Page 5 of The Loves We Lost
“Iknow you can take it deeper. Relax your throat like a good girl. Squeeze me till I come.”
Looking down, I see her do as I ask. The feel of the back of her throat tightening around my cock feels so good, but it’s the mascara-filled tears that stain her cheeks as she does so that—
The car horn behind me makes me jump, slide my laptop off my lap onto the passenger-side seat, and pull forward as I offer a small wave to the car behind me.
“Fine, fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “We’ve all got places we need to be, buster.”
I guess writing in the pick-up lane is not my finest moment. Nor is thinking about deepthroating while surrounded by minors. But my editor was very clear: the book needs more heat.
And she was right.
When I got the content edits back, it took me two days to get over her comments. They always make me feel a bit ill. Then I digested them objectively and found, as usual, that she was utterly accurate. Then I took a day to panic, not knowing how to fix what she suggested.
Wine was involved.
Actually, wine was involved at every stage.
My mom-group friends consoled me when I confessed my imposter syndrome.
And then I got to work. Breaking the book apart, unwinding some threads, weaving new ones. I’m somehow managing to Frankenstein the whole thing together and praying I don’t wreck it in the process.
And it’s due tomorrow. Also known as the last day of the kindergarten and start of summer break.
Hence the carpool blow job.
When I get to the front of the line, Avery runs towards me, her unruly blond hair flying in the breeze. I dropped her off this morning with braids and a sweet outfit of shorts and a T-shirt. She’s now wearing a cotton sundress.
But when she tugs open the car door smelling like fresh air and sunscreen with a wide smile on her face that reveals her first missing tooth, I can’t help but grin back.
“Hey, pumpkin.”
“One more sleep, Mom. One. More. Sleep. Then it’s summer.” She shimmies as she wiggles into the back seat into her secured booster seat and fastens herself in as I watch. “Mrs. Covey says if we’re good tomorrow, we get to watch a movie instead of doing numbers.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say, glancing at her in the rearview mirror before I pull out. I bite back the comment that Mrs. Covey has been mailing it in all year given she’s retiring. I’ve never resented handing over five bucks to anyone’s retirement gift more than I did hers.
“Kadia is flying all the way to Paris tomorrow night but is sad she’s leaving her cat at home. She’s sleeping on the airplane. She said her mom told her to wish for anupgrade, which I guess means she gets her own plane.”
“An upgrade is just a better seat. There are basic seats, then fancy seats, then even fancier seats than that.” I pull out onto the main road and head towards our house, which does not have a cat, nor does it have tickets to Paris waiting for us.
Instead, it has a roof that will need replacing before the winter sets in and a kitchen that came straight out of the seventies with the same level of functionality.
“And her cat is going to stay at Kylie’s house,” Avery continues. “Which, I wish she could come to my house, but I know ...allergies.”
It’s true: I come within ten feet of a cat, and I sneeze like I snorted a ton of coke in three seconds. Not that I know what that feels like, but I’m a writer and can imagine.
“What do you want for dinner to celebrate the nearly last day of school?” I ask as I turn into our pretty little Falls Township home. It had belonged to my grandparents. My grandmother died five years ago, my grandpa last year. They left the home to me. And after we’d been stuck in rentals for lord knew how long, a mortgage-free home was such a blessing. Turns out getting knocked up at nineteen and only working minimum wage jobs makes property ownership an impossible dream.
“Oh, good question,” Avery says. “Is it a realanything you wantquestion? Or is it amom’s on a deadlinequestion?”
“The fact you already know the difference says a lot about my parenting skills.”
Avery skips to the front door as I lock the car. “How about taco-dogs?”
“Great idea.” I shudder at the thought of this meal ever being discussed in public. Three deadlines ago, the fridge was pretty bare, except for some grated cheese and a half-empty tub of salsa that had technically expired the day before, but I saw no mold. I grabbed hot dogs from the freezer and a packet of taco shells from the cupboard. Once they were topped with salsa andcheese, I called it a taco-dog. How was I supposed to know it would turn into my daughter’s favorite cheat meal?
I open the front door, and Avery diligently hangs up her school bag and slips off her shoes. They’re worn, and I try not to feel guilty. Writing pays the bills, but that’s it. It literallyjustpays the bills. But I can’t imagine doing anything else.
“If you get cleaned up, you can watch some TV before dinner.”
