The Other P-Word

by MK Schiller

  “I’m sleeping really well. We keep odd hours these days, but it’s working out.”

  “Is she kicking a lot?”

  “I think she’s training to be a kick-boxer, actually.”

  My mom and sisters and I got caught up in it. I forgot to be a good hostess, but thankfully, the boys picked up on our slack, entertaining Evan.

  The conversation went smoothly because we all loved music and it was easy for Evan to talk about. His knowledge rivaled Mom’s and I could tell both were equally impressed with each other. He even complimented Mom’s vegan meatballs.

  “He loves Mom’s balls,” Stevie said, causing me to choke on my iced green tea. “He’s very…strapping,” Stevie continued to whisper. “I get why you changed your online name, Mrs. Charlie Hunnam.”

  I kicked her to shut her up.

  “You’ve been holding out, Little Bird,” Marley said, not offering me any help. I would have kicked her too, but she was pregnant so I refrained.

  Neither of them looked satisfied, so I threw them something. “Let me know if you guys need to borrow any batteries. I have an oversupply,” I said quietly enough for them to hear.

  Unfortunately, they weren’t as stealthy in their giggling responses.

  Thankfully, Mom announced that it was time for dish and dish. I’d never been so happy for dessert. I volunteered to help her get it ready.

  “I like him,” Mom said, as she took the cake out the fridge.

  I started slicing it. “Really?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I just thought after Preston… I know you didn’t like him much.”

  “Sweetheart, I had no issues with Preston.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Well, now I hate him, but back then, my main concern was that he wasn’t right for you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It wasn’t anything about him, baby. It was you. It’s not what the man does for you, but rather how he makes you feel. How’s that chocolate craving?”

  “Diminishing daily.”

  “I thought so. Safe sex?”

  “Mom!”

  “Just answer so I can sleep at night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I figured you might have an issue with him. I mean, I’m kind of vanilla and he’s all rocky road.”

  “You say that like vanilla’s a bad thing.” She put her arm around me. “I may be a vegan, but even I know that vanilla is the basis of every flavor. Rocky road needs vanilla to stabilize it.”

  “He’s leaving in the fall. He doesn’t stay in one place for long.”

  “Maybe he’s found the one thing that can detour him.”

  I opened my mouth, but the boys—the big and small ones—all started chanting “Cake.”

  “Dish… Have you thought of names?” Stevie asked Marley, before even taking a bit of the dairy free, eggless, sugarless cake.

  “I was thinking if it was a boy, we’d keep up the Beatles theme and go for Ringo.”

  Rick choked. “I thought I vetoed that one.”

  “If you didn’t, I do,” Mom said.

  “Why?”

  Rick shook his head. “Ringo Randy? Do you even want this kid to survive the first grade?”

  Marley laughed. “Of course we can’t name him that. I’m just brainstorming here.” She rested her head on Rick’s shoulder. “You always say there are no bad ideas when brainstorming.”

  “I changed my mind,” he grumbled.

  “Marley, there are no rules in naming your child. You don’t have to follow my pattern,” Mom said. “Pick out a name that feels right.”

  “Why did you do that, Mom?” I asked. “I get that we’re named for the musicians that most spoke to you when you were pregnant with each of us, but why singer names?”

  Mom shrugged. “I guess I wanted all my kids to feel like rock stars…figuratively, of course.”

  Stevie chuckled. “Literally too. You wanted us to all go on the road and be an all-girl band.”

  “Maybe a little,” Mom said, pinching her thumb and index finger together.

  “I could see that,” Evan said. I was glad he joined in the conversation.

  “But alas, that’s the irony of it, Evan. We can appreciate harmony, even though we have none.”

  “We’re all musically challenged,” Marley added.

  “Well, speak for yourself. I can play a mean tambourine,” I said, mimicking the movement.

  Marley grabbed my wrist and turned it over. “What happened here?” she asked.

  My mouth gaped as I stared at the imprint. “Must be from the shirt I wore earlier.”

  Dillon took my other wrist. “That’s funny, it looks like the same pattern as the curtains I bought you. Damask. That’s kind of a weird pattern for a shirt, and the cuffs would have to be awfully tight to cause an indentation.”

  “What are you? CSI?” I asked, pulling my wrist away.

  I allowed myself a second to gaze at Evan, whose expression hovered between amused and horrified.

  “Jeez, you don’t have to go all crazy-girl. I was just asking a question.”

  “Can I dish?” Bobby asked.

  “Please,” I almost screamed. Everyone stared at me. “I mean, I want to hear what Bobby has to say.”

  “Of course,” Adam said. “Go ahead, son.”

  He turned to Evan. “Do you do it with my Aunt Billie?”

  Kill me. Kill me now please.

  But my dear sweet nephew wasn’t done with his line of questioning. Instead, he propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, waiting for an answer. Evan’s jaw moved but no words came out, although he swallowed hard, swelling his Adam’s apple. “My mom said she’s really bad at it. But Aunt Marley said she just needs to find her rhy-rhythm. Grandma says everyone should do it even if they are bad, because it makes people happy.”

  “Bobby!” Stevie chided. The child looked at her innocently.

  Adam held his hand up. “Bobby, son, for God’s sake, please clarify what you are asking.”

  He looked at his dad like he was the child, not the adult. “Singing.”

  Oh thank God.

  Stevie put her hand over her neck, covering the crimson blush. “Of course, he was talking about singing,” Stevie said, a few octaves louder than necessary.

  “We’ve never sang together. You interested, Billie Marie?”

  Mom, Dillon, Marley and Stevie all shot me simultaneous looks of interest.

  “I’d rather just appreciate what you can do.”

  “Speaking of what you can do, would you consider playing for us?” Stevie asked.

  Way to put him on the spot, Stevie, but Evan didn’t seem fazed by it. “I would, but I don’t have my guitar.”

  Adam stood. “That’s a problem I can solve. I have a spare at my parents’ house next door. I’ll be back.”

  It only took a few minutes before the plates were cleared and a chair was set up in the middle of the room for Evan.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked, me taking my hand and leading me to a vacant corner of the house.

  “What do you mean?”

  He took my wrist, rubbing it gently. “Your wrist. Does it hurt?”

  “I’m fine. I promise. You don’t have to sing, you know,” I said, as Adam brought in his guitar.

  “It’s okay, Billie. I feel like this is the least hostile audience I’ve ever played for.”

  And it was.

  “Any requests?” he asked.

  “Play whatever you like. I’m sure we’ll love it,” Mom said.

  “Billie tells me you’re a Deadhead, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  “Please, call me Emmie. And yes, I am. I toured with them one summer and even got the tattoo to prove my dedication.”

  “Really?” Evan asked.

  “And no, you may not see it,” Damien said, putting his arm around my mom.

  “I gotcha.” Evan started strumming a familiar tune. “Well, Emmie,
thank you for having me. This one’s for you.”

  He started to play Touch of Grey.

  George ran up to him before he mouthed the first lyrics. Evan stopped.

  “Sorry,” Mom said, taking George’s hand, but the little boy wouldn’t budge.

  Evan smiled at him. “I think he wants to listen to the music.”

  Paul stepped forward. “He can’t. He’s deaf. That means he doesn’t hear anything.”

  Evan smiled, shaking his head. “Just because he can’t hear doesn’t mean he can’t feel it. Do you want to feel the music, buddy?”

  George nodded. Mom gasped. “Is he…?”

  “He’s reading lips,” Damien said. “Our son is smart.”

  Evan took George’s little hands and placed them on the body of the guitar. He leaned in as if he was just singing for George.

  George’s eyes lit up as Evan sang. I leaned against Dillon, not trusting myself to speak. What he was doing for my little brother made my heart cry. I glanced over at my mom, who was crying. Damien wiped a tear from her eye. Marley bawled, covering her mouth to mask the sound. No doubt she’d blame hormones.

  When Evan was done, we were all silent for a second, soaking in that moment.

  “That bad?” he asked.

  “That good,” Mom said, her voice thick.

  I think by the end of it, all our hands hurt from clapping so hard.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We didn’t talk about what happened. He made love to me again. Hell, let me be real about it…he fucked me. I enjoyed it.

  The end.

  That’s not true. He made love to me too. I just pretended he didn’t. He pretended too.

  I told him how much I appreciated what he did for George, but he shrugged it off. Instead of it bringing us closer together, he became distant and aloof. It seemed the only time we connected now were in those intimate, naked moments.

  It was late or early. Time didn’t have any normal measure anymore. My whole world tilted so that the sun and moon and everything in between had no sense of purpose. Light filtered inside the windows. I disentangled myself from Evan…not an easy task. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. I turned the music on low.

  I turned on the bathroom light. I gathered my clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed. I put on my knee-high socks and panties that were way too pink and lacy to be called boy shorts. I had to look around for my orange polka-dot bra. I found it under his bed. The strap had wrangled itself around a wooden box. I hooked it on.

  The box had Evan’s initials on it. I suppose he did hang on to some things. I ran my fingers over the top. Everything told me to shove it back under the bed, but I unlatched it instead. A plain white envelope with the word Chris in Evan’s writing marked it. Below that, there were photographs. His family. My fingers shook as I held one. Evan looked young, almost preppy, in board trunks, standing next to a surfboard. A boy close to his age stood next to him. A young girl with curly hair was in the foreground with a bucket and shovel. Evan looked carefree and happy. I’d seen him laugh and smile, but it was guarded, almost cloaked compared to the Evan in these photos. What had happened to that boy? Had he lost all faith in the world when he’d lost everyone he loved?

  The box also contained a handmade friendship bracelet, a few tiny seashells and a watch that no longer kept time. There were other pictures, but I’d already gone too far, invading his personal space. I put them all back hastily, snapped the lid shut, and slid it under the bed.

  I shuffled along the floor in my socks to the bathroom. I washed my face and combed my hair. He came up behind me. We both brushed our teeth. He took out his razor. Our movements were in sync, as if we’d been practicing for a long time. He handed me the mouthwash when he was done.

  When he finished shaving, I was fully dressed.

  “Morning,” he said. He wore nothing but his briefs. My breath hitched at the sight of the filtered light making shadows against the chiseled planes of his face.

  “Good morning, lover.”

  He laughed, grabbing the guitar from its stand and sitting on the chair. He strummed along to the music on the iPod. “I missed watching you get dressed.”

  “I didn’t know it was such an interesting phenomenon.”

  “Do you know that you dance when you dress?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. You do that a lot, like it’s part of your natural rhythm, in the way you walk and even when you stand, your right foot moves to some silent beat. That’s why I think you’re like a butterfly. You flutter.”

  “I flutter?”

  “All the time. You could be serving a table or running from a rainstorm.”

  Surely, I would know if I was dancing. I shook my head.

  Evan quirked an eyebrow. “I swear you do. I watched you that day. That first day when you ran into the coffee shop. There’s a grace in everything you do, Billie Marie.”

  “Thank you. I guess I never realized that.”

  “I wonder what it must be like to be you. To love life so much that you literally dance your way through it.”

  I walked over to the iPod and found the song that reminded me of him—of us. The one that had all the lyrics I longed to whisper to him. I Will Follow You into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie.

  “Try it,” I said, holding my hand out to him.

  He took my hand.

  “Take this off. I want to feel your skin,” he said, yanking my T-shirt.

  I threw it off. He bent on his knees before me, tugging off my skirt. He played with the waistband of my panties before he stood. I wrapped my arms around him. Dancing in the dark, in my underwear, with this man, was incredibly erotic and endearing at the same time. He bent toward me, pressing his forehead against mine. He hummed to the music in my ears. My body shuddered. I clasped his hands and backed away from him because I’d end up jumping his bones if I was closer. He lifted his arm, allowing me to spin. There was something in his eyes—a mixture of lust and longing.

  He moved us forward until my back pressed against the wall. His hands followed the contours of my body, settling on my hips. He lifted me. I wrapped my legs around him.

  “Looks like I caught a butterfly. What should I do with her?”

  “Anything you want.”

  His erection ground into me, hard and long and demanding. I released it.

  “Let me get a condom,” he groaned against my neck.

  I didn’t want any barriers between us anymore. Besides, we had more than enough in the way of precautions. “We’re safe.”

  “Billie?”

  “I don’t want anything between us.”

  He sucked in a long breath, nodding his approval. He moved my panties to the side. I flung my arms over his shoulders. “You feel so good.”

  His one arm remained against the wall while his other held my right leg. I turned and kissed his arm, marveling at how it flexed. Then he rammed into me—hard, without apology. I yelped.

  “You okay, angel?”

  “Yes.”

  He slammed me again. The shock of it got easier each time until I yearned for it. I gripped his cock in my walls.

  “Oh my God. Do that again.”

  I did, squeezing harder this time and loving that I had the power to make his knees shake.

  He slid his strong hands under my legs and he lifted them farther apart, propelling into me. Then he paused, kissing me softly. He mouth tasted of fresh mint.

  I fell apart as his lips traveled down my jawline, the now familiar feeling of climax taking hold of me.

  He set me down very gently. Our arousal ran down my legs.

  “Shower?” he asked, massaging my shoulders.

  “Yes.” I turned to walk toward the bathroom. He came behind me and picked me up in his arms.

  “You don’t think I’m just going to let you fly away, do you?”

  “It’s not me who’s going to fly away, Evan.”

  He’d caught m
e. My heart was his.

  He frowned, shaking his head. “I know that.”

  I was grateful for the hot water and the fact that he stood behind me, rubbing body wash across my back. The position hid my tears well.

  * * * *

  “I have to run errands,” he said, after the shower.

  “I’m going to make us pancakes when you get back.”

  “Really?” he asked, his mouth turned up in a boyish grin.

  “Yep, with chocolate chips and raspberry syrup.”

  “Keep turning me on like this and we’ll be eating raw batter.”

  He swatted my ass as I walked away.

  I started the batter as soon I heard him come back a few hours later. Surprisingly, he didn’t come straight to my place.

  “It’s almost ready,” I yelled.

  “Can you come over here, Billie?” There was something about the sharp and cold way he’d said my name that didn’t sound right.

  I switched off the stove and walked over to his place.

  “I hope you’re hungry.” My smiled faded.

  He was staring at the picture as if he’d never seen one before.

  “What is this?”

  “Do you like it?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

  He didn’t look at me. He just stared at it. “What’s it doing nailed to my wall?”

  “I found it at this art gallery downtown. It’s a photograph of Orange Beach at sunrise.”

  “I know what it is. That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “You said it’s the place you most wanted to go, so I thought you’d like it.”

  “You took it upon yourself to redecorate my place?” He clenched his jaw.

  Oh no…this wasn’t the response I’d expected at all.

  I smiled, trying to calm him down. “I think the correct term is decorate, since there’s nothing on the walls to begin with. It’s just one picture.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Evan, I swear I didn’t mean to intrude. I was trying to do something nice for you.”

  He laughed cynically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nice? I agreed to all your little rules, but this”—he pointed to the picture—“this is too much.”

  “I’ll take it back then. There’s no reason to be such a dick about it.”