Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
august
PENELOPE
Gloria’s celebration of life is held the first weekend in August. Dominic chose to delay it a few weeks so Gloria’s friends and family from all over the country could attend. It’s hot as hell and she would have bitched about the humidity the entire time if she were here. Which she’s not.
It’s still beyond comprehension. Two weeks have passed since Dom walked into the store with the news. My heart breaks every time I think about it— not just the news he delivered, but the vision of him. Dom’s eyes were blank, completely dissociative and empty.
I think Gloria was more of a mother-figure to Dom than she was to me, so he’s taking the loss incredibly hard, as I expect.
But he hasn’t snapped out of that zone of shock.
I’m not sure what it says about me, but I flew past the anger stage and I’m deep into sadness.
Feeling this way makes it more difficult to connect with Dom than ever— it’s like we’re both blindfolded, stumbling through a maze, never quite able to reach the other.
“Pen, baby, can you grab the bottle of white from the fridge?” a voice shouts from outside. She’s lucky my bathroom window faces the patio where she and her friends are sitting, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard her shout.
Rolling my eyes at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I sigh before calling out, “Sure thing, mom!”
Of course my mom came home for Gloria’s service; she was sobbing on the phone when I called with the news.
They had been so close for so many years— and even though my mom moved to Florida, they continued to chat on the phone for hours at a time.
Being an only child, my mom clung to her friendship with Gloria.
I’m sure she feels as though she’s lost a sister.
As I retreat from the quiet haven of my room, I hear my back door open and close. Mom is outside on the patio with Mrs. Peachwood and some other women who were friends of Gloria’s. I assume mom didn’t hear my response and is coming to get the wine herself.
“I said I got it— oh. Hi.”
It’s not my mom, but Dominic. He looks the same as he did that night at the store, the night our world shifted and changed forever.
Dark circles under his eyes, hair a greasy mess, and, I can’t help but notice, he’s picked the skin around his nails to the point where it’s raw and bright pink.
He sees me looking and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“Hey.”
My heart aches at the listlessness in his voice.
I haven’t seen him in a few days, not since we spent a few hours at the VFW planning Gloria’s celebration of life.
They offered the space free of charge, since Gloria’s late husband was a veteran and both of them had been active community members.
It’s appalling the amount of details and logistics one is subjected to when someone they love dies.
I offered to help Dominic with all of it, since by nature I’m a planner, but it was absolutely exhausting.
I take a few steps toward him and wrap my arms around him.
He doesn’t hug me back, but I don’t expect him to.
I miss touching him, the intimacy we had developed not so long ago seems to have vanished.
But that’s to be expected, right? When you’re grieving?
Taking a deep breath, I’m acutely aware that the cozy, warm scents I tend to associate with Dominic are absent– he doesn’t smell good, at all. I wonder when he showered last.
He’s in no shape to go to this service in a few hours. I know what needs to be done.
Pulling away from him, I give his arm a squeeze. “I have to run something out to mom and the ladies.”
Dom nods slowly. “Yeah, I saw them on the way in. I came through your back gate because I heard Carl out there playing.”
I wince at the thought of Dom, deep in grief and self-isolation, being subjected to the whims of my mom and Gloria’s chatty friends. “I’m sorry. It’ll be just a minute. Go take a seat on my bed, please?”
He doesn’t respond but moves toward my room.
God, I don’t know how to do this. I can hardly navigate my own feelings after Gloria’s death— how am I supposed to help my boyfriend?
As I grab the white wine from the fridge, I smile for a second.
My boyfriend. We never officially declared anything, but it sort of seems like that’s where we’re at.
As I shut the fridge, my smile falls as I realize we never officially got to tell Gloria about us. The thought sticks in my throat like a ball of emotion. Dammit, do these surprise moments of sadness ever end?
Popping out to the patio, I deposit the bottle on the table. The women pause and instead of being smart and dashing back into the house, I hesitate.
“Thank you, Pen,” I think her name is— Eva? Or Jo?-- says as she reaches for the bottle to refill her glass.
“Pen, honey,” my mom says as she pats the empty seat beside her. “Have a seat and chat with us.”
“Oh, I would love to, but, as you all saw, my friend is inside—”
“Your friend?” Jo (or is it Eva? Who cares, honestly) muses, brows raised.
Before I can say a word, Mrs. Peachwood pipes up, “Oh, that poor boy. He’s taking her death so hard.” She holds her hand to her heart and I can feel the angry words begin to rise in my throat.
“Maggie,” my mom says, “of course he is, they were so close. It’s just a shame his mother, her own sister for crying out loud, can’t make the time to come home for this. It’s just—”
“Excuse me, ladies.” I’ve heard enough. I’m not about to kick my mom and her friends out hours before the celebration of life party, but I’m not going to keep my mouth shut when they’re speaking this way about someone I love.
Love? Jesus, the surprises keep coming today.
The women look at me expectantly and I clear my throat before I continue, "This is undoubtedly a tough time for all of us.
We all cherished Gloria. She left us so unexpectedly, there's just..
. we each mourn in our own way. You can choose to sit out here, sip your wine, and gossip"-- I gesture emphatically, trying to keep my voice subdued– "if that's how you choose to grieve, then that's your choice.
But I won't allow you to talk about Dominic like this.
Not now, not ever. He's in pain, and I'm going to go in there to support my friend. And y’all are going to stay quiet about him and his mom, at least for today. Understood?"
My mom sputters. “Penelope Elizabeth, you are being incredibly rude—”
“Mom, I love you. I do, but y’all are the rude ones here. Not me.” I spin toward the door and turn back only to remind them, “We’re leaving in an hour and a half. This is the last bottle ‘til we get to the celebration.”
The door slams shut behind me and I know in my bones they’ve gone back to chittering and gossiping, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when Dominic is waiting for me.
He sits on my bed, motionless and emotionless.
“Dominic?” When he doesn’t respond, I nudge my way between his knees to stand in front of him. Cupping his face in my hand, I force him to look up at me. The anguish, the absolute dreaded reality of feeling lost saturates his eyes. “Let me help you, baby.”
He remains silent, but closes his eyes and turns his face into my hand, as if nuzzling me for comfort.
“All right, let’s get this off you,” I say, tugging his shirt up.
He complies, raising his arms and allowing me to yank the shirt off over his head.
I take his hand in mine and pull him up to stand.
As I unbutton his jeans, it occurs to me how intimate this is— not sexual, despite the fact that I’m undressing him.
No, this is intimacy. Seeing the person you care about most at their absolute lowest, and not running away when it gets hard. Staying through the discomfort.
Once he’s naked, I lead him into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
While the water heats, I pull a towel and a washcloth from the linen cabinet.
Dominic stands still, as exposed and vulnerable as I’ve ever seen him.
I slip out of my clothes quickly and, when the shower begins to steam slightly, I take Dom by the hand and lead him beneath the spray.
Lathering shampoo in my hands, I stand on my tiptoes to massage his scalp.
Soft moans escape his lips as I work through his hair, a sound I’ve missed the last few weeks as we’ve each waded through our grief.
He rinses on his own as I run the washcloth over the lean, smooth lines of his body.
As I run the cloth down his chest, Dom moves suddenly, capturing my wrist in his hand before I can go lower.
“Dom,” I say softly, “let me—”
“No,” he bites out. He takes the cloth from my hand and tosses it to the shower floor. Before I can express my confusion or concern, his hand cups my chin and he crashes his lips to mine.
The contact is startling, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t starving for this. We haven’t touched, haven’t kissed since the morning Gloria died, when we were still in our blissful, ignorant bubble before the day exploded.
And yet… I know this isn’t right. Dominic is not in the right mental state for this, for us. We need to get through today before—
My thoughts cut off as he walks me back, breaking our kiss before spinning me to face the shower wall.
“Dominic, what—” He rubs a hand down my front, over the curve of my belly, until he cups my sex and I can’t help but groan.
Dom’s expert fingers stroke through my folds, his thumb rubbing small, hard circles over my clit.
I’m wet already, not from the shower, but from Dominic and his magic hands and the desperation I’ve had for him.
Dom’s cock presses against my ass, not quite hard but not soft either. His mouth finds my shoulder and he licks the skin there before nipping hard enough to make me cry out. He plunges two fingers into my center and I stutter out a moan.
“A-a-are you sure?” I heave, unable to control the racing of my heart.