by Cecy Robson
His jaw tenses. “Are you trying to tell me something?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply. My breath catches when his fingers trail down my waist, slipping beneath my skirt and stretching out against my pelvis, his touch mere centimeters from my throbbing skin.
If he’s not certain what I mean, I slide my backside against his front, up and down, my speed increasing when his fingers slide further down and circle. He bites back a hiss, whipping me around and kissing me hard.
My legs leave the floor when he hoists me in his arms and carries me to the couch. I peel off his shirt when he falls on top of me. My blouse and bra follow, landing somewhere behind me.
I jerk when his hand disappears under my skirt and he pulls off my panties. “Are you still on the pill?” he asks.
“Yes,” I groan, my hips swiveling.
He curses when his phone rings.
It’s his work phone, the one he has to answer. He pulls off me, reaching for his phone. “Summers,” he says. “What? . . . Wait, slow down.”
I pull myself into a sitting position, knowing he’s upset.
Landon shoves himself into his shoes, snagging his shirt from the floor. “No. I’m coming . . . Sweetheart, don’t worry. I’ll be there and take care of you and your momma.”
He disconnects, placing the phone on the coffee table just long enough to pull on his shirt. “I’m sorry,” he says, bending to kiss me. “ICE showed up at Dania’s work and took her in. Her oldest found out when she didn’t come home and she tracked down one of her coworkers.”
That poor child. “Why did they arrest her? She has an attorney and a temporary stay.”
“I don’t know. But I have to take care of it.” His gaze passes along my bare skin. “You know I wouldn’t leave you otherwise.”
I nod, but can’t seem to look at him then. “Okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I just wish you could spend the night.”
He stills. “If I can. I will. But this, I can’t let this family down.”
“Landon, I know. Please, don’t think I’m asking you to choose. I’m just . . .”
“Just what?”
“I’m just sorry I didn’t ask you before,” I admit.
“Don’t be,” he tells. “I meant it when I said I want to know you in and out of bed.” He presses a brief kiss to my lips. “I might be a while, but if I can, and if you want me to, I’ll come back tonight.”
My voice stays quiet as I realize how much of my heart I keep giving away. “I want you to.”
“Then I will,” he promises. “The only way I won’t is if this takes all night.” He huffs. “And it’s possible it might.”
Worry fills me, not simply for the family, but for Landon too. As passionate as he is in bed, that same passion extends to work. He’s raring to fight, I can feel it. I just don’t want him to lash out in a way that will cost him.
He kisses me again, but it doesn’t last as long as I want.
I slip into my blouse and follow him to the door, locking it when he rushes out.
I stare at the door for the longest time. I don’t want to screw things up with Landon. I suppose that’s why I was so determined not to have sex with him.
Ideally, for a relationship to work you should take things slow and get to know the mind and heart, before you know the body. We worked in reverse, familiarizing ourselves with physical pleasure rather than opening our minds and heart. But after getting a wisp of his mind and heart at the party, I almost needed his body more.
I pull off my blouse, and return to my small living room in search of my bra. I want Landon to love me and thought maybe he could start with the real me, and not the me who can’t get enough of his touch. It’s worked to a point, but his touch is irresistible and his heart is something altogether sexy.
My phone announces a text just as I locate my bra. I shouldn’t be so shy, but still I press my blouse against my breasts when I check it.
Do you miss me yet?
I laugh a little. Landon never seems to lose points in the charming department.
Standing without out a blouse leaves me bare in many ways. Perhaps that’s why I type what I do.
I always miss you, Landon.
The pause on the other line is so dramatic, I’m afraid I said too much. Until he replies in a way that assures me it was just enough.
Same.
I slip on my bra and blouse and return to my dining room. I was hungry prior to his arrival. Now, I simply miss him and am wondering what I should do with all this food.
I check my phone. It was warmer today, almost seventy. In contrast, tonight is supposed to be ridiculously cold with temperatures hovering close to twenty-nine degrees.
My attention returns to the virtual feast I made for just us.
I send Landon a quick text.
Hey. Do you think you’ll be back for dinner?
No.
I already know he’s upset based on his response.
They’re trying to move Dania and two others they arrested out of state and into a different holding facility.
My eyes widen.
Why? I ask.
Charlotte isn’t prepared to enforce the new policy. Officials don’t have any place to put immigrants besides jail. No way in fuck are they taking her out of state as far as I’m concerned.
I don’t know Landon as much as I want to. But I know enough.
Don’t get arrested, I reply.
Don’t worry about me.
I always worry about you, I reply truthfully.
You’re cute.
I’m serious! I write back, going as far as including an angry emoji.
I take it back, he responds. You’re hot.
Landon, being Landon, always has to one up me, including a smiley emoji with the hearts bulging out of the eye sockets.
You’re blushing. Aren’t you?
I laugh. Yes, I admit.
Is your face all red? Maybe your body, too?
I cover my face as if he can somehow see me.
My body was red, too, right before I received that call.
I don’t reply. Landon replies enough for the both of us, taking advantage of his voice to text feature in his car.
Maybe I was hot.
Maybe you were, too?
Maybe you were the one who made me hot.
Yeah. That makes more sense.
Could have been all the cooking you were doing.
It was pretty hot in that kitchen.
Never mind.
It was probably just you.
Your smile.
Your body.
Your heat.
Damn. And that personality.
I finally reply. Personality?
Oh, yeah. It’s the best thing about you. Hey? Do you think you can slip a negligee over that personality sometime? I’d love to rip it off with my teeth.
I fall back on the couch, pressing the phone against my chest and wishing he was here.
Sorry, he writes. I have to go. I’m here.
It’s okay. Just be careful, I type. Oh, and one more thing.
What, baby? He asks.
I work up my courage. My personality only wears thongs.
I hit send before I lose my nerve.
Landon doesn’t text back, likely because he can’t. He has more important things to do than flirt.
I adjust the straps on my bra and take in the feast laid out along the table. I return to my bedroom and change into a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. It doesn’t take me long to separate portions of food for me and Landon, and a larger portion for Fernie and whoever I may find her with.
This past weekend, I purchased those cheap little plastic containers with the hope of being able to give Fernie more than just sandwiches. I pack everything in a paper bag and head to my car, placing the items on the passenger side floor for easy access.
&
nbsp; I don’t usually search for Fernie at night, but I have so much food and she has so little. She’s refused to go to the local church for meals, likely because the local church advocates their drug rehab program so fiercely. That doesn’t mean she and her friends should go without a warm meal.
My body shudders from the cold. I don’t bother with a coat since I don’t intend to step out of my car, I also don’t want anything that could impede my movements. Fernie . . . she’s been a little better lately, speaking more, and maybe listening more, too. A counselor I was seeing told me that the majority of people with severe mental illness don’t acquire the help they need, be it lack of family support, their own minds working against them, or the dislike for how the medication makes them feel. But she did tell me that sometimes, they receive enough clarity to know they’re in trouble and need help.
I want that day to come, and I’m hoping maybe the time is finally here.
It doesn’t take me long to reach downtown. I pass the office, my mind sorting through the tasks that await me in the morning, including meeting with the decorator now that the upper level is almost complete. Without meaning to, my mind also wanders to Landon. He was offered a new office on the new floor. He politely refused, in his own way.
“No, thank you, sir,” he told Mr. Ballantyne. “I prefer the view down here,” he said, tossing an unapologetic wink my way.
The warmth of the memory fades as I make a right toward the park. I don’t bother to circle the perimeter. Instead, I proceed forward and two blocks down, straight toward the collection of apartments.
It’s amazing how quickly the area changes in a span of a few blocks, from high-rise condos that cost more than mine, to more modest homes, and ultimately to lower income neighborhoods lined with small boxed-shaped houses.
I don’t know where Fernie sleeps, if she squats in an abandoned apartment or someplace far worse. In many ways, I don’t want to know. Those thoughts, along with who she spends those nights with, haunt me. I’m hoping things will change for the better. They have to for me, and more importantly for her.
When I reach a less than desirable area, I make a “K” turn as fast as I can. There are a few kids playing in the street, and older teens loitering along the sidewalks. I move fast, noting how they stop and stare.
It’s not just my car that alerts them I don’t live here, it’s me. When I was young, I lived in a neighborhood similar to the one just a block away. I belonged because I dressed and acted the part. My uncle lived in the apartment beneath me and my grandmother, and like these kids likely do, I had family in the area.
There’s a sense of neighborhood and belonging, where outsiders like me are perceived as a threat. I’m not panicked, per se, but I am aware, and I am respectful. People who look like me and drive the car I do only come in here because they made a wrong turn or because they’re looking for drugs.
I just want to find my mother.
I drive back in the direction I came. I’m almost to the more middle-class area when I spot Fernie, huddled around her friends. There’s a long stretch of empty parking spots leading to them. I slow my speed and coast, watching them closely as the two cars trailing me swerve around me.
The group tightens their circle, appearing eager. Disappointment fills me, trudging through my veins like tar. I don’t know if Fernie is shooting up, or smoking something she shouldn’t. In the shadows where she stands, she could be doing anything.
The man with the red beanie and perpetual glassy eyes perks up. He nudges the other man beside him. I hate the way they look at me, and I’m ready to drive away when Fernie abandons the group.
She’s limping and hurt. I slow to a stop, her attention fully on me as she walks across the street in front of my car. Against the beams of the light, her once deep olive skin appears horribly pale.
I crack my window as she reaches my side. “Are you all right?” I ask her.
“Do you have any money?” she asks.
Her voice is scraggly, that of a woman with more years than Fernie has.
“I need to know if you’re all right,” I say.
She doesn’t answer, staring at me as if she doesn’t understand. “I can take you to a doctor,” I tell her, stealing a glance at the group to make sure they haven’t moved. “He or she can help you feel better.”
“Can he give me drugs?”
I try to focus her. “A doctor can give you medicine to treat your illness.” She makes a face, appearing confused. “You’re sick Fernie. Please, let me help you.”
She doesn’t answer, her attention lifting to the group of friends waiting for her on the sidewalk.
I’m not getting through to her and I don’t like how those men keep looking at me. I have to leave, fast.
“I have food,” I tell her. I rush and reach for the bag, pulling it onto my lap.
An arm reaches in, yanking me by the hair and slamming my head into the window. My foot slips off the accelerator, rolling my car forward.
Whoever has me isn’t letting go. I fumble to grab the steering wheel and hit the button to close the window. The bag of food on my lap hinders my movements and I end up rolling the window all the way down.
A fist crashes into the side of my face, startling my fight or flight response into overdrive.
I stomp on the gas. Someone fumbles, falling hard. The cold air streams into my face as the hold to my hair releases. I barely avoid the oncoming car as I veer back into my lane, slamming on the brakes to keep from ramming the car at the light.
My hand smacks against the button to pull up my window, my motions jerky. In the rearview mirror, I catch sight of Fernie and another woman rising slowly to their feet from where they lay in the road.
The driver in front of me, the one I almost hit throws his door open. I think he’s angry at me, but his focus is on Fernie and her friend. He turns in my direction, his expression aghast.
“Are you all right, lady?” he asks.
I nod, my hand trembling as I swipe at my face.
“I saw what she did to you,” he says.
I lift my hand and nod, trying to assure him I’m all right and doing a horrible job. Pain, rips through my scalp and my skull is pounding.
The light turns green. Someone in his car calls to him. He stands there watching me, stunned. I put my car in reverse, then pull forward and around him just before the light changes. At the next street I cut a left, maneuvering through the city blocks, hoping he doesn’t follow me, or report this, or . . .
I start crying as I lift the crumpled bag away from me. My jeans are soaked. In my struggle to get away, I either cracked one of the cheap containers or caused the lid to open. I don’t care enough to know which. I’m so rattled I can barely drive.
I manage to make it home, stopping only to throw the bag of food in my dumpster. I can’t stand to look at it nor have it anywhere near me.
My hand shakes as I place the key into the slot and turn it. I want to think it wasn’t Fernie who hit me, maybe it was her friend and Fernie intervened to help me. I want to think all these good things about her. But good thoughts don’t come with Fernie. They never have.
I start the water to my shower and assess my injuries. My eyes are swollen from crying and my left temple is swollen from whoever hit me. I pull away the strands of my hair and carefully examine my scalp. I lost some hair in the struggle, it feels thinner. I don’t think anyone might notice.
Except maybe Landon.
I glance back at the mirror. He’s coming back to me tonight. No matter how late, I know he’ll be here.
I take a cold shower, worried that if I use warm water, the swelling will increase. I’m freezing when I step out, but I still add a cold compress to the side of my face. I may be overdoing it, but I can’t risk Landon knowing what happened.
More than once, I want to cry again, not because of the physical pain, but all the pain that comes with having the mother I do.
About one
in the morning, I surrender to my exhaustion and go to bed. It’s almost three when I hear a faint knock at my door. I startle awake, my nerves keeping me alert and making me rush to the door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
No one answers. I look out through my peephole. “Hello?”
I can’t see anyone and crack open the door, careful to keep the chain in place. I catch Landon’s back disappearing down the walkway. “Landon?”
He whips around. I shut the door and remove the chain. When I open it again, he’s standing in front of me, appearing as exhausted as I feel.
“Hey,” he says, bending to kiss me. He cocks his head before his lips quite reach mine. “You all right?”
I reach for his hand and lead him inside. “That’s a question I should be asking you. What happened with Dania?”
He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the hook near the door, followed by his gun secured in its holster. “You know how I know people?”
“Powerful people?” I offer.
He chuckles and places his arm around me. “Yeah, them. I called a few tonight and was able to get Dania out.”
Something in his tone shifts. “Is she home?”
“No.” He stops in front of my living room. “Do you want to know?”
“I don’t want to put you in a bad position.”
He grins, his hands securing my hips. “I was thinking the same about you. She and her girls are in a new place, where they’ll stay until I can sort things out.”
A new place he probably secured for them. “I’m just glad they’re safe,” I say, my voice fading when he frowns.
“What happened?” His thumb passes along my temple. “Shit, you have quite a goose egg.”
I try not to wince. “I fell on my way to the dumpster.”
He lifts my hands, examining them and my forearms. “It doesn’t look like you fell,” he says.
“You mean it doesn’t look like I caught myself,” I add. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want the questions or the tears to follow. “The only thing that tried to break my fall was my face since my arms were full.”
I sound about as convincing as I feel. But Landon, being as caring as he is only focuses on my injury. His hands hold my face carefully, pressing a gentle kiss that melts my heart. The gesture and the tenderness he uses almost makes my cry. I hold back because tears in his presence don’t feel right, only happiness does.
