by Rose Hudson
“Jump on,” I tell her through a grin, thankful she can’t see.
“Wipe that grin off your face.” She teases, pulling me to her and climbing on. Okay, maybe women can see everything. I chuckle to myself as we walk to the front door, huffing for her benefit in fake exhaustion as we reach the top stair.
“If you keep going at this rate, I’m really going to have to start charging for these piggy back rides,” I joke, setting her down on the bench just inside the front door. She leans over to the lamp sitting on the entry table and switches it on. When my eyes adjust to the newly shed light, I quickly take in my surroundings, studying the set of ten or twelve steps leading up to where I assume her bedroom is located. “And it doesn’t look like my work here is done just yet either.” I look from her to the stairs, amusingly.
“It’s no big deal. Really, I can just sleep on the couch.,” She assures me. I hold up my hand in scout’s honor, the other over my heart.
“I will be the perfect gentleman. But I insist you let me at least get you upstairs.”
“A perfect gentleman, huh,” She pauses for a long second, playfully tapping a finger on her chin. “Well, you’ll have to put this piggy-back ride on my tab. I’m pretty sure I spent all my cash at the bar.”
Laughing at her response I say, “I’ve got a better idea.”
I walk to her, placing one arm behind her back and the other under both her legs, lifting her off the bench. She inhales sharply at the loss of gravity and we exchange a brief, indescribable look as I make my way to the stairs, trying my hardest not to trip and kill us both as I start my assent.
“Carrying you like this benefits us both,” I tell her, the unavoidable heat in my voice hopefully only apparent to me.
“Oh, yeah? And how is that,” she mocks.
“Well, it keeps you from owing me, not being a piggy-back and all, and it allows me to take in the gorgeous view.” She looks up the stairs, then back to me, heat reflected openly in her eyes at the realization of my meaning, causing the emotions I’ve felt all night to rise to the surface, revealing to her what I’ve tried my damnedest to keep hidden.
Reaching the landing, I notice dim light coming from one of the rooms, making out what looks like a bed in the light provided just as she points to it. I push open the door and take the last few strides to reach the massive four-poster bed, laying her down on the mattress and hating myself that instead of using this time to come up with something worthwhile to say, all I’ve managed to do is stare at her. She winces in pain as she adjusts herself on the bed, reaching for the covers and pulling them over her.
“You need to take something before you go to sleep. It’ll keep the swelling down, maybe keep it from hurting in the morning.”
“Shoot! I put all the meds in the cabinet by the sink in the kitchen. It’s no big deal, I’ll take something before I go to work in the morning.”
“If you don’t take something tonight, you may not be able to go to work tomorrow. I’ll be right back.” I turn and head downstairs before she has a chance to argue.
In her kitchen, I open both cabinets on either side of the sink. Perfect. One holds medicine, the other, drinking glasses. After filling the glass with water and dispensing two pills into my hand, I turn to leave, my eyes catching sight of a picture frame sitting on the kitchen island. I set the glass on the counter, picking up the frame and taking in the sight of Erin and a girl, probably ten or twelve, with the same wavy red hair and teal blue eyes. I lean against the counter, still holding the picture in my hand, my mind running wild with possibilities. She has a daughter. Holy Shit, does she have a husband? I quickly put the picture down and walk to the living room where I see more frames. More pictures of her and the girl, but no husband. Divorced? Carrying the glass in one hand and the Ibuprofen in the other, I slowly walk through the hall leading back to the stairs, taking in the rest of the pictures that I find along the way. Still, no husband.
Okay, so that’s good, I think, breathing a sigh of relief, but feeling a heavy weight settle in my chest. Erin has a daughter. It’s not that I don’t like kids, because I do, or at least I think I do. Hell, I don’t know, I’ve not been around them enough to even form an opinion about it. But me liking or not liking children isn’t the problem here anyway. The problem is me, or better yet, who I am. Why does it even matter, my mind questions my heart. It’s not like I’m ever going to see this woman again, right? I mean, of course I want to, but this, this changes things. I exhale in defeat, my ever present past making itself known.
I take the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom, prepared to make a clean break. Then I see her, laying there fast asleep, red curls falling over her shoulder, and I’m hit with how fucking gorgeous she truly is. As if this game of resistance I’ve been playing with myself hasn’t been difficult enough, reality had to rear its ugly head and remind me that I’ll never get to have a woman like Erin. And as if that wasn’t enough, fate had to throw in a daughter for good measure. Why would I put myself in a situation like this, with a local nonetheless? Why would I stray from my norm? I have a system that has worked for all these years, and understandably so, as my system doesn’t allow for emotional attachment. I shake my head, disgusted at myself for entertaining some feeling, some look. Chastising myself for forgetting why I’m here in the first place, I quietly set the items on the nightstand, not turning to look back as I leave.
As I drive down the highway, the inevitable feeling of regret and self-loathing sets in. The feeling that digs and twists in my gut with the dull-edge blade of a life I can never have. Ironically, the last time the familiar slice of this blade had its way with me, was the day I drove into Bon Secour for the first time twelve years ago. The day I became Patrick Lawson. The day I left my old life behind and made the decision to begin a new one. Regret that I hadn’t done things differently. Hating myself that I had been such a coward. Regret that I had let her take everything from me thinking it would put an end to all the pain and loss. But those feelings didn’t compare to what I feel tonight. Because tonight, I realized that she would never stop winning. My past would always keep me from moving forward. That unobtainable life was a pill much too difficult to swallow, the sharp edges of its reality slicing every part of me as I try to force its existence down into the darkest part of my being.
I punch the steering wheel over and over again. The anger and hatred coursing through me, making the deafening silence seem so loud. I wipe my hand over my face, ashamed to feel the moisture of tears on my palms as I pull it away. When I was a little boy my mother would tell me it’s okay to cry, that tears were God’s way of washing away our pain. She always knew just what to say to make me understand, and I wish so desperately that she were here right now to ease my mind, my heart. To reassure me that this life I see as unobtainable, the one I didn’t realize I wanted until I looked at Erin, I would one day hold within my grasp. I need the wise words that only a mother can give, but those words will never come.
Although Erin was unknown to me before tonight, I know with firm certainty that I will carry the mark of her forever. I knew the day would come that my heart spoke up and made it’s needs known, but I could never prepare myself for the torrent of emotions unleashed from my soul tonight, and for that, I could never forget her. But it’s for that same reason that I will reinforce the resolve that was so easily dissolved by her beauty, her wit, and her pure existence. Knowing that I could never be the man, or give someone like Erin the life they deserve, aids in restoring the strength and determination of the walls I’ve kept up for so long.
Pushing on the gas, driving home with newfound purpose, the chip on my shoulder settles back in its proper place. My grip on the steering wheel concrete, I lift each shoulder, wiping the remnants of a night not soon forgotten off my face. As I pass the ‘Welcome to Bon Secour’ sign, my emotions tightly fashion back in place, I slowly release my ironclad grip on the steering wheel. Needing something to fill the silence, I turn on the radio. When my m
ind settles enough to register the words of the song playing, a purely sardonic laugh escapes my lips.
“I should have kissed you, just like I wasn’t scared at all,” the words holding such irony hearing them now, tonight. Of course. The night wouldn’t be complete without one more fuck you from life.
MARCHING BANDS, CHILDREN BANGING on pots and pans, and train whistles. That’s how I would describe the pounding in my head as I slowly crack open my eyes, but I just as quickly close them when the light seeping through the blinds slams into my face like a Mack truck. Pinching the bridge of my nose, trying my hardest to stave off this impending hangover, flashbacks of last night come to me in waves, making me immediately sit up straight and look around my bedroom. There is no sign of Patrick, but I can’t remember him leaving. I close my eyes again, trying to piece the puzzle of last night together. The first thing that comes to mind is my smooth move falling out of his truck, and I pull back the covers to look at my ankle. The entire top of my foot is a putrid shade of purple, and the pain is immediate as I force it to turn from side to side. I guess he knew what he was talking about with the ibuprofen.
At that recollection, I swing my gaze to the bedside table and spot two pills and a glass of water. I immediately reach for and consume the medication, hardly taking a breath between gulps of the much needed water. With the glass drained of its contents, I set it on the nightstand and lean back against the headboard, willing my brain to cooperate and release its memory content from last night. Wait, where’s my phone, my purse? I roll to the side of the mattress and sure enough, on the floor where Patrick left it. I know if I hang my head over the side, the blood rushing down will only piss off my head more. So I lay flat on my stomach and stretch my arm to the floor, rifling around in my purse until I feel my phone and pull it out. 3 missed calls- Chanin, Mel and Leelan. No note on the nightstand, no call or text. A sharp pain of dismissiveness comes and goes at the thought that it was so easy for him to leave without as much as a note.
I decide to get up and take a shower, noting that it's nine o’clock and Ruth is due home at ten. I am so thankful now that Bre’s mother was adamant about bringing Ruth home, because lord knows I’m in no mood to drive, anywhere. I can’t help but laugh at my state of dress when I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my bathroom. Still in the dress I wore last night, it's twisted so that the zipper starts at my left boob, down my side and ending at my hipbone. My hair is a disaster. My face, an even bigger disaster, with mascara down to my cheekbones and lip liner and red gloss smeared down the corners of my mouth, giving me a comparable look to Heath Ledger in that Batman movie. All of it together gives the phrase ‘Party Hard’ quite the visual aid.
I turn the shower on full blast, and just the thought of the warm water cascading over my dingy hair and skin lends a small bit of relief. After pulling pins from my disheveled hair and undressing, I complete my pre-shower ritual of noting each flaw on my body. The faint stretch marks on my lower stomach from Ruth’s pregnancy and lack of care from the young mother I once was. The large breasts I’ve always been self-conscious about, slightly starting to lose their battle with gravity. And my once perky ass, looking sad and deflated.
“Yep, you look and feel every bit of 90 today,” I say to myself as I step into the welcome warmth of the shower. Standing, palms flat against the tile wall, soaking my hair and rinsing away the dirt and grime of last night, a picture of Patrick’s intense gaze floods into my thoughts. My stomach flips as I remember the feel of his large calloused hands gripping the backs of my thighs as he carried me across parking lot. The same way it did when I slid down the narrow firmness of his waist before landing on my feet. At every turn with him last night, I felt like I was fighting some internal battle, one that wasn’t influenced in the slightest by the alcohol.
In all the years I was with Glendon, even during the best times of our marriage, my stomach had never flipped. We had never exchanged an all-consuming look between us. I had never been left drenched between my legs at the mere brush of his hand against my skin. We had ‘fit’ at that time in my life. He was good to me and had saved me from a life with my parents that I wanted nothing to do with. He had given me security, and eventually, the most wonderful gift that had or ever would be given to me, our daughter. For that, a small piece of my heart would always belong to him and my gratitude would remain undisputed. But the fact remains that until last night, I never experienced passion of any sort. And although the feeling was foreign to me, I knew without doubt that I wanted to feel it again.
I felt the warm arousal before I even placed my fingers between my legs. Using two fingers, I spread the slickness around the lips of my sex and up over my clit. The simple act makes my breath hitch as I use the memory of Patrick’s fingers digging into my thighs as inspiration. Circling my pliable fingers over my sex, each motion associated with one of many intense emotions felt during my time with him, the blazing tightness in my core ignites.
His voice.
Faster.
His hands and soul-wrenching eyes.
Pressing my fingers harder with every pass over my clit. Had I not been familiar with the onset of an orgasm, I would’ve been fearful of what was happening, because this was unlike anything I had experienced before. The heat, crossing over boundaries previously uncrossed. My lungs, struggling to take in adequate air to breathe. And then, as I thought back to the words he spoke and the heated look we exchanged as he carried me upstairs, my core shatters. Forming a million tingle-laden stars, taking a weightless gravity true to that of the stars we stood under in the Alabama sky. I slide to the floor, breathing erratically as I shudder from the aftermath of the best orgasm I have ever experienced. Being the sole source of my pleasure for years now, I have given myself countless orgasms. But this one was a personal best. I sit there for what feels like centuries, concluding the only way that could ever be topped, would only happen if Patrick himself did it.
“Mom! I’m home,” I hear Ruth bellow from downstairs, breaking me out of my self-induced wonderland. I jump up from the shower floor, washing my hands quickly before jumping out and wrapping my hair in a towel. I grab my robe and throw it on as I make my way to the staircase.
“Up here honey,” I wave down to her from the landing, watching as she sits on the bench in the foyer, taking off her shoes. I notice a rectangle shaped white box sitting on the bench beside her, curious as to what it is as I begin my decent down the stairs.
“What’s in the box, huh,” I ask, giving her the raised eyebrow. She looks over, then at me as she stands from the bench, grabbing it up and heading toward the kitchen without a response. She places it on the counter, waiting until I reach her side to open it, revealing the sinfully sweet contents. I am more than pleased to see a milk chocolate truffle cake with the words ‘Happy 30th Birthday Mom’ written in white lettering. Smiling over at her and wrapping one arm around her shoulders, I kiss her forehead, overcome with emotion.
“How did you manage to sneak this in?” She giggles, squeezing me in return.
“I told Bre’s mom that it was your thirtieth birthday, so she took me to the bakery this morning before bringing me home,” she says with pride apparent in her bright blue eyes.
“Did Elleese buy this? I hate to eat it without having asked them to stay!”
“No, mom! I paid for it with my allowance money,” she explains, filling my heart with appreciation, and my eyes with tears.
“Ruth, you didn’t have to do that, but this is the best birthday present ever!” I kiss her again, unable to contain myself.
“Mom, you’re so silly, it’s just a cake! But it is your favorite cake, so I did good, right? Does it make up for missing your birthday,” she looks up at me questioningly. I take her hand and lead her over to the island, pulling out a barstool and gesturing for her to sit. Gently grabbing her shoulders, taking a minute to push her long red curls behind her ears. I gaze into her tropical blue eyes, willing her to understand the truth in my words.<
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“Ruth, I know that over the years, I have probably made you feel like it’s your job to make me happy, and I am so sorry for that. You are my daughter and just having the privilege of being your mother makes me happier than anything else in this world ever could.” I wipe a stray tear from her cheek, realizing that this talk is long overdue and hating that it has taken me so long to see it. “You are growing up, and I know that your friends and school, and anything else you aspire to do, will soon take precedence over time with me.” She looks up at me, mouth open to argue with me, but I hold up my finger. “I don’t mean that those things will be more important, I just mean that you are becoming a young lady and in order for you to discover who you are and what you want to become, you have to experience life outside of us. I don’t want you to feel guilty for that, or burdened with feeling like you can’t do those things because I will miss out on time with you.” She turns, grabbing a napkin off the island and wipes the tears from her face.
“But what about you Momma. Won’t you be lonely?”
“Baby, I will be fine. I may be getting older, but I still have plenty of time to find things that make me happy. No, none of them will ever compare to the fun I have with you, but you needn’t worry about that. Seeing you happy and healthy, growing up an independent, intelligent young lady, makes me happy whether you’re here beside me, or out with your friends. This is part of growing up, Ruth. And I hate that I ever made you feel like it was only an option.”
“Momma, it’s not that. It’s, well, it’s that I see all of my other friend’s moms with husbands or boyfriends, and it makes me sad that you don’t have one.” She pauses, looking down at her lap before looking back up again. “I think Daddy would want you to be happy too Momma, not just me.” Her words slice down the center of my heart like a blade, and the lump in my throat becomes stronger than my will not to cry. The tears pour over and run down my cheeks with the same heaviness of her words.