Before Girl

by Kate Canterbary

  There was no sense in calling them. Not unless I wanted to listen to dogs barking, children crying, and significant others yelling in the background.

  No, I was maxed out on all counts.

  * * *

  Stella: Hey. I'm bringing a guy to dinner next weekend.

  Sophia: Flinn is not a guy. He's the little boy who works for you.

  Serina: What she said.

  Stella: Not Flinn…why does everyone assume it's Flinn?

  Serina: Because he's the only man who's been in your life for more than a hot second.

  Sophia: Only one we've met since (ahem) you know who.

  * * *

  We didn't speak my ex-fiancé's name. I wasn't sure when that tradition started but I liked it. I kept it going.

  * * *

  Stella: Right well it's not Flinn. His name is Cal.

  Serina: Age/location/profession

  Stella: Early 40s, Beacon Hill near Charles Street, cardiothoracic surgeon.

  Serina: Winner, winner…

  Sophia: How long?

  Serina: She's not asking about penis length. You can give me that info in a separate text.

  Sophia: Why do straight women mythologize the penis? It's the ugliest, most bizarre, unreliable organ.

  Stella: This one's reliable. It's really reliable. It's pictured in the dictionary next to the definition of reliable.

  * * *

  Serina replied with a string of heart eyes, praise hands, and drooling faces. Thank god for emojis.

  * * *

  Sophia: I'm just going to say this. My strap-on doesn't get performance anxiety.

  Serina: Oh my god stop talking about your damn strap-on.

  Stella: Back to the topic at hand. It's been a couple of months.

  * * *

  That wasn't the most accurate accounting of our relationship but my sisters were tough nuts to crack. I didn't want them looking at my relationship with Cal as something new and insignificant. To them—happily married women going on years of wedded bliss—two months was nothing. And I couldn't bear it if they brushed off Cal as nothing.

  Cal wasn't nothing. He was my—

  Holy shit, Stellllllllllla.

  This was a really big deal. Cal was coming home with me. Meeting my parents, my sisters, my nieces and nephews—both human and canine. On my fucking birthday.

  Stella Stella Stella, what have you done?

  * * *

  Serina: And you're bringing him home? Do Mom and Dad know?

  Stella: Yeah. I just got off the phone with them.

  Sophia: Wait wait wait.

  Sophia: You told Mom and Dad you were bringing a male home and you didn't conference us in?

  Serina: I really wanted to hear the screaming.

  Sophia: Is Mom rewallpapering the bathroom? She's been complaining about that bathroom for a time.

  Serina: No, she's down at the church. Praying to Saint Marguerite d'Youville, the patron saint of marriage.

  Stella: I'm not getting married.

  Sophia: HA. Hahahahahaha.

  Serina: You know what? This is like the hometown date episode of The Bachelorette!

  Sophia: Do you think he's going to ask for Dad's blessing?

  Serina: omg that would be adorable. A little man chat down in the basement where Dad asks him about his intentions. Love this so hard.

  Stella: Seriously. I am not getting married.

  Serina: Of course you're not, Stellaluna. You're just bringing a guy home for the first time. Happens every day!

  * * *

  This man. He had all my firsts.

  26

  Cal

  The knock at the door sounded as I shrugged into my suit coat. I stole another glance in the mirror before making my way through the apartment to open the door for Stella, cursing myself for not giving her a key.

  I'd remedy that soon enough. She could have a key to my apartment while I went on not knowing where she lived. I was nothing if not consistently ahead of the game.

  I swung the door open, saying, "I'm getting you a key so you can let yourself in. But not today. That's a poor excuse for a birthday gift—and happy birthday, sweet thing."

  She stepped through the doorway, her shiny yellow shoes whispering against the hardwood floor. She looked damn cute. She wore a short black dress, the kind made from t-shirt fabric that skimmed her curves and made her tits look like they needed to be devoured. A little jean jacket too, the cuffs folded up to her forearms. Just too fucking cute.

  The kind of cute I could only acknowledge by burying my head between her legs and admiring her dress from underneath.

  "Look at you, making me open my own doors. And they say chivalry is dead," she replied with a lopsided smile. But then her eyes widened, her lips parted. A sound rattled in her throat. She lifted her fingers to her lips, held them there. "Oh, shit. Look at you."

  Most days, I interpreted that reaction as positive. Stella was a big fan of suits and that was why I wore them as often as possible. But this didn't seem altogether positive.

  I glanced down, expecting to discover a blob of toothpaste on my lapel or a rip in my trousers. I found neither. "What's wrong?"

  She stared at me, her fingertips pressing her lips hard enough to turn them white. "You're wearing a suit."

  "Yes," I replied, gesturing toward myself.

  "You can't wear a suit." She shook her head. "You—you can't."

  Before I could respond, Stella was off, marching into my bedroom and digging through my closet. I followed, watching while she held up shirts and mumbled to herself. Since this suit wasn't happening, I slipped the coat off and set it on the bed.

  "My parents only get dressed up for church," she said from inside the closet. "Funerals, weddings, baptisms. They're more casual for Sunday morning mass."

  "Okay," I said, nodding. "You're saying I'm overdressed."

  Stella barked out a humorless laugh. "I'm saying my father has one suit. He bought it fifteen years ago when Serina got married. He wears it to funerals, weddings, and baptisms. Combined, he's probably worn it fewer than ten times in those fifteen years. He's definitely not wearing it tonight." Another wry laugh. "He's probably wearing dungarees. That's what he calls them. Dungarees. Every pair he owns is older than I am and as we know, I'm thirty-six. But he wears dungarees when he's at home."

  "Sure." I kicked off my shoes, reached for my belt. "That works for me."

  Stella emerged from the closet, two hangers clutched in each hand. Her gaze dropped to where I worked my belt loose, unbuttoned my trousers. And then—fuck me—she dragged her tongue over her upper lip. Slow, like she was sucking a flavor off her skin.

  "Stella," I warned. "You have to—we can't—not right—stop it with the tongue."

  She tossed the clothing to my bed and moved toward me. "Stop what?" she asked, sliding my belt free. It hit the floor with a muffled clang, right before my trousers. She smoothed her hand down, over my lengthening cock. "What did I do, Cal?"

  "Stella." She glanced up at me, all dimples. I could drink whiskey out of those dimples. I could jerk off into those dimples. Fuuuck. "I'm not going to shake your father's hand with the scent of you still staining my skin."

  "Then don't use your hand." Her fingers curled around me, light at first and then tighter. "I'd rather have"—tighter—"this."

  "We'll be late," I argued. What the hell was wrong with me? There was no earthly reason to argue with this woman. I wanted whatever she wanted and that was the truth of it. But I also wanted to do this right. Show up on-fucking-time. Meet her parents, wear the suit, charm the sisters. Demolish her history and every memory of men before. "We'll be late to your birthday party, sweet thing."

  "It's my party," she replied, her lips turning up in a pout. I felt that pout on the head of my cock. "I'm allowed to be late."

  "Are you allowed to show up with cum on your tongue? Because that's what's going to happen."

  "Like I said," she replied. "My party."

&
nbsp; She hooked her thumbs under my boxers but I caught her wrists. "No," I said, my hands shaking as I squeezed her. "No."

  Another pout. I gathered up all the strength I had, all the stern. And still, it wasn't enough.

  I dragged my hand up to her elbow, whirled her around. "Get over here," I snapped, tucking her ass against my boxer-covered cock. I banded my arm around her waist while my free hand yanked her skirt up, covered her mound, teased her through her panties. "You want this?" She nodded. "Words, Stella. Give me words and I give you what you want."

  She pressed her lips to my arm. I felt her breath straight through the fabric of my shirt, felt it all over. "Yes, please."

  I shoved my hand under her panties, between her folds, ground the heel of my palm against her clit. She cried out against my arm. "Is this what you want, sweet thing? You want to rub that thick ass on my cock while I teach this clit how to come for me?"

  "Yeah. This works," she replied with a giggle. "If you don't mind, I'd like it a little harder."

  I pinched her. I pinched her clit and I almost blasted into my boxers from the sounds she made alone. "How's that for harder?"

  A frustrated groan tore from her lips. "Will you let me suck your cock when I'm done?"

  I pushed two fingers inside her, teased the spot that made her cross-eyed, pulled out. Added another. "If you can talk, I'm doing something wrong."

  "May I remind you it is my birthday?" she panted. "You should let me suck your cock."

  "Goddamn it, Stel," I said, my lips on her neck. "If you don't get there right now, I swear to you, I'll leave you like this."

  "You won't," she said through a moan. "You—oh, fuck."

  A warm wave of arousal coated my fingers, my palm, as she shook in my arms. A low cry rumbled through her as she broke apart but I didn't stop stroking her. Not when her inner thighs quivered and cunt clamped down around me. Not when her clit pulsed against my palm and she screamed into my arm. Not when her head lolled to the side and she sighed with more bliss than I'd ever heard.

  But then, "On the bed. I'm not in the mood to kneel on the floor."

  I almost objected. Almost reminded her we had to go and even though I was late to every dinner party and event to which I was invited, I wasn't going to be late to meet her parents. I almost made that case. Almost. "I'm not in the mood to come in your mouth unless you're sitting on my face while I do."

  She glanced up at me, her eyes bright. "I can work with that."

  27

  Stella

  "Okay, birthday girl," Cal said. He rested his hand on my thigh—upper, definitely upper—as I drove past the Public Garden. "What am I getting myself into here? Prep me for the medieval torture."

  Oof. My family. My birthday dinner. I was this close to calling it off and staying home and being naked with Cal. Because holy shit, I was still boneless from the past half hour. I couldn't believe we'd managed to leave each other alone long enough to get dressed and get out of the apartment.

  And just like he'd promised, I could still taste him on my tongue.

  I started to respond but pressed my free hand to my lips, stifling a laugh. "Have you ever seen Virgin-Mary-in-the-bathtub statues?"

  He swiveled toward me. "Have I—what?"

  "Yeah, you know, a Virgin Mary statue where she's enshrined in an upright bathtub. It's a thing around here. For believers, that is. And my mother, she's a believer. It's kind of funny how it came to be, actually. Around here, many of the folks who keep a shrine are of Irish, Portuguese, or Italian descent. My grandmother was Dominican but she grew up in an Italian neighborhood. Over the years, she and her family adopted a lot of Italian traditions and customs. She married an Italian guy and passed this crockpot of culture onto my mother who also married an Italian guy. And that's how a miniature Madonna came to live in our front yard."

  "Right. Virgin Mary in the bathtub. Got it," Cal said.

  "My mother is highly religious but not in the ways you might expect. She works at the local Catholic church—she's the coordinator there. She schedules masses, marriages, baptisms, last rites. She keeps the priests' schedules and manages the whole joint. She runs a tight ship and she loves her work and that parish. But Cal, she swears like a gangster. She pretends it's a one-off thing but it is not."

  He nodded but he didn't understand. How could he? This wasn't altogether reasonable.

  "It's not just the swearing. That's just the most obvious part. If you asked after her politics, it would sound like she was speaking to you from the far side of progressive island. But don't try to reconcile any of it. Somehow, she's able to keep a strict interpretation of a centuries-old text that was potlucked together after the fact while also loving and supporting my gay sister, marching with her pink hat, demanding better from those who try to rob women of bodily autonomy. I don't know how she threads that needle and I don't think I could do it myself but she does and I love her for it. I love that she can have these ideals, ones that run in direct contradiction at times, and do it without breaking a sweat. I admire it."

  "I know physicians like that," he said. "It's hard to believe in anything other than science after all the years spent in med school, internship, residency. It's tough to hold on to faith." He shrugged, his gaze still on the road ahead. "Or so I've heard. But many do. Many believe even when the science gets in the way of those beliefs."

  After a pause, I said, "I believe in football."

  "You should believe in better helmets and hit restrictions," he replied, squeezing my thigh. That thumb of his, it was edging into the hot zone. "You're not going to have much football if your players keep hammering their heads."

  "Don't mention that to my father," I said. "He thinks CTE is a conspiracy perpetrated by overprotective mothers. The South Americans too. He thinks they're trying to replace American football with fútbol and he's not having it."

  Cal barked out a laugh. "Really?"

  "Not all the things we believe make sense," I said with a shrug. "And on the topic of my dad—have you ever spent more than five dollars on cheese?"

  "Per pound or total?"

  "Doesn't matter," I replied. "Either or."

  "Then…yes."

  I glanced in my mirrors as I merged onto the highway, shook my head. "Don't mention that to my father," I said. "If he sees me with a Starbucks cup—or anything other than black, hot Dunkin'—he says I'm being careless with my money."

  "You do well," Cal said, the statement delivered with a hint of a question. "As a publicist, you do well. You don't worry over the price of matcha, right?"

  "I do well," I agreed. "But my parents, they've always struggled to make ends meet with a house full of girls. Like I said, Mom's a church coordinator. Dad's a high school football coach. They work hard. They don't understand why I'd spend more than five dollars on cheese even if I can afford it because they'd save that money to fix the roof or replace the boiler or finally go on the cruise they've been talking about for ten years."

  "I get that," he replied. "My mom's a physician but rural medicine is a rough situation. She's one of only a few doctors in the entire county. Most people don't realize that access to health care is extremely limited in rural and remote areas. There are no urgent care clinics, no emergency rooms, no medical parks crammed with doctors' offices and labs. It's not an exaggeration. Some areas of the country are hundreds of miles away from a critical care center and that is just too far for most emergencies."

  "Wow. I had no idea."

  "Her world consists of house calls and setting up shop in shuttered clinics a few days each week. She plays the role of general practitioner, obstetrician, pediatrician, emergency specialist, mental health counselor, hospice coordinator, and everything in between."

  "Why does your mom do it? Why not move to a region with more lucrative opportunities?"

  He shook his head with a grumble. "Because she knows no one will fill the void. She doesn't want to leave women with high-risk pregnancies and kids with diabetes and seniors with c
hronic heart failure." Another grumble. "And my dad, well, he's another story. He works with wood. Mostly tinkering but sometimes he sells a piece or two. My sister—"

  I held up my hand, interrupting him. "Ada. She lives in Portland. Right?"

  "Right," he replied. "She set him up to attend some farmers' markets and art fairs in the area. She talks about an Etsy shop but my dad doesn't believe in the internet. It's his South American chronic concussion conspiracy." Another grumble. "He has PTSD. He hasn't worked steadily—hasn't done anything steadily—since returning home from the first Gulf War. Whether he's following through on counseling and meds is a different story but I get it. I get that things are tough. My parents don't own a television. Or a microwave."

  "You could send them a microwave," I said. "Or a television. Or both."

  "And you can ship your parents off on that cruise or pick up some good cheese."

  "I do buy the good cheese," I replied, laughing. "But I tear off the sticker, hide the receipt, and lie about the price. I tell them I found a new market near my house and everything is really cheap. My mother is devoted to her local grocery store and wouldn't consider leaving it so they never question me and my affordable cheeses."

  "And I lie and tell my mother pharmaceutical reps drop off all the samples and supplies and new equipment I send her each month."

  "Lies," I said, laughing. "Sometimes they're a good thing."

  "The intentions are good," he said. "I imagine they wouldn't be thrilled if they knew the truth."

  "Do you think they do?" I asked. "Perhaps they realize what we're doing and go along with it because they're proud and we're generous, and calling these lies on the carpet injures everyone in the process?"

  "Maybe," he said. "It wouldn't kill me to tell my mother I want to restock her supplies. She won't take a microwave. Honestly, she wouldn't use one and my dad hates anything that beeps. But she'd accept a portable sonogram if it showed up on her doorstep."