Mourning Wood

by Heather M. Orgeron

  “I wish I could…my kid, remember?” She shoves my hand away, trying not to laugh. “Keep ’em on the wheel, sir.”

  All jokes aside, I can’t wait for the day we can formally remedy this little situation. For the day I can officially call that kid my own. It’s not something I’ve brought up with Whitney yet, only because I’m still not so patiently waiting for enough time to lapse that she might not turn me down when I work up the nerve to ask her to be my wife. “Right,” I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “Well, I’ll accompany you to said meeting, and we can handle that witch together. How’s that?”

  “Deal.”

  After about a half-hour of idle chit-chat, the car falls silent. Whitney’s busy reading some romance book on her Kindle, and Prissy’s occupied playing games on her momma’s phone.

  I switch the radio on to some good old-fashioned rock and roll and proceed to cruise, watching the mile markers tick on by.

  “Pull over,” Whitney groans, folded at the waist with a hand clamped over her mouth.

  I take the next exit, pulling onto the shoulder of a wooded area, where she promptly flings the door open and proceeds to empty the contents of her stomach.

  “Are you okay?” I wish I could do more to look after her, but as it stands I’m presently hanging my head out the window, fighting the urge to lose my own lunch. The smell alone is enough to curdle my gut.

  “Yeah,” she says, wiping her face with a Wet One she retrieved from the glove compartment. “Food must’ve stayed on my stomach.”

  This is only the first of many pit stops. There are a few for Prissy to pee, but most are on account of Whitney’s newfound penchant for car sickness.

  “I’m so sorry. I would’ve taken some motion sickness medicine, but I’ve never been on a long enough trip to know I needed it.”

  “No worries, love. I just feel bad for you. You look awful.”

  Her eyes widen. “Uhh…thanks?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Our last stop is a gas station connected to a Wendy’s, where we feed Prissy dinner and get Whitney some sleeping medicine to hopefully knock her out for the remainder of the drive.

  “Honeys, we’re here!” I chant to the two beauties sawing wood like they’re competing for a gold medal in some Olympic event for snorers. How anything so beautiful can produce such vile sounds is beyond me.

  “Wow,” Priss says, opening her eyes and squeezing herself between the front seats to have a better look at the massive grizzly bear statues as tall as the roof. She perches herself on the center console to peer through the windshield. “Get up, Momma,” she says, shaking Whitney by the shoulders. “Look!”

  Whit chokes on a snore before wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “We’re here?” Poor thing’s still half asleep.

  “We are. Let’s get inside so we can get some rest.” With our many stops, the eight-hour trip quickly grew to over ten, and I’m freaking exhausted.

  After a late check-in, we head up to our room. I swear Prissy’s mouth hangs open the entire way as she drinks in every detail of her playground for the next few days. The décor is off the chain, the outdoors theme woven into every facet of the place.

  But her reaction when she sees our room is the one I don’t think I’ll soon forget.

  I might have splurged on one of the more expensive rooms, with a queen-sized bed and a set of bunks enclosed in this neat little manmade stone alcove.

  “Are you kidding me?” The kid seems to have caught a second wind, zipping around the room and checking out every last detail.

  I’m so focused on Prissy’s reactions that I fail to notice how pale Whitney has become.

  “All right, Priss. Your momma’s not feeling well, and it’s late. I know you’re excited, but it’s time for bed, okay?”

  “Fine,” she sulks, trudging to the bathroom with her bag.

  “Are you okay?” I plop down beside her on the couch, resting a hand on her knee.

  “Yeah,” Whitney says, yawning. “Just still really tired from that sleeping pill.”

  “Go on to bed,” I tell her. “I’ll take the couch.”

  “Y’all can stop doing that,” Prissy barks, ambling out of the bathroom in her mummy Halloween pajamas, her face screwed up in annoyance. “You can sleep in the same bed. I know y’all do when I’m not there.”

  Whitney snorts, grabbing her daughter by the arm and hauling her into her lap for a cuddle. “I love you, brat.” She nuzzles her face into Prissy’s neck.

  “I love you too…but you still don’t have to treat me like a baby.”

  “You’re right, we do sleep in the same bed when you aren’t there,” her mother confirms, shocking me speechless. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  Quiet as a mouse, I sit here, a silent spectator, wondering how this’ll play out. I fully expected Whitney to deny, deny, deny. But I really shouldn’t be all that surprised by the honesty in her response. She has a respect for her daughter that I’ve come to admire. Whitney and her parents don’t talk down to her or treat her like any less of a person just because she’s little. It’s made Prissy a confident and very intelligent child, albeit sometimes a little too big for her britches.

  Prissy gives an exaggerated shrug. “Why would I be uncomfortable? Y’all the ones with each other’s feet in your back. I have two whole beds to myself.”

  “I apologize for treating you like a baby, Miss Priss.” Whit peppers her cheeks with kisses. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Just don’t let it happen again.” Prissy squirms in her mother’s lap, trying to fight her off.

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a giggle, she sends her off to bed with a playful swat to the behind.

  “So…?” I look to Whitney, widening my eyes in question, not wanting to assume anything.

  “We can share the bed.”

  Yes!

  By the time we’ve gotten ourselves ready and climbed in between the sheets, Prissy is already snoring the roof in.

  “This is weird,” I say, lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling with Whitney beside me, but…not. At least a foot separates us. It’s more torturous than having her across the room. At this distance I can smell her perfume and feel the heat her body’s giving off. The urge to wrap myself around her is so damn strong, but our little cockblock is right on the other side of the wall in her bunkhouse.

  I walk my fingers across the mattress until I find Whitney’s hand and give it a squeeze, then lift it to my mouth and pepper kisses along her knuckles. “I love you, Whit.”

  She rolls onto her side to face me. I can just barely make out the whites of her eyes as she props her head in her hand. “I love you too,” she whispers, combing her fingers through my hair before stuffing a pillow between us. “Just in case we forget she’s here during the night.” Her giggle is one laden with frustration. But hey, delayed gratification is just one of those things you get used to with a kid around. Keeps the fire burning hot, desire constantly simmering beneath the surface, and the climax—fucking explosive. Every. Single. Time.

  “Good thinking.” I’m still not quite sure that’ll be enough to keep me from pawing her in my sleep, but I’m willing to give it an honest try.

  After leaning over the barrier for a chaste goodnight kiss, she flops onto her pillow. With her fingers intwined in mine, I stroke the underside of her wrist until we drift off to sleep.

  Never in my life have I been more thankful that my child loves her some sleep than I am right now, as I find myself waking up to Wyatt’s face buried in my nape and his morning wood pressing into my ass like a light saber ready to do battle. Desire floods my veins, and the rhythm of my heartbeat borders on erratic.

  Powerless to resist, I trail a hand between us, palming the steel rod and caressing him in long languid strokes until he awakens fully.

  “Shhh,” I whisper at the sound of his moan. “We’re not alone.”

  The reminder pours over him like an icy buck
et of cold water, signaling his retreat. My disappointment at the loss of his prodding erection is entirely irrational. To touch him at all was flirting with fire, but the man has a way of making me want to dive headfirst into the flames and savor the burn.

  When he disappears into the bathroom to deal with his situation, I slip from the bed, creeping into Prissy’s nook to sit on the edge of the mattress. I take a quiet moment to reflect as I watch her sleep. It’s incomprehensible to me that my baby is already seven years old. It seems like only yesterday I was faced with that positive pregnancy test, while practically still a kid myself. At the time that little plus sign felt like the end of the world. Now I know it was merely the beginning. Despite being young, I can honestly say that not once have I regretted my choice to keep her. When I look back on the years of joy this little girl has brought to my life, I know without question that Prissy’s existence was no mistake. She’s my greatest accomplishment. My pride and joy. My legacy.

  “Happy Birthday, Priss.” I stroke her wild hair back with my fingers and she stirs. Grunts. But makes no attempt to open her eyes.

  “Prissy,” I say, a little louder. “Rise and shine, birthday girl!” When she still doesn’t budge, I go for the heavy artillery and dig my pointers into her sides, tickling her until she’s writhing around swatting and kicking in hopes to make me stop.

  “Fine!” she laughs. “I’m up! I’m up!”

  “That’s more like it.” I bend to retrieve the notebook from the floor beside me. “Because it’s time for your interview.”

  The birthday journal is something I read about online during my pregnancy and started when she turned one. For the first two years, I answered on her behalf, but since the age of three the words have come straight from the horse’s mouth. It’s a lot of fun to look back at her answers throughout the years, something I know we’ll both cherish more and more as she gets older.

  “You brought it?” With a wide smile, she scoots herself up to sitting, roughly pushing her tangles away from her face.

  “Of course I did.”

  “Okay,” she says, folding her hands and placing them in her lap, all proper-like. “I’m ready.”

  “Question number one,” I say, tapping my pen on the pad. “What was your favorite book this year?”

  “That’s easy,” she says. “The Fudge books by Judy Blume.”

  Of course, I think, jotting it down. She’s only had me read the entire series three times. The girl is obsessed with Fudge and his antics. He probably reminds her of her naughty little self.

  “Perfect,” I say, moving on to the next. “What was your favorite movie?”

  “Chucky!”

  “Which one?”

  “Umm,” she places a finger on her chin, tapping it lightly. “All of them.”

  Again…no surprise. With a shake of my head, I scrawl her answer on the page. “Who is your best friend?”

  She chews her lip and begins to rock back and forth. “Don’t get mad, okay?”

  “Why would I get mad?”

  Her shoulders tense as she brings them to her ears before dropping them back down with a huff. “Okay…” She covers her face with her hands, so she won’t have to witness my reaction. I half expect her to tell me she befriended a murderer by how crazy she’s acting. “It’s Wyatt.” Her answer escapes as a high-pitched squeak.

  Is that all? “Wyatt’s a great choice.” I’m touched that she was afraid to hurt my feelings in choosing someone other than me. In all honesty, I’m relieved. It warms my heart to know that she’s forged such a solid bond with someone other than myself or her Paw. The fact that I, too, have a very deep connection with her new bestie also, serves to soften the blow. The more she loves him, the freer I feel to allow myself to do the same.

  I blow out a deep breath when I come to the next one, because unlike with most children, the answer never changes. Asking is simply a formality. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  She squints her little eyes at me. “A mortician, duh!”

  Duh, indeed. My little girl has never dreamed of being anything else. Not a princess or a teacher. She’s never wanted to be a cashier or flip burgers at McDonald’s. Nope. Unlike myself, who wanted to get as far away as possible from the place until life gave me a reason to stay, she’s embraced her birthright from the womb.

  After a few more questions, we come to my personal favorite. “Okay,” I say, rubbing my palms together to play up the suspense. “Think really hard before answering.”

  “Okay…”

  “What was your favorite memory from being six?”

  “Oh, I know,” she says with a dreamy look in her eyes. “The father-daughter dance with Wyatt, cuz it was like, the best day of my whole life.”

  Is someone chopping onions in here?

  “What looks good?” Wyatt asks Prissy when we enter the cutest little bakery, Bear Paw Sweets & Eats. Evidently, his Mimi gave him treats for breakfast on his birthdays, and we’re continuing the practice. The fact that he’s passing traditions from his childhood on to my little girl has me floating on air.

  “Oh, Mylanta.” Prissy’s eyes pop as she spins in a circle, taking in the wall-to-wall yumminess that surrounds us. “The ice cream looks really good.” She licks her lips staring into the glass case at the mouthwatering display of cupcakes. “But so do those.”

  “Get whatever you want, kiddo,” Wyatt encourages. “It’s your day.”

  Shamelessly my mind jumps straight to the gutter, recollecting New Year’s Eve, when he proclaimed it my night. He sure does love to pamper his girls, catering to each of our very different appetites, of course.

  “Okay…I want chocolate ice cream with whipped cream and chocolate sauce and sprinkles.”

  “On it.” On my way to the counter to place her order, I notice the indecision on her face. Poor baby looks utterly overwhelmed. “Pick out a few other things. Whatever you don’t eat now, we can always drop off in the room for later,” I say with a wink.

  By the time her enormous sundae is prepared, Wyatt and Prissy are unloading arms full of cupcakes, brownies, and an M&M cookie as big as my head next to the register.

  “What are you gonna have?” Prissy asks, apparently not willing to share her haul with her mother.

  I shrug. “I’m still feeling a little queasy from the ride.”

  “You have to eat.”

  Knowing Wyatt won’t accept no for an answer, I grab a Rice Krispy treat to appease him and toss it up there with the rest of it. “There.”

  When we sit to eat, Wyatt rattles his hands on the table, making a full-blown spectacle before whipping a number seven candle out of the pocket of his shorts. He takes the rainbow cupcake out of her hand just before she opens her mouth to bite it, and stuffs the candle into the center. “Happy birthday to you…” he starts after lighting the wick and setting it down in front of her. Every person in the establishment and even some passersby pop in to sing to my little girl, who looks like she might just explode with glee.

  “Make a wish,” I say.

  She looks at Wyatt and then to me, shamelessly waggling her little brows before blowing her candle out.

  Wyatt rubs the toe of his shoe over my ankle beneath the table, making me aware that Prissy’s all too obvious hint didn’t go unnoticed by him either.

  After we’ve eaten, we start packing up the rest of Prissy’s snacks, preparing to bring them to our room, when the lovely woman behind the counter pops by with an offer to hold them in the back, allowing us to go straight to the waterpark. We graciously take her up on that suggestion, eager to get this day started.

  The place is huge, and the scent of chlorine is so strong my eyes and nose are burning before we’ve set foot in the water. We stroll right past the little kid area, because my child is seven going on seventeen and cannot be bothered to play with children her own age.

  “Let’s go on that!” Excitedly she points to a huge yellow and red monstrosity. My stomach revolts at the thought. />
  “Why don’t we start out in the wave pool and work our way up?” I suggest, eying the safe haven across the room.

  “’Fraid of heights?” Wyatt jeers, nudging me with an elbow.

  “Duh!” Prissy offers before I can respond. “At the fairs, Paw has to go on all the scary stuff with me.”

  “I’m not scared,” I lie. “I’m merely suggesting we allow a little time for our food to digest before riding something with tornado in its name…”

  “Fine,” she concedes, taking off at a sprint, her stringy blonde hair bouncing behind her.

  “Thank you for this,” I say to Wyatt as he links his fingers with mine. “It means more to her—to us—than you could ever know.”

  “Of course.” He smiles down at me, setting off a swarm of fireflies in my tummy. “I love being with you guys.”

  “Me too,” I say, because I’m an idiot. “With you, I mean. We love being with you.”

  The soft rumble of laughter that follows heats my blood. “I know what you meant.”

  The mood changes to something a little more PG when we meet up with my daughter at the set of lounge chairs she’s claimed. The girl has already removed her coverup and packed it away and has a pair of lopsided goggles affixed to her face.

  I set my bag on the chair beside hers and slink out of my dress, nice and slow to give my man a little tease, knowing there’s not a damn thing he can do to act on it for a few days yet. His heated gaze as he ogles my red, ruffle-trimmed bikini tells me my efforts don’t go unnoticed.

  “You are so wrong for that,” he rasps into my ear before reaching over his shoulder and gripping the back of his T-shirt with one hand. He has it over his head in one swift motion.

  Saliva pools in my mouth. I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of looking at him. His broad chest and tanned skin. The light ripple of definition dusted in a blonde happy trail that disappears beneath turquoise boardshorts.