Jackson #2
“Yes, but I haven’t seen her lately.” Tiny brows furrow with a frown that consumes her face and instantly brings down the energy in the room.
Here I thought I was playing along with the story. Engaging. Connecting. And I fucked up by asking what is evidently a triggering question.
I cautiously press on. “Why not?”
“Because…” Her lips rock side to side as she mulls over a response.
“Because she always hangs out in the rafters above one of the stalls in the barn, and I don’t like going there anymore, so”—her hands clap together and, as if she broke herself out of a trance, her eyes light up again—“I’m pretending she’s away on a long work trip and I’m writing her letters, but cats can’t read, so I’ll read them to her when I see her again. ”
“That’s a great idea. I’m sure she’ll love the letters.”
Odessa gives a single nod. “She will.”
“That was a great story time, O—Dess….” My voice stumbles as I try out the nickname I hear Kate use for her.
“Can I tell a story?” Rhett asks right as Kate reappears in the doorway.
“Tomorrow you can have a turn. It’s time for bed.” She hooks a thumb toward the doorway, indicating he needs to get to his own room.
But first, he wraps tiny arms around my neck, letting his entire body weight hang limply. And I hug him back, though it feels weird, mostly to keep his tiny hands from wrenching on my neck and hurting me.
“Night,” I say, slowly peeling him off me and steering his small body in Kate’s direction.
Before I can grab Odessa’s ankles to move them so I can stand, she wraps her arms around my neck. Similar to her brother, but less aggressive. She smiles thinly—sympathetically—at me, then hugs me so tight a groan slips out.
“You don’t ever call me Dess,” she whispers in my ear mid-hug. “You always call me Princess.”
In their wake, her words leave scars on my heart.
I force myself to swallow. It hurts.
I think I don’t deserve this family. I think I’m a horrible fucking father for forgetting her nickname. I think my kids would be better off without me.
They’re thoughts, not facts. Thoughts. Not facts.
Like the slow spread of water up a sheet of paper, thoughts have a way of saturating my brain until they feel factual.
“Goodnight, Princess,” I rasp.
“Night, Daddy. Love you.” After one last hug, her arms fall away and she shuffles across the bed to tuck herself under the thick comforter amid her hoard of stuffed animals.
And thank God, when I stumble out of the bedroom, Kate’s there. Holding a palm outstretched, waiting for me to grab hold.
In our bedroom, pale moonlight streams through the window, and I wait until Kate’s disappeared into the bathroom before stripping to boxers and climbing into the bed.
Nerves whirl around in my stomach, waiting for her to reappear as if she hasn’t been sleeping next to me every night for over a week.
As if she hasn’t slept beside me in this bed for more than a decade.
Knowing we’ll be having our first official date makes tonight feel different.
The bathroom door sits open a crack, allowing for a sliver of Kate’s reflection in the white framed mirror.
I watch her with intent, memorizing the way her fingers stipple moisturizer across her skin and how the light catches her hair as it tumbles out of the messy bun.
The sight of her during this private moment sends a few bits and pieces of memory swimming through my brain, beyond where I can reach them.
I’ve lived through this moment before. I reach blindly for something to pull me back into that night, and I turn up with nothing.
But I have her now.
“The kids were a bit wild tonight, but I think they were just thrilled to have you there.” Kate’s voice is soothing, lulling as it echoes from the bathroom. “How did it go?”
“Apparently I officiated a wedding between Odessa and a cat once.” A smile tags along with my words. The story sounded too insane to be true.
I roll the string of pink beads around on my wrist, trying like hell to picture the wedding Odessa described.
She laughs. “Last summer. You said—and I quote—‘Better she marry a cat than decide to marry some stinky little boy on the playground.’ You both took it very seriously, too.”
“Sounds like I was a good dad….”
“You are a good dad.”
Flipping off the bathroom light, Kate steps into the darkness wearing a matching satiny set—a thin-strapped flowy tank top and a pair of shorts that cut high on her milky thighs.
The front of her top dips low between her full breasts, and something stirs in my groin at the sight.
As she gets closer to the bed, the pale blue glow of the moon makes the fabric shimmer.
Still wringing her hands together to evenly distribute moisturizer across them, she adds, “Nobody’s expecting you to immediately jump back into things like nothing’s changed. You’re trying, Jackson. That’s all it takes to be a good dad.”
She tosses back the covers on her side of the bed and slides in next to me. She smells so fucking good, my hands itch to drag across the sheets and touch her.
Propping herself up on her side, she tucks a hand under her hair to hold her head up. She smiles over at me, waiting for me to match her posture so we’re lying face to face in the dark room. Her face is glassy and wet-looking somehow, and I’m tempted to touch her cheek to see if it is wet.
“You look like a glazed donut.” I accidentally say the quiet thought out loud.
Kate howls a laugh, tossing her head back and nearly falling off the edge of the bed in the process.
“Holy shit. If there was ever a doubt in my mind that you’re still the same man deep down, it’s that comment.
You said the same damn thing when I first started playing around with skincare stuff.
I do this skin flooding thing and then mix castor oil with my moisturizer before bed to hydrate my skin.
Years ago, you told me I looked like a glazed donut, and asked if I tasted as good as I look… .”
Suddenly I have that same question. In a lustful timbre, it spills out. “Do you?”
Her laughter’s replaced by shallow breaths. “You’ve never complained.”
“I can’t imagine any man in his right mind would.” I reach under the blankets to adjust my hardening dick.
I told myself I’d wait until I feel like her husband again, but how am I supposed to stop myself from touching her when eye contact and a single flirty sentence makes my cock stiff?
“We should get some sleep.” Her eyes drag over my bare chest, and I can’t help but wonder if sharing a bed is as torturous for her as it is for me. “That two a.m. wake-up is going to come sooner than you think.”
She flops down onto her back, hair splayed all over her pillow.
Reluctantly, I do the same, and take to my usual night routine of watching shadows from the tree outside dance across the far wall and ceiling.
I took my medications before story time, but thanks to the chaos of that and the tension in my jaw now, the near-constant headache I’m always suffering through is becoming sharper by the minute.
The room’s quiet and still for no more than a couple minutes before the soft sounds of Kate’s sleeping breath and adorable snores fill the space.
I roll to face her, taking in the sight of the beautiful woman sharing my bed.
And there, imagining kissing the softness of her parted lips—tasting all the sweetness I’m sure I’ll have no complaints about—is where I fall asleep against my will.