December 7th #2
He clears his throat. “If I meet someone who wants those things without changing anything else about me”—he shrugs—“I don’t care where I eat Thanksgiving. But Marv is a nonnegotiable. You don’t just quit that man.”
And though I laugh, part of me wonders if there’s something deeper there too. If he’s with Marv because Marv has no one else. It adds a whole new layer to my admiration for him.
Before I can ask, he pivots the conversation to my kids.
We laugh, talk too loud, and take a picture with the waitress in her candy cane top hat while we toast our mugs like dorks.
And in between it all—he drops pecks of kisses on my hands and cheek, like commas in a sentence making me pause just briefly.
Little gestures to remind me we’re right here, right now.
I thumb his mustache, he toys with my hair.
Christmas polka music plays as we sit on the same side of a booth.
All I can think: Hollis Hartwell, this might be the most romantic thing that’s ever happened in your life.
When the food is gone, we browse all the shelves filled with oddities and leave with gifts. He buys six creepy dolls for his nieces and nephews; I get four outrageous top hats for my kids.
“Now what?” I ask as we load our bags into the back of his SUV.
He closes the door and walks around to the passenger side with me.
“I need to take care of Goose,” he says, standing close to me as he tugs at the lapel of my peacoat. “At my place.”
“Ahhh.” My voice has a slight teasing lilt, but my body is filled with full-blown desire. “I see. So we need to go back to your place just so we can take care of Goose?”
He nods, very seriously, pulling me closer to him until I slip my arms around his waist.
“Exactly. It will only take five minutes. Maybe ten. Depending on what Goose needs and what’s in that bag of yours—twelve hours tops.”
I laugh, and he does too. Then he kisses me, deep and slow like he did at the brewery.
He tastes like hot chocolate and maple syrup and moves his mouth with sexy precision.
Like every swipe of his tongue and scrape of his teeth is working toward something.
Dessert after a dinner filled with it. We connect at the mouth but every nerve ending across my body starts thrumming with life.
When we pull apart, we go to his place.
Jay’s camper is a sight to behold: a large silver capsule with big windows and a patio area wrapped in colorful strands of Christmas lights. It belongs on a Christmas card with the line Wish you were here!
“Before we go inside,” I say, my mouth going bone dry as his hand stills on the handle of the silver door.
“I’m wondering how frequently you do this sort of thing?
” His eyes meet mine and I tighten the belt of my coat.
“Bring women home, I mean. I don’t need exact numbers, just more to understand if this is what we are doing and then that’s it or if, I don’t know, we do it again.
Or am I kicked out of the club. Or . . .
” This is not going well. “You’re a good-looking man.
I would expect you find yourself in this situation.
” His lips tug to one side; I clear my throat.
“I haven’t had sex in nearly two years. I need to go into this—” I wave my finger back and forth between us.
“This, knowing if this is for tonight or if it’s maybe—” I pause. Swallow. “Longer?”
“What do you want?” he asks, taking my hand in his and angling his head to meet my eyes. “Do you want to come in here once and that’s it?”
The man could be a bag of milk in bed and I’d still want to come back here.
I bite my lip. “A different option might be better.”
“Good.”
In my belly: butterflies.
He tugs the door open and Goose barks then pounces on him before darting outside.
My attention is already all over the interior, touching every surface like I’m blind and it’s Braille.
Like if I don’t feel it all beneath my fingertips, I’ll never comprehend it.
The walls are rounded toward the ceiling making it a bit like I imagine a submarine would be.
It’s new but vintage. A little retro farmhouse.
To the immediate right, a sleek leather sofa under a window lined with Christmas lights and a small coffee table on a plaid printed rug.
At one end on the floor, there’s a doggy bed and a stand holding two dishes.
Jay closes the door once I’m fully inside, and I feel his eyes glued to me.
To my left, a little strip of kitchen cabinets lines one wall.
A small sink, small stove, small bright red refrigerator, and a coffee pot.
A single magnet pins a large family photo of what I assume to be Jay, his parents, and brother and sister with their families.
On the wall above the kitchen counter, a row of four hooks, which hold mismatched mugs.
Across from the cabinets, a small dinette table with bright red cushioned seats and a butcher-block tabletop—complete with a mini Christmas tree under a wall full of windows. Outside: a tree line and darkness.
Down a short hall, there are two closed doors.
Jay clears his throat. “So this is it.”
I nod but say nothing, trying to absorb it all. This camper is a fraction of the size of my house, but it’s incredible. Small, but incredible.
I look at him, he’s—“Are you nervous?”
He stuffs one hand in his pocket, a little pink splashing his cheeks for the first time ever as he strokes his mustache with the other. It’s utterly adorable. “I know it’s different than you’re used to. There’s not a lot of room for four kids to—”
My eyes widen. “You’ve thought of my kids being here?”
“I’ve thought of you being here,” he says, leaning a hip against the small kitchen counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “So, yeah, I’ve thought about what that would look like if you ever brought them. The table turns into a bed. So does the sofa.”
Being a mom makes you weird because those unassuming words send a shot of desire straight through me and nearly melts off my panties.
I shrug out of my coat and hang it on a hook next to a flannel then slip my phone out of my pocket and set it on the counter.
“That,” I say with a lift of my chin as I stand next to him, “is incredibly hot of you to think about.”
He hooks a hand around my waist and drags me to him, kissing me on the mouth with an amused rumble in his chest. My body responds like a lit match to a dry Christmas tree: consumed.
He presses against me; I moan.
Then I feel him.
Hard.
Because he has a penis.
That I’m going to have sex with.
For the first time in nearly two years.
At once, desire turns to panic.
Because I’m freaking out and don’t remember how to breathe.
Pulling away from the kiss, I fumble to pick my phone up from the counter.
His mouth turns to a confused frown. “What are you doing?”
“Finding that photo to send you,” I explain, the words knocking into each other.
“From the oddity shop. Or the pancake house. Puddy’s.
” I’m typing and retyping my password to unlock the screen to no avail.
“With the waitress. How do you think that works?” His eyes narrow.
“The naming of the shop when you have two specialties? Whichever one makes the most money goes first?” I laugh like a deranged robot.
His eyes can’t possibly get any wider, and I can’t blame him. Even I don’t know what I’m saying or doing.
Finally, the damn phone unlocks in my trembling hands. I can’t think, so I pull the photo library up and shove the phone at Jay. He looks from it to me, baffled.
“You find the photo and send it to yourself. So we both have it. Is there a bathroom in here?”
He nods slowly, looking again from the phone to me. “First door.”
I fumble with the door, closing it too hard once I get inside. It’s small—a human-sized dollhouse. A toilet, single vanity, and shower stall with a glass door. I turn on the sink, grip the vanity, look in the mirror.
“What the hell are you doing, Hollis?” I whisper to my reflection.
I’m freaking out because this is real. I am in Jay’s little house, and we both know we are about to get naked and naughty.
I am not a prude, but two years of no practice is a bit intimidating.
Especially following a marriage where my sexing was shitty enough my husband needed to get it elsewhere.
Can you forget how to have sex? Is it like riding a bike?
Will I bleed like a virgin? OHMYGOD—was I supposed to bring a condom?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Sure, I’ve had occasional bouts of self-experimenting—though none quite like what happened on Thanksgiving—but that’s nothing compared to a real live man and a real live penis in my real live vagina.
I can do this.
I splash water on my face then turn off the sink.
And then I hear it: my voice saying Jay’s name. Over and over.
I still. Its familiarity striking me like a bolt of lightning.
No.
I fling the door open and find Jay. Looking at my phone. Hearing my voice say his name. Because he’s playing the video I recorded of myself and never sent on Thanksgiving.
“No.” My voice is so pinched and weak, it barely pulls Jay’s gaze away from the phone.
I can’t move. My legs have grown mortified roots, preventing me from lunging toward him.
I want to shatter my phone into pieces and take off into the woods never to be seen by another human being again, but all I can do is stand.
I throw my face into my hands at the same time I hear the doorbell ring on my self-made phone porn and groan.
Because Jay is seeing me, on Thanksgiving, in lingerie, mid-masturbation, while he is downstairs ringing my doorbell with partridges, a pear tree, and puffins on a plate on the porch.
“Hollis the Writer,” he coos, setting the phone down.
Once again, I pray for Bruce Willis to come shoot me. When I hear Jay take two steps toward me, I know it’s another prayer unanswered.