49. FORTY-NINE
FORTY-NINE
Hunter has been gone longer than he said, and I’m spiraling.
It’s too cold to go outside, and there isn’t much to do around the house except snoop. That’s why I’m upstairs, in what I know is Hunter’s old room, because it’s clearly decorated for a little boy.
A twin-sized bed sits against the wall, next to the window. Little airplane figurines are everywhere, and most are covered in a thick layer of dust. A few children's novels sit in a stack, from biggest to smallest.
Even without him telling me, I know his family forgot about this house. They probably have some people come to keep it reasonably clean and to make sure the amenities work, but other than that, it’s like an abandoned ghost town.
Along the walls in the hallway upstairs are family photos; the last one is clearly the last one they took. Hunter’s mom is sitting on their speedboat with a glass of wine in her hand and a large sun hat covering most of her face. Hunter is in his dad’s lap, smiling.
I looked at them all; the earlier ones tell a story of something, but I don’t know what.
Eventually, I get bored in his bedroom and wander into the main bedroom, where his parents must’ve slept.
There’s a bible on the nightstand, and a piece of paper is tucked into it.
I take the paper out, reading over the masculine scrawl.
I’ve never read the bible before, but it seems like notes.
Again, losing interest, I stuff it back in the book and head to the walk-in closet.
What the hell is that?
Up in the top corner, sitting on a shelf, is a tote.
Rising on my tiptoes, I stretch as far as possible to grab the edge and tug it down.
A bunch of stuff rattles inside, and I raise an eyebrow.
There aren’t any clothes or shoes in here, just this tote.
I take it into the main space, sit on the floor, and pop the lid.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, and gingerly reach inside.
Dildos.
A fuckton of dildos. And plugs. And…
“Oh fuck, it vibrates.” I drop the sex toy into the tote when it comes to life. The loud buzz rattles all the dicks, so I hurry to find the button to switch it off.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s a prostate vibrator. Scratching at the back of my head, I can’t help but gawk at what I’m assuming is Hunter’s stash.
That is how terrified he is of getting caught.
He keeps his sex toys hidden in a house no one ever goes to. A flare of jealousy shoots through me as it dawns on me he probably has had people here before. Is this where he takes his fuckboys? Have they used these on him?
I put the lid back on and take a breath.
I wait three seconds, then stand up.
The decent thing would be to return the tote where I found it.
Is that what I do, though? Nope.
I carry it downstairs, stage it on the coffee table, and sketch while waiting. It starts as a depiction of Hunter, but quickly turns into a phallic-shaped body with his head attached to the top. I snort, adding some pubes in place of his beard.
Ten minutes pass before I start to question my actions.
Am I really going to harass him over this? What does showing him this even prove? That he’s had a sex life before me? That I’m jealous of it?
I chew on the pencil's eraser, reconsidering, and tell myself that it’s not important. Because it isn’t .
Nothing good can come from this.
It’s not like he will walk through that door and demand I use them on him. And it won’t validate me in the way I want.
Hunter has sex. He has a lot of it. Us having sex won’t prove to me that he won’t throw me away after. With a resigned sigh, I put my sketchbook down, heave the tote off the coffee table, and take it back upstairs.
It’s just as I’m shutting the bedroom door when I hear the front one open. Hurrying down the stairs, I skid to a stop when I see his face. He’s got a few bags of groceries, but it’s obvious he’s been crying.
Fuck. Why is he crying?
I go over to him, gently ease the bags from his grip and set them on the floor.
“Hey.” I place a hand on his waist, cupping his cheek with the other. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
He searches my face, fresh tears welling. “I met with my mom.” That can’t be good. “I met with her, hoping that if she could fix what she broke, I wouldn’t need my dad anymore. But she didn’t fix it. I think she broke it more.”
I brush a stray tear off his cheek and wrap my arm around him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. There’s no point. It’s…” Our foreheads connect as he sniffles. “I just wanted a different answer than the one she gave me. I wanted a way out.”
I kiss him quickly, then lead him over to the couch.
We sit down, and I urge him to lay his head on my lap.
Whenever I was upset about something, my mom would make me lie in her lap and run her fingers through my hair.
The second I start to do that with Hunter, he melts into the cushions, holding my thigh.
“I love my dad,” he whispers. I keep quiet, soothing him with my hands while he musters up the courage to say what he needs to. “I love him, but I know he’s not a good person. I know that his opinion of me shouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Why do I care so much?"
“Only you know that answer.”
I scratch his scalp, then drag my fingers through the hair at his nape.
“It used to be her. I used to love her more. She was my world. But when she started drinking and pulling away, he was there. He was always hard on me and wanted me to be my best, but he didn’t leave me.
Whenever she was too drunk to help me with my homework, my dad was there.
When she left, and I knew I didn’t matter, my dad would take me to work.
He’d show me how to manage my sadness with other things.
He never let me cry. ‘ Don’t waste them, ’ he’d say. ‘Save them for deaths and divorce.’ ”
“What did you want her to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He’s quiet for a while, so I work on massaging his shoulder and upper back. It's so soft when he finally tells me that I almost miss it. “I wanted her to be sorry, and she wasn’t.”
The rest of the day went by slowly.
Hunter moped around for a while, and I busied myself with a new recipe I found—hence the shopping trip.
We ate our pesto while he told me what happened when he talked to his mom.
As much as I wanted to have something to tell him, I didn’t.
I don’t know what that’s like, and I can’t put myself in his shoes either.
If my mom left me, and that was her reason, I’m pretty sure I’d never speak to her again. And by extension, my dad as well for having given her an ultimatum that resulted in me being a fucking pawn.
But I let him vent.
I listened.
We cleaned up the mess from dinner together, and only after that did Hunter start coming around. So, that’s how we ended up on the couch, watching Wayne’s World.
The part I want him to see is coming up, and I’m trying so hard to see those dimples. I know making him happy isn’t my job, but I’d gladly take up the profession. And because I’m determined, I start reciting the movie.
Word for word.
Hunter side-eyes me when I say, “Did you ever find Bugs Bunny attractive when he’d put on a dress and play a girl bunny?” A laugh explodes out of him because I do it in Garth’s voice, too.
Snapping his attention back to the movie, because there is a pause, he waits, and when Wayne cracks up, he does too. I feel like I won the damn lottery, chuckling alongside him. “It’s going to happen right now!” I call out, gripping his arm.
His eyes light up. Wayne and Garth start screaming when the plane flies over them, and I feel it—the moment when all the shit washes off Hunter. “Holy crap I had no idea this existed in a movie!”
“I told you!” I slap his arm playfully.
“But it’s landing . Take off is much cooler.” He smirks like a smug bastard, so I smack him again. “Hey!” he barks, wrestling to get my hand, but I’m too fast.
I get him in the stomach this time, and he lets out a dramatic ow.
It escalates, and he digs his fingers into my side.
I yelp, then fall backward in a futile attempt to escape him.
Climbing over me, Hunter dips his head and rubs his beard in the crook of my neck.
I’m laughing like a dying cow, my legs are kicking, and I’m pushing at his body.
“Gonna slap me again?” he taunts, nipping at the skin and like witchcraft, turning the moment from fun to sexy.
I slap his ass.
A deep rumble comes from the back of his throat and he sucks on my neck.
The fingers that had been tickling me slide up under my shirt, sensually gliding over my skin.
I can feel the mark he’s putting on my throat, and I moan when his tongue adds to the mix.
Teeth dig into the meat, sending a sharp sting through the area just before he kisses and licks it away.
He showered before the movie, so I easily slide one hand down the back of his pajama pants.
I don’t go into his briefs, but I still let myself wander, gently cupping then squeezing his ass.
When his hips roll, I stuff the other hand down there too, guiding his movements all the while he rocks on my dick.
“Hunter,” I rasp, wanting his lips.
“Hmm?” He peppers kisses up my neck, jaw, and cheek, before hovering over my face.
I slip my hands out of his pants to play with the hem of his shirt. I still haven’t seen him shirtless—or naked. The few glimpses of his upper chest and happy trail aren’t enough. “Take this off,” I tell him.
He glances down at his beige shirt that has a beaver on it. “You too, then.”
I nod fast, already grabbing my shirt to take it off. He follows suit, and when my eyes land on his upper body, I can’t keep it in. “Jesus.” My hands latch onto him, feeling the subtle indentations of his abs and prominent chest.
He’s not ripped by any means, but he’s fucking beautiful.