Explicit

by Roxy Sloane

  There, in bold type, was an email from J. Ford.

  The subject line read (no subject).

  My pulse raced. I felt a flash of heat in my face and neck. I could do this. It was just an email. Just words.

  I took a breath and clicked open his message. There was no salutation:

  I dream about fucking you. Tasting you, your wetness on my face, my tongue deep inside you, making you come. Standing over you and holding your head, my cock down your throat, my cum spilling into your mouth.

  Why would you do this?

  The ways I want to fuck you. My cock between your tits. In the cheeks of your ass.

  Our bodies know each other.

  We could have been everything.

  How could you do this?

  I want to mark you with my mouth. Suck on your neck, bite the soft skin there. Your thighs. Leave a roadmap of our love-making on your body.

  The ways I wanted to make you come, your body bucking beneath me. My fingers in your mouth as I lick your throbbing clit, breaking you. Freeing you. Three fingers, four, thrusting inside you. I want to exhaust you. I wanted to exhaust you.

  I can’t trust you.

  My hands need you. Your breasts. Your firm, gorgeous breasts. Your ass. The swell of your hips. My mouth needs your mouth.

  How could you do this to us?

  I couldn’t move. My unsteady breathing echoed in my ears. I re-read the message, conflicting emotions raging inside me. Was he drunk? Drugged? Did he want a response? Should I send one, even if he didn’t?

  My finger hovered over the screen, moved toward the Trash icon. But I couldn’t do it. There was passion there. He cared. He was holding on, and so was I.

  I called Bianca and told her about the email. She was quiet, absorbing what I’d said. And then she took a breath.

  “So. . . do you want to respond to him?” she asked. “Be honest, El. No judgment here. What feels right?”

  “I don’t know.” I paced my narrow kitchen, rubbing my pounding temples. “I want to say, ‘I didn’t fuck this up. You did! You’re still fucking it up!’” I said violently.

  “So then say that!” B encouraged. “Tell him exactly how you feel—you did nothing wrong here, but he’s so consumed by all of this that he can’t see truth or reason. That’s not how adult relationships work.”

  “No,” I said, suddenly deflated after my outburst. “It would only provoke him. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway, he’d just think I was lying and be even more likely to retaliate. This email was just. . . him venting his anger, his betrayal, placing blame. It wasn’t an attempt to reconcile. And I won’t treat it like one. I have to accept that it’s over.”

  I sighed. Bianca sighed with me.

  “Listen, El,” she said gently. “Go easy on yourself. This is going to take a while, and I know it’s hell, but you’re going to survive.” Then she gave me the best advice I’d ever gotten during a breakup. “There’s no right or wrong way to get through this. You just do it, one day at a time. And eventually, it’ll start to hurt less.”

  “Will it?” I asked, my eyes filling.

  “I promise.”

  After we hung up, the silence in my empty apartment was resounding. I knew I could listen to music or watch something on TV. But I didn’t want to deny the silence its due. I tried to listen to what it was telling me. Without judgment.

  I wanted to be fierce. To be righteous, to let anger eclipse my pain. But I wasn’t angry. All I felt was the weight of what I’d lost, a deep heaviness in my chest. And there was nothing I could do but take it one day at a time, just like Bianca had said. So that’s what I would do.

  I got up, made myself some chamomile tea, and straightened my apartment. I put on my pajamas and climbed between the sheets. I brought my phone with me, and before I closed my eyes I looked at his email one last time.

  “We could have been everything.”

  And I hit delete.

  25

  The bus to Woodstock was less than half full, so I stretched out over two seats and read the new Charles Ludlow book, enjoying the comforting hum of machinery moving beneath me.

  When the bus pulled into town, I made a quick pit stop at the Go-Mart for a few groceries. Then I took a local cab to the cabin. As I lugged my duffel and the grocery bags up our front path, I startled a family of deer. Then they resumed their business, paying me no mind. The sun on my face was a welcome surprise.

  Once inside, I went about opening the doors and windows so the crisp cool air could circulate, turning on the water and water heater, carrying in firewood. I let myself get lost in the small tasks—after all those futile hours of taxing my brain, replaying moments and parsing words, it felt good to transfer the focus to my muscles. To re-learn the strength of my arms and the stamina of my legs. I’d worn my work clothes—a pair of cargos and a flannel shirt—so I had no fear of the dirt on the logs or the ash in the fireplace or the dust that had accumulated on top of almost every surface. In fact, I reveled in it.

  A few hours later, I had scrubbed down the entire kitchenette, including the oven and stove, dusted all of the furniture in the main room, beaten the pillows and swept out the fireplace. I was getting hungry.

  I showered quickly and changed into my cabin uniform—jeans, T-shirt, sweater, insulated socks, hiking boots—and walked into town for lunch.

  The woods were quiet as I hiked; the only sounds were the birds calling and the snap of twigs under my feet. Rather than follow the road, I took a wooded path that my family used to use. It made the journey a little longer, but I needed the quiet.

  When I got to Margot’s, the lunch rush was over and only a couple of tables were occupied. I shimmied up to the counter and ordered a BLT with extra crispy bacon and Swiss and a cherry Coke, then snagged a booth. A few minutes later I heard, “Ms. Parker, here’s your order.”

  I looked up and an elegant older woman in a trench coat who had gorgeous white hair approached the cash register. The waitress handed her a take-out bag.

  “Ms. Parker?” I called.

  The woman turned to me. “Yes?” she said.

  “Nancy Parker?”

  She smiled broadly and crossed to my table. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Ellie Parker,” I replied. “My parents own the log cabin on Mapleview.”

  “Oh, of course,” she laughed. “You’re Emma’s girl. My goodness, you’ve grown! How is she? I haven’t seen her in years.”

  I gestured at the bench across from me and Nancy slid into the seat. “She’s battling Alzheimer’s,” I replied. “So she doesn’t travel anymore. That’s actually part of the reason I need to speak with you.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Nancy said, compassion softening her features. “What can I do?”

  I put on my brave face and cleared my throat. “I’m thinking about selling the property, to help with my mother’s care expenses. Mr. Wong is our caretaker, and he told me you’re a real estate broker. He actually gave me your card, but I think I’ve misplaced it.”

  “Maybe it walked off on its own. Happens to me all the time,” she smiled, pulling out a new card and setting it on the tabletop. “You can call me anytime, with any questions. I’d never push you to list, but to be honest the real estate market’s rebounded quite a bit the last few years. Now’s a good time to sell.”

  I nodded, pulling her card toward me. “I’m actually going to be staying up here for a bit, just to go through my parents’ things and get the place cleaned up, maybe take some photos for online listings.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “Take your time. And if you decide you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. Then the waitress brought my BLT and Nancy smiled.

  “Good choice. Best BLT anywhere.”

  “Hands down,” I agreed.

  A horn sounded outside. “That’s my rude son out there,” she said with a grin, picking up her take-out order as she stood. “
I want you to meet him.” Then she began furiously waving out the window toward one of those old-fashioned Ford pick-up trucks from the 50s. I was cornered. After a few interminable moments, the door swung open and he entered the diner.

  “Come here,” she said to him. She turned back to me. “This is my son Rob. Rob, this is Ellie Parker.”

  He was tall, about my age, with dark hair held back out of his pale blue eyes with an elastic. Even under his cold weather layers of flannel and thermal, I could see the lines of his body; he was lean-muscled like a swimmer, though his hands were rough and cut in a few places. He held one out to me, his demeanor just as friendly as his mother’s, and I found myself smiling as we shook.

  “Good to meet you, Ellie Parker,” he said.

  “You too, Rob Parker,” I said.

  Nancy patted his arm and addressed me. “Rob’s a carpenter. He’s really good, mother’s bias aside. If you end up needing any work up there, he’s your man.” Then to him, “Ellie’s selling that log cabin up on Mapleview.”

  “That’s a great place,” he said, nodding. “If you have some time this week, I’d love to look it over, see what I can do.”

  “I can walk back to my office,” Nancy told me. “Why don’t you let Rob drive you home?”

  “Oh. That’s really nice, but I’m okay,” I objected. “I’m not really in the position to pay for any work right now.”

  “You never know,” she said innocently. “You two could work something out.” And then she left.

  When she was gone, Rob looked at me and shook his head. We both laughed.

  “She’s something,” I said.

  “What’s that a euphemism for?” He had an adorable crooked smile.

  “It’s really okay, I can hike home,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “I’m happy to drop you. Take a look around. Professional interest.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, gesturing for him to sit. He slid into the booth and asked the waitress to bring him some coffee, which he drank slowly as I dug into my sandwich.

  “So you live here?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I live in Brooklyn. I mostly come up on the weekends, to see my folks and do a little extra work on the side. How about you?”

  “The Village,” I told him. “Where in Brooklyn?”

  “Park Slope.”

  I smiled. “I have a friend who lives right by you, in Williamsburg. She has this amazing shop where she sells handmade shoes and boots. She makes the stuff. She’s really talented.”

  “Wow, that sounds cool,” he said, meaning it. “That’s a lost art.”

  “The three of us should get together for a drink,” I proposed. He was exactly Maggie’s type: down-to-earth, lumberjack-hot, good with his hands. And he was genuinely nice, like his mom.

  “That sounds great,” he smiled.

  When he dropped me off, I convinced him I was still too busy cleaning up the place for company but that I’d give him a call later in the week to come check it out for repairs. He looked longingly at the cabin. “I wish I had the spare change to buy this place.”

  “Yeah, it’s special. I’m going to miss it. Thanks again for the ride.”

  “You’re welcome.” He started backing out, and then stopped and leaned out the window. “And let me know about that drink, next time your friend is free.”

  “Will do.” I imagined Mags snuggled up next to Rob in the truck and smiled to myself as he drove away.

  It was already late afternoon but after talking with Nancy and Rob I was energized. I decided to tackle one of the biggest jobs: the cabin’s sole closet was brimming with stuff. My plan of attack was to take everything out and sort it into “keep,” “donate,” and “sell” piles.

  I began pulling things out one at a time, forming three mountainous heaps on the living room floor, though the closet itself never seemed any emptier. I found camping gear. Fishing poles. An earthquake survival kit. Woolen blankets in vacuum-sealed bags, board games and puzzles that were missing pieces. Some canned goods that had expired in the early 90s. It wasn’t long before I was layered in dust and sweat.

  And then I uncovered what looked like a piece of antique leather luggage, but which turned out to be a record player—an old Crosley that must have belonged to my parents. I fell in love with it immediately, cleaning off its pebbled, cream-colored case and running my fingers along the red felt interior. I carried it to the counter to plug it in, and laughed with delight when the turntable rotated.

  Back in the closet, I found a bunch of LPs. Frank Sinatra. Billie Holiday. The Rolling Stones. Some classical. I put on Billie. Her singular voice, made all the more atmospheric by the scratch of the vinyl, emanated from the speakers into the fading light of the room.

  Crazy he calls me

  Sure, I’m crazy

  Crazy in love, am I

  I lay back against the sofa and listened to every song.

  When the record was finished, I made the bed. Then I crawled between the sheets.

  Finally exhaustion overtook me and I fell to sleep.

  I awoke in the loft to the sound of a loud banging coming from downstairs. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding, scanning the small space for potential weapons. Then I heard thunder, saw a flash of lightning. It was storming outside. I laughed at myself in relief, and a moment later the rain started. When the banging resumed, I recognized the sound.

  I went down to the living room. The wind had blown open one of the shutters. I closed it, but only after sitting by the window for a moment, letting the rain splash me through the screen, breathing in the smell of wet leaves and fresh earth.

  The next morning, I got out of bed around nine. I had promised myself there would be no alarms set, no schedule to stick to; I would follow the rhythms of my body. I stepped out onto the porch with my tea and took in the trees, the sky. The air felt so clean after its rain bath. Then I went back inside and got dressed, scrambled some eggs, and opened the windows. I texted Maggie and Bianca to let them know that all was well.

  Then I resumed work on the closet. I sorted through old books; my parents had everything from Shakespeare to Rowling. Found a box of emergency taper candles, which I planned to use in the evenings. I also discovered an old badminton set, and a round plastic snow sled that I remembered my dad pushing me down the local hills on when I was little. I moved the growing piles out into the sunshine.

  Back inside the house, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. From the window, I saw Rob stepping down from his truck, closing the driver’s-side door with a solid thud.

  “Morning,” he called out.

  “Hey you,” I said, coming out onto the steps. “What’s going on? I’m still battling the chaos in there, so if you wanted to look around the place, maybe outside is best to start?”

  “Actually, I’ve been sent on a mission.” He shook his head with an apologetic grin. “My mother wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner,” he said. “Please say no.”

  The look on his face was so adorable, I laughed out loud. I enjoyed his tongue-in-cheek humor. And I knew Maggie would, as well.

  He folded his arms. “It’s not that I don’t want to have a meal with you, it’s just that I don’t want to have a meal with you and my mother.”

  “Consider the invitation declined,” I said. “Regrettably.”

  “Thank you. I owe you one. What’s all this?” He indicated the contents of the closet spread out on the lawn.

  “All of this was in one closet,” I marveled.

  He walked over to one of the piles and picked up the fishing poles, a grin spreading across his face. “Wow, these are classic! I can’t remember the last time I went fishing.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “I think I was twelve.”

  Rob examined the rods and reels more closely, determining that they were in good working order. Then he said, “We should do it. Maybe later in the week? You could ask your boot-making friend to come up and join us.” He flashed me an exaggerat
ed wink.

  “Maggie would seriously love that,” I replied. “I’ll see if she can pencil us in.” I was leaving out Bianca on purpose—not because she’d have any competing interest in Rob, but because her work schedule at the gallery was less flexible than Mags’s was at the shop, and because fishing was probably the worst form of boredom that B could imagine. I knew she’d thank me later.

  “I’ll ask my buddy where the good spots are.” He set the poles back down in the “keep” pile, and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Rob, could I get your help with something before you go?”

  “Sure. What is it?” he asked.

  “I have to photograph all of the rooms—all three of them,” I laughed. “And I think I should move the bed because it just dwarfs the loft area, and someone might want to use that space as an office anyway. But the frame is really heavy, and the mattress—”

  “So you’re using me for my muscle power,” he nodded good-naturedly. “I see how it is. Let’s get to it.”

  We went inside and, maneuvering in the little room, we lifted up the unwieldy mattress and box spring and stood them against the wall. Then Rob knelt with a screwdriver in hand to take the frame apart, but I stopped him. Underneath the bed was at least five years’ worth of dust—I couldn’t remember ever sweeping beneath it—but there was something else. A cigar box secured with a lavender ribbon. I picked it up and gingerly brushed the dust off, turning the box in my hands. It was heavy, and something knocked around inside it.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” I undid the ribbon and lifted the lid. “They’re photographs.” I took the box downstairs to the living room and set it beside the record player to look through later, when I was alone. They could be private, and even if they weren’t, I felt protective of the memories they might contain.

  I grabbed a broom from the kitchen and brought it back up to the loft, where Rob had moved the bed frame and mattresses to one side of the room. I swept quickly, snapped some photos with my phone, and then Rob helped me put the bed back together and slide it into place.