So, yeah. Getting arrested is definitely not a fucking joke.
She’s quiet for so long that I have no choice but to turn back toward her again. Somberly, she repeats, “Take it from you? What do you mean?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I can’t believe I said that. She noticed, and she’s curious, and my mind is flailing, searching frantically for a good cover-up. Kind of like when she asked me about my tattoo.
“It’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?” I say quickly. “That getting arrested would suck?”
Regarding me with narrowed eyes, she says nothing at first. And then she mumbles, “I guess.”
Okay. She doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but as long as she lets it go, it’s not a problem.
And I can leave it at that. She understands. Innocent Mia, inexperienced with all the shit. And that’s perfectly okay.
But my inner asshole isn’t done. He takes over. Opens my mouth, engages my vocal cords. Pushes the words out, darkly and nastily. “At some point you might want to consider if it’s time to start acting like a grown-up.”
Her face goes blank. I see her jaw flexing as she clenches her teeth. “All right,” she says in a toneless voice. “Got it. No more blow jobs.”
We stare at each other. Time stops. The back of my neck feels like it’s on fire. I don’t need to see her silent hurt and disappointment to know I’m being a jerk. Don’t need to do any deep soul-searching to know I should apologize. But I just can’t do it. Can’t make myself say the words and leave myself that vulnerable, not right now.
Swallowing hard, I decide to take the less painful route. Softening my voice, I say, “That seems a little drastic. How about no blow jobs in public.”
She looks tense and defensive for a few moments longer, seeming hesitant. Then she sinks back against her seat, arching her eyebrows at me.
So I complete my peace offering with, “Unless it’s a lot more secluded than the shoulder on the freeway.”
Thankfully, she lets out a chuckle under her breath. “That’s fine.”
As she starts pulling down her seat belt to fasten it again, I say, “Hey.”
While snapping the belt into her buckle, she looks at me with a question in her eyes, so I lean over. Cup the back of her head, pulling her toward me and capturing her lips. Giving her a firm, lingering kiss. When I pull back, I tell her, “That was the best art lesson of my life.”
“Of course it was,” she replies, her mouth curved up seductively. “You’re welcome.”
With Fun.’s “We Are Young” blasting out of the car stereo, I’m zooming down the road that stretches straight and wide toward the horizon, my hands resting lightly on the steering wheel and cruise control set to eighty miles per hour.
The landscape has changed from dirt with patches of green to an agricultural one. Farmland surrounds us on both sides, some with crops and others with rows and rows of fruit trees. Much of the land lies fallow, probably victims of the prolonged and persistent drought. A little ways back we passed a dry and brown barb-wired field with a homemade sign saying, “Stop the Congress created dust bowl.”
Taking the 5 up through Central California is about as thrilling as waiting in line at the post office.
I’m singing along to the lyrics as best I can, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and bopping my head to the beat. It’s my only entertainment, because next to me Jay is wearing earbuds while he’s doing something on his phone. He’s using an app that I don’t recognize, and even though I keep trying to catch a glimpse of it, the glare on his screen makes it unreadable.
So instead I get to enjoy the view. Some people look best from the front and others in profile. Jay doesn’t have a good side. He’s gorgeous from all directions. I could do a dissertation on the perfection that is the shape of his jawline alone. Could compose an ode to his broad, solid shoulders. Write a novel about his hands and what he can do with them.
Feeling flushed, I crank the AC up a couple of notches before shifting in my seat, arching and stretching my back for a second. My patience with driving is already wearing thin, even though I haven’t been behind the wheel for a full hour yet. We stopped and ate unhealthy and not particularly good fast food for lunch, since there are few other options on this trip. But pouring enough hot sauce on it can make even the blandest taco palatable.
And that right there is actually a great metaphor for life, isn’t it?
Is that what I was doing when I decided to give Jay a blow job earlier—spicing up an otherwise tedious road trip? I’m not entirely sure why that happened. It’s like there are these little devils living inside me, and usually they’re asleep, but sometimes they spring to life and hijack my brain.
You’ve never been arrested…it’s not a joke.
That statement of his had sounded like he spoke from personal experience. As soon as I absorbed and processed what he’d actually said, the words gave me a jolt, leaving me taken aback and confused. But then he didn’t elaborate, and his explanation made sense. So I let it go, because the idea of Jay committing a crime and getting arrested is downright outlandish.
There’s still a nagging voice at the back of my mind, though. What if he wasn’t always the Jay I know now, the guy who always plays by the rules and is never tempted to make the wrong choice? For the first time since I started considering him my best friend, I’m asking myself if I know him as well as I think I do. And I don’t like that I don’t know the answer.
You might want to consider if it’s time to start acting like a grown-up.
See, I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job of being an adult. But maybe not. Maybe he’s right—although I could see in his eyes that he immediately regretted saying it.
Which doesn’t mean it’s not true.
I refuse to take all the blame, though. It’s not like I got in the car this morning with a plan to at some point go down on Jay while he was driving. But his poorly disguised reactions made telling him about last night’s party too much fun, and the way he went from stunned to intrigued to turned on with such obvious lack of self-control made me kind of giddy. And bold, apparently.
It was Matt who opened my eyes to how powerful a blow job can make you feel—how in control you are, totally in charge while the guy is at his most exposed and defenseless. And ever since, I’ve appreciated the rush and the satisfaction of giving another person that much pleasure.
It makes me sick to my stomach to think of everything I gave Matt Nolan of myself, though. I’d give just about anything to take it all back. Maybe I’m flattering myself to consider that he might still think about me sometimes, but the possibility is there, and I hate that he has those memories. I don’t want to be responsible for giving him even a second of happiness. He doesn’t deserve it.
It’s different with Jay. First of all, because I know him so well. Six years of friendship means I’ve seen him at his worst as well as his best. There’s no pretense between us, and trusting him is easy. No, he’s not my boyfriend. We’re not a couple. We just are. Being ourselves, enjoying each other’s company. I’m not much for labels, anyway.
I could do without all of his rules, though. And if he could chill and stop getting mad at me about stupid shit, that’d be great, too.
A sudden fear stabs me, worry that I forgot Grandma’s present. But then I distinctly remember putting the small, gift-wrapped package in my suitcase. While I’m breathing a sigh of relief, I notice Jay’s movements from the corner of my eye. He’s tugging out his earbuds and switching off his phone, reaching up to rub his eyes. It stopped raining while we sat in that dirty little fast-food place eating our stale and cold tacos, but gray clouds still hang like a blanket above us, hiding the sky and the sun.
Lifting his arm, Jay checks the time on his watch, even though just seconds ago he was using his phone. Which would’ve told him the time. Sheesh.
“What were you doing on your phone?” I ask.
“It’s a language learning app.”
> Oh-kay. That doesn’t exactly satisfy my curiosity. “You’re learning another language? Which one?”
“French.”
And that’s all he says. Which forces me to interrogate him some more. “Why?”
I look at him. He shrugs. “It’ll be useful when I go to work with Uncle Warren.”
Right. Duh.
My gut starts churning. I’m not sure why.
You’re full of shit, Mia Waters.
I know exactly why it’s as if a sinkhole has opened inside me. Who am I kidding? I’m going to miss him.
It’s too glib and simplistic, that thought: I’m going to miss him. It doesn’t contain enough words to describe what it’ll be like to have Jay live on the other side of the world and to have no idea when he’s coming back. Just contemplating it, I already feel like a piece of me is missing.
From the day he told me, I’ve accepted that this is what he’s doing with his life because he’s always seemed so sure about it. And when a person you care about is that determined, that focused on a goal, you’d be a jerk to try and change his mind.
Or so I’ve thought. But maybe not? Would it really hurt to ask?
“You’re still doing that?” The question pops out of my mouth before I consciously decide to do it.
Jay watches me with a hint of a frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know.” It’s kind of a struggle to sound casual. “We haven’t talked about it for a while, so I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. People do that.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I haven’t, though.”
“Okay.” With a sinking sensation in my chest, I look away from his piercing scrutiny. It’s on the tip of my tongue to prod him some more. To point out that he doesn’t have to travel to the other side of the planet to find people who need his help.
But I’m pretty sure all that will accomplish is make him defensive and annoyed. So it’s better not to rock the boat.
Better to just live in the moment. To appreciate that for now he’s still here, that he’s my friend and my lover, and that we’re both okay with that.
At least, I think we are. I mean, there’s no reason we wouldn’t be…is there?
It’s nearly two o’clock when we draw close to my parents’ house. My car rolls slowly down the tranquil residential streets lined with mature pine and oak trees, manicured lawns, and large homes in a variety of styles and colors—some dark brick, some wooden houses painted neutral colors, and here and there, a few stuccos.
I was born here in Green Hills, a suburb about an hour’s drive inland from San Francisco, and my family moved to this part of town while I was still so little that I can’t remember having lived anywhere else while growing up.
As I’m driving up the last steep incline toward my childhood home, I get the same feeling I always do since I moved away. It’s a sensation of everything being strangely familiar but distantly so, like my memories are from a past life or maybe even a vivid dream. The place that used to be my whole life is no longer a part of my day-to-day reality. Which is weird, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be content to leave it that way.
A dark SUV I don’t recognize sits in the curved, concrete driveway in front of my parents’ sandy-colored, two-storied stucco house, and as I pull up and park beside it in front of the three-car garage, I’m guessing it’s my sister’s rental. She and her husband, Logan, were supposed to fly up here from San Diego this morning with their two little girls.
We get out of the car, and at once I notice that the grass covering the expansive front yard smells freshly mown. Arching my back and raising my arms, I stretch my travel-worn muscles with a grunt.
Jay rounds the hood of the car, his eyes on me heavy-lidded and burning as they run over my body from head to toe. Heat flares in my core and flickers down between my legs, like embers that were all too easily fanned into flames.
Shit. I’m horny. I want him, and I have no idea when or even if that need can be satisfied this weekend. It’ll be kind of hard to do, sleeping in separate rooms in a house filled with my family members.
He’d better stop staring at me like that, though, or the jig will be up. Everyone will take one look at his face, and there goes rule number one.
The front door to the house flies open, and a high-pitched little voice squeals, “Aunt Mia!”
“Freya!” I call back, throwing my arms wide as my oldest niece comes rushing toward me, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her. She’s wearing strappy sandals and skinny jeans with a purple short-sleeved top, and my mind is blown at how grown-up she looks. She’s not quite six yet, but if I didn’t know better, I’d guess she was seven or eight.
Bending down, I scoop her up into my arms, letting out a grunt at the unexpected weight of all those small, gangly bones. I remember her being a newborn like it was yesterday, when lifting her was no more strenuous than picking up a watermelon or a gallon of milk.
“Oh, my gosh,” I puff out, groaning extra loudly for effect, “you’re getting too big to lift.”
Giggling, Freya leans back to look at my face, her smile showing rows of tiny, perfectly white teeth with the two front top ones missing. “Guess what?” she says with breathless excitement, widening her blue eyes almost comically at me. “When we go to the fair, I’m gonna be big enough for the big rides!”
“No way!” I exclaim.
Carrying her youngest on her hip, my sister is strolling toward us, and I throw her a grin before asking Freya, “Are you brave enough to go on the big rides?”
“Uh-huh!” the girl pronounces without hesitation, and then, with a look over my shoulder, she starts wriggling in my arms. “Uncle Jay!”
Uncle Jay? I cringe as I let the squirming child back down on the ground. I don’t dare to even glance back while Freya hurries over to him.
“Hey,” I say to Paige, giving her a hug that she returns one-armed. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Second trimester is the easy part,” she reassures me, and I can’t tell otherwise, because Paige always looks good. With her denim capris and flowing white blouse, I can’t be sure if she’s showing yet. Her long and golden-blonde hair falls in perfect, soft waves around her shoulders, and her pale eyes are accentuated by subtle makeup that makes them seem larger and all the more striking within her narrow, delicate features.
Next to Paige, I’ll always be the perky and cute one standing beside her exquisite and elegant big sister. I’m okay with that now. Ten years ago? A little less so.
“Hi, Abigail,” I chirp at the girl in her arms, who’s wearing an adorable pink summer dress, her short and whitish-blonde hair framing her porcelain-doll cheeks. After one cagey look at me, my youngest niece buries her face against her mother’s neck.
“Abi, you remember your Aunt Mia, don’t you?” my sister murmurs to her daughter, reaching up to tuck hair behind the girl’s ear. “She came to your birthday party.”
I guess three months is an eternity for a three-year-old, because Abigail just tightens the grip of her chubby little arms around her mom’s neck.
“Her shyness has been getting worse lately,” Paige explains with a grimace.
“That’s okay,” I say loud enough for Abigail to know I’m talking to her. “I’m gonna be pretty sad if I don’t get a hug at some point this weekend, though.”
Still clinging to Paige, my youngest niece peeks at me, and I beam at her, trying my best to look friendly and goofy. She still just stares. Behind me Freya is chatting up a storm, and Jay’s much deeper voice only cuts in occasionally, when the talkative five-year-old allows it.
Over by the front door, I see two figures coming outside. Recognizing the dark-gray of my grandmother’s hair and the brown of my mom’s, I make my way over to them to say hello.
Smiling, I step into Grandma’s arms first, hugging her tentatively, because she’s a small woman and looks like she’s made of skin and brittle bones. But when she starts squeezing the air out of me, I tighten my
hold, too. She smells like she always does, exactly like the grandma from my childhood—cinnamon incense with a hint of the floral scent of her medicated eczema lotion.
She leans back to look at me, stroking a hand along my cheek and saying, “Mia mine.”
“How are you?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m fine.” Grandma tilts her head to look behind me. “But we’ll talk more later. I need to say hi to that handsome young doctor of yours.”
I shake my head as she walks away. Maybe one of these days she’ll call him by his actual name.
I turn to my mom and enter into her embrace. “Hi, Mom,” I say, my voice muffled against her hair.
“How’s your hand?” Mom asks before she’s even let go of me.
“Fine. Much better.” I raise my hand up in front of her and wiggle my fingers to prove it.
Mom grabs it to take a closer look. “That’s a pretty big scar.”
“Yeah,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. “There goes my hand modeling career, I guess.”
My mom rolls her eyes, and her small-boned face, so much like Paige’s, tightens up with exasperation. “I was so worried about you that night.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Sorry my poor choices and clumsiness caused you stress. Sorry you never get to stop worrying about your kids.
After giving me a kiss on the cheek, she moves down the driveway to join the others and greet Jay. Then we all head inside, everyone talking at once, Freya loudly trying to cut into the grown-up conversation while keeping a vise-like grip on Jay’s hand. I throw him a smile that he answers with an inscrutable look.
We pass through the tall-ceilinged and peach-colored foyer, past the formal living room, where massive windows flood the cozy space and its classical furniture with sunlight, and on through the open archway into the airy and oversize kitchen, where cream cabinets and white-and-gray marble countertops lighten up the already bright room.
Bend Page 15