Page 29 of The Trust We Broke
There’s no way my hand is even close to how good it would feel to be back inside her for real, but it’s enough to drag me over the edge.
“Fuck, Luce,” I call out, huffing as my body shakes and my world tilts before righting itself.
Cum is everywhere. My stomach. My chest.
And as I catch my breath, I realize the best part of it all used to be the way she would wrap herself around me afterward.
She never cared about the mess, or wiping my cum away as fast as she could. She’d slide her finger through it and dip it into her mouth. She’d write her name on my chest in it.
She’d tell me how much she loved it; how much she loved me.
And we’d kiss each other, holding each other. Tasting each other. Letting what we did bloom and dissipate between us.
I look up at the ceiling as my heart rate slows, and for the first time in a really long time, my bed feels empty.
Worse, so does something deep inside the cavity of my chest.
Throwing back the covers of the bed, I regret allowing Lucy to creep into my thoughts like I did. For some reason, I feel dirty, cheapened. It’s like I’ve been used, even though I’m the one who just jerked off to memories of my ex.
I take a moment in the shower to try to get myself back under control. To lose the shame of what I just did and set myself up for the day. Some food and two cups of coffee put some perspective on what just happened.
Perhaps it’s stress, likely connected to having too much to drink. Perhaps it’s the high of the adrenaline release from the fight last night and the morning after comedown.
Or I can just admit that, like Butcher said, Lucy has stirred up some unfinished business. And perhaps the best thing I can do is stop ignoring the problem by trying to drive her away and talk to her.
Try to understand, or at least find out the reason why she bailed on us.
And accept why the only reason I’m committed to sleeping around for the rest of my life is I can’t face a future with someone who isn’t her. Who doesn’t match me and fit like she did.
It takes another fifteen minutes to ride out to Mom’s in my truck to pick her up. She’s ready, sitting on the porch chair, with her hair done and in a cute dress that makes her look younger than her fifty-five years and a thick winter coat she hasn’t buttoned against the cold yet. Ninety-five percent of the year, she doesn’t look like this. She wears jeans and Birkenstocks and T-shirts with different slogans on them likeThey Couldn’t Burn All of UsandLover, Not a Hater.
She jumps up when she sees me pull up by the curb. After Dad went to prison, she sold the large property they shared a few minutes’ drive from me. It was too big, needed too much work, especially in the winter, and was too expensive for her to heat. And there was only so much I could do for her. So, she moved closer to town. It’s a nice street with nice neighbors.
Mom often tells me she feels suffocated by the perfect lawns.
“Hey, Mom,” I say when she jumps in the truck.
“I brought snacks,” she says, balancing a clear bag of cookies and granola bars and fruit on the cupholders. “Morning, sweetheart.”
She leans over and kisses my cheek. “Did you sleep okay?”
I pull away from the curb and head toward the correctional facility. “I’d love to say yes, but I was too drunk to remember.”
Mom chuckles. “You boys. One day, you’ll learn that drinking that much all the time plays havoc with your body. Don’t come crying to me when you have a fatty liver by the time you’re forty.”
I want to argue that I’m not always getting drunk but…well, that would be a lie. It happens a lot. Worse now that I’m at the clubhouse more.
The phone rings, and I answer it as the whip of a snow flurry hits the windshield. “Catfish. I’m in the truck with Mom.”
“Hey, Mrs. Williams,” Catfish says, like he’s some kind of goodie-two-shoes choir boy. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing good, sweetheart. Were you drinking too much with Zachary last night?”
Catfish laughs. “Yeah. Maybe I was. But I’m up and at my business today, in spite of feeling like I slept in a desert.”
“Drink some water,” Mom says. “Lots of it.”
“Will do,” he says.
