tagIncest/TabooHonest-Honest Ch. 03

Honest-Honest Ch. 03


Note: Thanks, again, to shygirlwhore for taking the time to edit and offer feedback.


I fucked up. Big time. Amy was mortified. My parents and her parents thought I was some kind of pervert. Hell, everyone else in the family probably knew by now. I had left before talking to Amy, but I had to. I could not have remained another minute in that situation. But, it was a pussy move. I should have at least talked to Amy before I left.

And what made it all worse? During the glorious few days Amy and I had together, I never once took the time to get her number.


My college plans changed. Had to. I was going completely independent. I told the football coach I wasn't going to play, and he was pissed. I lost the partial scholarship. I switched my course schedule from full to part time. I got a job waiting tables at an Olive Garden and another job cleaning up an industrial factory floor. I rented a shitty apartment.

I took three classes and worked my ass off, and I didn't talk to my family.

The independence—the freedom from everything and everyone—saved me. I burned with embarrassment every time I thought about that day at the cabin. Worse was the anger. I was so fucking pissed off.

I hated myself for acting without thinking and screwing everything up. I hated Aunt Cyn for her assumptions about me. I hated the idea that—now that everyone probably knew—they all thought I was some kind of pervert and that I was, maybe, the worst tormentor of poor Amy.

I didn't know what to think about Amy. A part of me hated her for being so fearful about herself; another part understood. Would she tell her family that we had been fucking around? Was that even worse, even more humiliating? What could she tell them instead? Was there any way for her to protect me? I needed to talk to her.

My parents emailed me, and sometimes I responded. I asked them for Amy's email, and they sent it, along with Aunt Cyn and Uncle Scott's home email. My parents' note included a word of warning: I needed to apologize and show how I'd learned a lesson. I didn't respond to that, but I definitely wanted to. Shit.

So, I wrote Amy. She never responded.

I figured out which dorm she was in and called that. They wouldn't help me, other than taking a message to her, which included my phone number. Amy never called.

In April, my parents wrote me to say that the family was, once again, heading to Big Rock in July. They said it was probably best, since I hadn't apologized, that I not come.

I worked and worked and studied, got 24 credit hours done by the beginning of July. Then I asked, for the first time, for time off—a week.


While most of the family was driving to Big Rock, I drove to Uncle Scott and Aunt Cyn's home. I assumed Amy wasn't going with her parents. Took me thirteen hours. I arrived on Sunday afternoon.

I parked on the street, took a deep breath, and went up to their door.

Katy, beautiful as ever, opened the door to me, and then she closed it, giving me the finger.

I rang the bell again. And again. And again. And again.

Katy finally opened up. "Asshole! Can't you take a hint? Go away!"

I gutted my pride. "Hi, Katy. Is Amy here?"

"She doesn't want to fucking see you," she said, looking past me and seeing my car. "So you drove all the way here, huh?"

I nodded.

"Best get ready to drive on back."

"Please, Katy. May I speak to Amy?"

She scrutinized me for a moment, shook her head in resignation, and then turned away—not closing the door.

I waited.

A minute later she let me in and escorted me into the kitchen. Amy stood behind the island.

"Hey, Amy."

She stared at me, and I looked at Katy, who was leaning against the pantry door with her arms crossed. I turned back to Amy.

"Can we talk alone?"

"She wants me here," Katy declared.

I nodded. "Amy, you look great."

Katy butted in, again. "You would know, peeping tom."

"Katy, will you please let me talk to Amy?"

"She's doesn't want to talk to you."

I turned back to Amy. "Amy, please can we speak alone? I've got things to say to you, private things..."

"Oh, I know everything, Michael."

I turned to Katy. Her eyes said everything. She did know. Shit. Whatever.

"Do your parents know?" I asked Katy.

"No. I told her to tell them, but she wouldn't. I told her that the whole family needed to know just how disgusting a person you actually are."

"But..." I was confused. I turned to Amy, and she stared at me coldly. I turned back to Katy. "But, then, you know that it wasn't just me. It was us," I said, gesturing to Amy, "and..."

"It was you, Micheal. You played your game. You got your rocks off. Don't you dare say Amy was part of this!"

I looked at Amy, confused. Her eyes were red, cheeks puffy. "Amy, what did you tell her?"

Katy said, "Did you think you could trick her into another blowjob by driving out here and pretending to be sorry? Is that what you thought?"

"Amy, they're turning this into something it's not. You know it was never like that."

Amy turned her back to me, crying.

"Get out. Now," Katy ordered. She walked to me and began shoving me out.

"Amy! Don't let them change what happened."

"Go!" Katy shouted.

I rounded on Katy. "I am going," I hissed through gritted teeth. I stepped around her to the threshold of the kitchen. "Amy, I'm sorry about the shower. It was a stupid idea, but I'll never be sorry about anything else. You're beautiful, Amy. I wanted to tell you that day. Honest-honest. You're amazing and beautiful."

Amy's body was shaking; it was too late.

Katy grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me back. I let her, yelling, "Don't let them change this, Amy! Don't let them make you think you aren't beautiful!"

Then, Katy shoved me outside, and the door slammed shut.

I stood in front of the house, stunned by how the truth had been twisted and marred.

What even was the truth anymore?

Fuck it. Go bold and go home. Again.


First cursing Katy, and then Aunt Cyn, I drove back to my apartment. At the halfway point, I directed my fury at Amy—not for hating me, but for being so fucking insecure. I made it back in twelve hours.

What a waste. I flopped onto the mattress of my shitty apartment and slept.

I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door. Terribly groggy, I hovered in semi-consciousness for a few moments until I realized the knocking had been going on for quite some time. My clock read 11:47am.

I had gotten about five hours of sleep. I felt like I needed at least ten more.

I rose from the bed, yelled at the door that I was coming, and walked over. I turned the lock and opened the door a few inches.

I couldn't believe my eyes; I rubbed them and looked again.


"Hello, Michael. May I come in?"

I blinked a few times, and then I said, "You're the first person in the family to visit me here, but the last person I ever expected."

She pursed her lips. "Michael, may I come in?"

I looked her over, considering her request, and then I said, "Are you here just to chew me out? Because if you are, then no."

"I am not here to chew you out."

"Then, why are you here?"

"To talk to you, ask you some questions. It's about Amy; I'm concerned."

I sighed and opened the door. She walked in, and I closed it, asking, "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you, Michael." She looked over the apartment, standing in the entryway and holding her purse with both hands.

I went over and stood behind the kitchen counter. "Did you just drive up here from Big Rock?"

She nodded.

"What's going on?"

"Amy is not at home. She packed up a bag and left in her car this morning. She didn't tell Katy where, and she's not taking our calls. Katy called me and told me this morning. She told me about your visit. So, I drove up."

"You think...you think Amy's coming here?" I asked, incredulous. When Cynthia didn't respond, I started chuckling. "This is the last place on Earth she would go. I'm afraid you just wasted about four hours of time and fuel."

"What did you and Amy talk about?"

"You already know; you talked to Katy. She was there the whole time, wouldn't let me see Amy alone."

"Michael, I know how people can...can twist things to support their own agenda. I want to hear it from you."

"What did Katy say?" I asked.


"Come on. I'm not saying anything until I know."

Cynthia sighed and said, "She said you barged in, insisted on talking to Amy. She said Amy asked her to stay and that you half-apologized, made up some excuses, and wouldn't leave when Amy asked you to, so Katy had to kick you out."

I guffawed.

"Michael, tell me your side."

"Nah, I don't think so." Before Cynthia could protest, I added, "But, I'll tell you why I drove thirteen hours from here to your place: out of respect for Amy. I've been trying, since last year, to talk to her, apologize, and explain myself. I owed that to her—not you. Her."

"What happened last summer, Michael?"

I shook my head.

"Why won't you tell me your side of things from yesterday?" she asked.

"Because I don't care what you think."

Her eyes widened. I couldn't tell if it was offense or shock or both.

I continued, "You and Katy are free to think the absolute worst of me. That Katy's version of the events from Sunday is filled with lies doesn't really bother me. The only opinion of me that matters is Amy's. Everyone else can butt out and fuck off."

I caught movement and stepped back. Cynthia's flat palm cut through the air in front of my face. I knew it would come.

She looked pissed. "Michael! Do you want me to..."

"You've got no leverage here, Cynthia."

Cynthia's eyes were murderous. She wasn't used to missing her slaps, I guess.

I said, "Everything I have is owned by me, paid for by me. My car. This apartment. The clothes I wear. The bed I sleep on. The food I eat. No cosigners. Nothing. I am completely independent. I pay for college—some of it—the debt is in my name and no one else's. I have two jobs, and I take classes part time. I gave up my scholarship, and I'm not playing football. I work; I study. I'm free. No one can tell me what to do."

As she listened, she appeared to calm herself. She looked around at the apartment. Evidently, my parents had not explained the situation to Cynthia. When I finished, she turned to me. "I'm impressed, Michael. And, I'm sorry I tried to treat you like a child."

I shrugged.

Cynthia said, "I'm worried about Amy."


She looked at me like I belonged in the padded room of an asylum.

I said, "Look, Cynthia, Amy's smart. Is she hurting right now? Sure. My bet is she's driving down to Big Rock to be with you and Scott and Big Pop and Nana. Either that, or she's going to hang out with some friends for a while. She's fine."

"I need to know where she is," she stated.

"Cynthia, has it ever occurred to you that Amy doesn't need your protection? That your protection is possibly one of the reasons she's hurting right now?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"I think you and Katy are feeding her low self-esteem. Last summer, I was trying to build it—her confidence in herself. What I discovered was that Amy was really fun and really cool. We had a great time together. You caught me supposedly doing something mean, but I wasn't trying to be nasty; I was trying to help her."

Here, Cynthia moved like she was going to interrupt me.

"No, no, no, no, no, no. I'm not done talking. So, I went to your house Sunday to apologize, and I did, but what I learned there was that you and Katy have changed—warped and twisted, really—Amy's mind about our time together last summer. You've made her think it wasn't something joyful, but some kind of long con where my goal was to hurt her really bad. That is totally, totally untrue. But she believes it because her mother and her sister can't understand how anyone might actually be nice to her. All your protection really does is feed her low self-esteem."

"You would dare criticize how I raise my daughter?"

"She's raised! You're done. And, she's amazing—congratulations."

This took her aback.

I continued, "You're not going to like this, but I think Amy is surrounded by people who have assumed that since Katy is beautiful, Amy must not be attractive; since Katy has tons of friends, Amy must not be friendly or likable; since boys love Katy, then Amy must be unlovable. None of it is true, but your convincing her that I was trying to fuck with her has made her start believing those things again."

"Damn it, Michael! Tell me what is going on!"


She huffed a few times like a fighting bull, ready to charge, and then she said, decisively, "I think Amy is coming here, and I intend to wait for her."

"Well, you may not."

"Excuse me?"

"You may not wait for her here. Go somewhere else."


I raised my hand and said, "Two things. First, Amy left this morning, so, on the one in a million chance she's even coming here, she's not going to be here until seven, eight, even nine o'clock. You can't hang out here for the next nine hours. Second, Amy hasn't responded to you because she's not ready to talk to you. So, if she's actually coming, you being here would defeat the purpose."

"Let me wait for her here."


"I'll call her. Just wait a second, Michael."

"No. Go somewhere else and call her."

She squinted for a moment and then left in silence.

I locked the door behind her.

On the whole, I was happy with how I handled Cynthia, but I was exhausted. I walked to my bed and sank down.

Then my cell phone rang.

I had left it in the kitchen.


I got up, walked over, and saw that it was my Dad.

"Hey, Pop."

"Mike, am I right in hearing that you just kicked Aunt Cynthia out of your apartment?"

Fuck. "No. I let her in. We spoke. She tried to slap me. I dodged it. We spoke some more. She wanted to stay in my apartment. I told her she couldn't. She left. No 'kicking out.' Just asking to leave."

"Still, Mike, I think you need to show your Aunt some more respect. I mean she is your Aunt and all, and after last summer..."

"Pop. Butt out. It's not your business."


I said, "I'm tired and I'm going to bed. Talk to you later."

I didn't give him a chance to respond. I walked back to my bedroom, put my phone on the nightstand, and slid back into bed. The cool sheets felt amazing.

What if, I wondered, Amy really was coming here? Wouldn't it be incredible? It might mean I somehow got through to her—that my trip up there wasn't a total waste.

She hadn't spoken to her family, yet. What did that mean?

Could be good for me.

I slid my arms under a pillow and began to imagine it—Amy coming here.

It was a ridiculous notion, but I didn't mind envisioning it as I slipped back into sleep.

Then my phone rang again.


I pushed myself up, grabbed the phone, and looked: Katy.

"Now, what the fuck," I mumbled. Then, I answered it. "Hello?"


"I didn't kick your Mom out. I asked her to leave, and she did. She fucking tried to slap me."

"I wish she'd kicked you in the dick, you little shit."

"Katy, I'm tired. Is that it?"

"No. I'm going to call my Mom back and tell her you're letting her stay."

"Fine. Whatever. As long as she doesn't come here until, like, six. I need to sleep and there's no way in hell Amy gets here—if she even is coming here—before then."



I looked at the phone. She'd hung up.

Whatever. I dropped my phone, rolled over, and before I shut my eyes, I saw the clock. It was 12:32pm.


I opened my eyes at 12:41, nine minutes later. Fucking Aunt Cynthia was knocking at my door.

"Stupid fucking whore," I hissed to myself. "Come back at six!" I yelled.

I could hear her voice, faintly, through the door. She said my name and knocked again.

Something about how she said my name and how she knocked was different. There was hesitancy and respectfulness.

Maybe Katy had told her that I was going to be sleeping. Maybe Cynthia meant to be apologetic.

"Fuck it," I mumbled, and I got up. "Coming!"

I walked over to the door and opened it.

She smiled.

I stared for a second, dumbstruck. Then I stepped across the threshold, saying her name: Amy. She leapt into my arms. Her legs wrapped around my waist, and I held her ass. She kissed my lips, she kissed my cheek, she kissed my forehead, she kissed my neck, and she kissed my lips again.

In between, when I had the chance, I said, "What...how did...Amy...when did..." Then, I just started laughing. She did, too. We laughed and kissed.

She drew back and took my cheeks in her hands. "Do you love me?" she asked. Her eyes searched mine; they were on fire.

"Honest, honest," I said, "I love you, Amy."

She tilted her head back and yelled, "I knew it!" Then, she screamed. There was joy in it. There was release in it. Twenty years of angst and frustration poured out of her in that scream.

Her soft, bare neck was there, in front of me. I attached my lips to it, and she laughed and screamed again.

I heard doors opening in the hallway. I glanced up and saw one of my neighbors peek out at us. Amy looked over at another of the voyeurs and burst into a new fit of laughter.

Doors closed and she clasped my face, pulling me from her neck and looking me in the eye. "Tell me again, Mike. Please."

"I love you, Amy."

She kissed me. And again. And three, four, five times. She drew back and said, "I knew it. I knew they didn't understand. I love you, Mike."

I had been putting things together in my mind. I asked, "You flew?"

She nodded.

I asked, "You forgive me?"

She nodded. "I love you."

I kissed her.

She said, "Mike, do you forgive me?"

"For what?"

"For letting my family make me doubt myself, doubt you."

"It's over."

I dropped to my knees, and in moments we were kissing on the floor in the hallway of my apartment building. She was on her back. My body was between her knees. She'd never looked more beautiful—even compared to that moment on the dock two years before. The difference was joy. Amy was incandescently happy.

We kissed, and when we weren't kissing, she told me she loved me, and I said the same to her.


We both turned towards the voice.

Amy's mother stood at the top of the stairs at the end of the hallway, staring at us, mouth agape.

We stared back.

Cynthia began to speak, but stopped herself. She tried again, glancing alternately between us. Her hands were up by her chin, fingertips pressed together, almost as if she were praying. They slowly split apart and fell to her sides.

She said, "Amy, I'm glad you're safe."

Amy nodded and said, "Mom, I'm always safe when I'm with Mike."

My love for Amy tripled the moment I heard those words. My mind screamed in exultation. It was sweeter than any revenge I could have fathomed.

Cynthia smiled weakly and nodded once. Then, she turned and left. Amy watched her for a moment, and then she turned to me with a very serious look on her face and declared, "Mike, we have to fuck, like, right now."

"Here in the hallway?"

"No, silly. Take me to your bed."

I had a hundred questions, but they could wait.


A six feet-two inch human—even a sleek, young, female one—is a hefty hunk of flesh. But, it didn't matter. I picked her up, kicked the door closed behind me, and carried her to bed, almost running.

We kissed and laughed and tugged at each other's clothing. When we weren't kissing, Amy whispered, "Fuck me."

Our every movement was infused with urgency, as if the nukes were already in the air, inbound. There would be no fooling around. As soon as our lower halves were uncovered, they found each other and joined. We were both ready, me like hickory, she like hot cream.

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