The Ground Beneath

by Stephanie Vercier

  She laughs. “You could be right. I’d like to think my mom trusts my judgment now, but she probably just wants to really check you out for herself.”

  “See if I can pull ahead of Micah, huh?” I didn’t imagine they were the type of people that would hold the sins of his father against him.

  “I never loved Micah. Even my mom understands that now.”

  I’m not too proud to admit I like hearing the reminder.

  When we turn down the road Alli’s childhood home is on, she sits up very straight and takes a deep breath. It’s the first time I think she might be more nervous than I am.

  “You ready?” I ask when I park in front and turn the ignition off.

  “Yes,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  Her dad meets us at the door and shakes my hand. He’s welcoming. “Good to see you again, Hunter.”

  “You too, Mr. Briggs.”

  “Please call me Ryan. It makes me feel a little less old.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say, but that might take some time.

  Mr. Briggs gives Alli the kind of hug that conveys love and pride, the kind sorely lacking between me and my own father.

  “How was the drive?” Mr. Briggs asks after he’s hugged his daughter and closed the door behind us.

  There is still no Mrs. Briggs in sight, but I can smell something baking in the kitchen—cookies I think—and I decide that’s where she must be.

  “Lots of snow over the pass, but mostly smooth sailing,” I tell him. “Truth be told, I prefer the snow over the rain back in Seattle.”

  “I’m not sure I do.” It’s Mrs. Briggs who says this, suddenly appearing in the hallway. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more green over the winter.”

  “Hi, Mom,” Alli says, stepping forward and embracing her mother. It’s not given as easily as the one with her dad, but I can still see the love in it.

  “Hello yourself,” she says, patting her daughter on the back. When they step away from each other, Mrs. Briggs comes toward me and puts her hand out. “And you’re Hunter.”

  “That’s right,” I say, taking her hand and giving it a light shake. “It’s good to finally meet you… and thanks for letting me stay here with your daughter.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you in person too,” she says. “It should have been earlier, but I guess you could say I’ve been out of commission.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, sympathetic expressions reflect on Alli and her dad’s faces. It’s a look Mrs. Briggs notices too.

  “No need to walk around on eggshells,” she seems to be saying to all of us. “I’ll let you all know if I feel another nervous breakdown coming on.”

  I’m the only one to laugh at that, and I think I’ve just stepped in it when Alli links her arm through mine, and her dad says, “Sometimes it’s better to laugh than to cry—that’s for sure. Now come on in, kids. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  We follow Alli’s parents into the kitchen where we gather around the island. I was right about the cookies, snicker doodles I think, fresh out of the oven. Mrs. Briggs pairs them with warm apple cider, and we all sit together, talking, eating and drinking in a house that feels warm, a house where I feel welcome. Their hospitality is beyond generous.

  “I apologize for how my past behavior is affecting your daughter and for dragging her into the media surrounding me.” It’s something I needed to say, had planned to say in a better, more structured way, but it was more important to get it out than it was to be eloquent about it.

  Her parents, even Alli, seem caught off guard, and I’m sorry for that. But quickly, Mr. Briggs says, “What matters is your behavior going forward. But, a lot of those things, you didn’t have any control over.”

  “We support you,” Mrs. Briggs adds. “And I’m going to admit that I was quite judgmental when Allison first told me about you, Hunter. But that wasn’t right of me, especially not the way I was raised or the way I raised my children. Now I’m just hoping you’ll get some closure about your mother’s accident. I can imagine how difficult it must be to have doubts about what really happened.”

  Alli puts her hand on my back, and when I say, “Thank you,” it doesn’t feel like enough for the acceptance and forgiveness they’re offering me. I’ve put their daughter’s life—and their lives by association—under a microscope when they’ve already been through so much.

  Things open up after this. We talk more freely, Mrs. Briggs unafraid to share details of her continuing fight with grief, Alli’s dad opening up about his theological views and how much more complex they’ve become since the death of his son. I’m at ease with them, like people I’ve known and trusted for years, not for the hour or so that I’ve been sitting in their kitchen.

  “Would you like to see a picture of Abe?” Mrs. Briggs asks me.

  I’ve seen pictures of Abe on Alli’s phone. My favorites were of course the ones she was in as well. I could see how much they cared for one another, but I could also see from Alli’s somber reactions to some of the photos that she was still sad for how they left things.

  “Are we talking photo albums, Mom?” Alli asks, not sounding opposed.

  “I’m sure Hunter would love to see you as a little girl,” Mr. Briggs says.

  “I would! If it’s okay with you,” I say, raising an eyebrow at Alli.

  “It’s fine, but they just want to show you what a dork I was in junior high.”

  I laugh. “You? A dork? Not possible.”

  “Very possible.”

  “My daughter has always been beautiful,” Mr. Briggs says with unmistakable pride.

  “You have to say that, Dad.”

  “No, I don’t,” he argues. “I say it because I mean it.”

  “I’m with your dad on this,” I say, which earns me a nod from him.

  “Come on everyone,” Mrs. Briggs says. “Less talking and more moving.” She’s already up and waving us into the living room, already decorated for Christmas with what smells like a live Christmas tree. I can’t remember the last time I had one of those.

  The albums Alli’s mother takes out from built-in bookshelves are all the same size, the same light gray color, each of them labeled for the years they include. Her organizational skills are impressive.

  “This was my big project a couple of summers ago,” Mrs. Briggs says, handing me an album with the year I know Alli was born in. “I didn’t want my kids to just be handed boxes full of loose photos or directed to a bunch of images on the computer they’d have to go through the trouble of printing out. This way, we’ve got a very organized history of our family.”

  Alli sits next to me, peering over my shoulder as I flip through pages showing her as a baby, then a toddler and a small child. So many of the pictures are outside, in the woods, close to lakes and streams, a few with breathtaking views behind them, family hikes that remind me of the first hike I took Alli on. There are birthday parties and Christmases and pictures of her in her father’s church. I make sure to really look at every photo, seeing the woman I love from the time she was born until the time she began to blossom into the beauty sitting next to me.

  “You had braces!” The school picture I see when I turn the next page is unexpected in a good way, her smile big, thick brown bangs hiding her forehead, and a mouth full of metal. She’s in that awkward stage we all go through, but I still see her prettiness in it.

  “I did,” she admits, “and I was proud of them.”

  In pictures following that one, Alli seems to always be making a point of showing off her braces with giant smiles.

  “See, she didn’t even actually need them,” her father says. “She wanted them.”

  I chuckle, turning to her. “You wanted braces?”

  She shrugs. “I like the way they look. They’re cool.”

  “She was jealous of her friend,” Mrs. Briggs says. “She came home one day after school and said, ‘How can I get those metal things on my teeth? My friend has them, and they’re so cool.
’”

  I laugh again. “Seriously?”

  Alli nods.

  “The orthodontist found one tooth that was overlapping the one next to it the smallest bit,” Mr. Briggs says, humor filling his face. “It’s the only reason he agreed to put them in, just for a few months, and the entire time Abe teased her relentlessly!”

  “He was just jealous!” Alli says, the mention of her brother bringing smiles instead of tears.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Mrs. Briggs tells her, quietly smiling.

  “I think you were seriously cute,” I tell her, again imagining what it might have been like had we been the same age and how I probably would have found the braces as endearing then as I do now. The fact that she wanted them more than needed them is just one more reason to fall for her.

  “Cute maybe,” Alli says, “but I was glad to grow out of that stage, no apologies for the braces of course.”

  Halfway through the album, Alli’s parents disappear into the kitchen, then come out a few minutes later with sandwiches, potato chips and soda.

  “I just figured everyone was starting to get hungry,” Mrs. Briggs says. “I know I was.”

  “Me too,” I admit, and I gratefully dive into the food as we continue looking through the photographs that tell the Briggs family story.

  It’s around age fifteen that Alli really begins to blossom into the kind of beauty that just keeps on growing. It’s also about the time a guy I realize must be Wyatt starts showing up in photographs. He’s a decent enough looking guy, small town jock, tall and brawny, and not so different from me really. In the pictures, he looks at Alli with adoration and maybe some confusion, like he knows he’s over his head with a girl like this, that deep down, he’s afraid he’ll do something to fuck it up.

  “You can skip these ones if you want,” Alli says.

  “But you’re in the pictures too,” I say. “He was a part of your life.”

  He’s with her at school dances and church functions and after football games. She was at the center of his universe, and yet he was willing to risk losing her by sleeping with someone else. I’ve wondered aloud to Alli if part of the reason he’d done it was because of who his father was, that maybe he’d been molested too or fucked up in some other way that mangled his sense of right and wrong.

  “I don’t think that’s it, Hunter,” she told me the night we’d discussed it. “Wyatt was controlling—I can look back and really see that now. He’s the one who decided what I was or wasn’t ready for. And if things had been different, if we’d stayed together, he would have gone on making decisions for me the rest of my life.”

  In a way, I almost feel sorry for the guy. Sure he’d fucked up, but the last night he was alive, he spent it realizing he’d probably just lost Alli forever.

  Death might actually have been preferable to that, and I’ve silently wondered if Wyatt drove off of that road on purpose.

  “I think we can skip that final one,” Mr. Briggs says when, hours later, his wife hands me the last album and I open it to see what I’m guessing is Alli and Wyatt’s engagement picture.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready to see that,” Alli replies, biting at her lower lip.

  Just like I knew who Wyatt was when I first saw him, I realize this book holds reminders of the worst night in Alli’s life, that if I keep turning the pages I’ll come across wedding pictures, smiles on faces that will soon be disappearing.

  “Sorry,” Mrs. Briggs says, taking the album back after I’ve closed it. “I put it together because my therapist says it’s important to remember the good, to acknowledge we were all very happy that day and that we can look at what happened that night as a separate event that doesn’t have to take away from the first.”

  “I don’t know,” Alli says. “There was plenty of bad that happened before the accident too.”

  “We all have to work through those things in our own time, in our own ways,” her dad says, and I’m guessing he’s probably still healing himself.

  I know the feeling.

  “I understand your loss,” I tell them, our mutual tragedies connecting us in that way. “It still hurts when I look at pictures of my mom and my aunt. Actually, sometimes it just makes me angry. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember the last thing I might have said to my mom before she left that day.”

  Mrs. Briggs crosses the room, sits next to me and gives me the kind of hug I imagine I used to get from my mom. “I’m sure she knew that you loved her very much, Hunter. It’s nice to say it of course, but mostly it’s just felt. And while of course I’d never try to replace her, I hope you’ll call me Mom one day.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and I hope for the same thing.

  “I really like your parents,” I tell Alli once we’re in her room, me sitting on the edge of her bed unbuttoning my shirt while she slips out of her sweater and leggings. “I was kind of worried they’d hold a few things against me.”

  “They’re just glad we’re here,” she says, picking up a loose T-shirt to slide over her head. “And I can tell they both really like you.”

  “Maybe don’t put that shirt on quite yet,” I say, liking the view of Alli in her panties and bra, unable to pull my eyes from her flawless skin and beautiful curves.

  “It gets cold in here,” she protests, sitting down next to me just as I’ve gotten my shirt off.

  “You know that I’ll keep you warm.” I put my arm around her slight frame and kiss her, my cock hardening and pushing at the crotch of my jeans.

  Catching a breath, she says, “I know,” then slides the palm of her hand down my chest and over my stomach until she rests it right over my hard-on.

  I want to answer this need like I always do, by having sex with Alli, making love to her, but we’re in her parents’ house, and it seems more than a little wrong. Begrudgingly, I pull away, stand up from the bed and stand with my back to her, willing my need for her to go away.

  “What are you doing over there?” she asks, teasing in her voice.

  “It’s pretty damn hard, but I’m trying to be respectful.”

  I hear the springs of her bed as she gets up, and then her hand is on my bare shoulder. “You’re being silly, Hunter. My parents aren’t judging us.”

  “So this doesn’t count as premarital sex?”

  “It does, but I don’t think they feel the same way about that now. Besides their bedroom is on the opposite side of the house on the first floor, so if you’re worried about them overhearing anything, you don’t need to.”

  I turn, unable to resist, and pull her body close to mine. “You’re sure I won’t be committing a mortal sin by wanting to be with you?”

  She places both of her hands on my face, smiles, and says, “If you’re committing a sin, then so am I.”

  I’m kissing her now, unable to stop myself, and she brings her fingers to the waist of my jeans, working my button open and my zipper down. When our lips part, I finish the job, pulling my jeans and boxers off, standing at full attention as she leads me to her bed, slipping her panties off and unclasping her bra before we crawl in.

  “I kind of like this bed,” I say, burrowing under the covers with her and keeping her warm with my body heat.

  “It’s pretty small,” she says, her smooth nakedness snuggling up next to me. “But at least it isn’t a twin.”

  “It keeps you closer to me,” I say, kissing her forehead and then back down to her lips.

  “One of the perks,” she whispers, followed by an, “I want you, Hunter.”

  I don’t care how cool her parents are about us hooking up under their roof, I still decide not to get too crazy. I move into position above her, gently pushing her legs apart, wanting nothing more in this moment than to be inside her, to love her, to be as close as I can to this woman.

  With her hands on my shoulders, I press into her wetness, not able to fully quiet the groan of relief I feel at anchoring in her, her fingers tightening on my shoulders as she softly cries
out.

  I drive into her, trying to hit her in just the right way, gently though, maybe quieter than usual too. But the feeling of coupling with her is no less intense, no less euphoric.

  I watch her as she comes, as her body tenses and releases.

  “Your turn,” she tells me breathlessly, and I know she won’t be fully content until I come too.

  It doesn’t take much, just a few more drives, and I’m having what feels like the best damn orgasm of my life. Then again, they’re all the best with her.

  Catching my breath, I push some of the long hair out of her face and kiss those gorgeous lips of hers. Still rooted inside, I’m not especially eager to decouple from her body. “One of these days, we’re going to make a baby,” I say, my eyes trained on hers as the words leave my mouth.

  She drags her fingers down the length of my back, lighting the nerves all up and down my spine. “You sure are anxious to be a dad,” she says, “but we’ve got a lot to do before that can happen.”

  “Sometimes I just want to get you pregnant and worry about all of that other stuff later.”

  She wrinkles her nose at me. “Might I remind you that we have to get married first before we can even think about kids.”

  “Your dad could marry us, couldn’t he? He’s a priest.”

  She laughs. “Are you serious?”

  “We just need a marriage license.”

  “But we have to wait three days after we get it. I’ve already looked into it.”

  “So have I. If we apply tomorrow, we can get married this Friday. We’ll still be here.”

  “You don’t want to have a big wedding?”

  “Sure. I mean, I want to see you in a wedding dress, but we can do the big thing later. What’s important is that we make it legal.”

  She’s looking at me thoughtfully, like she’s trying to find any trace at all that I’m not serious or not as ready as I think I am. But at this point, she has to realize I don’t have any reservations about spending the rest of my life with her.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll talk to my dad tomorrow and see what he says. I’m sure he’d love to do it.”