. My entire family thought I went off the deep end when I packed up my dorm room and enlisted that summer.”

  “But your dad, he supported you right?”

  “Not until I left the Marines. I think he realized I was going to do this with or without his help, so he took it upon himself to get the higher ups to admit me into BUD/S. I’m sure he thought I’d ring out sometime.”

  We are both quiet at that. He knows my history from there.

  “What about your mother?” He suddenly asks.

  “Hmph. My mother. That’s another can of worms for differnt time.” I tell him.

  “Don’t close up on my now, Everly Ryan.”

  I sigh and roll to my back. He follows and props his head up on his elbow.

  “You don’t think her death had anything to do with the path you took?” He asks me.

  Did it? She had me so late in life, I think back to how fast she declined once she found out she had breast cancer.
>
  “She died when I was seventeen.” I tell him, “I think I was pretty well set in my ways by then.”

  “Bullshit. You choose a path that put you on the road to becoming a ballet performer. Your college was centered around dance.”

  “Yea, it was. It was ingrained in me. I’d done it since I was three. Hard to figure out what’s habit and what’s enjoyment when you do something that long.”

  “But you gave all that up, no issue, Everly. Don’t you see?”

  “No.” I tell him.

  “You told me once in the desert that you weren’t made to sit at home and bake cookies. Well, you weren’t meant to be the frou-frou ballet dancer either.”

  His words comfort me in a strange way. Like he might be the only one in the world that sees me for who I am, even when I am blind to myself. I lean up and give him a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m going to jump in the shower.” I tell him.

  48

  I wake up again disorientated. The sun is streaming down on the bed from the sky lights. I roll to my side and inspect the nightstand looking for my phone. There is a note folded on top of it.

  I sit up in the bed and unfold the paper.

  Ryan, I had to go to work. Make yourself at home. I’ll be home around 4. - Eric

  I am not concerned. There’s definitely a bit of relief in my belly that we don’t have to hash out our “relationship” this morning after a night of incredible sex and over-sharing.

  I step into his amazing bathroom and strip down while the water in the shower heats up.

  I let the hot water massage my neck and shoulders while I contemplate. I’m no closer to answers than I was three weeks ago. I know I like spending time with Broussard. I like the beach. He’s retired now, so it’s not like I have to worry about him being deployed again. On the other hand, he can be totally invasive, domineering and just plain frustrating. Those qualities also translate well to a complete master in the bedroom. So what if I stay here as long as he’ll let me? The only fear holding me back from saying yes is the commitment of a new relationship. Is this what I want?

  I picture Broussard at the kitchen sink washing dishes, or folding my clothes after they come out of the dryer. Gawd, yes I want this easy domestication. I want to wake up in a warm, soft bed and feel a man’s heat behind me. Get up and enjoy lazy Sunday’s watching football and drinking wine. Having phenomenal shower sex, and not having to worry about dodging bullets or patching up friends.

  I turn off the shower and grab a towel. I notice my moisturizer on the counter next to Broussard’s beard trimmer. Looks like I’ve already claimed half his space anyways. I take my toothbrush out of my travel bag and place it in the cup next to Broussard’s. There. That wasn’t so hard.

  I spend the morning doing another load of laundry. I only had a few outfits with me, thinking I’d only be visiting for four or so days, so supplementing my wardrobe with t-shirts from the Eric J. Broussard collection has been essential. The short time in between doing laundry loads is becoming tedious.

  I send a text to my sister after putting the clothes in the dryer.

  I need a favor. Can you head over to the pool house and grab some of my clothes. Whatever you can fit in a 2-day shipping box. Please? I watch the three little ellipses as she types back.

  Instead of a text though, my phone vibrates and her contact picture comes up with an incoming call notification.

  “Hey, Kinsey.”

  “OH MY GAAWD. EVERLY RYAN. Are you shacking up with Broussard?” She screeches over the line.

  “Um, yea?” It comes out as a question; I thought she’d be happy for me and I can’t quite read what her tone is over the line: motherly concern or excited sister?

  “I can’t believe it. Independent spinster is ready to throw in her title for a little military man meat action.”

  I huff indignantly at her, but don’t have a comeback. Is that how she saw me, spinster? I mean I get that I am twenty-eight and have only had one boyfriend, but spinster seems a little harsh.

  “Will you send me my clothes or not?”

  She laughs.

  “Of course I will, just wait till I tell Kelly.”

  A sudden clatter sounds in the background.

  She says, “Oh shit! I got to go Everly. Text me the address.”

  Before I can even say ok, the phone hangs up on her screeching to her kid.

  Sheesh. Domesticated life I’m ready for, motherhood I am NOT.

  49

  Broussard and I have settled into an exciting and pleasurable coexistence. He skipped work on Tuesday afternoon to take me to a car dealership at my request. Laughed when I specified that I wanted a Jeep. But dipping into my savings account and paying for a barely used wrangler in gleaming white made me almost as happy as foreplay with Broussard.

  When I followed Broussard home in it, he opened the garage door and insisted I park it inside, so I didn't have to worry about putting the top back on. There I discovered he had been holding out on me- he had a seventy pound punching bag hanging from the ceiling in the second garage bay. I’d be back tomorrow to give it a good workout.

  On Wednesday, I was high off a night of great sex and fresh from a sweaty punching bag session when I decided I should take my new jeep for a jaunt to the grocery store to buy ingredients to make Broussard a thanks-for-the-orgasms dinner.

  But once I got to the fancy grocery store close to his house, I realized I don’t really know how to cook. I dialed Kelly from the parking lot, looking for some cooking advice.

  “Oh my gosh, so the rumors are true,” she says when I tell her why I am calling.

  “Look Kelly, can you help me out or not?”

  “Yea, yea. What skill level are we talking here?”

  I groan, “It’s bad Kelly. Protein shakes and salads.”

  I’m not above throwing myself on her mercy. She is the only person I know that bakes regularly and I’m pretty sure her husband and kids aren’t surviving on toast and water.

  “Ok. We’re going Italian. You can’t mess this up, because you are going to buy the sauce that’s in a jar.”

  “I like where you are going with this,” I tell her.

  She finishes up her instructions. I hastily jot down the ingredients on the back of a gas receipt.

  “Thanks Kelly. I owe you.”

  “Well, to be honest Everly, I am just so happy you’ve called me more than you ever have before. You may be five hundred miles away in Florida, but I feel closer to you now than I ever did when you were off doing god-knows-what in only god-knows-where.”

  I cringe a bit, the guilt hitting me full force.

  “Yea, Kels. It’s good to call,” is all I can think to say of in reply.

  We disconnect, and I gird my loins for this foray into domestication- the grocery trip.

  50

  I punch the bag every morning and sweat out the desperate anxiety of the uncontrollable. Then I run along the beach. I remember. Force myself to relive happy memories. Normal things. Non-combat things. Like how my mother used to do my hair in braids and buns before ballet class. How David used to sneak into and out of my dorm room. How T-Rex and I used to laugh over lifting weights and terrible cafeteria food. I remember the normal. And then I dive into the ocean and let my tears be washed away by the sea. Every day for a week. And at night I feel the lust, heat and passion that is new love. We conversate over dinner, sometimes he cooks, sometimes I do, and sometimes we get takeout. We walk along the beach, or watch a movie in bed. Just enjoy normal couple things.

  I’m not blind to what’s going on. I’m healing emotionally, spiritually. But while it hurts deep in my soul, I feel the catharsis is needed. More than that, I embrace it.

  It’s a Thursday afternoon. A cold front has finally come through, and I sit on Broussard’s deck in yoga pants and his oversize fleece pullover. I’m skimming through colleges, researching places where I can get a physical therapy degree, making to-do notes on my new laptop. Physical therapy po
pped into my brain after my run this morning, and it felt right.

  The sound of the doorbell ringing drifts out the open door to me.

  I place my laptop on the kitchen counter as I go in to answer it.

  “Miranda. Hi.”

  Her face is pinched, and Luke clings to her hand with a worried expression on his own face.

  “Ryan. Is Eric home? I tried his cell but he’s not answering.”

  “Uh, no, he’s got a couple hours left at work. Can I help? Do you want to come in?”

  She places her hand on her belly and sucks in her cheeks while closing her eyes.

  My own widen. Shit. I hope this isn’t an active labor situation.

  “Yes, you can help,” she continues with a slightly alarmed face, “I need you to drive me to the hospital, and stay with Luke.”

  My brain stops. She’s trusting me to take her to the hospital? And watch her kid?

  “Uhhh. Ok. Just let me grab my shoes and keys.”

  She bends over and reaches her hand out, I instinctively give her my own, which she squeezes painfully.

  “Just hurry; we’ll take my car,” she says while turning back towards the driveway.

  I don’t waste any time. Just close the back door, slip Broussard’s flip flops onto my feet (they are the closest shoes), grab my phone and wallet and head out the door behind Miranda.

  She’s already got Luke strapped in and sits in the passenger seat.

  The SUV is running when I take the driver’s seat.

  I put the car in reverse and ask where we are going.

  “Uh-oooowwww. University hospital. My water broke just twenty minutes before I picked Luke up from school. I thought I’d have enough time to get him here and get checked into the hospital before the contractions got close together.”

  She does some complicated breathing thing as we pull up to a stop light.

  I look in the rearview mirror at Luke. He’s sitting quietly.

  “Everything ok, Luke?” I ask him.

  “Yea, Ms. Ryan. Is mom going to be all right?”