The General

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "This is the first time I've spent a New Years with someone since I was barely more than a kid," she told me, chancing a look at me from under her lashes.

  "This is the first time I've watched the ball drop in... likely the same span of time."

  To that, she bumped me with her shoulder. And didn't move it back away, let it stay settled there as our attention went to the television, both of us pretending we were actually watching.

  And, hell, maybe she was.

  Maybe I was alone in my inability to focus, to think of anything but the way I could feel her body heat all along my side when she shifted, pulling her legs out from under her when they likely started to tingle, angling them in my direction, almost touching me. An hour past in silence. She shifted again, this time, her knees resting up on my thigh.

  I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. That it was just a small couch, that we were bound to touch when trying to get - or stay - comfortable. When that didn't work for long, I went with my trusty old excuses for why I needed to keep sitting there stiff as a goddamn board, refusing to reach out like everything in me was screaming for me to do.

  She was a client.

  It was unprofessional.

  She was going through some shit.

  She didn't need another man in her life.

  The countdown started at twenty and with each drop downward, my heart seemed to thud harder and harder.

  Three...

  Two...

  One.

  The screams erupted for the barest of seconds before half of the crowd fell silent, turning to their partners, locking lips.

  Jenny seemed to stop breathing entirely, her body as tense as mine.

  Oh, fuck it.

  My hand moved out, gently touching her chin, giving her the chance to jerk it free, refuse this, refuse me, confirm that I was alone in these feelings.

  But she didn't jerk away.

  Her head ducked slightly for a second before her head turned slowly, her lashes fluttering open, all that brilliant blue. And all I saw there was want. Want as strong as my own.

  I leaned forward, closing my lips over hers, hearing and feeling her breath catch at the contact.

  Emboldened, my lips pressed harder, demanded a response.

  And she gave it.

  Instantly.

  Thoroughly.

  Her hand pressed down on my thigh, allowing her to shift to get better leverage as my teeth nipped her lower lip gently, seeking entrance. The whimper she let out gave it to me, my tongue moving inside to claim hers. And at the contact, a shiver coursed through her body; her hand on my thigh curled, scrunching up the material of my suit pants.

  I knew I could do it.

  Press her back on the couch, run my hand over her body, slip under her shirt, down into her panties, peel the layers off, settle between her thighs, seek entrance into her body.

  I could.

  We could.

  But as much as my body wanted it, I knew we shouldn't.

  My lips got softer before pulling away completely, pressing my forehead to hers.

  "Happy New Year, Jenny," I told her, not even trying to hide the need in my voice.

  "Happy New Year, Smith."

  Smith.

  She didn't even have my first name.

  And, both of us seemed to realize that at the exact same second, pulling away, putting space between us.

  I opened the champagne.

  We drank.

  We popped confetti wands with next to no enthusiasm.

  And then we went to bed.

  In separate rooms.

  And I tried like fuck to fight the thoughts.

  But, in the end, in those weak moments right before sleep, there was no stopping them.

  And the strongest, most persistent of them was also the simplest.

  I was pretty sure I was starting to fall for her.

  SIX

  Jenny

  He kissed me.

  He kissed me.

  After the ball dropped.

  At midnight.

  On New Year's Eve.

  It was practically the stuff of a fairy tales.

  But fairy tales, I had learned as a little girl, all had villains. And in this one, that was my own damn head. It was the ugly, insecure, defeated part of me that screamed that I could never have anything like that, anything resembling a fairy tales.

  Women like me, beaten down to dust, we didn't get happily ever afters. We didn't get men who wanted to get down on their hands and knees, gather us up, piece us back together.

  Why would any man want to put that much work in when there were hundreds, thousands, millions of other girls out there who hadn't been ground into a fine dust.

  As I sat there after, my lips still tingling, my chin and cheeks warm from the brush of his beard, my heart skittering around in my chest - a wild animal caught in a trap, the reality came down on me hard, slamming into my shoulders so hard I would swear I lost a whole inch of height.

  Pity.

  It was a pity kiss.

  Because he felt bad for me.

  Because I gave him my sob story about my lonely New Year's Eve tradition.

  Because Smith was a good man. And good men tried to make sad women feel better.

  Tears stung relentlessly at my eyes as I sipped champagne, feeling the bubbles tickle up into my nose, something I would normally smile about, maybe say something about, but I was too focused on slow blinking the wetness away.

  I didn't cry when I was sad.

  I didn't let the world at large get another chunk of me like that.

  I fought the tears back. I hoarded them. Saved them for when I was alone. In the shower. Water steaming up, some music playing through my Bluetooth speaker. Then I sat on the cold stone seat built within. And I purged. Salt and fresh water combined as I drained it all, then washed it all away.

  And after popping the confetti all over my floor, not even feeling a moment of satisfaction over the idea of Maritza having to get on her hands and knees to pick out the pieces when she came back the day after New Year's Day, that was exactly what I did.

  I got in my shower.

  I purged it all.

  Then I did what years of doing so taught me to do. I cold compressed my eyes until there wasn't going to be any swelling or redness in the morning.

  Then finally, finally, I got into bed.

  I started my New Year crying in my shower.

  Yeah, that seemed about right.

  Even if Teddy was gone.

  Even if I was technically free.

  It sounded about right that crying alone where no one could hear me would be my fate.

  I woke up feeling sorry for myself, tossing and turning in bed with the hopes that sleep would claim me again, wash me off into a wave of oblivion for a few more hours.

  But I had no such luck.

  So I did the next best thing.

  I did what I had been doing for almost fifteen years.

  I got up, washed, dried, styled my hair. I put on some mascara. I put on high waisted gray slacks and a gray and white striped blouse.

  If I couldn't actually be happy and put together, well, I damn sure could fake it. I had been doing it for so long that I could almost believe it.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  I slipped into boots and made my way downstairs, wondering if Smith would see through it, if he would care enough even to try.

  But a wrench was thrown in the works when my foot met the top stair and I heard a voice inside my house, talking with Smith's much more welcome one.

  Bertram.

  As if I needed one more thing...

  Oh, well, I decided, taking a deep breath, forcing myself to start down the stairs. I had to deal with what I had to deal with.

  "Jennifer," Bertram's voice called, cooler even than usual. Which was really saying something. "I should wish you a Happy New Year."

  He should.

  But if you paid really close
attention, he actually didn't.

  And I couldn't quite muster the level of fakeness it would take to wish him one either.

  "Thank you. Is something wrong? Have they found Teddy's killer?" I asked, letting my voice get breathless, hopeful.

  "Unfortunately, no," he said, shaking his head. "I am afraid, my dear, we may need to resign ourselves to the fact that we may never know who - or why - this person was or why this happened. I know that is hard to hear, but we are just going to need to be strong. No hysterics over something we can't change."

  By we he meant me.

  And every feminist in a five-mile radius was stiffening at the suggestion that I may get hysterical.

  "We will find a way past this," I agreed, giving him a nod. "Did you need something?" I asked when he had yet to explain his presence. Because, to him, this was his home to come and go in and out of as he pleased.

  "I am just here to discuss the funeral," he told me.

  The funeral.

  Granted, I didn't want the responsibility of handling it, but it still bothered me that he overstepped, he took control yet again.

  Maren had been right. I wouldn't actually be free until he no longer had a grip on anything in my life.

  This funeral was one of the few things left.

  Then I needed to set up meetings with the lawyers and the financial consultant - two men I had only ever met when they needed my signature on something or another.

  Once all that was settled, then I could maybe start making some changes.

  Maybe.

  "I wasn't aware they had even released Teddy's body," I told him, the words pointed, but the tone a mix of confused and sad. The sad, at least, I didn't have to fake. It just wasn't for the reason it appeared to be.

  "Yes, well. After your ordeal, I decided to take over. To ease your burden," he specified. And by 'ease your burden' he absolutely meant 'wanted to make sure your trailer trash self didn't embarrass me.' "I have been handling the arrangements. The announcements are going out as we speak. The day after tomorrow. At the family plot." The family plot that I didn't have a space in. Not even after fifteen years of marriage. Three generations of Ericssons - and their wives - were buried there. There was room for three more generations. Except me. It shouldn't have - since I had no interest in being buried there. Or buried at all. But it still bothered me. The way I was always an outsider. That no one actually ever accepted me no matter how much I learned, how hard I tried, how much I bettered myself.

  "Of course. What time?"

  "Ten in the morning. Followed by a service at the club. I decided against a wake," he added, shrugging off the idea that I may have wanted one. "You will need appropriate attire," he told me, making my spine stiffen. I may not have grown up in his world, but everyone - even girls so poor they didn't ever have wrapping paper if they did manage to get presents on birthdays - knew how to dress for a funeral.

  "That was our plan today, sir," Smith cut in, seeming to sense my inability to mark my tone. Or even find any words at all to say. "We were going to go get Mrs. Ericsson something for the service."

  "Yes, good. I'm sure, by now, you know what kind of dress is expected." Humiliation, unwelcome but unstoppable because while this was nothing new for me, it was the first time Smith was here to witness the way the people in this world could shame me for not being born one of them. "And, please, Jennifer, see about getting your hair done. A facial. And those nails are a disgrace as well. You don't want people seeing you this way."

  And that was the wind that blew away most of the dust that was left of me, just leaving a tiny speck, nearly nothing. I certainly felt like nothing.

  "We will make sure everything is as it should be," Smith cut in when I continued to stand there, mute, embarrassed, damn near close to crying.

  "Make sure of it," he said to both of us before excusing himself.

  It wasn't until the car started and backed out of the driveway that the silence between us was broken.

  "That mother fucking asshole," Smith growled, his voice vehement. Then, turning to me, "Are you alright?"

  "Oh, just another drive-by ego-deflating," I said, trying to shrug it off, trying not to let it be obvious just how much that bothered me.

  "Sweetheart, you deserve a fucking award for your self-control. It must have taken everything in you not to haul off and punch him."

  "You... get used to it," I told him, shrugging, making my way to the kitchen for tea. If I hadn't already brushed my teeth, I would probably go hard on those leftovers. Stress eating. I had never been allowed to before, but I finally understood the compulsion. Even if my top button on pants that had fit me just fine two weeks before was suddenly pressing into my belly a bit uncomfortably. "I'm surprised he didn't make a comment about me Taking care of myself."

  "Isn't that what he said? About your hair and skin and nails?"

  "Oh, no. That is just basic maintenance in his eyes. Like shaving legs or brushing teeth. When people in this circle say Taking care of yourself they mean dieting and working out."

  "Why would he make a comment about that?"

  "Because I'm getting fat."

  So unprepared for the scoff, I jumped, turning back from where I had been reaching to put the kettle on. Seeing the confusion in my drawn-together brows, he cursed. Rather savagely. "Okay. First, you're not getting fat. Someone could snap your arm with two fingers. Second, you're going to need to try to stop letting your late husband's words come out of your mouth. You're not fat. You know you're not fat. You probably couldn't even get fat. Unless you start double-fisting bacon cheeseburgers day and night. See yourself through your own eyes. Not his."

  "I know I'm not fat," I agreed, cringing that I had even said that. I hated it. When women who were clearly very in shape said they were fat just to get people to tell them they weren't. In fact, I hated the word in general. Fat was something people had, not something they were. "But my pants are getting tighter," I added, giving him a smile because it felt safe to joke about this with him. "My button is pressing in."

  "Good."

  "What?" I asked, shaking my head. Going up a size was almost never a good thing. At least not in the female world.

  "I said good. I'm no doctor, but I think your late husband kept you underweight. It's good you are getting a little more padding on."

  "If it keeps up, I'm going to need to get... foundation garments," I told him in a faux grave whisper.

  "I am going to assume that would be really funny. If I knew what the fuck a foundation garment was."

  "Ever hear of Spanx?"

  "Those fucking things. Lincoln has a great story about needing to cut a woman out of them. It's hilarious. Make sure he tells you it sometime."

  "Now I have to hear it," I agreed, feeling a weight lift, moving to make my tea. And, while I was at it, putting a pod into the Keurig for him.

  "So we know where we want to shop today. But where do we need to shop? I figure maybe we could get that out of the way first."

  "Um, do you know the boutique stre..."

  "Yep. Got it," he cut me off.

  "I promise it won't be long. I am just going to grab something off a shelf."

  I had a couple staple black dresses. But they were either cocktail or evening types. I needed something a little in between. Black, A-line, with a high bodice and long hem.

  "Doesn't matter if it takes a while," he told me, accepting his coffee as he went to make us both oatmeal. He did it from scratch since Lydia kept plain oatmeal stocked. He threw it in a pot with water, cinnamon, and little chunks of apple. As someone who grew up on instant apple cinnamon oatmeal, I had to say, this was infinitely better.

  "We will do something positively blasphemous for lunch," he told me, eyes full of mischief. "Something your silver spoon people would gasp about."

  "You mean fast food, don't you?"

  "I bet you haven't had a drive-through burger since you were a kid either."

  "Chicken," I corrected, "not burgers. But no.
I want onion rings too."

  "You'll have them," he agreed as we finished out oatmeal, rinsing the bowls, leaving them for later. Or for Maritza. Whichever. "Go grab a jacket," he told me, putting the ingredients away - oats back in the pantry, cut up apples in a plastic container for the next morning. "Oh, thank God," he said when I walked back in a moment later.

  "What?" I asked, looking down at the simple black ankle-skirting jacket. It wasn't super warm, but it was lined at least.

  "I was half-worried you'd come back in fur."

  "Drew my line there," I said, wrinkling my nose. "Teddy used to tease me about it at events. His bleeding heart wife who didn't like the idea of little foxes being skinned. As if anyone on Earth should ever be okay with that except in survival situations."

  "Good for you. It is a ridiculous industry."

  "Are we taking your car or mine?" I asked, thinking of my Porsche sitting in the garage unused for weeks."

  "Mine is out," he said, shrugging into his dressier jacket. When he'd first arrived, it had been the leather one. But that wouldn't work with a suit. So he had on a black peacoat instead. I preferred the old, loved leather one even if it did make a mockery of my argument against furs. I also preferred him in the clothes he liked instead of the ones Bertram made him wear.

  Half an hour later, we were walking down the street toward the shop. This was a part of town that never got deserted, not even in the blistering cold. The parking was in the center of the town, leaving everyone walking to the restaurants, shops, and maybe most especially, the Starbucks. But we had She's Bean Around in hand which was a thousand times better than any Starbucks in my opinion. And because the town was never dead, people were milling around. Many of them female. And all of them eyeing Smith.

  It almost made me want to link my arm through his, claim him. But he wasn't mine.

  One pity kiss did not a relationship make. No matter what my body had been screaming since he first touched my chin at midnight.