Chapter 7
Pacing.
Pacing and pacing and pacing, in circles and circles and circles.
I think I’ve walked the entire circumference of my bedroom fifty times. Maybe more.
All the while, my brain teetering between an active slideshow of what happened downstairs and a mental block forcing myself to erase it completely.
I’m still fighting for some kind of hope that it didn’t really happen. It cannot have been real.
But even if it weren’t, it’s equally bad. If I dreamt about something like that… then what the fuck is really wrong with me?
After what shall henceforth be referred to as The Incident, Jesse curled up and fell asleep. Maybe he truly was asleep the whole time, which in no way makes it better.
I was stunned for many minutes. Unable to move or speak or even think.
The orgasm fog wore off fast, and I was hit with a wave of guilt and shame unlike any other.
A tsunami of bad and wrong swept me under, and I stumbled off the couch, running as fast as I could while trying to remain quiet, stealth.
I sprinted up the stairs two at a time and locked myself in my bedroom. Which is where I am now… Pacing.
Hours have passed by the time I finally crash onto my bed, exhausted from all the bullshit bubbling up in my head. It’s five in the morning and still dark outside as I crawl beneath my covers, rubbing my eyes hard with my fingers. What the fuck even happened down there?
Everything was normal. We watched the movie, Jesse passed out on the couch, as he’s done a million times before. Then I fell asleep too, which hasn’t happened in a while, but still, it’s not completely out of the ordinary that we’d both conk out on the couch.
How in the holy fuck does that translate into… The Incident??
Jesse’s sleepwalking has clearly taken a turn for the devious. But it’s not his fault. I can’t blame him for something he did in his sleep, just like I can’t blame him for his sleepwalking, even if it brings him into my bed on occasion. It’s never crossed any sort of line before tonight.
So what changed? What happened to turn his seemingly innocent subconscious travels into actions of the… blowing persuasion?
Jesus, I can’t think about this anymore.
My heavy eyelids droop with that word floating behind my eyes.
Can’t. Can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t.
Cracking my eyes open, there isn’t as much light as there was yesterday coming from outside. When I peer at the window, I see gray skies, snow still falling in more of a sleet form.
Great. The roads will be shit for days.
Sliding out of bed, I walk to the door and find it locked.
And recollection comes at me like a pillowcase full of dead batteries to the face.
I haven’t locked my bedroom door in a while… Because of Jesse.
Yet last night, I locked myself in here to hide from him.
My hands cover my face. What in the fuck is going on?
Slating those thoughts for later, I go to the bathroom to take a shower and do my thing.
Exiting slowly many minutes later, I can’t help but glance across the hall at Jesse’s bedroom. The door is open, and he clearly isn’t in there. Did he sleep on the couch all night?
Now I feel kind of bad.
It’s Christmas. We shouldn’t be dealing with whatever nonsense happened last night—or didn’t, if we’re choosing denial, which seems like a comfortable fit. We should be spending time together as a family, like we do every year.
So I go back into my room and get dressed in my Grinch Christmas sweatshirt—Jesse bought it for me when he was twelve, and I wear it every year—and I go downstairs, biting the bullet. Chewing on the damn thing and swallowing it with a solid gulp.
We’re going to have a good Christmas. That’s it. Even if I have to force it, normal is the name of the game we must play.
As soon as I’m halfway down the stairs, I’m hit with a whiff of warm sweets. It smells like Christmas cookies, and sure enough, when I round the corner to the kitchen, I find Jesse mulling about, scooping cookies from a baking sheet and placing them onto a platter that’s already full.
I can’t fight the way my brows lift. The entire island is covered in treats. Apparently, he’s been at it for a while.
When he hears me, he glances over his shoulder, a subtle smile twisting his lips. “Merry Christmas!”
My jaw tightens, though I’m pretending I don’t know why as I lean against the doorframe and grumble, “Merry Christmas. You opening up a bakery I don’t know about?”
I nod toward all the cookies and cupcakes and brownies covering the island, and the counters, enough to feed several sports teams. Some appear to be finished, already decorated with frosting and sprinkles, elaborate enough that they very well could be sold in a shop for dollars apiece, while others are fresh out of the oven and awaiting his immaculate attention.
He gapes at me with wide eyes for a moment, before peeking at all of his tasty creations. His cheeks blush pink. “Um… yea,” he chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I went a little overboard.”
Guilt swims in my bloodstream as I step gingerly into the room, being sure to keep my distance all the same. “It smells great.”
He blinks at me, tugging his lower lip between his teeth. I can’t help how it shifts me in place.
Nope. We’re not doing this.
“Hey, why don’t you take a break?” I murmur at him. “You’ve got presents to open.”
Something flashes over his face, an emotion I can’t read, though I can tell it’s somewhere in the realm of despondency, before he covers it up with a smile and nods.
“Okay.”
Turning, I stalk into the living room, where the TV is already on. Or still on, playing Elf at a low volume. My fingers twitch, and I close my eyes to take a breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly, reminding myself that everything is fine.
Nothing happened. We’re totally good.
We’re ignoring this.
Except that I can feel Jesse enter the room behind me, like someone just opened the door and a gust of cool wind burst in, sheeting my skin in goosebumps.
Fuck my life.
Wandering over to the couch, I take a seat. But then it reminds me of things I’m not supposed to be thinking about and I jump up, moving to the loveseat by the fireplace instead. Turning my head, I squint at it.
“Did you get the fire started?” I ask, curiously.
He nods, waltzing over to the Christmas tree and dropping onto his knees on the floor. “Yea. I’m not incompetent.”
A chuckle rumbles up my throat, though it gets lodged in there and I clear it. “Good job, kid. That one, right there.” I nod at a large box wrapped in paper with snowflakes on it. “Do that one first.”
He looks excited as he reaches for it, reminding me so much of when he was a kid, it brings fuzziness to my chest that trumps all awkward discomfort.
This is what feels right. Opening gifts on Christmas morning, although checking the clock, I find that it’s already almost noon.
This is good. Regular stuff. Normal.
None of that… whatever the hell from last night that’s oddly settling in my balls, in a way that has me squirming in my seat.
Jesse tears open the wrapping paper to reveal the box for a Cuisinart mixer, one of the best ones on the market. He’s been not-so-subtly hinting that he wants one for six months, so it was an easy buy as his big gift.
And judging by the look on his face, I made the right call.
“Oh my God!” He cackles, examining the box closely, fingers brushing over the writing. “This is the exact model I wanted!” He tilts his head in my direction. “How did you know?”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m good like that.”
“Mhm…” he mumbles, grin so wide it could be seen from space as he opens the box, checking out the device.
“There’s some other stuff to go with it,” I tell him.
And he launches at the rest of the gifts, unwrapping things, tossing paper and bows everywhere. I also got him some baking tools, things I researched online to help him with his process. And lastly, an apron with the drawn image of a defined torso.
I thought it was cute when I bought it, but now it’s sort of coming back to bite me.
He holds it up over himself. “This isn’t far off from how I already look.” He smirks at it, but when his eyes come back up to mine, I flinch.
My mouth fills with saliva and I have to keep swallowing over and over.
Our gazes lock, and the room grows stuffy with uncomfortable silence. Jesse doesn’t seem like he’s processing anything from last night. The awkwardness is coming directly from me, which leads me to believe that maybe he wasn’t fully awake for The Incident.
And if so, that makes me the creepiest fucking pervert in the history of scumbags.
“You wish, kid.” I force the witty comeback to grate from my throat, dry and scratchy like sandpaper.
He scoffs, though the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. Suddenly the entire room is burning the fuck up.
It’s a million degrees in here, and I’m sweating beneath my clothes.
I have to get out of here.
“I’m gonna go shovel the driveway.” I stand, stomping toward the front door, though I don’t even have my boots on yet.
“But I have a gift for y—”
“I don’t need anything,” I cut him off. “You’ve… you’ve given me enough.”
Turning, I dash back in the direction of the hall, not missing the look of disappointment on his face.
But I can’t right now. I can’t, with any of it.
I need to get out of this house before I combust.
Stalking to my boots, I step into them fast, grabbing my coat and slipping my arms into it. And when I spin back around, I find him wandering into the kitchen to watch me with wide, sparkly eyes etched in concern.
“At least have some cocoa first…” he mumbles, sucking his lower lip.
I shake my head fast. “Nah. I gotta get this done.”
I gotta get the fuck out.
This is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened. I love the kid. I love him like he’s my own, and I always have. There’s no conceivable reason why I should be watching his mouth and remembering the soft plush of it swallowing up my dick.
Rubbing my eyes, I dart past him, whipping open the front door.
What line did we somehow manage to cross last night? What sort of sick, twisted door did we open?
And how the hell do I close it?