by Faye, Amy
That got him a laugh.
"Well, you know what? I've had a lot of soul-searching to do. I talked recently about my friend, my very good friend. A little boy, ten years old, who has been traveling with me the past couple of months. He's very sick, and without surgery, the doctors… well, they're optimistic. They're always optimistic. But they're very cautious about the optimism, we'll say.
"Since I met that little boy, I've had to do a lot of soul searching. Since he fell sick, a little over two weeks ago, I've had to do a lot more." He stopped and clicked the cards against the podium, though he hadn't looked at them again since he had written everything he wanted to say down.
"A lot of thinking about what I'm doing here. What it means to me. What I want out of the Presidency. There are problems. Hell, nobody needs to tell me that. But I have to ask, am I the man to solve them?"
There was another pause. He frowned. There were a thousand questions he should have been asking himself. Questions he'd been ignoring because, well, someone had to be President. Someone had to try, and why not him?
But the answers were becoming less and less clear. It wasn't hard to guess the reason. He hadn't been asking them at all, and now that he thought to actually ask, he was realizing that he'd never had a good answer to any of it.
"The bible says, 'why do you notice the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?' I've spent the last ten years looking at the country and seeing everything that I thought I could fix, but… the truth is, I was ignoring the log in my own eye. I was pretending that things were fine in my house, that I could afford the time and the effort to go out and straighten up the lives other other people. Tonight, I'm ashamed to say that I was wrong."
He let out a breath. There had been so much work to get here already, and it hurt to have to unmake all that effort. At the same time, the weight falling off his shoulders felt remarkable. Better than he had imagined it would.
"So it's with a heavy heart, and more apologies than I can ever give to my party, my running mate, and the American people, that I have to withdraw from the election, and from the wider political sphere. I can only hope that one of my very capable colleagues can fill the position as well as I had hoped to do."
He stepped off the podium. Too many questions would have to be answered if he stayed. Many of them questions he couldn't answer if he'd been asked.
Lara waited off the side and he drew his arm around her as Robbie, per Paul's instructions, handed the stack of papers, stuffed into a thick manila envelope, over to Helen.
"What is this?"
She had an incredulous look on her face. Apparently none of what he had said had quite dawned on her yet.
"Helen, I'm sorry to spring this on you, but I think we both know it's been a long time coming."
"You can't leave," she said. The idea seemed to be going through her mind for the first time. As if it had been well and truly impossible up to that instant.
"You can't stop me," Paul answered.
"I need you." There were hints, however faint, of desperation and even real feeling in her voice, and for a moment Paul sympathy, strong enough that he started to reconsider. Her voice fell lower. "I need you campaigning for me. If you don't…"
He frowned and turned again. Part of him had waited for her to tell him that she was going to miss him. That had been a mistake.
Helen wouldn't miss him; he'd never been there in the first place, not really.
She was going to miss what he could do for her. And that wasn't enough for him, not any more. There were more important things than politics. He had to meet with a doctor to talk about a very serious and very expensive surgery.
Epilogue
Lara eyed her boys with the same bemused expression that seemed to characterize everything that she felt about them. She listened for the sound of wheezing coming from Tim, watched his movements as he twisted and writhed on the ground in a vain attempt to out wrestle his father.
If he hurt, if he came close to pulling something, then she would stop them without a second thought. He always seemed to forget that it hadn't been so many years ago that he'd been sitting there with his stomach open wide enough for a grown man to stick both hands in and pull out large chunks of his insides.
If he remembered it, then he made no sign of it. He had barely spoken about being sick at all since he'd recovered from surgery; if he thought of it as any different than any other time he'd had the flue, or a cold, then he made no sign of that, either.
Her hand rested on her belly; it seemed to fall there naturally, regardless of what she did. Something inside her felt like it was twisting up again. This time, at least, she knew what it was, and she knew why she was so tired all the time.
It was nice to know that it wasn't just anemia, that she ten hours of sleep was probably enough and she wasn't tired for no reason. It wasn't that she was sick, though the possibility was always there on some level. That was a very serious risk, when you were pregnant. Any illness that would be unpleasant for you, was liable to kill the child.
Twelve years ago, she'd been young. Too young for a child, by today's standards. Now, she was a little old for it. Somewhere in the past century, the window for having children had shrunk until you only had barely enough space and time to have one child, maybe two if you had them back to back.
Now she was older. Paul seemed to notice her watching and slacked his grip on their son. Tim wasted no time scrambling out of his grip and wrapping his arms around, trying to find a grip. Paul smiled at her and for a moment she thought he wasn't going to notice the boy who was at that very moment twisting Paul's arm behind his back by the wrist.
Then, as if totally by surprise he twisted the arm back and slipped it free, dived in and his fingers found the sensitive area under Tim's arm and teased him until he was a writhing and gasping mess.
Paul left Tim there, breathing hard. "Is everything alright? You need to go to the hospital?"
She shook her head. "I'm fine. You're fine. Go on, Romeo, before Tim decides to start playing dirty."
"I wouldn't do that," Tim protested. She winked at him.
"Of course you wouldn't, sweetheart. But I have to make sure that your father plays fair, too."
The words felt strange, even now. Even after two years and nearly six months. Tim stalked over as well, seeming to have lost interest for the moment in continuing their roughhousing.
"Can I feel her?"
"Sure," Lara answered. Tim put his hand on her belly. He seemed tentative, even nervous, and it gave her a warm feeling in her belly that made her glow with delight.
"I think I felt something," he said.
"She's kicking," Lara answered. She put her hand over Tim's. "Sweetheart? Can you go get me a glass of water? I need to talk to your father for a minute."
Tim looked up at Paul uncertainly, as if he might suddenly run off again. It wasn't as if Lara didn't have the same fear, deep down, but she managed to convince herself it was irrational; at least, most of the time, she did.
"You did this to me, mister."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss against her neck. "I suppose I did. Is that going to be a problem?"
"That depends," she answered. She moved her head and allowed him better access to the sensitive flesh of her throat.
"On what?"
"You better not run off again."
He pressed another kiss against her neck, one that made her shiver as the beginnings of arousal started to light deep down in her belly. He pulled away at the sound of the back door sliding open.
"I won't," he assured her in a voice that she found it hard to disbelieve. "Not ever again."
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"What do you want me to do," he says. His voice is rough.
"Whatever you want," I tell him, my breath still ragged in my chest.
Fingers wrap around my wrist, strong and insistent but not demanding. Firm, but not rough. And he guides my hand to his hardness. It makes an outline against the fine fabric of his trousers, but nothing prepares me for the feeling of my fingers as they wrap a little way around it, as much as I can through the clothing.
It's big. I don't have a long list of dicks I've seen, but this one is big by any comparison point I can make. Part of me wonders how it's going to fit inside me. I already know the answer, though. Deliciously.
"Take it out," he says softly. My hands go to work undoing his belt, unzipping the fly on his trousers. The clothing is well-made and comes undone easily. His hardness springs out at me automatically, as soon as it's freed from the clothing.
My hands find the hem of his boxers next, and pull them down until he's loose of them as well, his manhood standing straight and proud. It looks bigger than it felt, and it felt large. A shiver runs down my spine. I've always liked a challenge, but this is entirely different from anything I've ever had to combat before.
My hand wraps around it. The flesh is soft, and yet it's only a thin layer of softness over something that feels impossibly hard. My mind is racing at a million miles an hour, and I can't stop myself from giving it an experimental tug.
The soft flesh along his length moves with my hand, and his breathing gets a little louder, a little more ragged, just for an instant before Eric can get control of himself again. I move more smoothly this time, a little slower.
His eyes drift shut as my hand falls into a rhythm, massaging his shaft and watching the expressions on his face. How his mood shifts when I do it faster, or when I focus more on the head.
His hand reaches down and stills mine. "Your mouth, too," he says.
As simple as that, and then he lets me continue. My pace, with instruction.
I sit up. I don't know how much I'll be able to fit in my mouth, but I don't feel as if he wants to hear my excuses, or my rationale, or my worrying. Something deep down inside me suspects that has nothing to do with what he wants.
My tongue comes out for an experimental lick along the shaft, one that meets with his vocal approval. A little shiver runs through me. I did alright so far.
He fills my mouth when I take him between my lips. I'm a little bit disappointed in myself when I can only take the first couple of inches. I move my head though, doing what I can. I can already feel my jaw loosening up, can already feel the gag reflex slowly dissipating.
He can feel it, too. The way that his fingers dig into my hair, the way that he can't quite still his hips from moving to meet my mouth.
I move faster, my fingers wrapping around him where my mouth can't reach. I don't know what kind of a slut I must look like. Probably a big one. Even still, I'm not going to stop. Can't stop.
His hips are moving, now, a thrust meeting me every time I bob my head forward. I can't suppress the choking sound it pulls out. And I can tell that he's getting close. I don't know how close until he growls out 'fuck' and misses a thrust.
His fingers tighten in my hair and his cock thrusts deep into my throat, as deep as it can go, and he holds me there, his cock spasming as he shoots cum straight down my throat and into my belly.
Part of me wants to be annoyed that I didn't get a warning. Another part, a much bigger part, wants him between my legs yesterday.
Chapter One
Sometimes, people ask what my earliest childhood memory is. I lie.
I should have earlier memories. I should have memories of when I was really little, of my time in elementary school. Of what my life was like when I was really little, of getting to know my family.
My most powerful memory, the first one that comes to mind when I think, wasn't until I was fourteen years old. I don't know what is wrong with me. I know most people remember plenty before they were fourteen. Not me.
I just remember two things about that day. I remember watching Eric step through the door, his broad shoulders framed in the outside light, the house still dark. I'd gotten up to get a drink of water before I went back to sleep.
I remember watching him, not being able to say anything because I'd wake everyone up, and I remember being terrified that I would get yelled at if I did. He didn't look back, and he didn't see me standing there.
Which was a good metaphor for our entire relationship, because the other thing that I remember is that I was hopelessly in love with him at the time.
I don't know how old I was when his Dad married my Mom. Mom has told me so many different ages that I don't know which to believe. Some time between ninety-five and ninety-seven. Probably closer to ninety-five. They had a short relationship before they were married.
I think Eric's Dad thought he needed a mother. Mom… well, I don't have to guess, but I shouldn't think such awful things about her, either. I'm sure that she doesn't realize what she's doing until it's too late, but she's never been in any relationship that wasn't "serious."
I was fourteen years old, and at the same time I knew that I wasn't supposed to be thinking about my brother like that. Blood-related or not, he was completely off-limits. Like. Not even part of the conversation. You don't tell your friends "well, there's this one guy, he's my brother."
So I don't think he knew, and I know I sure as hell didn't talk to anyone about it, not so you'd know who I was talking about.
But when he left, I just remember feeling like my heart was getting ripped out of my chest.
Nothing before that feels like a real memory. Just little flashes, but nothing that makes good sense. Nothing with real context. A few teachers' faces. I don't know their names. Can't put them in order. Couldn't tell you something I learned from them.
But that image of Eric walking out my Mom's front door, the morning sun just hitting the horizon and shooting pink-colored lights around him, that I remember well.
More than that, I remember how, when everyone else was up—I couldn't go back to sleep after that, could I?—I couldn't get anyone to tell me what had happened.
It wasn't something that they wanted to talk to me about.
There are things I know now, that I didn't know then. Things I understand that I didn't understand at the time. That's how it always is, really. There's always something that you don't know until it's too late.
I learned that just because two people say they love each other, that doesn't mean that they're going to be together forever.
Mom had assured me a thousand times over that she loved Dad. That wasn't how it worked out. In fact, after Eric left, it seemed like it was only a matter of time. Something had changed, however small, and then it just got bigger as time went on, until they couldn't ignore it any more.
I learned that Mom was prone to mistakes. Later, I learned that I'd been the one making a mistake—Mom's mistakes were always the sort of mistakes you can avoid with the radical technique of 'not looking for trouble.'
I learned that fairy tale romances aren't real. My Mom taught me about everything anyone could ever want to know, and I guess for all that I think about her, I guess I have to thank her for that.
Without her little lessons, I wouldn't have toughened up.
I wouldn't have the understanding I do now, of the world and of how to get by in it. I wouldn't be where I am today.
So it doesn't change how I feel, but she's right about one thing. I should feel bad for her. She didn't want to be a walking disaster, and she didn't want to chase every man in her life away.
She didn't want to chase the only man in my young, fourteen-year-old world away.
It was just how she was. The question then became, how far was I willing to carry that anger, and when you put it that way, the answer became much clearer.
She wasn't. No reason to suffer for nothing, just to be self-righteous. Mom would get what she deserved, or she wouldn't.
But I'm not going to carry a torch for it. The damage is already done, and I learned an important lesson in the process. Don't put yourself in positions to get hurt. Don't trust anyone unless you know how to get yourself out of the situation.
Look at the details. Think about solutions, rather than problems. My solution is right in my hands. A letter of recommendation, stacked on top of a resume that is as good as any can be, coming straight out of school.
So I should probably have earlier memories of my life. I should probably have lots of things.
I should probably have a real Mom. I should probably have some faith in Dad. He's doing his best. I'm sure that Eric's dad did, too.
I should probably have an apartment in the city, if I'm going to be working here. I should probably have a metro pass.
But I don't. I have an older sister that I have to take care of on occasion. It's a reality I have to deal with.
Dad's going to keep the relationship going as long as he can. He's been working hard at it for the past five years, and he's got the patience of a saint. Even a saint has to break at some point, and Mom has a unique gift for breaking folks.
