by Lori L. Otto
“Tired yet?” he asks me.
I smile, feeling more relaxed than I’ve felt in weeks. Being done with school for a while, back home in Manhattan, curled up with the man I love... I’m not sure life gets better than this. “Nope.”
“Sure,” he says, not believing me. “We should set your alarm just in case.” I sit up and reach for his phone on the nightstand and set an alarm for an hour later.
“You can sleep now,” I tell him. He’d lied when he said he waits until I doze off to fall asleep. He may not realize it, but he did. He’s always the first one out.
The subdued sound of the clock wakes me, but it takes some effort to wake Jon. After the poking and tapping doesn’t work, I kneel over him and press my lips to his. I realize quickly he’d just been waiting for my kiss. He’s very much awake and alert now.
“Dork,” I say to him as I press against his chest.
“You’re still naked,” he comments. “You always sneak away for clothes.”
“Not always, I guess,” I tell him. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Okay,” he says as he stretches across the bed. His sculptured body is beautiful, the way the soft light casts small shadows that highlight each muscle.
“Wanna come?”
He cocks his head at my invitation. “Yes, I do,” he answers before pushing off the bed and following me into the bathroom. I learn very quickly that sex in the shower is much more difficult than they make it out to be in movies. Jon doesn’t seem to have any problems, but the actual act does nothing for me except cause a cramp in the arch of my foot as I stretch on my tiptoes to accommodate him. Fortunately, he spends a lot of time rubbing soap all over my body, and after paying particular attention to the area he wants–which I also love–I ask him to rub my foot, too.
While he’s doing that, I get a few strategically placed kisses, too. All in all, it was fun, but we’re short on time by the time we get out.
“Thirty minutes,” he tells me, sounding concerned.
“They’ll be okay if we’re a little late.”
“I don’t want to be rude. They invited me over. They’re including me in everything this week, and I–”
“Hush,” I tell him, placing my finger over his mouth. “I would much rather go over there late looking put together than be on time and look like we just spent the last two hours doing it.”
He laughs a little. “Agreed,” he says, finding the razor he’d packed in his small, leather bag. I take the hair dryer with me as I walk out of the bathroom to get my clothes. The shirt I’d brought with me to wear tonight is wrinkled, still folded in my unpacked suitcase. I consider finding something else to wear in my closet, but decide to try the shirt anyway. I think I remember seeing an iron in one of the guest bedroom closets.
“Olivia?” Jon yells, sounding a little unnerved.
I sort through my dresser drawer, finding some cute underwear and putting them on.
“Olivia?” he calls out again, this time peeking out of the bathroom.
“I’m coming,” I tell him, skipping toward the door. He doesn’t look as happy as I feel right now. “What?”
He points to his jawline, my new favorite place to kiss him. It drives him crazy, and–
“Crap.” His fair skin shows evidence of two marks where I’d kissed him a little too hard. “What?” I ask him again, feigning ignorance.
“Don’t what me, Livvy! You bruised me!”
“Oh, that’s good. We can say you fell... or that I hit you or something.”
“Yes, because those are so much better than the reality,” he mumbles sarcastically, looking at his face in the mirror.
“The lights are really harsh in here. I’m sure they’re not noticeable in normal lighting.” I pull him out into the hallway and take a few steps back. “Nope, still noticeable.” I start to laugh a little.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Can you maybe grow that 5 o’clock shadow faster?”
“I just shaved it off,” he says through gritted teeth. “Because you wanted me to look put together...”
“For the record, you never have to shave for me, or anyone else. You look very handsome with a little scruff.” I scratch the spot where the bruises are, feeling his smooth skin. “Although kissing this will feel better.” He stands still and lets me press a soft kiss on his jaw. “It will be fine. I have some... some makeup...”
“No.”
“Just thought I’d offer. We could pop your collar or something,” I suggest jokingly, not taking the situation seriously and trying to sway him in the same direction. “Scarf?”
“No.” He rolls his eyes, but I can still see a hint of a smile there. He continues shaving the rest of his chin while I go back to getting ready. On my way to the iron, I check in my closet to see if there’s anything warm enough to wear. I see a flannel shirt I don’t recognize, along with quite a few other shirts. Jon’s brought over some clothes, which utterly pleases me. I’m happy he’s making himself at home.
I find a purple, lacy, summer camisole and pull it over my head. I claim the soft, plaid shirt as my own, and pull it on without asking him if it’s okay. I have to roll up the sleeves a little, and it’s certainly baggy on me, but it looks cute with the tight-fitting undershirt. Sticking with my warm-weather theme, I find a short, black skirt and pull it on. Accepting that it’s really too cold for this, I remember that I have some new, black tights in my drawer. After pulling those on, I return to the living room to retrieve my knee-high boots.
“Well, great, now what am I supposed to wear?”
“Uh,” I say as I twirl around to face him, “for the record, I think you have more clothes here than I do. But if you’re struggling for something, I did bring a nice, cozy Yale sweatshirt–”
“I’d rather go like this,” he says, glancing down at his boxers.
“You’re a stubborn man,” I tell him, stomping past him back into the closet. My favorite pair of his jeans hangs closest to the door, and I grab them quickly, holding them out to him. There’s a nice, white v-neck t-shirt that I assume he was planning to wear as an undershirt. “Take this, too.”
“I don’t like it when you dress me,” he says soberly.
“Okay, I’m sorry.” I look up at him apologetically.
“I like it when you undress me.” He drops the jeans and shirt to the floor and picks me up, carrying me back to the bed.
“We have to go soon, Jon!” He climbs on top of me just long enough to suck on my earlobe, which turns me on instantly. I reach for him as he leaves me, heading back to the closet and picking up the clothes I’d given him on the way.
“Now, Olivia,” he says, “when I do that later...” He touches his own earlobe deliberately. “...that means I’m ready to go.” I stare at him as he pulls on the jeans, noting how perfectly they look from behind.
“That’s the sign?” I ask him. He slips into the t-shirt next, looking over his shoulder at me to catch me ogling him.
“Yes.” He grabs the jacket I was going to hand him anyway and pulls it on. I stand up and straighten out my skirt.
“But I thought you were always ready to go,” I tease him.
“I am,” he says with his sexiest voice and a glint in his eye. He turns serious quickly. “Unlike some people, who still have wet hair.”
“And no makeup,” I add, slipping past him to go back into the bathroom. I start putting a little powder on when Jon returns the hair dryer to me. He kisses my neck before leaving me to finish getting dressed.
Dad and Trey are in the front yard playing catch when we pull up. My brother immediately throws the ball to Jon when he steps out of the car. Jon’s reaction is quick, grabbing it inches before it hits the passenger window.
“Trey,” my dad says. “We don’t throw the ball at cars, do we?”
“I was throwing it at Jon!” he argues.
“And what if he’d missed it?” Dad asks.
“He never does,” my brother stat
es simply, grinning widely. Jon walks toward him and steals his cap, running away from him as he squeals and chases him.
“A little early to be practicing ball, isn’t it?” Jon asks.
“In this household, baseball is year round,” Dad answers. “We’ve got to work on that pitching arm. He’s got to take after his father,” he says jokingly.
“When are we going to go test your rocket, buddy?”
“Do you want to see it?” Trey asks my boyfriend excitedly. “I finished it.”
“Where is it?” he says, putting the cap back on my brother’s head. He follows him into the house as I give my dad a big hug.
“Glad to be home?” he asks.
“Glad to be done with school for awhile,” I answer. “And I guess it’s nice to see you.” I nudge him to show him I’m messing with him.
“When’d you get in?”
“Around four, I guess. Jon and I watched a movie when I got home. I just needed to zone out for a bit.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to offer him any explanation about the last few hours, especially when I had to lie about it, but I did.
“How was your test today?”
“Simple. Art history’s my easiest class.”
“You’ve got to be cold,” he says, eying my outfit.
“I am,” I admit, walking quickly into the house. I go directly toward the kitchen to see my mom. Jon is inspecting the soda bottle rocket in my brother’s room, asking Trey about all the little details he’s added.
“Hey, Mom!”
“Sweetie, come taste this,” she says.
“Why are you cooking?” I ask her warily.
“Because Kaydra asked me to help with sides this year, and I don’t want to let her down.”
“Then let Dad do it,” I encourage her.
“I can do this, Liv,” she says stubbornly as she holds a spoonful of potatoes to my lips. “Blow on it. It’s hot.”
I do as she asks and take a bite. “What is that supposed to be?” I ask, trying to scrape the weird taste off my tongue with my teeth.
“Squash casserole?”
“I thought they were potatoes with cheese, Mom. You hate squash,” I remind her. “I hate squash. Why would you choose to make something you hate?”
“Is it bad?” she asks.
“It’s not potatoes with cheese,” I tell her.
“What are we doing in here?” Jon asks as he follows Trey in. My mom puts the spoon down and gives him a hug.
“Livvy’s just reminding me that I can’t cook.”
“I didn’t say that. I said you picked the wrong thing to cook.”
“Liv, I didn’t think it was that bad,” Dad says.
“Jacks, you said it was good!”
“And it is,” he says, trying to reassure her. “For squash...”
“I love squash,” Jon says. “Casserole?” He eyes the pan on the stove. Mom gets a clean spoon and hands it to him. “I’m starving,” he gushes before taking a bite. We all wait for his opinion in silence. He smiles and takes another bite before telling Mom it’s good. “Better than my aunt’s,” he adds.
“Suck up,” I mumble to him. “Mom, why are you making this tonight anyway?”
“Because I don’t want to take anything bad to Thanksgiving. We always talk about Jen’s dishes behind her back. I don’t want to be that person this year.”
“You’ll never usurp your sister, Mom. Don’t worry. Stay away from the garlic, and you’re golden. She puts garlic in everything,” I explain as an aside to Jon.
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Trust me,” I assure him. “There aren’t enough mints in the world...” He laughs at me, sneaking one last bite of my mother’s side dish.
“You can take some home with you,” Mom says. “Do you have a fridge in your dorm?”
“No, but...” He looks around uncomfortably for a second. “My friend across the hall does.” I know he has no intention of going back to Columbia until next week. I guess it still feels weird to him, too, admitting that we’re essentially living together this next week. Surely my parents realize this. Surely we’re not fooling them at all.
“Put a little aside for me,” Dad says before kissing her on the cheek. “Dinner should be here any second.”
“You ordered in?” I ask him.
“Mom was sick of cooking.”
“Right,” I laugh.
“Italian. We just got some different pastas. That okay?” he asks us both.
“Perfect,” I say.
“Lasagna?” Jon asks.
“Of course,” Mom says. “I remember how much you liked it before.”
“Thank you,” he says to my mother, looking genuinely excited. “I’m starving,” he says again.
“You can have more of this,” she offers.
“I think I’ll just have some water for now. I’m thirsty, too,” he adds as he goes to the refrigerator and finds a bottle. “Want some, Olivia?”
“Sure.”
“Emi,” Jon starts, “is there something I can bring to Thanksgiving?”
“Just yourself, honey. You’re a guest.”
“Livvy and I could try to make something... if it will help.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s fine, Mom. We could make a fruit salad or something. That would be easy.”
“You could pick one up from the market,” she says. “If you’d like to do that, that would be nice. Is there anything your mother typically makes that you like to have for dinner?”
“My mother? No. But my neighbor used to bring my brothers and me pumpkin bread,” he says with a wistful smile. “Not for dinner, but for breakfast that morning. We would heat it up, with butter and cinnamon.”
“Pumpkin bread, huh?”
“Please don’t go to any trouble, Emi. Maybe our neighbor will visit Mom if she comes for Christmas.”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” Dad says, taking a seat at the bar. The doorbell rings before he can continue. Trey runs to the door, but waits for my mother before opening it. After she gives the delivery man a tip, she carries two large bags of food back into the kitchen.
Dad gathers some napkins and utensils and puts them in the center of the kitchen island. “Hope it’s okay to have a casual meal tonight,” Dad says as Mom empties the contents onto the countertop.
“That smells so good,” I gush as I find the container of Ravioli Al Porcini and remove the lid hurriedly. Jon sits politely, not grabbing at the food like I am. I spot his lasagna and hand it to him. “Bread?”
“Sure,” he says. Mom and Trey take their seats at the small dining table while the rest of us eat at the bar.
“Anyway,” Dad says. “Emi and I would like to invite your mom and brothers to stay with us for Christmas.” Jon looks at me, but I’m sure I look just as surprised as he does. They hadn’t run this by me yet. “Your mom could stay in the guest room downstairs, and Max could stay with Trey. The sofa in the media room folds out into a bed for Will, or we could set something up in the game room, if he wanted.”
“That’s an incredibly nice gesture,” Jon says, sounding unsure.
“Just consider it our gift to you. We’ll pay for their airfare. Your aunt is more than welcome to come, too, if she’d like.”
“I don’t know, Jack.” Jon sets his fork down and folds his hands in his lap. “I mean, she was already talking about coming, so...” He sighs, as if he’s in thought. “She was going to have to leave my brothers, though. I think that’s what was stopping her.” When he looks back up at my dad again, he simply nods his head. “That would be incredible,” he finally concedes. “It would mean so much to her, and to my brothers. I’d love to spend the holidays with them.”
“Then it’s decided,” Dad says. “We can make arrangements one day this week.”
“Thank you,” Jon says sincerely. “I’ll get to spend Christmas with everyone who’s important to me. I couldn’t ask for anything more. And don’t
get me anything else,” he says to me, poking me in the side. “This can be from all of you, okay?”
“Whatever you say, baby,” I tell him sweetly. He grins and kisses me quickly before finally returning to his dinner.
On Wednesday afternoon, I meet Katrina at Grand Central Terminal. Before catching a cab, we play with some gadgets at an electronics store and stop at Li-Lac for some treats. Matty had introduced me to the place a few years ago, and I couldn’t pass by the store any time I was in Grand Central. I pick up chocolate for myself and my cousins and peanut brittle for my mother. I had almost convinced her to try a marshmallow bar last year, but she changed her mind at the last minute. It’s not that she’s allergic, or that chocolate makes her physically sick. Her aversion to the confection is purely psychosomatic. She’d once associated it with her father’s affair. After succumbing to a pregnant craving for it following thirteen years of abstinence, Nate had taken her to the store to indulge her. That was the night he died, and her hatred for chocolate was solidified.
I do remember seeing her sneak some when she was pregnant with Trey, though.
Dad had suggested therapy a few years after they married, but upon seeing her reaction, he never brought it up again. We’d all just accepted that Mom and chocolate were not meant to be.
“Is there anywhere else you want to stop?” I ask my roommate.
“No, I’m set,” she says happily, taking a bite of chocolate-covered coconut.
“You know who else likes coconut?”
“Who?”
“Finn,” I tell her as I hail a cab. “It’s his favorite.”
“Is it?”
I nod my head after giving the driver instructions. “He’s on standby for dinner tonight. It’s up to you. If you’d rather a girls night, you and I can go out... but if you’d like to see him, he can’t wait to see you.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I assure her. “We can invite him to the loft once you settle in. Jon’s there already.”
“Is Jon okay with me being here?”
“Of course he is. He’s social and likes to be around people.”