by R.S. Grey
I try my damnedest to keep my attention on her face.
I toss the rope and she misses it.
I think this is what they refer to as cruel and unusual punishment.
“Okay! Just like that. I swear I’ll catch it now.”
If she doesn’t, I’m going to drown myself as penance for my sins. I promised her I wouldn’t let it get weird, and I’m a goddamn liar.
I toss the rope one last time and she catches it at the last second. “Woo! Okay, now move back so I won’t hit you.”
I do as she says, though I know there’s not a chance in hell she’ll make it out this far.
“Either hold your bent elbows close or let your arms extend out fully, because once you get to the bottom of the arc it’s going to feel like you weigh twice as much.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it’s not that hard.”
She jumps and barely clears the edge of the bank before inertia wins out and yanks her into the water. It was less of a rope swing and more of a rope drop.
“Oh my god! I barely even made it off the ledge.” She laughs once she surfaces, burying her face in her hands. “You made it look so easy!”
“About average for your first try.”
It was below average.
“Oh please, I basically just flopped into the water like a dead fish.”
I laugh. “Next time leave your arms fully extended like I told you and make sure to bend your knees. Want to try again?”
“I don’t know.” She bites her bottom lip, thinking it over. “That was pretty embarrassing.”
“No one saw it but me,” I reassure her.
“And Alfred.” She points over to where he’s lounging on the bank, basking in the sun, half asleep.
“Something tells me he didn’t care. Here, c’mon. Now that you know what to expect, it should go a lot better.”
She swims over and climbs back out onto the bank. Her underwear has crept up and I can see the edges of her tan butt cheeks. I’ve seen bikinis more revealing than what she’s wearing, but it’s still such a turn-on. I shift my gaze up to the oak tree and focus in on a nest. Yes, look at that—ahhh, the beauty of nature.
“Ready!” she declares.
This time she does what I tell her and actually manages to swing out toward me before she lets go of the rope and drops into the water like a pro.
She’s so proud of herself when she surfaces. I swim toward her and see she’s beaming then realize my mistake after it’s too late. I shouldn’t have gotten this close. Her eyelashes sparkle as small beads of water catch the light, highlighting the bluest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen, a blue so vibrant it looks electric, like the sky right before a thunderstorm.
The water laps up around her shoulders, and it’s tricking my brain into thinking she’s not wearing anything at all. She’s a siren. She stands, and the water barely conceals her breasts. I want to skim my hand down her delicate neck and smooth shoulders and tug down one of those delicate straps.
Then I blink and realize my wants and desires have turned into actions. My brain is the last thing to catch up. My fingertips are already on Meredith’s shoulder, dipping beneath her bra strap. Everything I imagined doing, I am doing. Her skin is wet silk. A gentle tug and she’s standing right in front of me. Her hips brush against mine in the water.
She’s holding her breath, lips parted as she stares up at me.
“You’re trembling.”
“The water’s cold,” she explains, wetting her bottom lip. “Wh-What are you doing?”
Her tone is perfect innocence.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I’m about to kiss the hell out of her.
Her hands hit my chest and I blink my eyes closed, inhaling the feel of her palms on my bare skin.
Then she whispers my name, trying to snap us out of this moment, but I won’t let her.
“I really should get back,” she says, voice wobbly.
I snap my attention back to her face and see an expression that punches me in the gut: fear.
Before I can tell her to stay, she turns and starts swimming for the bank. “Thanks for the lesson. I’ll see you back at the house.”
I’m already swimming after her. “I can walk back with you.”
“No! No, you stay and keep swimming. I need to go home and shower. My fingers are shriveled and it’s getting late. I haven’t eaten dinner, and I should clean up a little bit.”
She’s firing off excuse after excuse as they come to mind, one after another—“Big day of cleaning tomorrow, I’m tired, I really need to call my parents”— then she’s out of the water and covering herself as she runs to gather up her clothes. She’s sopping wet yet she still tugs her shirt and shorts on rapid fire. I make it to the shore as she’s slipping her shoes on, but I don’t rush after her. I know when someone’s trying to get rid of me. She’s being smart, putting distance between us. I’m sure she saw the way I was looking at her, but it doesn’t come close to what I was thinking, the seduction I was planning in my mind. She should run away. She should scurry right on back to the shack, or better yet, all the way back to California, because the thoughts flitting through my head were filthy. Had she been a little closer and I a little more naive, I would have tugged her close and wrapped her legs around my waist. I’d have angled her face up to mine and pressed a string of kisses to her lips, her chin, her throat. That bra would have been peeled off and those panties would have followed. Nothing good would have come from it. Everything good would have come from it.
I might’ve had my first kiss underneath that oak tree, but I’d have taken a lot more than that from Meredith.
18
Meredith
The next day, I don’t bring up what happened in the creek, and neither does Jack. As far as I know, we both would rather forget the entire sequence of events, so that’s what we do. Sure, I was nearly naked, and sure, I watched him strip down to his boxers and had to pretend my heart wasn’t falling out of my butt. There are good bodies, and then there is Jack’s body. You know the sort of muscles that come from mutant protein shakes and sporadic bouts of CrossFit? Yeah, Jack isn’t like that. He has long, lean muscle that comes from years of daily hard labor. In fact, he has the type of tall, muscular frame that would make any woman feel small and delicate in his arms, like—ahem—me, for instance, just a random example.
Standing there, watching him strip, my gaze pinballed from one detail to the next: his broad shoulders, his toned forearms, his Adonis V. HE HAD THE V, HALLELUJAH—except, from what I saw with my own eyes, his should really be called the Adonis Y for reasons I’ll leave up to your imagination. All I know is that I was turned on and fidgety. I wanted to fan my face and shout Lawd have mercy with a serious southern twang.
And that was before he completed the effortless backflip into the water. I’m ashamed to admit how impressive that was. Sure, I was mostly focused on his biceps as he was swinging (eat your heart out, Tarzan), but it was pretty cool that he could just pull his legs up with his abs (heavy breathing) and spin backward into the water, especially considering I barely made it off the shore at all.
I regretted swimming with him even as we were swimming. I knew it would set us down a path that would lead to all sorts of question marks, and awkward encounters, and conversations where we avoid eye contact, and that was before I stripped off my sopping clothes back home. Now that…that was the real pièce de résistance. I stood in front of my mirror to see myself the way Jack had seen me, and I realized with a blush so strong it nearly set my face ablaze that he could totally see my entire boobs—not just a shadowy peek or a sultry suggestion, but LIKE THE ENTIRE NIPPLE AREA AND THEN SOME.
My emotions overwhelmed me so much that I had to sit down and resist the urge to dry heave. Embarrassment gave way to denial (He probably didn’t notice! I bet the sun was too bright.), denial gave way to anger (How dare he not inform me that I was flashing him?!), and anger eventually gave way to acceptance. My boobs are not bad boob
s. In fact, they’re pretty great. In Europe, women wouldn’t even blink at traipsing around like I was. In conclusion: I am a cool, relaxed femme Française with no qualms about hanging out in nipple-ville with my boss.
That logic works surprisingly well, especially since I pair my newfound European attitude with a total avoidance of Jack. We’re talking zero face time for two whole days. I keep myself excessively occupied with the usual busy work around his house. I scrub toilets, tubs, showers, walls, nooks, crannies. I launder like it’s my God-given talent to make clothes shockingly clean and wrinkle-free. If I hear him coming, I find a reason to tidy the inside of the coat closet. During lunch, I leave his and Edith’s hot food waiting for them on the table and head back to the shack to eat on my own while pacing feverishly near the window, just in case I need to leap out at the sound of footsteps approaching.
I anticipate that the weekend will present a new set of problems. I won’t have work to occupy me for eight to nine hours like I do during the week, but heaven smiles down on me because Jack is busier than ever down at the winery and restaurant. He’s hardly ever around. Edith and I go into town for dinner on Friday and then Saturday night we watch a movie in our pajamas. Jack comes home in the middle of it and I freeze, popcorn kernel halfway to my gaping mouth, hyperaware that I’ve made myself comfortable on his couch. My feet are on his ottoman. My body is nestled under his throw blanket. If he had a fancy massage chair, I’m sure I would be using that too. Sure, Edith invited me, but it’s technically still his house and I’m supposed to be keeping my distance and generally causing less trouble than I make. He strolls in, looking tired from a long day of work, tosses his keys in the bowl near the door, and then glances up. Edith asks if he wants to join us, and she even picks up the end of the blanket I’m hurriedly trying to shove off my legs.
“It’s a romance, but you’ll like it. I promise!”
He shakes his head, avoids eye contact with me, and heads for the stairs.
I don’t see him the rest of the night.
Sunday afternoon, Edith informs me that she’s invited a few of her friends over for yoga. There’s Dotty and Lisa from the bank, a few women from Edith’s book club, and Daniel’s fiancée, Leanna. She’s the closest to me in age and she has a bright, bubbly personality and curly blonde hair. She chats my ear off about her wedding next week and I sheepishly admit that I’ve been invited to go with Tucker Carroway. I expect her to be annoyed that a random stranger will be in attendance, but she throws her arms around me and tells me she and Daniel will be excited to have me there.
“And I’m so glad Tucker invited you! He’s so cute and he’s been single for way too long.”
Everyone agrees that Tucker’s a great guy. Charitable! Generous! Easy on the eyes!
“So very kind too,” Leanna continues. “Last year, my grandmother needed someone to look over her outdated will and Tucker volunteered to do it for free. Isn’t that sweet? She tried to pay him but he turned her down.”
I feel awkward with so much attention focused on my date with him considering it’s not a date at all. I didn’t even agree to it—Edith did. I try my best to turn the attention back to Leanna and Daniel’s wedding and after we spend a good hour chatting about floral arrangements and last-minute freakouts, we finally get started on yoga. There are a dozen of us altogether, and I set up class out in the yard where the ground is level and there’s a nice breeze and tons of shade. I’m nervous to lead so many women at once, but everyone is so complimentary and easygoing that I relax and we end up having a good time. After that class, we decide we’ll make a weekly thing of it. Sunday afternoons, we’ll meet for yoga, and if we happen to throw in some food and gossip afterward, well at least we got a good workout in beforehand.
I start my third week of work hoping for a few more days of avoidance from Jack, but I don’t get my wish. On Monday, I’m in the kitchen cleaning up after lunch when he walks up and pauses near the counter beside me. Then, he says the most shocking thing anyone has ever said to me.
“I’d like you to eat dinner tonight with Edith and me.”
I don’t look his way. If I did, he’d know how much his invitation means to me.
I suppress my voice to a normal octave. “Thank you, but it’s okay. I was just going to eat on my own.”
As usual.
“I insist.”
“It’s okay. Tell Edith you offered, but I turned you down.”
She’s the one who wants me at dinner, not him, I’m sure.
“C’mon, you’re wounding my ego here.”
I smirk. “Edith thinks your ego can stand to take a good beating.”
I finally chance a quick glance at him and find that his dark eyes are studying me thoughtfully. Today, he looks irresistible in a red work shirt, and I have no idea what is going on in his mind, but he doesn’t seem to be playing a trick.
In fact, he pushes off the counter with his hip and declares with a final, end-of-discussion tone, “I’m going to grill some steak and vegetables. It’ll be pretty damn good, and I’d hate for you to miss out.”
I arch a challenging brow. “You’d ‘hate for me to miss out’? Who are you and what have you done with the real Jack?”
He goes right on ignoring my taunts. “It’ll be ready at 7:30 sharp. If you want to make yourself useful, you can set the table.”
And just like that, I’m a dinner guest.
It’s quite a coincidence, because today, I’m also starting a new beauty routine that definitely has absolutely nothing to do with Jack inviting me to dinner. I wrap up my workday and rinse off in my newly tiled bathroom, taking extra effort with my conditioner. Then, I blow my hair out until the dark strands are silky smooth. I apply makeup because you know what they say: it’s important to look your best on Monday nights after work for no particular reason.
I peruse the two sundresses I bought at the thrift store and tug on the less fancy of the two. It’s white and the material is soft, hanging loose around my legs. The spaghetti straps are perfect for a summer evening in Texas.
True to his word, Jack is manning the grill when I stroll from the shack (which no longer even closely resembles a shack) to the farmhouse. He takes me in from head to toe and I think I catch the shadow of a smile on his lips before he turns back to the grill. My new nightly not-for-Jack beauty routine was clearly worth the effort.
Inside, I tell Edith I’m going to pull down the good china, the stuff they never use, because tonight is a special occasion. She laughs and says she always figured it wouldn’t get used again until her funeral wake. When Jack heads in with the steaks and vegetables, Edith is sitting at the table and I’m arranging the plates and cutlery. Everything is set except for my water glass in the kitchen. I run back in to grab it and don’t watch where I’m going because I know the route by now with my eyes closed…aaand I trip right over a sleeping Alfred and go crashing to the ground along with the fancy heirloom. The good crystal glass shatters into a thousand good crystal shards, but my attention lies elsewhere. The incident throws me so quickly and so vividly into a memory of Andrew that I lose my breath. It feels like déjà vu, but worse.
Nearly a year ago, Andrew was sitting at our dining table while I brought in dinner. He’d had a bad day at work and started in on me as soon as he walked in the door. He was starving and annoyed dinner wasn’t ready, and I was so worked up that on my way into the dining room, I accidentally dropped one of the serving platters gifted to us at our wedding. Food went everywhere. Ceramic shards cut into my hand. All the first instincts you’d expect a picture-perfect husband to have—Are you okay honey? Don’t worry, I never liked that ugly dish anyway, honey—were nowhere to be found. Instead, he shot to his feet and berated me for bleeding on the rug, for ruining dinner, for not appreciating nice things.
“Meredith, leave it.”
I remember the exact tone of his voice when he told me to clean it up, like I was an animal—no, worse.
“Meredith!”
Jack’s voice rattles me back to the present and I realize with a start that I’m down on my knees, picking up individual glass shards and depositing them in my open palm.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I mumble as I start to cry. I’m so embarrassed. “I can’t believe I broke this. I shouldn’t have pulled these glasses out in the first place.”
“It’s nothing.” He’s tugging on my arm, trying to get me to stand.
I know he’s just saying that to make me feel better. Andrew would be screaming his head off right now. I could tell the glasses were really nice when I got them out, and I’ll have to figure out a way to replace it.
“Meredith! Stop.”
His voice is gentle but direct as he bends down to hook his hands underneath my arms and lift me to my feet. He deposits me away from the mess just as another glass shatters at the head of the table. I jerk my attention toward Edith to see her hand still outstretched, having just finished tossing hers down as well.
“Grandma, what the hell?” Jack asks incredulously.
She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, but I can see the emotion in her eyes, the empathy she feels for me in that moment. “What? There’s nothing special about those dusty old glasses. I’m glad to be rid of them, honestly. This yoga kick has been making me more mindful, less occupied with material possessions.”
We both stare at her, stunned silent. To Jack, she may as well be speaking Greek.
“Don’t believe me?”
She shrugs, casually reaching out and nudging Jack’s glass to the edge of the table.
He lurches forward and grabs it before it falls. “Jesus woman! I get it. Now can you throw the rest in the trash instead of flinging them around the whole damn ranch?”
I whip around and find the dustpan in the kitchen so I can get to work cleaning up the mess. Jack steals it out from under me and tells me to go sit down. His voice isn’t exactly harsh, but it still leaves no room for argument. I take a seat beside Edith and she tugs at my hand to take a look at it. There’s a small cut, but nothing that really needs attention. I close my palm quickly, wanting to hide the traces of my clumsiness. I’m embarrassed that I not only broke a glass but also had a weird flashback like that right in front of them. It’s not like I was in a war; I shouldn’t have PTSD.