I don’t want to hide from the world anymore.
I want to enjoy it.
My thoughts quiet long enough for me to lose myself in this moment. An intense flash and the inundating waves that follow meet the visceral grunts escaping Crew’s perfect lips as his body tenses and shudders over mine.
When it’s over, he rolls off me and slips his fingers in mine, interlacing them.
SEVENTEEN
Crew
Calypso’s body quivers when I palm her soft belly. I could touch all of her, everywhere, all of the time, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Hooking my hand on her hip, I roll her to face me, my opposite hand interlaced with hers.
“I can’t stop touching you.” I can hardly breathe, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the sex or because of the way I feel with her.
“I’ve noticed.” She offers a coy smile. With one free hand, she reaches for the top of her hair and undoes her messy knot. An ocean of waves falls around her bare shoulders.
Fuck plastic.
Fuck silicone tits, bleach blonde hair, lip injected pouts, and fake eyelashes.
I’ll take a Calypso any day of the week.
Living in Vegas, it’s easy to see how a man could get used to a diet of processed Barbie fuck toys. But everything about Calypso is natural and organic. From now on, I’m going back to basics.
The glaring orange numbers on her alarm clock remind me I have ten minutes to get home. I’m sure Emme’s out and Noelle’s passed out on the couch, but I’ll have to hear about it all day tomorrow if I don’t come home when I promised.
“I don’t want to leave.” My hand grazes her cheek before I lean in to steal a bit of a kiss.
Calypso’s hand releases from mine and she pulls herself off the bed, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck and sweeping it over her shoulder. Black smudges line her eyes.
She didn’t need the makeup anyway.
Her bed is lumpy, piled with covers. It sucks you in and wraps you up. I could stay here for years and never leave. Just lay here. Stare at Calypso. Study the freckles on her arms and the intersection of her high cheekbones and delicate brow line.
Calypso’s like one of those paintings in an art museum, the kind you’ve seen a thousand times, but each time you look, you notice something new.
I could never get tired of looking at her.
I drag myself up in time for Calypso to tug a sheer white t-shirt over her head. It hits just below her peach-shaped ass.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She tugs on the hem of the shirt and flashes an uneasy smirk.
“Just admiring my work.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“That glow on your face?” I brush past her, my hand on the door. “I put that there.”
She wrestles a smile before her jaw falls. “Cocky much?”
“Not cocky. Proud.”
She follows me down the hall and toward the living room, where my clothes lie scattered around the room. I pluck a sock from a lampshade and slip it over my right foot.
“Proud because we just had sex?” Her hand hooks her hip, but her eyes go everywhere they please. She’s admiring me just as much as I admired her.
“You’re sexy as fuck, Calypso.” I slip the second sock over my foot and find my boxers. By the time I’m zipped into my jeans, I make my way to where she stands and cradle her bare face in my hands. “And I know you don’t fuck just anyone.”
“Oh, so now you think you’re special?” Her eyes smile.
“I fucking know I’m special.” I kiss the top of her head and let her go.
It’s easier to feign arrogance than to have a legitimate conversation about what the hell just happened and how fucking amazing it was.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks—blurts, actually. The wide expression on her face says she’s just as shocked that she asked as I am.
I yank my shirt over my head.
“Parents,” I say. “My parents are coming over. Probably have lunch with them and Noelle. Nothing after that. You?”
“Will this be the first time they meet Emme?”
Shit.
I fall into the sofa and massage my temples.
That’s what happens when you live for the moment. You don’t think about important things, like how you’re going to introduce your shiny new baby to your parents, specifically your conservative father with a heart condition and your control-freak mother with a mean streak.
“Hadn’t thought that far?” Calypso laughs, taking the spot next to me.
“I don’t even know what to say to them.”
“They’ll take one look at that face and get over it, I’m sure.”
“You don’t know my parents.”
“Right. But she’s here. Can’t change it. They’ll have to accept her.”
“My dad.” I clear my throat. “He has a heart condition. He’s had four open heart surgeries. His cardiologist wants us to keep his stress as low as possible. He’s conservative as fuck, and this is going to set him off.”
“You have to tell him sometime.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears and studies me. “What does Noelle say?”
“Psh.” I stare blankly at the mess of playing cards scattered across her coffee table. What I wouldn’t give to relive the past hour again and again. Nothing mattered then. Life was weightless. “Noelle says a lot of things.”
Calypso laughs. “I kinda love that about her.”
I smirk and shake my head. I can count the number of women I’ve known who’ve actually liked Noelle on one hand. She’s an acquired taste.
“You’re going to have to figure this out,” she says. “When are they coming over?”
“Probably noon tomorrow.”
“I’m going into the shop for a couple of hours in the morning.” Calypso crosses her legs and the hem of her t-shirt pulls up, exposing the soft flesh of her thigh. “I can watch her while your parents are here. That should buy you some time to figure this out.”
My gaze darts to hers. “Really? You’d do that for me?”
Calypso slinks a shoulder to her ear. “It’s not a huge deal. Emme’s a sweet baby. I’m happy to help. You can’t do this alone.”
I rise, pulling my shirt over my shoulders and adjusting the collar. A second later, she walks me to the door.
“Yeah,” I say. The weight in the pit of my stomach shames me for taking advantage of her kindness. She shouldn’t have to rescue me. And it’s not that I don’t have the balls to come clean to my parents, it’s that I don’t have the heart to break the news to my father in his fragile state. The timing couldn’t possibly be worse. “I’ll bring her by around eleven.”
I take it upon myself to steal one last kiss from those heart-shaped lips of hers.
She pulls away, her blue gaze averted. “Let’s not make this complicated, okay?”
“It’s just a kiss.”
Calypso pulls her lower lip between her teeth and lets it go, shaking her head.
“Goodnight, Crew.”
EIGHTEEN
Calypso
I’ve walked by this playground dozens of times, and never once did I realize that giant painted lion with its mouth open wide is a drinking fountain.
A handful of small children burn off their Saturday morning energy playing Follow the Leader across the monkey bars, down the twisty slide, and around the Merry-Go-Round.
Emme kicks her legs, sprawled on a blanket under the shade of a squatted palm tree with robust leaves. The parking lot to our little complex is just a few yards away. I brush the back of my hand against Emme’s chubby cheek as she babbles, but our tender moment is interrupted by the fast-paced squawking of a nagging woman climbing out of the driver’s seat of a white Escalade.
“Conrad, I told you.” Her hands slice through the air as she speaks, emphasizing each and every word that leaves her thin, red lips. It’s March, in Vegas, and she’s wearing a thick twin-set sweater. Huge pearls fit for Wilma Flintston
e line her neck, and her dark hair is cut to a blunt edge at her shoulders, shining in the late morning sun. The click-clacking of her modest kitten heel against the pavement echoes toward the park. “Let me help you. You’re doing too much. You’re going to overexert yourself. I don’t want to interrupt Dr. Parks in the middle of his golf game all because you’re too stubborn to listen to him.”
“Susan.” The man barks back, but his bark has no bite. She doesn’t listen. She keeps yammering on.
“This is going to be Thanksgiving all over again.” The woman throws her hands in the air as she hurries to his side.
“I’m not helpless.” He jerks his arm from her grasp. “I can walk.”
Nothing like cheap entertainment on a lazy Saturday morning.
“It’s just like you to be pigheaded. You have one good doctor’s visit and you think you’re Superman.” Her sandy tone grates on the man’s nerves. I can see it from way over here. He flinches when she speaks. “Now straighten your shirt. And come along. We haven’t seen Crew since Christmas. This should be a joyous occasion.”
Mr. and Mrs. Forrester.
Nice to meet you.
How those two produced Crew, I’ll never know.
Crew’s dad clears his throat, running his meaty fingers along his Tom Selleck-y mustache as he takes leisurely steps behind his lovely wife. He keeps back a few paces. I assume it’s intentional.
I scoop the baby in my arms and speak softly into her little ear. “Emme, I believe those are your grandparents.”
I almost apologize to her before realizing it’s not my place. It’s not my business. I’m a third party to all of this.
Judging by the way his mother henpecks his father, I can understand Crew’s reluctance to spring Emme on them just yet. Even from the other side of the parking lot I can see she’s tight-laced and buttoned up. She certainly didn’t get those deep frown lines from smiling too much.
My phone buzzes just as Crew’s parents disappear behind his door. I switch Emme to my left arm and flip it over to see Presley’s name flash across the screen.
“What’s up? Everything okay at the store?” I answer.
“So this guy was just here,” she says. “Asking about you.”
My heart lurches into my throat before free-falling so fast it hurts.
“What?” I gulp the dry, Nevada air and rise with Emme on my hip. “What did he look like?”
“Blond,” she says. “Tall. Shaggy hair. Kinda hung in his eyes. Really tan. His eyes were almost clear. Bright white smile.”
My thoughts scatter. She needs to say nothing more.
It’s Mathias.
No doubt in my mind.
“He was asking a ton of questions about you,” she says. “How long you’d owned the store. When you were going to be back. How you were doing.”
I scoop the blanket from the ground and fling it over my free shoulder. It’s time to go inside anyway. The sun is beating down on us as we approach the noon-hour.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “I didn’t know who the hell this guy was. Is he from Shiloh Springs?”
“Yeah.” I buckle Emme in her stroller and scan the park. Can’t help feeling like I’m being watched.
I came to Vegas to get away from Shiloh Springs and the Shilohs and all that they entailed. I felt safe here despite the fact that I stuck out like a vegan at a meat packing plant.
“He wanted to know when you were going to be in,” Presley says. “I told him I wasn’t sure. But he didn’t believe me. He waited around an hour, just browsing the bookshelves but not touching a single book.”
“Did he intimidate you? Did he make you uncomfortable?”
“No, no. It was more just like . . . weird.” Presley’s voice comes to a whisper before she clears her throat. “He said he’s in town, and he’s coming back.”
“When? Did he say when?” My words come out in one big string, my mouth dry. I want to swallow but I can’t.
Water. I need water.
And air conditioning.
I’m sweating.
I never thought I’d see Mathias again. Ever.
“He didn’t say,” she said. “But I saw him looking at the posted hours on the door when he left.”
My body trembles. There’s a tiny earthquake inside me, and the fault line runs in a crooked line down my center. I push the stroller with one hand, maneuvering the cracked and bumpy sidewalk and praying we don’t run into Crew’s clan on our way to my apartment.
“Calypso, you okay?” Presley asks. “You’re breathing really hard. And not saying much . . .”
“I never thought I’d see him again.” I utter the words that keep circling my head, playing in a loop. “I don’t understand. Is he coming back for me?”
I hate the hope in my tone. It doesn’t belong there. I vowed never to return to Shiloh Springs, no matter how desperate I was or how hard life became on my own.
They say you never stop loving your first love. It’s literally impossible. They’re imprinted on a part of your soul until the day you die. Some people spend their whole lives drinking or shopping or gambling or eating until they can’t feel or recognize that part of them anymore. You can ignore it sometimes, but it’s still there, alive and well, holding that flame that will never extinguish, no matter how hard the wind blows.
“Are you coming back in tonight?” she asks. “Bryson’s in at seven. Might be good to have a guy here in case he comes back. You just never know. Leave it to one of those looney bin commune assholes to try and kidnap you.”
I laugh, but it’s a nervous, shaky kind of laugh. I’m still trembling, but I need a release. All these nerves lacing through me need to go somewhere.
“Bryson’s terrified of spiders, I don’t think he’s going to magically save me from some kidnapper,” I say. “And Mathias wouldn’t kidnap me anyway. They’re not like that. That’s a very violent thing to do, and they preach nothing but peace.”
The number of peaceful protests we participated in over the years is lost on me now, but never once, in all my years living at Shiloh Springs, did I see so much as a hint of anything violent.
Who needs to inflict physical pain when emotional pain stings twice as much? Shiloh Springs didn’t need violence. Father Nathaniel’s most powerful weapon was his mind, followed only by his tongue.
“So that was Mathias.” I can picture Presley’s pouty lips jutting out as she sizes him up in her mind and deduces that he’s actually extremely attractive. And I can imagine Mathias breezing in, his gauzy shirt flowing and half-unbuttoned and his linen pants wrinkle-free. “Not how I pictured him.”
“How’d you picture him?”
“Darker,” she says instantly. “More evil. That man looks like an angel doing God’s work.”
“I’m pretty sure he believes he is.” I stick my key in my lock and push the stroller inside.
“So what are you going to do now? Avoid him? Wait for him to stop by? He said he had something important to tell you.”
“Wait, he said he had something to tell me?”
So he’s probably not coming back for me, per se.
Oh, my God.
My parents.
“Yeah. I need to see him.” I exhale. Emme sucks on her fingers. She’s hungry and due for a bottle. I leave her in her stroller and rifle through her diaper bag before running to the kitchen and twisting the faucet until the water runs warm. If he found me, if he came all this way, it must be important. “I’ll be in tonight.”
NINETEEN
Crew
“There are lemon seeds floating in my water.” My mother lifts her glass as our server passes in a rush to deliver bread to another table. “I specifically asked for no lemon. Why are there seeds in my water?”
My father slips a pair of bifocals up the bridge of his nose, clears his throat, and lifts the menu high enough that it obstructs his view of what’s about to happen.
Noelle and I exchange loo
ks.
Our poor server, who can’t be more than twenty-one and a hundred pounds, tells my mother she’ll be right back.
Sorry, little girl, you’re just making it ten times worse for yourself by making Susan Forrester wait.
“My apologies,” the mousy girl says when she returns with a fresh glass of water sans-seeds. “So sorry about that. Are we ready to order?”
My mother’s lips tighten, and I’m willing to bet she was looking forward to berating this young lady. Now she has no excuse.
Never to worry, she’ll find one later.
“Conrad, are you done looking at the menu?” Mom places her hand on his arm. Her tone is soft, but her delivery is grating. “We’re all waiting on you, dear.” She turns to my sister and rolls her eyes. “So indecisive, your father.”
“Always has been, always will be.” His voice is muffled from behind the menu.
Our server stands, pad and pen in her hand and eyes scanning all of our faces for a friendly smile. I offer it to her and hope she can read minds because if she could, she’d hear my screaming apology for the shit storm that’s about to happen.
“I offered to cook,” I whisper to Noelle.
She bites a smile when Mom’s not looking. “Your cooking or a five-star lunch with parental unit drama? I’ll pick my poison.”
“Ouch.” I smirk.
“What are you two giggling about over there?” Mom’s face lights, like we’re kids again. She turns to our server, brows furrowed, and waves her away. “We’re obviously not ready yet. You’ll need to come back.”
She says nothing, but her face is washed in relief.
“Men don’t giggle,” my father says, monotone. I don’t know if he’s sticking up for me since I clearly wasn’t giggling, or if he wasn’t paying attention and is gifting me one of his famous passive-aggressive scolds.
“We were just talking about Crew’s cooking skills,” Noelle says. “Remember that lasagna he made on Christmas Eve two years ago?”
“It was amazing,” I stick up for myself. I’d just taken a culinary class as an elective that semester, and veggie lasagna was the only assignment I aced.
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