by HELEN HARDT
Yeah, I’m home.
Bread on the table and all, I’m home.
Mom is scooping the carrots and potatoes into a bowl. “Will you put out the succotash?” she asks.
“Sure thing.” I find a serving bowl and lift the lid on the pot. The buttery corn goodness wafts toward me. Another wonderful scent of home. I scoop the corn and lima beans into the serving bowl, add a large spoon, and set it on the kitchen table next to the bread.
Mom glances up. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought, since we have a guest and all, we’d eat in the good dining room.”
“Oh. Okay.” I pick up the bowl of succotash and the plate of bread and walk out of the kitchen toward the formal dining room.
It’s hardly formal. When I was a kid, Mom’s sewing machine usually sat on the oak table. Now? The table is set for four with the good china Mom inherited from her grandmother when I was little.
The day I broke one of those plates was not a good day for me.
In fact…
More images rush into my head. Memories.
That was the day I got lost in the cornfield. Wasn’t it? I was running… Running away…
No time to think about that now. I place the bread and succotash on the table and glance at the white-and-gold wallpaper. It’s old now and slightly yellowed with age, but still elegant. I always wondered why we never used this room. Or the good china.
“It’s just for company,” Mom always said.
The only company we ever had was family, and they didn’t rate. We ate in the kitchen or served ourselves and ate outside.
Braden Black, apparently, does rate.
I whisk myself back into the kitchen.
“Go tell your father and Braden that dinner’s ready,” Mom says.
“Okay.” I head down into the man cave.
To my surprise, Braden is laughing. Laughing with my father while they both drink Wild Turkey. Apparently he forgot he was supposed to bring drinks back to the kitchen for my mother and me.
I can count on one hand the times I’ve witnessed Braden laugh like this. It’s a wonderful sound, like bells during the holidays.
I clear my throat. “Mom says dinner’s ready.”
“Okay, sweetie. Tell her we’ll be right up.” Dad turns to Braden. “I have a little wine cellar in the corner. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re used to, but let’s pick a wine for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” Braden says, rising.
My pleasure? It’s his pleasure to pick out some cheap wine my father keeps in his wooden rack that he calls a wine cellar?
I have to admit, Braden is charming the dungarees off my dad, and I can’t help loving him for it.
It’s more than that, though.
Braden is enjoying himself. Actually enjoying himself with my father in his man cave. Drinking Wild Turkey and watching Jeopardy.
And it dawns on me… Braden is at home in this modest existence—this modest existence that may be more luxurious than how he grew up. My family never visited a food pantry. In fact, we donated what was left of our crop at the end of the year, after all contracts had been fulfilled, to help feed the hungry.
No, we weren’t rich. We never had more than one car, and we didn’t take fancy vacations. I didn’t go to Disneyland until I was nineteen, when Tessa and I pooled our money and took a redeye to LA during spring break. We could only afford two days in the park, so we spent the rest of the time on a public beach.
But my family never went hungry. We were never cold. I always had plenty of clothes, and since I was an only child, I never wore hand-me-downs. My mom was crafty and sewed a lot of my clothes, but there was always enough money for me to have a few of the latest fashions once I hit high school.
Funny how I never appreciated this until now, after I’ve seen the luxury of a private jet.
I wait while Braden peruses the few bottles of wine in my father’s rack. He chooses one. “This one, I think. It should go well with the pot roast your wife made, which smells amazing, by the way.”
“Agreed.” My dad pats Braden on the back.
I have to stop myself from laughing. My father just patted Braden Black on the back! I can’t imagine Braden’s own father ever doing that. Of course, I only met Bobby Black once. He was charming…and dating someone my age…
I can’t imagine my dad doing that, either.
“After you, sweetie,” Dad says.
I nod and walk up the stairs to the dining room. Braden and Dad follow me.
“Dinner’s all ready,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I’ll be right in with the meat.”
“Sounds good, Mags.”
Dad shows Braden where to sit, but first he holds my chair out for me.
Braden’s always done that. He’s a gentleman. But I can see Dad is suitably impressed. Braden and Dad both wait until Mom comes in. Dad holds the chair out for Mom, and once she’s seated, both he and Dad finally sit.
Dad says a quick grace, and then the silence ensues.
At least five minutes pass in this unbearable quiet. I take a serving of each dish that’s offered to me, my gaze focused on the plate of store-bought bread.
Until Braden grabs two slices. “This takes me back,” he says. “Sliced bread on the table every night. I grew accustomed to it.”
“Really? In Boston?” Dad says. “I thought it was a Midwestern thing.”
“It’s definitely a Boston thing, too,” he says. “Sometimes, bread was the only thing on our table.”
My eyes widen into circles. Did Braden just offer another clue to himself? First the food pantry. Now this?
Silence again. Neither of my parents seem to know how to respond to Braden’s revelation, and in truth, neither do I. His cheeks redden a bit, and I wonder if he regrets his words.
And then I get it.
Why he’s here.
Maybe he’s doing the same thing I am. Going back to his roots to figure things out. Only his roots don’t exist anymore. His family no longer lives in South Boston. He can’t “go home again” to start at the beginning like I did.
I was right.
He didn’t come here to figure me out.
He came here to figure himself out.
My father begins a conversation about the stock market, something my mother and I have no interest in, but it keeps Braden occupied. In the meantime, I devour my mom’s pot roast. Next to her stew, it’s my favorite home-cooked meal. The succotash is delicious, too. Nothing better than fresh corn and butter to make lima beans palatable.
When all the plates are empty, I stand to clear the table.
Mom stops me. “Sit down, Skye. I’ll take care of this.”
“That’s okay, Mom. I’m happy to help.” And happy to get out of the dining room for a few minutes. With my father and Braden discussing stock options, I feel like I’ve just landed in another galaxy.
My dad knows a fair amount about the market. He’s done well over the years, choosing stocks to invest in and making a modest profit. But his knowledge is nothing compared to Braden’s. Still, Braden listens intently, as if my father has something valuable to offer. I’m impressed.
I help Mom bring in her homemade elderberry pie. It’s one of my favorites and something I can’t find in Boston. Dad and I love it. The elderberries are about the size of BBs, and the seed takes up most of the berry. They’re delightfully tart and tannic, though, and the seeds aren’t any worse than eating blackberries or raspberries. Will Braden like it?
Even if he doesn’t, he’ll be polite.
I, for one, can’t wait. Mom also has homemade whipped cream flavored with vanilla and bourbon—the perfect complement.
“I hope you have room for dessert, Braden,” Mom says as she hands him a giant slice of pie topped with a large dollop of whipped cream.
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�I always have room for dessert, Maggie.”
Though he’s addressing Mom, his gaze locks with mine.
Dessert, indeed.
Many times, Braden and I have indulged in dessert.
But if I think too much about that right now, I won’t be able to stop squirming against the tickle between my legs.
“Mom’s elderberry pie,” I say. “My favorite.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had elderberry pie before,” he says, “though my mother made gooseberry pie once. I remember thinking it was kind of sour.”
Mom smiles. “Now that takes me back. I haven’t had gooseberry pie in years.”
“What’s a gooseberry?” I ask.
“It’s a green berry,” Mom says.
“Green? A berry?”
“Yeah. You can still find them in stores with the canned fruit sometimes, but I haven’t seen a fresh gooseberry since I was your age, Skye.” She turns to Braden. “Elderberries are tart as well, but don’t you worry. I use a fair amount of sugar in this pie, plus the whipped cream will add sweetness as well.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious. Something doesn’t have to be sweet for me to like it.” Braden smiles.
He’s smiling at my mother. That smile that I hardly ever get to see!
Calm down, Skye. Being jealous of your mother is all-out ridiculous.
He quickly maneuvers his gaze to mine, though. His words echo inside me.
Something doesn’t have to be sweet for me to like it.
He’s not talking about the elderberry pie. He’s not talking about my pussy, either, as he’s spoken soliloquies on how good I taste.
No. He’s talking about me.
My personality.
I’m not sweet.
Fine. Neither is he.
Braden takes a bite of the pie, chews, and swallows, never taking his eyes off me. “Delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.” My mother grins.
But he’s really not talking about the pie.
I squirm. I’m tingling all over, and my heart is thundering. I take a piece of pie, hoping I can get it to my mouth without it landing in my lap. My hands are shaking.
The pie makes it past my lips, but it has no flavor. The only flavor on my tastebuds at the moment is Braden.
The texture of his full lips touching mine.
The spicy taste of his tongue entwining with mine.
The salty and musky flavor of his cock inside my mouth.
I’m as horny as I’ve ever been, almost near orgasm…and I’m sitting at dinner with my parents.
This isn’t going to work. Braden has to leave. How am I supposed to figure myself out when all my body does is respond to him? He’s not even touching me, and still I want him. Still my body cries out for him.
I cry out for him.
I finish my pie, still not tasting it. I help my mother clear the table, and when everything’s in the kitchen, she turns to me.
“Go have fun with your friend,” she says. “I’ll take care of this.”
I nod.
Fun with your friend.
If she only knew.
Chapter Twelve
When I return to the dining room, Braden and my father are walking out.
“Where are you staying?” my father asks.
“The hotel in town,” he says, grabbing his phone. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t be silly.” Dad smiles. “You can stay here. We have the room.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“If you insist,” Dad says, “but you don’t need a cab. Skye can drive you.”
Both of them glance at me.
“Uh…yeah, sure. I’ll drive you.”
If Dad knew what my body was doing at the mention of driving Braden to a hotel, he’d take back his words.
“Thank you, Skye,” Braden says. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Keys are on the hook,” Dad says.
Our days of only one car were over by the time I hit high school. Dad and Mom each have a car now, and then of course there’s Dad’s pickup, but I never counted that.
But those are the keys that are on the hook.
“I’ll see if I can take Mom’s car,” I say. “I don’t like driving the truck.”
“Suit yourself. My car’s in the shop for a tune-up.” Dad holds out his hand. “Great to meet you, Braden. I hope we’ll see you again.”
“I hope so, too.” Braden shakes my father’s hand and then turns to me. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I head to the kitchen to get the keys to Mom’s hatchback. Has Braden ever ridden in a hatchback?
Maybe. When he was a kid.
I suck in a breath and jingle the keys. “Ready?”
“I am. Thank you again for dinner,” he says to Dad, “and please tell your wife thank you as well.”
“I absolutely will. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Sir? I’ve never heard Braden refer to anyone as sir.
Interesting.
We walk out, and I lead him to Mom’s light blue hatch. “No luggage?”
“I dropped everything off at the hotel and took a cab here.”
“Not a limo?” I can’t help asking.
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t blame him. I’m being a brat, and I know it.
I unlock the car and get into the driver’s side. Braden slides in beside me, his long legs scrunched up. He fiddles with the knobs on the side of his chair until it slides back into a more comfortable position.
“Since we only have one hotel in the tiny downtown area of Liberty, I assume you’re staying there.”
“You assume correctly.”
I start the engine and pull out of the long driveway. It’s a twenty-minute drive into town. “Why didn’t you rent a car?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to get here. I’ll rent one tomorrow.”
I nod.
“Tell me something about your childhood,” he says.
“Is this a two-way street?” I ask.
“Sure. You tell me something, and I’ll tell you something. Except I get to choose what I tell you.”
“Is it a two-way street?” I ask again.
“Sure. You choose what to tell me. I know about the cornfield. You know about my trips to the food pantry. That’s all we know about each other’s childhoods.”
“Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “My mom used to make my clothes when I was little. I never wore anything store-bought until I was in high school.”
“I see.”
“Now, you go.”
“I did get to wear store-bought clothes,” he says, “but they were never new. We got them from thrift stores, and when I grew out of them, Ben wore them. He got the shorter end of the stick. While they were never brand-new, at least they were new to me.”
My heart wells up. I never wore anything used. My clothes may have been hand-sewn, but they were always new.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I… I did well in school.”
“I assume that. Dig deeper, Skye.”
“That’s deep. I was one of the brainy kids. The brainy kid in handmade clothes.” I’m not being fair. A lot of the kids I grew up with wore handsewn clothes. It’s a rural thing. It wasn’t a big deal, and I was never bullied for it.
“Skye—”
“Your turn.”
“Fine.” He draws in a breath. “My father drank. A lot.”
I raise my eyebrows. “He did? He seems fine now.”
“He’s a recovering alcoholic. Did you notice he didn’t drink that night at dinner?”
“No, I didn’t.” Because I was more concerned with making a good impression on Bobby and Ben and watching Kathy.<
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“Your turn,” he says.
“Wait, wait, wait… You can’t just throw that one out there and then say it’s my turn. You need to elaborate.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. My parents aren’t alcoholics. They’ve been pretty happily married since…”
“Since when?”
A lump forms in my stomach. I never think about that awful time. I’ve put it in the past. But maybe…just maybe… Braden threw out something and then didn’t explain it. I could easily do the same, but I came home for a reason. To figure things out.
And maybe what I’m about to say is part of the key.
“When I was little, about seven or eight, my father went away for a while right before harvest. My mother spent a lot of time crying, and I spent a lot of time trying to get her attention. He came back around Christmastime. Mom stopped crying then, but things were weird for a while.”
“Where did he go?” Braden asks.
I sigh. “I don’t know. They never talked about it. I have my suspicions, of course. He was probably having an affair.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“Why else would a husband leave and a wife cry all the time?”
“Have you asked your mom?”
“Yeah. I asked both of them. All they say is it’s in the past and it’s nothing for me to worry about.”
“When was the last time you asked?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “The year I started high school, I think. They had a big fight about… I can’t even remember what. My dad stormed out, and I relived that day when my dad had left before. I asked my mom about it, and again she just said everything was fine and I didn’t need to worry.”
“And you haven’t asked since then?”
“Nope. Why continue asking when they won’t tell me?”
“That doesn’t sound like the Skye I know.”
I cock my head. No, it doesn’t. I’ve been hammering Braden for the truth about Addie and him since we met.
Why did I stop asking my mom about that time? Since I have no answer, I say, “Your turn.”
He chuckles. “I kept you going for longer than I thought I would.”
“Your turn,” I say again.