There’s a part of me scared to even try.
But I know I have to because life without love is just a tragedy.
Finally, after what feels like forever, their conversation breaks when Edie gets up to use the restroom. I have a sneaking suspicion she invited Atticus, but I’m glad she did. We want to take our time, but seeing him is soothing to my soul.
Doesn’t soothe the frantic ache in my pussy, and the deep throb in my belly. All of me wants him on top of me, inside me, all fucking over me. His sweat, spit, and cum. I want all of it. My mouth goes dry.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
I can’t believe it, but he smiles, and all of my existence tingles; I swear to God it does. “Can we step out front and talk?” he asks, his deep voice wavering a little like maybe he’s not sure I’ll say yes.
“Yes,” I answer, rising from the table, counting seconds so as not to seem too eager.
He opens the door for me once we’re there, and we stand on the porch under the single-bulb light. It’s very bright. His eyes shine, and the way his beard has filled out makes me start up with my erotic Kegels.
“Should I go?” I ask because he just stands there staring at me like he doesn’t know I’m literally standing over here aching for him. We just… we can’t yet. “I want you, Atticus. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” I say, my hands shaking, losing my mind a little. It’s… overwhelming how I feel, but frustrating how I need restraint, too.
“I just… I need some more time.” I think of how I felt just an hour ago, crying in my car. I did the right thing, talking myself down. But if I’m going to be with someone and give them myself the way Beck so freely gives herself to Beau—better than Carrie ever gave Big—I want to be free for them. Theirs for the taking. Utterly.
I know I won’t live my life without remembering. And I’ll never shake the memory. But I can live between those times and make my life everything I want it to be. I need to get to a place where there’s more living and less remembering.
I’m close; I can feel it with each sunrise, each glass of water, or walk through the deli. The feeling of acceptance is thick and dizzying around me, and I’m ready to reach out and claim it.Almost.
“I know,” he answers flatly, always unaffected and sometimes frustratingly slow. I reach up and cup his face, and he pinches my hand to his shoulder, nuzzling in with a low groan. My pussy clenches and my heart contracts, and I’m a woman I didn’t believe I could be again. I really am. “Don’t leave.”
I blink hard, fighting tears. “Do you want me to stay because…” I trail off, letting my thumb stroke across his wide bottom lip. It’s so soft, and my chest burns at the memory of his mouth on my wet pussy, licking me with precision. “You like me?” I ask, taunting and teasing but playfully. Because… we like each other. We know that.
“Because I see how much my Mom means to you,” he says simply, like it isn’t the sweetest and most romantic thing he could have possibly said in this situation. It’s beyond him saying, “yeah, I like you; please stay.” It’s being fucking seen on an emotional level I previously felt invisible on.
It was a great day, then a lousy evening, and now a wonderful night. After Atticus and I shared one more kiss, we went back inside. He helped his dad outside while I made lasagna with his mom. We talked and rolled pie dough while dinner baked, and then the four of us sat together and ate. Harry and Atti had their own conversation going about baseball. Atti listened as Harry talked about the Squires, the other Major League Baseball team in our state. Turns out Harry is no longer a Brutes fan.
I tried to only listen to Edie, but knowing that Harry was previously a Brutes fan and is suddenly not, makes me emotional.
My own mother won’t fucking take my side.
Edie explains the process of making lasagna with uncooked noodles versus cooked; she tells me the variations in styles–using white sauce and chicken versus red sauce and ground beef, using zucchini instead of noodles or even cashew cheese as opposed to the gobs of traditional. We discuss leaveners and starters when she slices into her homemade bread, and even though I thought when I sat down at the table that I’d have a hard time not focusing on Atticus, I really don’t.
I listen to everything Edie says, and we have a wonderful dinner. And while I pulled up with a sick stomach, I leave with a full one.
A full heart, too.
eighteen
atticus
My fists are aching to finish him
After she left my parents’house–complete with a fuckin’ grocery sack of leftover lasagna, french bread, and pie–whatever tiny thread that tied me to reality snapped.
Watching her drive away–knowing that giving her time is absolutely the right thing to do–angered me. But not with her.
With him.
The reason she needs time.
The reason she’s seeing Longo.
The reason we can’t start shit just yet.