Personal Growth

No more I screeched to myself, scrabbling frantically for enough clothing to leave the building in without getting arrested. Because that? That was all I needed right now. But my top was hopeless, the buttons scattered around the bedroom like little pearls, so I stole a bulky grey sweater from one of the drawers. That, and the skirt I'd worn in Aaron van Deventer's office, plus my shoes, would have to do; underwear was out of the question, and as I snuck past the smug doorman with my head held as high as I could, I felt the semen caked on my thighs and contemplated the constant need for a toilet and I raged at myself.

No more.

Never again. Aaron was wise. Personal growth: I had to shape up, and I was still telling myself that as I pulled my carry-on wearily from the overhead and began trundling down the aisle after the last of the stragglers at the little airport I'd flown out of at eighteen, hoping I'd never bother to come back. "Thanks for flying with us!" the flight attendant simpered, the tall pilot beside her looking openly at my chest, and I just stared. "You have a blessed holiday season!"

"Uh. Thanks." The jetway was a riot of Christmas lights strung along the roofline in a scraggled line pointing me toward the terminal.

I was home.

* * *

"So Denise is coming in tonight," my mom chirped uncertainly, leaving me pondering again whether she was awkward because I was distant or whether I was distant because she was awkward. I lifted my eyes heavily from my lap, where I had a copy of The Dancing Wu Li Masters splayed open. She flitted around the room, regressing as she always did to her natural state: puttering. "Dad's going to pick them up from the airport after dinner."

"Okay." I was on the day's fourth? fifth? coffee; you lose count after awhile. Coffee and red wine was about all I'd been living on ever since I'd arrived. I got to the end of a paragraph and rolled my head slowly toward her from my little nest tucked into the window-seat off the living room. I'd been watching the snow for what felt like days. I stirred then, something nagging at me. "Wait. Who's the 'them' that Dad is going to pick up?"

"Denise is engaged." She said it like you'd tell someone about an illness, and I caught a slight purse of her lips.

"Is he a nice guy?" I prodded, not because I wanted to know, but because this side of my mother fascinated me. She was good at saying horrible things about people without seeming to.

"He's twenty-seven," she shrugged.

"Shit, Mom," I growled, "that's not an answer. Is he a nice guy, or not?"

"Well," she sighed thoughtfully, the indictment already obvious in her voice, "your father likes him."

"Jesus." I glared once more out the window, where it was warmer than my mother. "I'll rephrase. Is she happy?"

"She's getting married," she shrugged, plucking at a throw pillow. "So." She sent a withering glance at my legs. "You were wearing those yesterday. Those... pants."

"They're leggings, Mom."

"You were wearing those yesterday. You should really let me wash them." I thought about what she'd do if I got to my feet and took them off right here. She'd probably be scandalized; I doubted she was aware women don't wear underwear so much anymore. The thought made me laugh. "What's funny?"

"Nothing." What was funny was the notion Aaron van Deventer had had that I would ever find anything in this house but stress. "I'm not a child, mom. I can do my own laundry."

"Seems not, honey." She smiled, which did nothing at all to take the sting out.

I sighed, watching the fog burst onto the window. "Mom, you ever wonder what happens when you find out you're doing all the wrong things?"

She straightened slowly, her lips pursed in a very Midwestern way as she decided whether she should be offended. "Anna, are you having a midlife crisis?"

"Midlife?" I barked a laugh. "I hope not. I want to live to be older than seventy." But I thought about the night after Aaron had taken me off Norbera, the ache in my ass and the cum in my hair, and decided she was definitely half right. At least the UTI had cleared up. But that was over, I'd decided. No more UTIs. No more threesomes. No more rejections from coworkers.

Nothing, I'd resolved, but growth. Just a little bit, every day.

"I'm okay, Mom." I could hear the weariness in my voice. "What's the guy's name?"

She looked closely at me. "Cameron," she said at last. As if it explained everything about her attitude, she added, "He's in a band."

"Oh. A band." I nodded. "Bad boy, huh? Marching? Is he in the drumline or the brass section?"

She stared a moment, then smiled briefly. "It's so nice having you home, honey."

"Tuba?" I called after her, but teasing my mom had lost all its savor since I'd left home. So I went back to my book.

* * *

There was a small knoll of luggage piled in the foyer when I rolled out of bed the next day around half past ten. "Ah," I said to no one, surveying the mismatch of bags and rolling suitcases. "They made it."

"They did. After a delayed flight." My dad was less than happy to see me up so late. He'd always thought I should have become a banker or something and stayed in town. "You missed breakfast."

"No I didn't," I told him over my shoulder as I headed for the kitchen. "I smell coffee. Good enough." I felt his eyes narrowing at me. "Good morning to you too, father dearest."

"If you could help move all this luggage out of here, I'd appreciate it," he added shortly, but he and I both knew that wasn't going to happen.

"Denise brought a boy," I threw back over my shoulder. "Let him do it." Not that I'd met him. They'd gotten in after I'd slumped off to bed and now they were allegedly out looking at wedding shit. I was curious, as I sat on the back deck listlessly reading one of my dad's copies of Guns and Ammo, about what kind of man would allow himself to get married here, in the middle of nowhere.

So the luggage was still heaped by the front door when I heard voices there, long after dark, as I sat at my window-seat pondering Norbera. Well, pondering Kyle. That night. It was a difficult thing to get out of my mind, but my sister's icepick voice was almost enough to pull that off. "We're home, everybody!" she trilled.

Denise. I'd lost track of her even before I'd stopped calling my parents. She'd gone off to become a teacher, then had dropped out to follow a guy across the country before finally completing her degree and getting a job as a paralegal. I'd lost track of her when she'd left college, having no real reason to care about her after that. I thought about replying, but they'd be in soon enough. The foyer was just two rooms away; they couldn't miss me.

Nor did they, Denise darkening the living room door as a man's heavier tread clumped down the hall toward the bathroom. She brushed back her hair. "Anna!" We'd never been the kind of family that hugged a lot, and neither of us saw any reason to start right now. She stood there, just a little chunkier than she'd been when I last saw her... what, seven years ago? About that.

"Hi, Denise." Out of sisterly love and respect, I did put my book down. We let our eyes rove for awhile, seeking imperfections; I was clearly hotter, but there was nothing fundamentally wrong with her. And she had gotten a ring. "Happy Hanukkah."

"Yeah, hope your Kwanzaa is a real blast, too." She was frowning, her head tipped as she took her earrings off. "How's work?"

"Work?" I snorted. "Work makes Vietnam look like a win."

She shook her head. "Yeah, I don't get what the hell that means, Anna."

I sighed. She'd never been what you might call quick-witted. "Work is fucking awful, Denise."

"Too bad." She sighed and toppled into my mom's overstuffed couch. "This town sucks for places to have a cheap wedding. You coming?"

I rolled my eyes. "Sweetie," I explained carefully, "I had no idea you were dating anybody until Mom told me you were engaged. Yesterday. Around four in the afternoon."

She shrugged, groping around for Dad's remote. "Whatever. We're shooting for May." She frowned. "Well, I am. He's shooting for 2046 at the earliest."

I laughed grimly, in the mood these days to believe anything bad about the male of the species. "Sounds like a real catch."

"Well," she sighed, blowing her hair back out of her face, "you know how it is. You date. It gets serious. At a certain point, you have to shit or get off the pot, right?" On cue, the toilet flushed down the hall. I just looked away; I'd never gotten to that certain point. "Anyway. I'd love it if you can come. It's not a big thing with bridesmaids and shit, so you can wear whatever," she added with a snide glance at my leggings. "Within reason."

I bit my lip. Little bitch. I spent almost every day wearing work clothes worth more than her and her boyfriend's salary, combined. I felt obscurely defeated, letting her see me like this. Let alone my new future brother-in-law, whose steps were now shuffling back down the hall toward me. Denise got the TV turned on just as her beau found his way in. "Hey," he said, not too quiet, not too loud.

I flipped my eyes over toward him, testing myself, and feeling nothing in my nipples or my pussy as I took him in. Personal growth! Until Kyle, I'd have started flirting at once. Denise's man was shorter than I was expecting, just a little stockier, and with more scraggle than I liked around his chin. Other than that, there didn't seem to be anything all that wrong with him. He looked a little smarter than Denise, though that's not a high bar. "Cam? This is my sister Anna." Denise didn't even look at either of us, already shifting aggressively through the Netflix screens like a NASCAR racer on a road course. "Anna? Cam."

"Hi, Cam." I offered him a smile, the thin kind I'd given the Norbera people. So I spread it a little more warmly when I remembered how Norbera had worked out for me. "Congrats. You got a real winner in Denise."

"I think so." He sat next to her on the loveseat, his eyes doing nothing more than the most casual male flicker along my body. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Anna."

"Likewise," I nodded, and that was it. Some sort of Nordic dating show came glitzing onto the TV, and I had to stop myself from throwing something at the screen. Fucking Scandinavia! Was there no escape for me? I took three deep breaths, stared for a moment at the bearded bachelors all vying for the love of some Valkyrie lookalike, and then went indifferently back to my book.

Growth. It was getting toward bedtime, anyway. But only after a glass of red wine.

* * *

I came into the kitchen next day after I woke up, seeking coffee, wearing the ratty tanktop and mens' boxers combo I'd been sleeping in. I was just getting the French press set up when a heavy footstep came in behind me. "Good morning, sunshine."

"It's before noon and I'm on vacation," I pointed out. "Don't say shit about me sleeping in." I straightened, the kettle nearly there, and hiked myself up on the counter to stare at Cam with my legs swinging against the cupboards. He was in a pair of last year's pajama bottoms and an old shirt. I smirked. "Looks like I'm not the only one sleeping late, anyway. Coffee?"

"No thanks." He yawned. "I never touch the stuff." I frowned, squinting at his face. The yawn had highlighted a long, thickly corded scar running up the side of his face like an angry eel. He blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." Dude didn't need me staring at his scar. I made myself look away, searching for small talk. "What are you, a tea guy?"

"Shit no." He scratched at his neck, like he was contemplating a shave. "Tea? No, uh, Anna. I wake up to rye whiskey and Cuban cigars."

I chuckled despite myself, my heels drumming against my mom's cabinets. "Sounds like a plan. I'll join you tomorrow." He showed a cynical smile that, I realized on second glance, wasn't that cynical. It was the scar's fault. I wasn't terribly prepared for my pussy to tweak slightly, my mouth parting. "If it's not too presumptuous, that is. I'm not sure where you get your cigars; I wouldn't want to waste your supply."

"I got you," he nodded, thumbing his phone. I hopped off the counter just before the kettle started whistling, grabbing a potholder. "If we run short, we can just send Denise out to get more."

I snickered. "I sent her out once to get some weed. She pussied out."

"Really?"

"Really. I was like a sophomore in college, she was still in high school. I figured she'd have a hookup." I poured the water, the spoon tinkling against the side of the press. "I figured wrong." I suppressed a strong urge to ask him about his scar.

"That's funny." I heard him set his phone down. He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Hey. Are you okay?"

I rolled my eyes and turned. "What makes you ask that?" I said heavily.

"Well," he shrugged, "you've left coffee mugs and wine glasses all over that window-seat and there's a trashed bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies in the garbage every morning." He smiled as a flinched. "Don't worry. If you want, I can tell your mom I'm eating them."

"That's nice of you," I told him distantly. I felt tingling heat on my neck and chest as I blushed. I forced a smile. "I'm glad Denise found a guy willing to take one for the team."

He smiled. He had a nice smile, I decided, with rugged lips that transformed his whole face. Once again, I found myself totally obsessed with his scar. With where it had come from. With how it darkened his whole aspect. With how the old me would have marched boldly up to him and run my tongue along it. "There's another sign, too," he added, more quietly. "You're not shaving your legs."

"Excuse me!" I drew back, my hand flapping automatically to my mouth. My grin behind those fingers was immediate and unexpected. "Rude."

He shrugged a little apologetically, but when he spoke he sounded confident. "A woman like you? I doubt your legs have been that hairy in years." My ears buzzed; I knew my face was a scarlet mask.

"A woman like me?"

He shrugged. "I hear you're totally squared away, a badass."

I felt my smile become craftier. More mischievous. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Cam." But I had been a badass, once upon a time. Definitely, when last I'd seen my sister.

"No doubt." He smiled, then picked up his phone. "I'm off. I should shower before I take your sister to lunch," he nodded. "Nice chatting with you."

"Likewise." I watched him go, my coffee forgotten for the moment.

I lay awake that night, thinking of his scar again. Of his mouth. But at least, for the first time in awhile, the sheets slid smoothly over my shaven legs. Because Cam had been absolutely damn right. I'd been in desperate need of a shave.

* * *

He noticed, too, as I leaned back against the counter near the stove, flicking through my texts the next morning. "Good morning," he offered, sitting at the kitchen island.

"Hi." I'd gotten a text from one of my former guys. It included a close-up of his balls, which I remembered as being pretty goddamn tasty. Cam's arrival, though, made me realize I was probably zooming in a little too much; growth was important. Had to be. I raised my eyes to catch him staring at my legs.

"Good job," was all he said before he slid my dad's newspaper over to him. I blushed, which was something I was starting to expect now.

"Right?" I glanced again at that dangling foreshortened scrotum, then closed the app. "I even put on clean clothes. So my mom should be happy, too."

Cam hesitated, his head cocked, listening for several seconds. When he spoke, he did it quietly. "Denise really loves her mom," he said offhand. I didn't wait to reply.

"She probably loves Denise less." Even I was surprised I'd said it, but it was true, and Cam just nodded. "It's not Denise's fault," I went on quickly. "It's Mom's."

"Yeah, well." He frowned and gazed out the window at the sparkly morning snow by the lake. "My mom's a bitch, too." I wasn't sure what to say to that one, so I just kept my mouth shut. He scanned the paper, then tossed off another line. "So I lied to you yesterday."

"You're a man," I shrugged, and then I clamped my mouth shut with an almost audible thunk. I needed to stop flirting with this guy. All guys. They were not what I needed right now. The timer went off for my coffee, and I started the plunger gratefully down. "What did you lie about, Cam?"

His scar twitched as he frowned. I was intrigued by its motion, like it had its own life. "I've been off cigars lately, actually." He squinted at a headline.

I nodded slowly, that first wash of steam unclogging my thoughts as I brought the coffee mug to my chin. It was almost orgasmic, every time. "Striving for self-improvement," I murmured. "Personal growth."

He flicked a surprised glance at me. "Me? No. Why would I do that?" His stool creaked as he shifted his weight. "They confiscated them at the airport. I couldn't prove they were in the country legally."

"Were they?" The first sip, brutal and smooth at the same time, bludgeoned me awake.

"No." He reached into the pocket of his pajama bottles. "The rye's fine, though." The little flask glittered in the kitchen lights, and I was laughing before I even realized it. It was my heartiest laugh in a week, and he raised an eyebrow as he shook the flask. "It's yours if you want any."

I was tempted, really. I'd not had anything stronger than wine, though, since that trip to the bar after I'd left Aaron's office, the bar where I'd met those two guys. I took a deep steamy breath and raised my mug. "I've got this already," I apologized. "But it was nice of you to call my bluff. I forgive you for lying about the cigars."

He shrugged, then listened a bit longer before he unscrewed the flask in quick grating motions and tossed back a long gulp. It looked like a flask that had a lot of miles on it. His grimace as he swallowed made the scar jump, and once more I bit my tongue to keep from asking. "So," he went on, replacing his cap, "was it last night, or this morning?"

"What's that?" I blinked, then hid a small smile behind the mug as he nodded at my legs.

"Shaving. When did you do it?" He raised both eyebrows like an innocent schoolboy. "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

"I mind," I shot back at once, "but I turned down your drink. So." I had to stop myself from arching back, putting my legs on display. No. This was just a conversation. I was getting to know him. No worries. "Last night." I sipped again, watching his face. "Right before I went to bed."

"Cool." He quirked a smile at me. "I like that you handled that right away. Self-care is important, you know." Both my eyebrows shot skyward. "What?"

I bought time with another sip. "Nothing," I half-shrugged. "You're very forward," I added at last. "Not that I mind."

"No," he agreed quietly. He was scanning the paper without reading much of it. "I don't think you do."

"So Cam," I said, my professional voice on duty. My interview voice. "You're in sales, right?"

"You can tell I am." I could, too. It's an aura, a sense of confident self-importance. He sniffed. "Why? Is your company hiring? Denise tells me you've got some pull there."

I laughed, a dry barking snort. "Once upon a time, Cam. Not at the moment, I think."

He nodded, the newspaper forgotten. "You're not doing well there. It's why you're not eating right. Why you're not taking care of yourself." He smiled again. "Why you're here, now."

I studied him, my eyes slitting. "People want to buy from you because of your scar." I said it quietly. "They like buying from a bad boy."

"My numbers are excellent," he agreed.

"It's why my sister fell for you," I went on. He wasn't the only perceptive person in the room, and he needed to know that. I arched an eyebrow. "Probably why a lot of women fall for you."