22. Joey
22
Joey
I don’t hear from Brent during the week following my return from San Diego, but I’m too busy to analyze what that means. The time flies by as I wrap up my final days at my job and scour through the apartment rental sites for a place closer to the Firebirds complex to sublet. There’s no way I can commute to Queens every day. No public transportation goes directly to that location from Jersey City, and I don’t want to rely on buses and trains when I have to be at the facility by six in the morning once training camp starts.
I hit one dead-end after another in the apartment search. I even try the short-term vacation rental sites. Everything is either too expensive or too far from public transportation or the landlord wants a long-term lease. I’m not able to commit to more than a couple of months since I have no idea what I’ll be doing after my position with the Firebirds ends.
I’m taking a huge risk by turning down a full-time job I was just offered at a clinic near home. But having this opportunity on my résumé will make it much easier to find a better job. And it’s given me the impetus I needed to move out of my tiny apartment that I’ve been in since I started college—if I can ever find a place to move to.
The night before I start my new job, I shower and prepare for bed well before my usual bedtime in anticipation of my first day. It’s going to be a commute from hell in the morning. I set the alarm on my phone and go through my notifications from my social media feeds. Brent’s name catches my eye, and I open the link to see a picture of him smiling at a beautiful blonde. They’re both dressed in formal wear for some celebrity-studded charity event in Hollywood. The caption identifies her as Caitlyn Evers, wife of former MLB player Paul Evers. But the way she’s looking at him, her hand on his arm as they stand close together indicates they know each other intimately.
I struggle with my emotions. We’d set the rules ahead of time, so he doesn’t owe me anything more than what he’s given me—which is much more than I’d hoped. I don’t want to think about it, but imagining another woman touching him now—or even worse, imagining Brent doing to someone else what he’d done to me—is driving me crazy.
And that thought scares me into vowing to stop thinking about him altogether. I won’t become like my mother.
I’m just about to turn off my bedside lamp when a knock startles me. Thinking it’s my landlady dropping off another lead for an apartment, I turn on the kitchen light and peek through the blinds. My heart leaps, and I open the door.
“Hi,” I say, trying to regulate my breathing. I stare at Brent as he stands under the outdoor light, dressed in well-worn blue jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs his chest and shoulders. A Red Sox baseball cap is pulled low so I can’t see his eyes, but his lips are curved up in a smile.
“Hey,” he says casually.
“Hi. How are you?” Oh God. How inane do I sound?
“Good. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call this week. I’ve been busy trying to make sure everything is in order before camp starts. Just got back to town.” He lifts his arm halfway to show me the leather duffel bag he’s carrying. “Can I come in?”
Flustered, I step back. “Oh yes. Of course.”
Before I can close and lock the door, he drops his bag and pulls me into his arms. I barely register the door slamming shut because he is devouring me as if he is starved. I kiss him back, just as hungry for him. We separate briefly to pull shirts off each other so our wildly roaming hands have direct contact with warm, bare skin.
I feel the kitchen counter under my bare butt, with no idea how I got there or when he pulled off my sleep shorts or undid his jeans. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now that he is with me again, kissing me, touching me. All that matters is his hot, huge length pushing into me, filling me up almost painfully. But instead of moving fast and hard to bring us both to a quick and necessary completion, he stops.