The Sex Bucket List

by Lane, Prescott

  I absorb all these words, so grateful for these women in my life. They’re my tribe, my heart, my wisdom. And as usual, they give me a lot to think about.

  * * *

  The next day, giving new meaning to “until death do us part,” Poppy and Dash get married in Bonaventure Cemetery. Sure, it is a beautiful and historic place in Savannah, resting peacefully along the Wilmington River, but I hate thinking about death and don’t much like being surrounded by it. Poppy looks beautiful in her white gown, while the rest of us wear black. The guest list is small, just close friends and family. And since the setting is more than a little odd, there are no kids in attendance. Even amongst the revelry of the ceremony and reception, I can’t help but notice that another person isn’t in attendance, either. I’ve felt his absence all week. Something about the stony grave sculptures and majestic oak trees of this wondrous place is telling me that if I don’t pull my act together fast, I’ll be feeling his absence for the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE LIST RETURNS

  Pulling onto my street, I look towards my house. It’s been a long day and night, but for a moment, I think I’m seeing things. My house looks different. I blink a few times, and then my eyes fly out the windshield to my garden. Some of the old bushes have been removed, and standing in their place are some I recognize immediately, the same ones my dad planted for my mom so many years ago.

  “Rose bushes,” I whisper to myself, as I pull into the drive, admiring the beautiful red hues draped in front of my porch. I instantly know who did this. He knows just how much it would mean to me.

  My mom meets me on the front porch. “The gardeners just showed up this morning. Mateo was here, too. He told me to tell you this was for all the times he never sent you flowers. And asked me to give you this.” She hands me an envelope before she leaves. With trembling hands, I put on my glasses and sit on my front steps. I slowly pull out a folded notecard and have to smile. It’s got the Southern Wings logo on it. Of course it does. Men don’t keep stationary. Lifting it open, a folded piece of paper falls out.

  My list.

  He’s giving me back my sex bucket list. Why? I look down at his handwriting, hoping for some answers. He gives me seven words.

  Even if my love is not enough.

  He wants me to be surrounded by his love even if I don’t choose him. This is his way of always being there for me, of us always being together. What the fuck have I been doing the past week? I don’t need to think about it because I feel it. I feel his love.

  There’s an art to loving someone. And just like real art, it’s subjective. One person’s way of showing love doesn’t work for everyone. It’s delicate. And just like real art, sometimes you mess up and have to start over. Sometimes the piece can be saved, and sometimes it can’t. And right now, Mateo feels like an artist trained in the art of loving me.

  I don’t need to think anymore. I feel his love. I’ve always felt it.

  Some won’t agree with my decision. Some will say I could’ve tried again with Ryan, and I’m making a selfish choice. But somewhere deep inside, I know it wouldn’t have worked out with Ryan, and that my kids would only end up hurt more.

  It’s Ryan’s week with the kids, so when he shows up, I meet him on my front porch, the pretty rose bushes all around us, and he looks me in the eye. Whether it’s the fresh bright colors in our midst, or something he sees in my face, he knows I’ve made my choice, and that it’s no longer him. He closes his eyes and whispers, “It’s always going to be you. For me, it will always be you.” He opens his eyes, his lips in a tight line, and his fingers gently graze mine.

  Before I know it, he’s hugging me tightly, his head buried in my neck, his arms all the way around me. We both seem to know that this is it, the last time we’ll hold each other. This is the real goodbye. Sometimes you have to hold on tight before you can totally let go.

  I know I’m making the right decision, but this hurts. My arms cling to his shoulders, and I hear him sniffle. Slowly, he pulls back slightly, his arms still wrapped around my waist, his head leaning on mine. He knows he was too late. He decided to fight for me too late, and it’s hurting him. I hate seeing it. I don’t want my kids’ father to hurt. His hands slide from my waist to my face.

  “Are you sure?” he chokes out.

  I’ve never gotten how people go from loving to hating each other so quickly. I’m not built like that. My heart prefers to focus on the good times we shared. If I could hate him, this would be a lot easier. But I won’t ever hate him. The truth is, I’ll probably always love him. But there’s a big difference between loving someone and belonging with someone. Tears roll down my face. He walked away the first time. I need to do it this time—that’s the only way he’ll know it’s really over.

  “I’m sure,” I whisper then disappear inside, sending the kids out to their father before pulling out my cell phone.

  I need to look into Mateo’s eyes. I need him to hold me and kiss me, to wipe away the feel of Ryan, of my past, of my stupid indecision, and this whole horrible week. Maybe more than anything, I need to apologize. I suspect he’s been waiting for this call—for me to need him, bring him in, accept his love.

  I dial and only one word comes out: “Mateo.”

  “On my way,” he says, then the line goes dead.

  It’s a four hour drive from Atlanta, an hour plane ride plus commuting to and from the airport, so I figure I have at least ninety minutes or so to stop crying and compose myself, freshen up, take a closer look at the roses, straighten up the house. But I’m not able to do any of those things.

  Mateo barrels through my front door within fifteen minutes, finding me with my eyes all red, snot running out of my nose, my hair in knots. And the sight of him shooting inside like a man on a mission, calling out for me, only makes me cry harder.

  I head into the foyer to meet him, and he instantly, magically, knows what I need. He moves towards me and, without saying a word, wraps his arms around me, holding me tight, protecting me while I cry.

  It’s a gift to know what a person needs without them having to tell you. Mateo is blessed with such a gift. I’m the opposite, second-guessing the flowers I send for funerals, any words of congratulations or condolences I utter.

  After I tie myself up, Mateo has a way of untying me. I’m not sure if he’s this way with everyone, but he knows me, knows my heart so well that he knows what it needs before its next beat. He must want to talk, but as usual, he puts my needs before his own, letting me cry. We stand that way so long the light changes outside. Finally, I look up at him and whisper, “Hi.”

  Smiling, he strokes my hair. “I was wondering if this was a hello or goodbye.”

  A cry comes from the back of my throat. “I’m sorry you found me like this. I didn’t expect you to get here so fast.”

  “I never left Savannah,” he says. “I’ve been at a hotel. Called in sick the past few days.”

  “Me, too,” I say, crying again. “I’m so sorry, Mateo. I’m so sorry about everything. You have to know, I always wanted to be with you. It was never about that.”

  “I know that.”

  “There’s just a lot of guilt with divorce.”

  “I want your kids to be happy, too.”

  My heart melts, and he embraces me again, pulling me to his lips this time, kissing me sweetly. When he releases me, he asks, “Did you decide how you feel?”

  I reach for his face, holding his eyes. “I feel very loved.”

  Smiling, he says, “You are.”

  EPILOGUE

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  MATEO

  Untying her wrists and ankles, I can’t help but grin. One look at her—just the sight of her, and my body comes alive. I lean down, undoing the last knot on her wrist, and she whispers, “I love you.”

  It took her a long time to say those words to me. It didn’t happen in the foyer that day, or in bed that night, or over breakfast the next morning. She didn’t yel
l it out while we were making love. She didn’t say it casually as we said goodnight.

  Instead, she waited a few weeks, until Ava was packing for the music festival. Ever the mom, Emerson made sure Ava prepared like the zombie apocalypse was coming. She had lists everywhere—things to do, places to park, emergency numbers. She had lists for her lists, for goodness sake. But my sole task was to communicate with my buddy to make sure his best security guys kept close watch on Ava.

  As she was finishing packing up, I remember Emerson walking past me and handing me a folded piece of paper. I expected it to be a list of instructions for my buddy, but it wasn’t. It was her sex bucket list. I scanned down the list, check marks here and there, still a few open items, wondering why she was giving it to me at that moment. I kept looking over it and found a new entry at the very end, with a huge red checkmark beside it.

  Fall in love.

  When I looked up, she smiled and said it out loud.

  That was several months ago, but it never gets old.

  Now kissing her wrists and cradling her naked body to my chest, I whisper I love her. “Since you aren’t allowing threesomes,” she teases, “I guess we’re officially done with my list.”

  We spend the weeks when the kids are with Ryan scratching things off her list. I know she dreads the weeks the kids are gone, but this has given her something to look forward to. And I’m not complaining.

  “It just so happens,” I say, letting my fingertips roam the curves of her naked body. “I’ve made my own list.”

  Her eyes brighten. “Your own sex bucket list?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what kind of list is it?”

  “It’s more of a traditional bucket list,” I say, reaching for my jeans, pulling out a piece of paper from the pocket, and handing it to her.

  Mateo’s Bucket List

  1. Emerson—Notice you are first on my list. Just like you are first in my life. You are what I desire most in the world.

  2. Jacob—I’m putting him second only because as the middle child he never gets to be first.

  3. Ava

  4. Connor

  5.

  6. I’m leaving No. 5 blank just in case Connor’s fear of a baby brother or sister comes true.

  7. A house for us to make our own memories.

  8. I really want a dog. A big dog.

  9. For you to make another list!

  10. For you to be my wife.

  I watch her eyes scanning the page, a soft smile playing on her full pink lips. I think she thinks it’s cute that I made a list, that I’m trying to speak her language. I know the exact second she gets to number 5. She’s hinted at having a baby with me once or twice, seemingly unable to believe I’m satisfied with just her and the kids. But I am. Still, I left it open, just in case.

  Number 7 may be a sticking point. She loves her house. She likes being able to tell me where each kid took their first step, who bled where, exactly where she likes the Christmas tree. That’s all well and good, but Ryan’s somehow involved in each of those memories. It’s not that I’m threatened by that. I just think it would be best for everyone to start fresh. I have no desire to take his place, and if I ever moved in, it may seem like I’m trying to.

  She keeps on reading, and her breath catches, just like it does before she comes. Number 10! From the look on her face, she’s completely taken by surprise. She reaches over, grabbing her glasses. I’m not sure what’s cuter—her in those naughty black secretary-looking glasses, or that she thinks she might’ve read the list wrong.

  She lowers my list to her lap, her eyes lifting to mine. I know that look. I’ve seen it from her before. She’s going to fight me, but I’m going to win. She just needs to think things through. So I’ll talk it out with her. And if all else fails, I can fuck her into seeing it my way. Maybe I should start with that?

  I’ve spent so much time before and during our relationship letting her set the pace. It didn’t come naturally to me. I normally pursue what I want until I get it, but not with Emerson. It’s taken every ounce of training I’ve had to have patience, to wait for my shot, until she’s ready.

  There’ve been several starts and stops along the way. But it was the only way to go. Because there were three other people involved, people who mean everything to her.

  The airline sale will be completed in a few months, and I’m moving to Savannah. I’ve already listened to Emerson’s dissertation twice about why we can’t live together, and I get it. But this is what I’ve wanted from day one, so it’s time to make it happen.

  I get down on one knee, completely naked still. “Emerson, will you ma. . .”

  She hops up and starts to talk really fast, interrupting me, bringing up things we’ve discussed before: if she should get an annulment, having a different last name than her kids, wondering how my parents will feel if we’re not married in the church. All valid concerns she’s going on about, but I’m confident it will all work out.

  She throws a shirt over her head, making it hard for me to understand what’s she’s saying. Eventually, she has to slow down and take a breath.

  “Was this planned? Do my kids know? Do you have a ring?”

  “You see the list. So yes, it was planned. The kids don’t know. I hope we’ll tell them together. And yes, I have a ring.”

  Her eyes dart around. “Where is it?”

  “Say yes first,” I say, getting to my feet.

  Her smile reaches all the way to her eyes. “You won’t show me the ring until I say yes?”

  “That’s right.” I plant a little kiss on her shoulder and wait. It’s what I do with her.

  Her eyes close as she shakes her head at herself. “I should be jumping up and down. God, I’m sure this isn’t the way you thought this would go.”

  “This is exactly how I knew it would go.”

  “Connor,” she whispers.

  “He’ll have to talk to me if we all live under the same roof,” I joke, though it’s not funny.

  That kid is a tough nut to crack. Ava is coming around more and more, and Jacob and I have gotten really close. I don’t think of myself as their father, which I think helps all of us. My role is to love and support their mother. Once Ava and Jacob realized that, things have been pretty smooth.

  Connor is another story. He’s barely said a dozen words to me in the past few months. It’s ripping Emerson apart. We started doing dinner with the kids once a week, hoping things would improve, but Connor simply eats, nothing more. He’s no longer being rude. He’ll answer if I talk to him, but that’s it. He never laughs or smiles with me, or anyone else, really. If I try to do something with him, he refuses.

  I also started going to some of the kids’ activities, but that backfired. Ryan refused to sit anywhere near us. Of course, Connor saw that and took it to mean his dad’s being forced out. I tried to talk to Ryan about it once, but that didn’t get anywhere. He’s not causing trouble for Emerson anymore, but he’s not going to help, either. Not that I would expect him to.

  I pull Emerson to my lap on the bed. “Number 8 could win Connor over.”

  “You want to bribe my kid to like you with a dog?” She rolls her eyes at me. “Nice try. No dogs.”

  I take her hand. “I don’t want to wait.” Her perfect pink lips part, and I know I’m about to hear a litany of excuses. “Baby, I’ve been waiting on you for years. From the moment you hired me to guard Layla.” Her mouth closes. “Did you know I almost didn’t take that job?”

  “No, you never told me that.”

  “I knew I’d be distracted if you were around. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do my job.” She looks down, smiling, her skin pink. “Same thing when Gage asked me to come work for the airline full-time. For months, you’d breeze in and out with this wall around you. You took off your wedding ring, but the vibe you gave off said you were very much off limits. I think I first noticed a difference that day in the elevator when you bumped into me. Remember that?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “But my dick was so damn hard I couldn’t be sure.”

  She playfully elbows my side. “It was not!”

  “The next time I saw you was outside Poppy’s office.”

  “You came on pretty strong that day,” Emerson says.

  “And you bolted out of the office. I figured I blew it.”

  “You weren’t the reason I bolted.”

  I could press her about what happened that day. God knows, I cursed myself enough over it, but if she wanted to tell me, she would. At this point, I don’t really care, and I’m trying to move forward with her, not get stuck in this little walk down memory lane. “Then you hurt your foot.”

  “And you found my list! Why were you snooping around in my office anyway?”

  “After our time in the stairwell, I had to ask you out. I came by your office to do that. Imagine my surprise when I saw that list just laying there.”

  “I think you felt something other than surprise.”

  “I was relieved nothing was checked off,” I say, “and also frustrated because I knew you still weren’t ready for what I wanted.”

  “I don’t recall you complaining,” she flirts.

  “I did complain. You just were never around to hear it.” I say. “Remember that night when you, Layla, and Poppy were going out, and I came by your house as you guys were leaving? I complained to my scotch the entire flight home.”

  “So you came over that night to see me, not hang with Gage and the kids?” she asks.

  “Of course, it was to see you.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me to stay?”

  “Because you needed to go out with your friends. Just like you needed time to decide you wanted more with me. Just like you needed time to choose . . .” I stop talking and shake my head, not wanting to bring up bad memories, realizing we are getting way far afield from my end game.