by Nell Iris
This time around, the dimples don’t make me weak in the knees, and I’m relieved. I haven’t seen him since I threw him out, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve been a little worried about running into him. He used to know exactly how to get me to eat out of his hand, and I feared he’d still have that hold over me.
But he doesn’t. Seeing him today only makes me itch, and I wanna get out of here. He’s the last thing I need, especially after the day I had.
“Sure,” I say, getting to my feet. “And now you’ve said it. Bye.” Without giving him another look, I walk out. Calm, not rushing. Even though it’s more of an escape than an unflappable retreat, I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. He yells my name, but I don’t stop or turn around. Instead, I jump into my car and drive home where I throw off my clothes, step into the shower, and scrub this freaking day off my skin.
* * * *
When Pippin gets home, I’m balancing on a ladder up by the ceiling, furiously sanding the walls in tempo with Slayer growling about blood raining from the sky.
Pippin looks at me with a raised eyebrow and the hint of an amused smile when I wave at him but make no effort to climb down or lower the volume. The music is so loud, the neighbors three blocks over can probably figure out my state of mind.
But Pippin doesn’t complain. He walks into the kitchen and reappears a minute later with a bottle of water in his hand. He stops at the closet and grabs a stack of clothes that he brings with him into the bathroom, and when he resurfaces, he’s dressed in a ratty old T-shirt and loose, holey jeans. He takes in what I’m doing, then starts to help, sanding on the lower part of the walls.
We work alongside each other, without talking, for a long time. He helps me move the ladder when I climb down, but doesn’t try to get me to talk.
As the time passes, my bad mood gradually vanishes. His easy acceptance, his sunny smile, and the awkward way he tries to bob his head to the furiously fast music make my insides warm and tingly.
When I realize I spend more time sneaking glances of him than working, I climb down and turn off the music. He jolts when the lightning-fast guitar-playing and frantic drumming is cut off.
The silence is deafening, and my ears ring.
“Want a beer?” I ask, my voice unnaturally loud in the now-quiet house.
“Sure.”
I fetch a couple Budweisers from the fridge and hand him one. After guzzling half the bottle’s contents, I put it on the floor, grab my T-shirt by the neck, and pull it over my head. With a huff, I wipe my face with it, and swipe it over my arms and torso before tossing it in the direction of my bedroom, not caring where it lands.
When I turn to look at Pippin, his hand is suspended mid-air—the beer bottle half-way to his mouth—and his gaze glued to my bare chest. He licks his lips and swallows, eyes flitting from one spot to the next, examining my ink. The abstract angel wings covering my pecs. The moth directly underneath it. Then his eyes chase the happy-trail down my stomach and remain on the spot where the hair disappears into my jeans.
His throat works and his expression is hungry, as though he would fall to his knees and lick me all over if given the opportunity.
My mouth goes dry. I never expected him to look at me like that, as though I’m a tall glass of cold water and he’s been lost in the desert for weeks. As though he hasn’t seen anything as great as me in his whole life.
It’s a heady feeling, and warmth pools in the pit of my stomach. I don’t dare to move; I want him to look at me like that forever.
But something pulls him out of his trance; his hand continues its trajectory and he gulps the beer. Pink colors his cheeks and his neck.
I don’t comment on what just happened. But I don’t put on a shirt either.
A couple moments—minutes, hours, days?—later, he’s collected himself enough to speak. “So…bad day, huh?”
I groan and pull the tarp off the couch so I can throw myself down on it. “You have no idea.”
He sits, too, but perched on the edge as though he’s ready to flee if necessary. “Wanna talk about it?”
My first instinct is to say “no”—I never want to talk about crap—but I promised myself to be honest about his mom’s visit, and I’m not about to break that promise.
“Yeah.” I lean back my head and close my eyes, letting out a deep sigh.
Pippin shifts on the couch, moving closer. After a few heartbeats, his hand nudges mine. I hook my pinkie with his, the humble touch shooting sparks up my arm.
“Your mom came for a visit earlier.”
He stiffens. “Mom? She came here? “
“Yeah.”
“What did she want?” He sounds as stunned as I felt when I opened the door earlier, so I turn my head to look at him.
“She worries about you.”
He snorts. “Right.”
My heart clenches. “Don’t,” I blurt and surprise myself.
His eyes widen. “Surely, you’re not defending her, Ashley? You’ve never said anything, but you can’t fool me. I know how you feel about her.”
I squeeze his pinkie. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“Just…bein’ bitter doesn’t suit you. I’ve wondered a long time why you aren’t angry about your situation…you should be angry. But hearin’ you like that feels wrong. You’re a ray of sunshine, Pippin, and I don’t want you to change.”
His lower lip trembles and he weaves his fingers with mine. “Tell me what she said?”
I do, I tell him everything, even the part about his big sister Merry, but he already knew about her. I’m meticulous, trying to remember her exact words, and whenever he asks for clarification, I give it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers when I finish.
“Why?”
“I’m sorry she said those things to you.”
“Not your fault, darlin’.”
“If I hadn’t been sleeping here at your place…”
“Pippin.” I give his hand a quick squeeze. “If you hadn’t been here, my house would have been empty and lonely and sad.”
“Oh.” He lifts our joined hands and presses them against his heart. Then he scoots closer until his side is pressed against mine. “Thank you for telling me,” he mumbles after several minutes of silence.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I caress his hand with my thumb, letting my body do the talking.
Chapter 7
Things change between us after that night. He’s even more open with his touches; he makes sure to brush against my hand in the mornings when he gives me my mug of hot chocolate. He hugs me, wishing me a good sleep before I go to bed, and it’s not a friendly embrace with the appropriate distance between our bodies. No, he cuddles up close, plasters himself against me and holds me tight.
His slim body against mine feels heavenly. He’s no longer as gaunt as he used to be—regular meals at my house have helped with that—but he’s still willowy and waif-like. He’s half as broad as I am, and when I hold him in my arms, I feel like I’m his protector, as someone who’d take on the world for him.
He’s not hiding the way he looks at me. His gaze lingers, and the emotions in his eyes range from fondness to blazing fire.
Day by day, his behavior convinces me that he likes me, and not only as a friend, but more. He’s so earnest and there’s no way he’s faking it, or that what he’s feeling is just gratitude for me being there for him.
The way his eyes burn when he looks at my body, the way he can’t tear his gaze away from a glimpse of my ink or my fur, make me trust that the sixteen-year age-gap doesn’t bother him the way I expected it to. His eagerness and open admiration make me view myself differently. Like I’m someone who’s worthy of his affection.
So I allow myself to be open about looking back. I don’t try to hide the lingering gazes on his long legs, slim hips, and high, round bubble butt. I allow myself to fantasize about how all his pale, glorious skin would feel under my callused
palms, and what he tastes like.
I dream about his lush full mouth and what it would feel like on my body. I wake up hard and aching, pressing into the mattress, chasing release, and am disappointed every time I wake up alone. I wish I could walk out to the living room, pick him up, and carry him into my bed, where I’d worship his body and soul, and fall asleep curled around him.
He possesses my mind in a way no one has ever done before. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life, not even Lyin’ Dave back when I still thought I loved him.
And my infatuation turns into something else—something much deeper—that Wednesday afternoon when I’m babysitting my niece because my sister has a job interview and needed someone to watch her baby girl and to borrow my car.
Pippin has the afternoon off for once and joins us. Minnie falls in love with him the second she meets him; her little heart-shaped face shines bright as the North Star when he talks to her and focuses all his attention on her.
We’ve finally had some snow, and my backyard is an untouched sea of pristine whiteness, something Minnie can’t resist. We all get dressed in warm clothes—I bought a real winter coat for Pippin a couple weeks ago and earned myself some scowling and grumbling before he accepted it—and go out to play.
Minnie and Pippin throw themselves into the snow, competing against each other who can make the most footprints. Minnie tires quickly but Pippin notices and slows down, suggesting they build a snowman instead of running around like loons. It’s a little too cold to be optimal conditions for such an activity, but their stubbornness and tenacity win in the end.
I don’t participate; I’m perfectly happy just being perched on the porch steps, looking at my two favorite people in the whole world.
The way Minnie immediately trusts Pippin and talks to him about everything and nothing warms my heart. He listens attentively as he builds the snowman, making it seem like she’s the one doing most of the work, but it’s really him.
After the snowman is finished—he’s crooked and barely holding together and he has a stick for a nose because I’m out of carrots, but they’re both proud as punch and beam at me when I clap my hands—Pippin convinces Minnie that snow engineers like her need a couch to rest on, so they build one out of snow.
He doesn’t forget her weak heart for a second, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it either. Here in my backyard, he makes her feel like she’s just a normal kid having fun in the snow and not the little girl with the sick heart who’s never allowed to run free like she wants.
The way my chest aches when I look at them almost makes me think my heart is the sick one, but it’s the complete opposite. It’s healthy and bursting with emotions, and I don’t know how to handle it. It’s as though the sun took up residence inside of me, trying to warm up the entire world, starting with my heart.
They’re both lounging on the snow couch when my sister arrives.
“Mom! Uncle Buck! Look at us!” Minnie calls. There wasn’t enough snow to build a full-size couch, so it’s more like a cramped love seat and very low to the ground. It’s perfect for Minnie, but Pippin’s folded in half with his knees up by his ears, looking ridiculous and adorable, and I wave at them with my face stretched in a wide, goofy smile.
Aubrey doesn’t say anything at first, but I can feel her eyes on me. I let her mull over whatever she’s thinking about; I know her, she’ll spill eventually. She can’t shut up if her life depends on it.
“What are you doing, brother?” she asks after a few minutes of intense scrutiny.
“Watchin’ your kid play in the snow.”
She elbows me in my side, and I yelp. She’s sharp angles and fierceness. “Not what I meant, and you know it.”
“I know.”
“Are you gonna answer me?”
Sighing, I shrug. “I don’t really know what I’m doin’.”
“You look at him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread.”
I don’t deny it. Sliced bread’s got nothing on Pippin.
“Are you sure about this?” she asks when she realizes I won’t volunteer any more information without her prodding. “He’s much younger than you.”
“I know.”
“Oh, my God, talking to you is like pulling teeth!” She’s so loud, Pippin looks at us with a raised eyebrow. I smile at him, trying to reassure him.
“Yeah, he’s younger,” I finally say. “But you know as well as I that he was an adult by the time he was fourteen.”
“I know.” She leans her head against my shoulder.
I take her gloved hand in mine and we watch them in silence. Minnie is starting to flag, and Pippin notices. He scoops her onto his lap and pulls her close. He says something to her I can’t hear, but she replies with a shake to her head. After some prodding, she willingly leans against his shoulder.
The sight of the tiny girl cradled against Pippin twists my insides into a knot. I’ve never had a longing for kids of my own, but seeing him like that makes me question my decision.
What would it feel like to have a real family? To hold someone in my arms who’s mine and no one else’s? To have someone call me Dad and look at me like I hung the moon? To adopt and care for a little person who needs me, together with my…husband?
“Oh, Buck,” my sister sighs next to me. “Be careful. If he doesn’t love you back, you heart will be so thoroughly shattered, I fear you’ll never be able to heal it again.”
And when Pippin stands, lifting Minnie like she’s made out of the most precious, delicate glass, and walks toward us carefully watching every step so he won’t stumble, I know Aubrey’s right.
My heart is fully invested—has been for a long time—and would be irrevocably damaged if he were to break it.
But then he looks at me with a glacier-melting smile and my worry bleeds away.
The question isn’t if he likes me back, I’m sure that he does. The question is what I’m going to do about it.
* * * *
I start by reciprocating his touches. All this time, he’s been the one to initiate them; I’ve held back because of the age difference. Sure, I’ve hugged him back, but never once taken the first step to physical contact.
When I get home from work the next morning, I show my gratitude for the hot chocolate, the burning tealights, and his sleepy, wonderful smile by hugging him.
It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing. He’s too darned irresistible with his hair in complete disarray, pillow marks on his cheeks, and sluggish movements that are more uncoordinated than usual.
So when he mumbles, “Welcome home,” and rubs sleep from his eyes and stretches his lithe body like a cat, I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. He lets out a little squeak, then he hugs me back with the speed of light, with a strong grip that says, I’m never letting you go.
I bury my nose in his hair and inhale. He smells of sleep and my shampoo, and I shiver. “Is this okay?” I whisper.
He holds me even tighter. “More than.”
Usually, we sit across from each other in the mornings, but this time, he brings his chair round to my side, sitting as close as possible, his leg pressing against mine. We drink our chocolate in silence, but after a few minutes, I take his hand, entangle our fingers, and rest our hands on my thigh.
His fingers are long and slim, and I love the contrast against my thicker ones with black hair on the knuckles. I love the sight of his lean thigh against my tree trunk leg. Everything about him speaks to me.
“What does this mean, Ashley?” he asks when both our cups are empty but neither of us is willing to let go of the other.
“Whatever you want it to mean,” I rasp and hold my breath. Time stretches into infinity as I wait for him to answer. What if I’ve read all the signs wrong?
“What if I want to be more than friends?” he whispers.
“Even though…?”
“Even though what?”
“Even though I’m older than you?”
“Yes, Ashley.
That’s one of the things I really appreciate about you. It makes me like you even more.”
My breath whooshes out of me in relief. I free my hand and snake it around his waist, pulling him closer until there’s not even a molecule of air between us. Happiness bubbles up in my chest and threatens to make me burst. “I was hopin’ you’d say that,” I say, voice scratchy with emotion.
It’s a quiet declaration of intent, lacking grand gestures and big words. But it’s real and sincere and intense and perfect, and when he has to let go and get dressed for work, I miss his hand in mine and his warmth pressed against me. It’s like half of me suddenly went missing.
He brushes a barely-there kiss against my cheek before he disappears out the door, and my hand flies to my face, covering the spot, as though I’m trying to trap the feeling there permanently.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter 8
It’s Saturday night and I’m scrolling the Netflix sci-fi category for something to watch. Pippin and I are celebrating that we’ve finished renovating the living room with a movie or two, and snacks. The table is laden with goodies: nachos with homemade pico de gallo, guacamole, and cheese dip, chicken wings without barbecue sauce because Pippin doesn’t like it, popcorn, a bowl of orange wedges, and soda. I’ve put on my comfiest sweatpants and a hoodie and I’m waiting for Pippin, who’s in the shower.
I’ve picked out a couple of movies for Pippin to choose from when the door unlocks and opens. I furrow my eyebrows. “Aubs?” My sister is the only one who has a key who’s not already in the house, but what’s she doing here at this hour?
The approaching footsteps seem unusually heavy for her, and worry prickles my stomach. “Aubrey, is that you? You all right?”
I’m about to stand when I’m interrupted by a voice that’s definitely not my sister’s. “Well, hello, Buck. Did ya miss me?”
My heart stumbles on a beat before it starts racing. I scramble to my feet, slam my shin into the coffee table—making everything rattle—and spin around to face the intruder.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Dave? How’d you get in?” I never use the “F” word—it was a hard limit for Ma—so it says something about how shook up I am over his presence in my house.