Chapter 12
Summer
Staying busy the rest of the day kept me from missing Tate too much but the moment I walk into the diner, I’m assaulted by Dolly and Sylvie.
“I want every detail,” Dolly whispers.
I laugh. “That might cross a lot of boundaries.”
“Every. Detail.” Sylvie puts her hands on her hips, eyeing me over the top of her reading glasses.
“He was…wonderful. Sweet, thoughtful—he even met Mom and entertained everyone at the nursing home.”
Dolly sighs dramatically. “Why didn’t you lock that boy in the basement and never let him leave?”
“Yeah, that’s how you get a guy to fall in love with you,” I say, putting down the last of the pies I’ve brought in.
“That’s a lot of pie,” Sylvie says, arching her brows. “More than usual—how come?”
“It goes a lot faster when you have a helper.”
Although, to be fair, there are also a lot of distractions.
Like when your helper goes down on you in the kitchen.
Or when he pushes you against the wall in the dining room and fucks you long and hard until your knees buckle and you nearly black out from pleasure.
Or when he carries you into the shower and washes every inch of your body, slowly and sensually, until you’re so turned on you have to have him again.
And again.
So many times.
I really have to stop thinking about that.
And him.
“Are you going to see him again?” Dolly asks, picking up a stack of pies and moving toward the back with Sylvie and me on her tail.
“What’s the point?” I ask. “One or both of us will just end up with a broken heart. He’s leaving for Europe in September and I have to stay here. When will we see each other? I can’t leave Mom and he can’t leave the band.”
“That sounds like an excuse,” Sylvie says. “I wouldn’t let him get away that easily. He sounds dreamy.”
“He was. Is. It’s a classic case of meeting the right guy at the wrong time.”
“No such thing as the wrong time if he’s the right guy,” Dolly says, putting the chocolate peanut butter pies in the freezer.
“Well, I’m never going to find out, so it’s moot. Where do you want the rest of these?” I ask, hoping for a change in subject.
“That makes me sad,” Sylvie says. “Are you bummed?”
“A little, but I’ll be okay. I have a very full, busy life. A month from now it’ll be nothing but a distant, fun, sexy memory.”
“Speaking of sexy…so far, all I’ve heard is about how you’re not going to see him again. I want to know what went on between the sheets.” Dolly stares at me without blinking.
I can’t help but laugh.
“We spent very little time between any sheets,” I admit with a grin.
“There was a blow job in the shower. Oral in the kitchen. Doggy style in the living room. Oh, and up against the wall in the dining room.” I pretend to shrug like it’s no big deal.
“I kind of lost count of all the whats and wheres.”
“Oral in the kitchen?” Sylvie breathes, hand at her throat. “I need to call Drew right now, see what time he’s getting off.”
“You have four kids,” I say. “How the hell are you going to manage oral in the kitchen?”
“How do you think we got those four kids? It wasn’t the stork that brought them.”
“You used protection, right?” Dolly asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Of course. Although I’m going to have to restock—I think we used up my entire stash.”
“That’s a good problem to have,” Sylvie teases.
“He was a good problem,” I say. “You should have seen the way the people at the nursing home were absolutely riveted while he played. The staff too. And get this—Mom recognized him. She literally knew the words to their biggest hit.”
“That’s always been your Mom’s thing,” Dolly says softly. She and my mother went to high school together so they’ve been friends a long time.
“Yeah, but they’ve only been around about a year—and she’s been in the nursing home for a lot longer than that.”
“Music transcends a lot of things—even Alzheimer’s, I guess,” Sylvie says thoughtfully. “But it’s nice that she got to meet him.”
“Yeah, he was really great with her. Want to see pictures?” I whip out my phone without waiting for an answer and they ooh and ahh over the pictures of Tate and my mom. I didn’t realize I’d taken so many. Not to mention the ones we took last night while we were baking.
Tate with flour in his hair.
Tate holding up a pie and pretending he was going to bite into it whole.
Tate wearing one of my mom’s aprons while I had him crushing more Oreos.
The selfie we took with all fourteen pies behind us. You can’t see them all but they’re there. Just like him. In my kitchen as though he helps me bake every day.
“Wow.” Dolly smiles. “Looks like a good time.”
“It was.”
“Are you girls planning to stand there giggling all night?” Brent teases, sticking his head out of the kitchen. “Or maybe, you know, go out there and greet the ten people that just seated themselves?”
“Oh, you hush,” Dolly makes a shooing motion with her hand. “Don’t you belong in the kitchen?”
We laugh and for a while, I forget about Tate.
It’s a good night at the diner, so I’m relieved that I’ll be able to pick up mom’s meds for her without breaking the bank.
It also helps that Tate paid for my groceries and all the ingredients for two weeks’ worth of pies.
He didn’t have to do that but he was the consummate gentleman, something I haven’t had a lot of experience with in dating.
It’s not until I get home that reality sets in.
He’s gone.
The kitchen—and bedroom—are eerily empty. And quiet.
Even Waylon is more subdued than usual, curling around my ankles and letting me pet him.
“I know, buddy. I miss him too.”
Once I’ve showered and crawled into bed, I open my phone and pull up the video for “Living on the Edge.” Now that I’ve heard it a few times, I’m starting to like it, and it’s somewhat intoxicating to watch Tate performing.
Sweaty. Fingers moving over the frets of his guitar like it’s an extension of his hand.
His body perfectly in sync with both the guitar and the melody.
He’s just as mesmerizing on stage as he is in bed, and after about twenty minutes, I force myself to close the app.
What’s the point of sitting here torturing myself?
There was a connection between us but neither of us is in a position to do anything about it. We discussed it briefly but there were no good options for us.
He’s leaving.
I have to stay here.
Despite the teasing from the girls at work, there’s no way for us to be together, even to explore a relationship.
It’s better that we don’t keep in touch. It would be like rubbing salt in an already raw wound for me because I don’t want to think about all the groupies he’s inevitably going to be having sex with. Women he’s going to show the same pleasure he showed me.
Except he doesn’t go down on most women.
That, at least, makes me feel marginally better. Knowing that I got a part of him most others don’t. It’s not enough, but nothing short of all of him would be enough. I’ve never met anyone like him and probably never will again.
That’s what makes this so hard.
How do you move on from not just the best sex you’ve ever had but also the hottest, kindest, most thoughtful man you’ve ever been with as well? I can’t imagine finding anyone better. Or even close.
If my dating life wasn’t already abysmal, it’s going to be exponentially worse now.
There’s no way for me to not compare every guy I meet to Tate.
Because after experiencing a man who literally checks all my boxes, I don’t know how I could ever settle for less.
And those shoes are going to be impossible to fill.