Coming Back Home

I was surprised by the question. "I'm in no hurry, but I figured you'd leave when you have enough money to get to Florida."

"Can I stay a little longer?"

"Why?"

"I really need a phone. I left mine behind because I knew Mom could track it. I gotta have one and that sets me back."

Despite my sour mood, I smiled to myself at the verb she chose. At seventy-one, Doug "put up" with one in case of emergencies. At thirty-five, I "liked" having one. At eighteen, Madison, apparently, "gotta have" one. Though, I guess I understood. I'd been that way back when I lived in Jersey, my phone surgically attached to my body, checked constantly for texts. But in the quieter pace of rural Pennsylvania, I'd found I preferred using it for making a phone call when needed, but that I liked people's voices in person rather than words on a screen.

"Okay. I don't have a problem with that."

She muttered, "Thanks," and stood to go.

Before she could leave, I asked, "What made up your mind?"

She fidgeted, not quite meeting my eyes. "I ... I'm ... I don't really know what to think 'cause I don't really know you. But, umm, you gave me a key and, like, when you had a chance, you didn't sleep with me." She flushed and hesitated. "I felt guilty for being wrong the other day about you and thought that, umm, maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge."

I felt something loosen inside.

"Talk to Carrie tomorrow. If you think it's best you move there, just give me the key back."

The next day she came in after her afternoon shift. I wondered if she'd be handing me the key and going up to pack. Instead, she said, "Umm, I know how to make spaghetti. Do you want me to do dinner?"

Avery's "I hope I see you around" translated to catching me in my yard while dropping Madison off. She walked over to where I was loading firewood in the carrier.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

I straightened. "I don't drink coffee in the evening." I saw her face fall a little at the perceived rejection of her olive branch. "But I go every morning at around ten thirty if you want to tomorrow."

"Go where?"

"The Mason Jar."

"I know the place. I'll meet you there at ten thirty." She gestured to what I was doing. "I'll leave you to your manly endeavors and see you tomorrow."

She arrived right at the appointed hour the next morning. She slid her down coat off and dropped it on the back of her chair.

Suddenly, I realized I had seen her before—the sweater she was wearing was the same and the visual triggered the memory. She was the woman I'd seen passing out of the corner of my eye as I left the Mason Jar that one day, but my eyes hadn't gotten high enough that time, and so I hadn't recognized her face when we met at the stable.

I was embarrassed inside at the realization. On one hand, I'd only seen her for a split second in my peripheral vision, and I didn't see any need to apologize for finding large breasts in a tight sweater eye-catching. On the other hand, it made me feel shallow to think that "Oh, I recognize the boobs" was about the best I could come up with if I wanted to admit the previous encounter. I opted for discretion and hoped I didn't flush.

Right here and now, of course, she'd seen where my gaze went for a fraction of a second, but she smiled into my eyes that were immediately planted back on hers.

"At least you're a gentleman, unlike many around here. Now maybe my comment that day in your driveway doesn't sound so arrogant or off the wall."

"I don't understand. What are we talking about?"

Her eyes widened for a second, then she got it and burst into laughter. "Well-played."

She settled into her chair. "I don't mind men finding me attractive, and I don't mind a subtle look. I do mind a stare. I super mind a catcall. And they can shove the unsolicited propositions up their asses."

"Not every guy, surely?"

"I dunno in this town. I bet if I turned around suddenly right now, I'd find every single guy in the place trying to guess my bra size."

I let her see my eyes flicking surreptitiously around the room as I judged. "Not Richard, the owner. The guy in the corner booth has his back to you, so not him. The two teenagers to the right, maybe, yeah, I guess." I ran through the other males in the room, ending with, "So about fifty or sixty percent. That's enough that I'll concede."

"Thank you. I appreciate a gracious loser." She picked up her menu and bent over it. Just as I took a sip of water, she said without glancing up, "It's 32G if you're wondering."

I tried not to choke as it went down the wrong pipe. She ignored me though I could see the grin as she examined the choices.

I waited for her to take a swallow of her drink.

"Novel icebreaker: hinting for lingerie."

I laughed as she snorted water.

It wasn't a bad morning. I was able to let go of my earlier rancor about being judged. I deflected a lot of the talk away from me and found out about her.

"Jim Harvey is my uncle. When I graduated from vet school, I worked for a while in upstate New York, but the practice wasn't going to take on any partners. I was always going to be just a hired hand. So, when Uncle Jim said he was starting to eye retirement and did I want to think about Pennsylvania ..."

Coffee one day with Avery turned into coffee every couple of days. I can't claim it was my doing. Habits are ingrained after a year, and I was perfectly content with my morning chats with Linda if she wasn't too busy, and reading my book if she was. But Avery would occasionally show up at my habitual time and ask to join me. Conversation with her broke the solitude as much as talking to Linda.

We'd talk about people she'd met in the area. "What is he really like?" she'd ask.

I'd give her my insider perspective while keeping everything personal that I happened to know out of the conversation—letting her know about the hidden currents that any small town possesses and which could trap an unwary outsider. "He's Edna at the Sunoco's niece's husband, so anything you say in the convenience store is going to get back."

Sometimes, she'd take an interest in whatever I was reading. I suspect it was feigned since she'd never read any of them, but it was still fun to talk about a book. After the second week, she turned to me as we were heading for our cars.

"So, are you planning to ask me out any time in the next century?"

I stifled the automatic—and true—response that I didn't think about asking women out very much.

Ever since my wife, Anne, had decided that small-town life sucked, that big city was where it was at, and that any guy who didn't see that was a loser, things had gone downhill in the dating department for me. It had taken me a while to get over the shame and hurt of being left, of course, but once I was ready to make a few tentative overtures, it was too late.

Rumors had been left behind. When I told Madison that I knew who started them, I wasn't lying. I knew it had been Anne. Or more accurately, Anne's father, Carl, but I'm sure after speaking with his daughter.

And what woman wants to say yes to a guy who abused his wife? They don't have any desire to get a backhand once he's had a few. I didn't have any quibble with that. Steer away from those kinds of guys like the plague, and if you can't, use a baseball bat.

What I did have was a quibble with people who'd known me my entire life thinking I was one of those guys based on nothing more than whispered innuendo and not bothering to ask me my side of the story. Now I decided to rejoin the game.

"This Friday?" I answered her.

Friday dinner earned Saturday dinner and going to hear a band after. That led to a more upscale dinner the next week, and Avery in a cocktail dress was a sight to behold. My random, useless thoughts about ladies of the evening from weeks back were now firmly rechanneled into my dinner date.

I was hesitant to push things too fast. I'd always been that way, uncertain that I was reading a woman's signals correctly. Anne had had to put a lip lock on me in the back row of a theater before I got the hint.

But it had also been a long time. So, I ignored the butterflies. I leaned in slightly after that nice dinner and was gratified that she met me there for a nice kiss, followed by one even warmer and longer. And one date later, curled on my couch for more extended making out, I tentatively slid a hand where I'd wanted to slide it for quite a while. She didn't object.

But I didn't ask, "Stay?"

I told myself it was because I knew that Madison was upstairs in her room. The truth was, Madison certainly knew all about the birds and the bees, and a little breakfast awkwardness wouldn't be all that awkward. The truth was, I was shy about women, and Avery had made no secret of being touchy about men's advances.

"It's a little chilly in here, can you stoke up the stove?" Avery asked as we came home from listening to a new band at Larghie's. "Where's Madison?"

"Out with friends."

I added kindling until a pleasant-sounding crackle filled the room and then tossed on a couple of larger pieces. I let her pick the movie. She chose When Harry Met Sally, which was fine with me; it wasn't a bad movie.

"Beer?" she asked. "I'll get them."

When she came back in, my jaw dropped. The long tails of her man's-style shirt provided some minimal coverage for the pink lace that peeked out as her legs moved without the encumbrance of her skirt. As I started to say something, she cut me off, staring at the TV.

"Ssh! This is one of my favorite scenes. Sally's so full of shit. Of course Ilsa wanted to be with Rick." She dropped onto the couch next to me, handed me my beer, and put her head on my shoulder. As I continued to stare at her, she added, "Pencil skirts are too tight to be comfortable to sprawl in. Now pay attention to the movie."

When the scene finished, she sat up. "We need munchies. I saw some chips. Be right back."

She was right back. Her shirt wasn't. And Avery in a plunging bra was a sight to strike a man dumb, and dumb I stayed. Again, she snuggled up against me. When I put my hand on her thigh, she smacked it away playfully.

"Down boy. We've got a lot of movie left."

We watched. I'm not certain what thoughts were going through her head. She was enjoying the movie, but I saw the faint smirk at the effect she was having on me. For my part, I was paying little attention to the story despite my eyes being pointed toward the screen. Excitement and anticipation and surprise were too much of a distraction.

The restaurant scene brought a dirty chuckle from her; she knew what thoughts Meg Ryan's performance was evoking in me.

"Another beer?" She hopped up.

It was a no-brainer than I was watching as she came back from the kitchen. The sight of her breasts swaying free as she hipped her way through the swinging door made my mouth go dry. She handed me the cold beer and sat down. Her eyes were on mine; mine were traveling up and down.

"You're not going to watch the movie, are you?"

"Umm, no?"

"You promised we could watch a movie. If I give you a blowjob, will you settle down?"

The question was a hundred percent more erotic for being so casual. The crinkles around her eyes from suppressing a smile and faking a frown told me she knew that.

"Umm, yes?"

I gasped as a beer-cold hand slid inside my waistband to grasp me. She let it warm there while she leaned in for a kiss, then turned to my belt and pants.

I gasped again as a warm mouth wrapped around me. This was no tender tease of foreplay. This was a wet, raunchy blowjob ... filled with pops of suction and satisfied noises of "mmm" as she slid off the head, sloppy saliva everywhere, and hot hands stroking, cupping, and gently squeezing. I warned her. Then I came in what felt like a tsunami deep in her mouth, as she milked the base of my cock to encourage me.

When it was over, she sat up, primly wiped her lips with her fingers, then dried them on my flannel shirt with a giggle. She settled back against my shoulder.

"Now can I watch my movie?"

"Umm, yes?"

She gave a throaty chuckle, then added quietly, "You are so going to repay that when this movie ends."

As the credits rolled, she slid further down on the seat and leaned her head onto the sofa back.

"Ahem."

I recognized my cue and moved to kneel in front of her. I used my fingers at first, touching her through her panties, stroking a line, pressing in a little as I passed over her opening, letting the cloth's friction start things in a slow, steady rhythm.

As I felt the first hint of moisture seep through the fabric, I slid a thumb in through the leg opening to stroke. A teasing entry: first just the merest tip, then to the first joint over and over. As her excitement built, I drove in deeper, plunging in as far as my thumb could, drawing out the wetness to lubricate her lips and clit. She began to make tiny purring sounds, and I hooked her panties and pulled them down.

I did as she had done. This wasn't a tease to edge and warm someone up for something else. This was the something.

I stabbed my tongue as deep inside her as I could, then drew it up along the length of her pussy to stroke softly over her nub. I buried fingers up inside her, hunting for the feel of her G-spot. I found the pressure and pace that made her breath quicken the most, that caused her hips to work in counterpoint. She had sucked me until my brain had whited out, and now I was going to finger and lick her until hers did the same. Until her center told her mind, which told the rest of her body to tip over that same delightful precipice.

I heard her breaths shallow and shorten. I felt her thighs begin to tremble. I kept the pace exactly the same. "When it's working, don't change things" had been advice from a long-ago girlfriend; advice I agreed with because I felt the same way when on the receiving end.

She shuddered with a drawn-out cry of "fuuu" and still I kept going. Only when her hands clutched into my hair and pressed hard to pin me did I stop, leaving the warmth of my lips in place, the sensation of my fingers still stretching her, but staying still as she rode out a second and third shock with only her own jerks creating friction.

When she came down, she lifted my soaking face from her pussy. She met my eyes and smiled.

"Best ending to that movie ever."

An hour later, she sighed in post-coital contentment and relaxed on my chest. She leaned up and kissed me, then slid back, pushing lightly at my arm.

"I like the right side of the bed. You scoot over," she said.

Oh.

That seemed like a simple thing, but it wasn't.

I'd slept on the right before I dated and then married Anne. There was nothing complicated about why: I liked to sleep on my left side, and that made that edge of the bed easier to get in and out of. Anne changed that.

"I need my space when I sleep, Will, and prefer to face away. And I don't like looking at a wall so close to my face." The bed in our first apartment had been near to the wall on the left side.

"Besides, the outlets are on the right side and I have more things to charge than you do." She did: phone, watch, iPad, headphones, Bluetooth speaker, laptop, PowerCore portable charger in case any of the above gave out during the day. Anne did her best to single-handedly keep the rechargeable battery makers solvent.

So, I had moved to the left. It wasn't a big deal, although I didn't sleep as well on my right side and she didn't like me "staring at her back" by lying on my left. It wasn't a big deal.

And habit kept me there for a couple of nights after she left. Right up until I dropped the C-word in a moment of utter rage during her "yeah, I've run off with your friend and you owe me half of everything" phone call. She responded in kind.

"Yeah? Well, I fucked him once in our bed. What do you think of that?"

The thing was, I knew all about sex with Anne. And one of the things I knew was that Anne didn't get the wet spot. Sex was on the other side of the bed. Damned if I was going to sleep in their leavings—metaphorical because I replaced the mattress, but still a powerful image—and I reclaimed the right side.

And easy-going Will of yesteryear had become not-so-easy-going Will of today.

So now I told Avery, "I don't sleep on the left side. We can cuddle here if you want."

It startled her; I could tell. I guess she was accustomed to any guy getting into her pants being putty in her hands. But she smiled. "Huh! Well, I can't promise you won't get an elbow in the gut when I'm asleep. I'm used to having my space."

I pushed aside the knee-jerk those words caused. We were a new couple trying to find boundaries. I pulled her in close and distracted myself with the delicious sensation of tits-against-ribcage.

Every week, Madison carefully handed me twenty-five dollars. We'd compromised on that. She'd originally tried to give me thirty-six plus a quarter. "You said an hour's pay. I work five days right now. Five times seven-and-a-quarter is ..." She shook the money in her hand.

"Not five full days. You work half-time. That's about eighteen dollars."

I didn't really care. I would have been fine with nothing. The original proposal had been when I was still uncertain about the whole Good Samaritan thing. It cost me almost nothing to have her around, and I liked the company. On the other hand, I could tell it was important to her and I understood. So, twenty-five ... which I dumped into a separate account.

Two weeks later, she approached me with a roll of bills. "I've never opened a bank account, but I don't want this just sitting around. Is it easy?"

"Yep." I drove her to the bank. On the way, she chattered along.

"I had a bank account for birthday money and babysitting, but my mom started it. It was one of those custodial things because I wasn't eighteen. Last week I had Drew drive me to a branch of that bank here, but they said my mom has to fill out paperwork for it to become mine. I can't force her until I'm twenty-one. By then she'll probably have spent it on shoes," she said morosely.

"What bank was that?"

I left her with the assistant manager. I could tell she wasn't feeling confident, but sometimes you just have to learn to do stuff yourself. "I'll be right over there," I said, pointing to the waiting area. I got on the phone.

When she came over with a sheaf of paperwork and a temporary ATM card, the grin on her face told me letting her do it alone had been the right move.

"So," I said as we got in the car, "what the bank told you was correct." She looked puzzled. "The other bank. There's something called the age of termination, and in Oregon, that's twenty-one. Until that age, you can't force a custodian to give up control of an account. But—"

I held up a finger to forestall the frown.

"You do have the right to demand access to online statements. And it's a felony for the custodian to use the money for anything other than ... and here I'm quoting ... 'the express benefit of the child.' That means you can watch it like a hawk and call her out if she buys any shoes." I matched her grin with one of my own. "Think of it as a two-and-a-half-year forced savings plan."

"I'll be out late," Madison said to me.

"Okay."

"Drew and I have been talking."

"Okay."

She waited to see if there was any more. It amused me to think she felt I'd interfere.

"I'm not your father, and you're eighteen. So, have a good time and turn the lights off when"—I almost said "if" but I stopped myself just in time—"you get home."