by Serena Bell
“Wow,” he says. “Wow. Wow.”
I giggle.
I slide my hand down between my legs and touch the wetness there. There’s a lot more than before. He watches me do it. “You like that,” he says wonderingly.
“Yeah,” I say.
I realize what he’s not saying. Lucy didn’t used to.
Well.
I won’t let myself think anything other than, Interesting.
Chapter 24
Sawyer
I’m on my hands and knees, pounding—
We’ve been through this before, haven’t we? You all have dirty minds. I’m installing a hardwood floor.
Some guys like to use staples. I prefer the old-fashioned nails.
In the end, I did go for salvaging my own boards—I heard through the woodworkers’ grapevine, which is mostly centered out of that Seattle reclaimed lumberyard I mentioned, that there was an old church being torn down and that the flooring was up for grabs. I pulled Brooks in, and Brooks pulled Chase and Jack in, and Jack pulled his friend Henry in, and before I knew it, the five of us were loading our trucks and dumping hardwood at my house.
Since then I’ve been recutting tongue-and-groove where necessary, cutting board lengths, laying floor, and hammering nails.
Which is an excellent outlet for all my frustrations.
I didn’t realize how difficult a challenge I was setting for both Elle and me when I declared that we wouldn’t have sex until Trevor’s wedding. I haven’t been this sexually on edge since I was fifteen and Cindy McNamara and I were doing everything-but on a regular basis. Grown men (or at least this grown man) aren’t accustomed to this kind of waiting game, particularly if the other party is also a ready, willing, able, and enthusiastic participant.
I have thought several times about just abandoning all pretense, showing up at Elle’s house with condoms in hand, and getting this out of our systems. There’s a vivid set of fantasies to go with that plan, mostly involving what it would feel like to kiss her and fuck her at the same time, so the slick of tongue and squeeze of pussy blend together in my muzzy head into one hot, wet mess.
The thing that keeps me from doing it—breaking the rules—is the knowledge that the pretense is what’s keeping both of us from freaking out. As brave a face as Elle puts on, as strong and competent as she comes across, I’m not sure she’s ready to tackle something like a relationship. And I know I’m not. This wacky game we’re playing lets us mess around without needing to explain, define, or analyze it.
And that’s a good thing.
Jonah and Madden bound through the front door and into the living room.
“Can we help?” Madden asks, watching me with a wide, admiring gaze. It feels nice to be hero-worshipped from time to time. I’m guessing Madden, in particular, doesn’t have much experience with carpentry, since Mr. Yap doesn’t seem like the type to do it himself.
I eye the two of them, light and dark, assessing their ability not to smash their fingers. “Sure.” I show them where I need the nails to go, and set them up with two smaller hammers. I know they’ll lose interest in a few minutes, and that’s okay, but it’s not a bad thing to get some experience with stuff early on—practice definitely makes perfect.
Sure enough, after each of them has put three or four nails into the wood (several getting bent in the process, but that’s okay), they bounce up and declare themselves done. They’re going to go looking for salmonberries in the bushes behind our houses.
I don’t try to talk them into staying. When Jonah gets a little older, I will offer to teach him more, but for now I’m content to give him a taste. I’m not naive enough to think that because I love woodwork, he will. I do think, with great warmth and affection, of the days I spent learning carpentry at my dad’s side, but I know nothing ruins good memories faster than trying to recapture them. Anyway, for now these boys need to be outside, playing and exploring, enjoying these early days of summer.
“Hey,” I ask. “Whatever happened with Mr. Ketotzi and Junie?” I realize that with all the things in my head—Elle’s compact, sexy body not the least—I let the school year end without ever checking back in.
They look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, which I probably am. Let’s face it, once school’s out, it’s like it never happened. Madden seems to be looking a long way into the distance, or possibly inside his own head; I’m not sure which. “He apologized to Junie in front of the class,” Madden says. “And he said that from now on Junie—and all of us—could line up or be chosen for teams or whatever, however we wanted to be. And he apologized to Jonah and me for saying we were girls, unless we wanted to be girls.”
I can hear the grudging note in the whole apology from a thousand miles away, but I still appreciate how things turned out, that Mr. McKibben laid it all out for Mr. Ketotzi and that Mr. Ketotzi, however under duress he must have been, did the right thing. And most of all, how the boys forced the adults to look at themselves in the mirror.
“You did good,” I tell the boys. “You did a good job. That must feel good.”
Madden nods, a compact nod that hints at the way he’ll be as a teenager and as a man, too cool for a big emotional show.
I watch them as they go. If Madden’s too cool, I’m not—I’ll admit it. My chest feels tight.
I pull out my phone.
Madden’s a great kid. I’m glad he’s in my kid’s life.
Her reply comes back quickly.
Right back atcha in reverse. Love that they look out for each other.
And everyone else, too, apparently.
It’s only as I grab a handful of nails and resume pounding that I realize I forgot to wish I could tell Lucy.
Chapter 25
Elle
It’s been several nights since Sawyer and I played Catan and then retreated to my bedroom. Every time I replay the events of that evening, I find myself smiling. And then frowning, because I don’t quite know what to make of the whole thing. I mean, I know what to make of the oral sex—it was terrific, in both directions. But the other parts, the parts that were cozy and friendly and almost family-ish, the text he sent me the day after about Madden being a good kid…
Those parts scare the shit out of me. I think I might need to back away from that kind of stuff, the hanging out and playing games and almost—almost co-parenting. Because I could get to like it, and I don’t think that matches Sawyer’s expectations. Plus, there’s the promise I made myself: no more falling for guys who are in love with someone else.
Luckily, over the next few days, things swing back toward the pure-sex side. Sawyer and I text each other a bunch of times. At first it’s in the vein of, um, reminiscences. As in:
Him: I get hard again every time I think about what you did to me last night.
Me: Me, too. I mean, not hard. Wet. You know what I mean.
And it plunges into the gutters from there.
Him: Jonah’s asleep.
Me: Madden, too.
Him: Call me and I’ll talk you off.
Me: Is that a thing?
Him: Phone sex?
Me: I’ve just never heard the phrase “talk you off.”
And my phone rings.
“Let me demonstrate,” he says. “What do you do? When you’re by yourself?”
“I, uh—pretty much what you did the other night, minus the fingering. I just can’t coordinate all that action.”
“You mean I offer value-add?” he suggests smirkily.
I smile. “I guess you do, kind of.”
“Well, let me add some value. You do the circles and I’ll do the dirty talk about my dick and your pussy.”
I groan.
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes.”
Once he’s accomplished his task, I offer to reciprocate.<
br />
“Are you, like, a fist guy? Or—I know guys who fuck the mattress.”
“You have such a filthy mouth, Elle, and I love it so hard.”
Hearing the word love come out of his mouth throws me for a momentary loop, but I get ahold of myself. “Thanks.”
“More of a fist guy. And I love myself some lube. The more the merrier. Soap, saliva, the bottled stuff, whatever.”
“Okay. Do that. Whichever. Your favorite.”
I actually hear the click of the lube cap through the phone.
“But imagine it’s me. I mean, my lube. Like, imagine your hand is my pussy and the slippery stuff is me, wanting you really bad. I’ve got plenty of it here for you, by the way.”
“Oh. Oh, wow.”
“Are you lying on your back?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He’s already breathless, which makes me feel pretty damn good about my talking-off technique.
“So then I guess I’m riding you. Sinking down on you, pulling back almost all the way off so you can feel me all along your length. Then hard and fast. Which is better?”
“They’re both good. God, you’re getting me there so fast.”
“Go for it.”
“I am.”
“Do you want me to lie down on you so we can kiss? Or sit up so you can watch me jiggle?”
“Jesus, Elle, where’d you get that imagination?” His voice is wound to the breaking point, which makes my pussy thrum.
I don’t tell him I’m not usually this bold, that he makes me want to say and do crazy stuff like this. It feels too clingy, too relationship-y. Not the right vibe for two people who have agreed that all of this is just foreplay for a single main event. I just say, “Which one, stud?”
“Jiggle,” he says, but the word dissolves in his mouth into a groan and then my name, in a short, harsh cry.
“Okay, then,” I say, laughing. “I know how to get you off fast at Trevor’s wedding.”
He doesn’t say anything for what feels like several minutes. Then he says, “I made a mess. I’ll be right back. Washcloth time.”
When he comes back from cleaning up and picks up his phone, he says, “You want to cuddle? Have a cigarette?”
I laugh.
“Nah, I’m serious. We can hang up. Or we can, you know, hang out.”
“Hang out, I guess,” I say. I’m surprised that he asked it, and surprised how much I want to.
We chat for a while about nothing in particular. How he got started with furniture making (he learned a lot of stuff from his dad, who was a general contractor, but then he took woodworking in high school and realized he wanted to build furniture, not be a GC), his relationship with his brother (they beat the snot out of each other as kids and still give each other a hard time, but they love each other). When I started writing (for my elementary school newsletter), how it feels to be an only child (I used to love getting all the attention, but now that I’m grown, I feel like I missed out on an experience—plus, I worry about not having anyone to help me take care of my parents when they get old. I tell him about my parents, who live in the foothills of the Cascades but have been talking about moving closer to Seattle to be nearer to me and Madden. My mom’s a therapist and my dad’s a mutual fund manager).
“They’re pretty good parents.”
“Are they happy together?”
“They’re still married.”
I think they are happy together. They’re cute together, anyway, finishing each other’s sentences, my dad the type to still open doors and pull out chairs for my mom. I guess you never know, though, do you?
As if he can read my mind, he asks, “How did you meet Trevor?”
“It’s a sad story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“I think I can take it,” he says dryly.
I’d temporarily forgotten that he has a whole new dimension on sad; nothing I can tell him can possibly touch the grief he’s experienced.
“A dog got hit by a car, and its owner, a teenaged kid, found it, and didn’t know what to do—he was distraught, standing over the body, crying, his hands shaking so bad he couldn’t even text his mom. Trevor was walking from one direction and I was walking from the other, and we stopped to help. I had a blanket in my car a block away, and we wrapped the dog up and carried it back to the teenager’s house, where his mom was. The whole thing was awful. But then Trevor said we should go out for a drink, so we did. And he was so great about the whole thing—stopping, being totally in control about the emergency situation, super calm—and then afterward, so sweet to me. I fell hard for him. I didn’t know until a little bit later that he’d just gotten viciously dumped, and that he was rebounding and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I draw a deep breath. I’m tucked into bed, warm and comfortable and bonelessly relaxed, but the memory still has all its old resonances—the sadness of the dog’s death and the bright promise of meeting someone wonderful, only now it’s all overwritten with Trevor’s betrayal. “Maybe a dead dog isn’t an auspicious meeting? I should have known.”
Sawyer snorts.
I toy with the edge of my sheet, wondering if I should ask him about his wife. It feels weird to tell him about Trevor and not ask him anything about his marriage.
“How’d you meet Lucy?”
I can hear his indrawn breath. I remember all too vividly how he shut down the last time I brought her up. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I don’t mind. You told me about Trevor. She owned a store, a high-end craft design boutique. And she saw my furniture, and she wanted to stock it. I brought her a few pieces, and—well, one thing led to another.”
My stomach clenches. So she’d been not only his wife but his patron and his partner. I remind myself that I’m not trying to compete with her or take her place, and I feel a sharp wave of relief, the perfect reminder not to get in too deep. “What happened to the store?”
“We—we closed it after she died. None of us—her parents, her sisters, me—were passionate about it the way she was. But it hurt to do it. When she knew she was dying, she told me flat out that she didn’t want anyone keeping it open to honor her, only if we genuinely wanted to run it, but—I still feel crappy about it.”
“I’m sure she would understand.”
He goes silent on the other end of the phone, and I feel like I’ve overstepped, that presuming to know anything about how his late wife would feel is too much, especially in this situation we’re in. Then he says, “I think she would have liked you.”
That makes me smile. Warmth spreads in my chest, sending flares out in all directions.
Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
“Um, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “I, um, I should go.”
It comes out more abrupt than I mean it to.
“Yeah, okay,” he says easily. “Well, nice cuddling with you.”
“Ditto.”
After I hang up, I lie in bed, wondering what’s happening. How I feel. If he feels it, too. What it means.
What kind of a glutton for punishment I am.
It takes me a long, long time to fall asleep.
Chapter 26
Sawyer
Two days before Jonah’s ninth birthday, I realize I’ve screwed up.
Jonah invited Madden and eight other boys to go bowling at the local alley, then back to the house afterward. Jonah’s grandparents will be there, serving pizza and lighting candles on an ice-cream cake. We’ll open presents and maybe let the boys run around in the backyard.
It was my idea, and Jonah loved it. He danced around the living room, he was so excited, and as the party gets closer, he’s bubbling with anticipation. I’ve been feeling like a superstar—except I just realized that I’ve invited nine boys to come back to my house after bowling, and I have no way to transport them all
. The grandparents are doing party setup and pizza and cake acquisition, and anyway, one set drives a Mini and the other a Fiat. Short of asking all their parents to come back out halfway through the party to drive them, I’m stuck.
When I realize my mistake, I’m frustrated and angry at myself, but mostly?
I’m sad.
Because Lucy wouldn’t have screwed this up. She would have been all over the logistics from minute one. She’d have lists and notes, and she’d buzz from room to room, asking Jonah’s opinion about things and picking up the phone and dashing off emails until everything was ironclad. She’d organize all the other moms into a driving machine—
Other moms.
Right.
I’m still not good at the inter-mom-schmooze-fest, and I suck at things like setting up carpools, but there’s one mom who I know will come to my rescue. And who I won’t feel weird about asking.
I grab my phone and dash off a text to Elle.
Hey. Are you there? Can I come ask you something?
The three dots appear. How much human productivity do you think has already been lost to watching those three dots wiggle, waiting for an answer?
A minute later, her answer pops up.
I’m here but have a phone interview in twenty minutes so if this is a booty call—
My mind had been elsewhere, but as soon as she says booty call, it starts wandering a different path, taking some key portions of my anatomy with it. I almost text back to reassure her I can make both of us very happy in twenty minutes—but I have a real problem to solve here. I squelch the fantasy, give my dick a stern talking-to, and jog over to her house, my hard-on subsiding just in time for my arrival. She opens the door before I can knock, stepping out onto the front stoop and shutting the door behind her.
“Are you worried that if you let me into the house you won’t be able to keep me out of the bedroom?” I tease, my best intentions vanishing instantly upon seeing her. She’s wearing skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a tight black T-shirt. I have an immediate vision of peeling her—because that’s what it would take—out of her clothing.
