Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  Hopefully she’ll let this go and just assume the circuitous route is all part of my secrecy about where we’re going. Still, I decide against doubling back a fourth time and actually take the correct exit. Minutes later, we finally arrive. I pull into the driveway of the two-story house, stopping even with the “For Sale” sign in the yard.

  “Graham?” Mackenzie’s voice is a bit lower than normal, laced with suspicion. “What are we doing here?”

  I don’t answer and just beckon her from the car, leading her down the paved walkway toward the front door. I enter a code onto the hefty lockbox that’s attached to the doorknob, retrieving the key. I might have needed to flirt a little with my realtor to get that code, which is really only meant for agents, but I figure it was a small sacrifice for the larger cause. When I put an offer on a place (hopefully this one) it won’t hurt to have her on Team Graham.

  I lead Mackenzie through the front door and across the foyer with its small hanging chandelier I only saw for the first time yesterday. I’m actually kind of nervous because I’m pretty sure this house is perfect, and I want her to agree. The well-maintained exterior is a classic early 1900’s New England style that Mackenzie prefers, and throughout the interior some of the original charming details have been preserved. Everything else on the inside, though, has been recently renovated and updated: newly installed central air and heating, a modern state-of-the-art kitchen, brand-new bathrooms, and even new windows.

  I watch her eyes trace along the polished wooden staircase right in front of us that still has the original wooden bannisters with beveled details I knew she’d love. Again, she follows me through the doorway to our right, which brings us to the large open-plan living room and kitchen. She’s quiet but her head is on a swivel taking everything in, especially once I flick on the lights. From here we have a great view of the fireplace and most of the kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances, off-white marble granite countertops, separate island, and counter with bar stools. This angle even gives a glimpse of the backyard through the glass panels of the French doors.

  “Do you like it?” I can’t help but ask, even though she’s barely had a chance to look.

  “Is it...for you?”

  “Well, I’m hoping you’ll move in with me when your lease is up in September. Or, you know, next week, and just let me make out a check to cover the rest of your rent.”

  She rolls her eyes, and I can tell she’s getting ready to start one of her “we’re moving too fast” speeches, so I start talking again before she has a chance.

  “I know what you’re going to say … something about rushing, or that it hasn’t been enough time. But hear me out. We’re not two kids that just fell in love and are still getting to know each other. There’s not one molecule in my body that doubts you’re it for me, that we’re meant for forever. I don’t want to wait, and I don’t think we should. When Mom and Dad died…” my voice gets a little hoarse, because it’s still hard to talk about sometimes “…I lost it for a little bit. I started thinking that life was pointless, that nothing really mattered. But I was so wrong. I wish back then I’d realized that what happened to them, how they were just gone in an instant, doesn’t mean that nothing matters. It means everything matters. Every single day, every single second is the most important thing in the world. That’s why there are all those cliché posters with cats or whatever that say ‘live in the moment’ and ‘today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ We literally don’t have any time to waste, and, baby, I don’t want to spend another second pretending that loving you isn’t my five-year plan, my twenty-year plan, my seventy-year plan. You want me to find you a cat poster that says it better?”

  “You said it just fine.” Her smile is a little wobbly as she shakes her head at me. As though needing a second to collect herself, she abruptly turns and picks up one of the little flyers from a stack the realtor left on the coffee table. She flips through the glossy pages, checking out the photos and specs.

  “Why do we need five bedrooms?”

  We.

  Hell. Yes.

  Deep breath. Keep your cool. Do not give in to the urge to do a ‘Breakfast Club’ jumping fist pump.

  “One for us, one for your office, two bedrooms for our kids, then a guest room slash backup in case a third baby happens.”

  A little laugh bubbles out of her.

  “Think maybe you’re getting a little ahead of yourself? When did we have two kids with an ‘oopsie’ baby on the way?”

  I shrug.

  “I’m about forever with you. I figure it doesn’t hurt to plan ahead. Decide your objective and then take steps that will lead you to that destination, right?” (Okay, so I stole that from an online course I’m taking, but based on her face I think she bought it.)

  She steps over and wraps her arms around me, her head against my chest. I think I feel the soft touch of her mouth right over my heart, but I’m not sure because the fabric of my shirt is in the way. She tilts her face up to mine, chin propped on one of my pecs.

  “Show me the rest of it?”

  * * *

  Mackenzie

  My mind is still blown by that house, even though we left hours ago after spending a ridiculously long time walking through every room dreaming up our future. Not only did he find a place that’s basically my dream home, but he even chose one with an easy commute to BC. Not to mention the great schools where we can send our two (or three) kids that he’s apparently already decided on. I didn’t explicitly agree to move in right away, but when I told him to make the owners an offer they can’t refuse, I think we both knew I’ll be talking to Marisa and packing my things sooner rather than later.

  Graham is lying on my bed intently focused on his laptop, and he doesn’t even look up when I enter even though I just got out of the shower and only have a bathrobe on. There’s an open book beside one of his legs, one from the pile he’s been reading and using for reference while working on the initial business plan for his nonprofit project. We’ve been discussing this and bouncing ideas around for months now, with varying degrees of seriousness, but now it’s getting closer to a reality every day. He has a meeting with his lawyer soon and some calls set up with people who can help him get this thing started. It’s been amazing watching him work so hard.

  This new serious Graham? Incredibly sexy. My body starts to pulse in all the places I want him to touch me, preferably soon. I sit down next to him on the bed, and he finally spares me a glance and a small smile.

  “Have you talked to Griff about Wyatt House yet?” My question pulls him from whatever he’s doing so I now have his full attention.

  “It’s not going to be called Wyatt House. I get that I’m a little cocky, but I’m not that egotistical! What about Mackenzie House?”

  “I was thinking Wyatt … for your parents.”

  His eyes soften and he nods thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

  “But have you told Griff?”

  “Not yet. It’s still in the super early stages, and he’s got so much going on with his current job, and Layla, and Shaina due pretty much any minute at this point.”

  “She’s got a few weeks, at least!”

  “Still. I don’t want to put this in front of him until I have something solid, until I can make him a legitimate job offer that isn’t just some agreement we write on a coaster. I want to show him I’m serious, and that he doesn’t need to worry about putting his family’s future at risk on some whim I had.”

  That’s it. I can’t handle any more of this man being perfect today. I reach out and lift the laptop off of his legs, gently setting it on the bedside table with the screen still open so nothing he’s working on will be disturbed.

  “What are you doing?”

  The final syllables get rougher and lose volume, because while he’s speaking, I pull down the waistband of his sweats to free his cock. And promptly wrap my lips around it. I suck, one hand gripping him at the base while the other cups his balls.

 
“Fuck,” he groans as he quickly hardens, growing impossibly big inside my mouth. “What’s this for?”

  I give the round swollen head a slow lick then release him for just long enough to tell him the truth.

  “Everything.”

  29. FOUR MINUTES, TOPS

  Mackenzie

  Is there anything quite as satisfying as a to-do list with every item checked off?

  I’ve got mine on the empty passenger seat beside me, covered in thick black lines indicating everything I accomplished today (because, yes, I’m the nerd who carries her physical list around along with a black Sharpie). I dropped some things off at the dry cleaners, got my hair trimmed, went grocery shopping, and even squeezed in a trip to Target where I bought some cute galaxy print leggings I can’t wait to wear to my next yoga class. I’m basically winning at adulting.

  But it wasn’t all responsible adult stuff … I was so excited about the watermelons I’d splurged on that I decided to send Graham a picture. He seems a little stressed lately, probably about everything that has to be done for the nonprofit, and I figured he could use a midday smile. So I propped my phone on top of my car, set the timer, and posed—right there in the parking lot with people staring; I held up two watermelons, balanced them against my chest like boobs, and pulled a goofy face.

  It’s something I never would have done five months ago. But that’s the effect Graham has on me — I give fewer fucks about the stuff that doesn’t matter, like the dirty look an old lady shot me for my display. What matters is that Graham will get a kick out of it, and making him happy makes me happy.

  In fact, I’m pretty damn happy in general. As I drive home, I don’t even try to hold back from grinning like a fool, letting that happiness sink in and warm me along with the beautiful sunny day shining through my windshield. It’s been one of the best summers I can ever remember. I’m not taking any classes and only working a few times a week at the yoga studio, so I have lots of time to spend with Graham. We’ve been making the most of it, doing couple-y things like going to movies and having picnics in parks, and riding the motorcycle everywhere (I even let him drive sometimes, since he has his license now).

  Every time I look in my rearview mirror, I catch sight of all the brown paper bags stuffed with groceries, so many that they’re filling my backseat door-to-door, and I even had to put some in the trunk. The visual just makes me think of Graham, since he’s the reason my grocery hauls have gotten bigger now that he “visits” at our place nearly every day. (I still won’t let him officially move in. It’s the principle of the thing.) It won’t be long before the whole “visitation” pretense falls apart completely, since I’ve already committed to moving into the house in Newton with him once my lease runs out. I still can’t believe that beautiful house is going to be his — ours. Graham made an offer right after we left last week, and the current owners accepted it two days ago.

  Even the watermelons now tucked into one of those grocery bags increase my happiness—watermelon just tastes like summer and good memories. We are definitely cutting these babies open tonight—maybe we’ll even infuse one with liquor like we used to do in college, when we’d cut a hole in the melon and stick an upside-down bottle of vodka in it for a day. We could even try tequila this time! Now I can barely wait until Graham and Marisa get home. I check the clock on my dash; Marisa should get out of work soon, and Graham is probably already on his way back from meeting with his lawyer.

  I park my car in our driveway. The other spots allotted to our apartment are empty, which confirms that neither of my “roommates” are back yet. For a moment I wish Graham was here to help carry these bags inside, but I quickly chide myself for the codependent thought. Shame on you, Mackenzie! You don’t need a man to carry heavy things for you! I won’t let a man—even Graham—make me forget or undervalue my own strength.

  It’s so hot that sweat forms on my skin the second I step out of the car. I move around to the back door and open it, but just as I’ve started reaching inside for the groceries, I suddenly feel a solid presence at my back. An arm wraps around me from behind and a voice—a man’s, unfamiliar—speaks right at my ear.

  “Hello, Mackenzie. Good to finally meet you.” My entire body stiffens.

  “Who are you?” Panic rises within me as his grip tightens, and he starts pulling me away from my car. “What are you doing?”

  Though I try to turn around to see his face, I only manage a glimpse of longish brown hair and pale blue eyes. What I do see clearly is something dark and metallic clasped in one of his hands—a gun.

  “We’re gonna get in my car and go someplace we can have a little more privacy.”

  My limbs come unfrozen as I snap out of my initial shock, and I try to struggle against his hold. Although his arm is thin, it’s surprisingly strong as he maintains his grip on me.

  “Let me go!” I gasp then start to yell for help. He cuts off my attempt, slapping a rough hand over my mouth—the same hand that’s holding the gun, so I can feel its cool metal surface against my skin.

  “Nuh-uh,” he growls.

  I have to get away from him. What do they always say about self-defense? Go for the balls.

  The positioning is awkward with my back still pressed against his front, but I kick backward blindly as hard as I can hoping to connect with the crown jewels. I miss, clipping him in what feels like the shin. He hisses in pain as he whirls me around and pushes me back against the side of my car.

  He’s facing me now, leaning in far too close and sneering at me open-mouthed, so I have a clear view of his uneven rotting teeth. I try to shrink away from him, repulsed by his acrid breath and the disturbing rage twisting his sallow features.

  “Listen up, bitch. I don’t wanna do this here, but if you’re gonna be trouble then I will,” he barks into my face.

  There’s a crazed look to his creepy eyes, made worse by the way his pupils are so dilated the ice blue of his irises are just a small ring around the black. Fear floods me all over, and I start struggling again. This time, I manage to lift my knee high enough to strike him in the nuts. He curses loudly, and I tense, hoping the pain will make him let me go and give me a chance to escape. Instead, he lashes out.

  Before I can even process what’s happening, much less duck, he hits me across the face with the body of his gun. My ears ring as the deafening crack of the impact reverberates repeatedly through my brain. Splitting pain along the right side of my face causes my vision to waver. The world tilts sideways and I stumble, falling backward so my head slams against my car before meeting the hard asphalt of my driveway with another nauseating crack.

  Blackness flickers at the edges of my vision, but I fight to stay conscious. I watch him through squinted eyes as he tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans before crouching down close. He pulls a large switchblade out from somewhere and caresses the dull end with a finger as he eyes me with sudden unnerving calm.

  “Pity. I wanted to have some more fun with you. But I do like the thought of Wyatt finding you here.”

  He grins and maintains eye contact as the knife descends and searing pain blazes in my shoulder. I scream, but the sound comes out hoarse and pitiful. In my peripheral vision I see a glint of sun along his blade, and I tense waiting for the next wave of pain, but it doesn’t come. I hear another man’s voice from somewhere close by just before my attacker abruptly disappears from my line of sight. I can hear the two male voices yelling from somewhere above me.

  The intense pain in my arm has cleared my mind a little, and I realize I need to try to take advantage of this opportunity while he’s distracted. Running is probably out of the question—I doubt I could stand up right now, much less make it very far without passing out. Instead, I start scanning the area around me looking for my phone. I can’t see my purse, but I do spot my keys on the ground where I must have dropped them. Figuring it’s better than nothing and not knowing how long I have before he comes back, I reach for them with my uninjured arm and close my h
and around the bundle of metal.

  A shadow falls over me as a large male body kneels down to my level. I use every bit of strength I can muster to swing at him with my good arm, hitting him in the face with my keys. He grunts but doesn’t move away, so I try to scream, still flailing and trying to strike him with the keys again.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay!” The hands on my shoulders are larger than before, and the voice is different. My vision is blurry, but I think I make out unfamiliar brown eyes.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Mr. Wyatt sent me.” The new voice repeats this a few times before the words register.

  My head is swimming. Mr. Wyatt? Why would Graham’s dad send him?

  “Mr. Wyatt?” I croak.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m private security. Graham Wyatt hired me to protect you.”

  At the sound of Graham’s name, I give up trying to fight. My whole body goes limp, my arm falling back to my side. I’ve exhausted every last drop of energy. I squeeze my eyes closed, but it doesn’t help the dizziness making my head feel like it’s floating, somehow not connected to the rest of my body.