The Father Next Door

"What's the matter with you?" Charlotte laughed as I stepped into her room still reeling from that interaction.

"What?" I was stunned.

"You look like a slapped ass," she laughed again, "Is it Jacob?"

I never told her about that, not about any of it, "No..."

"Yeah, you're just bitter he found someone else. Big deal. Get over it. Frankly, I'm surprised he even asked you out. You aren't really his type..." Surprisingly or not, this was Charlotte when she was attempting to be consoling. It was as though she didn't know how to be complimentary or nice and so her best efforts left her sounding cruel.

I attempted a weak smile, but I couldn't stop thinking about her Dad downstairs just 27 little paces away if he was still standing at the door. I had counted the steps, each and every one of them that carried me in the other direction, "Well, you're probably right about that." I wasn't his type. I wasn't the type of any of the boys at school because I didn't want a boy. Boys were underdeveloped, rowdy, and rude - so often driven by their id. I wanted someone who was cultivated by time and experience. A man. I wanted Henry. I wished her Dad would come upstairs and pull me into his arms, press his mouth to mine. "I think I'd like to be with someone older, more mature..."

"Well, my grandpa's single so I can give him a ring if you want," she joked, but if she only knew how close she was to the truth.

The rest of the afternoon we watched movies, gossiped about our teachers, painted our nails, and whatever else might pass the time until dinner when I would finally head home. I didn't see Mr. Walker on the way out, but his car was parked in the driveway which left me to wonder if he was in his study or maybe the garage. I felt compelled to seek him out, but thought better of it. The last thing I wanted to do was make him angry.

My mother was back and at the house with Geoff. This time a Geoff with a G, unlike the last two Jeff's who had been J's. Geoff with a G didn't have any glaringly bad habits. He didn't drink or curse or walk around the house in his underwear, thankfully. I might have liked him if I wasn't painfully aware that his time in our life would be fleeting. My Mom ordered Chinese food, which I would eat alone in my room while she and Geoff canoodled at the dining room table, "One day I'm moving to the caribbean. You should come with me. You'd like it there and Olive too. Wouldn't you, Ollie?" She called to my back as I vanished up the stairs with a plate of Lo Mein. My eyes rolled so hard it almost hurt; she was always saying stuff like that. 'I'll move to Mexico' or 'Rio' or 'Spain' but she'd never leave this house and they would never stay. It filled my heart with a sad quiet ache for both of us.

The next month would breeze by as the days grew short and cold, the last leaves of summer fell from the trees and winter was upon us. Geoff moved onto greener pastures and was replaced by Brent. Brent was a musician, and a struggling one at that. I was pretty sure that part of the reason he was dating my Mom involved raiding our refrigerator. He called me 'Oily' and I could never tell if it was because he didn't know my name, couldn't pronounce it, or wanted to make sure I resented him. I was not a fan of Brent.

At the Walker's house next door things between myself and Mr. Walker had mostly returned to normal. Yet, there were times when I wondered if he hadn't been checking me out. It was hard to say if it was all in my imagination or not, but the quickness with which he looked away any time my head turned his direction implied that just maybe he'd been giving me more than a passing glance. I yearned for his attention. Over the next few weeks my skirts got shorter as my tops got lower, I wondered if he noticed. God, I wanted him to notice. When he made a joke I always laughed the loudest. I went out of my way to touch his arm or sit next to him. When I stayed for dinner I always helped clear the table and it was his plate I would pick up first. Anything I could do to earn a smile, a wink, or a little nod of approval I did.

When I wasn't next door I longed for him. I rocked out my first real orgasm while remembering that fateful night I went out with Jacob. The house was quiet since Mom had left for Brent's place and I was in my bed. It was a little past ten and I had school in the morning so I was trying to get some sleep, but I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Walker. Next door his study light was still on and I wished I could traipse over in my PJs and crawl into his lap, press my face into the crook of his neck and inhale deeply of his cologne; all those delectable notes of bergamot, cardamon, cedarwood, and balsam. He smelled like a forest and fresh dew drops.

My hand climbed to my naked belly and skirted past my navel as nimble fingers eased into my cotton panties. It wasn't the first time I'd touched myself. I'd been unsuccessfully trying to bring myself to orgasm for a while, but maybe I had just lacked the proper inspiration. I was looking at it as too much of a sexual experiment rather than simply shutting off my brain and enjoying the ride. I was already slick when my index finger slid across my slit collecting a sheen of wetness that spread across my outer labia and back up towards my clit, tucked away behind it's delicate hood.

"Mmphh...." a small huff of excitement filtered past my open lips upon remembering the texture of his thumb as he drug it across my tongue. I pushed back that tiny bit of flesh to expose the sensitive pink bud beneath, tenderly circling it with a single digit. Then there were his eyes upon me and the way they crawled down the column of my neck, right towards my collar bone with a look that seemed almost... hungry. "Ahh," something new was happening. Small sparks became tiny eruptions that seemed to roll out in hot waves from between my thighs. My breathing became shallow and quick as I continued to abuse that petite nub.

"Nngg," a slick digit penetrated my virginal canal stopping just shy of the perilous hymen. My knees pulled up, my thighs dropped open; I writhed and burned for him. The ache within my mound bloomed and it felt as though every nerve ending in my body was lighting up. Fireworks. Hiss! Boom! Crackle! "Henry," a single needy cry breaking the stillness of the night and again, "Henry!" Louder, this time as my back arched, toes curled, all my muscles seemed to go rigid as I seized in my little twin bed, "Ahh!" Sensation tore through me, pleasure gripped me in it's ravenous maw and shook me like a rag doll. In the end, I was left panting and slick, a sheen of sweat glistening on my brow as I tried to come to terms with the power possessed in my fingers, dragging them out of my panties to glimpse drenched digits. How much of that was me and how much of it was the memory of Mr. Walker?

The next day I might have had a little bounce in my step when I went to Charlotte's house to collect her for that long walk to school. I wasn't even bothered that her Dad wasn't around, having already left for work. I felt sated from the night before. I was humming as we trekked through suburbia, and the tune would eventually lead Charlotte to question, "What has gotten into you?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm just having a good day," I answered while smiling at her, hugging my books against my chest.

"I don't see what's so good about it. You know my Mom is taking me to look at Colleges next week? She's insisting I stay in the North East. So much for California Dreamin'!" her voice was thick with disdain as she kicked a tiny pebble down the sidewalk.

"It could be worse?" I offered, "She could be sending you to Oklahoma." I laughed. Neither of us had actually been to Oklahoma. It could have been a perfectly nice state, but we'd dreamed it up as being the worst place on earth. Sometimes instead of cursing when something went awry, we'd just shout, "Oklahoma!". Oklahoma was always 98.6 degrees; body temperature. Oklahoma had year round mosquitoes. All your ex-boyfriends lived in Oklahoma. It smelled like gym socks in Oklahoma. Everyone wore crocs in Oklahoma.

"Shut up," she laughed, giving me a shove, "She's making me go to Massachusetts. What are you going to do? Did you apply anywhere out of state?"

It was in these rare moments that I felt a bond with Charlotte. She hadn't always been a monster, really. That didn't happen until about 8th grade when puberty kicked in. Before that she was actually pretty sweet. "I'll probably stay in Vermont. I was thinking of becoming a dental assistant, maybe?"

Charlotte's lips twisted, eyes narrowing with familiar skepticism and judgment. "You know dentists have the highest rate of suicide of any profession? Probably because they have to smell people's breath all day..." She flashed me a grin. "It's funny how the assistants of doctors are called nurses, and yet the assistants of dentists are just kind of nothing. Don't you think? Any way, if you do wind up offing yourself just remember that I'll be the one writing your eulogy. There will be at least one 'I told you so', promise."

"You're terrible. Isn't English your worst class? At least if you wrote it, I doubt anyone else could read it" I answered with a wry smile.

One immaculately threaded eyebrow raised high on Charlotte's forehead, clearly both surprised and maybe a little unimpressed at my retort. She was one of those girls that could dish it out, but really couldn't take it very well. "I doubt anyone would read it anyway." she snapped as we crossed the campus grounds. I shrugged opting not to let her little remarks get to me. Last night was just too good; I wasn't going to let anything get me down today.

We got to school just as the first bell rang and hurried into class. The day was largely uneventful; we got to watch a movie in History class called 'To Kill a Mockingbird' to which I know we read the book a few years ago in English class, but I'm not complaining. During physical education we wound up having a sex ed discussion on abstinance. They never teach you the really interesting things such as; why do boys draw dicks on everything? How often do accidental boners happen? Are blue balls really a thing? Do guys ever feel like their dicks are in the way? Can a penis really break? No, instead, we're told to abstain and about the virtues of waiting until marriage before being shown some horrifying STD slides. I will state that I was absolutely positive that Henry had none of the said problems and his manhood was undoubtedly a sparkling pristine example of what a cock should be. I was not deterred.

During lunch a certain Jacob Mitchell sat at our table and couldn't stop sliding sneaky glances my way. I don't think I'd ever seen him look quite so uncomfortable and it gave me a flood of confidence knowing why: he was scared of Mr. Walker. Well, he should have been. He didn't say a single word to me through the whole lunch hour. When the bell rang, Charlotte asked if I thought he was acting weird, to which I just shrugged my shoulders, "Maybe he's feeling under the weather?"

Some part of me felt like it was my duty to warn our female classmates about what a creep he had been, but this was high school and ultimately cowardice won out. I didn't want to get caught up in the turmoil of it. I think part of the reason I had such an easy education was because I kept my mouth shut; unless we were talking about our teachers because that was fun and harmless or so I imagined. It was when word got out that you had bad mouthed another student, spilled a secret, fooled around with someone's boyfriend, etc - that's when the trouble started. I was always quiet, good natured, and I kept to myself. Also, it helped that none of these boys held any interest for me.

The rest of the day flew by and once 3pm rolled around I was out the door and heading home. I arrived to find my Mom and Brent packing a suitcase, which was really not all that surprising. I don't think she'd spent a whole month at home since I turned 13. Sometimes, it felt like the word 'latchkey kid' was invented just for me, because even when she was in town she was usually somewhere else with someone else. "Ollie!" Her hands flew in the air wild with excitement as she rushed over to embrace me just as I passed the threshold of the front door, "Baby! You won't believe where we are going! Guess...."

This was my least favorite game to play, and I knew the 'we' she spoke of did not include me, "Acapulco?" I uttered naming the first place that sprung to mind. It was nearing the end of November and while I knew that was not where she was headed, I could only imagine it was somewhere warm and far away from Stowe, Vermont.

"No," she laughed and didn't even wait a tick for me to guess again, "Florida! Isn't that great? Brent has a brother that lives in Key West and we're going to stay at his place and feed his cat for two whole weeks while he's in Europe!"

She was over the moon, but I just couldn't believe that Brent had a seemingly successful brother; that was the most surprising part of this whole exchange. "Oh, well, that'll be nice..." Maybe it would be? For me, anyway. It would get Brent out of the house and, hopefully, my mother would return without him. There was a 75% chance of that happening I'd have wagered.

"So, I'm leaving you $350 for groceries and don't just order pizza the whole time, got it?" She wagged a finger at me like the shining beacon of responsible parenting she was and tucked an envelope into my hand, "Credit card is in there for emergencies and I'll have my cell phone, just in case!"

I knew the drill; this happened all the time, "Right, so when do you leave?" Not that I was trying to get her out of the house or anything.

"Tomorrow morning!" Again with the jazz hands, "We're driving so I'm taking the car. Sorry, honey. You know the bus routes though. You'll be fine," and she came over cupping my cheeks to plant a big kiss on the center of my forehead before leaning back as though she were admiring her creation, "Such a big girl. I'm so proud of you. Not everyone could trust their daughter like I trust mine." She booped the tip of my nose and went back to stuffing tropical patterned clothing into her bag.

The whole time Brent never said a word. He was on the sofa flipping through his phone. I don't think he even looked my way when I walked in the door. "Hope you have a good trip, Brad!" I said enthusiastically as I purposely mispronounced his name.

"Sure thing, Oily," and he lifted a hand to wave without ever turning around. I rolled my eyes in standard exasperated teenage fashion and slipped up to my bedroom where the rest of my night was spent doing homework and browsing on the internet.

The rest of the week was a blur of classes, netflix, and gazing out the window in the hopes that Henry might walk by. By Saturday Charlotte and her Mom were headed to Massachusetts. On Monday the first winter storm rolled in and by the time I got home from school there were six inches of slush on the ground; things got progressively worse into the evening. Once darkness settled we were in the throes of an ice storm. The wind howled with a ferociousness I'd never seen before and shook the house to the point that the windows rattled. Freezing rain pelted the landscape in sheets. Outside was all petrified, reflective, translucent as though everything were made of glass. Powerlines bowed under a sparkling crystalline sheath; the world was frozen through and through. It was like staring through the wardrobe into Narnia; magically beautiful and terrifying all at once. Temperatures plunged to 33 degrees or just above zero if you lived in the rest of the world.

I curled up with a blanket on the couch and tried to become distracted with TV, reminding myself that I was safe in my home, even if it sounded suspiciously like the house might lift right off its foundation only to be hurled across the now desolate landscape. I got through two reruns of Parks and Recreation before the power cut off, leaving me in absolute blackness. The temperature in the house started to slide quickly and I texted my Mom, "Power is out. What should I do?" I felt stupid relying at her at eighteen to answer these kinds of question, but I was scared and maybe not thinking clearly.

"Check the fuse box. It's in the basement. Flip them all to the left and then back to the right. If that doesn't work go to the Walker's house." No comforting words, just simple instruction followed by a photo of herself and Brent sipping Margaritas in a faux tropical paradise that was the interior of a bar with plastic parrots and potted palms. A quick follow up message read, "Jimmy Buffet!"

I didn't even bother replying, instead I focused on those choice words, 'Go to the Walkers' house.' Charlotte and her Mother were out of town and so I knew Mr. Walker would be there by himself enduring the same bad weather, though I doubted he was scared by the howling winds and waves of raining ice. I flipped on the flash light of my phone and used it to descend into the basement which seemed much spookier when only lit by that small beam of light. Flipping the fuses accomplished nothing, and then as if to add insult to injury my phone died in my hand halfway up the stairs. I'm sure I yelped as I scrambled up the six remaining steps like something was after me. The next ten minutes consisted of me pacing in the dark as I imagined what I might say to Mr. Walker.

At 12:01am I bundled myself up in a down jacket and trudged across the treacherous landscape. As soon as I was out the door I was assaulted by freezing rain, and by the time I reached the Walker's front door my cheeks and nose were cherry red, tiny crystals of ice clinging to my lashes and long flaxen tresses. Normally, I might have meandered; gone back and forth a bit more about the best way to knock. How loud, rapidly, in what rhythm - shave and a haircut, but the weather didn't permit me the luxury of procrastination. Three steady beats that matched the quick wild thumps of my heart were laid upon the wooden portal to magnificent Henry Walker.

Inside a light flicked on and I held my breath. The door creaked open to spill a soft stream of warm light across my face that grew to encompass my trembling form. My arms were curled tight about my chest, ruby red bottom lip plunging between my teeth as he revealed himself, "Ollie?" Pinched brows reflect concern and before I knew it I was being drawn in by a strong arm around my shoulders, whisked from the bleak cold and frightening night. It was like a dream, those thirty or so seconds he fawned over me, cupped hands moving to warm my cheeks and angle up my face to his. I lost myself in his gaze as he swept a few fingers through my hair to loose the glinting flecks of ice, "It's late. Are you alright?"

I didn't want to answer. I just wanted him to hold me like that forever, but eventually the words tumbled from my lips, "Our power went out. My Mom's in Florida. I didn't know what to do..."

I must have looked shaken because he pulled me into his side as he shut the door, "It's ok. We have a generator. I guess I didn't hear it cut on. You can stay here until the power's back up." I wondered how long that might take and prayed for a lengthy outage. "Do you want to grab some of Charlotte's pajamas? I don't want to make you go back out in that..."

"Yes," I sucked in a sharp breath, afraid that this was all some illusion I might shatter if I made any sudden movements or raised my voice above a whisper. The world seemed so fragile just then, like a sweater that might start unravelling if I pulled or pushed too hard; so I was compliant and soft, "I'll go look."

I traipsed up the stairs to Charlotte's room and rummaged through a few drawers, but came up empty handed. "Nothing?" A deep familiar voice rang out behind me, "I guess she took them all with her. Hold on, I'll get you a night shirt." A nightshirt, I could only imagine. One of his, perhaps, and sure enough he returned a few minutes later with one of those tidy white undershirts he always wore, even now he wore one with pinstripe boxers and his plush ivory cotton robe that tied loose at the waist. I wanted to crawl into it and share that warmth; to feel his body pressed neatly into mine.