Authors: Elizabeth Finn
“I’m aware he’s divorced, yes. Just like the other fifty or so odd percent of adults in this country. Not really an impeachable offense these day, but certainly a scandalous affair indeed, if I do say so myself. Oh, the horror of it all!” I’m practically shaking my finger in the air in mock-exaggerated shock and disapproval—
oh the horror of it all—
where the hell did that come from? I’m shocked at my rude sarcasm, adopting their snooty accent and all, but as I look to Jordan, the corners of his mouth are ever so slightly pulled up. It’s no smile, not even close, but it’s a response.
“Well, I just think it’s important to understand such things early on. Wouldn’t want to get in too deep, if you know what I mean, just to be heartbroken later.”
And that’s when Jordan hits his boiling point. “Adeline and I are leaving. Thank you for dinner. I guess I’ll see you in another few years.” I stand too as his parents stare with slack jaws and mouths hanging open. As we turn, Jordan squeezes my hand gently and then turns to them once again. “Adeline knows me better than either of you have ever cared to. She’s well aware I’m not perfect and I’m divorced, and for the better part of a decade I chose to indulge in shallow, meaningless dalliances that fed my physical needs far more than anything else. I’m ashamed of you, and quite frankly, I hold you responsible for every last emotional shortcoming I now have the pleasure of trying to undo. Good night.” We turn and walk out of the restaurant hand in hand.
When we reach the valet, he hands them his ticket, and as we wait, we stand side by side. He’s not spoken to me, and while his words may have been protective and warm, he’s cold right now. It isn’t me. He is fighting a long-waged battle in his mind that revives itself every time he’s forced to speak to them, and so I give him space.
He tips the valet and holds my hand as I climb in before he returns to the driver’s side door and pulls out into traffic.
We’re silent as he drives, and I watch him. He’s distant, and I imagine him a small boy, being subjected to their tortures. They are cruel, and oddly, I doubt they even realize it. My heart cries for the little boy inside him who was so neglected by them, abandoned to survive alone in a mansion of loneliness. No child deserves such treatment, especially not the one who would grow to be the man I fall in love with. I want to fight his battle, but of course there is no real battle to fight. The war is long over and the damage is done, and yet looking to his hardened face and cold eyes, clearly the pain is not laid to rest.
When he heads toward my apartment, I’m surprised. He pulls in, opens the car door for me, and walks me to my front door. But as I unlock the door and step within, he doesn’t follow, and my heart falls. For all the torture they caused him, I thought I would at least be able to ease it in some small way with my touch, my presence, but apparently that isn’t at all what he is wanting.
“You could come in?” I’m hopeful, but the coolness of his demeanor sends a very clear message.
“I wouldn’t be good company tonight. I’m sorry.” He barely holds my eyes as he turns me down, and as he mumbles his good-bye under his breath, he turns and leaves me standing looking after him.
I retreat, alone, inside my apartment and spend the next hour cleaning. I throw on my best grimy cleaning clothes and clean every last closet my small little oasis has. It pushes him out of my mind to some small degree, and it keeps the pain of his rejection from eating at me. I’m moving soon enough, and while I own little and am no packrat, I’ve still accumulated junk that has managed to find homes within the darkest recesses of my moldy old closets.
When Kelli shows up unannounced and with a couple bottles of wine, I decide I’m lucky for such a friend. This is what I need—wine and company. Half a bottle of wine later, we’re cleaning while trying on bits and pieces of my past three Halloween costumes and bopping around to some old Bell Biv DeVoe, using a spatula as a microphone. Oh the things you find when you go closet diving and the things you do after half a bottle of wine. And then there’s a knock at my door, and Kell runs to get it.
*
I actually made it home, into the house, and onto my couch before I couldn’t bear being apart from her and abandoned my loneliness for her. I feel awful for the torment she endured on my behalf, and while she handled their personal brand of lunacy and torture perfectly, I didn’t. I more than feel bad; I’m humiliated. I’ve met her parents. I know what real people are supposed to behave like, and it sure as hell isn’t the way my fine folks do. She’s lucky to have her family, and while I’m happy she never had to deal with parents like mine, I’m oddly jealous. I envy what she has, and while I would never want her to suffer anything such as my parents, I sure wish I could share hers.
When I mount her steps, there’s a warm glow of her space through the closed blinds of her front windows, and the pounding of some obscure music from within. But it’s the image that greets me when her door is pulled open that shocks me the most.
“Hi, Kelli. I didn’t realize Adeline would have company.” And why the hell does she look straight out of a nineties hip-hop music video? The ponytail is high and off to the side with the perfect oversize scrunchie, and the blue eye shadow could likely be seen from a mile away. If this isn’t enough, Adeline rounds the corner from her bedroom, and I nearly choke.
She’s standing in the hallway, wearing shorts, very short shorts, and a midriff tank top that leaves little to the imagination. Were that the only surprise, I’d probably tackle her to the ground and pull the skimpy fabric from her body and ravish her. But somehow, and for some reason, she just didn’t stop at the hot pants and tank top. “Why’s your hair orange?” It’s an innocent question, and as the nineties hip-hop scene pounds away on her cheap speakers, I enter.
“Oh … hiya. Uh… Well this probably looks odd, but … we were … uh … cleaning.” Cleaning? The muscles of my mouth relax for the first time all evening, and as she walks toward me a smirk pulls at my lips.
“I see… Is that glitter on your…” and as I reach for her shimmering cheek, I continue, “Oh, yes … it is glitter… That’s … odd.” Now my muscles are really relaxed, and a smile I really didn’t expect to show up today spreads across my face.
She’s blushing, or at least I think she is under all of that makeup. And as Kelli regards us, she laughs and grabs her purse. “Okay, lovelies. I’m out.”
Adeline is polite. “You don’t have to leave, Kell.” Oh hell yes she does.
“Nope, I’m gonna go find me a nineties cover band tonight if it kills me. It’s been a blast … from the past… Get it? Ahh. Cause the mus… Oh that’s good.” And then she ducks out the door, shaking her head in self-amusement.” Quirky character that one.
I’m left staring at my orange-haired, glitter-faced angel and her ridiculously short shorts and tank top. God, I want to fuck her.
“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” she remarks sheepishly.
“I gather. Hope I’m not messing up your plans.” She skirts to the stereo, quickly turning it off, and when she returns to me she looks self-conscious; who wouldn’t with orange hair?
“A shower. I’m going to take a shower,” she replies with a convicted nod.
“Good idea. I’ll watch you. I’d say join you, but I wouldn’t want to flood the place.” Now her smile is less shy and far more intrigued. And once she’s in the bathroom, I slowly peel her out of her clothing, tormenting her nipples by skirting around the tight, pink areolas. I’m rewarded for my efforts with a sigh and a shudder that courses through her. When it’s time for her ever-short shorts, I grip her buttocks forcefully before pulling upward to slip the center seam between her legs. That earns a loud exhale of breath as the fabric invades her body and parts the lips of her sex. I kiss her while I hold the fabric firmly in place, and when I’ve explored her mouth I loosen my hold and pull the shorts down her legs, dropping to my knees in front of her.
Before the release of tension between her legs even has a chance to sink in, I latch myself to her sex, sliding my tongue between her lips. Now she lets loose an incredible moan, and as I pull her to sit on the side of the tub in front of me, she opens her legs with no coaxing. She’s so incredibly beautiful. She’s pink and smooth, glistening in want, and her thighs are slightly quivering in anticipation. Even with hair sprayed orange and glitter painting her cheeks, she’s amazing.
I dive back to her sex once again and lave and torment her sensitive skin. She’s pushing toward me as I suck her folds into my mouth, and when I reach the tight bundle of nerves I know will set her body free, I pull it between my lips and torture her. I flick the tight nub with my tongue over and over again before massaging intensely. As her orgasm mounts and her gasping breath quickens, I lave with an insistent and steady pressure until she cries out and clenches her hands into fists. Pulling my mouth from her, I move my body between her legs and kiss her mouth. I can taste her sweet personal flavor, and I share it as I dip my tongue into her mouth and caress my lips along hers.
Once she finally manages to get into the shower, I wash the glitter from my face while I wait, and when she emerges, once again looking like my sweet Adeline, I hold her, inhaling the scent of her bargain-priced shampoo. Lifting her to straddle me, I carry her to the bedroom and cover her body with mine as I lay her down gently.
She makes short work of getting me out of my clothing, and once I’ve taken my place above her again I watch her eyes as I push with very deliberate slowness into her body. Her eyes are their vibrant crystal blue, watching me as I drive with agonizing patience to her core. I pull from her, letting the swollen head of my cock linger between the warmth of her lips before pushing to my hilt into her once more. I set a slow and steady rhythm that is hypnotic and gentle, and when I roll our bodies to put her above me, I watch as she continues the slow dance of our lovemaking. I lace my fingers with hers, and she rolls her hips to mine, humping my arousal with her own deliberately patient movements.
She looks incredible. Her breasts are small but round, and they bounce just slightly as she works her hips. Her skin is so creamy pale and youthful. Her belly button beckons my tongue, but that will have to wait for another time. Her lips are parted and her expression is shy, her eyes are wide and heated, and her wet, chestnut-colored hair cascades over her shoulders, strands sticking to the skin of her chest. I stroke her clitoris for only a moment before guiding her hand to take over for my fingers. She strokes and pleasures her body while I watch, and when she comes with a cry tearing through her, her stomach muscles clench and she curls forward.
I pull her chest to mine, smashing her breasts to my pecs as she nestles her face into my neck, and pinning her hands behind her at the small of her back, I roll my hips into her, thrusting, fucking, and invading in harsh abandon as her body is forced to comply with mine. Her moans reassure me I’m not hurting her, but as I drive to her core with one final, pounding penetration, a gasp that sounds more like a punch to her gut passes her lips. That’s her limit, but as I spill my seed within her body, relaxing my thrusting and releasing pulsing jets of cum into her depths, my stomach muscles ripple and crunch inward toward her. I let loose her wrists from my grasp, and she lifts her head from my neck, brings her hands to my cheeks, and cradles my face in much-needed warmth and intimacy. Her lips find mine and slowly pull my own between hers. She takes my top lip, sweetly suckling it before claiming my bottom one and doing the same.
When I roll us to our sides, she curls up to my body and I wrap my arms around her. She’s quiet, but she must have a million questions. You don’t experience something as ridiculous as my parents and not have them. And for the first time in my life, I don’t wait for the inquiry to begin. I talk.
She listens as I tell of their abandonment, being raised by nannies in a massive, empty mansion, Christmas presents mailed from overseas that I opened alone on Christmas morning. I tell her of receiving a new car for high school graduation, but not having parents present for even that milestone, and when I tell her they were too busy to make it to my college graduation but managed to send me a check for half a million dollars instead, she cries silent and sad tears for me. I had five nannies present at my graduation, but not a parent, and I gave them each a hundred thousand dollars the following week, care of my dear parents’ graduation gift to me. I talk about my sham of a marriage, my inability and unwillingness to pull myself from work for long enough to be a husband, and about the pain of being deceived by her. She touches my cheeks, stroking away the pain with her fingers, and when I’m finished telling her every pathetic detail of my life she kisses me once.
I make love to her again, narrowly escaping disaster when I almost utter, “I love you,” not thinking a thing of it until the words nearly pass my lips. Of course it would be the most right thing to do at this point, but I’m terrified. Since when have I become such a chickenshit? Apparently since I fell in love for the first time in my life. I may have cared for my ex-wife, but I didn’t love her—not like this. There is no question of that fact at this point. I would die for Adeline, kill for her, go to any length necessary to protect her. I’m a possessive prick who cares more for her than I do myself, and for the first time in my life I like myself. I like me with her. She makes me better; she makes me whole. She, in fact, erases every last moment of bullshit from my life.
Every time I make love to her now, I come inside her knowing she won’t be pregnant but wishing she was. At least if she were, she couldn’t leave me, and oddly, half the reason I enjoy leaving my seed within her is because a woman carrying my child feels right and appropriate for the first time in my life. I used to shudder at the thought. I looked at children with pity, always remembering myself at their age, but now there’s joy that didn’t exist in my mind before. I see a child’s laughter, their smile, their trust and happiness, and for the first time, it isn’t a depressing precursor to some sad, lonely memory, it’s the sign of what’s to come … of what should be to come. If I can just get out of my own way long enough to let her see me—let her love me if she will.