Goldie’s just here because her car battery died. She was only at the cabin because of Beck, anyway. I oughta just be taking this evening as proof that my Mom’s right–I am ready to live and realize that I can have a life, no matter how hard it is to do without Mere.
It ain’t no sign that I want Goldie. My rusty emotions and even rustier heart are just confused. That’s fuckin’ all.
Watching Goldie slurp spaghetti ain’t confusin’, though. My cock likes the little wet slurps she makes, the way her lips pucker as the noodles disappear into her mouth. Don’t gotta want to date the woman to imagine my cock sliding past those plump lips.
After we eat, Mom and Goldie do dishes together while Dad puts on the radio to an oldies station. It’s mostly clear, with some static cluttering the line here and there. When the women come to the living room, Goldie sits directly next to me. She curls her knees into her chest and rests against me, only slightly.
But it’s intimate and… I slide toward the arm of the couch to put space between us.
“There,” I grunt.
Her voice is private and not faux when she whispers, “I didn’t need more room.”
Mom tops our snifters off, and I can feel the booze swirling around inside me. The warmth of the fire paired with the crushing wind outside, or maybe it’s the warmth in this house, but I’m feeling good and heady and likely unable to drive.
An hour later, dad retires to bed, and Mom follows.
“I guess we’re officially spending the night, huh?” Goldie asks softly from a cushion away.
Tugging the hair tie out, I run my hands through my hair, enjoying the tension release from no longer having it up. Raising my arms above me, I stretch, yawn, and then respond. “Guess so. I drank too much.” I know she wanted to anyway.
She drives her pointer finger between my ribs. “You drunk off a couple of Brandies?”
I wrap my hand around her finger before I can tell myself it’s too playful and too personal. The Brandy has my head fuzzy. Except when I think of it, it seems like the opposite. The Brandy has my head the clearest it’s been all weekend.
I want to touch Goldie.
With her finger in my grip, I eye her. Her cheeks are pink from the booze, and her skin seems to glow under the soft flickering flames. With her hair still in a bun, she’s so effortlessly gorgeous this casual. I want to tell her, but instead, I say, “come on. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”
When I try to release her finger, she doesn’t let me. Gripping my fist with her other hand, her voice is worried, nearing panicked when she says, “wait, Atticus, you’ll stay with me, right?”
Fully turning so that we’re face to face, none of this peering casually with one side-eye bullshit, I continue holding her finger, and her hands stay on mine. “I will.” The words tumble out all raspy, and I blame the Brandy. I plan to blame the Brandy if she calls me on it. But she doesn’t call me on it. She just drinks those words down as quick as the booze and looks at me with those glassy, wide, gorgeous green eyes.
“Okay,” she breathes, her expression full of relief. “I’ll tell your Mom tomorrow it was all harmless and apologize for us sleeping in the same room and everything. I’ll tell her it’s me. I’m all… fucked up.”
Opening my palm, I don’t know which of us does it, but a second passes, and our fingers are woven together. I ain’t held hands with anyone since I held hands with Mere. The last time I ever saw her, I linked our hands together, just like this.
I don’t want to pull my hand from Goldie’s, and it surprises me. If I'm bein' real with myself, I’ve avoided this type of contact for seventeen years.
Her hand in mine makes the world make sense.
“You ain’t fucked up. I don’t know why you don’t like bein’ alone after you’ve been drinkin’, but it don’t make you fucked up.”
“I have real reasons,” she offers as if she needs a defense. She doesn’t. Not to me.
“You don’t have to tell me shit unless you want to. When you sayI have skeletons, I’m never gonna say prove it. Alright?” Her hand tightens in mine, and I don’t know if her eyes are wet or just really glassy from the heat and alcohol.
“Alright,” she whispers. “Thank you.”
It’s a moment.
My body thrums with energy. Directionless energy that I want to steer toward her. I want to take her mouth with mine, stroke my tongue against hers, and swallow all her worries.
The grandfather clock adjacent to the couch chimes, and I can’t believe it’s already midnight. “I’ll show you to the room.”
We get up, and our hands stay together as I lead her down the small hallway in my parents’ quaint, comfortable home. Memories of Mere are here, and that’s hard, but it never stops feeling like my favorite place to be. Sadness is here, but greatness is, too, and I ain’t the type to forget that.
Pushing open the door to my childhood bedroom, I lead her inside and make sure the door is sealed closed before I switch on the camping light dad’s left in the room. We blink a few times to adjust to the warm brightness of the old bulb flickering. The room doesn’t reflect a young boy growin’ up in it, but rather, two older people have hobbies and do them here.