And he would slip between my legs.
I wonder what he would feel like inside me.I wonder what his lips would feel like on my skin.I suspect he’s the kind of man who knows how to make love to a woman—make love, not the other stuff.I’ve had enough of the sloppy, hurried, impersonal humping to last several lifetimes.
I want to know what it means to be made love to.
I lost my virginity when I was a young teenager.I’m not blaming anyone but myself, but I never had a parent to watch over me.I never had any kind of upbringing, let alone a good one.
I raised myself.While I was at it, I raised the other kids that happened to be in the same house at the same time.Homework.Meals.Laundry.Cuts and scrapes.Bathtime.
I lost my virginity before I knew anything about myself, or that I had value.
And ever since, it’s been hard for me to enjoy sex, even when I desperately wanted to.I’ve read some books on it, and they refer to these problems as “intimacy issues,” and it’s common for survivors of sexual abuse.
I suppose that’s what I am, technically.But it happened a very long time ago, and I don’t like to dwell on it.I prefer to see myself as a generic abuse survivor, since I’m acquainted with a few different flavors of abuse and have developed several approaches to surviving it.
Sometimes, I managed to avoid it altogether by being smart and keeping close tabs on the who and what of my environment.I got out of some really scary situations with that skill.
Other times, I couldn’t prevent it, like the night I slipped in a puddle of blood on the tile floor and ran barefoot into the snow.
I’m a fighter when I have to be, and that’s why I’m still alive.I’ve known some girls who weren’t able to save themselves, and I think of them every day, repeating their names in my head before I fall asleep at night—Makayla, Bindi, Monica, Lupé.
It’s said that time heals, and now that I’m older, I’ve come to understand that my “intimacy issues” aren’t my fault.Not at all.And that maybe one day, if I found a better man who could be patient with me, I’d learn what’s possible.
Wait—not just a better man.I want a truly goodman.The best.
Like the one who’s fourteen steps down the hall.
CHAPTER 22
Emma
Finn may be fourteen steps away, but it might as well be a thousand miles beyond my reach.
I get up.I put my feet on the floor.And I donotgo down the hall to his room and slip under his sheets.What I do instead is wash my face, brush my teeth, and get dressed.
I skip the shower since I enjoyed another long, steamy session of six-shower-headed bliss last night before I went to sleep.At least there’s one kind of steamy session in my life.
I almost make it out of my bedroom but think twice, head right back to the bathroom, and put on some mascara and a faint sweep of blush.I’m always so pale, even in the summer.
I make it downstairs by four a.m., and I head right for the coffee maker in the kitchen.I open the nearby stainless-steel container filled with coffee, and I send a little thank you prayer to the universe that this is not a decaffeinated coffee household.
I’ve never understood decaf coffee.It’s like asking for hot ice cream.Or sprinkling sand on your oatmeal instead of brown sugar.What’s the point?
While the coffee brews, I empty the two dishwashers.It takes me a while because I don’t know where everything goes, and once I figure it out, I realize the cupboards need a good scrubbing.That will be the next thing on my agenda.
I go to the refrigerator to grab the half and half, one of three things I didn’t have to throw out in my cleaning frenzy yesterday.I open the door and stop in my tracks.
This is not what I expected to see.It seems the grocery fairy has made a house call.
I see a dozen eggs, milk, butter, bacon, and cheese.I see condiments, pickles and olives, and even quick-rise yeast.I spot apples and grapes and fresh blueberries and strawberries.There’s fresh spinach and lettuce, bell peppers, tomatoes, baby carrots and cucumbers.I see several kinds of fruit juices.A watermelon.Asparagus.Broccoli.
And a big pile of steaks and chops.
That’s when it dawns on me that I should check the pantry.I make myself a big mug of coffee and carry it with me.I flip on the light.
“Holy moly!”She’s outdone herself.I’ll have to thank Phyllis—I mean the grocery fairy—the next time I see her.
The shelves are stocked with rice, potatoes, onions, garlic, and a few essential spices and flavorings.I see a few new boxes of cereal, including the berry and sprinkled donut flavors of Cap’n Crunch!There’s several kinds of flours and cooking oils and all the required baking supplies, such as baking powder, baking soda, salt, sugars, chocolate chips, walnuts, and pecans.
