Feeling frustrated, I spent my morning off at the yoga studio, arse-gazing until Calliope finished her class.
Helping myself to the smoothie station, I sliced up some fruit and vegetables and blended a concoction as she pulled up a stool to join me.
I spoke through the blender. “Care for some pineapple banana spinach flaxseed Nutella shake?”
“No, thank you.” She cut right to the chase. “So, you told Bridget that we used to date…”
I suddenly stopped mixing the smoothie. “She mentioned it to you?”
“Yes. She called me the other night, wanted to know why I’d never relayed that information.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I just reiterated how long ago it was, but I think she might have been a little…jealous. I could sense it.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Come on. Don’t hold back on me, Calliope. Don’t forget I can tell when you’re lying.”
“I’m going to go to hell for this, but she said she’s very attracted to you.”
Fuck. Me.
It wasn’t like I couldn’t sense that already, but getting that confirmation was something entirely different.
I swallowed. “She did?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Not really. I think she’s confused about you. And to be honest, aside from assuring her that you’re a good person, I didn’t really know what to say because I don’t know what you’re doing, Simon. I will say this: that woman is not someone you have a quick fling with. I don’t think she’s capable of that.”
“You’ve said that before, and you’re not telling me something I don’t already know.”
“Do you have feelings for her?”
“This was just supposed to be a simple living arrangement. I wasn’t supposed to have feelings.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s not really an answer, but now I’ve drawn my own conclusion, thanks.”
Sexual frustration can turn ugly at times.
Bridget and I hadn’t seen much of each other aside from the shifts we were on together, which were unavoidable.
During one of those days, we’d gotten into a fierce argument over my deciding to prescribe a particular type of antibiotic for a patient.
Bridget followed me out of the examination room. “You’re overprescribing. She’ll become resistant. It’s clear to me that she doesn’t need another round. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I turned around fast, startling her. “Well, it works out that you’re not me, then, doesn’t it? Last I checked I’m the doctor in this situation.”
She looked around us to see if anyone was watching and whispered, “That doesn’t necessarily mean you know what you’re doing.”
I resumed walking as I looked down at my chart. “I think nearly eight years of medical school and residency does say I know what I’m doing. So, I don’t really need Nurse Know-It-All second-guessing my every move.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then don’t be a pain in the arse.”
“A pain? I think there must be a pill somewhere you can prescribe for my attitude, seeing as though you’re drug happy, Dr. Hogue?”
“You are a pill, Nurse Valentine. And yes, I’m going to write you out something right now.”
Wearing the burgundy scrubs that hugged her ass just right, she placed her hands on her hips. “Oh, yeah?”
Gritting my teeth, I dug my pen into my pad and wrote in swift, angry strokes.
Take three hard poundings against wall twice daily. Repeat for seven days until stick from arse falls out.
I handed it to her, watching her read it as her face turned as red as her uniform.
Smirking, I then proceeded to walk away.
A few days later, Bridget was outside doing yard work, so I used the opportunity to pop into the kitchen without having to run into her.
Deciding to use the bathroom in the main house first, I stopped short at the sight of Brendan standing on a stool in front of the mirror. He had shaving cream all over his face. You could see nothing but his eyes. And he was just about to take a razor to his cheek.
I held out my hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa…what are you doing, buddy? You’ll cut yourself.”
“Shaving.”
I carefully took the razor from his grasp. “Does your mother know you’re playing with this?”
“No. She thinks I’m in my room reading while she’s working outside.”
“Why are you trying to shave? You don’t have any hair on your face.”
“Mark Connolly told me if I start shaving, I might grow hair. He said it happened to his grandmother. She started shaving her face and got a full beard.”
Stifling a laugh, I asked, “Why do you want a beard?”
“I want to be older.”
“You’re going on nine. There’s only so much you can do, but I assure you growing a beard wouldn’t make you any more mature.”
“How old were you when you first got hair on your face?”
“I don’t remember…probably a teenager. Listen, this has a sharp blade. It’s very dangerous and not something you should ever be playing around with.”
He stepped down off the stool. “My daddy used to shave a lot.”
I knelt down and softened my tone. “Yeah?”
“I don’t remember too much, but I remember him shaving right here. Are you gonna tell my mom?”
“Nah. Bro code, remember? But just promise me you won’t play with razors anymore.”
“I won’t.”
“Here, let’s wash your face.”
He stood back up on the stool as I ran the faucet.
I cupped the water in my hand and began removing the cream from his face as I said, “Trust me, you should be enjoying just being a kid. You’re gonna grow up faster than you know. It’s life experiences that make you a grown-up, not some hair on your face. We never really stop growing, actually. I think I still have a lot of growing up to do myself sometimes.”
“You look grown up to me.”
“Is that so?” I pointed to my head. “Well, I was referring to what’s in here. Sometimes, I still feel like a kid myself. Anyway, someday, you’re gonna look back at this and laugh because you’ll dread having to shave all of the time just so you don’t end up looking like Santa Claus.”
“If you didn’t shave, would you look like him?”
I grinned. “I guess I would, like a tall, blond, trimmer Santa, yeah.”
“That would be really funny.”
I grabbed a towel. “Let’s dry your face.”
“Are you mad at me?” he suddenly said.
“For the shaving? No, I get it.”
“No, I mean, you stopped having breakfast with us and taking me to school sometimes. Did I do something bad?”
Bloody hell. My heart felt like it was going to break in two. I guess I had secretly hoped that Brendan wasn’t wondering what was up with me. I knelt down and placed my hands around his cheeks.
“No, little guy. Of course, not.”
“Why did you stop playing with me, then?”
I didn’t want to lie to him and tell him I’d been busy. I honestly didn’t know how to answer him. I certainly couldn’t admit that I’d been avoiding him so that he wouldn’t get attached to me. I just froze.
“It has nothing to do with being mad at you.” When he still looked a bit sad, I gave him a hug. “Come here.” Pulling back to face him, I said, “I’ll tell you what…I have tomorrow night off. Why don’t you and I go throw around a football at the park after school or something, maybe get some ice cream. Would you like that?”
He jumped up and down. “Yeah!”
Feeling conflicted, I smiled. “Okay.”
Bridget’s voice came from behind me. “What’s going on in here?”
I looked her up and down, taking notice of her wind-blown, light brown locks. �
��Uh…we were just having a man-to-man chat.”
“Oh, really.” She looked skeptical. “What’s the razor doing out? And there’s water all over the sink.”
“It’s fine, Bridget. Everything’s under control.”
She looked down at her son. “Brendan, I thought you were supposed to be doing your reading homework.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Go to your room, please.”
After Brendan ran to his room, I followed Bridget out to the kitchen.
“What was he really doing in there?” she asked.
“I told him I wouldn’t tell you.”
She glared at me. “Tell me, Simon.”
“Alright, don’t tell him I told you, but…he was trying to shave.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Yeah.”
She laughed a little. “Oh my God.”
“It’s alright. We discussed it. Someone at school told him he would grow hair if he shaved.”
“Let me tell you, I don’t know what I’m going to do with a boy…especially the older he gets.”
“You’ll do just fine. You certainly have up until this point. Just take one day at a time.”
“I’m glad he didn’t cut himself. Thank you for intervening. I guess I know I can’t trust him to be alone in his room while I work in the yard.”
I paused, unsure of whether to tell her the next thing that came to mind. “He said he remembered his dad shaving. I think that might have had something to do with why he wanted to do it.”
Bridget sighed and nodded her head in thought. “He doesn’t remember too many things about Ben very clearly, just odd things here and there. His dad worked a lot, so that didn’t help. Of course, now I’m the one working all the time.”
I leaned against the counter, moving in a bit closer to her. “My parents worked a lot, too. But I never blamed them for it. It just made me appreciate the time we had together more.”
“What did your parents do?”
“Actually, my father’s an ophthalmologist. He still has a practice in Leeds. My mother’s a secondary school teacher.”
“Wow. Did you have a good childhood?”
“I did. It was great up until a certain point.”
She kept looking at me in a way that encouraged me to continue.
Tell her.
“I don’t…I don’t really talk about this. It’s hard for me.” Glancing out the window, I continued, “The other night you asked me why I wanted to become a doctor, and I told you it was because I wanted to save people…”
“Yeah…I figured there might have been something more to that.”
“Yes.” I nodded then took a deep breath in. “Calliope and I had a mutual friend named, Blake. We were like the Three Musketeers, and Blake was like a brother to me. We were on vacation at Calliope’s parents’ lake house in Scotland when we were sixteen. She’d invited us both along. We had the bright idea to take her father’s small boat out in the middle of the night. There were only two life jackets. We agreed that Calliope should get one. Blake insisted that he was the better swimmer and told me to just take the other one. I don’t know why I agreed. I shouldn’t have let him get on the boat without a life jacket. We got pretty far out, the water was choppy…and we capsized. Blake went under, and I tried everything to find him. But it was dark and murky.” I stopped to close my eyes for a moment before saying, “They didn’t find him for three days.” I was starting to choke up but managed to control it.
“Here I was thinking that you knew nothing about loss,” she whispered.
“It’s not exactly the same as your situation, of course, but it’s certainly shaped my life. Becoming a doctor was my way of trying to make up for not being able to save him. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about what he would be like now, and not a day goes by where I don’t blame myself for letting him get on the boat like that.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Without hesitation, she reached for me and pulled me into an embrace. I could feel her heart beating against mine. Her ample tits felt so good pressed against my chest. In fact, it felt better than anything I could remember. My hands slid down her back and stopped short of her ass—as much as I wanted to touch it. I felt my erection growing by the second.
She looked up. God…the way she was looking at me. Her eyes were begging for more. No longer giving a fuck about any consequences, I slowly leaned in, readying to taste her lips.
The pitter-patter of footsteps coming down the hall stopped me in my tracks. I quickly turned toward the sink, pretending to wash the dishes as Brendan entered the room.
“Mom, can we have tater tots tonight?”
Bridget was out of breath. “Sure. Yeah, honey. Yup. Anything you want.”
“Cool.”
Brendan ran back down the hall.
Bridget looked dazed, almost embarrassed about what nearly took place between us. My hard-on had barely gone down. I didn’t know what the fuck to do next. All I knew was I wanted her. I knew it was all wrong, but I didn’t know how to change how I felt.
Frustrated, I went back to my space to be alone and spent a good portion of that evening lost in thought.
Grabbing a pen, I started to just write down my thoughts—what I wanted to say to her if I had the guts. I never planned to actually give her the letter.
Except, later that night, as my restlessness grew, I took a chance and impulsively slipped it under her bedroom door.
This was not good.
Simon almost kissed me.
His hand nearly touched my ass.
He was hard.
I could feel his erection against me.
It shouldn’t have happened, and yet I couldn’t turn my body off tonight, couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop wondering what would have happened if Brendan hadn’t come into the kitchen.
I never kept any pictures of Ben laying out. It was just too painful to look at him. I did, however, keep a photo of my late husband in my bedside drawer. Sometimes, I would take it out and look at it when I felt like I needed his guidance to get through a particularly rough day. Tonight, I took the photo out for an entirely different reason. It was out of guilt, because I knew without a shadow of a doubt that for the first time since Ben’s death, I was really developing feelings for someone else. I was starting to move on.
The only problem was, I simply couldn’t move on with Simon. His plans were to go back to the UK, and a future with him therefore wasn’t an option. Even though he and I had never discussed it, Calliope also told me he didn’t want kids. While he was great with Brendan, there was a big difference between developing a friendship with a child and taking on the role of parent. Anyone I would eventually end up with would have to accept the father role.
There were just so many reasons why we weren’t a good match. So, this attraction would have to be ignored for my overall well-being. As I lay in bed trying to do just that, the urge to masturbate to memories of Simon reading me my novel replaced my good intentions.
Readying to do just that, I got up to shut off the light when I noticed a folded piece of paper by my door.
Bending down, I picked it up and started to read it.
It was the last thing I ever expected.
Dear Bridget,
It’s highly doubtful I’ll ever garner the courage to say this to your face. Don’t feel you need to acknowledge this note the next time we see each other, either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I promise to play dumb. I know you, and what I’m about to say would be awkward for us to talk about face to face.
So, here goes.
We’re totally wrong for each other. We both know it. You’re probably the last woman on Earth I should want and vice versa. You’re the proper mum with a good head on her shoulders, who will always need to put her son first. I fully understand. I’m just the carefree, cheeky resident passing through town and temporarily living in your house.
But, here’s the thing…w
hat they say about wanting what you can’t have is apparently true. For some bloody reason, I can’t stop thinking about you in very inappropriate ways.
I want you.
Wrong as it may be…more specifically, I want to make you come. Hard. I want you to get lost in me, and I want to hear you say my name over and over while we fuck. I get stiff just imagining what that would feel like, given that you haven’t been with a man for so long.
And these thoughts are making me insane. I’ve stopped fantasizing about anyone else and haven’t been interested in seeing anyone, either.
The only reason I’m even admitting all of this to you right now is because I don’t believe it’s one-sided. I notice your eyes when you look at me, too. You probably don’t think I can see the need written all over your face as clear as the days of the week on your knickers…but I can. Maybe I recognize it so easily because I’m feeling the exact same way. And as crass as I appear when we’re joking around about sex, my attraction to you is not a joke.
So, what’s the purpose of this note? I guess it’s a reminder that we’re adults, that sex is healthy and natural, and that you can find me just through the door past the kitchen. More specifically, it’s to let you know that I’m leaving said door cracked open from now on in case you’d like to visit me in the middle of the night sometime. I’d love nothing more than to give you the best orgasm of your life. No questions asked. Just unbridled sex.
Maybe the way I’ve worded this has got you convinced that I think I’d be doing you a favor, but make no mistake about it, the pleasure would be all mine. Ultimately, this proposition is coming from a place of selfish desire. And I can’t seem to shake it.
Think about it.
Or don’t.
Whatever you choose.
It’s doubtful I’ll even end up sliding this under your door anyway.
—Simon
Dear Bridget, I Want You Page 7