Chapter Twenty-Six Ozzy

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ozzy

I didn’t mean to screw the life out of Maren, but she started it in the garage. All the close calls, teasing, dreaming, and anticipating didn’t disappoint. Did she leave thinking I couldn’t keep my dick out of her? The answer has to be yes.

For the record, there were so many times when I did control my urges.

But now, sitting in Brynn’s cream glider, alone in the living room with nothing but time and silence, a tsunami of guilt overtakes me, and I think of my wife.

Is it too soon? A decade after my uncle lost his wife, he still couldn’t say her name without getting choked up, let alone think of another woman. It’s taken me two years to feel ready again. But not just ready; I tried to screw someone else against every surface of the house my wife once lived in. What is wrong with me?

With my hands resting on the arms of the chair, fingers lightly drumming, I glide back and forth. The wind chime by the front door sings its gentle tune, and the kitchen still smells like burnt toaster waffles from the first one that got away from me.

When I close my eyes, I see Brynn moseying toward me in her short satin robe with tiny pink and yellow flowers.

“You’re in my chair.” With a grin, she gathered her curly blond hair and pulled it over one shoulder before sitting on my lap. She smelled like oranges and vanilla.

I wrapped my arms around her waist, buried my nose in her hair, and nuzzled my way to the back of her neck. When I playfully bit it, she jumped and giggled. My hand snaked between the gap in her robe, and she batted it away.

I made my case while my erection grew from sheer hope. “Lola’s still asleep.”

“ I have to go grocery shopping.” She guided my hand away from her inner thigh. “And it’s morning. We’re not morning-sex people. ”

I open my eyes, gaze affixing to the sofa where Maren straddled my lap, wearing nothing but my T-shirt. Reaching between us, I shoved down the front of my jogging shorts and briefs, and she happily sank onto me. That was after breakfast this morning .

It’s not that I was unhappy in my marriage. I loved Brynn, and I loved our life. But she was regimented.

Sex three times a week between ten and ten thirty.

No oral.

No showering together.

Never outside the bedroom.

Missionary position.

When it was over, she’d kiss my cheek and smile, saying, “Thanks. That was nice.”

While she was alive, I avoided comparing her to Tia. But in hindsight, I understand why Amos watches porn.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale a long breath as tears burn the back of my eyes. I fucking hate that my mind lets me remember anything but the good things about my marriage. I loved Brynn with my whole heart, and what made us great together had nothing to do with sex. Not once did I feel unhappy in my marriage. She made me smile for a million reasons that were deeper than physical intimacy.

There’s no need to justify my feelings for Maren. There’s no need for comparison. But this nagging guilt demands an explanation before it will let go.

Was Brynn not my soulmate, like my aunt was to my uncle? Am I a heartless failure of a husband for moving on so quickly? Is it cruel to let Brynn’s parents help with Lola while I’m sneaking around with Maren?

This goddamn guilt is poison.

The silence isn’t comforting, and neither are my thoughts, so I jump onto my bike and head to my mom’s, even though they aren’t expecting me for two more hours. Biking clears my mind, and with a clearer mind, I let go of the guilt. There’s no need to compare Maren to Brynn. I don’t need one to be better than the other to justify my feelings. There’s no choice to make. One is not better than the other—just different.

“Oswald.” Ruth drags out my name while inspecting me over her leopard-print-framed cat-eye glasses as I enter the house. She’s buried under her usual pile of yarn on the sofa—always crocheting. The bangs of her black bob-cut wig hang a little lower today. She needs to adjust it back a quarter inch.

“Ruth,” I say with a smile while closing the door behind me. “Where are Mom and Lola?”

“Gina’s in the bathroom. And Lola’s in the neighbor’s backyard. She made friends with Don and Gwenneth’s granddaughter.”

“Aren’t you early?” Mom says, making her way down the hall, running her fingertips along the wall, the sofa, and finally, her chair. I think her vision has gotten even worse, but she’ll never admit it.

“What can I say? I miss my girl.” I head into the kitchen to peer out the back window. Lola and the neighbor’s granddaughter are playing with bubbles.

“Did you take your lady friend on a date?” Mom asks.

“Lady friend?” Ruth parrots her like Paxton, her actual parrot, would do.

“That was a secret, Mom.” I return to the living room and sit on the arm of the sofa.

“Ruth won’t tell Lola.”

“Unless you don’t reveal what I’m not supposed to tell.” Ruth again gives me her owl-eyed inspection without stopping her hands from working the yarn and hook.

“Ozzy has a woman he likes. She’s a pilot. And he said she’s pretty,” Mom says, turning down the volume on the TV.

“Tell us more. Did you spend the weekend with her?” Ruth asks.

I keep the details brief. “I saw her this weekend.”

“When do we get to meet her?” Mom asks.

“Good question.” I blow out a long breath. “I’m trying to sort through the pieces of my life to see where they fit. I don’t bring a lot of normalcy to the table, so I don’t know what’s fair to ask of Maren.”

“Maren,” Ruth murmurs. “That’s a lovely name. Is it Danish?”

I chuckle. “I have no clue.”

Ruth’s lips twist. “I believe it is.”

“Did she stay the night?” Mom asks.

I don’t want to answer the question. It’s her polite way of asking if we had sex. Why else would she stay the night?

“Dad!” Lola saves me from answering the question as she runs toward me from the back door, then wraps her arms around my waist.

“Hey, pumpkin. Did you have a fun time?”

“Yes. Oh my gosh, I played with Paxton and Addie. Addie’s grandparents live next door, but Addie lives in California. Can you believe that? I told her my mom used to live there. And when she asked about my face, I told her everything. She thinks my scars look kind of cool. She showed me her stomach. She had some operation, and she has a scar from it. So we’re scar friends.” Lola barely takes a breath.

I try to keep up by constantly nodding, even though her jumping from one thing to another makes it difficult. The biggest takeaway, and the only one that matters, is that she’s happy and had a good time.

“Did you paint my room and put up my lights? Huh? Pretty please tell me that you did!” She makes prayer hands by her face.

“Go get your bag packed. You’ll just have to see what I did or didn’t do.”

“That’s a yes!” She runs down the hallway.

“Please tell me you painted that girl’s room.” Mom laughs.

“I did.”

“You’re a good dad, Oswald. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I push off the sofa and bend over to hug her. “And thanks for letting her stay here.”

“Anytime,” Mom and Ruth say in unison.

“I’m ready,” Lola singsongs, dumping her bag onto the floor to tie her shoes.

“If you’re ever in my neighborhood with ... anyone ...” Mom clears her throat. “Stop by.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure thing.”

Ruth smirks just before Lola hugs my mom, and we head out the door. The whole way home, Lola gives me a play-by-play of her entire weekend. She’s okay.

I don’t know when or how, but she’s going to let go of her trauma, get into a car, and be okay.

As soon as we reach our driveway, she parks her bike, and by park her bike, I mean she lets it fall onto its side in the grass. She abandons her bag on the porch and barrels through the door.

“Don’t worry. I’ll put the bikes away. I’ll get your bag. I’ll close the front door,” I say to myself.

I hear her screams of joy as I reach the door. But before I reach the threshold, a taxi stops on the street. Tia and Amos climb out of it. So, after tossing Lola’s bag into the entry, I head back outside to help them with their luggage.

“It’s just one suitcase. I’ve got it,” Amos says, closing the trunk.

“Did you fix our car?” Tia asks.

I plaster on my usual fake smile. “I did.”

“Good,” she says, and when her gaze meets mine, she pays me something resembling a sincere smile and murmurs, “Thank you.”

I know those two words must taste bitter on her lips.

“I appreciate it, Oz.” Amos does a better job of actually being sincere.

“No problem.” I lead them into the house.

“What did you do all weekend?” Tia asks, hanging her rain jacket on the coat-tree.

“Aside from fixing your car, planting your seedlings, painting Lola’s room, and installing her LED lights?” I lean my hip against the banister and cross my arms.

Tia’s lips part into an O. I smirk, stopping short of gloating. Hopefully, that’s enough for her to chew on, and she won’t need to ask if I did anything else.

“Is Lola home?” She heads toward the bedroom where Amos took the suitcase.

“She’s downstairs,” I say.

“Did everything go okay at your mom’s house?” Tia asks, stopping at her bedroom door.

“Yes. She had a great time. And my mom and Ruth loved having her there.”

Tia nods slowly. “That’s good.”

“It is.”

“Dad? How do I make the lights change color?” Lola calls.

I jog down the stairs and throw her over my shoulder.

“Dad!” She giggles and squeals.

It’s been the best weekend.

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