Page 42 of Yield to Me

My grandmother on my mother’s side lived in Orange County. It shocked me; it was the first time I had ever heard my mother mention leaving our home in the Bay Area. It scared me to think of my mother by herself, even if she was close to her own mother. I didn’t exactly think of Regina as the lone wolf type.

“Maybe I’ll go with you,” I said. My mother laughed.

“You’ve got school soon.”

“I can defer enrollment.”

“Or you can stay here, finish school, and see that Lowell again. What’s with him, anyway?”

I didn’t know myself. Owen had broken up with me, but had helped us with the travel to Miami, and had even texted me a few times since then. He had even invited me to stay the night when I showed up at his house. He hadn’t flirted with me, but it was clear that he wasn’t quite as ‘done’ with me as he claimed. And I knew I wasn’t either.

Luckily for me, Owen invited me over for dinner that night. When I arrived, he led me to a dining room, a long cherry wood table in the middle, a red abstract painting covering the wall opposite of a large window. In the backyard, it was like a fairytale; even though it was winter, blue flowers bloomed along the path. He brought plates of pasta with vegetables and a cream sauce from what I assumed was the kitchen.

“So my mom’s thinking of moving,” I said. I took a sip of water and waited for Owen to say something. He was focused on his meal, though he wasn’t eating much. “I’m thinking of moving with her.”

“Where?”

“Southern California.” I paused, gauging Owen’s reaction, but he wasn’t letting on any emotion. “She wants to be closer to her mom.”

“What about the program?” he asked.

I had checked the box for an early start date, if possible, which would be January. “I can defer until the fall.” I shrugged. “I can even find something to do in Orange County. An internship or whatever.”

Owen didn’t say anything. He reached across the table and held my hand while we ate. It was silent for the rest of the meal, but I knew that he had brought me there to talk about something important. His silence sent signals that he wasn’t ready to talk about it, whatever it was.

As Owen led the way to a couch and went to fix drinks for the two of us, his phone vibrated. Poppy blinked on the screen. Owen quickly declined the call, typed a quick response, and put his phone back in his pocket. I remembered the name from the pier, how he had rejected her call then too. Why didn’t he feel comfortable answering the phone in front of me? I wondered. But I guessed it wasn’t important if he could ignore the call.

He fiddled with the fireplace until it was blazing, lighting up the room in flickering bursts. Pouring scotch over ice, he handed a drink to me, then fixed one for himself. I watched him from the sofa. He stood leaning against the wall, staring into the flame. I had never seen him so lost in thought before, and was taken aback that someone as steady as Owen could be distraught over something. Even if he was hiding it behind his stoic face, I knew better. I knew that this lack of any emotion at all meant something was wrong.

I walked slowly over to Owen, putting an arm around his back. It was a bold move; we hadn’t touched since I showed up at his house after the funeral. But Owen turned towards me. The surprise in his eyes quickly faded, and he held me, sighing as he buried his nose in my hair. I squeezed him tightly, to tell him that I wanted to help, whatever it was. He pulled my chin upwards, and his green eyes ached, searching deep within me. He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand, and I closed my eyes, nuzzling his fingers. His lips pressed against mine, as lightly as a feather floating in the breeze. I held the back of his head in my hand, my breath catching as I felt his tongue.

He grasped me in his hands, cradling my body against him, his arousal pressing against me. As he laid me down on the couch, I curled my legs around him, bringing him closer. He kissed me again, caressing my tongue, and I moaned as he nipped my bottom lip. He pulled the sleeves of my sweater up and pulled it off of me, and I unbuttoned his shirt clumsily, feeling nervous at what we were doing. He had called me here, I reminded myself. He had kissed me. I tried not to think about it. I tried not to think about anything.

His bare torso brushed me, and I roamed his body with my hands, feeling every flexing muscle under his skin as he held himself above me. It was the first time I had searched his body like that, the first time he let me do so, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t grab my hands and restrain me. Instead, he kissed my neck, sweeping his lips against my skin, and took off the rest of his clothes. He leaned down again, held himself with one arm leaning on the couch, poised above me. I could feel his length on my leg, pulsing with arousal. We breathed in each other’s air greedily, looking into each other’s eyes.

“Do you want me to?” he asked. I knew what he meant. Melancholy coursed through my body slowly, filling my body like a gradual leak, sure to drown me. My instincts told me that there was a final symbolism in this act, like it would be the last time I’d be with him. But I wanted him to do it anyway.

“Yes,” I cried. And he plunged deep inside of me, and I moaned, feeling every inch of his passion.

“Listen to me, Riley,” he said, keeping his rhythm steady. I opened my eyes. His green eyes burned with purpose, needing me. “I would do anything for you. Do you understand? You’ve shown me parts of myself I didn’t know existed.” My body shook, easing towards climax. The slight curve of his member pressed against me, coaxing me closer. “I would do anything for you,” he echoed, his voice deep and guttural, his orgasm nearing. His tongue reached into my mouth, as if searching for answers, and I fought back with mine, showing him that I needed him too. Tears filled my eyes as I got closer to my breaking point, and when our climaxes forced themselves out of our bodies, the two of us held each other desperately, scared to let go.

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