by S. Ann Cole
Finally, he says, “Okay.”
I’m human after all, so I feel a sting, an unpleasant one, from his monosyllabic response. But, I can work with it. It’s better than I deserve.
I fall into him and press my face to his neck. He might not love me anymore, but he will again.
I’ll make sure of it.
Chapter THIRTY-TWO
“I miss them so much.”
Lexi
“Read us another one, Aunt Lexi!”
An oomphh leaves me as Uncle Franco’s youngest spawn dives onto my belly like I’m a freaking mattress, while the others laugh like it’s the funniest thing.
I slam the book shut and roll her off me. “That’s it for the night, you little rascals. It’s past your bedtime.”
All five of them whine in protest, giving me sad faces. I don’t fall for it this time, though. I’ve been trying to get out of here for the past two hours, but each time they’d give me sad faces and puppy dog eyes I’d end up caving and staying for “ten more minutes” to play games or read them stories. The little rebels know it’s well past their bedtime and are using me—sucker that I am— to stay up late. Uncle Franco warned me they were tricksters, and I didn’t listen.
“Come now!” I clap my hands to get them into action. “Under the covers.”
Realizing that I’m now immune to their tricks, they begrudgingly do as they’re told.
“Now, close your eyes and say your prayers before I turn out the lights.”
Eyes squeezed shut, small hands clasp together, and an inharmonious chorus of whispers ensue.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
Keep me safely through the night
And wake me up with morning light.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take
Amen.
I switch the lights off, close the door behind me, then pad down the hall. I find Mama in the kitchen pouring a cup of tea, wearing a frumpy nightie and with large rollers in her hair. I love her so much.
“Have they finally gone to sleep?” she asks me.
I snort. “I doubt it.”
“No escuchas,” she scolds me. “I don’t know why these little ones do not like to sleep.”
As a cacophony of noise from the adults drinking and gambling out on the veranda spills into the house, I arch an answering brow at her and grin. It’s almost midnight. “I think you’re the only person in this house who actually likes to sleep, Mama.”
On cue, a yawn pries her lips apart and she shakes her head. “And then they crawl around like caracoles in the daytime.” She dunks a teabag. “You never told me if we will have to go away when all the work starts?”
“No, Mama. I’m doing add-ons. There’ll be no knocking down of any walls or anything so your life will be disrupted as little as possible,” I tell her. “Things will, of course, be noisy and messy in the daytime, but you’ll be at the restaurant anyway, so all should be fine. Plus I’ve put Uncle Lenny in charge of overseeing everything since this is his wheelhouse. You don’t need to worry about anything, Mama.”
I’ve decided to use the “reparation” money to build on three more rooms and two bathrooms to the house. The living situation here is just too crazy. Too many occupants for such a small space. And since it doesn’t seem as if anyone plans on leaving anytime soon—if ever—I’ve chosen to do it for the sake of the kids. We have the land space to accommodate the additions. The backyard will shrink to next to nothing, but something had to give.
“Okay, that is good.” Mama picks up her steaming mug and moves in to kiss my cheek. “Buenas noches, hija mía. Te quiero.”
As she shuffles out of the kitchen and down the hall, I grab a beer from the fridge and amble out to the veranda. Leaning against the wall, I take a swig of beer and watch the Mendez family drink, eat, play, and enjoy life.
The morning after my balcony moment with Trent, I woke up with a strong and aching urge to be around my family. Inexplicably, mind-bogglingly, I’d suddenly missed them in a way I never had before.
So I told Trent I needed to be with them for a while and, without question, he drove me here.
My entire life, everyone in my family—except Mama—irritated me. That irritation then morphed into resentment when Mama got sick, and no one stepped up to the plate. Yet, somehow, the two weeks that I’ve been here with them so far has filled a hole in me that I had no idea was even there.
Only now do I understand why, as dependent, unambitious, and unreliable as these people are, Mama still keeps them around.
I still don’t like them, and I’m still chafed by them, but I do love them.
Taking another a swig of beer, I walk over to the dominoes table, pull out a chair, and join the game.
~
It’s around 2 a.m. when I pull myself away from the game table with a yawn and bid my family goodnight. It’s the weekend, so they’ll probably go all night, and I cannot keep up with them.
I cross the street to Monica’s. With five kiddies crammed in my old room, there’s zero space at the house for me aside from Mama’s bed, so Monica welcomed me into hers, as usual.
Letting myself inside with the key she gave me, I’m not expecting anyone to be up at this time, but a soft yellow glow spills into the entryway from the living room.
As I pad into the room and round the large family couch, Monica comes into view. She’s on the floor, her knees tucked under her, albums and loose photos scattered all around her. A large album is opened in her lap, her head down, a curtain of tight curls hiding her face.
“Monica?”
She must not have heard me come in because she jerks in surprise, her head snapping up.
And my heart falters at the rivulet of tears down her face, the clumping wetness of her lashes.
With quick hands, she tries to wipe them away. “Oh, hey, Lexi. I thought you’d gone up already.”
I clutch the keys in my hand and point dumbly in the direction of the front windows. “No, I was playing dominoes with the fam.”
She bites her lip and nods. “That’s good. That’s really good. Family is good.”
I go and kneel down beside her amidst all the open albums and loose photos. Wedding photos, baby photos, birthday parties, beach days… “Do you mind if I ask what’s wrong?”
With a jerky shake of her head, she brushes her fingers over one of the pictures in the album on her lap. It’s a picture of the entire immediate family: Her, Flavio, Tripp, Tillie, True, Trent, Torin, and…me. Torin’s arm is around my shoulders, and though it looks casual in the photo, I’m certain we were dating in secret here.
I don’t remember exactly when this photo was taken, but in it we are by the poolside in the backyard, all grinning happily.
“I just wish I could go back…into these moments,” Monica murmurs. “I miss them so much.”
Most mothers would be happy that their kids have grown up, moved out, and no longer needed them. But I’ve been around here long enough to understand who Monica is: She’s a nurturer. She lives to give of herself and thrives on being needed. Her family is her purpose.
Knowing that, it will be a waste of time to remind her that, with the exception of her beloved Flavio, she still has her family. If I do, she would tell me “it’s not the same” and I would understand what she means.
So, I reach down and flip to the next picture in the album, and together we look through them, all of them, reminiscing on memories that aren’t even mine.
~
Monica falls asleep on the couch while regaling me with stories of her boys when they were kiddies. I fetch a blanket from upstairs to cover her, then quietly gather up the albums and pack them away.
After, I take a warm bath and climb in bed, but have trouble falling asleep. Restless, I flip back the covers and pad out to the kitchen and make myself a cup of chamomile tea in the hopes that it’ll help.
Mug hot between m
y palms, I meander about the house as I sip chamomile, the heat warming me from the inside out. I’ve somehow found myself outside Trent’s old room.
I test the knob and discover it’s unlocked.
I let myself in.
It looks just as I remember it—Lakers posters all over the dark-blue walls, a chest covered in basketball stickers at the foot of the bed, a desk and chair next to the window, a beanbag in the corner, and a basketball hoop on the far wall.
Though, it didn’t used to be as clean and tidy as it is right now. Because he’s no longer here, duh.
I drift over to his dresser, touching the items there. A globe map, a bobble-head Michael Jordan, and a framed picture of Monica and Flavio.
I squint when I notice something folded up and stuck into the lower corner of the dresser mirror. Setting the mug down, I pluck it out and unfold it.
It’s a picture of me. I can’t have been more than fifteen and I’m smiling cheekily with a finger to my bottom lip. It’s difficult to tell when or where it was taken because whoever else was in the picture with me has been cut out, the edges jagged and worn.
I flip it over and find scribblings on the back.
I love you.
I hate you.
I lied. I still love you.
But I really, really wish I could hate you.
Judging from pen point and ink, all four lines were written at different times. And my heart breaks for teenage Trent. To be in love with a stupid, oblivious, self-absorbed girl who looked him over and went straight for the older brother. That couldn’t have been easy for him to deal with or accept. Especially at an age where we barely understood our emotions or how to process our feelings. I understand now why he’d turned to Maggie.
If he’d resented me back then, he never showed it, because I never felt it. He used to piss me off, irritate me, press my buttons, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt real hate from him. Ever.
But I really, really wish I could hate you.
Pressing the picture to my chest, I pad to his bed and flop back on it, staring up at the plain ceiling. I want to text him and tell him I’m in his room, but I don’t have a phone, as I’ve decided to remain unplugged while I’m here.
Trent and I haven’t spoken since he dropped me off two weeks ago. Monica told me he called for me several times on the house phone when I wasn’t there, but I’m yet to return any of his calls. I figure it can’t hurt to see if, after an extended time of not seeing or speaking to him, my feelings will remain the same. Just so I know this is not some “Ohmygod, I almost died, life is so short and precious, so I love you and want to spend the rest of it with you” phase.
I’m quite often fickle and impetuous, so I want to be sure this is true, and genuine, and real. Because that man, that wonderful, amazing, beautiful man, does not deserve anymore of my fuckery. He deserves the best of me, all that I am and can be, doing right by him and making up for lost time, so I need to make damn sure my heart is in the right place.
Rolling onto my side, I pull my knees up to my chest.
My restlessness is no more.
In no time at all, I’m lost in unconsciousness.
Chapter THIRTY-THREE
“What’s the verdict?”
Lexi
I exit the bathroom and cross the hall to Trent’s old room, stopping short when I find Monica sitting on the bed with the cordless phone in hand.
With a sigh, she stands and hold out the phone to me.
I begin to shake my head no, petrified, but she grabs my hand and forces the phone into my palm until I have no choice but to close my fingers around it lest it falls to the floor. “He didn’t want to wait for a call-back this time.”
As she walks past me and leaves the room, I look down at the screen, at the running minutes.
Trent
12:18
He’s been waiting on the phone for twelve minutes?
In the week and a half, I’ve since ditched the guestroom and have been sleeping in his childhood bed, drowning in nostalgia, but still haven’t returned his calls. Twice he’d showed up at Mama’s restaurant looking for me and I made her lie to him that I wasn’t there. Another time he showed up at the house and I hid and made Monica lie that I’d gone for the night with Maggie.
Suffice it to say, both mothers are sick of my antics and cowardice and warned me they wouldn’t lie for me again.
But I know he knew they were lying. Red Cage has hidden cameras all around Monica’s property, and I’m strongly convinced they have surveillance on Mama’s restaurant, too.
Trent is watching me. I feel it. I’m his and he knows it.
And that knowledge makes me feel…safe. Less guilty for all this space I’ve nonverbally asked for.
That separation test I’ve been conducting? Yeah, it has worked so well giving me the confirmation that I needed, that now I’m terrified. Each day, being away from him becomes more and more suffocating. I craved and ached for him, itched to call him, touch him, kiss him, and wrap myself around him.
And that need, that desperate, helpless need, has me scared shitless.
Now I’m questioning if loving someone this much, needing someone this much is even healthy.
Still, the deeper my desperation grows, the bigger my desire swells, the more I’ve punitively deprived myself.
What have I learned from this break? That there’s no way…no way in hell or on earth I could ever live without this man.
Inhaling a deep, bolstering breath, I lift the phone to my ear. “Hi.”
“What’s the verdict?” he asks without preamble or pleasantry. And although his voice is devoid of warmth and patience and a tad on the cold side, just hearing it sends undulating waves of tremors down my spine.
“What verdict?”
“Are you leaving me, or are you staying?”
With damp hair limp and clumpy against my shoulders, I walk over to the bed and sit down. “I told you I’m staying.”
“Yeah, but see, I didn’t believe you.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t,” he affirms. “Figured you were just overwhelmed and emotional after all that happened, talking from a place of fear. When you got up with cold feet the next morning and ran, you proved me right.
“I’ve respected your wishes and given you your time. But it’s been almost a month now, more than enough time to know if you want to be with me or not. So lemme have it.”
He’d not believed me. Thought I was just emotional and overwhelmed. All this time... “That’s what you think? That I had cold feet and ran?”
“Yeah.”
You’re so wrong, Trent. So wrong. “I love you.”
“But?” he asks, voice clipped.
Frustration creeps up my throat, though it’s more at myself than at him. For doing this to him. Staying away for so long, causing him to doubt me. “But nothing! I love you. I’m in love with you. I want to be with you. I’m staying with you. There’s nothing else!”
A long pause, before, “Okay.”
The call disconnects.
I stare at the phone, thrown and bewildered. What the hell just happened?
~
Soft kisses along my shoulder coax me from the sweet oblivion of sleep. I stir, creeping sluggishly up the aisle of awareness.
A low hum sings on the roof above, pitter-pattering against the windows.
Heat and hardness press up against my back, fingers whispering down my side.
A sweet, nipple-tightening thrill vibrates under my skin, strumming me alive, I press back encouragingly against the wall of patience, compassion, and heart-ensnaring hotness behind me. Submitting completely.
A calloused hand slips under my nightdress and drifts up my body, curving around my breasts, squeezing gently. My nipples tingle with excitement.
A deep groan reverberates through me and settles between my thighs. Kisses along my neck, shoulder, and upper-back become more feverish, hungry, wanting.
I reach beh
ind me and find the thing my body is writhing for, aching for. It’s bare, and hard, and warm, and ready. I wrap my fingers around it and it twitches in my palm.
A longer, deeper groan resounds through me this time, settling in that pulsing, swelling, starving bundle of nerves between my thighs.
I squeeze, stroke, pet... “Mine,” I breathe.
Singed with desire, trembling for more, I let go and impatiently rip the thing that separates us down and off my legs. “Take me,” I beg with a voice so desperate it sounds foreign to my ears, pushing my ass back.
Lips suck on the soft skin of my neck at the same time I’m filled with a mind-shattering fullness. I press my face into the pillow and moan, trying not to weep from the sheer beauty of it.
He moves inside me. Slow and controlled, as one hand dips between my thighs and massages me.
How could I have done this to myself? Deprived myself of such felicitous glory for so long?
Ecstasy consumes me as our bodies dance and sing together, and before long, a hoarse scream rips up my throat and bursts through my lips.
His large, rough palm covers over my mouth to silence me, but it’s too intense and all-consuming to suppress so I sink my teeth into his flesh as brain-rattling judders awash me, squeezing every last bit of sense and sensibility from me.
I’ve barely descended to consciousness again when I’m flipped onto my back, my legs pressing apart as his width and weight settles between them, and…I’m filled again. Yes.
Eyes shut tight as I chase the fading waves of my orgasm, I damn near weep, “I missed you so much. Ohgod, I missed you. So much.”
“Yeah?” Strong, turbulent thrusts rock me, knocking me further and further up the bed. “Then why’ve you been away for so long?”
“To punish myself.” I grip what I can of the headboard to withstand his thrusts. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to feel this fucking good. This in love.” I emit an embarrassing sound as a surge of intensifying pleasure zips through me. “I don’t deserve…you.”