by Natasha Deen
“Breathe.”
She laughed. “My poor kid. He’s been in love with her since preschool.”
“What happened to her leg?”
“Jessica was born that way.” Aya craned her head, watching as Spencer’s nerves had him dancing toward them and away from Jessica.
“Stop staring. You’ll make him nervous—and horrified if he turns around and sees his mother watching him.”
“Sorry.” She pivoted back to face Nate. “Maternal nosiness.”
His gaze flicked toward the children. “They are an adorable couple.”
She smiled. “Yep. I’m curious to see what music they pick. Will they admit their emotions and pick a Lionel Ritchie ballad, or play tough and go with Green Day?”
Nate chuckled and took a sip of his cola. He nodded toward the pair. “Right now, Spencer seems more concerned with Jessica’s hair than the jukebox.”
Curiosity overtook her and she whipped around. Sure enough, there was her son with a slightly dazed expression on his face and his nose all but buried in Jessica’s hair. Aya chuckled. “I suppose you can’t blame him. It’s thick, shiny, and glossy.”
She turned around and found that Nate’s expression mirrored Spencer’s, but rather than staring at Jessica’s hair, his gaze was on hers.
“Tempting,” he said, “the way it catches the light and makes you want to run your hands through it.” He blinked, blinked again, and the look shattered. “I’m sure that’s what Spencer’s thinking.”
A fluttery, expansive cloud of delight rose in her breast. Such a trivial thing that he liked her hair, but it made her feel feminine and beautiful. “I’m sure Jessica can’t help think of how handsome Spencer looks in his gray shirt.” She caught her error as soon as she spoke it. Nate wore the gray shirt, Spencer wore a red one.
She expected him to call her bluff. Instead, a soft, pleased smile kissed his lips.
He leaned his jaw against his hand and asked, “What else does she think of him?”
“Oh!” Her heart boomed, and the resident butterflies in her stomach took wing. Aya took a gulp of her cola and coughed as the bubbles tickled her nose. “I think...” She shot the children a look, making sure they were out of range and wouldn’t witness the fool she was about to make of herself. “I think she loves his kindness and humor. And I think she respects his honesty.” She gazed at the stippled ceiling for strength and blurted, “That sexy smile of his does a number on her, too.”
“Does it?”
The question rippled, caressed her ears and senses like a soft wind stroking the surface of a pond. “Yes.” Her stuttered breath made the sound ragged. “Everything about him undoes her.”
Silence met her. Aya’s gaze remained on the ceiling as she silently counted the seconds. One...two...three...four...she kept at it, until she reached ten. Then she tightened her courage and dropped her eyes to meet his.
She thought he’d be looking everywhere but her—that her confession had embarrassed him and he was thinking of a polite letdown. But his gaze was on her and in it, soft fire glowed.
“I think he feels the same way.”
“Really?” She breathed.
“Really.” He took a sip of his drink, though his gaze never left hers. “I think he’s impressed by her strength and wit, awed by her fierce loyalty and love; I think the fact they’re on opposite sides hurts him deeply, because he wants nothing more than to stand by her side and support her through...everything.” A red twinge drenched his cheeks. “I’m talking about dodge ball, of course. Spencer mentioned he and Jessica are on opposite teams.
“Right, of course.” She pushed her glass aside. Condensation left a watery smear on the table. Aya pulled a napkin from its holder, wiping the spill so a task occupied her hands and her attention, and said, “It makes me think about our disagreement...” She inhaled, deep, shaky. “I think some of the things you said were valid.”
His sharp intake of breath cracked between them.
“I said some, not all, but I would be lying if I said your point about bankruptcy and poverty haven’t kept me up at night. I’ll make you a deal—” She lifted her gaze to meet his.
A wary, tired gleam lit his eyes.
“You lend me your talents for this month. Together, we’ll make a good-faith effort at turning a profit. If there’s little or no change by the end of May, then I’ll sell.”
“I’ve been here for almost two months already, Aya, and the farm hasn’t done anything.”
“But you weren’t helping me—not really. I’m just asking for a few weeks.” She shoved aside the cutlery, reaching across the table to grab his hand. “Please, Nate, just a little time.”
His fingers caressed the tips of hers. At his touch, silvery ripples of pleasure sent tremors dancing through her body.
“I can’t promise you a few weeks—I may not have that kind of time.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
He sighed, his shoulders slumped, and in the blink of her eyes, he went from a virile specimen of the male species, to a tired, old man. “My father is sick, very sick. I may be called home at any time.”
“Oh, Nate.” She covered his hand, so her palms cocooned it. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
He smiled, bleak and forlorn. “Sell the farm and let me go home.”
A slice of pain knifed her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Pizza’s here!”
Aya jerked back at Chloe’s energetic declaration, the entrance of the waitress and the food broke the encroaching cloud of melancholy rolling between her and Nate. He smiled his thanks at Chloe, then turned and called the children over.
As they approached, the miserable expression on both kids’ faces banished any warmth in the room. Aya opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but she caught Spencer’s gaze. He gave a small shake of his head and she asked instead, “Jessica, do you want to stay and have some pizza until your mom and dad get here?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just go and wait for my folks.” With a sad, final look at Spencer, she turned away.
“Don’t ask,” her son said when she turned to him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She and Nate’s gaze met across the table.
“No problem. We’ll be too busy eating to make conversation, anyway. Hey, what do you say to a movie afterwards?” he asked.
A spasm of guilt rippled through her. The meagre amount she paid in wages couldn’t justify dinner and a movie, and she didn’t like the idea of using his investments to treat her.
“How about a movie night at home, instead? I’ll make the popcorn—” She grinned at Spencer. “And I’ll make sure I put loads of butter on it.”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
The concern in Nate’s eyes mirrored hers. In cheerless silence, they ate their meal and headed home.
****
Two hours later, all attempts to cheer Spencer or prompt him to talk, had failed. He’d headed off to bed, saying he wanted time by himself. After they’d watched him shuffle away, his feet dragging and his shoulders bent under a great, invisible weight, Aya had pleaded weariness and headed to her room. Mason, feeling as though all the light and energy had been sucked out of him, went to bed.
But now, as he stared at the darkened ceiling, then at the red numerals glowing the late-night hour, sleep evaded him. Again. Silence enclosed him, heavy, oppressive, but it wasn’t heavy enough to dampen the voices of recrimination in his head. They ran a well-worn circuit, thundering, monstrous, and though he screamed defense of his actions and plans, the chorus wouldn’t be swayed. He could see no happy answer, no easy solution or compromise for his father or Aya, and for this, the voices renewed their contempt. Around and around, louder and louder, until a small, familiar sound did what his rationalizations could not: silenced the voices in his head.
He bolted upright, his ears straining in the darkness, laboring to see if the sound would come again. It did. He launched himse
lf from the bed and raced to Spencer’s door. He laid his ear against the plywood and listened. And it came once more, the quiet, pained sob of a broken heart. In his chest, Mason’s heart wrung in sympathy for its peer, and twisted with the knowledge of the hurt carried by small shoulders. He tapped on the door softly, then pushed it open.
Moonlight streamed through the window, lighting the room in a white-blue glow. He crept to the bed, and knelt by the headboard. Darkness cast sinewy shadows on the covers and hid Spencer’s face from illumination, but Mason heard his ragged, shallow breaths.
He turned, leaned his back against the mattress and softly said, “I heard you. You don’t have to say or do anything. I’m here, and I’ll stay here until you tell me to go.”
Spencer’s small hand crept along his shoulder, and squeezed. Mason took the small fingers in his grasp and squeezed back. Then the sobs renewed themselves, quiet yet full of pain and ache. Mason turned, climbed on to the bed and cradled the boy in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer snuffled, “boys don’t cry.”
“Maybe, but men do, especially when their heart is broken.”
“She’s leaving me, Nate. She’s leaving all of us.”
“What do you mean?”
Spencer burrowed into him; the light cotton pajamas brushed against Mason’s bare chest.
“Her dad’s transferring to Houston. I lost her, Nate.”
“You don’t lose the people you love. They’re always with us, in our hearts.”
“That’s not true!” Spencer’s voice cracked with anguish. “I can’t take a memory to the prom. I can’t share a soda with a recollection.”
He went silent, debating the best thing to say. “You’re right.” He sighed. “That was a crap answer. It sucks, my small friend, and I’m sorry.”
Spencer pressed into him. Tears soaked his skin, the bony angles of the boy’s elbows and wrists poked him in the stomach, but he welcomed the pain, treasured the trust implied by the close contact.
“When is she leaving?”
“Two months,” Spencer sniffed. He raised his head, though darkness prevented eye to eye contact. “You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I never told her how I felt. I was going to do it tonight...no.” He sighed. “That’s a lie. I would have chickened out—I always do.” His voice went rough with contempt.
Mason pulled him closer, and tucked the small head under his chin. “Don’t you say that about yourself. Ever. You’re a true and brave friend, and it’s not easy telling someone you love them.”
“I should have taken the chance. Pops says that’s what you always regret—the chances you never took. Now, I know what he meant,” he said morosely.
Mason had no response to that, so he just held Spencer against his chest and gave him a quiet place for his recollections—the first time he saw Jessica, the way her hair smelled like strawberries and cream, the way her smile made him weightless. And when all his memories had been exhausted and his tears cried—at least for tonight—he fell asleep. Mason continued to hold him until childish snores confirmed Spencer’s rest. Gently easing himself off the bed, he tucked the boy in, and crept from the room.
He slid the door into the jam, turned, and almost slammed into Aya. The darkened hallway gave only the shadowed outlines of her figure, the trailing hem of her bathrobe, but he’d know her, anywhere.
“How is he?” she asked, stepping back and walking to the middle of the landing.
He followed. “Upset. Jessica’s moving to Houston.”
“Oh.”
She crumpled against him, and his willing arms enfolded her.
“My poor Spencer. His first heartbreak.”
He rocked her softly, left to right and back, relishing the warmth of her, the way her hair tickled his jaw line. “He’ll be okay, won’t he? I don’t know a lot about adolescence and love, but despite the trivial way adults treat ‘puppy love,’ I suspect Spencer’s not prone to superficial love affairs.”
“No, he’s not. Oh, Nate—” The words dripped with sadness and sympathy. “The only girl he’s ever loved was Jessica.” Her voice wavered. “How am I going to get him through this?”
“You’re not. A broken heart can only be mended by its owner.”
She laughed softly. “Trust you to have the Zen answer.”
“That’s me, the half-naked Zen master.”
She froze, her body locked into place, and he cursed himself for reminding her of their intimate position and his state of undress.
“You are...quite naked...” Her voice dropped, and she seemed to speak more to herself than him. “Very naked.”
It wasn’t what she said, it was how she said it—breathy, desirous, seductive, and wanting—that tightened his loins and left his senses and body on high alert for her next move. And what a move it was.
Her hands came from around his back to trail down the sides of his torso. Clever fingers, clever Aya, with the way she used her fingernails to scrape his skin—light as a kitten’s touch, hard enough to make him aware of every one of his molecules—left him tight and aching for more of her touch. Her hands met at his belly and began a languid inspection of his abs and chest. They trailed sensuous, winding trails along his body, tangling in his hair, dancing toward his nipples, then waltzing away.
“Aya—” Her name was all he could manage. The seduction of her touch stole strength from his limbs at the exact moment it left him rigid and wanting. He needed to step away, regain control, but he remained immobile, her willing victim, her libidinous slave. “Please,” he begged, unsure of what he pleaded for—liberation or capture.
She stepped closer, her belly pressed into his hips. His penis jumped, throbbed, and demanded release.
Aya lifted her head, grazed her temple against his jaw. “Yes?” And in the whispered question, their mutual surrender rose on swirling ribbons of long-repressed desires and welcome release.
The air around them shifted, morphed. It gained color and weight as he answered the questioning need in her. Mason bent his head; she lifted hers. Their lips met, and as they connected, the sense that he’d been waiting for this from the moment he’d set eyes on her, filled him. She filled him. The scent and feel of her flowed into all the dry, cracked parts, turning his limbs liquid and his thoughts evaporated in the sensation of lips against lips.
His tongue slid against her, soft, seductive, as it gained entry with her gentle sigh. She shivered as their mouths meshed into one. Mason’s hand cradled her head, while the other slid to wrap around her waist and pull her close. She surrendered to him, the hard lines of his body pulsing into her, their shared warmth pressed into each other. He pulled her tight, and tighter still, her clothing too thick a barrier, his searching fingers against her skin clumsy with desire and need. They trailed down her shoulders, then raced upwards again, greedily absorbing the sensation of flesh against flesh.
The sound of a knob loosening from its lock cracked like rifle fire and yanked them apart.
He spun to look behind him, but though Spencer’s door swung open, he didn’t come out. Frowning, Mason moved to the room. He must not have closed the door properly and it opened on its own, because Spencer remained in bed, snoring softly.
Aya brushed past Mason and stepped into the room. “I should check on him,” she whispered, her voice coming in shallow gasps. “Good night, Nate.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, then closed the door behind her.
****
The next morning dawned bright, sunny, with not a trace of clouds in the blue sky. But for Spencer, Aya thought, the gray storms of life had descended and their rain, cold and stinging, poured a torrent in his heart. She left him alone during the day, sensing he needed time and space. But when evening came and the supper dishes cleared, she found him in the living room, and took him by the hand.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.
He gave her an anemic smile and shook his head. “I don’t feel m
uch like walking.”
“Then let’s go to the spot on our hill and hang out.”
“You’re not going to give me any alone time on this, are you?” He followed the question with a small smile.
“It’s the curse of motherhood. When our brood starts brooding, we get worried.”
He heaved a sigh, but slid off the couch and headed to the back door. “Okay.”
The clear day had descended into an even clearer twilight. Faint pink and indigo shades began to paint the sky, blending seamlessly into the horizon. A faint breeze drew silken fingers along the grass, making the emerald blades ripple.
“It’s a beautiful night, don’t you think, Spencer?”
His eyes flicked to the skies then resumed their downward focus. “It’s nice.”
She bent down and turned him toward her. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m your mom and I love you, and I want to make sure you’re okay. But if this is some kind of torture even for you, we don’t have to do it. I’ll leave you alone.”
He touched his fingertips to her cheeks. “You don’t have to leave me—I know you’re just trying to make sure I’m okay.”
She rose, wincing as the day’s chores took their payment in her aching limbs. In comfortable silence, they went to the hilltop and took a seat from where they could view the sunset. Having never gone through a heartbreak with her son, she had no idea what to do next. Part of her wanted to grab him and demand he tell her everything so she could fix it. But the saner side of her realized that while Spencer was still a child, he wasn’t a baby. She couldn’t demand his confidence. So she sat, quiet and contemplative, and hoped he would initiate the conversation.
“Mom?” he asked after what felt like hours, but in reality had probably been mere minutes. He took a deep breath that made his chest puff out, then exhaled it all in an explosive whoosh. “I want you to sell the farm?”
Her head jerked in his direction. “What?”
“I want you to sell the farm.”
“Better question: why?”
“Because.” He drew his legs to his chest. “If you sold, we would have money...”