Thanksgiving
Hollis
Jay
Potluck at my place tomorrow?
Marv
ghi ghatuvde ptudefdefghimn
Jay
Gross. Hollis, you change your mind?
Hollis
As enticing as your “gross” sounds, I’ll pass.
Jay
What are you doing instead?
Hollis
No plans. Cleaning the house. Reading a book.
Jay
You should take pictures.
Hollis
Ignoring you.
Jay
Just saying . . .
Marv
pqrstghijkljkl ghdepqrde
When I woke up this morning, I stared at the ceiling until long after the sun came up, waiting for tears that never came. I called my parents who asked me repeatedly to make the short drive to Charlotte to spend Thanksgiving at their house; I declined.
Quiet and alone, I had my coffee from the comfort of a hot bubble bath, my mind moving in a million different directions.
Yesterday, the kids and I had breakfast for dinner before I drove them to Ryan’s house. I used an entire loaf of bread for French toast and let them pour their own syrup, something I never do.
With a mouthful of food, Ava said, “I wish we could have this for Thanksgiving instead of turkey.”
It struck something deep inside of me. Something so insanely simple I’ve been blind to: We could. I plan the meal; it could be French toast.
“Maybe next year we can,” I said nonchalantly.
Every single person at the table went still, including me.
“No turkey?” Owen asked, swallowing his food. “Or stuffing?”
“If you’d rather have French toast.” I shrugged. “No. Or we can make something else. Everyone’s favorite foods even.”
Their eyes lit up, mine filled with unexpected tears. It wasn’t sadness over them not wanting the same menu as always, it was delight. I was happy to see them excited. With me.
Jack shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth, oblivious to my emotion, and said, “Let’s have pizza. I can’t wait.”
“Me neither.” I had to swallow around the turkey-sized lump in my throat.
Maybe it’s the season, Jay, or simply having all this time alone to reflect, but there’s a shift happening. The way a snowball grows when it’s rolled across the winter-cloaked earth, so too is something deep within me. Expanding. Morphing. Changing.
If I hadn’t dropped them off with Ryan last night, I would have made French toast and pizza today. But if I hadn’t dropped them off with Ryan last night, I never would have known it was an option.
Today, here I am without our usual turkey or chaos, but somehow, also without tears. It’s Thanksgiving, but it isn’t. I’m okay. Alone, but okay.
Jay texted his usual Holiday Club invitation last night, but it’s been nothing else.
After the kiss, I hoped for a call—a house call, if I’m honest—but true to him, nothing outside of our group text.
Since his current move is no move, the last five days I’ve been swimming in replayed memories of his mustache-covered mouth on mine.
What it would be like if it happens again.
How far it could go. What he looks like naked.
And then I overheat.
But more than that, I just want his company. His compliments hidden in callouts. His thoughtfulness. The way he listens. His entire life story of how he went from lawyer to beer brewer.
I’ll wait; I have nothing but time.
At three thirty, I pour my first glass of wine.
At four, I pour my second.
At five, I’m tipsy enough I convince myself to put on the blue lingerie I bought myself last week during my blatantly obvious make-Jay-jealous makeover.
Now, with soft Christmas jazz playing through the speaker and the fading glow of sunset spilling through the window, I’m staring at scraps of blue lace that cover very little of my skin in my reflection in the mirror.
Looking down the barrel of forty, my body hasn’t completely jumped ship.
I eat the seemingly million grams of protein a woman my age is expected to consume and march around with my weighted vest like every other midlife militant fighting against the effects of time.
Any extra weight I carried since my last pregnancy melted off—for better or worse—in the stress of the divorce.
I angle my head at my reflection, spin to the side. Hips, ass, and side boob all in plain view. Without overthinking, I grab my makeup bag. I have one tube of red lipstick. I use it. Along with a thick cat-eyed line of eyeliner and three coats of mascara.
“What are you doing, Hollis?” I whisper to myself, biting my lip as I run my fingers through my newly highlighted hair to make it look like sex.
I wonder if Jay would like how this looks. Wonder what he would look like if I was underneath him.
Or him underneath me.
Another slow twirl, and I decide I’m either sexy as hell or drunk as a skunk. I laugh—loud and long. This is utterly ridiculous. Wineglass in hand overhead, I sway my hips, watching my mostly-naked self in the mirror. All I can think: I’d do me.
It could be the wine, my curiosity, or the fact a week later I still taste Jay on my tongue, but what if I sent him a picture? Or a video?
I go still as a statue at the notion, my mind doing a mental tug-of-war between thinking this is the best idea I’ve ever had or the absolute worst.
He point-blank said he’d like one. He was joking. Was he joking?
He was.
Maybe.
I take a big enough sip of wine it burns my throat before warming my belly like a hot spring of liquid courage. I don’t think; I prop my phone against the lamp of the nightstand and push the red button. Even alone—that simple action makes everything feel a bit charged. Filthy, even.
I swallow too many times then force myself to the edge of the bed. Seated. Eyes closed. Letting my mind and hands take over.
Jay’s mouth on mine.
I drag my hand down my hip.
His big hands in my hair.
To my thigh. Higher.
“I’ve been waiting for this.”
I bite my lip.
His mustache drags against my skin.
The music plays.
I lift his shirt over his head. Trace a line into his jeans.
One hand finds my breast, massaging.
I ache, everywhere.
His mouth is on me. His lips. His tongue.
One hand is at the scrap of fabric between my thighs.
“I can’t wait to be inside you,” he says, solid arms wrapping around me.
The first moan escapes my lips. As does Jay’s name.
His voice is low, there’s a sexy smirk. “I want to taste every inch of you, Hollis.”
Working myself toward a peak, my hips rock against my own hand. My eyes lock with my own on the screen of my phone. Knees bent, bright red lips parted, and back arching off the bed. I barely recognize this woman.
His green eyes looking right at me. He fills me. Drives into me. Over. And. Over. And. Over.
It may be my hands, but all I see is him. I don’t slow down. Don’t stop saying his name.
I’m close.
Closer.
Closer.
Driving my fingers right into the doorbell ringing.
The doorbell ringing?
I freeze, stricken with fear, silent as I stop breathing. I look at the phone like it’s responsible for whatever hallucination I’m having.
The doorbell rings—again. I did not imagine it and I fall off the bed with a thud.
Who in the hell?
Heart jumping in my throat, I crawl across the floor and frantically pound the screen of my phone to stop the video; it drops to the floor.
The doorbell rings—again—this time accompanied by a rapid fire of knocks and panic seizing my chest as my eyes dart around the room. I half expect to see the red flashing light of a hidden camera.
Another ring, more knocks, this time muffled voices calling my name are added in.
“Shit,” I mutter, fumbling for a robe—the only one I have being ridiculously sheer white silk and mostly lace—and hustle to the stairs. My self-sex-covered fingers grip the robe tighter, and the damn doorbell rings again.
I feel caught. Like whoever is here knows what I was just doing and is impatiently waiting on my front porch to arrest me for being a dirty pervert.
At the door, I pause, take a deep breath, open it a crack, and cringe when I see bright green eyes, an amused smirk, and a head of tousled dark hair.
“Jay?” I ask, stunned. A fresh shot of exposed mortification washes over me as I widen the opening of the door. He’s holding a box and foil-covered dish. Beside a tree. And Marv.
Who frowns, takes a long sniff, and says, “You reek of pheromones and look like a prostitute.”
Oh dear God.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I pinch the opening of my robe. “Thank you, Marv.”
I do not look at Jay.
“Jay was worried you’d starve,” Marv says, looking past me into the house as he takes a flashlight out of his pocket, clicking it twice. “You’re a sitting duck here. Mind if I look around?”
Marv doesn’t wait for me to answer before stepping around me and inside, disappearing down the hall.
I clutch my robe.
Jay and I stand at the doorway, cold clouds around our faces. His jaw is slightly scruffy, his thermal very fitted. I want to lick him like a candy cane.
“You’re wearing lingerie,” he says, twitch of his mustache conveying how funny this is.
How completely ridiculous. His eyes bounce all over me—my face, my sheer robe, my bare legs—and when they make it back to my face, they are so filled with amusement it’s like he’s watching a stand-up comedy show.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I hate you.”
“Still wearing lingerie.”
“This?” I say through gritted teeth, looking down at myself and regretting the choice.
Regretting my whole life. It’s painfully obvious what’s under the pitiful excuse for a robe.
The dark blue lace lines are so prominent against the smooth white silk they might as well be ropes of neon. “This is nothing.”
“Close to it.” His eyebrows lift. “You think about the kiss?”
“What?” I choke, clutching my robe. Only when I’m masturbating to the memory. “No.”
“I do,” he admits with a wicked grin and smug rock on his heels. “Every night. Right now, even.”
I can’t breathe. I’m nearly naked and hot. On my porch. On Thanksgiving. With Jay.
A blustery breeze blows, and my nipples respond.
Jay notices.
I pray for Bruce Willis to show up and shoot me in the face.
He does not.