Pull

by Claire Wallis

  A minute later his eyes leave mine, and he stands up and walks over to the sofa, bringing the rest of the six-pack with him. I follow. We sit there together, drinking beer and watching Spongebob Squarepants. He finishes three in the time it takes me to finish one. But I do it. I drink the whole thing.

  Chapter 13

  David—Present Day

  The rest of the day slides by in a blur of wrenches and plungers and bitchy people, but somehow I manage to knock several repairs off Carl’s list. Unfortunately, I have to see Mr. Wiggin and his six flea-ridden cats again on Monday. I didn’t have the right-sized flange. It’s rotten as hell in his place and the clogged disposal doesn’t help. I think he’s been putting kitty shit down the thing for years. I’ve never told Carl about Mr. Wiggin and those cats, and I never will. Someday, when the dude moves out, Carl’s gonna shit himself silly over the filth and stench in there—and I’m gonna enjoy watching Carl’s face curl with revulsion. I’ll consider it revenge for having to listen to his bullshit at poker every Tuesday. The day Carl sees—and smells—all that cat piss will be the day I quit this job and walk out on him. Let some other chump rip up the carpet and replace the floors and baseboards. That’s easily worth the price of my own rent.

  Plus, maybe by then, Emma and I will be ready for a new place. A new apartment. Maybe even a new town or a new state. The mere thought of sharing a place with her makes me see him again. The grown-up me. I’m going to have to focus on not fucking this up. I’m going to have to trust that she really does believe I was born-again. And, most importantly, I’m going to have to start believing it myself.

  After a brief stop at home to grab some stuff and take another shower, I drive to Emma’s office building. Her purse is sitting in the passenger seat, and when I park the car, I decide to open it to check for her phone. I’m sure the battery is long dead, but thankfully, it’s still in there, along with her wallet, a tube of ChapStick, her key ring, a pad of paper, a few pens, a small bottle of Tylenol, and three tampons in a little pink-flowered tampon travel case. Funny. Who knew such a thing even existed? For some ungodly reason, the thought of her having such an overtly girly thing makes me smile.

  I close her purse and put it back down on the seat so I can get out of the car and wait for her. I lean against the front fender and stare at the sidewalk extending from the door of her office building. I can’t quite see the door itself from here, but I know she’ll be out soon. I like to watch her walk. Especially when it’s toward me.

  A few minutes later I see her, and when she gets to the car, she slinks her arms around my waist and up under my shirt. I put my mouth onto hers because I can’t help myself. Her tongue is on fire, and her fingers brush against my back. I put my hands on her hips and pull her tight into me. She flexes her pelvis against mine, and I just about flip her up onto the hood of my car to fuck her senseless. People are watching us, though, and there’s no way in hell I’m sharing.

  “How was your day?” she says with a smile when our mouths disconnect.

  “Alright.” I shrug, my hands still on her hips. “Spent the afternoon fixing shit I didn’t break, for a man I don’t like. You?”

  “I spent the day filling in the blanks.”

  “How so?”

  “Matt didn’t want to lie, but when I wasn’t at work on Thursday, he had to give them some sort of reason. So he told everyone that I was in the hospital. He said he didn’t know why I was there, just that I was. Obviously, this was before you conjured your story. I mean, not that I would want him to tell everyone that story, but he had to come up with something. So today, I had to tell about a million people that I got food poisoning from bad sushi. Matt backed me up, though, so no worries there.”

  “Sorry.” I run a hand through my hair.

  “Like I said, no worries. Matt was cool. He didn’t say a word about it all day.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yep.”

  She looks at me for a while and then takes a step back, dropping her hands and boosting her satchel back up onto her shoulder. I take a small step toward her and turn around to open her car door. Once she’s inside, I walk across the front of the car and we drive away in silence.

  On the phone earlier, Emma said she just wanted to go home. But there’s not a thing I can do there that would be enough to express how much she’s changed things. I need to show her a small piece of who I am. I need to show her how much I want to be the new, grown-up me; not just believe that he exists. So instead of getting on the freeway, I drive somewhere else. I’m sure she notices because when I drive past the on-ramp, she turns her head to face me and raises her eyebrows in question. She doesn’t say anything, though, and I suspect she’s not going to. I have to drive fast because we only have another hour or so until they close.

  Twenty minutes later we pull into a parking space in front of Jackson’s Hardware. Emma looks over at me as I shut off the engine.

  “Do you need to get something?” she asks quietly.

  “No,” I say with a knowing grin, unfastening my seatbelt and opening my door. “Come on. I want to introduce you to someone.” She looks surprised, and by the time I get over to her side of the car, she’s wearing a look of genuine confusion.

  “I was thinking that you might need some sort of a character reference,” I continue as we walk across the parking lot. “You know, someone who can vouch for me, confirm that I’m a half-decent guy and I might be worth keeping around.”

  She stops just outside the door. “I don’t need a character reference to tell me all that. I already know it. I knew it from the moment you walked into my apartment.” The confidence in her words strikes me. Once again, she’s more sure of me than I am of myself.

  “It was the tool belt, wasn’t it?” I say, laying on the innuendo. She tilts her head backward and lets out a loud, sharp laugh. Her face looks like sunshine.

  “Yep, that’s it. It was the tool belt. It’s always the tool belt.”

  “Well, prepare to be amazed because all the tools in that belt came from this place. From this man.”

  “Here?” She raises her brow in question.

  “Yep. This…” I say, opening my arms wide and sticking my chest toward the front of the store, “is the birthplace of blue-collar awesomeness. This place is so full of working-man swagger it’ll make your head spin. Clive Jackson is one smooth motherfucker.” She looks doubtful. “I’m serious, Emma. You’re gonna love him.”

  “Well,” she says, tilting her chin up at me, “I guess I’m just gonna have to go in there and find out for myself. And, come to think of it, maybe I will do a little character referencing while we’re here. Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Atta girl.”

  I take her hand as I pull open the door.

  Clive is standing behind the counter, writing on a piece of paper. When he hears the door open, he looks up at us and smiles. He’s wearing his usual suit and tie, and he’s got his driving cap cocked slightly to the side. This man is a class act.

  He puts down the pen and walks over to us.

  “Well, I’ll be…” He reaches out to shake my hand. “You weren’t lying. When Barbara told me you were coming here with a girl, I thought you were trying to pull one over on us. But, looky here…here she is. She’s real. You caught yourself a pretty one, didn’t you?” I look over at Emma, and she’s smiling from ear to ear.

  “Sure did,” I say with a proud smile.

  Emma sticks her hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson,” she says as they shake hands. “You’ve got quite an amazing place here.” As she talks, she looks around the store, soaking in its perfect organization.

  The store has been in Clive’s family since his grandfather opened it in 1917. Then, in 1958, it was passed down to Clive. The place has survived all manner of economic and social turmoil over the years, including the Great Depression and the Second World War. It’s a beautiful store, old-fashioned and ordered and clean as a whistle.

  “Thank you.
We try to keep it in shape. The wife believes that cleanliness is next to Godliness, and I gave up arguing with the woman a long time ago.”

  “How long have you been married?” Emma asks with genuine curiosity and care.

  “Sixty-one years. It wasn’t always easy, but I believe good things are worth holding on to.” I see Clive’s left eye flash closed when he says it. He’s winking at my girl.

  “They certainly are.” Her gaze moves around the store once again, and I see it settle on the carvings on top of the middle row of shelves. Clive sees it, too.

  “I made those.” He puts his hand on the small of her back and guides her over to the row. “Aren’t they something? I’ve got a little talent with a chisel and knife. It’s getting harder now that I’ve hit eighty, but I can still whittle like a champ.”

  Emma puts her hand on her hip and studies them carefully. “They’re beautiful. Really lovely.”

  “They sure do make the girls swoon. Always have.”

  “I can see why,” Emma says, flirting right back. “There’s nothing better than a man who knows how to work with his hands.”

  “She’s a smart one,” Clive says, now looking at me.

  “You don’t need to tell me that." I shrug.

  “Well, listen,” Clive continues as he turns back to Emma, “I don’t know how serious you two kids are, but I’ll tell you this, young lady—that man over there comes into my store nearly every day, and I hate to admit it, but we like having him around. He’s a pretty serious guy, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, sir, there isn’t.”

  Clive nods his head at Emma and hardens his mouth into a straight line. “Well, then, I’ll let you two get what you need. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do on a Friday night than hang out with an old man.”

  “There’s nothing we need,” I say. “I just wanted to show Emma my favorite place.”

  “Huh,” Clive says, shrugging. “This is your favorite place? I guess you need this girl more than I thought.”

  “I guess so.” I turn my eyes to Emma and curve my lips into a smile.

  We say our goodbyes, and I tell Clive I’ll stop by on Monday afternoon to pick up the parts I ordered. He hugs Emma before we leave, and she doesn’t even flinch when he pats her firmly on the ass. She just smiles and tells him how much she looks forward to seeing him again soon.

  When we get back into the car, Emma asks me more about Clive and the store. I don’t know whether she wants to hear it or not, but I end up telling her the complete history of Jackson’s Hardware as we drive to pick up some takeout and then head to Addison Park for an impromptu picnic. I tell her all about Clive and about how he and Barbara met at a drag race in 1953. I relay story after story—practically in Clive’s own words—about how his grandfather ran a still out of the back of the shop during Prohibition, and about how his father managed to keep the store open during the Depression by allowing people to pay with eggs and vegetables from their gardens. I tell her about how Clive and Barbara invited me to Christmas dinner at their house soon after I moved here. I initially went because I felt bad for them; they’re pretty much alone. But the next time they invited me to dinner, I went simply because they’re good people. Because I feel at home with them. Because, unlike most of the other people in this world, they’re genuinely warm and interesting and unpretentious.

  But, I tell Emma, I’m not just fond of Jackson’s because of Clive and Barbara. I love going in there and seeing everything in such perfect order. I know where everything is, and I never have to ask for help. I don’t have to look at ten thousand pieces of pipe to find the right one. I know the store like the back of my hand because, if it were my store, I would’ve organized it in the exact same way. It’s logical and orderly and predictable. Everything there makes sense.

  Emma doesn’t tell me I’m nuts. She doesn’t call me crazy for loving a hardware store where all the screws are sorted with godlike precision. She doesn’t tell me I’m foolish for appreciating perfect rows of caulk tubes and light bulbs. She doesn’t mock my admiration of Jackson’s or the strange comfort I find there. She just listens and nods and tells me how much she’s enjoying tonight.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------

  It’s nearly eleven o’clock by the time we get back home. Emma wanted to sleep at Addison Park, spend the night on a blanket looking at the stars. But the mosquitoes had a different idea and so here we are, standing outside her door, looking at each other like a couple of awkward sixteen-year-olds. It’s taking everything in me not to pick her up, wrap her legs around my hips, and haul us both back to her bedroom.

  “Thanks for introducing me to Clive and for telling me about his place.” She quietly puts her key in the lock and turns the knob. “It’s a beautiful store. I can see why you like it there so much.”

  All I can do is stand here and look at her, thinking about how much I want to touch her skin.

  “It was really an amazing evening,” she continues. “Except for the damn mosquitoes, I mean.”

  “Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?” It’s all I can think to say. My brain has now officially seceded. I can’t handle any more above-the-shoulder thinking right now. But I’m not making the first move. I want it to be her.

  “You coming in?” Her hair is swallowing half of her face, dripping down over her shoulder and covering up her neck. The neck I want to kiss.

  “I told you before, Emma, I always want to come in.”

  “Good.” She steps into the door and switches on the light, kicking off her shoes, dropping her work bag and purse on the floor, and walking toward the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

  “No thanks.” I follow right behind her. Just before I round the corner into the kitchen myself, I hear the fridge door open. I walk in to see her ass pushed out behind her; she’s bent at the waist and reaching for something. The single bulb inside the fridge lights her face as she turns back to ask me if I’m sure I don’t want anything. She must have caught me looking at her ass because a smile creeps across her face as she stands upright and puts her beer down on the counter.

  She steps to the side and closes the fridge door, looking at me with that wicked little grin of hers. My hands instinctively reach out to touch her hips. I can’t help myself. And then her lips are on mine, goading us both on and making my skin tighten. She turns my body to the side so she can lean against the kitchen wall. I press into her, kissing her neck and rubbing my hands against her chest. When I step back to take off my shirt, I see her looking at my arms. Her eyes settle on the blue heron on the front of my right shoulder. She’s smirking at it as she runs the tips of her fingers down the length of my arm, settling them on the sparrow just above my wrist.

  I push my body into hers again, my right hand traveling up her thigh and under her skirt. Her body is warm and thick with energy. As she moves her hands across my bare shoulders, I kiss her neck, tasting her sweetness. I lift up her skirt and bend my fingers under the rim of her panties, dragging them down over her hips and thighs until they drop to the floor. Goddamn, this woman is amazing. My fingers travel back up between her legs, and they find her, circling over her and making her sigh. It’s the only sound I need to hear.

  “Yes,” she stutters. “Go. Please.” I quicken my pace and feel her rise up onto her toes. A few minutes later she drops over the edge, curling her pelvis hard against my hand, pressing into me.

  Her breath is heavy, and she wriggles against me again and asks me for more. I remove my hand, grip her waist, and set her up on the counter, pulling her forward so her ass is just barely on the edge. I grasp her neck and bend her forward to kiss her hard, spreading her mouth with my tongue, spreading her legs with my hips. Her hands are holding the edge of the counter, keeping her steady. She wants me inside her. She’s desperate for it, and so am I. But I’m not going to do it. Not yet.

  “Do that again,” I whisper beside her ear. “I want to see you this time
.”

  Her eyes open and she looks at me. My fingers are inciting her again, spurring her on. She’s wrapped around them. Sending her higher is the biggest fucking turn-on in the world. She lets go of the counter and grabs my arm, the arm whose fingers are inside her. The one with the heron and the sparrow and a hundred other colorful birds. She holds them, steering me, pressing me into her. She’s still looking at me. Her mouth is open, but she’s holding her breath. She’s pulling my arm into her hard, and I have to use my other hand to hold her onto the counter. A moment later, I watch the wave rush over her again and drag her down. My own mouth open, and my breath rapid. Just like hers.

  She’s still on the counter, panting and pulsating with electricity. She leans forward, hooks her fingers into the waistband of my jeans and pulls me to her. As we kiss, she undoes my button and zipper and pushes my jeans to the floor.

  I hold her legs by my hips as she guides me inside her. This is what I want. To fuck her. To remind her that she is mine and I am hers. She twists her legs around my waist and leans back on the counter, holding onto the edge as I push deeper into her. My hands move to her hips, and I pull her forcefully onto me over and over. Her entire body is bouncing. Singing.

  I look down at her and study the way she moves. The way her hips swivel into me. The way her arms grasp the counter. The way her neck tilts back. It makes me feel powerful. I want to remember every second. Just in case.

  I lift my eyes to hers, and we watch each other. She’s right there; I can feel it. Emma closes her eyes, and her body flexes and stiffens. I pound into her, holding her hips and exhaling a stuttered breath. I fucking love being inside her. I fucking love this. I fucking love her.

  I lean over her, turn her head to the side, and tell her so.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------

  We sleep until nearly noon on Saturday, and while she showers, I make us breakfast. I’m not much of a cook, so the best I can manage is a couple of scrambled eggs with toast and a cup of coffee. Still, she seems grateful for it and eats every bite. I can’t help but wonder if it’s out of courtesy or because it actually doesn’t taste like crap.