Page 2 of Salace

Aimee rolls the window up immediately and flicks her wrist in goodbye.

“Rude,” I cough.

She rolls her eyes and glares straight ahead. “He’s creepy. He asked to carry my bag to the car. Who does that?” She slinks down in her seat slightly as I pull away from the curb.

“A gentleman. That’s who. Stop being so judgmental.”

She mumbles “you’re one to talk,” as she turns up the volume for the radio. I take another sip from my tumbler. The vodka-mixed-with-cranberry-seltzer burns mildly, but I like it.

“You should date him,” I say.

Aimee’s face scrunches up until it’s no longer pretty. “If you like him so much, maybe you should.”

There was a time I used to be as pretty as my only child. Tight, flawless skin, long muscular legs. Toned torso, shiny hair down to my waist. That was before her father used me up. Sucked everything I had out of my soul and left it to rot for some younger, prettiergirl. The only difference between us is that I was nice—compliant. I never would have dared to treat my mother the way Aimee treats me. She chose Dan in the divorce. She chose her lecherous father. I can’t lie—it stung. It still stings. I get her two days a week and every other weekend. Our relationship is strained at best, and downright gnarly at worst.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I attempt to ask what her plans are for the weekend, but my attempt at communication is shut down. We pull into the driveway, and before I have the car in park, Aimee is out trotting to the front door. I let out a sigh. Weekends are the hardest. Weeknights she comes after school and stays until eight p.m. Those are the easy days with her. Say hello, let her do her homework, force some food down her throat and hug goodbye.

Weekends drag when you’re stuck with someone who only tolerates you. She spends most of her time in her room, or on her phone or out with friends. Which, ok, wouldn’t be so bad, except that I have to watch every word, every behavior when she’s here. The last thing I need is her reporting back to her father, and losing what little visitation I have. She’s all I have left. He took everything from me, but I will not let him take my daughter too. I pop a little white pill and wash it down with my vodka cranberry seltzer before steeling myself and heading inside.

Dinner is quiet. Aimee moves food around on her plate. Chicken and asparagus. I was supposed to know that, in the last two weeks, she changed her mind and no longer likes asparagus, and now she’s miffed that I wasn’t privy to her inner thoughts.

“So, why does this Kasey kid rub you the wrong way?” I ask. I take a sip of my wine. “He’s cute and seems sweet.”

She sighs long and loud. “Why do you care?”

I shrug. “Just making conversation.”

“I don’t feel like talking really. Can I be done?”

I stare at her plate—barely touched—and frown. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You literally said you were starving when I called you down.”

She puts her utensils down and stares at me. “Well, I’m not now.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “Please eat the chicken at least.”

“It’s not healthy to eat when you aren’t hungry. The whole clean plate club is outdated and honestly, like, abusive.”

I cock my head to the left. “Abusive, really? Come on, Aimee. I’m trying here. Just eat the chicken and then you can be finished.”

She stabs her half-a-chicken-breast with her fork and shoves the entire thing into her mouth. Her eyes never leave mine. Through a mouth full of un-masticated chicken, she says, “Happy now?”

I bite my tongue and nod. Aimee pushes her chair away from the table, drops her plate in the sink and disappears into the bowels of the house. It’s going to be a long weekend. I drain the rest of my wine, refill my glass and finish my dinner the way I normally do—alone and in silence.

I slather moisturizer on my face after applying numerous serums for anti-aging. My eyes are red—I drank too much today. I drop some eyedrops in, then inspect every crevice, line and spot on my face before slapping the light off and crawling into my bed.

The second my head hits the pillow, my mind drifts to Kasey. His blonde hair, the way the wind blew his too long mop over his forehead. Those blue eyes locked on mine, a hint of playfulness in them. The way he lingered with that cocky smile only teenage boys can get away with. My hand drifts under the covers. Under the waistband of my pajama pants. I touch myself. I bet his body is all hard muscles and virgin skin. Fingering myself, I sink into the mattress, fantasizing about a seventeen-year-old playboy. My nipples harden. He wants me. He’s hungry for me. He’s ready to learn, focused on me—my pleasure. Rough hands against my soft skin. Learning, exploring. Lips devouring, leaving no spot of skin undiscovered. A moan slips from my lips. My breath hitches. The small of my back lifts off the bed.More, more, more.

When I come, I come so hard that I have to change the sheets.

After that, I sleep like the dead.

KASEY

“Yeah, yeah, but at least I passed the test,” I tease my girlfriend Eden on FaceTime.

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