Just in the Neighborhood

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

*******

I love my wife, and I try my best to show it. It's hard, sometimes, though. We're not the same people we were twenty-five years and two kids ago. I don't have exactly the same charms I did back then, and I'm not sure they'd work on Carla regardless. Responsibilities pile up. You both get tired. After a while, you start feeling guilty for wanting your spouse in that simple, special way. You get caught thinking that maybe what she really wants most is to be left alone -- again, only in that one, simple, special way. She definitely still wants you around for all the other crap. You wonder if there's anything you could've done differently to prevent the change from passionate lovers to parenting teammates and joint homeowners. Then you feel selfish, and then you feel guilty.

There were obviously some freebies over the years -- things I knew I could do to show her I cared. I worked hard to get raises and promotions, supported her when she wanted to be a full-time mom, and did my best to be a good dad whenever I wasn't at the plant. I played nice with her side of the family, even though it boasted a few winners who never stopped being invited to the holiday dinners that they'd predictably disrupt.

Is that enough, though? Well, I guess that depends on whether you're discussing the selfish stuff, or what really matters. Hank turned out good. He's enrolled in college, and he's being very responsible. Between student loans, a few little scholarships, and a work study job, he's pitching in. He's not keen on living with us anymore, though. He got a summer job with some company in California; he's living with five other kids two hours from the main office and trying to finagle as much work-from-home as he can. He calls once a week, and he never asks for money. That's pretty darn good, from what I've heard around town. Lots of parents in the community -- an awful lot of single moms, honestly, which is a little weird -- have one kid out of the house and one or more still in. That means we still talk to them. School functions and PTA meetings are a bizarre kind of social glue. I don't love them, but I'm starting to appreciate their value more and more the closer we get to being genuine empty-nesters.

Erika, our only other, is still at home with us. She missed the age cutoff for kindergarten all those many years ago, so now she's heading into her senior year having already turned eighteen. That shouldn't matter much, but it does -- to me, much more so than to her. I'm more terrified than I've ever been in my life that she's going to flip out, become some kind of rebellious teenage demoness, take drugs, sell drugs, get pregnant, get tattooed, and, hell, I don't know, do some viral video online that ruins her whole future, or makes her famous -- or both? That's a thing parents have to worry about now, right? I am too old for this shit. The only thing worse would be being too young for it, and I think those are the only two options.

"Want me to tag in, Daddy?" Erika asks out of the blue. I startle a bit, right there at the kitchen sink. Speak of the devil that probably isn't the devil at all. She's looking at me with bright, innocent eyes, and her hand on my back instantly sends my memory careening towards the Piggyback Rides folder: the backyard, beaches, that one time in the big city... She's my little girl, and she's offering to do the rest of the dishes. I'm worrying over nothing.

I give her a big smile. "Kiki-bear, you are an angel, but I've got this tonight."

She rolls her eyes. "Geez, Dad, that's a triple. What's gotten into you?"

"Piggyback rides," I tell her. "Remember those? I just got a flash. Parents are like that sometimes. My advice is to take advantage. The next flash might be that time you almost blinded yourself with my big flashlight, then dropped it on your toes."

"Well, I didn't break the flashlight," she offers.

I laugh. "Yeah, that would have been so much more expensive than the trip to the ER. Sure thing, sweetheart."

Her hand doesn't leave my back, so I don't turn back to the sudsy sink. I put on my concerned-and-engaged Dad face. Erika's gets serious, and I'm not surprised. She did want to talk.

"Is Mom okay?" she asks in a low voice.

I sigh. "I'll check in with her after I'm done here."

"Why don't I?"

"Oh, sweetheart," I sigh. "It's nothing serious. She just misses... how it used to be."

Erika rolls her eyes again and pats my back. "She misses Hank, Daddy," she says. "You can just say it. I'm not going to crumble into a million pieces or get some kind of a complex. I know she loves me. You guys are... you're not bad, as parents go, I guess."

"Phew, that was a close one," I reply. "How'd you know I had my phone recording? I'll get you next time."

"Oh?" she asks playfully. "Well then!" She drops her hand and leans down towards my butt. "My Daddy says all the time that he can beat up anybody else's Daddy and that they should just try it and he'll beat them all up!"

I groan. She grins. We have stupid fun like that all the time. Every once in a while, she tells a really good joke, so I know she's capable of it. I don't have to worry that I raised an unfunny daughter. That'd be so much worse than all of that other stuff.

"Come in when you're done," she says. "I'll go snuggle with her. Then you can take my place." She points her thumbs towards her chest and drops her voice down to the faintest of whispers. "Wingwoman."

That earns her a genuinely stern look, but she's already skipping away. I shake my head and get back to the dishes. I start worrying again. I don't know if it's for the same reasons, or different ones. No teenager living at home should be trying to help her dad score with her mom -- well, at least not unless they're divorced. Then, I could see the TV movie getting made. If they're still married, it's too obviously about sex.

Then again, I'm old. Maybe TV's changed more than I realize, too.

*******

We didn't end up watching anything racy. Erika warmed up my seat, and we spent a quiet hour or two on the couch. Carla accepted my cuddles; Erika actively cuddled me. It felt great, but after a while, I whispered to her to help me double team her mom. She gave me the predictable "Gross!" face, then switched positions while I tugged Carla towards the middle of the couch. She made the usual amount of fuss, but let it happen. I think it helped. I don't know.

"Ben?" she asks.

I was almost asleep. I roll over and awkwardly try to spoon her. "Mmm?"

"I'm sorry," she says.

"What did you do?" I ask, putting on my deep, goofy, menacing-sitcom-Dad voice.

She doesn't laugh. Instead, she sniffles. Well, shit.

"I just don't feel it," she says. "I know you still... want to, and I suppose I feel terribly guilty about that, but I don't feel wrong because I don't want to -- not physically. I don't feel like there's anything wrong with me."

I try to gather her up in my arms, but she doesn't help, so it's not fully possible. "There's nothing wrong with you, my love," I tell her. I kiss the back of her head. Her dark brown hair is still lush and soft. It still smells nice. I know that won't last forever. I remember my mom's getting gray, thin, and straw-like. My heart aches at the thought.

"I don't think I'm depressed," she says. "I'm still a little sad about Hank sometimes, but that's normal, I think. I love Erika. I love you. I love our life."

"Chores aside," I joke.

"Chores aside," she agrees. "And errands. But we live in a nice neighborhood. Most of the people are great. It's a good school, and your job... I'm just... sorry, Ben. I'm sorry."

"Baby," I reply, "I'm always here if you need to talk. But if you don't want to, then, maybe once Erika is off to college? Maybe that's a good time to sit down and really hash everything out? I know it's going to be hard for a while, just like it was with Hank, and I'm ready for that. But after that, it's a new stage in our lives. Who knows how we'll feel? Who knows what might happen?"

Carla squirms uncomfortably. "I don't like that," she says. "I don't like not knowing. I get scared about what that means."

"Baby, unless you pack my bags, I'm not going anywhere."

That calms her down a little. "Really?"

"Really truly."

"I love you, Benji."

"I love you, Momma Bear."

I sleep okay. I think she does, too. We don't talk about it again. Life goes on, and it's pretty good, except for that one, simple, special thing. With a teenager still in the house and a wife who hates sleeping alone, there's really no time or place for me to jerk off. I wait a few days until I get pent up enough that I can do it standing, in the shower, before work, and then it's back to my sexless existence. Summer's almost over. Maybe Erika being back in school will change something. I doubt it.

*******

Everybody knows all about Sophie Brown, and all the decent folk in town pretend they don't. They don't call her Sophie Walker anymore, because she had her last name legally changed. They're not thrilled that she's still in high school at nineteen, but they understand. They don't like the fact that she's living with a woman young enough to be riding that line between "fun aunt" and "sister that was planned, unlike the next one," but they get that, too. She had a rough few years, and things could have gone a lot worse.

In a way, her story is part of that bigger quirk of our small Pennsylvania suburb. She's another kid whose dad left. Actually, I vaguely recall that she was one of the first kids it happened to in quite the cluster of them. I guess what makes her tragically special is that her mom left first, and then her dad remarried -- to a younger woman who, Lord and Carla forgive me, was well out of his league in the looks department.

Francis Walker was, to put it diplomatically, a fuckpile of shit that was born a hundred and fifty years too late to fulfill his true destiny: to die building a railroad or a bridge to link the country's coasts, well away from any family he might've had, while sending them a few dollars a week by post. He worked hard at the plant, but drank even harder, and... well, we all know what came out in the second set of divorce proceedings, even though he was never found guilty of anything in a criminal court. I wouldn't have blamed Sophie's mom if she hadn't returned any of the lawyers' phone calls, and had just let everyone think he'd murdered her. She did, though. I don't know why she didn't come back after Frank left. I try not to speculate, unlike a lot of my neighbors. I can't even say, ultimately, if it was better or worse for Sophie that she didn't.

Everybody's glad he's out of the picture and out of town, and that he got taken to the cleaners. It was just weird how it all happened, and how it left his only daughter with a stepmother who looked like she couldn't take care of a small dog.

Stephanie Brown stepped up, though. She's a real success story. Personally, I think the people in town who still can't quite act normally around her are being real assholes, even if maybe they can't help it. She worked two jobs, got a degree, got a better job, and is now kind of a big deal in real estate. She legally adopted Sophie, which, hey -- maybe Sophie's mom was a piece of work, too, just like her dad. I don't know. That shouldn't attach to Sophie or to Stephanie, but it does, and that's not fair. The other thing that shouldn't attach to Stephanie, but does, is that she was Frank's punching bag for a year before she finally called the cops, got a lawyer, and ultimately took care of business.

Anyway, Stephanie moved herself and Sophie into a really nice house -- not huge, but clean and modern. She actually helped a few of the newly single women in town get great deals while selling. Irony upon irony, a few of them had happily gossiped and clucked their tongues before their own marital troubles had come to a head. Afterwards, they became her best friends.

So, after all that, here's the big "but." You will not like it, but I cannot deny it.

I am not comfortable with the fact that Sophie Brown is my Erika's new best friend.

"Third time this week," I say in that warning, sing-songy Dad voice of mine. Dinner's quite good, and Erika's missing it. She's staying for dinner at Sophie's, again. It only happened once last week -- the very first week of the fall term -- and I'm already troubled, even though it's not yet a trend.

I have no doubt that Stephanie Brown, real estate agent extraordinaire, is bringing home expensive takeout. That's not a criticism. Fine, it is. Carla takes good care of us; she cooks hearty and healthy. I appreciate that Stephanie is a single mom with a demanding job, but I have to think about my little girl. She wants to try for varsity track or cross country, and this is her senior year. It was her idea for us to eat better in the first place. If I have to eat this much asparagus, she does, too.

Carla sighs. "We really shouldn't be upset."

"But we are," I add.

"We are," she concedes. "Still... it's just one week, Ben. She's infatuated with a new girlfriend. It happens."

I raise an eyebrow. "Infatuated?"

Carla waves her fork at me. "Stop it, Ben," she says. "None of that. Kids that age find new friends and suddenly they're inseparable, and then, a month later, who even knows? Erika's a good girl, Ben. We should trust her."

The "Ben" count is already getting high. That can mean a few different things. None of them are great. I choose to believe that tonight, it's about Carla trying to convince herself while pretending I'm being unreasonable.

"Erika's going to be eating leftovers for breakfast, lunch, and snacks," I reply. "And hey, I wasn't the one who used that word."

"Well you should look it up in the dictionary," she says haughtily. "It has more than one meaning, and my mind doesn't go there."

It used to, though -- for us, I mean. I miss that. Then again, every time the universe forces me to think about my daughter possibly having sex, I immediately understand the allure and value of hardcore, global denial.

Duly scolded, I work on my meal. I try to do that weird mindfulness thing, where you focus really hard on something that's good in your life -- like marinated chicken, and three-bean salad. The asparagus is also present.

"Okay," I finally say. "You're right. We don't need to go through it all. It's not fair to Sophie, or to Stephanie."

"Exactly," Carla says. "And of course I don't like that her hair is... like that, and I'm certainly not going to let Erika do anything like that while she's under this roof, but there hasn't been a peep about drugs or anything else. In fact, I actually heard from someone that Sophie's grades last year were almost perfect."

"Oh, you heard that from 'someone,' did you?" I ask. "It just came up organically?"

Carla shifts in her seat. "Perhaps not one hundred percent organically."

I nod. "Maybe we should stop pretending we're not on the same page. It's just the two of us here right now, after all."

"You're right," she says. "We're both a little bit protective -- overprotective, maybe. And maybe we should both try to trust Erika a little bit more."

On cue, Carla's phone rings. Erika's no dummy. She knows which parent is the weaker link.

"Hi sweetheart," Carla says to Erika over the phone while looking at me. "How's everything at Sophie's? Mmmm. Uh-huh. Yes, I'm sure it was. Well... well, now, Erika, that would be the third time this week -- no, I do trust that you'll get your homework -- well, yes, I know Stephanie said -"

I motion for the phone. I can't deal with this anymore.

Carla acts offended for a split second. "Your father wants to speak with you." She hands the phone off to me.

"Hey there, Kiki-bear," I say.

"Hi, Daddy!" Erika replies.

"Let's get Ms. Brown on the line, please."

Erika's a good girl, a smart girl, and even a little bit of a crafty girl. She doesn't sigh, and she doesn't talk back. "Okay, Daddy; just one sec."

I wait, and it only takes a few seconds before Stephanie's on the line.

"Benjamin!" she exclaims. "Well, isn't this wonderful! We hardly ever get a chance to talk!"

I chuckle. "Well, plant work and real estate work -- two different worlds. How are you?"

"Exhausted, but great. Weird, right? That's parenthood."

"Being worried over nothing is, too," I reply, "and, unfortunately, I'm afraid that might be where Carla and I are at tonight. Erika's imposing on your hospitality quite a lot this week, and we usually check in with her about homework and whatnot in the evening. Those check-ins have been rather brief, given that she's been coming home five minutes before curfew."

"Oh, dear," Stephanie says. "Ben, I'm so sorry. You know, I forget sometimes that Erika's got two parents who are both so involved, and, you know, Sophie learned how to be independent, and, I know, my job... oh, I'm sorry."

Carla wants to know what's going on. I give her the exaggerated 'woe is me' pantomime with one hand at my eyes.

She's confused. "Stephanie?" she mostly mouths.

I shrug my confirmation, conceding the fact that it is a little weird.

"Hey," I say into the phone, "Stephanie, you're doing great. Everybody knows that. We trust Erika, and we trust you. It's just, well... kids can get a little infatuated when they make a new friend, and they can forget about some of their responsibilities. We just need to make sure that's not happening with Erika."

Carla shoots me a dirty look -- mostly in good fun.

"Infatuated?" Stephanie asks. She sounds a little confused herself, and a little concerned. That makes me feel better. If I'm confused, everybody else should be, too.

"According to my wife, it has more than one definition. Anyway... maybe Erika could just come home a little earlier tonight? Tell her her sad old parents miss her."

Carla shoots me yet another dirty look. I'm on thin ice, but still okay.

"Well, that sounds like a great compromise, Ben," Stephanie says, "but let me be perfectly clear: Erika is a delight, and I love having her over. Sophie has never been happier, either, and, if you want to talk about what everybody in town knows, it's that the Pendleton family is picture-perfect. Tell you what: I'll drive Erika home so she can have a few more minutes with my Sophie before she has to leave, but I'll make sure she's back there at... say, nine?"

"Nine sounds great, Stephanie. And hey -- thanks so much for hosting. That means we need to have Sophie over soon, and maybe you, too?"

Carla's third look splits the baby. She's not thrilled, but she knows it's part of being a good neighbor. She can't fault me for it. She'd have felt obligated to say the exact same thing.

"Oh, my!" Stephanie exclaims. "Oh, Ben, that would be just wonderful! I'm making a note right now that we simply must do that. Let's keep in touch and pick a date that works -- oh, and I'll make sure that Sophie doesn't play any of her tricks and invite herself over to your place. If Erika wants to do that, she can work it out with you."

"Ah, kids," I say with a good-natured chuckle. "Yeah, they have tricks. That one sounds pretty harmless, though. Have a great night, Stephanie."

"You too, Ben," she says warmly. "And tell Carla the same from me, please? She's always been so nice to us around town, and I can't tell you how happy I am we'll be able to do some girl talk soon."

I roll my eyes. Then I spend another minute saying goodbye in sixteen different ways, because that's how it goes. Finally, the phone's off, and I hand it back to Carla.