Luckily these are all pretty short parts, eh? Here's some Velvet for ya'll. Gee Whiz, she cracks me up.
Enjoy!
***********
Velvet buzzed around the house putting things in order. She hummed to herself while she did so. She’d been humming one tune or another all week, a wide smile spreading across her face whenever she thought about it. Her son. Was married! Her son was married to a beautiful young woman. And Velvet would invariably sigh and get misty and think about how romantic it all was, how proud of him she was, how thrilled she was to have a new member of the family.
She wondered aloud every night to Jonah about how the newlywed couple’s honeymoon might be going. Was he taking her dancing? Had they been on a winery tour yet? Do you think they’re finding the accommodations to their liking? What do you think they’re doing right now?!
Jonah would raise his eyebrows, place his bookmark in whatever he was reading and kiss her patiently on the cheek, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to get any reading done at all with her in such a chatty, bubbly state, and then he’d place the book on the bedside table and gather her to his side and entertain her hypotheticals and musings until she’d exhausted herself. Then, each night, with her eyelids falling and her words soft and slow, he would kiss her gently, lower her to the pillows and turn out the bedside lamps. Then she’d curl up next to him feeling warm and cozy and giddy and content.
And it was also fun to have a secret! It made her feel electrically charged!
She’d made arrangements to have the couple’s things brought over to the guesthouse and managed to have it done while the girls were off at school. She’d had wedding announcements printed and other than the printer and Jonah now only Avalon knew, which was pretty remarkable because Velvet was no good at all at keeping secrets. Well, at little, fun, exciting secrets like this one, anyway!
And she’d planned this dinner with all the verve and fervor of a woman possessed. She wanted everything to be perfect. Her son and his bride were back from their honeymoon and she wanted to welcome them back with this family dinner and surprise the family!
Of course she knew there were rumors. She pretended like she didn’t hear them, pretended as if she wasn’t aware, but Velvet knew. Well, she hadn’t been terribly discreet. Bruch at the bistro with champagne and all that. Then having Grey’s handsome roommate bring all her son’s belongings over—she’d had to tell poor Phelan what the hell was going on. Then of course she’d had those announcements printed up and Judy at the printer’s was bound to tell someone, and She’d accidentally showed Avalon too… And Lord only knew who Maggie’s father and sister and cousins had told.
Nevertheless, the family didn’t really know, she hoped, and in any case this would be a lovely, wonderful, thrilling, beautiful, perfect night with the family. She sighed warmly and adjusted a place setting lovingy.
“This looks beautiful Sweetheart.” Jonah spoke from the door between the foyer and the dining room.
She spun with a grin and practically flew at him, wrapping her arms under his arms and pressing herself into his chest. “I’m so glad you’re home.” She murmured as he squeezed her against him and placed an adoring kiss atop her head.
“Me too.” He held her for a long moment and they both admired the perfectly set table, and she thought about the evening ahead.
“Smells great too.” He commented as she pulled back to look up into his handsome face. God she adored him. She went up on tiptoes and he lowered his head to accept the kiss she wished to give. She felt so romantic lately. Grey’s marriage made her think about her own love story with Jonah and she seemed to fall in love with him all over again. She felt like that girl again, and he was her gallant hero.
“What’s the occasion?” commented a churlish voice from the door between the dining room and kitchen.
Jonah pulled up, out of the kiss, abruptly, and Velvet giggled. If she had a dollar for everytime their children caught them being intimate she’d probably double her fortune. Jonah always got a little more embarrassed than she did. And this was just an innocent little kiss! He was adorable. She caressed his cheek before turning to Viola.
“Family dinner!” She half-sang.
Viola looked stormy and insolent, with her arms crossed and her hip cocked. “I’m going out.” She said with a smirk. “I told you last week that I had plans.”
Velvet was dismayed. “Oh No!”
Viola simply raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Velvet’s perfect plan was crumbling. “Vi-i!”
“Mo-om.” Mocked Viola.
“Young Lady.” Said Jonah sternly, earning a glare from the teenager.
The dining room was silent as Viola looked from Velvet to Jonah.
“We’re having a celebratory dinner this evening so that the family can get to know his new bride.” Said Jonah calmly. “It was, of course, to be a surprise.” Velvet felt his gentle hand on her shoulder and she blushed.
“And you’ve got to be here Viola, you’ve just got to!” said Velvet imploringly.
“Are you guys serious?” Viola asked incredulously.
Velvet nodded vigorously.
“Holy Shit.” Declared Viola.
“Language.” Sighed Jonah, sounding more weary than sharp.
Velvet bit her lip. She knew how the girl felt. “Holy Shit indeed.” She said with a sly smile at Viola, who couldn’t help smiling a little in response.
Velvet waited for the small playful spank on her ass for being so fresh but it didn’t come. With a measure of disappointment and confusion she turned to Jonah. Was he O.K.? He wasn’t even looking at her, he was looking at Viola.
“Why don’t you see if you can help your mother in the kitchen?” He suggested, sounding a little strained. “I’m going to go get a drink—you want anything Velvet?” Now he looked at her and he seemed perfectly mild, but somehow less than present.
She considered a cocktail but shook her head. “Not yet.”
He bent to place a dutiful and almost brotherly kiss on her cheek and then exited the dining room toward the den. Velvet watched him go with some regret. What had gotten into him all of a sudden?
“Is he mad at you for swearing?” Asked Viola, with a little amusement in her tone.
Velvet bit her lip. She certainly hoped not. That would be peculiar. “Maybe I shouldn’t set a bad example?” She pondered aloud. She turned back to Viola and the girl shrugged.
“What time are they coming?”
Oh! All other concerns flew right out of Velvet’s head and she turned with single-minded zeal back to the task at hand. This was going to be wondrous!
“Six-Thirty!” She practically squealed with excitement.
So I have survived my first week of summer camp! I am a camp councellor!
Now I have worked a summer THEATRE camp many, many times, and been an after-school theatre teacher too, and while those many of those skills cross over quite well, I want you to know that summer camp is quite a different experience altogether.
In fact, I'm kinda glad I get to do both A1S1 AND Summer Day Camp. I only wish now that I were a sleep-away camp councellor! Oh Manz, how dynamite would that be? I've wanted to go to summer camp ever since I saw the Parent Trap (yeah, me and every other girl in the world right?). Oh man, remember Salute Your Shorts?
Anyway, camp is wicked fun. Three days a week I get paid to stand in a lake and do art projects on the shore. And if you have ever been to summer camp you may know that the number one art project, the old fall-back, the camp standard, is GIMP! Oh yeah. Also called 'boonoggle' I guess, but I've only ever heard it referred to as Gimp 'round these parts.
Now somehow I managed to make it all the way through like a decade of girlscouts and girlscout camp without picking up any GIMP skills at all, so I get to summer camp and am like: "Oh fuck me in the ass, fucking GIMP?!?!?" And I'm the councellor for 5th & 6th grade, and incase you didn't know, 5th & 6th grade girls are fucking AWESOME at Gimp. Like, they are fucking gimp masters. Infact, two of my girls have set up a little side business for themselves making and selling gimp jewelry and keychains that they make throughout the day. Yeah. I bought one because they made it just for me (orange gimp;).
And my partner Jess, who is my co-councellor for 5th & 6th grade was a summer camp kid herself so she is THE SHIT at gimp and also at thread? Is that what it is? String? Whatever you make awesome bracelets out of. She'd like ridiculously good at it.
^What I hope to learn before the end of the summer!!^
So I'm feeling decidedly un-crafty and like I have big old clumsy fingers and at first I avoid the gimp all together, choosing instead to supervise sand castle building.
But you can only watch so many five year olds build and collapse mediocre castles before you find yourself drawn back to the craft table (which is, also, in the comfort of the shade...).
So, lured by the pretty colors of the plastic spools, I decide to try my hand at something, anything, gimp related. But at first I'm way too embarrassed to be a 26 year old female who hasn't got a clue about gimp so I just revert to the only thing I know how to do: A braid. Just a standard 3 string braid. Um. It came out awesome, thanks for asking, but it was completely unimpressive, as you might imagine.
I have gifted it to Mr. Waite but he says it is too precious to risk wearing it so he will just keep it in a safe place somewhere.
Next day at the beach I get the fuck over myself and ask one of my 5th graders how to do something easy. She teaches me the ZIPPER STITCH and I am super-de-duper excited! It isn't much more complicated than doing a braid, but looks way more impressive!!
I think it looks like an insect! I made one of these for Mr. Waite as well. He says it shall be a keychain!
Next day, pleased with my zipper skills and yearning to move on to more complicated stuff, I ask Jess what I should learn next. She shows me the BOX STITCH, which is a badass looking mother fucker, and I'll admit, I wasn't sure I could even do it! But guess what? it isn't as hard as it looks and I has learnt it good!
Tonight I decided to try to teach myself something more complex, so I could walk into camp on tuesday and knock people's socks off, but I gotta say, I have ALOT of trouble learning from pictures and instructions. I seem to be much better at learning from real 3-d demonstrations with a person-to-person interaction.
So tonight I has failed at Butterfly and become reasonably ok at the CIRCLE, which is performed in much the same way as the Box but for some reason is Mind numbingly, brain rapingly more difficult!
So wish me luck.
And if I get good? You might just find yourself the proud new owner of a fucking GIMP KEYCHAIN! woot! Lucky you!
Also another problem I don't have at camp: here at home I have two kittehz watching my every move and every now and then choosing to attack my dangling ends. Adorable, but difficult to work around!
Happy4thof July Everyone! Hope you have a happy and safe weekend full of fun, food, and fireworks!!
What's your favorite 4th of July tradition? I like to watch one of my very favorite movies of all time: JAWS!
"Panic on your hands on the Fourth of July!"
ANYWAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY........
This installment is back to one of my favorite characters, AvalonDelaney. (two different links for her there.)
I really hope you enjoy!
************
Avalon tried to reason out why it was, precisely, that she didn’t want to go to this dinner. She was being unreasonable, she decided at length. Because there was no rational explanation for why the idea of this little family dinner was making her so blindingly infuriated.
Ben had noticed right away. “Whoa, what’s up?” He’d asked when she climbed into his car outside of the campus library. She may have slammed the door just a little.
“Nothing.”
Ben stared at her. “Av?”
She sighed out in exasperation. He wouldn’t leave her alone until she told him, she knew him well enough to know that.
“I don’t know.” She said, which felt mostly true.
He raised an eyebrow. “You look good.” He said after a moment.
Avalon watched a group of college freshmen walk by the car, chattering and laughing too loudly and felt irritated by them as well. This was going to be a long evening.
She looked at Ben. “Thank you.” She said coolly. “Now we should get going.” She focused her gaze in front of her, trying to signal that the conversation was at an end. “You look good too.” She added as an afterthought.
There was a long minute of quiet before Ben put the car in gear and eased out into the campus’ main road. He was polite enough not to note that she’d barely spared him a glance, thus her compliment was clearly a courtesy at best. If it had happened the other way around Avalon knew she would have made a big thing about it. She looked over at his profile. He really was very good-looking. And he was wearing one of her favorite shirts—a tiffany blue button down she’d given him for his birthday the previous year, and dark chocolate trousers. This was a great outfit for his coloring; had he done it on purpose? She doubted it. “You really do look nice.” She said, a shade apologetically.
He kept his eyes on the road but smiled. “Thank you. I wore the shirt.” He said, a little proud of himself. He wore it open at the collar with clean white cotton tee underneath.
She gave half a laugh. “It makes you look like a dreamboat.” She said with a growing smile.
He chuckled. “A dreamboat?” He asked, amused by the ‘granny’ word.
“Mmmhmm.” She answered and slid her fingers up his arm to the base of his collar and scratched the base of his scalp playfully. She loved his sandy blonde hair. He even sported what she and her friends liked to call “Prince Hair”; a haircut that was clean and classic and reminiscent of fairy tale princes from the movies and story books of their youth. Ben was sort of like Cedar Falls’ answer to Prince Charming.
He was Cedar Falls’ golden boy. Tall, but not lanky; Athletic but not bulky; Handsome, but not too pretty; He had a great smile but he didn’t smile to excess. He was perfect. All the men in his family, on both sides, were good-looking men. And Avalon believed he was the best of all of them. “You’re a catch.” She teased coyly and she ran her fingers over his shoulders. The tiffany blue made her feel tickle-y and giddy. He’d made a wise choice of wardrobe this evening.
He grinned and threw a glance her way for a brief moment. The delight in his warm brown eyes made her breath hitch in her throat and she smiled back. He looked back toward the road and she trailed her fingers down his side and then onto his firm thigh. He sat up a little straighter and glanced in the rearview mirror. They had probably fifteen minutes remaining of the twenty minute car ride to her parents’ house. She slipped her hand toward his inner thigh and purred.
“As much as I love what you’re about to do—“ He said, sounding almost as if he were kicking himself for saying anything, “I think you should tell me what’s up.”
She boldly cupped his crotch and massaged expertly. “You, I hope.” She answered friskily.
He laughed. “Me, yes, definitely if you keep doing that.” He said, a little husky.
She leaned way over and nipped his earlobe, continuing to stroke and massage over his pants. He was quickly rising to her touch and straining against the fabric of his trousers. When she moved to release him from the too-confining space, started to pull downward on the small zipper he gently captured her wrist.
“Avalon.” He said gently. “Please honey.”
For a moment she didn’t know what she felt. Then she snatched her hand away and sat rigidly in her seat with her arms crossed in front of her. Cold and aloof. She was furious.
He sighed and adjusted himself as best he could before reaching over and pulling her left arm out of its pout and taking her hand in his. She let him take her hand but looked determinedly out her passenger side window with a scowl.
“I love you.” He said.
She huffed. “I love you too.” She said grudgingly.
“What’s the matter?”
The problem was she didn’t know how to articulate just what the matter was, not to him, not even to herself. She felt frustrated and irritable and sour and the more she tried to uncover the root of these unsettling feeling the worse they became. Everytime he pressed for her explanation it felt as if he were unwisely poking at a hornet’s nest.
She swallowed. She didn’t want to fight with him. Not tonight. Not right before they had to walk in there and be chipper and pleasant and lovely. She didn’t want to fight with him, she wanted him as her ally in there. She didn’t want to fight with him, but she felt it coming.
“Av, I’m not going to stop asking until you tell me.” He said quietly.
She licked the inside of her teeth and set her jaw. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. About. It.” She said in monosyllables.
He pulled his hand out of hers, to make a wide turn, but when he didn’t gather her hand up once again she knew he was angry. They had promised one another that they’d never do that, never pull the old ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ routine. They had made a promise to always communicate, always be open, always let the other in-on what was going on. For Avalon it was much easier said than done. She had to work at it. A lot.
Because sometimes? Sometimes she really did not want to talk about it. She drummed her now orphaned fingers on her leg tetchily. “I don’t want to go to this!” She exploded after about five minutes of silence. She felt panicky and wild and had the strongest urge to just rip the car door open and throw herself out of the moving vehicle onto the pavement.
If he was startled by her outburst he didn’t show it. “How come?” He asked mildly.
His calm enflamed her. “Because I don’t.” She barked.
He kept driving placidly. She waited for him to speak. When he did not, she shrieked: “Pull over. Pull over pull over pull over!”
“No.” He said very clearly, glancing at her just long enough to ascertain that there was no medical emergency or anything.
“Ben, pull this car over right now. I don’t want to be in this car right now. Pull the car over now.” She felt herself spiraling out of control and she was furious with him for being so goddamned calm and unperturbed. He kept his hands fixed to the steering wheel, made no move to push on the blinker, no move toward pulling over.
“Avalon you need to calm down.” He said firmly.
She felt like her head was exploding. Her blood boiled in her ears, her chest, her face and she could have screamed. Instead she forced the iciest, most deliberate voice she had. “Pull this car the Fuck over right now or I swear to God I will make sure you crash it.”
He slowed-up a little but only braced himself for whatever she was thinking of springing on him. She’d said ‘fuck’. They both knew this was likely to get fairly ugly. He would have been wise to pull over. But he was resolute. He kept on in the direction of her parents’ house.
“I will stop this car when I get to your house and not a minute before.” He stated.
She wanted to smash the windshield. She imagined it splitting in a hundred directions and then collapsing into millions of little square pieces and showering in on them. She wanted to kick her foot right through it. Instead she pushed her feet hard into the floor of the car and yanked at the steering wheel.
“Jesus Christ!” He hollered, pulling hard against her force. The car swerved dangerously first toward her side of the road and then precariously toward oncoming traffic as he attempted to course-correct. He peeled her iron grasp off the wheel as he struggled to keep the nose of the car within the traffic lines.
“Pull over.” She demanded.
“Calm the fuck down!” He countered, practically crushing her hand in his, trying to prevent her from trying the stunt a second time. Now he’d said fuck. Things were escalating satisfyingly.
“Let go of me!” She shrieked and pulled wildly against his powerful grasp.
“Not until you calm down.” He growled. She could see a flash of something like fear in his eyes as he fought to maintain his driving and stave off her insanity simultaneously.
She hated him for being able to do both at once. He made her feel like a child having a tantrum. “Fuck you Ben.” She hissed and with a growl tearing her throat she suddenly went limp in his grip.
He loosened his hold just slightly, warily. “If I let go, can I trust you to get a hold of yourself?” He asked, he didn’t mean it to sound condescending but it rankled and provoked her even further.
She laughed mirthlessly and he glanced over at her. She hated the concern all over his features. He made her feel insane when he looked at her like that. She had the strangest urge to spit in his face. She sucked in on her cheeks instead and scolded herself for behaving like a goddamn lunatic.
“Just pull the fuck over and I will be fine.” She answered haughtily.
“Goddammit Avalon!” He barked and she jumped at the brutal force of it. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Shut the fuck up!” She practically screamed and yanked her hand out of his loosened hold. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that.”
His eyes widened and his jaw clenched. He kept his right arm out between them, ready for her if she chose to attack him or go for the wheel again. He was furious.
“Well?” She demanded hotly when he hadn’t said anything after a long moment. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
He looked like he had a great deal to say, but he only shook his head and kept his eyes ahead of him. She felt the fight bleeding out of her. “Pull. Over. Please.” She said wearily.
He did not. The steady hum of the car’s engine was simultaneously maddening and soothing and Avalon didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She watched the street signs as they passed and knew, with a dread feeling in her gut, that they were getting close.
“I don’t want to go.” She said weakly.
“Well neither do I, now.” He said rather sharply.
She leaned the side of her forehead against the cool glass of her window and shivered all over. “Then don’t.” She said bitterly. “You don’t have to be there.”
He was quiet and she wanted to look at him, to read his face, but she kept her forehead on the window and closed her eyes instead.
“Is that what you want?” He asked carefully, a leaden quality to his words.
She shrugged.
The car slowed to a stop and she heard him put it in park but he left the car running. Slowly she opened her eyes. They were on her street but not yet pulled up to the house. She looked at him, confusion written in her expression and he stared at her.
“Avalon, I’m only going to ask this one more time and I need you to think carefully before you answer me.” She bristled at his tone. She felt her nostrils flare and her eyes grew hot and her fingers curled into fists. “Because if you tell me I don’t need to be at a family event right now then I will take that to mean that you no longer consider us a family.” She furrowed her brows and scowled. Ben could be sensitive about things like that. “I want to be by your side in there tonight.” He said, softening his tone. “Now, do you want me there?”
He was missing the point. She raged inwardly. She didn’t want to go! It had nothing to do with him.
“Yes.” She forced.
“Ok.” He said. “I love you Av.” He added quietly.
She blinked and looked away. “I love you too.” She replied, compulsory.
“What’s going on?” He tried again gently.
“I don’t know.” She admitted desperately. “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I just know I don’t want to be there tonight.”
Ben sighed and reached over to take her hand. “Well, as much as you don’t want to be there, multiply that by a hundred and that’s how much I don’t want to be there.” He told her.
She looked at him. “Why not?” Ben was normally a perennial optimist, the one who always saw the bright side of things and gave Avalon pep-talks in order to get her to attend events and social gatherings she would rather avoid.
“Ugh.” He responded. “Because the last time I was at your house things got pretty weird.”
Avalon’s brow crinkled. She was trying to remember. “When?”
“Poker night.” He answered. “While you were upstate.”
“It got weird?” She asked skeptically. He’d mentioned the poker night when she’d spoken to him on the phone the next day but he hadn’t indicated that anything had been out of the ordinary, jut that he’d hated going over without her there. This was the first time since that the subject had resurfaced.
With his left hand Ben massaged his brow. “Yeah.” He sighed. “Your Dad was very, um, odd, all night; and your sister was—I don’t know, I just don’t really look forward to seeing them right now.”
“Tell me.” She said, feeling both intrigued and concerned.
“Ok, I have no idea what was up with your Dad,” he said dismissively, “But he was weird. Like, distracted and jumpy and spacey. But then your sister? Christ.”
“What was my sister doing hanging around with you guys?” Avalon asked, feeling an irritation mounting. If she wasn’t allowed to hang out with the guys on poker nights then there was no way Viola should get to. Her Dad always gave Viola whatever the hell Viola wanted.
“She wasn’t, not really.” Ben saw Avalon’s obvious confusion and hurried to explain. “I mean, she asked if she could play, your Dad said ‘no’. She came back to try again later; she whined about it and even got your uncle Caleb on her side but your Dad was like: ‘Don’t tell me how to parent my child’—“
“Whaaaaat?” Avalon had never heard her father speak like that to anyone, let alone his youngest brother whom he adored.
“Yeah, I told you: he was weird. So then Viola stomps upstairs all upset and we continue to play poker.”
Avalon nodded. She looked at their hands and was suddenly very glad he hadn’t pulled over before. That she’d stayed in the car. She squeezed his hand a little, a mute thanks. He took it as his cue to continue the story.
“And it was just rough being there without you in the house anyway, and then my uncles and your uncles bring up the wedding stuff and it’s like they’re trying to embarrass me infront of your Dad, which would be bad enough on a normal night but when he’s already acting so bizarre?” He leveled an expression on her that told her it had been hell. She smiled indulgently. “They brought up the bachelor party.” He lamented with a half-shudder.
She bit her lip. He really was adorable. “And is that all?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no.” Ben said shaking his head. “Your sister comes back down a third time but this time she’s um, she’s—“ He let some air out in a ‘whoosh’ before drawing another breath and continuing. “She’s wearing what she’s calling her ‘pajamas’, but Av? You could see everything. Like. Everything.”
Avalon opened her mouth to speak but had no words.
“I mean, it was really, really inappropriate.” Ben added, blushing faintly. “And it got real awkward real fast.” He told her.
“What did my father do?” She asked breathlessly.
“Well first West practically rapes her with his eyes and I thought your Dad was going to kill him— I really did, you should have seen his face, you now? His eyes?“ Avalon raised her eyebrows. “Then your Dad sort of hustles Viola out of the room pretending everything is fine but they were gone for a while and when I saw her again—she was on her way to bed for the night—her eyes were puffy and she’d been crying.”
Good, though Avalon remorselessly. Maybe her father had finally grown enough of a spine to properly discipline the little hellion. “And how was dad after that?” She asked.
“He got pretty drunk Av.” Ben said apologetically.
Avalon laughed. “My father doesn’t get drunk.” She said, wondering now if the whole story had been some joke.
He didn’t join her laughter, he didn’t even smile. “I know.” He said quietly. “But he did.”
She felt clammy and uncomfortable all over. “What did he do?” She asked, a strange alarm growing in her belly. “What did he say?”
Ben’s eyebrows crinkled. “Well he wasn’t the only one drinking a lot.” Ben assuaged, “Your Uncle Caleb got shit-faced, West was pretty far gone and my uncles had more than they usually do.” He was thoughtful. “Maybe it was because there were no women at home. Well, I don’t count Vi of course.”
Avalon thought about it. Maybe. Maybe men were different when the women were out of town. “Did you get drunk?” She asked, pretending to be casual but obviously baiting him.
“I did not.” He responded assertively. “There was no way I wasn’t getting the hell out of there as soon as we’d finished.” He said and she believed him. “Plus I had to drive West home.”
“Did he…” She almost didn’t want to know. “Did he embarrass himself at all?” She asked timidly, meaning her Father.
Ben raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Sort of? It was embarrassing for me to see your Dad like that.” He cleared his throat. “I mean he didn’t, like, get fall-down drunk or anything, and he didn’t say anything too outrageous, I just…” He searched for a way to articulate how he felt “He just wasn’t himself and a couple times your Uncle Nolan had to, sort of, cover for him, I guess I’d say, sort of smooth over something he’d said or done and it was just uncomfortable.” Ben finished and took a deep breath; he seemed relieved to have gotten all that off his chest.
Avalon felt vaguely distressed and fairly embarrassed too. “I’m so sorry.” She said, finding apologizing for her father to be peculiar and unpleasant.
“Hey, it’s ok, it’s fine, no big deal, I just, I want you to know you aren’t alone in not wanting to go tonight.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “We’ll be in it together.” He said with a small laugh.
She wished she could return the laugh but all she managed was a wan smile. “I’m just pissed about my brother getting married.” She confessed, feeling small and petty for being jealous.
Ben’s smile deepened. “He ain’t got nothin’ on us honey.” He said like a moviestar and leaned in to place a warm, full kiss on her pouting lips. She doubted Ben would understand her frustration. She didn’t think he’d be able to empathize with her feeling that Grey always pulled stunts like this just to steal attention away from her. He’d been doing it all her life and this felt like the absolute last straw.
Grey was always one-upping her, pulling focus from her big achievements by doing something wild or incredible and Avalon was always left as second banana, old news, or an ‘also ran’. Of course a confirmed bachelor would choose a time like now to up and elope, naturally he’d wait until the whole Town was buzzing about her engagement and looking forward to what promised to be the wedding of the year—if not the decade—to up and scandalize the town with a surprise marriage.
She hated Grey. And by association she hated whatever little slut had been stupid enough to marry him and ruin Avalon’s moment in the spotlight. And she hated her mother because she knew, she knew it deep down, that Velvet Delaney would not be able to rest until she’d thrown a big wedding party for Grey and his idiot bride, which would, of course, turn everyone’s attention even further from her wedding to Ben.
Ben pulled back a little from the kiss. “You ready?” He asked sweetly, squeezing her hand.
She loved him so much. “I’m sorry about before.” She said, looking deep into his rich brown eyes.
He shrugged a little. “I understand.” He said, and she thought that maybe he did, at least in part. Maybe Ben understood her better than she did herself.
He put the car in gear and drove the rest of the way up her street until they came to rest outside the Delaney mansion. With a weary sigh he put the car in park and turned it off.
“What did you think?” She asked, keeping her tone light.
“What?”
“Of my sister?”
“I think she needs therapy.” He answered without hesitation.
“I mean, did she look good?” She asked silkily, non-chalant.
“She looked like a half-naked fifteen year old.” Ben answered sourly.
“And?”
“And she’s my sister and it was disgusting and I’d rather not be thinking about it when we walk in that house.” He said firmly.
Sorry for the romance novel diatribe. Lolz. Enjoy the next vignette in the evening I'm calling THE DINNER. This one hints at something that went down on their honeymoon, something we haven't seen (because I haven't written it), but is quite titillating, heeeheeheee.
*MWAH*
***************
He swiftly rifled through the keys on his keyring. Of course he had a guest house key. The guest house was a great little piece of real estate. He’d had plenty of occasions to make use of its fabulous amenities and relative privacy.
He slid the key into the lock but found the action unnecessary. It was already unlocked. She must be home, he thought, then corrected himself, she must be here. Here at the guest house. He was uncomfortable thinking of it as a home.
After a bracing inhale he swung the door inward and entered the cottage. She was at the sink. She turned, gave a small sort-of smile and then turned back to her task. “Hi.” She said, a bit awkwardly.
“Hello.” He responded in kind. He hadn’t really decided on how he should behave around her. The honeymoon had been partly torturous, partly pleasant, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that at all. And then there was the abominable way he’d conducted himself on the final night. He ground his teeth together thinking about it. How the fuck was he supposed to carry himself after that?
He’d been drunk. Very drunk. And he’d been a pig. His stomach flipped. He loathed himself for how he’d acted, what he’d done to her. She had pretended, this morning--the morning after, that it hadn’t happened. Hadn’t punished him or shrank from him or treated him any differently really. He’d wanted to apologize but had not. He still had yet to do so.
He watched her for a long moment as she ran some water in the sink. He wondered how to broach the subject. ‘Be a fucking man and own up to it, you sackless fuck.’ He admonished himself silently. But he couldn’t seem to move his tongue to that command. Instead he said: “What are you doing?”
She pushed the handle on the faucet to stop the stream of water. “Sorry?”
“What are you doing?” He repeated, moving toward the kitchen island. “Are you washing dishes?” He asked, fairly incredulous.
“She looked from him to the glass in her hand and back again, her brow furrowed. “Yes.” She said. “Is that—is there something wrong?”
He pulled a face. “Why?” He queried, completely non-plussed.
She mirrored his confusion. “I used some dishes.” She answered, indicating a plate, some flatware, a mixing bowl and a small frying pan along with the soapy glass in her hand. “Isn’t that—“ She paused, uncomfortable. “Is that allowed?” She wasn’t being facetious or flippant, she was honestly alarmed that maybe she’d over stepped some boundary, some rule of the guest house.
Grey shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “No, I mean, of course it’s allowed; this is your place now.” He swallowed. Fuck. He was uncomfortable with that fact. It was her place too. He shook his head again. “Of course you can use the fucking dishes.” He was irritated with himself and the words came out biting.
“Oh.” She said and bit her lip. They stared at eachother.
“I meant, why are you washing them by hand?” He asked, trying to sound more friendly and less antagonistic.
She glanced around the kitchen and shrugged slightly. “Is there another option?” she asked in a small, earnest voice.
He narrowed his eyes and smiled a little, genuinely amused. “Maggie, I’m named after a fucking appliance company.” He said with an half a chuckle. “You think we don’t have a dishwasher?”
She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t see one.” She replied simply.
He watched her glance around at other cabinets suspiciously, and knew she was wondering what else was hidden around, behind the cottage-kitchen-clapboard facades. “There’s a trash compactor,” he moved to point each item out in turn “An under-counter microwave” that was a pretty recent addition, “A recycling center,” She moved as he came near, “a mini fridge and, what am I forgetting…” He spun in place for a moment, trying to figure out what he’s missed. “Oh, and a wine chiller.” He opened a lower cabinet near her legs to show the state-of the art wine fridge. “It has temperature controls and well, I don’t know. It chills wine.” He finished and she leaned down to peek.
“There’s champagne in here.” She marveled.
Grey rolled his eyes to the ceiling. His mother. Jesus, she was a romantic.
Maggie straightened up and they both realized they were standing a little close to one another. Grey gave her a weak smile, his gut twisting guiltily and stepped back to give her breathing room.
“Thanks for the tour.” She said with a timid smile.
“Mi casa es su casa.” He said with a little note of playful irony in his voice.
She narrowed her eyes but then seemed to decide he hadn’t meant it as a slight. “Gracias.” She responded with a wink, and moved back to the sink to resume the dish washing.
“You’re still going to hand-wash them?” He asked, a little perplexed.
She shrugged. “There’s just a few of them, it seems silly to let them sit in the dishwasher when I’ll have them done in a few minutes.”
Grey sighed and shook his head but didn’t comment. The one thing he doubted the cottage contained was a dish strainer. He slid open a drawer and pulled out a striped dish towel and moved to stand to her right.
She paused, her sponge stuffed inside the glass, her hands wet and soapy and she stared at him.
He lifted the towel in response. “You wash,” he said, “I’ll dry.”
She couldn’t hide her incredulity, but she nodded and rinsed the cup clear of soapy residue and handed it into Grey’s open and waiting dish towel.
He dried the glass thoroughly while she worked on the plate and returned it to the well-stocked cabinet where it belonged. He returned to her side to await the next item. They continued with this little routine in silence. Until each item had been scrubbed, rinsed, dried and put-away.
Grey was pensive. He wanted to talk, to make conversation or maybe broach the subject of his unacceptable behavior and offer an apology but he seemed unable to make words manifest. What the fuck? He’d never had any trouble at all making conversation. When he’s been ‘wooing’ Maggie, trying to get into her pants, he’d never have let conversation lag like this unless it was to allow for heavy petting and making out. Now he was tongue tied? He ran a hand through his hair and arranged the damp towel over the oven door handle.
“Thanks.” She said and moved around the kitchen island to sit at one of the bar stools. He just stared at her. He wondered how her day had been. Moving into a new place, alone, trying to settle in. It didn’t occur to him to ask ‘How was your day?’ He only stared dumbly.
Maggie licked her lips. “It’s a really beautiful house.” She offered, trying to break the tension between them. “Your parents are incredibly generous to let us stay here for a while.” Her hand went up to the silver pendant at the base of her throat and she swallowed.
He wondered if she’d been ill at all that morning. She’d been sick several times over the honeymoon. He wondered if she was feeling alright now. But it didn’t occur to him to ask.
“Yes.” He responded. He wanted to shake himself. What the fuck was his problem?
She blinked. A silence stretched on and still Grey stared.
“Look, I-“ he began at the same time she said “Listen, I—“.
They both stopped, looked at each other and laughed. It felt good to laugh, he acknowledged, feeling some of the squirming in his gut subside. And it felt very good to hear her share the laugh. That notion sort of irritated him and he furrowed his brow and looked at his shoes.
“Go ahead.” She encouraged him softly.
He swallowed. “Look.” He re-started, trying to pull courage from somewhere. “Look.” He repeated it and shook his head. He needed to do this. He had to do it. “I want to apologize.” He said stiffly. “For my actions.” His cadence was clipped, halting. “Last night.” He finished.
The silence that followed swished in his ears like the hypnotizing sound of the inside of a seashell.
“There’s no need.” She responded at length, surprising him. He snapped his head up.
“Excuse me?” Of course there was a fucking need. He’d practically raped her. He was an ass. He was worse than that. And he was ashamed.
“There’s no need to apologize.” She replied, resolute.
He tilted his head and searched her dark eyes but couldn’t make sense of her. “I think there is—“ He began but she waved a small hand dismissively.
“We’re married.” She said in explanation.
He didn’t even know where to begin in response. He rubbed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger before continuing.
“Nothing.” He said quietly, “Nothing gives me the right to do what I did to you.” He tried to swallow but found the lump in his throat too large to budge. “Not anything.”
She was quiet for a moment. “What you did to me?” She asked softly.
He pushed air past his lips in an audible ‘whooosh’. “Yes.” he felt like he was confessing before judge and jury.
Then she laughed. A small, light little laugh. And he looked at her, puzzled and a little alarmed. “Oh Grey.” She said, a peculiar expression playing across her face. Was it pity? Sympathy? “You didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want you to do.” She blushed a little but held her chin high. “I’m sorry if it confuses things a little.” She said and cleared her throat. “But you don’t have anything to feel guilty about and you certainly don’t need to apologize.” She shivered a little and all he could do was blink. He became aware, after a moment, that his mouth was agape.
He’d had a lot to drink. He’d been demanding. Rough. He’d, well, he’d even spouted something about ‘asserting his marital rights’, he’d been awful to her. Worse than a dog. A pig. He looked at her completely at a loss for words.
“What?” She demanded, a little defensively. “It isn’t a sin. We’re married.” Her fingers resumed their nervous fiddling with the necklace.
He tried to think, tried to remember through the alcohol induced fog. Had she protested? Had she told him ‘no’? He felt like she had, seemed to remember holding her down, forcing himself on her unwilling body. Violating her. He was very confused. “Maggie, married or not, there’s no excuse for…” He didn’t think he could say it. He’d been roped into this marriage under the threat of being named a rapist and now that he was one he felt filthy, beyond wretched, beyond redemption, really.
She reached up and gathered her thick, dark curls together and bound them with a fat black hair elastic she wore around her wrist. “What time is your mother expecting us?” She asked casually.
“I’m trying to talk with you.” He said irritably.
She raised her eyebrows. “And I’m trying to tell you to forget it before you say something really insulting.” She shot back hotly.
“What?!” She was the most confounding individual.
“Well I resent the implication that you’re dangerously close to making here,” she said venomously “That I’m some frail, put-upon little flower that you ‘had your way with’ or something.” Her cheeks were sucked in and her expression was challenging, unapologetic.
He clicked his tongue. “But- I-“
“I really wouldn’t say anymore if I were you Grey Delaney.” She said tartly. “Because either you think me a weak, spineless little girl or you think I’m a filthy whore and I’m sure you don’t want to accidentally prove yourself a complete fool by insulting me either way.”
His eyes widened so far he had the vague impression that they might pop right out of his skull, like in some cartoon. “I didn’t say—“
“Well if I didn’t enjoy it then I’m a victim, and if I did enjoy it?” She let the question hang there in the air between them a moment, shrewdly observing his astonishment, “ You feel guilty, so you must feel like you denigrated me, hurt me, or defiled me; so if I liked it? What does that make me?”
Incredible, he thought. But he snapped his mouth closed before he dug himself any deeper in the hole he had found himself in.
“Six-thirty.” He replied, to her previous question.
OMG. I just finished reading a romance novel WORSE than the last one I told you about. If I don't rectify this problem it is going to be one long-ass, frustrating, blue-balls (or, well, the girl version) kinda summer.
Two kisses. Two mother fucking kisses. And tepid, watery, 'hold back so I don't frighten her' kinda kisses. Give me a fucking break. Maybe I'll do what Andrea's doing and re-read GWTW. Because at least when sex isn't described, like-- in GWTW there's none of the "He took his pulsing manhood and slid it into her wetness...", but I'll tell you what, that fucking novel sizzles anyway. Rhett Butler kisses that girl until she's quite literally dizzy and faint. Yup. And very, very wet, as I'd imagine. That isn't said, explicitly, It's more implied, but hell, you're wet by the end of the passage so you gotta figure Miss Scarlett is too!
But this book? That I read? Good Grief. I could tell the author loved her characters, and had great ideas, great nuggets of plot elements, but good jesus, she just couldn't seem to make an effective story with it all. And plus. C'mon. No heated fondling? No capturing of the nipples in the mouth? Not even a trail of kisses down her goddamn neck to get her lightheaded? Not even the curtesy of an ass grab? Not one fucking ASS GRAB?
I mean maybe if there had been enough, or excuse me, some, no, pardon, ANY FUCKING FOREPLAY i.e. ass grab, neck kiss, titty lick, etc, then I might have been pleasntly accepting of the fact that it is all consummated 'off screen' between the conclusion and the happy epilogue in which a passel of children romp about, somehow proving to me that the sex was so good they just can't seem to avoid procreating (lol, such crazy logic but we women seem to be suckers for that. Oh man, do you remember when you first learned about sex and what people do to make babies and then you thought to yourself: 'Oh my god! My PARENTS did that to eachother? ew!' and then the thinking went that, well they probably didn't do it much at all, probably just the exact amount of times necessary to produce you and whatever siblings you had? lol. I was sure my parents had only ever had sex 4 times until I overheard evidence to the contrary one night. Yeah, creeps.)
Oh, and Christ-on-a-cracker, I really thought, at one point, that this could get good, you know, because one of the main plot points is that this woman (20 years old) looks to be about 15, but a YOUNG fifteen, not a super developed, ready to mount-and-mate kind of fifteen. Awesome sauce right? I thought: oooh, now here's a story line I can get behind. He is afraid to be attracted to her because she'd so fucking YOUNG and he doesn't want to be a pervert, doesn't want to be a lecher... But guess what? He IS attracted to her, because, duh, they're meant to be together, so I'm like: awwww yeah, guilty sex with a minor... but nope. He apparently has SELF CONTROL, and WILL POWER, two very disappointing traits for your hero to posesss. And then later, when he discovers she's of a perfectly reasonoble age to 'bed', he is relieved and says to himself soemthing like: Oh, even though my mind was confused my body responded to her because on some DEEPER LEVEL I knew her to be old enough.
Wait for it...
FUCK YOU!
Like, I can't give you the finger hard enough. You were attracted to her because of the fucking pheremones she's spraying everywhere, you douche. And guess what? You were attracted to her BECAUSE she looks young and tight, not IN SPITE OF... chirst. Are you kidding me? Don't fucking pull that baloney. If the man had ben fond of round, well-developed ladies (as many a man in a romance novel is), then guess what? Our heroine would have been round and curvy. And if he THOUGHT he was only attracted to well developed women but found himself UNEXPECTEDLY ATTRACTED to this bean-pole, then that would be one thing, I've seen that done too, but it would not have required this silly RUSE about her AGE and his ridiculous preoccupation with it. Because she was OBVIOUSLY his intellectual equal, 'mature beyond her young age...' says he, so I charge thee, AUTHOR: what the FUCK? Don't play these dangerous little mind games, the Lolita cock-tease games, if you ain't got the sack to back that shit up. Fuck you. Hard. In the ass. (And no, this novel didn't even FLIRT with such a fun notion., that's just me inserting my wishes (forceibly) into it.)
Ugh. Sigh. Aaron can't understand how I am able to finish shitty books when I know they're so shitty and they have no apparent redeeming qualities. I'm not sure, other than the knowledge that despite how grueling it was, despite begrudging the time I was wasting while reading, I still found myself irritatingly attatched to knowing how it all turned out for these infuriatingly tame lovahz. Will he ever get to kiss her titty? Will she ever stroke his manhood? I mean I knew they'd overcome whatever -yawn- adversity the author contrived (and oh christ, how contrived! I was actually enraged by the weak, flaccid 'obstacles' and impediments to their love that this woman dreamt up. good mother mary my act one scene one students can create more effective drama.), knew they would eventually come to understand one another and marry and live happily ever after. That is the sole function of a romance novel. Many believe it is to be erotica, but nay, even without sex, a romance novel must be about the union of two souls who are MEANT TO BE TOGETHER and share a perfect love for all time. Even if that love bores me to sexually frustrated tears. Anyhow I needed to have CLOSURE or I'd likely be thinking about this book for the rest of the goddamn summer and that awful thought was enough to spur me to the finish line.
And it is done. And it was unceremoniously chucked against the wall upon completion, with a growl of anger and exhasperation, and it still lays discarded on the floor over there because I can't even bother to pick that garbage up and dispose of it the way I should. So thanks, awful romance novel, thanks for wasting a good chunk of my LIFE with your muddled plot, your insufficient complications, your underperforming erotica and your ear-reddingly embarrassing lovey-dialogue, Vomit in Mouth.
Too bad too, because you really did have the potential to be enjoyable. Alas and Alack.
Oh and I have discovered that this whole line, the ZEBRA REGENCY novels? I guess they're like, designed for christian housewives, and that's why they ain't got the nasty. Fuck that noise. I'm a Catholic, give me some scadalous pre-marital fucking... in petty dresses and with TONS of consequences!! But that's good to note if you have a daughter or neice who wants to read romance novels at a young age, maybe start them out on theses ZEBRA cock-teases if you don't want them jumping right to throbbing hard man-roots and damp entrances and nipple capturing.
Perhaps D will lend me Sookie next. I opened one of those up while dog sitting and was VERY PLEASED with the passage I read! LOL!!
I kinda love that my first post for July was The Boston Cream Pie... seems like a great way to start the month.
And I absolutely loved your responses thus far! Lol. I saw someone eating a Boston Cream Donut yesterday morning and had a fit of the giggles. Naughty Naughty.
Any how. Ok. I'm about to start a series of posts having to do with "The Dinner". This evening takes place on the day Maggie & Grey return from their Honeymoon, and Velvet wants to have them over for dinner so the fam can meet and get to know Maggie! Fun fun.
This little vignette is a sort of pre-quel to The Dinner, plus it references our new friend Phelan Everett, Grey's 'best friend', so I thought this would be a fun one to lead with.
Get ready!
****************
Grey felt strange coming home to the guest house. He’d driven half way to his off-campus apartment after he'd been to the gym, before remembering. He’d almost continued on when he realized he’d been on automatic pilot, but he was keen to keep up appearances for his mother’s sake and she’d be expecting him. She was having the newlyweds over to the main house for dinner. He rolled his eyes at the thought.
While they’d been away upstate his mother and father had arranged for Maggie’s things to be brought over. They’d had Hector and a few of Maggie’s male cousins over to lunch, too, to thank them for helping. He wondered how that afternoon had gone. And they’d had his best friend Phelan shuttle most of Grey’s things over from the apartment as well. His parents had insisted Grey and Maggie live in the guest house until they found a place of their own.
“I’ve seen your apartment Grey.” His mother had said in scandalized tones. “And that is not a place for a young wife.”
He hadn’t argued that point. His place with Phelan was decidedly and unapologetically a bachelor’s lair.
Maggie hadn’t said much about the impending living arrangements but he got the impression that she was secretly relieved to avoid living at the apartment with Phelan. She’d said once, when they were first dating, that she didn’t quite trust the guy. At the time he’d assured her and assuaged her suspicions but underneath he’d given her credit; Phelan was a jackal. He’d told Grey that he couldn’t wait till his best friend finished with ‘that sweet piece of Mexican ass’ so he could have a turn. Phelan had a pretty reliable system worked out which involved a sympathetic shoulder to cry on and vigorous rebound sex after Grey’d broken some little thing’s heart.
He smiled a little to himself remembering the night he’d heard Phelan trying to smooth-talk Maggie. They’d just broken up a few nights before and she’d come over to reclaim an article of jewelry she’d left at their place.
Grey had had a young woman with him, in his bed, when Maggie’d arrived, so he’d asked her to wait in the living room while he did the searching for it. He’d been surprised that she’d stayed, surprised she’d suffered the indignity of being asked to wait for him outside his room because he’d already moved on and was fucking someone else in there at present.
But she’d only tilted her chin an inch higher, crossed her arms and told him she’d wait. And Phelan, who’d been sniffing for an opportunity to move-in on Maggie, could hardly conceal his delight. Grey’d heard his friend offering her a drink in his kindest, most sympathetic voice, just as he closed the bedroom door to begin his search.
He’d really had to search, too. She’d said she believed it would be on the bedside table but, well, he’d cleared that table off in a hasty rush earlier, just before he’d bent his current conquest over it for a fast and hard rear-entry fuck.
It took him a while of searching to remember where he’d tossed all the junk that had been atop that table, and even when he did manage to locate the detritus the necklace hadn’t been among the wreckage. He’d gotten on his hands and knees then, in his boxers, and begun the unenviable task of venturing his hands into the dark depths under his bed.
“What the fuck are you looking for?” The girl had asked, sounding petulant and bitchy. She was in a pissy mood because she’d been blowing him when Maggie’d shown up, and despite the girl’s threats and cajoling he’d had her stop what she was doing so he could deal with whatever the hell Maggie’d come over for.
This girl wasn’t one of his virgins; she was just some fairly attractive thing he’d found at the campus bar, just something to pass the time.
“A necklace.” He’d said, pawing around blindly beneath the bed frame.
“Tell her to come back later.” The little bitch huffed.
Grey’d stared at her, not bothering to conceal his contempt. She’d rolled her eyes and looked away crossly. Nothing felt remotely like a necklace under there.
He’d rifled through his desk drawers, picked through the laundry basket, peered behind various items of furniture and come up empty. Finally he’d made the little slut move so he could look under the sheets and between the mattress and headboard. That’s when the girl seemed to reach the limit of her outrage and had started dressing, in a huff, muttering insults at him and keeping up a steady stream of bitchery until he’d finally snapped.
“Listen, you aren’t as irresistible as you think you are, so stop acting like you’re some fucking prize. If you want to go, go.”
She’d stared at him, agape.
“If, on the other hand, you think you can manage to keep your mouth shut for a couple minutes then I’ll be glad to fuck you till you cry as soon as I find this fucking necklace. Ok?” He wasn’t sure if he hoped she’d snap her jaw shut obediently and stay or hoped she’d storm out in a tizzy.
She’d stayed. She ended up swallowing a lot more than her pride that evening too.
She’d sat down in a desk chair to wait for him to finish his quest. That’s when he’d caught the glint of something at her throat. “What the fuck?” He’d demanded, striding over, fixated on the thin silver chain around her neck and the small round pendant that hung upon it.
“What?” She’d said, not even blushing.
He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged unconcernedly and raised her eyebrows back at him. He’d sucked his teeth and held his hand out, palm upward, expectantly. Fucking thief.
“This is mine.” She’d insisted defensively.
He’d leaned over and examined it a little more closely before her fingers reached up protectively to shield it from his view. She’d been too slow.
“Rose?” He asked dubiously.
“I love roses.” She responded quickly.
He sneered at her. “Not roses you fucking moron, Saint Rose? Of Lima?”
She’d looked confused for a second, then pissy. “Whatever.” She’d said glibly.
“Catholic huh?” He mocked “Thou shalt not steal, right?”
She’d narrowed her small eyes at him.
“Give me the fucking necklace.” He was cold. Stern. A tense moment stretched between them.
Then she’d rolled her eyes, reached up and snapped it off her neck, breaking the delicate silver chain. Then she’d tossed it carelessly at his feet, pointedly ignoring his outstretched palm.
His jaw ticked. Women were so fucking ridiculous. He’d blinked rapidly, trying to decide how to proceed. After a moment of deliberation he’d crouched, picked it up, and examined it closely. It didn’t look particularly valuable; just a religious medal on a simple chain. He guessed the significance was in her attachment to it. In whatever had made her wait in the apartment of a man she despised for using her and breaking her heart.
At length he decided not to pretend he hadn’t found it. He had a funny feeling that maybe Maggie was the kind of girl who’d want it back despite its current condition.
He’d closed his fingers around it and strode toward his bedroom door. With his free hand on the doorknob he hesitated. She might cry. The sight of her necklace in this shabby state might just get her worked up. He decided to throw on a shirt.
That’s when he’d heard it. As he was slipping a plain cotton tee over his head and pulling it down into place, standing there by the door once again, ready to go break the good news and bad news about her necklace, that’s when he’d heard it.
He hadn’t heard quite what Phelan had said to her with his voice low and rumbly, but the answer was sharp and clear and resounding. She’d slapped him, hard, across the face.
Grey’s jaw fell open a fraction and he was surprised by a small laugh that surged up inside him. She’d slapped his best friend. Grey couldn’t help grinning. Phelan had apparently met his match in this one. He leaned his ear close to the door to hear how his smooth operating roommate would recover from that one.
But he didn’t hear his friend’s voice, he could only hear her. Low and urgent and a bit panicked. “Please, no, please, stay away from me. No, please, don’t—“
Grey ripped the door open then to find Maggie somewhat backed into a corner by Phelan who was standing entirely too close to her and looking quite menacing. The pair of them both froze, paused in mid-chase by Grey’s interruption.
Grey’s eyes slid from Phelan’s stormy profile to Maggie’s furious blush and her wide, alarmed eyes.
“Phelan?” Grey asked in a low, deliberate rumble.
Phelan’s Adam’s apple jumped in response but otherwise he didn’t move a muscle. “Grey.” His friend responded through clenched teeth, a calm sort of fury under the word.
Grey stalked very slowly toward the two, not taking his eyes off his friend, who, in turn, was keeping his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Maggie. “Everything O.K. out here?” He asked him, his voice a warning—low and deadly. It wasn’t as much a question as it was a directive. He was standing quite close to Phelan now, close enough to see the rapid flaring of his friend’s nostrils; close enough to hear Maggie’s shallow, uneven breathing.
“Everything. Is. Swell.” Phelan responded, his lips curling into a cruel sort of smile.
Grey looked at Maggie. The girl was trembling a little but her eyes were now snapping with anger. Grey recognized that she was itching to slap Phelan again. Good for her.
He shifted his weight so that he was aligned slightly more with her side of the close little triangle they formed with their bodies, and subtly pulled his spine as tall as it would go, reminding his friend of the height disparity.
Finally Phelan’s eyes dragged from Maggie’s face to Grey’s.
“Swell.” Said Grey, calmly holding the man’s fuming stare, unblinking. The corner of Grey’s mouth hitched up just a fraction in a ghost of a smirk. Phelan was pretty fucking bullshit. He hoped he wouldn’t have to punch his friend in the face right then, but he knew he was prepared to do it if the guy persisted in behaving like an asshole.
Phelan snorted, broke their eye contact, and stepped back. The showdown was over, abandoned. Phelan had caved. Grey could feel the frustration and violence radiating off his friend. “Just having a pleasant conversation with this charming friend of yours.” Phelan had said then, as he headed casually for the kitchen. His voice was nearly restored to its usual non-chalant cadence and timbre. “I’ll just leave you two to chat.” He said pleasantly when he’d reached the doorway to the kitchen. “I hope she’ll share with you what she was kind enough to share with me.”
Grey chuckled deeply in his chest as his friend disappeared from sight, off to lick his wounded pride.
“Are you all right?” he’d asked upon turning back to face the trembling little spit-fire beside him. She was almost vibrating with suppressed fury.
“Did you find it?” She demanded, dismissing his concern.
He sobered and lifted his hand to show her. “It broke.” He told her plainly. No sense beating around the bush.
Her eyebrows tilted up and her mouth opened in a small ‘oh’ as she reached to take it from his open palm. He felt an uncomfortable squirming low in his gut as he watched her trembling fingers lift it slowly, carefully out of his hand. “The chain broke.” He’d said, clearing his throat. She didn’t speak, only dragged an index finger along one side of the broken chain and then the other.
“Did it fall on the floor?” She’d asked, her voice little more than a tremulous whisper.
His abdomen tightened. “It did.” He’d confessed, not clear on why that fact mattered to her but discerning enough to intuit that it did matter and that it was better to be honest about it. “I’ll pay for a new chain.” He offered, but the look he received from her was withering and frigid and he ventured nothing more.
She’d nodded bleakly, thanked him for finding it, and had left. He hadn’t seen her again until she showed up to tell him she was pregnant.
Grey sighed as he pulled up the long driveway at the Delaney mansion. All the cars were there already. It was almost time for the fucking dinner. He pulled off the main drive and proceeded further on, toward the guest cottage in the back.
It was all so fucking surreal. Staring blankly at the picturesque little building he put the car in park and sat for a long moment in the driveway. He had a lot to think about. He wasn’t yet ready to walk in there and begin his life as a married man.
Do you ever have one of those moments where something you've known all your life suddenly seems bizarre, foreign or completely alien to you?
We were walking through Trucchi's and we came to the frozen breakfast section. We were looking (fruitlessly) for latkes (Aaron was like: "Look at what town we're in", and I'm like: "Really? None? not a single Jew? C'mon! There MUST be some!!" I guess not because truchhi's ain't got no latkes.).
"Awww, remember toaster strudels? So fucking Good." Aaron lamented.
I don't buy much of that stuff anymore-- the delicious, yummy, awesome stuff, because I've made an earnest effort to move away from high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated whatevers and other wretchedness that doesn't need to be in food.
"Yeah" says I, nostalgically, and then my eyes land upon a new flavor that Aaron would be sure to love! "Oh Man! Look!" I gesticulate excitedly. "Boston CREAM PIE!"
A Beat.
He seems excited. Maybe a little regretful, as he gazes. He might have even commented, but I was distracted.
"Boston CREAM PIE?" I repeat aloud. It doesn't sound right. It sounds made up. I look at the box and read it again. I've read it correctly. I try it on my tongue again. "Boston CREAM PIE..."
Aaron laughs.
"Why doesn't that sound right? Is that the right name? Why does that sound wrong?"
I ask him, totally perplexed.
"Because you're putting the emphasis on the wrong word." He said, chuckling and casting a glace around us, making sure no one is too close.
"I am?"
"Yeah, you're saying it like it's something pornographic." He grinned.
I look back at the box. Yes. I was. 'Cream Pie.' Now I can't fathom how I ever took the dessert sereiously (well, after childhood I mean.)
"Boston CREAM PIE" I said again.
"Yeah, like I'mma give you the old 'Boston CREAM PIE'... like Cleveland Steamer or Dirty Sanchez." (Follow links at OWN DISCRETION! LOL)
"How the fuck do you say it then?" I felt insane. Now I couldn't imagine how it could NOT sound prurient.
"bostoncream PIE." He demonstrated. Emphasis on Pie. Elision on the boston and the cream. "Even though gramatically the way you said it makes more sense." Professor Aaron.
I marveled at how weird it all sounded now. Like the time in junior high when my friend Alison and I repeated the word "dish-towel" until it didn't sound like english anymore. We thought we were high on pot brownies so this was an hilarious exercise. We were not high on pot brownies, but that's a story for another day.
Later when we got home from the supermarket we pondered what a Boston CREAM PIE would be, sexually speaking of course. What would distinguish the Boston variety of Cream Pie from the run-of-the-mill, standard Cream Pie?
We'd be willing to take suggestions on this one. My reasoning tied in the Boston Tea Party, which necessarily conjures "tea-bagging", so I'm thinking: the man 'makes' the cream pie and then dips his teabag in there. What say ye? (Besides YUCKY!, which I'm sure some of you might be saying... but might try it later anyway... lol)
I asked Aaron if the colors of the dessert food need necessarily influence the sex act, to which he replied: "I thought about that... and... that's not an avenue I'm really wanting to go with it..." And I'm with him. But if that floats someone else's boat, far be it for me...
So next time you're in a pastry aisle or a doughnut shop, remember to thank me for the prurient imagery that leaps to your imagination. And let me know if you eat one anyway. ;)
Author's Note: Incidentally, I checked Urban dictionary and they are all over the map, which generally means there is no standard colloquial definition for a sex act entitled "Boston Cream Pie". I will however, tell you that among the entires I had a favorite, and here be it:
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