15. Fifteen
Fifteen
“It’s August, Birdie. What say we read some lumberjack erotica?”
Here we go.
I cut my eyes to Mabel as I fold laundry. “Do I have a choice?”
She tsks me, passing a copy of Wood of Love .
It is, in fact, about a lumberjack. I want to light it on fire more than I want to read it, but the striking resemblance the guy on the cover has to Bo makes me both laugh and tingle enough between my legs for me to put my copy in my bag without arguing.
I may never touch Bo again, but I have no doubt that reading this book and imagining it’s about him might be the next best thing. Naturally, I don’t share this with Mabel who looks at me like she’s picturing the very same things I am.
“Birdie, I bet you could get that bearded boy toy of yours to pose shirtless for a photo. We could compare him to our new main character, Aaron,” she says, batting her overly mascaraed eyelashes with a sinful smile that showcases her red-stained teeth.
I look at her, this former nun of a woman, and realize how envious I am by how freely she speaks about sex. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had close girlfriends or maybe it’s because it’s Bo and his looks are so good it seems greedy not to talk about them, but I don’t ignore her inappropriate topic of conversation like I usually do. Today, I feed into it. I want to fantasize and giggle with her about what it would be like the way I imagine other women would. Normal women.
Folding a cheetah print pair of leggings, a smile covers my face along with a heat on my cheeks. “You know, sometimes when we hike Bo takes his shirt off.”
“Heaven on a hot dog!” Mabel yells, fanning herself with her hand, dropping back onto the couch dramatically before bouncing back upright and hopping to her feet. “Hold that thought, Birdie dear, I need a gin and tonic for this one.”
She’s across the small room and grabbing a bottle of liquor from a glass cabinet before I can blink. I laugh in disbelief. “It’s nine in the morning, Mabel!”
“Bah! If you’re about to tell me about that man without a shirt on, I don’t care what time it is.”
While Mabel has a cocktail, I explain every detail about his muscles—the way they slope and curve down the length of his torso—and the tattoos that add to their appeal .
Then, when I think I’m done, my most unexpected confession of all: “I had sex with Bo in the minivan.” As soon as the words are out my eyes widen in shock.
She gasps. “Mary Magdalene patron saint of orgasms, pray for us sinners!”
My face is so hot I wonder if my skin is going to melt off my skull, but the swearing she does under her breath—and the fact she pulls her notebook and pen out of her waistband—keeps the giddy smile plastered on my face.
“Birdie, why aren’t you spending every night in bed with that man?” she asks as she takes a long slurpy sip of her cocktail. “If I were forty years younger, I’d be permanently stuck to his throbbing member!”
I snort. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Life’s complicated!” she shouts in disbelief and sets her cocktail on her glass-top coffee table. Her eyes look past me, as though she’s watching something a thousand miles away, and her voice lowers. “You know I was a nun and left the convent. What you don’t know is why I left. I fell in love, hard, with the groundskeeper, a man named Paul. It was the real kind of love that chews you up and spits you out. Every breath I took around him was a gasp, just like one of our books.” She smiles, her love for him clear as day all these years later. “He wanted to marry me, and I wanted to marry him. But then I just thought, what if I’m supposed to be a nun again? In my mind, I’d left God for this man—God, Birdie! I got indecisive and couldn’t commit. It was a damned if I do, damned if I don’t in my mind. I grappled back and forth with this until he didn’t want to wait anymore…” Her voice trails off, gaze still somewhere faraway and long ago.
“What happened?”
“Ahh, well, that’s a story for another day. But he was it for me. My great love story that ended too soon. I had lots of sex—good sex too—but there was never another him.” She smiles, sad yet fond, and blinks rapidly, as though she’s bringing herself back to her body.
“Would you change it? If you could?”
“Of course, I would!” she cries without hesitation, picking up her cocktail again. “Hindsight is a soul-sucking whore like that.”
Her words make me laugh, but there’s no heat behind them. She might feel regret for how parts of her story went, but the woman in front of me is also smiling.
It’s stupid, but I’ve gotten used to grocery shopping with Bo. I’ve always thought my Friday night routine was relaxing, but he’s somehow made it fun and relaxing. Every week for the last month, he’s outside the store, waiting for me, same question on his lips of, What’s on the list for us tonight, Birdie? before leaning on a cart and strolling beside me—toothpick tickling his lips—while I read labels.
I don’t just look forward to seeing him, I expect it.
When I walk up to the doors tonight and he’s not there, there’s an uninvited sinking feeling in my belly. I check my phone, no messages. I look around the parking lot to the spot where he always parks, no Jeep.
I wave to Monica and grab a cart, but instead of pushing it to the produce section, I sit on the bench just inside the doors. The bench, usually reserved for old men waiting on wives to shop or cashiers on break to scroll their phones while they drink a Mountain Dew, becomes the place I wait for Bo.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty minutes pass.
Every time the automatic doors slide open, it’s not him walking in.
I sit on the bench next to my empty cart for an hour before I accept it—he’s not coming.
The worst part is, I can’t even get mad. I didn’t invite him to meet me here; I just assumed he would keep showing up. Aside from our hikes, we don’t really do anything else together. Sometimes he stops by Veda’s, but that’s obviously for her and not me. Why I expect him to spend every Friday night for the rest of his life grocery shopping with me almost has the absurdity to make me laugh. Or cry. Or both.
When I stand up, I look toward the produce section and can’t make myself go to it. Like my sacred space will make me feel worse instead of better tonight.
With a disappointed slump, I push the cart back to the designated area, give Monica a sad smile, and walk out of the store.
The whole drive home, for the first time in my life, I feel how alone I am. It’s like Bo showing up amplified everything that’s not. That will never be. Whether I die this year or not—there’s nobody to share it with.
As I pull up to my house, I see the Jeep parked at the curb before the shape of the man standing illuminated in the porch light.
Bo.
Shoulders wracked with tension, I open my door and make the short walk across my yard. All I can think is: what is he doing here?
“You forgot your groceries,” he says with an easy roll of his toothpick when I’m next to him.
I dig in my purse, looking for my keys with manic punches, refusing to look at him.
“What are you doing here?” I sound angry and, for the life of me, I don’t know why.
“Well, I stopped by the grocery store—where you were sitting on a bench seemingly waiting for someone—before I came here to wait for you.”
The. Nerve. Of. This. Ass. Hole.
“One, that’s weird. And two, I wasn’t,” I snap, lifting my eyes to his defiantly as he takes a step toward me. Then I add, “My foot hurt so I didn’t feel like walking around the store.” Followed by, “And I needed to rest it.”
His gaze flicks down to my foot and his lips twitch again before his eyes return to mine. “I’ll tell you what I think, Birdie. I think you were waiting for me. I think you like spending time with me and realized maybe doing everything alone—even your beloved grocery shopping—isn’t as fun.”
Bastard .
I scoff. “You’re delusional. Your grocery commentary is mediocre at best, and the food you buy makes my skin crawl.”
I fumble to get the door unlocked, pushing it open.
He leans close to my ear, whispering, “You’re a liar, Pam Beesly.”
The scrape of his beard on my skin and the depth of his voice is some kind of potent combination that makes my eyes close.
My “Fine,” barely makes it out of my mouth as I step inside the house. If Bo wasn’t so damn close to me, he would have never heard it. “I was waiting for you.” I pause before saying with only slightly more conviction, “Because you need guidance with your food choices.”
He vibrates with a laugh then faces me again, standing up straight. “Such a little liar.”
He’s got me. There’s nothing else to say. I was waiting for him because I like being around him. It’s a truth that I can’t grasp.
George Strait circles us excitedly, whimpering with maniacal tail wags, before retreating back to his dog bed. On instinct, I walk into the kitchen and flick on the lights, only to remember I don’t have any groceries to put away.
Without an invitation, Bo follows me.
I face him, hands on my hips, ignoring the way his hair is pushed back and how I seem to very much appreciate that look. “Well, you’re here with my full attention. How can I help you?”
“Don’t I get a tour?” He leans a hip on the counter, letting his eyes dance around the kitchen and connected living room before landing back on me .
“Ha!” I bark. “No. You’ll get a tour when you don’t show up after doing some kind of weird psychological experiment on me.”
He smiles, like this isn’t unnerving—like him being in my house after making me wait for him on a bench isn’t at all annoying—and pulls a sticky note from his pocket, waving it through the air.
I scoff. “Are you kidding me? After all this, you want to do something for your little list?”
“What are you thinking about right now?” he asks, ignoring me.
“Hmm…I’m thinking about the irritating man in my house, the fact I need a shower, and wondering if I have the parmesan cheese I need for Huck’s meatballs tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” He hands me the sticky note.
Be fully present.
I hold up my arms. “Be present? Done. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Not if you’re thinking about tomorrow’s meatballs and parmesan cheese,” he teases, plucking the toothpick out of his mouth and tossing it in the trash can beside the refrigerator.
I roll my eyes. Of course he makes it look effortless.
Before I can argue, he takes three quick steps to the doorway and turns off the light. The glow from a small lamp in the connecting living room and the moonlight filtering in through the windows are all that light the space.
It’s one small move—a flipping of plastic and the connection of wires—but it shifts the energy of the entire house.
Standing in the dark, my defenses strip away. Like all the effort I’ve put into ignoring whatever I feel for him vanished with the light .
When he’s standing in front of me, I realize I’m holding my breath.
“What do you see?” he asks, voice low.
“Umm. You, I guess. I see you.” My gaze goes over his shoulder. “And the lamp.” I drop my head side to side. “Are we done?”
He ignores me. “What about me? Tell me more. Being present means you are tuned into the moment, your senses. In the dark, you have to work harder. You can’t just glance then let your mind wander off to meatballs.”
He smirks. I sigh.
Hesitate.
Clear my throat.
“Okay,” I begin. “I see your hair, the way it’s pushed back tonight instead of tucked behind your ears.”
He nods, and I shift my weight from one leg to the other, a sort of thickness filling the air and seeping into my lungs.
“I see the line of your jaw and point of your chin.” As if my words are somehow connected to his tissues, his jaw clenches. “And the way that, even with your beard, your dimples show with a slightest of smiles.” I pause, realizing he’s not smiling, and I’ve just said something I don’t see now, that I just see. All the time. “In the dark, your eyes look almost black except for where the light hits them slightly—there they look some shade of gold.” The right side of his face is bathed in the moonlight pouring through the window. “And you have one freckle below the corner of the right one.”
“What else?” he asks, voice low. Rusty as an old nail .
My eyes drop from his face, and he swallows. “I see you swallow. It’s slow, like it’s a struggle.” He repeats the motion, and I wonder if it’s on purpose. “And I see the way your shoulders slope before slipping to the muscles of your arms. The way your T-shirt wraps around them.”
Somehow, just describing him, my chest tightens.
“Your turn,” I say, trying to buy myself recovery time.
He shakes his head.
“This isn’t about me, Birdie.”
“It is if you’re in my kitchen. Your turn.”
A nod.
Slow swallow.
“I see the way your hair is wild because you’ve been at the gym. Curled pieces against your forehead the color of honey when the light hits it. And your eyes, that look almost like coffee, are always moving, assessing. You have eyelashes that probably make other women jealous.”
For the first time, I’m thankful for the dark, because heat shoots across my chest and up my face. But I’m still. A statue. Wondering if he can hear the pounding of my heart.
“I see the way your lips are shaped like a heart when they close. And the inviting slope of your neck to your shoulder. How your shirt always seems to pull to one side, close to falling down your shoulder but never quite doing it. Like it wants to be touched.”
I nod—I think.
“Your turn again.” His voice is so coarse it creates friction in my veins. “What do you hear?”
I close my eyes. Breathe as deep as my lungs will let me.
Listening.
“My heart…that’s it. I only hear my heart.”
The quiet pause that follows lasts three heartbeats.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he says, his voice coarser than a whisper.
I do as he says, flinching slightly when something touches my neck. It’s light and cool. Gentle. Soft, but not cloth. Something delicate.
Whatever it is moves across my neck.
Down my arm.
Across my fingers.
When it touches my hip, he slows. Even through my yoga pants, chills wash across me.
He drags it down the outer line of my leg, stopping inches above my knee before pulling it across the front, then up the inside of my thigh.
Slowly.
Up.
Up.
Stop.
Less than an inch away from the spot where a pressure is building, he’s still.
My pulse in my ears and the rapid rising and falling of my chest is how I imagine a skydiver reacts before they throw themselves out of an airplane.
“Bo?” I whisper, eyes still closed.
He doesn’t answer, but I hear his breathing. Shallow as mine .
Four heartbeats later, he’s moving again, making the ache between my legs turn almost unbearable as he drags the object across my pubic bone—skimming. A teasing drive-by that makes my thighs flinch. One thought crosses my mind: I would let him do very naughty things to me with whatever it is he’s holding. Without regret.
Then it’s gone, slipping down my other thigh, across my leg, retreating up the hip.
At my belly, he stops. He’s barely touching me yet I’m throbbing. Everywhere. A fiery torch in human form.
The way my body is buzzing, if Bo just put his hands on me—once—I have no doubt I’d melt into some kind of screaming orgasmic puddle on my kitchen floor in the matter of seconds.
Instead…up.
Sternum.
Throat.
Against my will, my head drops back.
He drags it along my jaw, across my lips. The sweetness of it dances up to my nose. A flower. A flower in Bo’s hands has become some erotic magic stick that nearly scorches the clothes right off me.
By the time he finishes, he’s closer to me, heat radiating.
“What do you feel?” His voice comes out like molasses, dripping to every corner of me.
“You. ”
When I open my eyes, he’s there. Looking at me. Close. The rising and falling of his chest matches mine. What’s in me is in him; I see it. Feel it.
He sets the flower he’d pulled from a vase down on the counter—a zinnia that I’ll never look at quite the same—not taking his eyes off mine.
We’re inches apart standing in my kitchen, staring at each other in the dark. Half hidden by shadows.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“You,” I whisper. Instant.
He doesn’t move.
“What are we doing, Bo?” I ask, not moving.
He licks his lips. “I don’t know.”
“I might die.”
“And I have a wife.”
Looking at Bo, I think of Mabel and the things she missed out on with Paul. Her hindsight is a soul-sucking whore. I know what we both have to lose, but in this moment, all I want him to do is this.
“Bo—” My next words are stolen by the sound of George Strait barking. I blink, twice, and shake my head out of whatever trance I’ve been standing in. The dog that somehow moves like a silent ninja is standing at my feet, wagging his tail. Pissing my vagina right off.
I laugh under my breath, scrubbing my hand across the top of his head. When my eyes find Bo again, he’s backed away from me far enough to turn on the light, causing both of us to blink to adjust to the brightness.
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t meet his eyes as he lingers in the doorway of the kitchen. “I should go.”
I don’t want him to, but I nod, walking him to the door then onto the porch.
I stop at the top of the steps; he stops at the bottom.
Then.
“If the offer still stands, I think I’d like to come over for dinner.”