18. James #2
Her knees part, tugging me closer to her, and I feel her thighs brace my waist. She’s wearing a dress, a flowery piece with narrow straps and a loose hem.
I’ve seen her wear it dozens of times. When the weather’s a few degrees too warm.
When she doesn’t want to put in too much effort but still wants to look nice.
When the laundry isn’t done and it’s the only thing within arm’s reach before we head out to dinner.
I fist it, using every muscle, every strained tendon, to avoid ripping it.
Instead, I push it higher and higher until it’s bunched at the fleshy part of her thighs.
“Is this okay?” I whisper. Like I’m asking permission from a stranger. And we’ve sort of become that, two people only acquainted in memories and dreams. But now that dream is real, and I’m remembering so much more than how she feels.
She sighs, huffing a laugh like it’s inane. “Of course it’s okay.”
“I…just want to make sure,” I confess.
She leans up, tilting her face toward me. “I’m sorry.”
It’s hazy and clouded, her equivocal apology, but I see through it. I push a hand through all the confusion, leaving behind a clear space. Ready to tell her she doesn’t need to apologize.
I rest my forehead against hers. “It’s—you don’t have to…”
She cuts off my words with a kiss, and I somehow know she gets it. This back and forth of civility and deference only because we don’t want to rock the boat. I don’t care for that shit anymore. I just want us to be us.
Firm nails rake my back, and it elicits a harsh groan from my chest. Her hands work my jeans, undoing the button and zipper.
I’m met with a barrier when my hand grips her hips.
Her panties. They need to be gone, nothing between us.
Bare skin against bare skin. And Kendall seems to have the same urgent need.
She lifts her butt, letting me slip them down over her ass. I give her a squeeze.
“I want you to touch me,” she rasps. A demand. But I don’t move. I want this to last. I want to take my time. But her impatience wins when she cries a frustrated whimper. Like I’m being difficult. Uncooperative. She hooks her foot behind me, dragging me closer.
I look down, her wet pussy making my chest vibrate.
She spreads her knees wider, exposing the smooth underside of her thighs and the bottom curve of her ass.
I’m supposed to make the next move, keep this momentum moving, but I’m torn.
I don’t know if I want to take my time, risk moving slowly with the knowledge it’ll give her the opportunity to stop and change her mind.
Or if I should rush, desperation and all. I choose the former.
She scoots closer to the edge, and I dip low, trailing kisses down her neck and chest while bracing the side of the doorframe.
I kiss her over the cotton covering most of her body, still relishing in the fact that her skin is quivering underneath.
I lift the hem even higher, exposing her stomach.
My kisses continue to trail over her. Along the ridges of her ribcage, in the dip in her navel, down her pubic bone where her C-section scar is.
It’s lighter than the rest of her skin. A jagged horizontal line filled with memories.
She was in labor for fourteen hours before the doctors decided to go in there and get Sophia out themselves.
The labor wasn’t progressing, and they started talking about fetal distress and exhaustion.
Everything happened so fast. But when she laid there, the surgical drape held up between the bottom and top halves of her like a curtain, it was just me and her, waiting anxiously to meet our daughter.
We sat on the edge of fear, wondering if we’d be met with the same fate we met before until Sophia’s strong, angry cries granted us reassurance.
“God, I love you.” My chest heaves, heavy gasps filling the back seat.
I don’t know if she heard me, but I say it because it’s true.
It’s the most honest and unpretentious part of us right now because I love her.
Things can change. We can grow old and wrinkly.
Sophia can take off into the world on her own.
To college, turning us into empty nesters. But I will still and always love her.
I kiss her scar. I kiss the corners first and then slowly along bumpy, uneven skin.
I sigh against her, realizing I could do this forever.
I could stare at her body, worship it for all it’s done for our family, and I would never grow tired of it.
My fingers join my lips, running over the skin like I’m studying it.
After so long, I want to memorize it and maybe even soothe away some of the scary memories it carries.
Kendall’s body freezes beneath me. She sits up, scooting back toward the inside of the car. It feels cold, the loss of her warmth against my lips. When I look at her, fear grips her entire body.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something?”
She shakes her head. “This is…I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
She starts to lower her dress and search for her underwear.
“Baby, what happened?”
“It’s nothing,” she says when everything about her body language suggests it’s something. Something snapped in her. A reminder. I wish I knew what it was so I could smother it, ease whatever worry is clouding her mind. If only she would talk to me.
She pushes past me. I watch her walk into the house, catching a glimpse of her lost underwear in the pocket on the door. I watch as she takes with her the hopefulness that lined my heart, leaving behind a hollow shell of doubt and regret.