With a nod of her head, Alice went back to work, fishing a matching creamer and sugar bowl out of the very back of the corner cupboard. “I forgot I even had these,” she muttered to herself. “Don’t you think that probably has to do with losing Boo? It’s only been a few weeks.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Angie wrapped the creamer in newspaper, the tiny lid in another smaller piece.
“Everybody handles death differently, honey.”
“I know.” Angie watched her mother flexing the fingers of her right hand, a subtle wince etched across her features. “You okay, Mama?”
“Fine. Fine. Damn arthritis is acting up today.”
“What can I do?”
“My pills are up on my nightstand. Can you grab them for me?”
“You got it.”
Angie entered her parents’ bedroom for the first time in as long as she could remember. It was their sanctuary, always had been. With four kids, they’d needed one. Angie and her siblings were rarely allowed in once they’d passed age five or six. Now, as she looked around, she took note of things she wouldn’t normally see. Her father had a magnifying glass to help him see the print of the cookbooks and paperbacks on his nightstand. His slippers lay neatly on the floor, but they looked like grandpa slippers. His dresser still held his Old Spice cologne, but also a roll-on bottle of Absorbine Jr. for his aching muscles, as well as an Icy Hot pain patch.
Alice’s dresser and nightstand told a similar tale, of a woman who was no longer young. Her reading glasses were folded neatly in their case next to a stack of magazines. The remote for the small TV was also there, and Angie knew that if she clicked it on, the volume would be set somewhere between “Way Too Loud” and “Stun”. Lately, she and her siblings had been turning down the volume on their parents’ electronics. Prescription bottles sat in a tidy row near the remote: blood pressure, cholesterol, restless leg syndrome. And arthritis; she picked up the bottle and shook two tablets into her hand.
As she turned, her mother’s dresser caught her eyes. The hairbrush had collected more gray hair than brown, and on the corner of the dust-free surface sat a framed black and white photo from Alice and Joe’s wedding day. Angie picked it up, ran her fingertips over the smiling faces of her parents, and wondered how it was possible that they seemed so very young then, and now so very old. Gazing at the photo, she thought about Jillian’s mother, how young she’d been when she’d died, and how lucky Angie herself was to still have both parents—even if they weren’t the vital, unbreakable people she had thought they were.
Her parents were getting old, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. This wasn’t exactly a news flash for her, but for some reason it felt like it.
And in that moment, Angie felt every one of her forty years.
Twenty-Six
The Green Apple was an adorable, little bistro not far from Jillian’s school. The unspoken habit embraced by Jillian and Marina—that at least once every week or two, they went out for Happy Hour as soon as they could escape their classrooms—now included Lindsey. They occupied the same window table every time, and it was a short wait before two Cosmos and a Heineken were delivered to them.
The mouth-watering aromas of garlic and fresh-baked bread filled the air. Jillian’s stomach rumbled loudly, making the other two look at her with raised eyebrows.
Jillian shrugged. “What? Lunch was a long time ago.”
“To surviving a crazy freaking week,” Marina said, raising her glass. Jillian raised hers, and they clinked with Lindsey’s bottle.
“Amen to that,” Jillian said.
They sipped.
“You know, I have always wanted to be a teacher.” Lindsey scooped up a handful of mini-pretzels from the bowl in the center of the table. “Ever since I can remember. I used to ask for school stuff for Christmas and birthdays.” The other two chuckled knowingly. “I got one of those big easel chalk boards one year. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” She took another slug, then focused on her friends. “But college did not prepare me for the politics.”
“Amen to that, too,” Jillian said, tipping her glass in Lindsey’s direction. Turning to Marina, she asked, “Didn’t you and I say the same thing our first couple of years?”
“A few hundred times.” Marina brushed a fuzz off her flowing cream-colored skirt, rearranged it around her legs. “It’s the hardest thing to get used to, in my opinion.”
“Mine, too.”
“And don’t even get me started on the parents,” Marina said, taking a large gulp of her drink as she groaned.
“Well, Lindsey’s quite a bit younger than we are,” Jillian pointed out. “Her upbringing might have been different.”
“Maybe. But I can tell you, my mother knew my teachers’ names and she kept up on what I was doing in school, but that was the extent of it. I swear, if some of these parents today could actually do the work for their kids, they absolutely would. And the kids I teach are little! You couldn’t pay me enough to teach high school.”
“Really?” Lindsey asked, then turned to Jillian. “What about you?”
“I wanted to teach high school,” Jillian responded.
“Yeah?”
“At first, yup. I wanted to teach art history and art appreciation. All that good stuff. But the small kids?” She gave a wistful smile. “They’ve kind of grown on me.”
“Finger painting is more exciting than you thought, huh?” Lindsey winked.
“Something like that.”
“I don’t know.” Lindsey signaled to Jake the bartender for another round. “I understand that there is such a thing as politics in schools, and I get that certain things have to be dealt with, but I just want to teach the kids. The endless meetings and reports and more meetings and more reports just seem like such a waste of my time.” Her ponytail bounced gently as she shook her head.
“You get used to it,” Jillian said.
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
They chatted for another hour, ordered a sampling of appetizers to help soak up the alcohol, then all three switched to water. As usual, Marina was the first one to call it a night.
Once they’d said their goodbyes and Marina had left, Jillian made an expression that was a combination smile and grimace.
“What’s that face?” Lindsey asked.
“I’m still not used to the fact that I don’t have to get home to Boo to let her out and feed her. It’s been over a month, but it still catches me off guard sometimes.”
“Do you think you’ll get another dog?”
“I don’t know. At times, I think I want to. I miss having a furry thing that loves me unconditionally and is so excited when I come home that she wants to burst.” By unspoken agreement, they didn’t talk about their home lives. Jillian knew Lindsey was fresh out of a relationship, but they hadn’t discussed the details. “Other times, when I think about another dog, I feel like I’d almost be cheating on Boo. I know that’s ridiculous, but it’s true. And honestly? I didn’t realize how much work a dog is until I didn’t have one. It’s a little bit freeing.” She made a face. “And I feel awful for saying that. Awful.”
Lindsey laid a warm hand over Jillian’s. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. You’re not awful, and you know it.”
Jillian took a deep breath. “You’re right. I was a good mommy.”
Lindsey grinned. “Yes, you were.”
“Okay. Cheer me up. Talk to me about something fun.”
The next ninety minutes seemed to go by in a matter of mere moments for Jillian. As always, she found Lindsey to be entertaining, charming, fun to be around. The two of them laughed so often, they garnered smiling looks from other patrons, and then playfully scolded one another to keep it down.
A quick glance at her watch told her it was well past time for her to get home.
Lindsey grabbed her wrist before she had a chance to stand, her hand soft but firm. “You still wear one of those?” she asked, a twink
le in her eye.
“Yes, smartass, I still wear one. It’s called a watch. Not that a young whippersnapper like you would have any idea.”
“‘Whippersnapper,’ huh? My grandpa uses that word.”
“Funny,” Jillian said as she playfully slapped at Lindsey’s arm. She signaled Jake, who sent their bill right over. She added her own money to the cash Marina had left. When she looked up, Lindsey was gazing at her with an expression that Jillian easily read but forced herself to ignore, despite the pang of excitement that hit her low in her body.
“I have so much fun with you,” Lindsey said, her voice quietly serious.
“I know. Me too.” Bending at the waist, she gave Lindsey a quick hug, not allowing herself to hold on longer than a couple seconds. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She exited the bistro as fast as she could without actually running. Once in her car, she popped in her Gwen Stefani CD and turned it up as loud as her ears could stand. Anything to obliterate the thoughts racing through her mind. Anything to keep her from focusing on what could become a problem for her. Anything to prevent her from actually dealing with the situation head on.
Singing aloud with Gwen seemed to help.
The downstairs was dark when Jillian arrived home, though Angie’s car was in the driveway. She’d hardly thought about Angie that day, and aside from leaving her a voicemail telling her she was going out with the girls, they hadn’t had any contact all day.
Jillian smelled bacon as soon as she entered the kitchen. Bacon and eggs were Angie’s go-to dinner when she didn’t feel like actually cooking, and a little stab of guilt hit Jillian when she realized Angie had not only been home for dinner but had eaten alone.
Her nights out with the girls didn’t tend to run quite so late most of the time.
Upstairs, the bedroom light shone and Jillian smiled as she saw Angie reading The Da Vinci Code in bed.
“Hi,” she said, hoping her smile wasn’t too big.
Angie lowered her book. “Hey. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming home.” There was no accusation in her tone, no anger. That only made Jillian feel worse.
“I’m sorry.” Unbuttoning her blouse, Jillian stepped into the walkin closet, hung up her work clothes as she took them off. “We got talking and laughing and we just lost track of time.”
“No problem. I wasn’t going to start worrying for another hour or two.”
Jillian poked her head around the door to see if Angie was serious. Her smile said she wasn’t. Jillian’s relief was palpable, especially since she understood exactly what it felt like to sit up at home and not know when your partner will show up.
“How are the girls?”
“They’re good.” The thought of telling Angie she had spent most of the evening alone with Lindsey made her feel like she might break out in hives, so she left it at that.
In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, did all her nightly ablutions. Staring at herself in the mirror, she again noticed the crow’s feet around her eyes, the smile lines that hugged her mouth like a set of parentheses, a few stray strands of gray hair nicely camouflaged by the lightness of the rest of it. You’re an adult, she silently told her reflection. Stop screwing around and act like one.
In her panties and a tank top, she lifted the covers and crawled into bed next to Angie, who was still reading. She cuddled up, laying her head on Angie’s shoulder, draping an arm across Angie’s midsection.
“Good book?” she asked.
Angie nodded, kissed Jillian’s forehead without taking her eyes from the page she was reading. Her body was warm, her skin soft, and she smelled like her usual exotic scent, which Jillian still adored. And tonight, all those things combined to poke at Jillian until she thought she’d crawl out of her own skin.
With a quick kiss to Angie’s cheek, she turned onto her side, facing away, and closed her eyes, praying for sleep to bring her to a new day so she could take a deep breath and start fresh.
Twenty-Seven
It was a Wednesday afternoon a few weeks later. Kids trickled through the halls like the end of a stream, running to meet parents, playing roughly with each other, being just as loud as kids are prone to be. After a few minutes, the halls went quiet. Soon the lights would flicker off as one of the janitors hit the switch. Jillian liked this time of day in the school; the end of the day sometimes felt like relief, like she could take a breath and relax. The parking lot showed only a handful of cars left as she turned the little rod to close the blinds on her windows, preferring to spend the end of her day away from the prying eyes of any passersby who might glance into her classroom. She gathered up supplies and went to work cleaning up paints and washing brushes that had already been washed—poorly—by her students.
When the sounds from the hallway became muffled, Jillian looked up to see Lindsey closing her door. She cut a smile her way as she closed the blinds on the door’s window, something Jillian usually did on her way out anyway.
“Hey there.”
“Hi,” Lindsey replied. “Whatcha doin’?” She stood with her back to the door, her hands clasping the doorknob behind her.
There was an audible click. Jillian gave her a quick and what she hoped was a subtle once-over. Sporting her usual ponytail, workout pants, and an emerald green T-shirt, she looked every inch a strong, athletic woman. Jillian, pulling her eyes away and turning back to the sink, said, “I am performing one of the more glamorous tasks of an elementary school art teacher—cleaning paint off of everything in this room. Aren’t you impressed?”
“Terribly.” Lindsey’s voice was suddenly close.
Closer than Jillian had realized. The sound of the running water had masked her approach from across the room, and now she was standing mere inches away from Jillian’s shoulder. Lindsey was only a couple inches taller than Jillian, but at this proximity, their size difference felt enormous.
“Feel free to pitch in,” Jillian said, doing her best to keep the conversation light. Something about Lindsey’s demeanor today was different, and Jillian swallowed hard. Suddenly something was lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t rid herself of it.
“Love to.” Lindsey sidled up so their shoulders were touching, and Jillian wanted to kick herself for leaving an opening like that. They shouldn’t be this close. Not with the confusion Jillian had been feeling. Not with the wide pupils in Lindsey’s eyes.
As if reading Jillian’s mind, Lindsey spoke. “Is this too close?” Her voice was low with a slight edge to it.
“Depends on who you’re asking,” Jillian responded.
“I’m asking you.”
“No.”
Yes! her brain screamed, even as their hands touched as Lindsey ran some of the paint brushes under the warm water. Jillian tried to pull hers away without being obvious about it. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and something suddenly became frighteningly clear to her.
Lindsey wanted her.
In a big way.
It was so obvious right now, so blatant. Why hadn’t she allowed herself to see it and take the proper precautions?
She’d brought it on herself with all her flirting and teasing; she knew that. She should’ve kept her distance, but she hadn’t. Why not? The attention was nice. No, the attention was awesome. Jillian couldn’t remember the last time Angie had looked at her with the same intensity of attraction that Lindsey did. When was the last time she’d looked at Angie and known—just known—that Angie wanted to rip her clothes off right then and there? Sometimes, Lindsey looked at her like that, her eyes heavy-lidded, her expression causing a twinge low in Jillian’s belly, and it was all she could do to tear her gaze away. Jillian had tried not to let it go to her head. And failed miserably.
Her brain tossed her an image of Angie that morning. Beautiful, as always, but preoccupied with work, barely noticing Jillian lounging in bed a bit and hoping to be rejoined. Angie giving her a chaste peck on the cheek as she left for the office.
&nb
sp; Why couldn’t I just talk to her? Why is it so hard? We’ve been together for nearly two decades, for Christ’s sake. Why can’t I open my mouth and just say what’s on my mind? Am I afraid of the response I might get?
Horrified by the tears that threatened to overtake her, Jillian cleared her throat and turned to Lindsey.
“Look, Lindsey, we need to—” It was all she got out before Lindsey’s mouth closed over hers. Paintbrushes and cups clattered into the sink as the water continued to run and a battle waged inside Jillian—a battle between her heart and her body.
Lindsey’s kiss was soft, but firm. Gentle, but clear about what she wanted, how she felt. Her wet hands came up and cupped Jillian’s face. Jillian’s hands were also wet as she grasped Lindsey’s forearms, and the whole time, their mouths stayed fused together.
Oh, god, when was the last time she’d been kissed like this? It had been months—months—and she couldn’t recall this amount of passion, this amount of intensity. A flash of a memory hit her, of her and Angie in bed together during one of the last times, and fighting the urge to grab Angie’s head, look her in the eye, and command her to “Kiss me” through clenched teeth.
Lindsey knew how to kiss her. Lindsey kissed her the way she wanted Angie to kiss her. The way Angie used to kiss her. And Jillian hadn’t felt so attractive, so wanted in a very, very long time.
Time seemed to stop. All sound faded away until there was nothing but Lindsey’s mouth on hers. Lindsey’s hands in her hair. Lindsey’s body pinning hers to the sink. Lindsey’s tongue pushing against her own. Blood rushed in her ears as Jillian allowed herself to just feel, to lose herself in nothing but sensation, and she kissed back. Hard. Lindsey trailed her fingers along Jillian’s neck, down her throat, quickly flicked open three buttons on Jillian’s blouse, and cupped her breast, squeezed the nipple through her bra.
Jillian gasped into Lindsey’s mouth, but didn’t pull away, not even when Lindsey’s hand trailed lower. They kept kissing. Even when Lindsey unfastened the fly on the front of Jillian’s pants, they kept kissing. And when Lindsey slipped her fingers into the front of Jillian’s panties, slicked through the abundant wetness there, and sent Jillian’s arousal through the roof, they kept kissing. Jillian didn’t pull her mouth away from Lindsey’s until she had to—to groan out her orgasm.
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