My tongue explores there, lobe
and creases, and an earnest moan
escapes her lips, and I am instantly
erect. This could go further, could
easily go all the way, and while
I would immensely enjoy that, I’m
kind of glad there’s a steering wheel
in the way. “I want you,” I rasp.
“But not like this. Not here, not
now. I don’t want to take advantage
of you, or taint what we might
become. I like you a lot, Alexa.
Could I love you? I think I could,
and I don’t want that to happen
because we have great sex. I want
great sex to grow from love.”
She kisses me gently. Okay.
But tell me, is that ghost of
Hayden you talked about once
still standing in your way?
“Probably. But she’s fading fast.
And, hey, on the bright side,
I’m definitely not gay!” I offer
as proof another round of sizzling
hot making out. When we turn
the burners to low, I ask, “So,
did I answer your question?”
She smiles. I think you did.
I think I did, too.
We Spend the Next Week
Attempting connection, at school
and after. It’s a slow, but obvious,
build of affection, and sometimes
when we walk knotted together
along the corridors, I feel like
we’re on display, especially if
we happen to encounter Hayden
or Jocelyn, who, of course, will spill
anything and everything she observes
to her gaggle. Hayden tends to look
away, but the few times she has met
my eyes, I saw a couple of things.
One: hurt, which I don’t understand.
(Was I supposed to remain single
for the rest of my life, or even this year?)
And two: something resembling
self-congratulations, like, “I knew it
all along.” Whatever. I don’t need
to please Hayden DeLucca,
beautiful, backstabbing
wood nymph, anymore.
Alexa and I Do Try
To expand our little dotted line
into a wider circle, or at least a
bigger box, and on Friday
she springs a surprise.
Marshall’s parents are out
of town this weekend. We’re
going to a poker night at his
house. Ten-buck buy-in.
I have a lot to learn about
this girl. “You play poker?”
Uh, yeah. For years. Do you?
If not, I’ll teach you how.
Which makes me smile. Alexa
makes me smile pretty damn
often. “I think I can remember
how, but thanks for your offer.”
She winks. Anything I can do
to entertain you, my dear.
We Arrive at Eight
I expect a foursome, but there’s
a bigger surprise. In addition to
Holly, Lainie and Vince will be
sharing the table. “What are you?”
I whisper to Alexa. “A sorceress?”
Would a sorceress admit
that’s what she is? Witches
are craftier than that. No,
Lainie and I decided it was time
for you two to get over yourselves.
It doesn’t happen immediately.
We nod a curt greeting and when
we sit at the table,Vince looks
every bit as tense as I feel.
The girls chatter on about nothing,
relatively, as Marshall counts
out chips and we ante up.
They’re going to get creamed.
You have to pay attention when
you play poker, and I do my best
to concentrate. The problem is,
between the beer, which Vince
supplied, and the inane girl talk,
my attention span is pretty darn
short. Not only that, but it’s been
quite a while since I’ve attempted
this game. And if I thought luck
was going to help me out, it was
wishful thinking. I’m the one who
gets creamed, but the weird thing
is, I don’t really care. It’s fun, just
shooting the shit. Eventually, both
Vince and I loosen up, and
when he steps outside for a smoke,
I invite myself along. He lights up,
takes a big drag, and I watch his
exhale disappear into the mist.
“I know I already told you this, but
I apologize for being such a dick.
Not that I’m not still pretty much
a dick, but I’m working on it.”
He inhales slowly. I’m not totally
guiltless, and that’s something
I can’t shake off. I liked Luke.
I’m sorry as hell about everything.
Strange
Somehow I never considered
he might be clinging to guilt
himself. It just never occurred
to me that any of the people
involved might give half a damn
about my brother. Pretty sure
he’s the only one, though. I ask
about his parents; he says they’re
plugging along. I tell him the news
about mine, and the woman who
has moved into my home, usurping
my mother’s place. I expect surprise,
or at least sympathy. Instead,
he says, I saw that coming years
ago, dude. Your mom and dad
only shared the same room
when they had to. I can’t believe
they stayed together this long.
He stubs out his cigarette,
goes inside. I hang back
for a second, enveloped by cool
rain-infused air. What else do
other people see that I manage
to close my eyes to?
Holly Winds Up
The evening’s big winner, which
is irritating because she claims
it’s beginner’s luck, and I believe
that. She was totally clueless,
yet fate smiled on her anyway.
She and Marshall surreptitiously
wander down the hall to one bedroom.
Lainie and Vince go off in search
of another. Alexa and I take the sofa,
and I pull her into my lap, tip her
cheek against the hollow of my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper into her ear.
For what?
“Just everything.” We kiss, and I think:
For trying to repair relationships
I deemed hopeless. For attempting
to soothe my anger, assuage my guilt,
silence my ghosts. For doing your
level best to make me whole again.
Desire floods through me, scorching
and beating wildly, like my heart.
I can feel the flush of Alexa’s
own heat where the V of her jeans
straddles my thighs. She works
at the buttons of my shirt, kisses
the skin she exposes with lips
wet from my own, down my chest
and over my belly. “You’d better
stop, or I won’t be able to.”
Instead, she drops to the floor
on her knees, opens the zipper
of my fly with delicate fingers.
I start to protest, but she pu
shes
back. Let me. I want to.
If there’s a paradise, this must be
it—the slow, sure slide of tongue
and mouth, the urgent coax of
spit-slicked hands, the gentle brush
of silken hair, all lifting me up, up.
Faster. Stronger. Higher. No way
to stop, I give myself up to pulse
upon pulse of pleasure. And I almost say . . .
I Love You
Except somewhere
in the hall a door opens,
and we hurry to disguise
the evidence of my
near-nirvana experience.
Vince comes stomping
into the room. Freaking
girls and their periods.
He takes one look at my
still open shirt, the guilt
implicit in our body
language, not to mention
my satisfied expression.
Oh. Please excuse
the interruption, you lucky
sonofabitch. Carry on.
He grabs a brew, returns
to Lainie, and Alexa curls
up next to me on the couch.
And I’m glad I didn’t spout
those words because I’m still
not sure if I truly love her,
or if I just love it.
The Next Morning
I’m still processing. I asked her
for space over the weekend—
well, I blamed it on work and
parental interference, both valid
excuses. I suppose she could have
come out to the range, which is eerily
quiet most of the day, at least until
an obviously inebriated Gus slams
through the door. G’day, boys!
I’m here. Ain’t that queer? Heh heh.
Get it? Here. Queer. Give this poet
a gun. I think I can shoot straight.
Uncle Jessie isn’t about to let
him handle a weapon. Now, Gus,
you know you’re in no condition
to be messing with a pistol.
Gus bristles. Yeah, that’s the word.
His blood pressure shoots through
the roof—you can see it in the way
his face turns red. What you sayin’?
I’m just looking out for you,
buddy. A liquid breakfast isn’t
the right fuel for shooting guns.
What’s up with you, anyway?
Uncle Jessie is good at damage
control. Gus’s face returns to ruddy.
Is jus’ ah’m nervous. Gon’ see
that lawyer Monday about cus’dy.
He’s taking my rent money, but
that’s okay, long as he knows his shit.
Bitch wan’s give my babies a new
daddy, and I ain’t good with that.
Now he breaks down, in that way
drunk people do—a complete
body shudder, followed by
immense, gut-wrenching sobs.
Uncle Jessie gives him a minute,
then goes over, puts his arm
around Gus’s shoulder. Let’s take
you up to the house for a while.
He Leaves Me
To mind the place while he tries
to help Gus sober up enough to
drive home. It takes several hours,
and when Gus finally gets in his car,
Uncle Jessie comes in, concern
etched on his face. I’m worried
about Gus. Don’t think I’ve ever
seen a man near so angry with
the world, or quite so unsure
about his legit place in it. I hope
that attorney is good, or that
his ex’s sucks, because any judge
worth his beans is gonna see
Gus is a walking, talking IED.
Not his fault, not at all. Goddamn
government can pay for bombs
and tanks and drones, but can’t find
enough money to fix their triggermen.
The Parental Element
Of my “see you Monday”
equation is Mom, who shows
up at home, announced to me,
but not to Dad and Lorelei.
I actually have a little fun with that.
Hey, not my place to interfere.
She walks through the door
(which, officially, is still half hers)
just about the time her not-quite-ex
and his girlfriend sit down to dinner
at (still officially half hers) kitchen table.
I have to admit I enjoy watching.
Mom, I think, shows great restraint.
Oh. I guess I didn’t realize we were
playing Wife Swap tonight, only
I don’t see my swap partner here.
By the way, not sure you know
this, Wyatt, but our bed? You might
want to get it fumigated. Before I
left, I was noticing these strange
bites. I researched. Might be bedbugs.
You two aren’t itchy, are you?
Score, Mom. Why does that warped
brand of humor seem familiar?
Mom Has Come
To collect the last of her personal
possessions.
Summer clothes—
shorts and tank tops, swimsuits
and lacy cover-ups.
Books, including the Bible
awarded her in second-grade
Sunday school.
Framed photographs,
excepting those where Dad
shared the shots.
Souvenirs and knick-
knacks she collected
over the years.
Anything that bore her stamp.
She has come with containers,
expecting to pack them up.
This surprise is on her.
Lorelei has already boxed
them and put them in the garage,
stacked on top of Luke’s.
As I Help Load
Boxes into the back of Mom’s Xterra,
I can’t help but notice something.
“Hey, Mom. Did you quit smoking?”
Her clothing and hair always reeked
before. But she smells neutral.
You can tell? She totally beams.
It wasn’t easy. I picked up that habit
in high school. But Sophie insisted
no boutique anyone wants to frequent
can smell like used tobacco.
“Wow. That’s awesome. Guess
you don’t need this, then.” I hold up
one of her old ashtrays, spilling
butts and stink. “I can’t believe
Lorelei hasn’t already sterilized it.”
I dump the whole mess in a trash
can outside the garage door.
“What’s it like, living with hippies?
Are you eating vegan and running
around through the woods naked?”
She laughs. Vegetarian, not vegan,
and I sneak cheeseburgers whenever
I’m in town. No nakedness. Ew. Ugly
thought. But we’re talking about selling
hemp clothing and such in our boutique.
“All natural. I’m sure your Heavenly
Guru would approve.” Probably a lot
more than Mom approved of my little
joke. Subject change in order. “So,
you’re going through with the boutique?”
Yep. We’re looking at storefronts
right now, in fact, as well as suppliers.
We hope to open by midsummer.
We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,
but the positive energy is flowing.
“Positive energy? You’re definitely
skewing toward hippie. You didn’t
trade tobacco for weed, by any chance,
did you?” Ridiculous, although it could
explain the upswing in her mood.
She Actually Winks
When was the last time
she winked at me?
I’m taking the fifth. But I will
say sometimes the place smells
pretty darn green, if you catch
my drift. Not that I’d indulge.
Wowza! I think she might.
Guess it’s better than naked.
“Sort of weird, the way Sophie
turned out, considering the way
she was raised, don’t you think?”
She always did lean more
toward the spiritual than
the biblical. Used to piss off
Mom and Dad that she thought
animals had souls and deserved
heaven more than some people.
“Explains her going vegetarian,
and if I believed in souls, I’d say
she was absolutely right. You
still going to church regularly?”
I’m down to once in a while,
actually. Don’t give me that
look. I’m still a believer, but
I don’t like the politics. Maybe
my sister is rubbing off on me.
What’s going on in your life?
I tell her about school, the book
challenge, my attempt at swaying
the school board. I mention breaking
up with Hayden, and I tell her why.
You can bust your behind
trying to build a relationship
on attraction, but if you want
it to last, you’d better share
common interests. Believe me,
your dad and I are poster children.
We stuff the back of the Nissan,
but there’s no way we can fit
everything in. Not even close.
Any chance you could deliver
the rest? Luke’s stuff, too. You haven’t
visited your grandparents in a while,
and Sophie would love to see you.
I Promise
I’ll find the time, and I probably
will. Not like I’m overcommitted.
And when I do, I’m happy to stop in
and say hey to Aunt Sophie and Uncle
Shawn, but I’ll probably find an excuse
to skip the Creswell GPs. The old
coots would probably force-feed
the Old Testament to me. I’m tired
of people worried about picking up
the remnants of my unsalvageable
soul. Yes, they’re getting up there,
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