Staying For You

by Van Wyk, Jennifer

  “Fine. You’re right. I wasn’t quite daring enough for that yet. It would have been my first time so I need a little time before I’m ready,” she admits.

  I know my eyes flare hearing it and she notices. I can’t help it, though. She admitted that she hadn’t done that with her ex but that she was willing to at least try with me. She doesn’t realize what a gift that is. I’m not disrespectful enough to ever expect that out of her but it makes me grow hard just knowing that she is open to more with me.

  “You’re such a guy.”

  “Glad you noticed.” I press myself against her and she giggles. “But seriously, I really am hungry and you promised me food.”

  “What the lady wants…”

  “I get?”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  I slap her lightly on the bottom then slide out of bed. Just like the first time she saw me naked, her gaze on me looks greedy. I can’t help it that it causes me to stay at half-mast.

  “Not now, sweetheart. Let’s go cook something.”

  “Together?”

  “Yeah.”

  Something in her shifts, that hint of memory that always brings her back to her past. I could ask, press for more information but quite honestly, I’m ready to move on. Forget the ex and her past for a few days and focus on learning more about Cami. I only have a few weeks with her and I’m not going to spend that time talking about some idiot who wasn’t worthy enough to keep her.

  * * *

  “What sounds good?” I ask her.

  “Still have the stuff for mac and cheese?”

  “Sure do.”

  Unfortunately, we’re both dressed. Fortunately, though, she’s in a pair of my boxers, a The Escape sweatshirt, and her fuzzy socks she wore here earlier. Her hair is a mess from my fingers running through it, a little bit of mascara is smudged under her eyes, but the smile on her face is what I can’t stop staring at.

  It’s brilliant and wide. Teeth white and a little imperfect. Lips naturally a little rosy. Soft and pliant. The bottom a little more plump than the top.

  “Keep looking at my mouth and we’ll never eat.”

  I grin, wink, and move around the kitchen to grab what we need along with Cami, who’s already filling a pot with water.

  I’m shredding a block of cheddar cheese while she’s digging around in my fridge.

  “Whatcha looking for?”

  “Velveeta. It’s so gross by itself but it makes the best mac and cheese.”

  “Behind the container of eggs.”

  She pushes a few things around and announces, “Got it! Oooh! You know what? Let’s make Rotel dip, too! And maybe tacos! Doesn’t that sound yummy?”

  “Yummy?”

  She shrugs a shoulder and then raids my pantry to see if I have any Rotel tomatoes and tortilla chips. Her arms are loaded with everything she needs, including some taco seasoning. “I’m going to start thawing out hamburger for the tacos, okay?”

  I can barely speak because she’s just taking control and I love it.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to make every single decision. From the little ones like what to have for dinner or what kind of toilet paper to buy, to the big ones for The Escape like whether or not to build another set of cabins or offer on-site fishing boat rental.

  She’s confident in herself, not assertive or pushy, but certain in what she wants and isn’t afraid to go for it. It’s not what I expected from her. Up until today, she seemed a little insecure. Maybe a tad bit timid, even. Something changed and I’m not sure what it is.

  “Sounds good,” I eventually say and she tosses me a smile over her shoulder, already getting to work on our meal. “Still need the shredded cheese?”

  “Yeah, we can use it with the macaroni, too, but also for the tacos. We might have to have the macaroni and cheese as an appetizer since the other stuff needs a little more time.” She gasps. “Have you ever put taco meat in the Rotel dip? It’s amazing! You have to try it,” she insists without giving me time to answer.

  The water is boiling so I salt it and toss in the noodles. She starts cubing up the Velveeta and sets some aside for the macaroni and the rest for the dip.

  The other night we made sandwiches together but this is different. It feels familial.

  “Awful domestic, isn’t it?” she voices my thoughts.

  “Little bit,” I tell her, turning around so I’m resting against the counter next to the stove and facing her.

  Her head is dipped, looking down at the counter where she’s using a can opener on the can of tomatoes and chilis. “I never really had this,” she says quietly.

  How can that be? She was married. “How long were you married?”

  “Eight years.”

  My eyes bug out. Eight years? And she never had… what?

  “I have a few questions.”

  “I imagine you do,” she murmurs, mixing together the cheese and tomatoes in a glass dish then popping it into the microwave. I turn back to the stove to start browning the hamburger and she hands me the little packet of taco seasoning mix to use when it’s ready. I check the noodles and they’re almost ready so I point to where the strainer is and she gets it ready, putting it in the sink.

  The hamburger is browning nicely and the noodles are finished cooking so we swap places. I drain them and start mixing them with the cheese while she works on the taco meat and dip.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t have any of the other things that make tacos. No tortilla shells or tomatoes or lettuce. Looks like we’ll be mixing it with the dip after all.

  Lucky for us, the meal comes together quickly and we’re loading up our plates and bowls. She layers chips on the bottom of a plate then spoons dip over as well as some taco meat then repeats on a second plate while I dish up bowls of macaroni and cheese.

  “We’re about to feast on about two thousand calories.”

  She waggles her eyebrows. “I have a few ideas of how to burn them off.”

  Man she’s cute.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  After setting our food down on the coffee table, I grab us each a can of Coke and we settle on the couch instead of at the table. I turn on the TV for some background noise and we dig in. Neither of us talking much while we’re eating and watching an old sitcom. Laughing lightly and moaning at the simple but delicious tastes we made together.

  “You’re right.”

  “I know.”

  I chuckle. “Do you want to know what you’re right about?”

  “Because of the taco meat and dip?”

  “Right. It’s delicious. I can’t believe I never thought of mixing that together before.”

  “Well, thank goodness I came along, huh?” She pops another chip into her mouth and crunches away.

  “Tell me about Mr. Eight Years.”

  She groans. “Ugh, really?”

  “If you don’t want to, no.”

  She waves me off, wiping her hands and mouth with the paper towel that was sitting on her lap. Her plate is clean, bowl empty, and can of soda empty. She kicks up her feet, crossing them at the ankles.

  “Scott.” She pauses, looking at the fireplace that’s not burning any wood at the moment. We were a little preoccupied earlier and even though I normally would have started one, especially with the way the snow is continuing to come down, there’s no way I’m going to stop her from continuing.

  She changes her mind for me, though, when she asks, “Can we light it? You said you’d show me how to start a fire, right?”

  “I thought that’s what I did earlier,” I tease, getting up and gathering our dishes.

  Cami’s laughter fills the air between us and she stands with me. We quickly load the dishwasher, store away the leftovers in the fridge, and fill a couple glasses of water then return to the living room.

  I gather some wood from the rack and clean up the ashes before stacking the wood. She’s watching me closely, asking questions and paying attention to h
ow the wood is placed and where I add the kindling. I’ve started a million fires so it ignites quickly, the flames taking control of the wood. With the TV turned low, the lights minimal, and the wind whipping loudly, the fire adds a romantic aspect to the evening.

  We sit back on the couch and I turn the TV to a music station that plays old school country music. It feels like we should be sipping on whiskey or wine instead of water.

  “Want a drink? Something other than water, I mean?”

  “What do you have?”

  I chuckle. “About anything. My brother-in-law, Ethan, owns his own bar and Rex used to work for him. They travel with booze when they visit.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “You got it.”

  I fill us each a couple fingers and bring a can of Coke with me just in case she doesn’t drink it straight. When I get back to the living room, she’s sitting sideways on the couch. One knee bent up against the back and an elbow resting over it. She found a throw blanket and has it draped over her bare legs which is both a shame and a blessing.

  A shame because it covers up her sexy as fuck legs.

  A blessing for the same reason.

  A blessing also because she looks so fucking adorable curled up on my couch, fingers tapping against the couch and eyes on the fire which is casting a glow around Cami. It’s something I could get used to seeing but remind myself to get it out of my mind.

  “Here you go.” I hand over her glass and she offers up a faint smile.

  I sit facing her, our positions a mirror of each other.

  “Cheers,” she says, clinking the edge of her glass against mine.

  “Cheers.”

  “Ready for a story?”

  “Am I ever.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Owen

  “Scott and I met in college. He just never grew up. He’s such a cliché mama’s boy.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, taking a small sip. Truth be told, I’m not a big whiskey drinker and based on the facial expression she made just now when she took a drink also, neither is she. But it’s warming and oddly comforting.

  “You know how people roll their eyes at how a son can have their moms wrapped around his little finger? Even as adults?” I want to say not my mom. She was busy sleeping with other men who weren’t my father when I was growing into adulthood, but figure that’s a conversation for another day. But I know what she means, so I nod my understanding and she continues.

  “Well, he’s the reason. The poster child, so to speak. And he enjoyed his mom’s attention, for sure. Before you think I’m just overreacting, you need to understand it was far more than that.”

  “It always is.”

  “I’m sure I had my annoyances for him, too. No one is perfect, I know, but he was… well, a jerk. A lying, cheating, lazy jerk.”

  “Cheating?”

  She laughs, humorlessly. “Oh, yeah. Several times. He admitted it in the end, after months and years of denial, but my lawyer and I had proof so there was really no other option for him but to do so. That’s part of why it’s been a while since I’ve had sex.” That makes me glad, not that she was cheated on but that she wasn’t with him recently. “Scott and I started good. Happy, even. He was my biggest cheerleader when it came to writing and was incredibly supportive. Then he became resentful of my success and turned into an entirely different person. He would make fun of me for doing a fluff job, even though he didn’t have one of his own, and just… yeah, he was really good about treating me like I was worthless. Then he shifted once again and he loved my success. Let’s just say, Scott would have excelled as a Stepford Wife.” I get her meaning without her having to explain it.

  I look around my home, which I love. I can’t imagine living anywhere else other than here in this little apartment above the lodge in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a lake and forest. Scott and I sound like opposites. I have a flicker of wonder if that’s what she likes and wants in a man, but I extinguish it quickly, reminding myself that she left him. He’s her past and the way she talks, she’s happy if he stays there.

  “So that’s Scott.”

  I raise my eyebrows and smile wide. “Scott sounds fantastic,” I say with an enormous sense of false enthusiasm.

  She’d just taken a sip of her whiskey and spits it everywhere, coughing and lightly punching at her chest. Once she has it under control, she sets her whiskey down with a scowl in its direction and takes a large swig of water. “He really was. I mean, at least I had entertainment when he was trying to sneak around and failing epically. Also, I don’t think I like whiskey.”

  That makes me chuckle. I set mine next to hers and grab my water, clinking them together. “I had a feeling. Honestly, it’s not my favorite either.”

  “Why do we do this to ourselves? It’s like there’s this new standard that everyone needs to love wine and whiskey and vodka.”

  “Yeah. But I probably shouldn’t say much negative about it because that’s what my family has built their livelihood on but… yeah.”

  “Diplomatic answer with a lot of truth. I like that.” We watch the fire for a little while then she stands up, walks to the window, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The snow hasn’t stopped falling since she came to the lodge hours ago. I can only imagine how many inches there are on the ground already. “Lots of snow already.”

  “Right.”

  “Thinking I might need to stay in for the night.”

  I lick my lips and my knee bobs, the implication of what she’s whispering into the space between us thick and heavy. Do I want her to stay the night?

  Yes.

  “That’d be for the best,” I agree.

  In the window, I can see her reflection. The smile that lights up her face and disappears just as quickly when she bites her lip.

  “Why are you up here, Owen?”

  She’s looking for truth. I asked her for the same and she gave it to me. Now it’s my turn. “I love it here. The Escape? It’s my mistress. I fell in love once. Or what I thought was love. She was my little sister’s friend and we dated under the radar for about six months.”

  “Why under the radar?”

  She makes her way back over to me and resumes sitting in the same way as earlier, offering me part of the blanket. I wave her off and answer her question. “I really don’t know. I was always kind of an ass about my little sister dating any of my friends then I became a hypocrite and started dating her friend. About six months in, Lily moved a few hours away and even though it was only for a short time, it still fizzled out.

  “I hung on to the idea of us, but she didn’t. She was…” I pause, think about how I want to describe her without giving myself away. “Lily was someone I could see myself ending up with at one point in time, I suppose. But she would have hated it up here, which was really the only reason I was able to move on. Knowing how different we really are. She thrives on being social — not parties or anything like that. But she’s a social worker and having clients probably is a bonus for the job.” Cami rests her head against the back of the couch, eyes soft and full of understanding and so freaking pretty it’s hard to even remember having feelings for anyone else before her. I clear my throat. “Anyway, I realized she might have had a lot of the qualities I liked, but not the most important one.”

  “Living here,” she says, knowingly.

  “Living here,” I repeat.

  She holds my eyes for one, two, three seconds before lifting her head and looking at the fireplace, blowing out a breath and says, “Well, there ya go.”

  “Yup.”

  “This Lily, did you ever invite her up here? Test it out?”

  “Nah. I moved here, realized how much this place feels like home. Knew it wasn’t anything she’d enjoy for more than a long weekend and that was that. She got married a few years ago, she’s incredibly happy, has a kid. And I’m happy for her. Admittedly, right at first I was not,” the corner of my mouth ticks up, “but there’s no unrequited love
there.”

  I notice the fire is dying so I get up and add more wood into the fireplace then sit back down. This time a little closer, my arm stretches over the back of the couch in her direction and I play with her hair.

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean?” I murmur.

  “About you… how did you grow up? Where? I want to know about you.”

  “Oh you do, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this going to end up in one of your books one day?”

  She’s coy when she responds with, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I can’t deny her so I tell her about my childhood. Getting lost in the memories of quiet summer nights playing Ghost in the Graveyard with the neighborhood kids then catching fireflies in a mason jar and eating homemade ice cream. Having sledding parties in the winter in the parking lot of the grocery store right off the town square where the city piled up the snow then going in for hot chocolate and air popped popcorn. Running around under the bleachers at high school football games and riding bikes through town the second the temperature hit fifty-five degrees until we were exhausted and came home smelling of the outdoors.

  I go on to tell her about my teen years when those bleachers I once played under, my parents sat in and cheered for me as I played defensive end on the football field. Those quiet summer nights were replaced with holding red plastic cups around a bonfire as music blared from the bed of a pickup truck. Sledding parties turned into someone pulling us around on a tube that was tied to the hitch and spring was spent fishing on farm ponds.

  “My childhood and teen years were really great. Everything that I want one day for my kids and I hope to offer a little piece of to families who have forgotten what it means to return to their roots.”

  “It sounds amazing.”

  “It was. Though, I suppose that could sound like I’m stuck in my childhood, huh?”

  “Not at all. To me, it sounds like you want to share a piece of that with others.”

  “What about you?”