“Oh God!” I cry, and his mouth slams into mine, muffling my string of curse words while I come quick and hard.
Add Quickie Queen to my resume.
He follows right along behind me, his head on my shoulder as he pants, “I’m sorry, baby.”
Huh, is he kidding? Could he not tell I finished? Ryan used to always ask me whether I did. I hated that. It made me have to verbally lie. It was easier to just fake it than lie to his face. “Why?”
“You only finished once.”
I stifle a laugh. “Well, I did only give you two minutes.”
He raises his head. “I think we have thirty seconds left. You have more to give me, baby?”
* * *
We went a little over our two-minute mark, but it was totally worth it—at least for me. Sticking my head out of my bedroom door, I make sure the coast is clear before motioning for Mateo to wait a minute before coming out. Smiling and feeling refreshed, I walk out of my bedroom. I don’t make it two steps before a little voice startles me.
“Are you going to marry Mateo?” Connor asks.
My heart leaps into my throat. Did he hear us? Would he even know what he was hearing? No way. “What are you talking about, honey?”
“Because if you marry Mateo, then you may have a baby with him someday.”
I exhale—he obviously didn’t hear us.
Connor continues, “And I like being the youngest. I don’t want a baby brother or sister.”
As a mom, I’m never quite prepared for what my kids will say. They never give me warning, and they don’t always bring up heavy subjects at convenient times. This is a perfect example. I don’t know what to say.
Connor’s eyes shift to Mateo, coming out of my bedroom, wearing my bathrobe. He freezes, seeing Connor and me. Shit! Did he hear what Connor said? Mateo’s face isn’t telling me anything.
“Connor.” I start, but he quickly turns and runs towards the stairs. I look over at Mateo. “He was just . . .”
“Asking about a baby sister or brother,” Mateo says, eyeing my belly. “Is there something I should know?”
“No, nothing like that,” I say, thankful he apparently didn’t hear the marriage part.
I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his chest, remembering that Mateo once told Poppy he didn’t need to have his own children. Is that true? This is not the time to get into that issue with him.
I wonder if I would ever be open to more kids. I knew I didn’t want more kids with Ryan. We never even considered a fourth. At my age, the window to have kids is closing. Would I reconsider for the right man?
He kisses the top of my head. “Are you sure there’s nothing you need to tell me?”
I shake my head, laughing. “I’m sure, but I have no clue what to do about Connor.”
“Maybe he’ll take a bribe,” he teases.
“How much you got?” Jacob asks, coming down the hallway and walking into the den. “Cause I could take a pic of you in that robe and post it all over the place. Probably would go viral.”
“You know, I think I liked you better when you just grunted,” I tease, and Jacob laughs before assuming his position in front of the television. “Mateo, I’ll go check on your clothes.”
Throwing the clothes from the washer to the dryer, I walk into the den to join Mateo and Jacob. Jacob is sitting on the leather chair, and Mateo’s on the sofa. They’re playing some terribly inappropriate, violent video game where the object seems to be killing the other person in the most violent way possible—like ripping off their head, shoving it down their neck, then pulling it out through their chest. I think I may have bought this one for Jacob for Christmas last year.
Don’t get me wrong, I hate all the violence in the video games, but all of Jacob’s friends have them, too. And he talks to his friends while playing them. I don’t want him not to be able to talk to his friends. I want him to have a social life, and this is what most teenage boys seem to do. Still, I’m conflicted about it. I guess I’ve just learned to pick my battles with my kids over the years.
Jacob holds out his remote to me. “Mom, play Mateo.”
“How do I play?” Before I know it, the game has started. Mateo obviously knows which button combinations to push to do some cool moves and counter moves. Without my glasses on, I can’t even see the letters on the buttons, so I just randomly start pushing things. Suddenly, my psychotic character begins to levitate and electrocutes the other guy.
“Go, Mom!” Jacob says, laughing. “You are a complete badass! She lit you up, Mateo!”
I’ll let the cursing slide since it was compliment, I suppose, and we’re having such a good time. Mateo is beaming with pride, looking at me like I just won the Nobel Peace Prize, and leans over and kisses me on the lips.
It’s closed-mouthed and brief, and I know it was spontaneous, but the room goes silent just the same. Mateo and I both realize what happened at the same time. Jacob’s been the one that’s handled this the best. I hope we didn’t just ruin it. I can’t believe this happened—and on the heels of the awkwardness with Connor.
We turn to Jacob together and see he looks completely stunned, having never seen anyone other than Ryan kiss me, if he even remembers that from several years ago. I look up at Mateo, his eyes searching, neither one of us knowing what to say or do, compatible even in our insanity.
Jacob fills the dead air, asking, “Do you love my mom?”
Before I have time to freak out, Mateo answers, “Very much.”
Jacob’s eyes shift to me, the shock evident in my face. He gives me the same mischievous smile he did when he was a little boy. “Would now be a good time to ask for fifty bucks?” he asks.
I laugh through a few tears, and Jacob gets up and hugs me—really hugs me, like he hasn’t in a long time. “I love you,” I whisper in his ear.
“Love you, too,” he whispers back, pulling away then adding in typical teenage boy style, “What’s for lunch? I’m starving.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
COMPLICATIONS
Mateo’s getting dressed, so I’ve got a few minutes alone. And I need it. Stepping out onto my back porch, I wonder if my yard is big enough to hold the many thoughts in my head right now.
Ryan was the first boy who ever said he loved me. And he’s the only man who’s ever said those words to me—until today. Mateo’s in love with me? I wonder when he first felt it. What does this mean for me, the kids?
When you’re young and use the “L” word, it’s a lot simpler. I think love in general is simpler when we’re young. Perhaps as we age, we complicate love—and everything else—so unnecessarily.
I feel Mateo come up behind me, his hands on my hips. “I’ll be working from home this week,” I say, not looking at him, the love comment hanging over us.
“You’re thinking way too much,” he says.
“You told my son that you love me.”
He turns me around, forcing my eyes to his. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Well, I think that . . .”
“No,” he says, planting a small kiss on my lips. “Not think. Feel.”
I gave him a smirk. Why do I always try to process, itemize, categorize? I’m the queen of organizing, of lists. For goodness’ sake, I even made a sex bucket list—and I did it when I was drunk! I get plastered and still can’t shake my Type A tendencies. Don’t get me wrong, I adore that list, though, and it’s served me well—wherever the hell Mateo has stashed it.
As for love, Mateo’s right. Love’s not something you decide or think through. If I’m going to love again, it’s not going to be because I processed something or because of a list. You can make a list of a thousand traits you want in someone, and if you ever happen to find that person, you may actually feel nothing. It may make sense on paper, but your heart could care less.
I know I need more feeling in my life, but I can’t help but trust my head over my heart. My heart has made me stupid before. My planning, my lists, and m
y rational brain never let me down. Mateo’s asking me to use an organ that’s broken. It’s like I’m being asked to dance without any legs. How can I trust my heart?
“Mom, the doorbell’s ringing,” Jacob yells, opening up the backdoor.
“Well, answer it.” I say sarcastically. “You can walk to tell me someone is at the door, but you can’t walk to the front door and answer it?”
Jacob shrugs, so I head for the door, motioning to Mateo to give me a minute. He nods and heads back inside to the den with Jacob. The doorbell rings again, and I move a bit faster. “Coming,” I say.
It’s probably my mom coming over to babysit. She’s got good timing, as Mateo and I obviously need to finish our conversation. The doorbell rings again. Hurrying to answer, I fling the door open. It’s not my mom.
“Ryan?”
“You left your glasses in the car on the drive back, and I thought you might need them,” he says, holding them out.
“I’ve been looking for them,” I say, walking out to the front porch with him and closing the door behind me. “You didn’t need to bring them by.”
“You okay?” he asks.
I give him a quick nod. “Good, yeah.”
“No, you’re not.”
Leave it to Ryan to finally grow some insight. Shrugging, I say, “I’m fine.”
“Talk to me,” he says, touching my hand for a second. “You used to always say we never really talked.”
“We’re divorced. Now’s not the time for a heart-to-heart.”
“Guess not,” he says, and I turn to head back inside. “Fuck it, Emerson!” He grabs me by the waist, turning me to him.
I try to wiggle free, but he pulls me closer, our hips pressed against each other. “Ryan, let me go.”
“Never again,” he says, his eyes softening, and I suddenly stop struggling, even stop breathing. “I made a huge mistake when I left. I still love you, and I think you still love me.”
“You divorced me,” I say.
“I tried to stop loving you. I swear I did, but I still believe in us.”
“Ryan, you don’t mean that,” I say. “It was an emotional week with Ava and playing house at the beach with the kids.”
He flashes me that dimple smile, the one that caught me all those years ago. “You aren’t hearing me. I want you back. I’ll do anything.”
Holy shit! Where is this coming from? I know he’s needed time to think, and sleeping together may have confused things, but this is entirely different. He’s not hem hawing around. He’s dead serious. Why now? After all this time? This has to be a reaction to our week with the kids. Or maybe it’s just because he’s jealous of Mateo. Either way, I closed this door.
“Aren’t you seeing someone?” I ask.
“That’s long over—never really went anywhere,” Ryan says. “There’s only one woman I want.”
“I’m not yours anymore.”
“Because you slept with him?” he asks softly, and the tears in my eyes are enough of an answer. “I don’t care.”
Who is this man? “But one kiss and you . . .”
“I know. I was so stupid, prideful. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. Please come back to me.” Ryan takes my hand. “I promise I’ll make you happy this time. We can do counseling if you want, whatever you think is best. We aren’t over. I think we owe it to ourselves to try again. Hell, we owe it to our kids.”
“I have to go inside,” I say, turning for the door.
Ryan catches my waist. He’s serious about not letting me go this time. “The kids were so happy this week. You can’t deny that. We can give them that again. Think about it.”
“Emerson,” Mateo’s voice startles me.
I wiggle free from Ryan, but he captures my hand. “What the hell is he doing here? With my kids?”
“Think you need to go, man,” Mateo says calmly, though I can feel his anger vibrating like an aftershock from an earthquake.
I don’t recall ever seeing Ryan look like this before. His eyes say he’s sad, but the rigidness of his posture points to only one emotion—pissed off. I can feel him digging in his heels. For once, Ryan’s not going to bail.
“We would be back together if it wasn’t for him,” Ryan says, “and whatever the hell you two are doing with that sex bucket list.”
I roll my eyes. “It has nothing to do with the list.”
“Then it has everything to do with him,” Ryan says.
“Ryan, a lot of time has passed,” I say.
“Tell me that’s not true,” he says, his voice cracking a bit.
Mateo’s deep brown eyes shoot to me, clearly wondering if there’s any truth in what Ryan’s saying. I can’t think it’s entirely untrue. Before Mateo came along, I still had a soft spot for Ryan. We even slept together again. I still loved him in some weird way. I probably always will.
“Tell me our kids wouldn’t have us back together if he wasn’t in the picture,” Ryan continues, his eyes welling up a bit.
I close my eyes, remembering our kids this past week at the beach, each of them happy and content. I haven’t seen them all look that way for that length of time in years. A week with their mom and dad together did that.
“Daddy,” Ava says, coming up the path to the house, her eyes darting between the three of us.
“Go inside with your brothers,” I tell her.
“What’s going on?”
“Now, Ava!” I snap.
She looks at the pain on her father’s face. “Daddy, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey. Everything’s fine,” Ryan says, reaching out and squeezing her hand. His eyes go to me. “I’m going to take her in the house for a minute.”
Ryan and Ava disappear, and I turn to face Mateo. “He just showed up.”
“He seems to think you’re trying to work things out.”
“No, well, I don’t know. I mean, he just asked me to think about it.”
“Don’t fuck with my heart, Emerson,” he says. “Did something happen with you two at the beach?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He doesn’t respond. It looks like he’s hurting. I’m standing only a few inches from the man, but it seems much farther. The wedge Ryan just drove is big. Perhaps that’s what he wanted, though he seemed completely sincere. This isn’t a game. I feel my body start to tremble before I realize I’m crying.
“You need to believe me,” I say.
“I believe you,” he says, reaching out to me. “Talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
“Tell me how you feel.”
“There’s something to be said for seeing your kids happy,” I say through tears. “There’s nothing better than that. Especially to see Connor the way he was, it was special. How am I supposed to deny them that?”
“I want you, Emerson. I’ll fight for you. You know that.”
“I know,” I say. “I have to think.”
“Ryan knows how to get to you. He knows he’s too late, so he’s trying to guilt you, use the kids, into giving him another chance.”
“I’m not sure he’s doing that,” I say and look off into the distance, thinking about Ryan, how I’ve known him for decades, and that for all his faults, this isn’t some stunt. His feelings are real. “I need to think,” I say again.
“Was he thinking about the kids when he left you?”
Before I can answer, Ryan opens the front door, and I find myself standing in the middle of these two men, a pair of blue eyes staring at me, and a pair of brown doing the same, my heart screaming, my head yelling, but my mouth mute. One man is my past, asking for a second chance, and the other is my present, hoping for a future. And they couldn’t be more different: from the way they look—one, strong and tan; the other, softer and lighter with those dimples—to the way they love me—one, like I’m his whole world and the other, as history loves, through a lens that may not always be accurate.
I suddenly realize I’
m going to hurt someone. The pain of knowing that is unbearable. How did it come to this so quickly?
“I need you both to go,” I cry out softly.
They open their mouths to protest, but I hold up my hand. Ryan quickly closes his mouth, but Mateo can’t be silenced so easily. “There’s no way I’m leaving with things like this,” he says.
I gently reach out for his hand, and he locks his fingers with mine, the warmth of his hand leading me down the steps of the porch for privacy. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I love you,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I don’t just throw those words around, Emerson.”
“I know,” I say. “And if this were just about me, it would be different.”
“So Ryan was right? If it wasn’t for me, you’d give him another chance?”
I don’t see the point in answering that question. We both know the answer already. “Please don’t do this.”
“Emerson, I need you to tell me what to do. My instinct is to fight for you, beat his ass, and claim you as mine. I’m not the type to bow out.”
“Part of me wants you to do just that. But then there’s my kids, so . . . ” I say, my voice trailing off. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t want to fight so hard that I hurt you. I’m incapable of doing anything that would hurt you or them,” he says. “I feel like my hands are tied.”
“If you could just give me a little time to think,” I say, hating I’m breaking his heart. Plus, I feel like a hypocrite, remembering how hurt I was when Ryan asked for “time” a few months ago. It seemed like chicken shit then. I’m sure it rings hollow to Mateo now.
He looks me straight in the eye. “Time wasn’t on your list,” he whispers. “I hope it’s not the last thing I give you.”
Without another word, he walks to his car and drives away. I can’t bear to watch another man leave me, even though I asked him to. I turn back towards my house, where Ryan is waiting, finally ready to offer the life I once wanted more than anything.
The Sex Bucket List Page 20