41. Alexandra
forty-one
We turn the angle of May, and mud season turns into spring: colorful bulbs blooming everywhere, trees still bare, and enough of a chill to sometimes warrant a winter coat.
Spring in New York used to bring me happiness. Here, now, it signals the end of my stay here. Six weeks, give or take, and I’ll be gone.
I need my girlfriend from New York.
“Hey, girl, how’s it going?” Sarah asks, answering my call. “Are you outside? I hear wind.”
“I’m at the river.” I stretch my legs out in front of me. I’m plopped on a bench and let the spring sun warm my skin. Skye is riding her bicycle on a small trail up and down the hill, and she waves at me every time she goes up, her tongue sticking out to show me how much effort it is. We’re downhill from a white colonial house with broken black shutters. Daffodils spring haphazardly in front of a picket fence that is missing more than a few slats. On her way back up, Skye calls my name at the top of her lungs. I blow her a kiss.
“Are you babysitting?” Nothing escapes Sarah.
I cringe at what she’s going to say when I confess, “Just looking after Christopher’s daughter. Skye.”
“Oh, my. And where is the hot dad?”
I can picture her face, eyebrows lifted, waiting for more.
I hold a sigh. “Playing hockey.”
“Oh-kay?”
“What.”
“How come you’re stuck watching the kid while he’s doing one of the sexiest things I can think of without showing any skin?”
“Hockey is sexy?”
“Honey. Wake up. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen him play.”
Oh, I’ve been to a couple of games with the girls.
I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“For real, why are you looking after his kid when you could be looking at him?”
“She didn’t feel like going. It’s beautiful out, and she needed the fresh air.”
“Oh. Wow. You sound like a mom.”
“Oh please.” I do feel protective of Skye, though. When she huffed that she didn’t want to spend the afternoon inside the arena, I offered to take her bicycling instead. I didn’t think twice about it, and I know Christopher was thankful for it.
“Are you guys a real couple, now? I mean, it’s been, what, three months?”
Four. “No! Why?”
“’Cause that’s what couples do. Look after the kids. Do what’s right by them.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not. We’re just having fun.” That’s become my motto, and it’s getting old.
I’m stocking up on memories of sex against the wall of my bathroom, sex on my antique bed, and even sex on the prep tables in the lab.
Memories of his gentle words when we’re alone, his hands shaping my body, cupping my face, his lips worshiping mine.
I’m in his constant presence but still starved for him, and it makes our private moments all the more intense. He comes into my bedroom at night, once Skye is sound asleep. I’m often asleep too, but I half wake to his snuggling behind me, warming my back, pulling my waist against him, and before you know it, I’m having a toe-curling—but silent—orgasm, the kind I thought were the stuff girls just made up to brag about but that never really happened in real life.
Some nights, he takes the time to wake me up with a flutter of kisses down my neck and a gentle sucking of my nipples. Other times, he starts by going down on me and licks my folds to oblivion.
I prefer it when he just takes possession of me while I’m still asleep. I wake up to his cock filling me, his whispered curses, the antique headboard knocking against the wall with each of his thrusts. That is the hottest thing to me.
That he wants me that bad.
That he needs me.
“Shut up,” Sarah says, when I give her a watered-down but accurate recap of my nights. She’s still single, and she won’t let me forget that I agreed to give her some sort of sex life by proxy. “There’s no way you’re not waking up before he’s… inside you.”
“Try spending twelve hours on your feet, in the heat, six days a week. You’ll see.”
“How does he do it? He works more than you do.”
He’s a beast.
“When are you coming up?” I ask to change the subject. It was fun at first, telling Sarah most of what was going on, but as time progresses, I feel more and more protective of my relationship with Christopher.
Even if it’s not a relationship—relationship.
After what happened at The Growler, the girls were cool, and no gossip transpired—at least as far as we know. We’re back to keeping this secret. And I have to reason with myself to not feel a pinch of longing when we’re in public—for an arm draped around my shoulder, for a hand trailing down my back or cupping my waist. I miss that. I miss his touch. I miss him claiming me as his.
“Lexie. Are you going to be okay? You know… when you have to leave.”
My eyes sting. “Sure! Why wouldn’t I?”
She mumbles something that sounds like, “I don’t know,” and then goes silent.
“When are you coming?” I ask again.
“About that,” she says, her voice chirpier. “How about you and I spend a couple of days in Burlington together, before going to Emerald Creek? Would that work? I should get there a week or so before your exam. A girls’ getaway.”
“That’d be awesome!” Sarah always knows how to lift me up.
“And, after you’re done, I’ll be backpacking a bit. Care to join, or will you be too busy being important?”
My heart sinks. I already have a slew of emails from Red Barn’s lawyers I need to answer, meetings that are being planned by Barbara, situations to address. It’s like I can see the clouds gathering. “That’d be great,” I say, my voice faltering, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to.”
After we hang up, I wave to Skye that it’s time to go. While I wait for her, I snap a few photos of the house. It looks like it’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered by the right family. I notice a For Sale sign and find my caption: Waiting for a #happyfamily.
I call Skye again. She’s due at Grace’s now for some quality time with her aunt, followed by a sleepover, so I offered to drive her. Christopher drove in a friend’s car, so I can just use his truck. And, while she’s at Grace’s tonight, Christopher is taking me out to dinner. I have butterflies in my stomach thinking about it—an actual date. As if I had an actual boyfriend.
Little things, right?
I notice some blue paint in Skye’s hair and on her fingers. “Where did you get that paint?” I ask. “At school?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “It’s for the Mother’s Day gift.” She makes as though it’s nothing, but my heart falls at the words.
“Oh.” I’m caught off guard. “That sucks. I remember those days.”
“It’s okay,” she shrugs.
And she does look okay. She seems unbelievably strong, but I know she must be hiding a lot under the surface.
“Christopher trusts you with his truck?” Grace smiles as she hugs me hello. “I thought he didn’t let anyone drive it.”
“He didn’t really have a choice,” I answer, plopping Skye’s bag at the bottom of the stairs. “Take your stuff upstairs, sweetie,” I tell her so she doesn’t start leaving a mess in Grace’s tidy house.
“I kinda like seeing my cousin having his decisions made for him,” she says, picking up her cat. “It’s about time.”
I have the feeling she’s not talking about the truck, so I swerve the conversation elsewhere. “What’s going on here?” I ask, pointing at the ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter.
She sets her cat down and washes her hands. “Skye and I are going to make Gram’s sandwich bread. Ready, sweetie?” Skye is already rolling her sleeves up.
I’m in awe of this family that can take three or four basic ingredients and make a variety of different foods, each one more delicious than the next. “Who’s Gram?” I ask, pulling my phone out to capture Skye’s concentrated look as she measures flour.
“Me and Chris’s grandmother,” Grace answers. “Our mothers’ momma. She’d always make that when we were kids. It was a summer staple.”
Skye nods. “Back in Maine.”
“My mom still makes it.” Grace doesn’t mention Chris’s mom, though.
Things start to fall together. I picture a grandmother lovingly making bread for her family and understand Christopher’s passion.
He mentioned a strained relationship with his mother, and I want to know more. For a long time, I nurtured this fantasy of what my life would have been if my mother hadn’t died when I was ten. It was always near impossible for me to understand my teenage friends’ epic fights with their mothers, and right now, I’m dying to know what an adult could possibly hold against theirs. But with Skye present, I don’t ask any questions. And I do realize that Rita was someone’s mother—my own mom’s mother—so I get that not all mothers are this idealized model I constructed for myself.
“It’s great you’re doing this,” I tell Grace, and I feel my eyes water. I grab my phone and snap more pictures of Grace and Skye baking together, as much to hide my emotion as to capture this beautiful moment.
My own grandmother admittedly built the largest baking empire in the United States, yet she never bothered to teach me anything herself. Here, traditions are passed along from generation to generation.
“Is that how Christopher learned to bake?” I finally ask.
Grace seems to hesitate. “I suppose it inspired him? Or not.”
I drop the topic, sensing some underlying family tension that is not my place to dig into.
When they’re done with the bread and Skye is in the living room coloring a mandala book, Grace asks, “Wine or tea?”
I hesitate.
“Wine it is.” She chuckles. “No need to be reasonable.”
“Just a drop, then,” I say. Then, lowering my voice, “We’re going out tonight.”
We clink glasses, and she says, “Look. I get that you guys want to keep it a secret. But I just wanted to say, thank you. Christopher has never been happier. It’s like his life took on another dimension, and it’s all because of you. He’s making plans. He’s not half as grumpy as he used to be. He’s running for New England’s Best Baker. He believes in himself, again. He believes in life, again.”
I feel myself blushing. “I have nothing to do with the competition—”
“Oh, you have everything to do with it. Believe me. Everyone tried. No one succeeded. But you show up and… ta-da!”
I frown. “But why? I don’t get it.”
She smiles. “Deep down, Christopher needs to prove himself. He always has. Even though he’s an awesome father, successful business owner, pillar of the community, he’ll always feel that he’s not good enough for the people he loves.” She glances at the bread baking in her oven.
My blush deepens. “Christopher doesn’t love me,” I say. “We’re— We’re just having fun.”
“He may not have told yet that he loves you, and he may not admit it even to himself, but he does.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.There’s no way. It can’t be.
My heart beats faster, and I take a longer sip to calm my nerves. “This is not what you think,” I say. “I can assure you there’s nothing… deep between us.”
Except when he falls asleep holding me tight at night.
When he stays entangled with me through the morning.
When he brings me coffee in bed, his eyes boring into me like I’m the most precious being on earth.
It doesn’t feel like just sex.
It doesn’t feel like sex at all.
“All I can say is, he’s never been happier than now,” Grace answers. “I hope you two work it out. When you have something so special, so unique… you need to fight for it.” Her eyes well up.
“But we don’t,” I insist, all the while realizing that, if she’s right, if there’s a remote chance that Christopher has feelings for me, then I’ll be breaking his heart. “Like I said, we’re just having fun.”
“So, tell me this,” Grace continues. “Why are you taking care of his daughter like she’s yours?”
“Because… I love her. She’s— You know how she is.” I’m blinking the tears away. “It’s got nothing to do with Christopher.”
“Honey, when a woman has just fun with a man, she doesn’t give two cents about the guy’s kids. She just wants them out of the way.”
I’ve got nothing to say to that. She could be right. She could be wrong. I never dated a single dad before. Then again, I never wanted a man the way I want Christopher, and I’ve never felt that Skye was in the way.
“When are you supposed to leave?” she asks.
I take a deep, shaky breath. “Mid-June. Right after my exam.” I look out the window.
“And why are you crying?” she adds softly as I wipe my cheek.
Because Christopher won’t be the only one hurt when I leave. Because I don’t know how to fix the mess I created. But I can’t say these words. I can’t bring myself to think through the depth and consequences of my emotions.
When I leave Grace’s home an hour later, Skye hugs and kisses me, leaving a wet trace on my cheek that I actually cherish. The dirt road shortcut from Grace’s home is closed during mud season, so I take the long way back. The road takes me by the arena. I check the time on the dashboard clock and slow down, glancing at the long, gray building. People are trickling out. The game is over.
I pull into the parking lot.
Slowly, groups exit, families around their fathers, women clutched to their men, children running around them.
I feel a pang of envy. I try not to project myself, though, because I know how this can be dangerous for me.
And then the thoughts pour out, whether I want them to or not. What would it be like to belong here? If circumstances were such that this could be my life? I could be openly beaming at my sexy boyfriend rolling his muscles, carrying his child in my arms before we all huddled home together in our car. He’d be leaning toward me, feather kiss on my lips, promise of more.
I can’t let myself go down this path. This life is not for me, and I can’t pretend I’m living it, even on lease.
Or could I? What would it take for me to turn my life on a dime? Could I try and have it all—run Red Barn from here?
As I fish my phone out of my pocket and text Christopher—Do you need a ride?—I spot him coming out, his dark curls framing his handsome features, his muscular legs and broad shoulders on full display under his tight T-shirt, a mass of muscles I’m intimately familiar with.
My heart flutters. His charisma is just as strong here as it is in the bakehouse, and even from inside the car where I can’t hear a thing, I can tell he’s had a good game. The guys surround him, clapping his back. He gives them a small smile back.
What I wouldn’t give to have been at the game with him.
To be walking out the arena with him.
He needs a woman on that handsome arm.
As I hit send on my phone, wondering if he’ll see the text, I freeze.
Emma snakes herself under his arm, wrapping it possessively over her shoulders, keeping it in place with her hand over his.
Twining their fingers together.
Wrapping her other arm around his waist so she’s flush against his hard body.
My heart stutters, then bangs against my ribcage.
I peel off from the parking lot, angry tears blinding me, spurts of mud in my wake.
This is exactly what Rita had drilled into me all those years; You don’t let a man into your life. Men only bring misery.
My chest hardens at the thought of our date tonight. He apologized for hurting me when he went to dinner with her, and now this?
My phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
I take deep breaths. The dinging of voice mails and text messages roll in as I take refuge in my room, not knowing where else to go.
Where to hide.
Minutes later, the front door slams, and the whole house shakes as he storms up the stairs.
“Care to tell me what that was about?” he growls as he throws the door open and stands in front of me, muddy shoes, crazy hair, sweaty jersey.