Big Girls Do It Boxed Set

by Jasinda Wilder

  "You're amazing, Jeff. I don't know what to say." I couldn't believe he was even giving me the time of day.

  "I care about you. I'm not saying I'll trust you all the way again right off the bat. We'd have to take things slow for a while, because I am still a bit sore, you know? But you're back, and I...I just can't seem to picture my life without you in it, somehow."

  I couldn't help crying at that. It was quiet tears, slow and burning down my face.

  "Don't cry, Anna. You're gonna be fine. We'll be fine. One day at a time, okay?"

  "I've been back for almost two weeks, you know that? I've spent every moment wondering what you'd say, how you'd react, thinking you'd be so mad."

  "What, you think I'd yell at you? Scream and call you names?" Jeff seemed almost insulted by the thought.

  "Well, I don't know! All I knew was I'd hurt you, and I didn't deserve—"

  "Forget the talk about deserving. We are who we are. People who really love us will do so even when we hurt them."

  "So you love—"

  "Let's go get something to eat," Jeff interrupted. "I'm hungry."

  It was awkward at first. We drove in Jeff's truck, a tense silence between us. Neither of us knew what we were, where we really stood. We hadn't settled anything, really. We'd just sort of...stopped talking about it. What else was there to say, really, though? Either things would work out, or they wouldn't. No amount of talking would get us past what had happened.

  The funny thing was, I realized as we sat down together at Max and Erma's, we'd both just kind of assumed we'd try to...not pick up where we'd left off, but move on, be together in some way.

  Jeff didn't bring up New York or Chase again. He talked about some interesting DJ gigs he'd done, did a few funny impressions of a drunk guy trying to sing "Brown-Eyed Girl," which was a song he hated, even when done by Van Morrison, and even more so when butchered by some wasted bar patron.

  We'd always been comfortable together, an easy come-and-go to our conversations, silence that could stretch out for long periods of time without either of us needing to fill it with aimless chatter. At first, things were stilted, hesitant, and difficult. Awkward at best. But by the time we were done with our burgers and were sharing a brownie sundae, we were finding our old rhythms, our previous comfort.

  Once again I was struck by how long it had seemed we'd been apart. So much had changed. I had changed, somehow. I didn't see Jeff as a given commodity. That's really the truth of it. Jeff had been a consistent part of my life for so long that I had taken him for granted, assumed he'd be there no matter what. And then I left for New York on a whim, and somewhere along the way I realized he might not always be there, that maybe I'd pushed him away.

  The thought of Jeff not being in my life, of not having his quiet, steady presence to rely on, scared me. He belonged in my life. I couldn't fathom working a gig without him to help set up. Couldn't fathom waking up and not being able to call him, or have lunch with him.

  He was giving me another chance, and I vowed to not mess it up.

  * * *

  A little over two and a half weeks passed in which Jeff and I spent a lot of time together, as just friends—albeit friends with sexual chemistry sparking at every moment, in everything we did. Every conversation was rife with innuendo. Every touch threatened to ignite an inferno between us.

  The breaking point came during a shift DJ-ing at a Mexican place in Lake Orion two weeks later. We set up, ran through the first set without a problem. Some good singers did their numbers, and of course, as the night went on, some drunks did the usual murder to "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Margaritaville."

  We took our break, ran a few more numbers, and then, as the fill music was playing between numbers, a guy maybe thirty-five or so sidled up to Jeff and me. He was tall, with brown hair and a goatee, a western-style shirt with pearl snap buttons and pointed breast pockets, a huge belt buckle, and cowboy boots, complete with a Stetson. His wife was sitting at a round high-top table, similarly decked out, but with jean skirt.

  The gentleman leaned an elbow on the mixing board and addressed Jeff. "Can I make a special request?"

  "Sure," Jeff said, setting a pencil and request slip down in front of the man and pointing at the songbook. "We've got plenty of country songs to choose from."

  "Hell, no. I don't want to sing, and you don't want me to. I can guaran-damn-tee you that. If I get started, I'll clear the place in three bars flat."

  "Well, then, what can I do for you?" Jeff asked.

  "I want you and the lady here," he said, pointing at me, "to sing a song together. It's my wife and I's tenth anniversary today, and we'd sure appreciate hearing our favorite song."

  My wife's and my, I mentally corrected, but didn't say out loud.

  "Well, if we know it, we'll sing it," Jeff said.

  "We'd like to hear 'Let's Make Love' by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill."

  Jeff cast a glance at me. We knew that song. We'd listened to it just the other day, trundling down a narrow dirt track road in the middle of Milford, cruising and listening to music. The harmony fit our voices perfectly, and then, in the car, it had been hard enough to ignore the lyrics and keep driving.

  Performing it together would be...intense.

  "We know it," Jeff answered. "We'll sing it. And congratulations. Ten years together. That's really awesome."

  "It takes a lot of hard work, a lot of compromise, and a lot of forgiveness," the man said, clapping Jeff on the shoulder. "If you love her, show her. That's the real trick. It takes a real man to let his feelings show to his wife."

  Jeff just nodded and sent the man on his way back to his table. He hopped onto the high chair and flung his arm around his wife's shoulders, nuzzling her neck and whispering something in her ear that made her giggle and swat him on the arm.

  Tapping a few commands into his laptop, Jeff brought up the song track and lyrics. We'd spent a lot of time over the last few weeks converting all our old CDs to digital tracks, so now we just had one laptop as opposed to several huge binders of discs. Jeff handed me one of the cordless mics, and we stepped out onto the stage together as the opening strains of the song came up.

  * * *

  In my mind, I see the music video: black and white images, a lovely blonde woman and a rugged, handsome man in a cowboy hat and duster dancing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The chemistry between the pair, as they dance together and begin singing, is clearly not acted, or performed, but real and genuine. It makes the lyrics of the song that much more powerful.

  Jeff's clear tenor starts in, a bit low for his register but on key and...god, he's never sounded better. His eyes fix on mine, and his hand reaches for me. Sparks fly as his palm brushes across mine, our fingers tangle, and he turns to face me, no need for the prompter or the crowd—gone silent now, caught up in the moment, as I am. My part comes, and I hear my voice rising up, pitch-perfect and clarion clear, and I know I'm on, I can feel the rightness in my bones, I can feel the music boiling in my blood and the buzz of adrenaline from performing, even for the hundred or so bar patrons. None of that matters, though, because it's the song, the lyrics, the moment. Jeff is clutching my hand, pulling me close, our bodies almost touching, our eyes locked as if connected. I couldn't look away from him if I wanted to. This is beyond chemistry, beyond spark.

  Something is happening, in this moment, as I sing, as he sings, as we harmonize, as the music coils around us like serpents of visible flame, burns through us like dulcet fire.

  They say the eyes are the window to the soul; as we sing, those windows are flung open and our souls collide. It's the kind of moment you never forget. The song doesn't end, in my memory. It just keeps going, and we keep singing. Our hands are joined, we're singing from one mic, the crowd is stunned, eyes are glistening.

  The couple who requested the song, the cowboy and his wife, they're dancing together in front of their table. No one else is dancing, or even moving at all. Even the bartenders and the servers are paused, tra
ys of drinks set down, pints of beer half-filled. A few cooks are even peeking out from the doors of the kitchen. The couple dances, cheeks pressed together, heads inclined a little, bodies pressed close into a hold that's more embrace than anything else. They dance slowly, swaying in gradual circles. You can feel the love pouring between them, and you can't help but wonder what it must feel like to love someone that hard. How well must they know each other by now? Ten years of every single day? Ten years of conversation shared, secrets spilled, fears faced, and love made? They must be nearly one person by now, a single whole made from two inseparable halves.

  Ten years is a long time to love someone. Your biological family is different, you know? They have to love you. Or, they're supposed to, but they don't always, which makes it even worse, I think. But to choose someone, one man, one woman, out of the thousands and millions of people in the world, all the different individuals you could love, could be with, you've chosen that one person, and you've stuck with them for an entire decade. You hear about people being married for twenty, forty, sixty years. I can't fathom that, not in any sense. Ten years I can imagine. I've known Jeff for six years. I can see us spending another ten together, if I don't fuck it up.

  Our song, in reality, does end. The music fades away, and Jeff and I continue to hold hands. Our eyes are locked, mics held down by our sides. The crowd is still silent, as if waiting.

  I'm waiting, too, I realize. I'm holding my breath, looking up at Jeff with his dark eyes glittering into mine.

  He kisses me, a slow inevitability, lips touching in hesitant tenderness. His hand drifts up to my face, cups my cheek, thumb brushing my ear, and then the hand holding the mic is wrapping around my back and holding me closer, tighter, and the kiss is going deeper, and the crowd, silent, watching us kiss, seems to know better than to even breathe.

  * * *

  Time stopped for that kiss, I swear. Time was stopped for the whole song, and that kiss was part of it. When we broke apart, the crowd burst into frenzied cheering, clapping, whistling. The cowboy and his wife approached us, shook Jeff's hand, and gave me a hug.

  "That was the best anniversary present we've ever gotten," the cowboy said. "I swear, y'all sounded just like Tim and Faith, if not better."

  "Thanks," Jeff said. "Congratulations again."

  "No reason for congratulations," the wife said. "It's just love."

  The couple left then, but before they were out the door, the woman came back and leaned close to me. "That boy loves you, honey. Don't let him get away."

  The same thought had crossed my mind.

  We finished the shift, energy and tension sparking between us. Every time our fingers touched, every time our eyes met, I saw him in the shower, naked body heavy with muscle and dripping with rivulets of steaming water. I felt him above me in his wide, soft bed, dark eyes burning into mine as he moved, his rippling muscles pulsing his thick manhood into me.

  It had been over a month since I left New York, and almost six weeks since that night in the hot tub. That was the one moment I saw in my mind, in my dreams, more than any other. Jeff, his solid bulk beneath me in the boiling water, our bodies moving in synchronized splendor, heat throbbing between us, fragments of our souls merging in the cool of the night and the spark of the stars and the thrum of our united passions.

  I wanted him, so badly. We'd waited, through some kind of unspoken agreement, putting time between us and...all that. I didn't think I could wait any longer. Not now, not with the incredible performance we'd just shared, that song, those lyrics.

  Jeff seemed to feel it, too. He got the equipment put away in record time, and we took our pay and left, not stopping for a drink or two like we usually did. The other gigs we'd done together in the past couple weeks, we'd had a couple of drinks, or gone to get some late night food. We hadn't gone back to either of our places.

  Now, we stood by our cars, keys in hand, mere inches separating us.

  "Thought maybe you'd come over for a bit," Jeff said, after a pregnant silence.

  My lip curled in amusement. "Just for a bit?"

  Jeff's eyes glinted his amusement. "Yeah. Just for a bit. I need my beauty rest, you know."

  "Yeah, you sure do. Wouldn't want to keep you up too late, or tire you out."

  "No, we wouldn't want that." Jeff pinched my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, leaned in and kissed me.

  It was delicate, gentle, a caress of the lips. The kiss communicated so much that he hadn't said in words. His slow and thorough devouring of my mouth and my tongue told me he'd forgiven me, he'd moved on and left the past behind us. His hand curling around my waist and pulling me against him told me he wanted me, told me he desired my body.

  "Let's go," I said, "or we won't be going anywhere."

  Jeff nodded and pecked me on the lips before getting into his Yukon. I think we made it back to his place in record time. I don't even remember the drive, honestly. I was so caught up in my thoughts of Jeff and what I wanted to do with him that I seemed to look up and find myself in his driveway.

  He opened my car door, took my hand to help me out and to my feet. He didn't let go of my hand, even to unlock the front door. He reached to his left pocket with his right hand rather than let go, which was awkwardly funny enough that I laughed at him.

  Inside, Jeff closed the door with his heel, then slowly turned to face me, taking my other hand in his.

  "I said it once before, and I'll say it again: Don't play me, Anna. Not again. I can't take it again. Once I can forgive and forget. Not twice."

  "I won't, Jeff, I promise. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

  "You promise?"

  "I said so, didn't I?"

  Jeff squeezed my hands, his eyes serious. "Say it again. Say, 'I promise I'll never leave you again, Jeff.'"

  I took a deep breath. "I promise I'll never leave you again, Jeff."

  My heart was hammering in my chest as I spoke the words. I felt like I'd crossed a line I could never uncross. I'd promised to never leave him. A quiet but fierce voice in my soul told me I'd just made a promise I could never, ever break. Jeff was the epitome of the strong, silent type. He didn't say much, but when he did, he meant it, and you listened. He didn't express his emotions much, but when he did, they were deep, rooted in his very identity. If I broke this promise to him, he wouldn't get over it. If I was to ever walk away from him, it'd be forever.

  He was watching me carefully. Watching for hesitation, watching for regret, for some part of me being held back.

  "I'm serious, Jeff. I won't."

  "Better not." He was smiling now, inching closer, dark eyes vivid in the gloom of his unlit house.

  I closed the gap between us, pressed my body up against his. He'd hugged me since I'd been back, but he hadn't held me. Now, he wrapped his arms around me, snugging me into the hollows of his body, my curves fitting into his angles as if we'd been cut from the same puzzle.

  I pressed my cheek to his chest, heard and felt his heart thump-thumping, smelling the scent of Jeff—sweat, cologne, something else indefinable, something that was just Jeff, male and comforting—and feeling like I'd come home.

  "You belong here," Jeff murmured.

  He didn't mean his house, and I knew it.

  "I'm home," I said.

  My heart was expanding, ballooning, bursting. It hurt, in an odd, frightening way. It was a good thing, a feeling of belonging, of being protected, but it was scary. I knew I couldn't go back to the way I was before this moment. This was indelible, imprinted on me.

  Neither of us had spoken the words, the three words that make things like this seem so permanent, but we didn't need to. It was there, writhing in the spaces between the other words, the pauses for breath when he dipped down to kiss me again, it was in the gap between his fingers as they at long last slipped under the hem of my shirt to brush my aching, waiting skin.

  I mirrored his action, sliding my palms up his back, tracing the cords and ridges and planes of muscle. Th
is felt like our first time, in a way. We were going slow, exploring, questing. His lips danced down to my chin, along my jaw to just beneath my ear, and I tipped my head back, eyes closed, as he continued to plant hot, moist kisses down my throat to the hollow at the base, just above my breastbone.

  My palms carved around to press against the slabs of heavy muscle along his sides and stomach, up to his chest, to the hard little nubs of his nipples, and then his arms were above his head and his shirt was off, tossed aside. I was growing impatient, wanting more, wanting all of him now. An ache was starting deep in my core, throbbing between my thighs, spreading heat and the wetness of desire through my sex. Jeff's hands were everywhere now, pushing my shirt over my head and unclasping my bra as his mouth trailed between my breasts, tongue flicking each nipple in turn as the bra fell away.

  "Take me to bed, Jeff," I whispered.

  Both of us topless, Jeff led me to his room, left the light off so our only source of illumination was the silver wash from the gibbous moon and spattered, sparkling stars. We stood for a moment in the pale square of light from the window, looking at each other, not touching or speaking, only regarding, waiting for the other to move first.

  Jeff only smiled at me, and stood waiting. I unbuttoned my pants, shimmied out of them, posed for Jeff in my panties, my weight on one leg, the other bent so only my toe touched the ground, crossed in front of my other leg. I crossed my arms across my chest, then slid my palms under my breasts, lifting them, pinching my nipples, watching Jeff's reaction.

  His zipper bulged out as I toyed with my breasts, then grew even larger when I pushed my panties off and kicked them aside. Jeff still hadn't moved, so I continued touching myself. I ran my hands down my ribs, past my belly and to the mound of my aching folds. Jeff's tongue ran along his lips, and now his fingers unbuttoned his jeans, and then paused. I dipped my middle finger between my labia, and Jeff unzipped his pants. I circled my clit slowly until a gasp escaped; Jeff kicked his jeans aside and hooked his thumbs under the elastic of his boxer-briefs. I put one hand to my breast and rolled a nipple between my fingers, swirling two fingers around my clit with the other hand. Now Jeff drew his boxers off, revealing his thick, rigid manhood, straining erect and leaking pre-come, begging to be touched.