“Okay, thank you.” I nod to him. I really mean to say thank you for your support and for being kind to both my son and me. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that with a man before. Not even Blythe.
The first thing I see when I walk into the room is an older woman with white hair, hooked up to all kinds of tubes and machines.
She turns her heads and rasps out, “Natalie?” It throws me off because she didn’t stick around. She wouldn’t know how I looked as an adult.
“Yes,” I murmur quietly.
“Well, well, well, aren’t you a sight.” Her voice is scratchy. I estimate she should be about fifty years old. This woman looks like she’s closer to eighty—I assume from sickness. I stand watching her, intently wondering what her next words will be. Will she apologize? “I don’t know what to say. Ever since I got sick I’ve had time to think …” She trails off and breaks into a fit of coughing.
“Do you uh … need water?” I ask nervously.
She waves me off. “No, lung cancer. Spread throughout my body. If the cancer isn’t going to kill me, the morphine will. I rejected a dose this evening so my head would be clear to make the call.” She pauses. Is she waiting for me to say something? Numerous questions bombard my mind.
“Why did you leave?” I ask with a shaky voice. I hadn’t planned on asking. The words just fly out of my mouth.
“Your father was cheating on me. I didn’t take it well,” she answers as if it’s a good excuse. Despite her weak state, my blood boils.
“I heard you fighting with him. You cheated on him too.” The anger burns at the back of my throat.
“Only because he cheated on me,” she answers defensively. Another excuse.
“This is too much.” My palms come up to hold my head, and I take a seat beside her bed—only because my legs feel weak and shaky. “You and I both know that man wasn’t my father. How could you leave me with someone like him?” I ask accusingly. I know she’s on her deathbed. Even speaking seems to be a chore for her. Her face creases at my words. Maybe she thought I didn’t figure out the truth.
“You know?” she asks with a surprised tone. “How did you find out?”
“That doesn’t matter.” I swipe tears away from my eyes. Those memories are difficult to remember. I buried them deep and never plan to dig them up. “Why? I want to know why?” My voice rises. I don’t mean for it to. I’m sad that her life is ending, but she’s only a stranger to me now. A stranger, who ripped my heart out at a young age.
“He was my world. I loved him with my entire soul …” she says, breaking into another fit of coughing. “Those buildings and that money went to his head. He became a philanderer. It broke me. You wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s it? That’s your excuse? A cheating husband?” My voice cracks on the last words, almost sounding shrill. I’m too familiar with cheating husbands.
“He was my life. I felt betrayed, hurt. I left. I had no money. I knew his business wasn’t clean. I knew I’d have no way to support you. He loved you. I knew he’d take better care of you,” she explains as if her actions are justified.
My hands began to shake. I dream about her so often, a beautiful woman, striking, tall, witty. In my dreams she’d been abandoned on a deserted island with no way of returning. She had been kidnapped and sold to a South American drug lord. Over the years the stories became more creative. A group of scientists used her body for experimentation, and she lost her memory. Nowhere in any of those stories was the truth so simple. The woman had a broken heart and left her child with a stranger. My breathing turns labored as I fear breaking down.
“Who is my real father?” I ask with such anticipation that my heart may burst while waiting for her answer. After I found out the truth, I always wondered why he never came for me.
“I don’t know,” she replies bitterly. Why is she bitter?
I shoot up from the chair. Why did I come? Why did she call me? This isn’t going anywhere.
Pacing the room, I say, “I don’t understand why I’m here.”
She watches me with small blue eyes circled in wrinkles and pale skin. She’s thin, looking like a bag of bones.
“I wanted to apologize. I was a selfish woman. I made bad choices. Smoking cigarettes being one of them. I was hoping you would forgive me before I died,” she answers. Just like that. She wants me to forgive her for a lifetime of hell, because she wants to die without the burden of her sins. Forgiveness … I fall back into the chair, flabbergasted. Forgiveness is about repenting to someone over time, not asking for it when there’s no time left. I don’t know what to say.
“Why does it matter to you now?”
She breaks into another fit of coughing. I jolt when I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn my head to see a warm smile play on Dixon’s lips.
“Hey,” he whispers. His voice is calming, his smile beautiful. “You okay?”
“Not really,” I admit with a huff. Judith Jenkins remains quiet, observing the interaction between us.
“You ready to go? We can go now,” he repeats, and I know he’s heard our entire conversation and is giving me a way out—a way to leave without giving this woman her dying wish.
“I know.” I open and close my eyes and give his hand a squeeze, hoping to show how much I appreciate his support in this moment. “I just want to say something.”
I move in closer to my mother. Her chest rises and falls sporadically. “You know, I have a child. My husband cheats on me. He treats me badly, and I know I need to leave him, but here’s the thing … I would never leave without my son because bottom line: he’s my life. Everything I do is for him. I want to give him the best I can. It isn’t easy. I’m faced with a slew of challenges, and yet in my wildest dreams I would never think to walk away from him. I panic at the thought.” I end my rant and let out a breath.
“Is this the husband?” she asks, tilting her chin to Dixon.
“You know he isn’t,” I cut back.
“So you’re a little whore? It doesn’t surprise me, I guess. I had my share of lying on my back for money.” She begins and my mouth falls open. How dare she insinuate such a thing? My blood turns to a furious boil and my jaw slackens.
“That’s it, Eden. We need to go.” Dixon takes me by the arm, pulling me into his side. He places his mouth on my ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
His apology isn’t necessary. He was right. I needed this closure. I had to understand why she walked away … even if the truth hurts. She was a selfish woman.
“I’m going.”
“Will you forgive me?” Her eyes look droopy and her voice is pleading. Nothing about the conversation is clear to me. Why is it important for her to die with forgiveness? She seems like a cold-hearted bitch.
“I don’t understand why it is you need forgiveness. I will grant it to you. Not because you deserve it, but because I need the closure. I won’t be spending the rest of my life wondering if I was a bad kid. I also wouldn’t want to deny a single soul their dying wish. So take my forgiveness, embrace it, and die in peace,” I say, as my voice rattles and my insides shake. Dixon grasps my hand in his. It steadies me.
“You’re a good person,” she replies, and then she turns her head to look out the window, signaling that this meeting is over.
“Bye, Judith,” I say as Dixon guides me out of the room. She doesn’t reply, and I don’t need her to. In this moment, I realize that aside from her blonde hair and striking eyes, I didn’t get anything else from her. It’s a huge relief. A burden lifted.
“Do you hate me right now?” Dixon asks hesitantly. His eyes lower and his bottom lip pushes out. He looks adorable. Vulnerable.
“I’m a coward, Dick. I’m glad you forced me to confront my past. I always wondered, and now I can lay that to rest.”
“Do you want to come back to my place? Grant is there anyway, and I collect wine. I’m thinking you could use a glass to relax. That was pretty intense.” He smiles and it seems shy.
&n
bsp; A giggle erupts from my chest. “That actually sounds perfect.” I know he isn’t asking me back to his place for a jump in the sack, and I’m not the type of woman to be so easy, but in my moment of despair, having him ravish my body and take away this pain is exactly what I need. Not wine.
I contemplate if I should send Blythe a message, telling him Grant is sleeping at a friend’s or that I’ll be home late. I figure he doesn’t care either way. We head back to the car. Now that I have my wits about me, I realize it’s a lime green Ferrari. Blythe has a row of fancy cars in the garage, but they’re more on the conservative side. This is going to be a fun ride, I think to myself feeling my mood lifting a bit.
As Dixon drives down the brightly lit streets, I watch the lights breeze by, replaying the conversation with Judith. I went there with no expectations, only hope based on the fact that I wished she had a valid excuse for leaving me. Of course that wasn’t the case.
“Hey, are you okay?” Dixon asks softly. As I think of his name, I wonder why he prefers I call him Dick. I don’t voice my thoughts though.
I turn my head, unsure of how to answer. “I’m okay. Thanks for making me go. You’re right. I would’ve continued to wonder and dream.” I exhale softly.
“Yeah.” He sighs, completely understanding me. “I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you must have hoped it would.”
“I went in with low expectations. The idea of her being a super spy was crossed off the list late in high school.” I try to smile but it isn’t happening. Dixon moves one hand from the steering wheel and places it on mine, giving it a soft squeeze. “Thanks for all your support tonight, and thank you for allowing Grant to sleep over. He’s been really happy about becoming Jaden’s friend.”
“You don’t need to thank me. I’m happy the boys have become close. I do have to say it is a small world.”
The rest of the ride is comfortably quiet. We finally pull into the front drive of Dixon’s apartment building. A late September chill crawls up my skin as I step out of the car, causing me to shiver. I contemplate if it’s a good idea to go up to his apartment this late at night when I am so wound up and stressed out.
“You’re still coming up for that glass of wine, right?” Dixon asks, maybe gauging my hesitation. I can’t say no to him, not after he held my hand through this ordeal.
“Yes, it sounds lovely. I’m no wine connoisseur, but a glass of red should chill me out,” I say, even though I’m really thinking a nice roll in the sack with him would chill me out too. I berate myself for my dirty thoughts. He’s a friend, and right now I don’t have too many.
A few minutes later we are back in his apartment. I now have time to take the place in, and I like the way he’s decorated. It’s warm and homey with rustic hardwood floors and antique pieces that compliment more modern ones.
I follow Dixon into a room with a brown leather sectional and a large screen television. It has a bar on the back wall. He doesn’t turn on the lights as he heads to the bar, and I follow him closely in the dark. When we reach the bar, he flicks a light switch that provides dimmed lighting. There’s a relaxing ambiance in the room.
“You said you preferred red, right?” He smirks, showing off his dimples.
“Yes, please.”
“Red it is.” He takes a crystal wine glass and uncorks the bottle then fills it halfway. It’s a large glass, so it’s a lot of wine … especially for a non-drinker like me.
He pours himself some amber liquid, twirling it around in the tumbler before he brings it to his lips. I take the glass and walk around the couch to take a seat. Dixon sits close to me. I take slow sips at first. As the need to relax drives me, my sips turn into larger gulps. Thankfully it’s smooth and fruity.
“This is delicious.” I tilt my glass toward him.
“It’s a Ramey Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. I collect wines. Thought you would like it,” he responds and takes a large gulp of his drink. I take the opportunity to drink my wine too. It goes down smoothly. We both clearly need to take the edge off after this painful night.
“What a crazy coincidence this has been.” Dixon’s voice cuts into the quiet. “We were such good friends, back in the day.” He nods his head with a far off look in his eyes, like he’s maybe remembering the good old days.
“Yeah.” I let out a long sigh and take another gulp of wine. Dixon gets up from the couch and goes around to the bar for a refill.
“Are you sure you don’t hate me for dragging your ass over there?” he asks, looking at me with uncertainty in his dark blue eyes. He returns with the wine bottle in hand. “Would you like a top up?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to drive if I do,” I respond. “And no, I don’t hate you to answer your question. I’m actually glad you forced me to go. I would have always wondered …”
“What were you going to say?” he asks, looking at me intently.
We are both seated on the couch with our shoulders touching. My legs are curled up in front of me. His cologne wafts up my nose, awakening my very neglected libido.
“Nothing really. I guess I’m just glad I’m nothing like her.” I shrug with a sad smile, thinking there may be small pieces of me that are like my birth mother.
“You aren’t, Eden. You’re selfless and pure.” He leans forward and his thumb brushes my cheek.
His touch melts me and makes me realize how much I crave this connection. My head turns into his touch and moves along his thumb, begging for more contact. I don’t know if it’s the effects of the wine warming my blood or the want I feel for him. There are still so many things I don’t know about him, and what I’ve heard around school isn’t promising. I take another larger gulp of wine, followed by another, maybe looking for the wine to make me brave. Then I lean forward and place my glass on the coffee table. Dixon leans back, leaving me bereft of his touch. My insides shake with need.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice deep and husky.
I smile shyly.
“Peaches.” He calls me my nickname from when we were young and butterflies dance in my chest as my lips turn up. “You’re still so beautiful,” he continues, moving in closer so his breath brushes the skin on my face, and holy hell, I want him to lunge at me and do very dirty things to me.
“Thank you.” I pause, feeling the blush crawl up my cheeks. “You’ve turned out to be quite handsome yourself.”
He cocks a brow. “I’m glad you think so.”
My heart beats erratically, waiting for him to make a move. Then it happens. His hand comes up and cups my head, bringing me closer to him, and his hot lips collide with mine. He tastes like sweet heaven.
“You still taste so good, Peaches,” he rasps out while our tongues slowly mingle. The way he calls me Peaches sends shooting need directly to my core.
The kiss isn’t slow or evaluating like kissing someone for the first time. It’s ravenous and knowing, which scares and thrills me at the same time. My hands run down his broad shoulders to his back. His hands move to my waist as he props himself above me and leans me backward.
“I’ve been dreaming about this since the gala,” he admits.
“Really? But you didn’t recognize me,” I remind him.
“True, but I’ve never wanted anyone like I wanted you that night. Except for back in Williamsburg. Fuck! I waited so long to kiss you,” he continues to confess.
My mind is in overdrive from him touching me, and his revelations, that I don’t have time to think. I just want him so bad. He licks the seam of my mouth and then his tongue plunges inside. He tastes of his drink and something else that turns my body into a needy mess. Adrenaline pumps through me as the anticipation of having him inside me builds. His strong hand moves to my breasts, cupping them hungrily.
“You feel so damn good. You’re so hot. I can’t wait to see this tight body of yours naked,” he growls.
“Yes,” I answer breathily.
“Yes?” he asks. “Tell me what you want, Eden,” he say
s and it throws me off. I’m not used to discussion during foreplay, and I’m too shy to tell him what I want.
“Don’t be shy, Peaches. Tell me. I want to know your deep, dark fantasies.”
Something about the intimacy in the way he calls me Peaches reminds me of how close we really were. How much I trusted him before he was ripped away.
“I’m not very experienced,” I say hesitantly.
“What do you mean? You aren’t a virgin. I know that. You’ve had a baby,” he states, as he unbuttons my blouse and lets out a slow hiss when his eyes find my breasts. He tantalizes my nipples with his fingers and I let out a soft moan. “You like that, huh?”
“I’ve had sex, but more of the missionary position,” I admit as shame crawls over me. “My husband doesn’t touch me very much.”
“Your husband is an asshat. I want to touch and kiss every inch of this perfect body.” His hands run over my shoulders, removing my blouse. In one swift movement, he unclasps my bra. He’s smooth. I’m not surprised.
His lips connect with my neck, sucking and nipping his way down my collarbone, toward my breasts. My anticipation grows as his mouth closes over my nipple and he sucks—hard.
I let out a loud moan and grab his head, running my fingers over his shaved head. It feels prickly and awakens my senses. He moves to my other nipple and my hips begin to thrust into him.
“Fuck, Peaches, I can feel your heat through my jeans,” he hisses, but I don’t stop bucking my hips. His mouth returns to my breasts as his fingers find my clit. “You’re drenched.”
I don’t respond, but I’m sure I am. I’ve never been this turned on.
“Oh, oh,” I moan. I don’t remember the last time my body received this kind of attention.
“You taste like sweetness and innocence mixed together. It’s …” His words trail off as his kisses spread even lower. My body tenses. Nobody has ever done this to me before, and I think I know where he’s headed. He lifts my skirt so it’s scrunched up at my waist and slowly lowers my panties.
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