The Father Next Door

Instead, I held my hand out for his offering, "Thank you, Mr. Walker. You're always so kind to me..." I felt small in front of him as my knees meekly pulled together, my head bobbing under its own weight as shyness consumed me.

"You're a good girl, Olive. We're happy to have you around," and I thought he could sense my vulnerability, "Why don't you get changed and come on down to the kitchen for some hot cocoa. I'm not trying to brag but it's kind of my speciality," he paused as he saw I was skeptical of that claim but amused nonetheless. "But if you don't believe that, we do have plenty of those tiny marshmallows you love." The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile and I'd never wanted to kiss him so badly - right there - at the small crease where his lips came together, half an inch from one perfect dimple.

I grinned, sheepish, "Alright, you talked me into it."

"Meet you down there," he called back as he vanished through the doorway, leaving me alone with that clean cotton top. I pressed it against my face and inhaled deeply, content. Even though he hadn't worn it since it's last wash the scent of him still clung to the fibers, perhaps, just from being stuffed in his dresser drawer. He smelled divine.

When he was out of sight I pulled off my down coat and dropped it where I stood, tugging my wool sweater over my head, and peeling off my jeans. Boots were kicked aside, socks removed; I stripped bare, down to nothing but those white cotton panties. I never really wore a bra, but my breasts weren't overly large. I was a small B on a good day. Well-endowed Charlotte teasingly compared my breasts to fried eggs on a plate, but I'm willing to be a bit more generous in comparing them to kiwis. I pulled on Henry's shirt which didn't quite reach the tops of my thighs, and in effect caused my bottom to peak out just barely, but it wasn't that unusual since I virtually grew up in this house. Charlotte and I ran around in our underwear until we were ten years old, and after that a long t-shirt was never uncommon wear for sleepovers and gallivanting around the house.

My bare feet tread softly over polished hardwood floors. I approached the stairs and curled a tentative hand around the banister, peering down that steep corridor. I felt curiously nervous and halted as my naked toes came to settle on the first step, yet a creak would announce my presence, causing a voice to call out from below, "Do you want those marshmallows, Ollie?" That soothing tone lured me forward like a siren to a sailor encouraging me to cast my meek vessel upon his rocky shores.

The light from the kitchen splashed shadow puppets across the foyer at the bottom of the stairs; long dark limbs working in time with the sound of porcelain clinking against marble countertops, "Yes, please..."

When I finally poked my head around the corner I caught sight of the red teapot boiling away on a pristine stovetop. Their house was never a mess; something I always attributed to the presence of Mrs. Walker, but even in her absence nothing seemed out of place. The dark granite counters reflected the sparkle of overhead lights like a row of blazing suns trapped within it's speckled, shimmering topside. Henry scooped two heaps of cocoa powder into white mugs just as the kettle screamed with a hiss and release of steam, "How have things been with your Mom? Still with Geoff?"

We made small talk as he poured in the water and plopped several fat marshmallows into mine, "No more Geoff," I answered, a touch morose. He was the only man my Mom had dated in ages that I actually liked. He didn't try to act like my father, he talked to me like an actual adult. He was nice and patient with her, even when I didn't think she deserved it. "Now we have Brent. He's a 'musician.'" I popped some finger quotes that caused Henry to chuckle.

"I'm sorry, honey. I think some women find their identity in the men they're with and when they don't have one around they feel lost. It probably means," he paused and clicked off the burner extinguishing that blue flame with the easy flick of a few fingers in a way I'd never been able to smother the fire he'd ignited in me, "she never really found herself." It was true too. My Mom met my Dad in high school and I don't think she ever experienced life as an autonomous adult. The things she embraced always seemed to revolve around the men she was with; since Brent came into our lives she'd taken up singing. Loud singing at all hours, not good mind you, just loud. With Peter it had been painting watercolor, Michael was the birdwatching era of our lives, Jackson came with a sudden love for cooking and wine, but Geoff; well, he'd always encouraged her to do her own thing. He'd been a rare exception, holding her hand as he guided her through potential hobbies and interests. I wish he hadn't left. He was good for her.

"When does a person find themselves?" I reached out to accept a mug of hot cocoa, his glacial blue eyes giving me a thoughtful glance before he walked around the island and guided me towards the living room remarking, "Let's talk in here". The living room was pristine with white rugs, couches, and walls. Mrs. Walker never would let us have drinks in this room, but that was part of the difference between her and Henry. I don't know if he trusted that I wouldn't spill, or if a spill wasn't as important to him as sharing a drink in comfort. Either way, it was just another one of his endearing qualities. We climbed onto the sofa and he tossed a piece of blanket over my naked legs. Henry sat with his feet on the floor but I curled into the arm of the couch, brought my feet up and tucked them beneath his thigh enjoying it's hairy warmth.

He grimaced and playfully reached down to squeeze my toes between his fingers, "Ah! They're ice cubes!" he bellowed. I laughed in response, but as soon as my mirth subsided Henry began again with a contemplative sigh. "I think it's different for everyone. It's a hard thing to quantify. I'd say when you stop looking for your identity in other people, you've found it within yourself. It's natural though, to emulate when you're young. It's how we learn what we like." He took a sip of cocoa as I mulled that over. He was so smart and sincere. I think he might have been the most genuine person I'd never met. Much like Geoff, he spoke to me as if I were an adult more often than not, though that's not to say he didn't pepper in fatherly wisdom now and again.

My eyes drifted over him and for a second I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down in the low light of the living room, then upwards to his strong chin and well defined jaw. He had subtle brow ridges that added to his masculinity and well shaped eyebrows that made his gaze seem intense. I loved him. I felt it balloon within me the longer I stared until I wasn't sure I could contain it much longer. My heart felt as though it was leaving my chest, as though it were growing beyond the confines of my ribcage and filling the space around us. Longing bled from my pores and my bottom lip began to tremble. He caught sight of it, that sad shaking swell even though I tried to tuck it away, "What's wrong, Ollie?" And his concerned brows dipped in the center, expressive sweet lovely brows.

"Mr. Walker, can I tell you something?" I stared at a marshmallow in a muddy pool that had plumped to double the size.

"Of course," he shifted towards me and settled his elbow on the back of the couch, leaning forward ever so slightly. He cared about me, cared about what I would say.

"I just," I began and faltered, but looked to him for a helping of bravery and he nodded encouragingly, "I really appreciate what you did that night. How you saved me from Jacob Mitchell. If you weren't there I don't know what would have happened and I was so scared..." My bottom lip wavered more still and I hid it behind the rim of the ceramic mug.

"Oh, honey, it's ok. I'm happy to look out for you," he laughed a gentle laugh before confessing, "Actually, when your Mom is out of town I never go to sleep until I see that you're inside."

"Really?" I never knew that; tears began to well in my eyes. No, I had thought it would be impossible to love him anymore than I did just then, but there it was. More and more until my heart ached with fullness.

"Of course," a warm hand reached out to squeeze my knee through the soft knit of the blanket.

I blinked furiously trying to hold myself together, but when I spoke again my voice shook with emotion, "I can't stop thinking about you, Mr. Walker. I just.... love you." My cheeks burned at the confession and I glanced towards him trying to gage his reaction.

"Aww, well, I love you too," his expression softened as he took another drink.

"No, you don't understand. I don't just..., Mr. Walker, I'm in love with you," I emphasized the 'in' part because clearly he didn't get it. I was pouring my heart out to him and he thought I was conveying some kind of child like adoration.

"Olive," he pulled his hand back, moved to set down that white mug as his mouth pulled into a serious straight line, "I think you're a little confused...."

I interrupted him, the cork was out of the bottle and I could no longer contain the flow of words that poured from me, "I'm not confused. I love you. I love you so much. It makes my heart ache. I have never loved anyone so much, not even my own father," and I know that last bit made it sound muddled and, yes, if he thought I was confused before maybe he thought it more so now, "No, that's not what I mean, it's not like that," but maybe it was a little, "When I see you I want to press my mouth to yours. I want you to hold me in your arms. I was so relieved when you showed up that night. I didn't want Jacob to be my first and certainly not like that. I wanted..." I tripped over my own tongue slowing down the rush of words, "I want," I corrected, "it to be you."

Sympathy was thick in his expression when he pulled my own mug away leaving me nothing to hide behind and set it on the coffee table, "Olive," he began, "Honey, it's natural for you to feel mixed up. Your Dad isn't around and I've been there for you, but I'm not actually your father. I can see how you might..." he paused, moving to rub a few fingers through his beard he sought out the right words, "feel some complicated emotions. If you look down deep though I think you'll realize you don't want that, not really. You're looking for a father figure and I'm happy to be that for you. You need to find a boy your own age, a nice one."

I felt like he didn't understand. I was losing him. He thought I was just young and confused and that none of this was real. My skin flushed as frustration welled within me, "I know what I'm saying," my voice rose a few octaves, "I love you, Mr. Walker. Henry, can I call you Henry?" I pulled my feet back from beneath his thigh and met his lean, a new urgency finding my words, "I had my first orgasm thinking of you," I confessed, such a shameful confession and the minute it tumbled from my lips a hot cocoon of embarrassment enveloped me, but I didn't stop, "I need you, Henry." My small hand formed a fist at my chest as fingers curled empathetically around a knot of t-shirt, just between the valley of my breasts, "Please, you can love me too, can't you? Isn't there enough room in your heart to love me and Mrs. Walker? I don't mind if you still love her. I just need you to care for me too."

"Olive," his hands pulled away from me and lifted in the air as he propelled himself off the couch as though wanting nothing to do with me all of the sudden, "You can't say this kind of stuff to me," his tone was hard, disciplinarian, "I'm married. You don't even know what you're asking for." Those azure eyes tore from my small crumbling figure as a small hiccup, a soft single sob met my lips.

"I do," I whined, a mewling plead, "Please, don't you even want me a little? I can live with a little..."

"Look, Olive, you're a beautiful girl," he had completely faced away now, turned towards the stairs and I was left staring at those back of his broad shoulders which seemed to lose some of their width as he let out a deep exhale, "I see that. I notice it. How could I not notice? You come over here in these short skirts and... I swear they're getting shorter every time," they were, of course, "but I have a whole life here. I have a wife. I have a daughter your own age. You're like a child to me."

"I'm not a child," I lamented. I felt like I was melting into the sofa then like so much warm butter. Tears were now flowing freely down scorching red cheeks licked by the flames of embarrassment and desire. I felt completely helpless as though I wanted to reach for him, but he wouldn't even see my extended hand. He had pulled away from me.

"Not technically, no. Look, I just can't. I can't do this. Don't tell me this kind of stuff again. I don't want to hear it," he took a few steps that would bring him a quarter way up the stairs, "I'm going to bed," his head turned, but only halfway. It was just enough to let me see a silhouette of the side of his face, "You can sleep in Charlotte's room. I think you should go to bed now too." And just like that, he vanished into that dark maw leading up to the second story hallway, leaving me alone to collect myself.

For a while I sat on the cream colored couch and cried. I never touched my hot cocoa again, let it get cold on the coffee table as the marshmallows went gelatinous and began to spread out forming a sticky top layer. My knees tucked beneath my chin, my arms pulled around my shins, and I allowed myself to feel the sharp sting of all that rejection. I didn't know if he could hear my soft sobs from his bedroom, but I suspected that he could. It lasted maybe thirty minutes before I eventually collected myself with red rimmed eyes and made the long climb to Charlotte's room.

It was weird being in there without her. I stepped past the threshold of her doorway and looked around at what amounted to a short lifetime of collected things. Trophies lined a shelf above her desk; volleyball, mathletes, soft ball. She was competitive and rarely walked away from anything empty handed. It was likely she would end up attending some ivy league school while I stayed back in Stowe and went to a two year college. I wasn't jealous, but it touched on my insecurities. I always thought she was prettier and smarter, but I didn't begrudge her for it. She had good DNA. I sat at the edge of her twin bed and tossed a few stuffed animals on the floor before laying back. Even in the dim light I could make out the posters on her walls; mostly pop bands, but a few were of young hot celebrities. I was never overly into celebrities with the exception of Henry Cavill who I thought looked an awful lot like Mr. Walker; they even had the same first name.

After a while I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come easy. I kept replaying what happened downstairs over and over in my mind wondering if I'd said anything differently, approached it from a different angle maybe the outcome wouldn't have been so disastrous. Would we ever recover from this? Could there be any kind of normal after a confession like that? No matter what happened, I never wanted to lose him all together and now I was terrified that I had done just that. I pictured Mr. Walker in the other room, pictured him laying on his side, head resting on a pillow. All I wanted to do was pull myself from bed and go to him. I just wanted to crawl in next to him and pull his arms around me, but after his stern reprimand I was fearful that I would only infuriate him.

At some point, my eyelids got heavy and I began to drift off. I was somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming; in that space where auditory hallucinations start to fill your head and there's music or the gentle murmur of a crowd lulling you deeper, but then - a creak. My eyes dragged open; from how I was laying I could see a shadow pass and obscure the tiny crack of light beneath the door. Footsteps. The shadow passed and passed again. It happened once and then again. The third time, I could see the dark indication of two feet just beyond the door. I knew it was Henry, but I couldn't understand why he was pacing the hall in the middle of the night. Just then a hand touched the knob. I heard it start to turn as though in slow motion; in anticipation I held my breath.

The little girl in me, the one that grew up next door, took over. I panicked. I hurriedly flipped over to my other side with my back to the door and pretended to be asleep. Dim light spilled from the doorway as it cracked open; I could feel his eyes on me then. The way I'd moved had thrown the blanket half-way off my body. I could feel a draft from the warm vent tickling across the bare cheeks of my ass, my oversized T-shirt wrinkled and slid up to ride around my hips. Footsteps drew closer, floorboards groaned beneath his weight until I could hear steady rhythmic breathing above me. I didn't move. I didn't dare open my eyes, but inside I was bursting with anticipation. Why did he come in? Maybe he was just checking on me; I willed myself to calm down and take the most measured deep breaths of my life, careful not to let my chest rise and fall too much.

Then, it happened. A hand on my naked thigh! It was his hand, rough with callouses but his touch was surprisingly soft. I felt the mattress shift down when he knelt on it beside me with a single knee. Henry's warm palm squeezed my leg and gently stroked down towards my knee, then doubled back and climbed to my hip. My heart raced as a little surge of adrenaline spilled in my veins, and yet even then I wondered if I hadn't misinterpreted. Would he start murmuring sweet consolations? I didn't have to wait for my answer, not when I felt those large fingers sweep downward to curl a cupped hand over my taut rear with a gentle squeeze. What was he doing!? A static buzz ignited between my thighs just to have him touch me so intimately; to feel his digits traversing my bare flesh. I wanted to beg him, plead with him to keep going but I was terrified anything I said I might break the spell.

For several long moments he lingered there gently rubbing my rear, until his fingers relaxed and slid back to my hip. He brushed a gentle swirl on the panties that clung to my skin. Please, have me, take me, I'm ready; I have never been so ready! My mind raced, but I remained still even as he began pushing up the hem of my nightshirt right to my belly button. He grasped my shoulder next, pulling at me, rolling me onto my back. "Olive..." Henry whispered, in the dead of night the deep resonance of his voice was almost gravelly.

My eyes lingered shut and I shifted in place pretending to just be rousing from my slumber. I offered a sleepy, "Mmm," and moved a hand to rub the imagined sleep from my eyes just as I started to flutter them open. To my surprise, his hands caught my wrists and pushed my arms back down. "Mr. Walker?" I mumbled with equal parts feigned and real confusion.

"Shhhh," I heard Henry murmur as he held me there, pinned with minimal effort. "You're having a dream, Olive," he whispered as he released my wrists, only to trail his fingers down my slender shoulders and trace the curves of my nubile body. "It's just a dream," his voice insisted again. My breath staggered in the hollow of my esophagus betraying my excitement. One hand gently eased underneath my shirt, thick digits moved across the rippling divots of my ribcage, before bringing his strong calloused mitt to close upon my breast. His thumb grazed my nipple and I felt it stiffen; a breathy grasp slipping out of me as he gave it a delicate pinch. My back arched slowly to meet his hand, hips rolling forward to staunch the growing inferno of need inside me. I wanted to beg him to keep touching me; I could feel the wetness accumulating between my thighs. I couldn't help but feel like he was admiring me, savoring me the way you do when you acquire something cherished, something coveted. Had he coveted me?