Two Weeks

by Andrea Wolfe

  But she refused, too concerned about her professional career. She was on the school board, and she did other things in our little community as well. Plus, she really cares about her kids.

  Her office area is covered with cards and drawings that her students have warmly addressed to her in fairly broken English. A whole bunch of them share the same message—Mrs. Moore's class is even better than recess. Yep, recess.

  If that's not a huge accomplishment, I don't know what is.

  "Are you going to be staying for dinner? I was thinking of making enchiladas. I need to know how many to make."

  When she asks, I'm staring at my phone, about to text Jackson to tell him that I'll be back soon. But my fingers retract from the screen. My mom is being awesome today, so I need to stick around and eat with them. Plus, her enchiladas are great.

  "Yeah, I'll be here."

  "Great," she says, smiling. It's contagious. I smile back and feel great in a time when I should be curled up in the fetal position, crying myself to sleep every night.

  I offer to help with dinner, but my mom refuses, instead encouraging me to go through the old clothes in my closet. She wants to have a garage sale soon. And if stuff doesn't sell, she's going to donate it to the nearest thrift store.

  I head back to my room and shoot Jackson a text:

  Me: I'll be back after dinner. Trying to fit in some family time. :)

  He responds quickly:

  Jackson: Okay, no problem. What do you want to do?

  I lie on my bed for a second, legs sprawled out, gazing up at the posters of hunks on the ceiling. When I first put them up, they were legitimate crushes. And then as I got older, they became ironic relics that everyone could relate to.

  I decide that I'm feeling playful, and a tad bit lascivious. I respond accordingly:

  Me: You.

  I giggle after sending the message. This is the most fun I've had in years. I never could have acted this way with Max; he would have just insulted my intelligence and told me to act like an adult. The phone trills immediately:

  Jackson: You're perfectly nuts.

  Before I get started, I also send a text to Liz:

  Me: Your mom ran into mine at the grocery store! I got busted since I said I was hanging out with you the last two days. I told her the truth, and she was okay with it! Well, most of the truth. ;)

  She responds almost instantly too:

  Liz: Oh, shit. I'm so sorry! The small town small talk will kill ya! :) How's that whole thing with the Hulk going, anyway?

  Me: Let's just say it was a good idea. :)

  Satisfied with the interactions, I roll off my bed and head to the closet. It's filled with old tops, and dresses and custom t-shirts from random student council events. Some things are clearly to be discarded while other things aren't so obvious.

  I create three piles, a yes, a no, and a maybe. My sense of fashion has evolved over the years, and now some of these abandoned items are quite relevant and stylish.

  After the maybe pile becomes unmanageably huge, I have to start transferring more to the no. I try on some of the items in the maybe pile, realizing that I probably should have been doing that with everything since a lot of it doesn't fit.

  I find several cool dresses. They're cute, quite flashy and colorful, some cotton, some polyester. I try on the zaniest of the bunch, a polyester summer dress with a green and white tie dye print. It's clear that my boobs have grown since I originally bought it like eight years ago, but it fits great.

  I quickly move it to the yes pile. I continue the same routine with the others. I'm so excited to reincorporate all of these forgotten fashion relics into my wardrobe—and then I remember that I flew here and I only brought one suitcase.

  Shit. The yes pile is way too big. I'm going to have to leave most of it behind unless I can find another suitcase that my mom is willing to part with temporarily.

  But my efforts aren't totally in vain since I already have a lot of stuff to give my mom for the garage sale; the no pile is an impressive heap. I accomplished something.

  My mom calls from downstairs to let me know that dinner is ready.

  I'm starving. I give up.

  ***

  When dinner and the dishes are done, I head up to my room and throw on my tie-dyed discovery, hoping that Jackson will like it. It's a bit ridiculous, but it's fun and I'm feeling excessively convivial. It doesn't fit as well now since I gorged on incredible homemade enchiladas, but it's good enough. I don't really feel the need to put on much make-up.

  I feel like I'm finally able to be exactly who I want to be, at least right now.

  I shove my toothbrush and some deodorant into my purse, since I'm going to stay overnight with Jackson. I'm giddy as hell about it. I send him a text to let him know that I'm on my way.

  I say my goodbyes and head out to my car. As much as I like going out in Boston, this whole staying-in thing is really nice too.

  It's nearly dark as I head out into the county side, and I use my brights whenever I can to ensure that I don't hit a deer. The last thing I need is to mangle my rental car, even if I did pay the extra for insurance.

  As I pull into Jackson's driveway, I see a group of rabbits flee, and I'm overwhelmed by how cute they are. They disappear into the tall grass, swallowed one at a time until no trace remains.

  I park behind Jackson's truck and shut off the car. I really regret the fact that I ever made fun of the bucolic lifestyle in Red Lake. It's sucking me in, and makes me think I might want to eventually settle down in some quiet place just like this someday.

  Jackson surprises me on the back porch. He's sitting there with a beer, grinning.

  "Christ, what's with you and these incredible dresses? It's such a shame since it's just gonna end up crumpled up on my floor."

  I come to an abrupt stop and put my hands on my hips. "And all along I thought you were some kind of gentleman. I'm so stupid."

  "If I offer you a beer, will it make up for it?"

  I give him an incredulous look. "Duh. Of course."

  He laughs and heads inside to grab me one. I climb the stairs in his absence and sit down next to where he was sitting. The sliding glass door opens, and he approaches me, extra beer in hand.

  "Just for you." He hands it to me and I take a sip while he sits back down and immediately scoots close. His skin feels warm against mine. There's a slightly chilly breeze, so it intensifies the sensation. "It's such a clear night. Look at the stars."

  I look up, and I'm dazzled by all of the innumerable little sparkling dots sprinkled across the sky. "It's incredible. There are so many."

  "They estimate that ants outnumber us 1.4 million to one."

  "That's crazy," I say. It seems out of place. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

  He clears his throat loudly. "They also say that stars outnumber ants thirty million to one."

  "Holy shit," I say. "I feel so tiny. How do they even know that?"

  Jackson laughs. "I don't really know. Someone posted that on Facebook and it really hit me. I didn't verify it though. Could be bullshit." He takes a long sip of his beer. "Probably isn't though, since space is basically infinite."

  "True," I say. "I didn't expect you to be the science type."

  He gives me a firm look. "I was studying biochemistry before I lost my scholarship."

  I'm shocked. "No way," I say. "You? Biochemistry?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?" he says, taken aback by my comment.

  I instantly feel bad that I may have sent bad vibes his way. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it in any negative way. I'm just surprised. I mean, that's awesome."

  Jackson quickly moves on, and I'm glad. "You'd be shocked at how many professional athletes have advanced degrees or PhDs. It's actually a lot."

  "I never would have guessed that."

  "Well, no one talks about it. Anyhow, they make better money playing professional sports than they would in their respective fields, no doubt."

 
; "That makes sense." I nod in agreement. "Were you thinking that way too?"

  "Absolutely." He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that calms me and assuages my fear that I had offended him with my offhand remark. His beer is resting on his stomach and it's bouncing up and down with his laughter. "I was definitely a little avaricious, no doubt."

  "Fame and fortune, huh? Is that why you fight now? Another shot at it?"

  His expression becomes stoic. "I can't really do anything else," he says. "These smaller leagues don't discriminate based on conditions or risk of injuries. And I don't really have anything to lose anymore. After what happened." He tentatively glances at his beer, and then finally takes a sip after he's done ruminating.

  "I'm sorry," I say. Once again, I want to ask him about his condition, but it feels out of place. And as I look at his gargantuan muscles and think about him hitting the punching bag, the feeling of curiosity subsides. It can't be any sort of big deal, especially not if he's able to do all that he does.

  "It happened, and that's it. Can't change it. Just served as a reminder that the present is all I have. I can't count on tomorrow, or worry about what happened yesterday because worrying wastes the only time that I do have control over."

  His words feel wise beyond his years, and they're so poignant I have to stop and really think about them. The present. Such a huge idea, yet one I rarely stop to consider. Max is my past; he's gone, no longer mine.

  Jackson and Red Lake are my present. The future is...

  "You okay, Ally?" Jackson asks. He's finished his beer and set it down on the deck while I was lost in my own head. He places his hand on my shoulder and leaves it there, shifting his posture to better face me.

  "Oh, yeah," I say. "I'm fine. Just great."

  "Can I ask you something? I've been wondering ever since you first mentioned it," he says.

  I nervously gulp. I don't have much to hide from him, but I'm still trembling inside at the thought of a tough question. "Sure," my lips say, totally independent of the tumult of my thoughts.

  "What kind of guy would leave someone as beautiful as you? He's got to be a real piece of shit, that Max."

  His question makes me laugh, and I'm not tense anymore. "He is," I say, "but I never knew it would turn out this bad."

  "This bad?” he asks, mimicking my tone. I realize that I've drawn too much attention to a very huge detail that I omitted when mentioning this before. When I was trying to "keep it simple."

  I shrug my shoulders. I don't feel like hiding it anymore. "He knocked up my best friend. She called me and told me that they were going to stay together and have the kid. A couple of brats taking care of a kid. God."

  "Are you fucking kidding me?"

  "No. She called me after my family reunion. There was nothing for me to debate. The whole thing was just too broken to fix—and I knew that instantly."

  "So your ex impregnated your best friend behind your back, huh? I'm really sorry," he says. "You sure as hell didn't deserve that. Tell me at least she's pretty."

  "I guess so," I say. Although our conversation is still focused on a very uncomfortable topic, I feel good about letting this out. It's very cathartic. "Do you want to see a picture of her?"

  "Of course. I'd love to see who Max thought was better than you." He sounds disbelieving of the possibility, so I continue.

  I start sliding through the photos on my phone until I find one with Max, Angela, her short-term boyfriend, Andrew, and me, out at a bar. We were all drunk and smiling uncontrollably. I hand the phone over to him without really looking at the photo.

  Jackson instantly raises his eyebrow and smiles. "Wow," he says. "The redhead?"

  I nod. "That's her."

  "She is pretty," he says, trailing off.

  "Thanks so much," I snap incredulously. "This was such a great idea."

  "No, no," he pleads. "Let me finish. She's pretty, but objectively speaking—and subjectively, of course—you're far prettier. Max is a lunatic for choosing her over you. And he's got his fucking hand on her ass!"

  "What?" My interest is totally piqued now. I'm one-hundred percent distracted from my former discomfort.

  "He's got his hand clamped on her ass! In front of you and the other guy."

  I stare at the photo until I see it—yep, he's holding her ass. Arm around my waist, hand on her ass. In public, too. "That slimy piece of shit. I even posted that on Facebook without noticing. How did I miss that? I'm such an idiot."

  "It's nothing," he says. "Don't say that. You weren't looking for signs of infidelity in your collection of photos from a night out. Who looks for stuff like that? You give it a quick glance and say 'We were so drunk!' and then move on. I'd be more likely to think you were crazy if you went through and studied every minor detail of a bunch of cell phone pictures from the bar." He scoffs and smiles.

  His remark actually makes me feel better. "That's a good way of putting it," I say. "But that fucking asshole." I growl and shake my head. "Gimme that back." Jackson hands me the phone, and I nearly delete the photo. But I don't. I just close it and return to the home screen. Soon I'll expunge the memory, but not now. "Okay, enough about Max."

  "Yeah, it really sucks to lose a best friend and the person you're dating. I know how hard that can be."

  I don't even really hear him. "This conversation is too serious. Let's talk about something else."

  "Sorry for opening Pandora's Box," Jackson says.

  "No, it's fine," I say firmly. "And now we're back in the present. It's all we have, right? So what would you like to do in the present?" I ask, my tone slightly pompous.

  Jackson gazes off into the sky and sighs. "May I speak candidly?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, I'd like to fuck you again," he says matter-of-factly. He waits for my response, and as much as I'd like to hide my excitement at hearing those words, it's written on my face like neon lights in the middle of the night. "I've been thinking about it constantly since it last happened."

  "Me too," I say. I can already feel that heat spilling through my insides like a convection oven.

  "Well, come on then." Before I realize it, he's lifting me into his arms and carrying me toward the sliding door. To him, I really don't weigh much of anything, and as usual, I'm blown away by his strength.

  "Hey!" I whine, surprised by his gesture.

  We stop at the door. "Can you open that for me? My hands are a little tied up here."

  I laugh and pull open the door. We step inside and he uses his foot to close it. I can feel his hardness pressing into my ass as he carries me and it's making me very wet, very quickly.

  His pace is brisk, and it doesn't slow at all as we climb the stairs. It's dark, but he keeps moving instinctively. I've never been upstairs in his house, but with such blackness, I can't make out anything at all. It's just space that we're traveling through.

  I can only assume that we're in his room, because he lowers me onto the bed and kisses me with unbridled fury. I kiss him back, and he grinds his hips against mine. I can feel everything. I'm so turned on it almost hurts.

  When I remember how big he is, my excitement is amplified tenfold. He starts caressing my clothed breasts and ass, the kiss retaining a perfectly delicate cadence.

  When his hands start crawling up my bare inner thighs, he suddenly stops. "Shit."

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "I gotta go to the bathroom," he says pathetically. "Sorry. I've been drinking beer all night."

  I start laughing uncontrollably. "Don't worry about it."

  He leaves the bed and I sit there, my laughter overwhelming the silence of the room. I still can't see anything. But when he turns on the bathroom light down the hall, I get a quick glimpse of the barren walls of his room. The sliver of light fades quickly as the door closes and familiar blackness returns.

  Less than a minute later, he's back. "Sorry again, but I really had to go."

  "That's enough information," I say warmly. "Now can we please get started
here?"

  "Oh, I totally forgot," he says incredulously.

  I laugh again as he leaps onto the bed and tickles my thighs with tiny kisses and minor scrapes from his stubble. And then, as he moves higher and higher, the laughter quickly subsides. My fingers dig into the comforter as he tersely drags my panties down my legs.

  For a fleeting moment, I can feel his hot breath against my mound and it makes me shiver.

  Jackson moves back to my thighs and kisses some more, delaying the inevitable. I start to lose myself. Every sensation feels incredible and is almost beyond vivid. My eyes lock closed; I imagine everything he's doing with extreme detail.

  He goes right for my clit with his tongue, gentle flutters that make my back arch and tighten my thighs around his head. He spirals and circles, and my chest rises and falls almost in tandem. The room seems to spin in sync with the movements of his tongue.

  His fingers slowly part me, and I moan quietly, instinctively, still reeling from pleasure. He pulses them against all the right places, and I gasp. "Oh, God, Jackson."

  As I speak, he eases the fingers out of me and stops everything. I almost say something, but he speaks first. "You taste so fucking sweet."

  His words and subsequent return to action blast me off into space. I'm floating, I'm in orbit, I'm in some magical place that I never knew existed. His facility is unmatched and I realize I'm going to come very soon, whether I want to or not.

  Fingers curved upward, tongue like a perfect machine, Jackson rushes me toward the goal, and toward the goal I go. I grip the comforter with all my might, writhing against the bed. The climax hits me hard and fast, and goose bumps spread across my flesh. I know he feels every part of my orgasm, both inside and outside of me.

  His breath is still warm, his efforts perfect. I reach a quick peak and then start to come down, the notion of breathing a fleeting thing. I fill my lungs again and again until calm returns. Jackson pulls away at the perfect moment and then settles his face next to mine. He kisses me, and I can taste myself on his tongue.