12. Dominic
TWELVE
Dominic
“I love you,” I tell my daughter, who is inconsolable over a nightmare about dead rats on fire. “You’re safe. I’m here.”
It takes her a while to fall back asleep, but when I hear the steady, even cadence of her breathing, I stand up. This time, I drag two mattresses onto the floor next to where Frankie sleeps, making one very long, skinny mattress. It’s marginally better than last night, yet somehow I get even less sleep.
After an hour of staring at the ceiling, I go to the bathroom.
Everything is a jumble in my head as I look at myself in the mirror. I can’t stop picturing it, replaying every sight and sound and feel. The determined look in her eyes, a promise to eat me alive before she straddled my thighs. Soft, silky skin under my hands, the weight of her tits, the hard nubs of her nipples. The taste of her mouth, her neck. The sounds of her breathy exhalations when I did something she liked. The heat of her center over my rock hard dick through the thin material of both of our shorts. The slide of her tongue on my jaw. There’s a mark there. I rub it.
You forgot about her ass, you idiot . Major regrets. There was just too much to focus on.
It might be for the best though, because I was a minute or two (maybe thirty seconds, if we’re being honest) away from coming in my shorts like a fucking teenager. Having her ass in my palms might have put me over the edge.
Three, four years is a long time. Coming in my shorts after a minute of dry humping? I’m probably horrible at this. I forgot what to do with my hands. All I know is that wanted to touch every inch of her and just hope that she liked it. I felt greedy in a way that I haven’t felt since Viv.
Frankie.
Frankie is a bucket of ice cold water over my head.
Fuck.
What am I doing? I don’t know how to balance this. I’m doing it all wrong, I’m sure of it.
I’m dying to go back to the guesthouse and finish what we started. Climb into bed with her and get my hands on her ass this time. Spend this sleepless night more effectively, have a fun reason to stay up. Especially when tomorrow is our last day here.
But what if Frankie wakes up again? And I’m not there? This is yet another bucket of ice cold water over my head, this feeling of crippling anxiety that I’m doing it all wrong, being a terrible parent.
It wouldn’t be fair to either of them, really. And I can’t ask anything of Lina, especially after what she’s told me about her shit ex, and she doesn’t owe it to either me or Frankie.
I inspect the bags under my eyes, knowing I’m not going to come to a decision tonight. Someone’s going to end up making it for me, and I hate this feeling, like I’m not taking charge of parenthood the way I need to be doing. No, damnit, you’re a competent adult, star of Competency Porn, motherfucker, and you’re going to make the decision yourself.
Tomorrow.
Is it a battle between two titles—World’s Worst Parent or World’s Most Inept, Selfish Lover? Or is it more nuanced than that? Is there a way to balance both?
I trudge back to the kids’ room to stare at the ceiling until morning.
* * *
The morning is a series of conscious decision-making.
I want to sneak back to Lina at dawn, before Frankie wakes up, because at least if she wakes up now, it’ll be light out, and Tita Gloria will be up and about.
I don’t do this though, because when I stand up to go, I make the mistake of looking at Frankie, and her hand twitches and it reminds me of a moment when she was just a few months old and sleeping on my chest and I just can’t leave her. I lie back down for more ceiling staring.
When she wakes up, she is thrilled to see I’m already up, and this glee is worth the decision.
“Hi, Daddy!” she yells with gusto, like someone who got an adequate amount of sleep. She jumps down into my bed.
I make the conscious decision to say, “I was thinking of Filipino breakfast this morning. Want to be on garlic rice duty?” instead of, “you must sleep here alone tonight, because Daddy is going to be very busy.”
We march to the bathroom and brush our teeth. I make the conscious decision to be the one responsible for her hair, and I create the most intricate of French braid pigtails I’ve ever produced.
I do accidentally snap at Tita Gloria when she tries to kick me out of the kitchen, but that is quickly remedied by her slipping a tsinelas off her foot and smacking me in the arm with it. But I don’t leave. I make the conscious decision to stay in the kitchen. Because I am an Involved Parent.
I feel a little giddy, filled with that restless anticipation that used to come from having a crush in high school. Like a simmering, buzzing, just underneath the surface of my skin, and it’s not a bad feeling at all.
It’s kind of fun.
“You look like sh—poop,” Ollie tells me, walking into the kitchen and totally killing my vibe. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“I have to work,” I reply. I make a conscious decision to not add on, “and I want to see Lina before it starts.”
I need something to do with my hands, so I risk another tsinelas attack and pick up a knife and start chopping.
“Daddy, I’m missing one of my pink socks,” Frankie informs me.
“Why do you need socks? It’s like eighty degrees out.”
She takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that indicates that I have asked a completely unreasonable and inappropriate question and that she is seconds from losing it.
“It’s all part of the Missing Sock conspiracy theory,” Georgia quickly chimes in.
Frankie turns her body, interest piqued. I’ve never been so grateful to be on vacation with a group of elementary school teachers. “What’s that?”
“Lina can tell you all about it,” Georgia says.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My heart rate goes up.
A moment later, I feel a hand brush my lower back, hear a whispered, “Hey.” I glance down at Lina’s radiant, glowing face, shining brighter than anything in the kitchen. It takes all my effort not to lean down and kiss her.
She smiles up at me knowingly, which is not enough. “The missing sock conspiracy theory is?—”
“What’s a conspiracy theory?” Frankie demands to know.
Lina doesn’t miss a beat while my brain remains ten steps behind because I am very busy staring at her mouth. I can’t believe it was on me. “A conspiracy theory is like a fake story some people tell when they think a group is keeping a big secret. Even if there’s no proof.”
I nod and agree with whatever she just said.
“So what’s the fake sock story?”
Lina nudges me away from the cutting board and resumes my task. Because I have ceased all deliberate thought and action. “Since people are always losing socks, there is a conspiracy theory that laundry machines eat them up. And then the laundry machine breaks. So then people are forced to buy new socks and new laundry machines.”
I come back to myself and take a seat on one of the bar stools by the counter so I can dedicate all my attention and working memory to looking at Lina. At the lush curves of her body, her delicate fingers, the bronze of her skin.
“Stop staring at me,” Lina whispers.
“I tried. It’s impossible,” I mutter under my breath.
“That’s dumb,” Frankie says, not about the staring, but about the conspiracy theory.
I think the conversation moves on while I continue my conscious decision making.
I’m going to figure out a way to balance everything.
I need to figure out a balance because there is no way I will be able to keep my hands off of Lina.
I need to figure out how to get Frankie to stay in this house without me tonight.
* * *
Because this is the worst day of my life, there are problems throughout all three of the companies I oversee.
This means that on the very last day of my vacation, I can’t leave my bedroom office all day, not even to eat. I don’t get a chance to hang out with Lina or Frankie or anyone except the C-suite executives of my businesses. I mean, they’re okay, but they’re no Wonder of the World.
I’m really feeling the heat when I check the time and it’s already the early evening, when I check in with myself and find that I’m exhausted and starving and realize I haven’t seen anyone all day.
A wasted day.
Bummed, I peel myself from the office chair and stretch my aching muscles. I make my way out of the house and down the stairs to rejoin civilization.
I’m busy wondering what fun I’ve missed on the very last day of vacation when I get a whiff of coconut.
Suddenly, I’m shoved up against the side of the house. I’m dragged down by the collar of my shirt, there’s a tongue in my mouth, and miracle of miracles, the Eighth Wonder of the World is in my hands.
“Fuck yes,” I groan into her mouth.
Her ass is heaven. Divine. Holy. And not because I haven’t touched a woman’s body in years. It legitimately won’t quit. It fills my hands like I knew it would and I work it like it owes me money or something, kneading and massaging and digging my fingers under her shorts for more skin.
Her soft hands are under my shirt, nails against my skin, tongue working miracles against mine, and I wonder what would it feel like when it dragged up my?—
Pressure , my tiny animal hindbrain thinks, need pressure , and I’m lifting her and spinning us and pinning her against the wall with my hips, positioning my dick where it’s begging me to be. She doesn’t miss a beat and I have the vague notion that she links her feet together right above my ass so she can roll her body and grind down violently, and I feel my eyes roll to the back of my head.
“God, yes,” she hisses. “There.”
“I’m going to come in my fucking shorts,” I’m saying, as she sucks her way down my neck and I’m rolling a nipple between my fingers.
“I’m not far behind you,” she breathes, and then she stiffens a bit, but I don’t really notice because I’m too busy sucking her tongue and grinding her into the wall as hard as I can with layers of fabric between us and I really only do need a few more seconds.
“Dom,” she’s saying.
“Fuck,” I say into her neck, “Lina.”
“Dom,” she says louder, and somewhere in my tiny animal hindbrain I realize she’s not moaning my name in ecstasy but in fact trying to get my attention.
I pull back a mere millimeter, not far at all, because our lips are still touching and our breaths are heaving into each other’s mouths. “What?” I say like an idiot.
She is stunning like this, her hair everywhere from my hands, her lips red and swollen, eyes almost black despite the bright of the sun. “I just had a thought.”
“What?” I repeat, instead of oh really, not me, because I just went temporarily insane .
“They’re all waiting for us in the main house. I was sent to come get you.”
Another metaphorical bucket of ice cold water.
They’re waiting for you. Your daughter is in the main house, waiting for you. Also, it’s broad daylight, idiot.
I take a step back, easing Lina back onto the ground.
“Come here,” she murmurs, and she pulls me down by the neck. We kiss again, one of finality, one of tenderness and full of longing and apology. Again.
“I feel like I’m eighteen around you,” I say, after pressing my forehead into hers.
“Unbelievably horny? Because I’ve felt like that for the last twenty years.”
“That,” I say, with another kiss to her lips, because it’s really fascinating how soft they are and I can’t help it. “And because I can’t stop thinking about you. I feel excited to see you. Smitten.” I think about how honest I should be. “And because you’re going to make me come in my pants from thirty seconds of dry humping,” I decide to tack on.
“I’m going to figure that out for you before tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” I ask, even if I know.
“You’re all mine.”
“I hope you’re not expecting some sort of marathon,” I wince.
“Don’t worry,” she reassures me, with that shit-eating grin on her face. “I’m going to make sure you give me one.”
* * *
This is no longer the worst day of my life. It is, in fact, one of the best. My earlier unease and discomfort and indecision have blown away with the ocean breeze. I’m now filled with an unreasonable satisfaction, sitting here at the dining table on the patio of the main house, the last day of our week of bliss, surrounded by good food and good wine and the crash of waves and conversation and family. Lina next to me, my daughter in her lap. Tagalog lessons for silly words from Tita Gloria and Ollie punctuated with shrieking laughter from Frankie and Georgia. Roses and Thorns, Ollie’s most annoying favorite game since we were kids.
I’m forced to self-reflect, and I’m thinking it’s a good thing I have so many roses I don’t know what to choose. They range from ultra-specific ( Frankie’s screams of delight when I flipped her off her paddle board at the Pirate Plunder, getting my hands on Lina for the first time while high in a dark closet ) to general ( the loose and giddy, free and floating feeling that I found and didn’t know I had been chasing for the last five years ).
My thorn? The headache after the patio? That I wasted so many days not making out with Lina?
Tita Gloria leans over to tell Frankie that she’ll be staying with her tonight, because she’s short enough to fit in the bunk beds, and is that a new rose?
My eyes search for Lina’s. I find them immediately. The smile she’s wearing is soft and quiet, but her eyes are bright and laughing, and it fills me with a slow, syrupy warmth, with comfortable content. I put my hand on top of Frankie’s, linking our fingers together, and Lina places hers on top of mine, entwining hers with ours, and just like that, at the look and the feel of it, I have a new rose.
It’s a special kind of magic, this vacation magic, and it’s all gonna be okay. We’ll be okay, whatever we choose. I’ll be okay.