The Parent Trap

by Jasinda Wilder

  That smile is for me? The squeeze on my heart is almost painful.

  I take a selfie in return, me in my shorts, sweaty, earbuds still in, backward ball cap keeping my hair out of my face.

  Me: Out for a run, so I can keep up with you.

  Me: also, you are so F ing beautiful. I can’t even.

  Delia answers after half a minute: no, YOURE beautiful.

  Delia: Last lecture of the weekend, then a dinner party which I’d rather stab myself in the eyeballs than attend, and then I catch my flight and drive home and finally see you.

  Me: good conference, though?

  Delia: Meh. Never really get much out of it, but the networking is important. Some new ideas coming out, updates to code, new products. Boring as hell, and I’m one of the only women here, and the youngest person of either gender by at least twenty years. So that’s fun. I’ve been hit on at least six times, outright propositioned twice, and I can’t count the number of times and different ways I’ve been dismissed, ignored, or otherwise treated with suspicion, because why would a 30yr old female be at a conference for construction executives.

  Me: I’m sorry you’re experiencing that. You deserve better.

  Delia responds with an eye-roll emoji and a crying laughing one.

  Delia: Like it’s new? It’s what every woman experiences, in every profession, no matter her age, appearance, experience, or credentials.

  Me: Oh. Still shitty.

  Delia: true, it is. But I’m used to it—I just don’t put up with it.

  Delia: On to more pressing matters. Have you been a good boy, Matthais?

  Me: I have. Been keeping busy, so I don’t have time to think about you too much. Because if I think about you too much, I’ll start thinking about things that’ll get me in trouble.

  Delia: So what you’re saying is, keeping your promise has been HARD?

  Me: so hard it hurts. Literally.

  Delia: Wait, blue balls is a real thing?

  Me: Absolutely. Well not literally. They don’t turn actually blue but they do start to ache.

  Me: full transparency here, this is my first experience w it, bc this is the longest I’ve ever gone. Intense dislike. 0/10 do not recommend. But…I have no doubt it’ll be more than worth it.

  Delia: wait, for real? Three days? You’ve never gone longer than three days without sex?

  Me: Not without sex, without self-relief. If you know what I mean.

  Delia: Oh. So just curious, and don’t need details and you can choose not to answer. But how long is the longest you’ve gone without actual sex?

  Me: Well, that depends on your definition. Without any sexual contact of any kind? Or without actual SEX sex.

  Delia: Both, I guess. I’m just curious.

  Me: Coming back to River Gulch is the answer to both. My last hookup, which means any contact of either definition was about two, maybe three weeks before I got the news about your dad and the company and the will. I’m not gonna call it a breakup bc it wasn’t that, but I ended things with someone. And then I was just kinda busy with looking into investments and such, traveling, whatever. And TBH, the thing I ended sort of marked the end of an era, where I was hooking up just for the sake of the physical connection. I was just tired of it. Like I was tired of wasting my life, as we’ve previously talked about. So then I heard the news and Dell called me to meet for drinks so he could complain about unfair it all was, and he made the offer and I shocked both of us by taking it, and came back to RG. And until the thing happened with you in your house, I hadn’t had anything with anyone since I ended things with Destiny. Long answer I guess but the truth.

  Me: You?

  Delia: haha months. Not as long as a whole year, but close. I think eight months?

  Me: damn. And that doesn’t include solo sex?

  Delia: No, I, um, fly solo regularly, let’s just say. Flown solo more than I hook up with others throughout most of my life. Basically, when I get tired of my own company and my vibrator, I go on the hunt for a date.

  Me: Tell me if I’m prying, and I’ll shut up. But follow up questions, here: are you typically a second date girl? Third? More? And when you go on the hunt for a date, what does that mean? I honestly just want to know these things about you.

  Delia: rather personal questions, here, Mr. Bristow. *winky face emoji* Four dates minimum before a new guy can get to what a high schooler would call home base. If it’s someone I already know and have been on dates with, it’s different. Going on a hunt for someone new usually means going down to SF. I have a little network of people I wouldn’t necessarily call good or close friends, but people I know and can meet for drinks. They usually have friends, cousins, brothers, or co-workers they can bring along. So then it goes: drinks with friends in SF—>new guy—>date—>hookup.

  Delia: What about you? How do you find your hookups? I’ve always sort of pictured it as you going to a bar, choosing the best-looking girl there, and crooking your finger at her. Then bam, her panties fall off, and you’re in like Flynn.

  Me: you have a clear idea of what you think my game is like, clearly. Haha

  Delia: Am I wrong?

  Me: honestly, no, you’re not too far off base. There’s no finger crooking, and I’ve never actually had a girl’s panties spontaneously fall off in my presence. But usually, it’s along the lines of what you said. Go to a bar, find someone I’m attracted to, talk to her. And then, you know. The rest.

  Delia: have you ever had to actually work at it? Getting a girl to like you, I mean.

  Me: Haha I was thinking about this earlier, actually, and it’s a more complicated question for me to answer than you might imagine

  Delia: oh?

  Me: Yeah. Basically, you’re conflating two different things, in my world, or my previous world. LIKING me is not the same as willing to hook up with me. So, getting a girl to hook up with me? Honestly, no, never really had to work at it. Just being honest. But getting someone to LIKE me? That’s a much different question, and has a whole other answer.

  Delia: meaning

  Me: meaning I’ve never really spent much or any time really caring whether people liked me. It just didn’t matter. I had my friends and I knew they liked me, because they hung out with me and we had fun. If they had opinions of me beyond that, I never bothered to find out. As for girls? Their opinions of my character was never in play. I did have female friends in college who I didn’t sleep with, and they fell into the category of friends I hung out with and I just assumed they liked me. But girls I slept with, I never asked what they thought of me, how they felt about me because feelings never entered the equation. And honestly, if I started to get a whiff of feelings from someone, I bolted.

  Delia didn’t answer for a long time. Over an hour, during which time I twisted in the wind of fear and worry that I’d said too much, that I’d scared her off.

  Then a text came through.

  Delia: Sorry, the presentation ended, and I had a whole social hour to suffer through. New presentation so I can talk again. Thank you for sharing that with me, Thai. That’s pretty deep personal stuff.

  Me: thought maybe it was too much personal stuff, or something.

  Delia: No, not at all. Share things with me, Thai. Whatever it is. Because what I’m realizing is that even though we’ve known each other our whole lives, we don’t actually KNOW each other very well.

  Me: Damn, though, that’s the truth. Weird.

  Delia: It is weird, isn’t it? How you can know someone your whole life and not actually know them on a personal level. Like what makes them tick, things like that.

  Me: You make me tick. Like a time bomb. This has been the longest weekend of my life haha

  Delia: same, Thai, trust me. This is no easier for me. Going without sex is not the same as going without ANYTHING, even my own fingers. Normally on these things I have my buzzy little friend to help me out.

  Me: can’t think about you doing that.

  Delia: Sorry, not trying to tease you.
Question: you said you’ve never been worried about whether people like you. Is that still true?

  Me: no

  Delia: care to elaborate?

  Me: You. I want you to like me. I care what you think about me. Your opinion of me as a person matters to me. More than pretty much anything has ever mattered to me. Like, ever.

  Delia: I’m developing a pretty positive opinion of you, I can tell you that much. But let’s not go fishing for compliments, shall we? LOL.

  Delia: I’m not making light of what you said. It’s just still a little strange for me to realize that I also care about what you think of me. Maybe I always did, and that’s why it hurt so much when you were mean to me. I don’t know. That’s something I’d have to really think about more. But I care.

  Me: I couldn’t possibly have a higher opinion of you. Although, the more I get to know you, the higher my opinion of you goes. I think you’re incredible. You’re smart, but I already knew that. Successful, but again, a known quantity. Things I’m learning about you: you’re incredibly sexy. You’re strong. You’re brave. You’re daring. You’re GOOD.

  Delia: Wow, you do think a lot of me. Good in what sense, though?

  Me: Good as in a moral sense. You’re a truly and genuinely good person. It’s a rare thing.

  Delia: thank you. And Thai? You’re a good person too. You really are. I mean that.

  Me: Well, I’m trying at least. It’s a work in progress.

  Delia: We’re all a work in progress, Thai. It’s called the human condition.

  A few minutes later, another text from her came through: Did you get my envelope?

  Me: I did. Thank you. It means more to me than I can say.

  Delia: the key or the note?

  Me: Both. The key for what it represents: your trust. And the note because, well…that’s what prompted the realization that I’ve never cared whether people like me, and that I care that you do. It was a pretty big epiphany, tbh.

  A few minutes go by, and then a text: Thai? I miss you too. The presentation is wrapping up, so I’m gonna have to go. A couple more to sit through, then the stupid dinner, and then I’m done.

  Me: okay. I’ll let you pay attention, then.

  Delia: I probably should, huh? I paid money to be here so I may as well TRY and get something from it, other than a sore butt from sitting on these godawful hard chairs and some cheap swag.

  Me: I’ll give you a massage when you get home.

  Delia: a butt massage?

  Me: Hell yeah. Your butt is one of my favorite physical attributes. Didn’t you know?

  Delia: Weird. When I say I run my ass off every morning, I’m speaking out of hope that I actually will run my ass a size or two smaller. But I’m glad you like it. I grew it myself lol *crying laughing emoji*

  Me: When I say it’s my favorite physical attribute, what I mean is first among equals. I like all of you equally. But your ass is particularly amazing. And now I’m thinking about your ass, and massaging it.

  Delia: With your hands? *winking emoji*

  Me: With whatever part of me you’ll allow near you.

  Delia: Allow? Try demand.

  Delia: Okay, got to go. I’ll see you in a few hours. Thanks for making my Sunday a little better. Or a lot better. Bye for now!

  She leaves me on that note? FRUSTRATION!

  Demand?

  She’ll demand my body near her? Be still my beating heart.

  Be still my beating everything.

  Is this my life? This, with Delia McKenna? I would not have believed it, not all that long ago.

  I wonder if she thinks I’m going to be actually asleep when she gets here. Like I could possibly sleep. I’m not going to push anything because after the weekend she’s had I imagine she’ll need to just relax and crash.

  Chapter Twenty

  Delia

  God, I’m tired.

  I never sleep well anywhere but my own bed, and this stupid convention starts at 8 a.m. every morning which means if I want to run and get breakfast, I have to be up at ass crack of dawn. And then the presentations go till dinner and then there’s the dinner shitshow which always gets dragged out into a cocktail hour that lasts several hours, in which there’s always at least one drunk guy trying to get in my pants. And all I want to do is go home.

  Home, to River Gulch.

  Home, to Thai.

  Weird, how quickly he’s infiltrated my life. How quickly I’ve grown used to him being around.

  The flight is uneventful. I brought a book to read, but when I’ve read the same page a dozen times and remember nothing, I give up. My mind is not on the book, as good as it is—even those sexy Alaskan brothers can’t hold my attention, right now.

  My mind is on Thai.

  Being away from him has only forced me to some serious and scary revelations. One, that I do indeed miss him, and a lot. Two, that it seems to be possible to develop feelings for someone without realizing it until it hits you all at once, and that this can happen in a matter of weeks. Three, that until Thai, my sex life was lame, and that I’ve been seriously out of touch with my own real desires and needs.

  That last one is a doozy.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like sex. I always have, ever since I discovered masturbation as a pubescent girl, and then gave my virginity to—well, it was such a forgettable experience that I prefer to not even dwell on it. But since then, solo sex is a daily must, and while I’ve never wanted or had a serious boyfriend, regular partners are also a must. I’m not a one-and-done type. I’ve always liked to go out with a guy for a few weeks or months. I’m too busy for a boyfriend, and my focus has always been on my career, on the business. Honestly, I’m not actually all that different from Thai, in that regard. Weird.

  But…I’ve never wanted anyone like I want him. No one makes me feel the way he makes me feel. The realization that’s bowling me over? It’s not all Thai. It’s me. I’ve been sort of accepting that I like and need and want sex, but…god, how do I even put it?

  I haven’t examined what I really want. Deep down.

  I never let myself feel how badly I want to be wanted.

  There, that’s it.

  My sexual partners have been a matter of relief. Mutual release, fun, a little bit of feeling good naked.

  But no one has ever made me feel truly, deeply desired.

  Needed.

  No one has ever put my pleasure ahead of his own.

  No one has ever made me feel crazy, wild with desperation. Out of control. Willing to do kind of crazy things.

  Thai does all this.

  And in spades.

  He sees me.

  He sees what I want. Knows what I need even when I don’t understand it myself. And he gives it to me.

  The craziest thing is that I know all this and I haven’t even actually had sex with him.

  I get a little shaky at the thought of finally, actually having sex with Thai. How good will it be? If it’s anything like what he can do with his hands and his mouth…I may never recover.

  Heat blossoms in me, pooling low in my belly, settling in a fiery ache just above my sex. My thighs press together in a vain attempt to relieve the ache.

  I should not have thought about the things Thai did to me with his mouth—what he did to me with his hand. What I did to him with my hands.

  How I want to do it again. With my mouth.

  How I want to climb on top of him and ride him until I’m half paralyzed.

  Stop, stop, stop.

  I close my eyes and grit my teeth and press my thighs together and will Thai Bristow out of my mind.

  I know he’ll be asleep when I get back—my flight was delayed due to some mechanical issue, so I won’t be walking through his door until after one in the morning.

  Maybe when he feels me climb in bed, he’ll wake up, and we can do things.

  Is that selfish?

  Being selfish isn’t something I’m good at. But with Thai, I feel different. Maybe I’ll feel comfortabl
e enough waking him up and asking him to make me feel good. However he wants—his choice. I’ll for sure return the favor, because I’m as manic with the need to touch him as I am with the need to be touched.

  That’s another part of the realization: I’ve never craved a man the way I crave Thai’s body. Never craved his pleasure. Never found such intense sexual—and yes, emotional—joy from making him feel good. Watching him come apart under my hands in the ocean was one of the most erotic experiences of my life—the other is the moment he kissed me that first time, and then dropped to his knees and gave me an orgasm I have not forgotten and still wake up with wet dreams about.

  “Hey, um, ma’am?” A voice to my left, male, elderly, and confused. “Would you mind letting go of my hand?”

  I start, and realize I’ve grabbed the hand of the man next to me, in the window seat. He’s about seventy-five or so and seems perplexed. We’re still on our approach to land, and it’s not like I’m scared of flying. But yet I was gripping his hand so hard I left white fingerprints.

  “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry!” I yank my hand away and shove them between my knees. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not a fan of flying?” he says, sounding sympathetic.

  “Actually, I’m fine with flying. It’s more…” I wonder what to say to this random stranger. “I’m just eager to get home.”

  He smiles, kindly and understanding. “Someone waiting for you?”

  I smile back. “Yeah. My…” I swallow hard when I realize the next word is the truth. “My boyfriend.”

  “Had to think about that one, eh?”

  I laugh. “It’s new, and still developing.”

  “And you’re not sure if you want to put it in that particular box, just yet?”

  I look at him in surprise, and he just laughs.

  “Things were different when I was young,” he says, “but when I met my wife of forty-two years, we saw each other every day and we’d take drives and do the kinds of things young kids do, you know.” A knowing, naughty wink. “But when she wanted to tell people we were going steady, I balked.”