by Penny Reid
When I was younger, I didn’t understand her meaning and I would grow indignant, angry she thought I needed a man. But as I grew older and heard her say the same thing to my older sisters, I realized You need a man meant You need to get laid.
But this was the first time she’d just come right out and said it.
My neck heated with an involuntary blush, but I pressed on. “So, that’s sort of what I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised. “Do you need some resource materials? Toys?”
“No!” I blurted, huffing a laugh. “No. I-I met someone.”
“Ooohhhh . . .” she sing-songed. I could almost see her wiggling in her seat, the giant grin on her face. “Tell me about him. Does he need resource materials?”
Now I was really laughing, but chided, “Mamita, let me speak.”
“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.”
I gathered a breath for courage, because Marta’s reaction—for better or for worse—had me feeling gun-shy about sharing Jethro with my family.
“His name is Jethro. He’s a wildlife park ranger here in Tennessee.” I paused, bracing myself for her reaction.
She didn’t say anything at first, and my heart rate doubled.
I was just about to make a joke when she said, “In the Old Testament Jethro was the name of Moses’s father-in-law. That will make Abuela very happy. It’s a good name. And he treats you well? With kindness?”
I collapsed onto my bed, my heart swelling with gratitude. Clearly, I’d been silly to think my mother would share any of Marta’s concerns. Thank God for my mother!
“Yes. He treats me so well. He is amazing.”
“Tell me about your young man. Leave nothing out.”
I smiled at the ceiling of stars above me and spent the next half hour telling her everything. Well, almost everything. I didn’t tell her about how we almost had sex against a tree behind his house. Or how we’d attacked each other in my trailer after I ate the world’s best doughnut. I shared details about his past—a little about Ben, nothing about his criminal pursuits or the Iron Wraiths—enough to make it clear he’d made poor decisions as a youth, but had changed his ways.
I finished telling her about our first two dates and moved on to date three. “So I mentioned to him last week, while we were driving to the set—”
“He still drives you every morning?”
“Yes. We drive in together in the mornings, and then usually after work we have dinner with his family.”
“His brothers?”
“And his sister and her fiancé.”
“And his family, they are good people?”
“Yes. They are the best. The. Best. They kind of remind me of the Marx Brothers, the shenanigans and hijinks. I love them.”
“That’s good. Your children will resemble—in looks and temperament—your husband’s siblings and your siblings.”
I tried to feel irritated she would jump to this conclusion, that we might be getting married and having children, but all I felt was excitement. Even so, I reprimanded her. “Mamita, we’ve just started dating.” I couldn’t have her getting carried away. One of us needed to be sensible.
“Yes, but you are telling me about him. You’ve never told me about anyone before. He is the one, I feel it in my bones, and my bones never lie. And you spend so much time with him—in the mornings before work, in the evenings. Do you still enjoy his company?”
“Yes. So much. Spending time with him is comforting and thrilling and energizing. He is so easy to be around and to talk to. He makes everything calmer but more exciting. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like, when we’re together, we’re in a bubble.”
“Hmm . . .” I could tell she was smiling, but she refrained from voicing her thoughts, instead putting the conversation back on track. “You were saying about your third date.”
“Oh, yes. I mentioned to him that I missed going to the movies as a spectator. You know I haven’t seen a movie, just gone to the theater to enjoy a film, not a big splashy premiere for work, in years. So it turns out Jethro knows the owner of an old theater in Knoxville and he arranged for a midnight showing of Duck Soup.”
“Ah, that’s one of your favorites.”
“Yes. I don’t know how he knew that, he wouldn’t reveal his sources, but he knew.”
“I like this guy.”
“I like him, too.”
My mother waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, she prompted me. “But?”
Closing my eyes, I released a long exhale. “But, after the movie he drove me home, carried me upstairs—because I was asleep—kissed me goodnight, and left.”
“Okay . . .?”
“We kiss. A lot. But we’ve done nothing else for ten days.”
Again she was quiet, but I could tell she was thinking, not waiting for me. Then she asked, “What did you do tonight? Was it dinner with his family again?”
“No. Tonight was a date. He made a picnic, and we had dinner on the prairie. And we danced.”
“You danced?”
“Yes. He made a playlist and we danced. Then he brought me home, kissed me goodnight as usual, and now here I am.”
“What kind of music?”
I frowned, not understanding her question. “What do you mean?”
“What kind of music did he play? The playlist?”
“Um, slow music. Ballads, some Frank Sinatra, that kind of thing.”
“He held you close? The whole time?”
I thought about her question and realized she was right. “Yes. He held me close the whole time.”
“So you are doing more than just kissing. You think it’s a mistake all those songs were slow? No. He wanted to touch you. He is sneaky and clever. I like him even more.”
Her conclusion made me feel better. Much better. And yet, I was still alone, tangled in want and frustration, wishing he were here.
“He is a gentleman. He sounds very complex. He has layers, like an onion.”
“Exactly. He lives his life simply, but he’s not simple.”
“Well put. He’s a man, mija. Men live simply, but are not simple. Boys are simple, but do not live simply. They don’t understand what is important. Jethro isn’t one of your boys. Your father and I, when we met, we were still very young. We became adults together, we grew together and challenged each other. Jethro is already a man; he will expect you to behave like a woman. He will challenge you. Are you ready to be so serious with someone?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “I am. But I don’t know what to do about the kissing.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants to wait, to have sex, until he is married. I’m not sure how to initiate something other than a kiss.”
Again, my mother was quiet for a time, obviously thinking about this new information.
“Is he a virgin?” Thankfully, the question sounded coldly clinical. Speaking to my mother about sex was always easier when she wore her doctor’s hat. We’d always talked freely, but she was still my mother.
“No. Like I said, he didn’t make good decisions when he was younger.” I went on to rehash how he had been trying to redeem himself through his actions and had felt enforced celibacy for the last five years was necessary to avoid hurting anyone. I further explained that we’d been intimate in some ways, just the once, but he’d drawn a line in the sand regarding that one thing.
“I see.” Again, she paused and deliberated.
Before she could launch into a new set of questions, I added, “I respect his decision, and I’m not pushing for him to cross that line. But it would be nice to do something other than kiss and dance. We spend very little time alone other than the time in the truck, driving to work. I feel so much for him, and I love the time we spend together, and yet—when he leaves me at the end of the day—I have all this pent-up affection and no outlet.”
I heard her teeth click and her tone change from clinical to momma bear. “Well, you ne
ed to tell him that. You need to say exactly that. We are not living in Victorian times. I applaud you for supporting him and his boundaries, but you are feeling neglected. He doesn’t have to break his vow in order to satisfy his woman. You need to tell him and give him a chance to make things right.”
I nodded, her words bolstering my confidence. “Yes. You’re right.”
“I have resource materials if he needs them.”
I grinned, shaking my head. “No. No he doesn’t need them. I just—you’re right about everything. I know he wants me—”
She snorted. “Yes. He wants you. Never doubt that, mi hermosa. He would be a sexless idiot if he did not.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s the truth. You are very hot. Just like your mother.”
I shook my head and giggled. “I will speak to him.”
“If he is as you describe, if he is thoughtful and kind, then he will do something about your feelings. He will want to make things right for you, even if it makes things difficult for him.”
I frowned at this. “What do you mean?”
“Put the pieces together, mija. He feels for you. He is a gentleman. He doesn’t want to break his vow, but he wants you fiercely. It sounds like he avoids situations that place him in temptation—dinner with his family, late night movies so you’ll be tired after, or leaving you at home early after a picnic. You are a very big temptation.”
“So . . . should I not tempt him?”
“Of course you should tempt him,” she contradicted, then added in a sly tone, “it’s good for a man’s soul to be tortured in this way.”
I frowned, not understanding how torturing Jethro was good for him.
As though reading my mind, she huffed impatiently. “Trust me. I am your mother. I know what’s best.”
***
Armed with my mother’s advice, I waited.
I didn’t confront him.
I just waited.
Like a coward.
I’d never been a coward before. It was an odd and unpleasant state of being. But it was also safe.
Jethro didn’t make me a coward. I made me a coward, more precisely, my feelings for him did. Every day, every moment we spent together, they grew bigger, and I grew quieter. I felt myself retreating, but didn’t know what to do about it. Saying nothing felt so much safer than admitting the truth and risk pushing him away.
And so, there we were, after our third midnight movie, sitting silently in his truck. We had time because Jethro only arranged for midnight movies on evenings when I didn’t need to be up early the next day and he had the day off.
I wasn’t nearly as tired as the last two middle-of-the-night showings. Upon Dave and Susie’s urging, I’d taken a nap in the afternoon. Jethro didn’t appear to be tired either. He seemed wired, on edge. He’d kept shifting in his seat during the movie, especially when Humphrey Bogart grabbed Ingrid Bergman and kissed the hell out of her.
Now the movie was over. We were both wide awake, staring out of the windshield of his truck.
Completely alone and nowhere to go.
And I was hot. Thick, twisting tension coiled in my belly. I wanted him to touch me. But the celibacy elephant and three weeks of just kissing had me wondering how to ask.
Or should I just touch him?
Or what the hell was I supposed to do?
It was the same debate I’d been having since the Daisy Doughnut Dalliance.
“Hey,” Jethro said, making me jump. He laughed lightly at my reaction, grinning at his steering wheel. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I smiled at him, trying to swallow past these random nerves. Being awake and alone with him and not having someplace to be felt significant, foreboding. I wanted to make a joke, but I also didn’t want to make a joke.
“So, hey,” he started again, his voice quieter. “Are you tired?”
“No. Nope. Not tired.” I shook my head more vehemently than necessary, as though I were denying an accusation of murder rather than sleepiness.
His grin grew. “You want to do something else?”
I nodded resolutely. “Yes.” But again said nothing else, because I didn’t want to start bartering for physical affection.
This something else, will we be alone?
Can we make out?
What will it take for you to put your hand up my skirt?
I’ll make you a cake if you touch my boob.
I bit my lip to keep from offering baked goods in exchange for intimacy.
Jethro studied me, his eyes narrowing, his knuckles growing white where he gripped the steering wheel too tight.
“Shall we?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
I nodded, my heart fluttering. “Yes,” I whispered.
He frowned, his eyes dropping to my mouth and growing unmistakably heated. I held my breath and watched him. The air heavy between us, saturated with things unsaid.
Breaking the moment, Jethro breathed out forcefully and suddenly, tearing his gaze away. He gritted his teeth and started the truck.
We drove in silence. We drove in complete silence for a very long time. Complete silence, being an unnatural state for us, only perpetuated the tension. Despite not wanting to make a joke, my desire to break the tension with levity grew and grew until I could contain it no longer.
So I said, “Knock knock.”
His eyes flickered to mine then back to the dark road. “Who’s there?”
“Owl.”
“Owl who?”
“Owl give you a kiss if you tell me where we’re going.”
Jethro’s eyebrows furrowed for a split second, then his brow cleared. The truck’s headlights made his grin visible.
“The great thing about ‘Owl’ knock, knock jokes is that they work for everything, all situations,” I said, using an instructional tone. “Owl give you a high five if you help me with this thing, or Owl make you a cake if you stop being an asshole.”
He nodded his agreement, but his smile waned. Jethro pressed on the brake, slowing the truck and flipping on his right turn blinker.
I inspected the darkness beyond the windshield, seeing nothing but mountain road and forest. Then, quite suddenly, I spotted a turn off, large bushes concealed the view of a dirt path. I held on to the door and the armrest, the truck rocking back and forth as we traversed the uneven and unpaved road.
We drove another three minutes, never exceeding ten miles per hour, nothing but inky darkness and the shadows of tall trees, before Jethro said, “This is Hawk’s Field. Or, we’re almost there. Just another half mile.”
“Hawk’s Field,” I echoed, the name sounding familiar, but I was unable to place it.
“That’s right. I thought we could check out the stars. There are no lights up here, and it’s a clear night.” His voice was tight, but he sounded perfectly reasonable, his plan innocent.
Nevertheless, his statement caused riots.
My body was rioting.
Is that really what he wants to do? Park in the middle of a field in the middle of the night and look at stars?
That had to be code for something, right?
Right?
Before I knew it, he’d parked and had stepped down from the truck, opening the door behind the driver’s seat. The sound of him rummaging in the back of the cab woke me from my stupor. Shaking myself, I exited the vehicle.
I’d dressed casually for our date: Converse sneakers, black leggings, and a long-sleeved pink cotton tunic. I wasn’t cold, but the air held a slight chill. If we stayed outside for too long, I’d likely become cold. I didn’t want to stand around lamely, so I walked around to his side just as he tossed a bundle of something into the bed of the truck.
“Can I help?”
Jethro glanced over his shoulder. The interior lights of the truck illuminated his outline. “Sure. Hold this flashlight.”
I accepted the big flashlight and quickly found the on/off switch. Jethro tossed two more bundles onto the bed of
the truck then shut the cab doors, waving me forward to follow him to the back. He lowered the tailgate, and with one impressive jump, hopped up to the bed, Dukes of Hazzard style.
“Can you shine that in here? Just for a minute.”
“Sure.” I lifted the flashlight and peeked over the side so I could watch him work.
The bundles he’d tossed in earlier were sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows. I stared at them and him as he worked, the earlier body riots continuing and increasing in severity. He was making a place for us to lie down. Next to each other. So we could look at stars.
Right.
“Are you okay?”
I blinked up at him. He was frowning at me. The line of his brow told me he was concerned. I nodded quickly. “I’m good.”
Jethro glanced at the makeshift bed then back to me, the line of his brow now determined rather than concerned. “Let me help you up.”
“Uh, no problem. I can do it.” I placed the flashlight on the open tailgate and jumped up easily, using the strength in my arms to lift my body the rest of the way. I might not have been a sexy park ranger who hauled live black bears around and made it look easy, but I was a sexy Hollywood actress who did yoga daily.
Despite my ability to climb into the truck bed without assistance, Jethro was right there before I could straighten. He slipped his arm around my waist and steadied me unnecessarily, holding my hand. His thumb swiped the inside of my wrist, and he brought me flush against him.
As soon as I stood, he kissed me, a quick touch of his lips to mine. Then he kissed me again, and it felt unplanned, like he couldn’t help himself. He lingered, punctuating each pass of his mouth with hungry nips of his teeth and licks of his tongue. His hands drifted lower, caressing and squeezing as they went.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice was low, surprisingly desperate, and gravelly; my head was swimming. He lifted my tunic, his large, hot hands splaying on my sides, his thumbs drawing circles on the skin just beneath my bra. His lips lowered to my neck where he dotted the sensitive underside of my jaw with the same biting kisses.
I inhaled sharply as he slid his fingers lower and into my leggings, grabbing handfuls of my backside. And then, with his pelvis pressed against my lower belly, I felt how much he’d missed me. Instinctively, I brought my fingers around to the front of his jeans between us and cupped him. He hissed, his body growing tense and still as I rubbed with the base of my palm.
