Beauty and the Mustache

by Penny Reid

  “He’s ‘gah’? Uh oh.” Fiona said this, and I could hear the tempered amusement in her voice.

  “No.” I opened just one eye, meeting her gaze. “No, there is no uh oh. There can’t be an uh oh.”

  “Why, pray tell, can’t there be an uh oh?” Marie lifted her eyebrows, her eyes narrowed.

  “Because he doesn’t…because I don’t….” I opened my other eye and struggled to put into words all the reasons Drew and I had no future; I settled on, “Because we just can’t…we just can’t uh oh.”

  “Why not?” Kat pressed. “He clearly cares about you, and you care about him, and your family seems to like him—not that it should make a difference what your family thinks—so why not go for it? I mean, no one is perfect. And if you have feelings for him, you should act on them instead of pushing them aside and waiting too long. If you wait too long it’ll be too late, and he’ll start dating someone else, like a business analyst on the seventeenth floor.” At the end of her little tirade, it was clear that Kat was talking to herself.

  We all stared at her, waiting for her to realize that she’d just inadvertently spilled a figurative can of beans.

  “Uh…what?” Marie asked.

  Kat sighed, finishing her wine with three gulps, her face shading a color to match; she continued in a quiet voice. “I just meant, don’t push him away if you care about him.”

  Fiona cleared her throat, drawing our attention to her, and gave a little shake of her head. This meant that we should leave Kat alone and not press the issue.

  Sandra, as usual, was the one to pick up the dropped ball. “Well, back to delicious Drew. I can understand why you’re hesitating. He’s a game warden in Tennessee. It’s not like he could get a job in Chicago.”

  “He could, just not as a game warden,” Janie volunteered. “He’s got a PhD in biology and wildlife management from Baylor. He could easily get a job in Chicago.”

  I shook my head. “No. No—I would never ask him to move to Chicago. He doesn’t belong there. He belongs here, in the woods and wilderness. He would wither and die in a big city. He needs wide open spaces and wild animals and breathtaking views and the quiet of the mountains. It wouldn’t be right; I would never ask that.”

  “But what if he wanted to be near you?” Elizabeth squinted at me. “Nico left New York; he moved his TV show to Chicago to be with me.”

  “That was different.” I was still shaking my head. “Nico moved from a big city to another big city and got the bonus of being closer to his own family. Doesn’t he have a sister in Chicago? And the rest of his family is nearby in Iowa?”

  “Most of them, yes. That’s true.”

  Sandra interjected. “But please tell me you two have done the deed.”

  My mouth fell open in stunned indignation. “Sandra Fielding Greene, I know you did not just say that to me.”

  “I did just say that. You two are having eye-sex every time you’re in the same room together. If you haven’t taken a roll in the hay yet, then you need to before you come back to Chicago with us. Tap that keg, Ashley. Tap it!”

  “Fiona? Help me out here?” I looked to Fiona to be the voice of reason and found her watching me with a measured expression.

  “Ashley,” she started, stopped, sighed, and began again. “Ashley, it’s clear to me that you are leaving Tennessee with a broken heart.” Her mouth tugged to the side and her eyes were sympathetic. “Your mother just passed away. You have to give yourself some time to grieve. Your path leads back to Chicago, at least for a little while. And Drew’s path is here in Tennessee. Whether those paths meet or cross again is entirely up to the two of you. Don’t let Sandra push you into an intersection before you’re ready.”

  Sandra tsked. “Oh, you and your traffic analogies. Twerk and jerk, that’s what I always say.” Sandra smacked her thigh for emphasis.

  “Ugh, Sandra. Can we have one conversation without you making twerking references?” Marie shook her head. “I am so over twerking.”

  Fiona held my eyes and we shared a smile. Her advice gave me a measure of peace, but my selfish heart wanted everything now. It wanted Chicago and knit nights. It wanted my brothers. It wanted the old mountains and the fall colors, the winter snowfall, the spring blooms, and the summer fields of wildflowers.

  My heart wanted my momma back.

  And my heart wanted Drew.

  Sandra’s crass response pulled Fiona and me out of our moment. “You know you love it. And besides, if you’re twerking right, you should be under and he should be over.”

  “What is twerking anyway?” Fiona asked the room. “I saw someone on Ellen talking about it.”

  “You don’t have enough junk,” I said. “Go eat more pie.”

  “My junk’s in the front—the stomach,” Elizabeth said. “Is there a way to twerk with your belly?”

  “No. That’s berking.” Sandra said this right as Kat was taking a sip of water, which promptly shot out of her mouth.

  “Damn it, Sandra!” She wiped her chin.

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t wine.” Sandra shook her head at Kat and tsked. “When will you ever learn, don’t drink when I’m talking.”

  “Berking?” Janie asked. “Like the artist Bjork?”

  “Completely different. Berking is belly twerking,” Marie explained.

  “That’s not berking,” I said flatly. “That’s jelly rolling.”

  The room erupted in laughter, and I couldn’t help giggling at my own joke.

  “Oh my stars! I have missed you,” Sandra said, standing to give me a hug, pressing her cheek against mine. “I’m so glad we have you back.”

  ***

  My brothers as well as my ladies and their husbands departed after midnight. Jethro led the caravan back to town where they were all staying in a quaint old inn until after the funeral.

  Drew and I tidied up the house, bagging the remaining bottles for the recycle bin and wiping down counters. There wasn’t much to straighten, as Elizabeth and Janie had gone through the living area before departing and gathered all the empties. Fiona and Greg had washed and put away the dishes, and my brothers carted the trash away in the bed of Jethro’s truck.

  As I was walking past the sliding door to the porch, I caught my reflection. I was smiling. It felt good to smile, and I was grateful for the distraction of my friends on the night before the funeral.

  Drew caught up with me and kissed me on the cheek. “Go get ready for bed.”

  I acquiesced and shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom, stretching my arms over my head as I went.

  After I was all washed up and minty fresh, I changed into my pajamas and turned down the covers of the bed. A bright star out the window caught my attention, so I turned off the lights and opened the balcony door, stepping out to the porch.

  It was still cold, but the rain had cleared. There was no moon. The stars were pinholes of brilliance against a black sky, vivid and bright. A sudden thought struck me: stars felt like a distant idea or concept in the city sky. They were dim and faraway.

  But here, I felt as though I might be able to touch them if I lifted my hand, reached out, and wished hard enough.

  “‘From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?’” Drew quoted from behind me, and I turned to see him leaning against the doorway. He was still dressed in his black pants, white button-down shirt, and suspenders. But his boots were off.

  I smiled at him over my shoulder then turned back to the sky. “Who said that?”

  “Your old friend Nietzsche, as a matter of fact.”

  I huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Are you sure? That sounds far too romantic for Nietzsche. It sounds more like Shakespeare or Byron.”

  “In the context of the original text, the quote isn’t romantic. But I think Nietzsche was a romantic soul, in a way.” Drew’s voice was deep and thoughtful.

  “How so? Was he very fond of cows?”

  I heard Drew gather a breath before responding, a smile in his voice. �
�No, not precisely. He did say that women and men love differently, and I think there’s a lot of truth in his philosophy on the matter.”

  “Let me guess, when a woman declares her love, she does so with sweet grass and clover. Cows love clover.”

  “You’re never going to forgive me for the cow comment, are you?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head.

  We quietly watched the stars, and I thought about how I might be able to steal this moment and keep it, take it out and relive it when I needed Drew, when I missed him. Because I was going to miss him.

  Drew broke the silence by saying, “I think Nietzsche would have appreciated the irony of his end-of-life situation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “During his last years, he was completely reliant on the kindness and morality of his mother; then, after her death, his sister. In his professional life, he insisted that, at best, women were cows and that morality was an arbitrary construct of society. But it seems to me that women and morality showed him the truth in the end.”

  I smirked at this, mostly because I was surprised by his words, but also because the thought was sadistically satisfying. This touch of sadism irked me about myself.

  Humans are at their worst when they’re in the role of spectator. We eagerly watch as others receive comeuppance, yet we reject simple truths about ourselves even when the truths are gently administered.

  I pushed these strange philosophical meanderings to the side, likely a sign that I’d been spending too much time in Drew’s company, and asked him for clarification on his earlier statement. “Specifically what truth was he shown in the end?”

  “Well, to a dying man, intellectualism, pride, and philosophy have as much use as sand.” Drew felt closer, though I didn’t hear or see him move; his voice dropped in volume and tenor when he added, “Our will is only as strong as our body; the desire for what we need will always trump ideals.”

  I shivered.

  He continued, but he sounded distracted, like he was talking mostly to himself. The meditative, low timbre of his voice was hypnotic and paralyzing, and it made my heart beat faster.

  “That’s always the way of things, isn’t it? In the end, our vision is clearest.” I felt the heat of him at my back just before he brushed his knuckles from my shoulder to my wrist in a whisper light caress. “Without being impugned by ideals—of image, perception, ambition, good intentions, even honor—we gain the knowledge of what really matters, knowledge that would have saved us from….”

  I could hear the hesitation in his voice, so I prompted, “Saved us from what?”

  “From wasting time.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.”

  ― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought I wanted to scorch and smolder and burn. I was so wrong.

  My desire for Drew wasn’t a fire. It was a rainstorm. More precisely, it was a rainstorm in the wilderness of the Great Smoky Mountains.

  When desire is a flame, it ignites—bright and hot. It’s exciting and sexy and physical. Fire is a danger to which we are drawn; we like to play with it to see if we can escape unsinged. You can see it, but you can never touch it. You can never get too close. It’s about wanting. That’s the fun, the allure, of fire.

  But standing on that porch with Drew at my back—not touching me, not speaking—nothing about my desire for him felt fun, and it didn’t feel sexy or exciting either.

  Yes, I burned. Yes, the desire was physical, but it was so much more than a craving.

  It hurt like a thirst.

  “Drew, I don’t….” I whispered, and I surprised myself because my voice wavered then cracked. I cried. I bowed my head and leaned on the railing of the porch. I wanted to say, I don’t want to waste any more time, but my throat wouldn’t work because I was drowning.

  He must’ve heard the tears in my voice because his arms surrounded me at once, turning me so that I was against his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, then he kept saying it. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m so sorry.”

  I shook my head and pushed against him so that I could seek his mouth and quench this painful thirst. He released me immediately. His arms fell away as he stepped back to give me space I didn’t want. He pulled a hand through his hair and looked miserable and dejected.

  I couldn’t yet speak, but I didn’t want him to misinterpret my actions. I launched myself at him, my arms coming around his neck, my lips covering his—moving, working, pursuing, chasing—until he comprehended my intent.

  He was stunned at first. I could tell because, though he was kissing me back, his hands lingered in a hovering touch on my hips, cursory and tentative.

  Then his hands were on my body. His touch echoed, surrounded, felt layered and rich, comforting. He sought to soothe me, but I would have none of his softness. I wanted the storm. I needed a downpour.

  I tugged off his suspenders and he helped me by working them over his shoulders. I pushed him, walking him backwards through the door, into the room, all the while frantically pulling at his clothes, untucking his shirt, unbuttoning his pants, unzipping him, reaching for him.

  “Ash,” he breathed, lifting his head and catching my wrist.

  “I need you.” I pulled my wrist from his grip and whipped off my shirt, pushed down my sleep pants and underwear and captured his mouth, launching another assault. “I need you. Please, I need you.”

  Drew was the rain. I needed his touch on every inch of my body, on every surface. I needed him to cover me, saturate, flood and fill.

  My words and nakedness seemed to ignite a torrent within him because he grabbed me. His hands searching, moving, pursuing, and chasing.

  My fingers were greedy for his skin, and I touched him. I needed the granite smoothness of his torso, back, and chest. I needed the solid curves of his bottom and thighs. I needed the silky hardness of his length. And when I gripped him he gasped in my mouth, shuddering, his fingers flexing and digging as though to anchor me to him, sink claws into my flesh to halt any escape.

  He turned me and I fell, my back hitting the bed, and I watched him as he stripped off the remainder of his clothes, but I couldn’t stop touching him. My hands frenetic as they sought to steal caresses.

  He was naked when he joined me, and I had no time to delight in the sight of him because the thirst was building. It burned low in my belly and wrapped around my heart like a fist. I couldn’t breathe because I was drowning in my own desire and need.

  He kissed me while I grabbed him, stroked him, held his body in my hands, and tried to memorize every sensation. His mouth moved to my breast, and his tongue, hot and wet and covetous, sampled me, savoring.

  He kissed a path to my stomach, his hands everywhere, and I knew his intent as he inched lower.

  “No, no—stay with me.” I reached for his hands, his arms, whatever I could grab. “Stay up here. I need you. I need you.”

  With Drew, it wasn’t about the pleasure of the act. It was about being with him, becoming with him. I needed his heart next to mine, his mouth on my mouth.

  “Ash,” he came to me, hearing my name on his lips was torture. “Sugar, I have no condoms. I don’t, I haven’t-” I saw his throat work as he swallowed.

  “I do.” I nodded frantically. “I have them. I have condoms—in lots of different sizes.”

  He stared down at me, his eyes searching my face. “You have condoms?”

  “Yes.” I kissed his stunned mouth. “Don’t—just don’t ask.” I pushed on his chest, jumped up from the bed, and flew to my bag, digging to the bottom of it. My hand found the vibrator first and I pushed it to the side. Then I found the packages of condoms, grabbed a handful, and returned to the bed.

  I was already tearing into a package with my teeth when I returned to him, extracting the sheath and reaching for his shaft. His hands came up to help but I smacked them away, rolling the condom dow
n the length of him, his perfect head, the straight silky shaft, yet almost despairing when I fully realized his largeness and length.

  But then a miracle happened. Because it fit. It fit perfectly. Bless Sandra and her magnum sized condoms.

  And hell, he was beautiful.

  People may claim that talk of condoms or safe sex makes the act less spontaneous and erotic. Those people are wrong. Protection only ruins the mood when one partner isn’t as committed to safety as the other is. Looking at Drew, laying on his back, hard and prepped and ready for me; his eyes echoing the intensity of my need, ready to fill me up and quench this crippling desire—there was nothing more erotic.

  He reached for me and I straddled him before he had a chance to turn me. Drew sat up, grabbing my hips as I reached for his length. I brought him to my apex, lowered myself, and threw my head back as he filled me.

  I gasped and he muttered a curse. His mouth found my breast, licking and sucking and biting; his fingers dug into my hips, then my ribs, then my bottom, wild and needy. I stilled, adjusting to the invasion that I’d initiated, then sunk lower, taking the entire length.

  He cursed again, exhaling the words like he couldn’t grasp what was happening, and his mind fought for sanity in the face of insane desire. I lifted myself, then lowered, then rocked, my hands on his shoulders, our bodies rubbing together in a mutual caress.

  Drew was the constant gentle rolling thunder, the soft kind that is felt in the chest and subtly shakes the ground.

  Our breathing quickened. Despite the chilliness of the night, our bodies were hot and slick, my movements fumbling, rapacious, and clumsy.

  I recognized the moment his mind finally comprehended and accepted what we were doing, felt it the second he took the reins. He overtook my maladroit lead, assuming control and setting the rhythm. His hands were guiding instead of searching, and he moved me how he liked, how he knew would bring me the most pleasure and the most contact. He knew what I needed, how I needed him.

  He taught me that you don’t dance in the fire; you dance in the rain.