Then Came You

by Kate Meader

  “Let’s talk about last night,” he says.

  “Let’s not.”

  “I’d like to know why you wouldn’t let me reciprocate.”

  “Sheesh, most guys wouldn’t even question it. Most guys would take it as their due.”

  He narrows that dark gaze at me.

  “Yeah, I know, Grant. You’re not most guys.”

  “This was never our dynamic. I don’t like leaving you unsatisfied.”

  “Who says I was left unsatisfied? I can take responsibility for my own orgasms.”

  His cheekbones flag with color. Sometimes he’s so easy, but he turns it around in a flash because he’s also quick. “That’s the sound I heard through four walls?”

  “You did not—” I break off, realizing he’s kidding. “I’m just saying that what happened was something I needed. It’s been a while since I’ve felt…well, sexual. And being in charge of your pleasure gave me a sense of control.”

  He stares at me for an electric moment, no doubt surprised by my admission. I’m a little surprised myself.

  “And if I’d touched you, if I’d run my fingers through your slickness, inside, you might have lost that?”

  Now it’s my turn to heat up. “I’m not ready to hand that over just yet. And when I do, I don’t know if it will be with you.”

  Instead of being insulted, he grins, and my heart twists the other way. “Ah, so you’re just practicing on me while you get your groove back?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Wicked, wicked woman.”

  And here we are grinning at each other like fools, wondering how it could have ever gone wrong.

  About halfway through our meal, I hear voices alternating between agitated and soothing, and notice several diners around us rubbernecking to a point behind me. What looks like the manager is at a booth over in the corner. His back is to us, but I can just about see who he’s talking to: a woman.

  Correction: a woman with a baby. The child wails, and the man recoils as if the sound offends him. Which is when I see what truly offends him.

  She’s breastfeeding—or was. Her shirt is open to the navel but pulled closed, like hastily drawn curtains over what should be a natural sight. My eyes dart around, looking for the asshole who probably complained and started this mess.

  Now that we’re listening, snatches of what they say reach us:

  “Got no right…”

  “Restroom…over there…”

  “Leave her be…”

  Then me to Grant, as I’m barely able to see through my red-eyed rage: “Be right back.

  “Hello,” I say, muscling in, though I don’t really have the presence or the power suit to make it work. “We’re all dying to know what’s happening over here.”

  “Ma’am, please go back to your meal,” the manager says, oily as margarine. “I’m sorry you were disturbed.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t.” I turn to the mom. She’s so young and looks so tired. The woman across from her in the booth is an older version of her, possibly her own mother.

  As for the baby…oh, he’s got a ton of dark hair and piercing blue eyes. “Boy or girl?”

  “A boy. Simon.” She looks wary, no doubt questioning if I’m here to pile on the litany of complaints.

  “How old’s Simon?” I take a seat at the edge of the booth to let her know I’m an ally.

  “Six weeks. Six weeks tomorrow.”

  I reach to touch his head, then stop myself.

  “Oh, go on,” the woman says. “He’s a bit cranky because he’s hungry”—she arrows an accusing look at the manager, who is now standing awkwardly, peering down at three women, which is never a good look—“but he doesn’t bite.”

  I graze my knuckles gently over his cheek. He’s surprisingly warm, and that newborn scent hits me so hard my ice-compacted heart cracks open.

  “Did this gentleman tell you that you couldn’t breastfeed here?”

  “He said we have to use the restroom, but it’s filthy and no place to feed a child,” the other woman cuts in. She offers her hand. “I’m Carrie Ann. This is my daughter Bailey.”

  I shake it. “Hi, ladies. I’m Aubrey, and I’m a lawyer. I practice family law in Chicago, but I’m fully versant in the regulations in this state. All women have the right to breastfeed their children in public.”

  The manager coughs. “We had a complaint—”

  “And when faced with the choice between acknowledging a complaint and breaking the law, you chose the latter?” I tut, which makes Carrie Ann laugh and the manager turn an ugly shade of red.

  “I have to take all my customers into account,” he sputters.

  My phone vibrates, and I remove it from my pocket to find a text from Grant with the exact Pennsylvania Consolidated Statute number and a link, just in case I need to wow with the full force of the law. My heart does a few rabbit kicks.

  “I think the local news and area women’s groups would be very interested to interview you”—I squint at his name tag—“Jacob. Or maybe I’ll check in on Facebook and see if we can get this thing going viral.”

  He raises his hands. “No, no, of course she can do…that.” Without so much as an apology, he backs away.

  “Wow,” Bailey says, with a nervous grin, “you sure told him.”

  “I can’t stand bullies.” My gaze is drawn back to the baby, this gorgeous bundle of life and joy. “And I’m a sucker for cutie pies.”

  Now that the confrontation is over, my thigh starts to shake. Maybe it’s adrenaline—it’s not, it’s not—but I’m suddenly feeling dizzy. Which means it’s a good idea to stand, right?

  Ha, of course it is! I grip the table as I lever myself up one-handed.

  “Well, enjoy the rest of your meal. Especially you, little one.” My voice must sound strange because both women scrunch up their faces at me.

  They say something, probably thanks, but there’s a rushing sound in my ears, a waterfall thundering through my brain. My heart thumps, thumps, thumps, and I back away, pivot quickly, and stumble blindly toward the restroom.

  Chapter 10

  Grant

  I shouldn’t follow her, but I can’t let her cry alone. Too much of the time managing our grief was spent in separate rooms.

  “Bean.”

  She wipes her eyes and turns away from me to blow her nose. “You can’t be in here.”

  I flip the lock behind me. “Yet I am.”

  She shakes her head. “God, I hate when assholes like that stick their oar in. Just who the hell did that guy think he was?” She goes on in this vein for a while, and after about thirty seconds, I take her into my arms.

  “Grant—”

  “Can I hold you, Bean?”

  “I’m okay.” She sniffs. “I was doing so well. It’s been months since I lost it, and I need to pull it together before we get to Boston.”

  “It’s okay to get upset. I don’t think you ever realized that.”

  Drawing back, she stares at me, her eyes puffy and swollen. “Thanks for giving me permission.”

  Irritation flares. “Well, you always acted like you needed it. Like any deviation from the stiff upper lip would be punished to the full extent of your mother’s law.”

  She tries to draw back. I hold on, like I should have two years ago.

  “You had a miscarriage, Aubrey. You lost a child you had already started to love, and you—you refused to talk about it.”

  “You know that’s not how I was brought up.”

  “So staying trapped in that cycle of your upbringing is the only way forward?”

  She pulls away from me, and this time I let her because, no matter how much I try, I can’t make her melt into me.

 
“It got me through.”

  “It got you out.”

  She places a finger of accusation in my chest. “Here we go. I won’t beat my breast and wail my grief in a way that suits Grant Roosevelt Lincoln.”

  I shake my head, gaping at her capacity to reframe the narrative. “You wanted to grieve alone. I thought it should be a joint effort.”

  “What’s wrong with my way? Why does everything have to be hashed out, talked about, pored over, until we’re hoarse? Why couldn’t we just move on? Oh, right, you did. When you said you couldn’t live with me anymore. You couldn’t…love me anymore.”

  A single tear escapes, and before she can swipe it away, I catch it with my thumb. I cup her head and lean in close.

  “I never said I couldn’t love you anymore, Bean. I wanted us to talk, go to counseling, figure out a way to grieve that acknowledged our pain. Our. Pain. This didn’t just happen to you. I know you went through indescribable hurt, baby. But when you wouldn’t let me in, I felt like you didn’t need me anymore.”

  The moment it leaves my mouth, I realize that this is the story of my life. My mother, pregnant at fifteen by an older man who wouldn’t acknowledge what he’d done, disowned by her parents, forced to find her own way, raised me alone. The moment I could get a job, I started paying her back, becoming the knight she needed. Every decision I made, from school to work to my choice of bride, has been to make my momma proud and create a life that says “fuck you” to everyone who said we couldn’t. I know I chose Aubrey for a reason.

  She needed me.

  On first glance at our upbringing and obvious differences, this sounds like crazy talk. Why would a woman with Aubrey’s privilege and advantages want to slum around with a guy from the backwoods? What could I possibly offer her? But that first day we met, I saw it all laid out as clear as a Chicago summer sky: I would show her the meaning of worship, and in turn she would give me purpose. I would craft a perfect life with her, shelter her and the family we would make. My broken silver-eyed princess would be healed by my touch.

  I’d already taken care of my momma, and every knight needs a new crusade.

  “Of course I needed you,” she says, “but what I mostly needed was to go back to our lives. To fighting and fucking, the way we do it. Grant and Aubrey. Instead you treated me like a glass doll. Like I was no longer a woman, just a fragile, broken vessel who couldn’t—” She stops.

  “Who couldn’t what?”

  “Carry the son and heir. Give you that dream you’d wanted. The whole nine.”

  I treated her like glass because that’s what she was—is—to me. Precious. Mix that with my guilt at being unable to keep my rough, redneck hands off her. My worship was real but rarely reverent.

  She closes her eyes, her black lashes dotted with diamond-shaped tears. “I felt…like such a failure. This thing you wanted, this life you needed…I couldn’t give it to you. And you wanted to talk about it. About trying again. About how we could get through it. And all I could think of was…”

  “What, Bean? Tell me.”

  “You’d be better off without me. With someone who could give you it all and wouldn’t keep on hurting you.”

  Jesus. Fuck fuck fuck. How did she get to that? Was that the message I’d somehow instilled in her: picket fence and two point five kids, or you’re worthless to me.

  I’m so angry I can’t think straight, or maybe I’m thinking straight for the first time in forever.

  I release her and step back, my hurt that she would unilaterally decide our future by clamming up and pushing me away creating a rage-mist surrounding me. She’s opening her heart, and what’s coming out should make me understand. At last.

  Yet the thoughts in my head are all about me: How dare she do this? How dare she make that call?

  “I guess you didn’t know me at all.”

  She opens her eyes, clearly alarmed at the frigid tone of my words.

  A wave of anger, guilt, and lust crashes over me, as inextricably linked as two people with a shared past and grief.

  “Your job was never to provide an heir, Aubrey. Maybe that’s what your family has drilled into you from day one, and I can’t deny that I wanted kids. That the thought of you carrying my child excited me, made me giddy. I just wanted to care for you. Shelter you. Heal you. But that you’d use our loss to finish what we had, to call time on us—who the fuck do you think you are?”

  Her eyes widen. Anger has never been one of my tools. I’m low-key to the point a stiff breeze might knock me over. But this…I’m caught between my own guilt and the need to make her understand that we were once a team and she fucking ruined it.

  “Grant,” she breathes, her hand fanning out over my chest. The touch of her burns, and I crave it like a man dying to meet his maker. Because while my momma grew me from a seed, Aubrey shaped me into a tree. Fury is rocketing through me, and what’s more, it’s…it’s turning me on.

  “Grant,” she says again as she cups my jaw and that…that…that incendiary touch breaks me wide open. I take her mouth, this mouth I adore, and crush it with all my dead hopes and dreams. With the need I can’t muster for anyone else and the guilt I can no longer hide.

  It’s a bomb, this kiss. The shrapnel makes our hands tear at each other’s clothes, but I’m stronger and push her away. I don’t deserve her touch. I don’t deserve a damn thing. Yet I want to give her what she wouldn’t permit last night. My hand inside her panties. My fingers invading her heat. All my want wrapped up and ready to detonate.

  Pain is supposed to make you stronger, some idiot said. Love, too. With Aubrey, I feel nothing but fear and weakness, desire and longing. When do I reach the part about becoming a better person?

  I plunge my fingers inside her, breaching her body, loving her sensual gasp. In this, we’ve always been able to find each other. When we couldn’t communicate, our bodies did the heavy lifting.

  She screams into my mouth as my rough-hewn fingers press against her clit. The jerk of her body is my gold medal, but in that moment, I feel as though I’ve stolen it. This gift she didn’t want to bestow on me. This orgasm she wanted for her own.

  Still clutching my shoulders, her forehead slots in under my chin. I clamp her tight, soothing her through the fall. My first instinct is to apologize, but she raises a finger to my lips before I can say the words.

  “It’s okay,” she says, though it’s not, and I’m not sure it ever will be.

  Someone knocks on the door, breaking the noisy peace we found for one small moment.

  Silently, we fix ourselves up and go on our way.

  Aubrey

  I jolt awake to the sound of a cry. For a moment I think it’s her.

  No, it’s Cat Damon. We must have hit a patch of ice. He’s sensitive to any sudden movements of the car.

  I look over to Grant, who is focused on the road. He asks, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I thought—where are we?” The sky is dark, which means I’ve slept since Erie. Bacon and Grant-given orgasms for the win.

  “About an hour outside Skaneateles.”

  “The Finger Lakes? But I thought we were going to stop in Buffalo.”

  “Decided to press on.”

  So he can deliver me to Boston sooner and think of a way to dump me there, no doubt. A shiver runs through me. We’ve been here before—a different car, another road, at these lakes. Three times we’ve driven to Boston for the holidays, and three times we’ve stopped in one of the towns in the Finger Lakes region. It’s almost a tradition.

  “Means we can sleep in tomorrow,” he adds. “Shorter drive to the city.”

  This morning I woke up at 2 a.m. in Grant’s arms. It felt right and wrong and everything in between. One take-back-my-power blow job later countered with a reciprocal orgasm after my diner meltdown, and here
we are.

  “Has he been whining while I slept?” I look back at Cat Damon, who eyes me with typical accusation.

  “No more than usual.”

  “I think he misses you.”

  Grant snorts. They have a love-hate thing going on that I don’t buy for a second.

  By the time we get to Skaneateles, a pretty town hugging the shores of its namesake lake, it’s close to dinnertime. I’d been hoping for a gray block of hotel on the highway; instead, I’m in a colonial mansion with so many festive wreaths, I’m drowning in Hallmark. Happy freakin’ holidays.

  “One room,” I comment as we head up to the third floor, the walls framed with Victorian cameos and daguerreotypes that look authentic.

  “Don’t make a thing of it, Aubrey.” No more “Bean,” I see. His voice sounds as strained as the journey has felt over the hours since Erie. Since I fell apart in that restroom under his touch and told him we ended because I couldn’t be the wife he needed.

  Grant grabs the spare pillows and comforter out of the closet. He throws them on the sofa to let us all know what the sleeping arrangements will be tonight.

  Okay, then.

  Neither of us is hungry, and with the weather and our moods, I’m not seeing any romantic walks in our immediate future. At least a foot of snow, maybe more, is expected.

  I coax Cat Damon out of his carrier. “Come on, Cat.”

  He’s upset with all the travel, so I let him wander the room sniffing things and rubbing against the furniture. I set out his bowl with some bottled water and open up cat food from a baggie, that dry junk that’s supposed to be good for them.

  “Okay if I use the bathroom first?” Grant asks.

  “Sure!”

  We’re back to being careful around each other.

  With him out of my presence, I breathe for the first time in hours. I’ve never seen Grant angry before—irked, annoyed, turned on, dominant, but never furious, not even when it was clear our marriage was failing. Back then we skirted each other like ghosts passing from one realm into the next. Sadness was the primary emotion, waterlogging us for the countdown to the end.