Every morning forthe past five days, Milo has been over to paint with my mom.
On the first morning, I tidied my room, keeping a watchful eye over them from the loft. On the second morning, I was in and out of the A-frame, doing laundry in the main house and changing Mom’s bedding. On the third morning, I washed dishes and mopped the floors in the kitchen. Then, on the fourth day, I rode my bike over to John Dough to pick up our usual Sunday-morning donuts, with one extra. Together, Mom, Dad, Milo, and I celebrated Mom finishing her first painting in over two years.
And earlier today, the fifth morning in a row Milo was over, I came to the realization that there was nothing left to do. Sure, there are always dishes needing to be washed—but the countertops were clear. And, yes, there’s always laundry to be done—but we’ve all got enough clean clothes folded and put away to last us the week. And sure,maybe,I could have gone through the front hall closet, which I’ve been meaning to sort for the better part of a year, but I didn’t have to. I let it wait.
I, Prudence Welch, relished that brief, rare moment in which I hadnothingto do.
So, I lay in bed, listening to my mother laugh at another one ofMilo’s ridiculous stories from his travels. And what a beautiful feeling it was, to bathe in the sunlight coming in through my loft’s skylight, and let their laughter and conversation wash over me.
Milo’s been coming over in the evenings too. He promises me each night, when I clam up and ask to stop, that we’re in no rush. He whispers it, over and over again, into the skin of my neck, shoulder, hips, thighs.
No rush, Killer.
I’m wrestling with the possibility that I am, quite possibly, a selfish lover. I haven’t eventouchedMilo below the belt yet, other than some over-the-pants action. But he continuously swears to me that he doesn’t mind.
At first, I didn’t believe him—not fully. But then he shows me time and time again with his hands, and lips, and tongue, and teeth, and moans, and grunts, and groans that he, too, is enjoying himself.
After, when our lips are tender and swollen and our cheeks are red and warm and our bodies are perfectly intertwined, we talk. He tells me about his adventures, the highs and the lows and what places he thinks I’d love to visit.
Sometimes, when he’s not careful, Milo talks as if he’ll take me with him someday. As if there is any future outside of this town, or beyond this strange blip in time, for us.
Sometimes, whenI’mnot careful, I wonder if it’s not a mistake at all. If he’s really picturing a future for us. But I quickly dismiss those fantasies. That is, until he falls asleep or leaves for his own bed. Then, in the quiet, still, dark, I allow my imagination to take over.
I picture him two years from now coming back to town to visit his brother. He, for some reason, is on the back of a motorcycle when he arrives. He texts mecute dress, Killerand I look up from my phone to see him outside my window, smiling at me in thatcrooked way he does. Between breathless kisses, pinned against the wall, he asks me if I have a boyfriend. I tell him no. Then, all of our clothes come off.
Afterward, I go with him to have dinner with his family. They nag him aboutfinallysettling down and wink at me as they do it. They know, just as I do, that he and I have something different and meaningful, even if it’s not normal in the traditional sense. We all have an unspoken agreement that one day he’llprobablystop sowing his wild oats and choose to stay.
Then, I burst my own bubble—wondering who he’s been with in between, or how my mom is doing in two years’ time or some other crushing reality. It’s painful every time.
“Excuse me,” Milo says with a laugh, “are you listening at all?”
I blink back to focus, rolling over to see Milo sitting against my headboard, half-naked and smiling down at me. “Hmm? What?”
He licks his teeth, grinning. “Where did you go in there?” He pokes my forehead.
“Ow!” I giggle, swatting him away as he moves down the bed to lie on his side, propping himself up on his elbow as he falls next to me with a bounce.
“You bored of me already, Killer?”
“No.” I intertwine my fingers with his, his hand hovering in the air between us. I love his hand in mine. How perfectly we fit together. How we naturally begin tugging each other to and fro.
“Well then, what was I saying?”
“Okay,fine,I zoned out,” I confess, wincing playfully. “But youdohave a tendency to go on and on…” I tease.
Milo shakes his head. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” He grabs my hips, faster than I can stop him, and pulls me flat onto the mattress as I fight him off, giggling.
He moves to lie on top of me with nothing but a thin cotton sheet separating our bare chests. “Have I already lost my charm?” He begins peppering my chin with kisses like a chicken pecking at its feed. I grab hold of his hair and tug him away. “Have you grown weary of me so quickly?” he asks in a silly, dramatic voice.
“I’m sorry!” I say, giggling as he brushes his mustache against the ticklish spot on my throat. I attempt to kick him but my feet are stuck under the sheet and unable to break free. I scream under him, bucking my hips as I push my hands against his shoulders and squirm while he continues to pester me.
Eventually, he collapses on top of me, lettingmostof his weight fall onto me. I groan underneath him, pretending to gasp for air. In reality, it’s quite nice—the pressure of him and the closeness.
I like how not-strange things are between us. The beauty of how comfortable we are being the most weird, goofy, messy, sad, nostalgic, naked, lustful, hungry versions of ourselves together isn’t lost on me. I actuallywishit was lost on me a little because I’ve started to worry I won’t find this sort of closeness again.
Then I remind myself that Milo’s most likely experienced this before, dozens of times. That this, probably, isn’t unique to us. And that brings on a whole different type of worry I don’t want to name.
“Seriously,” Milo mumbles, his lips squished against my collarbone. “What were you thinking about?”
