“You were also full of me, too, not even twenty minutes ago,” he says.
I can’t help it as I laugh. Even after sex, I still feel lighter. He made it happen; he got me out of my head and let me enjoy myself.
“I should probably head home,” I say. He swallows, but nods in agreement.
“Yeah, you probably have to get back home and check some things off your list.”
“If you think I’m telling you your grades, you have another thing coming.”
“Oh, sweet Kate, I don’t need to see your list to know what grades I’ve received,” he says, so much more assured of himself tonight than he was the last time.
“Just like I said, full of yourself.”
“Let me walk you to your car?” he asks, petting down my hair one last time as I collect my panties and my clothes.
Ben takes my hand and squeezes it as we walk through the club, but people are far too involved in their own sexual conquests to notice us. It’s a throng of people in the act of seduction or currently preoccupied in some sexual act. A few years ago, maybe I would have been scandalized to be at a place like this, or maybe I would have longed to see what it was like.
But as we walk through the darkened hallway, I realize that in its own way what happens at Avalon is an art itself and everyone's tastes and desires are different.
“You okay?” he checks in and I nod as the door creaks open to the garage. He walks me over to my vehicle and he stalls. “Kate…we should probably talk some more about what's happened at Avalon these past two nights,” he says.
My brows furrow. “Was it too much, did you not want to be in control tonight?” I ask, feeling insecure.
“Fuck no. Tonight was perfect. You were perfect,” he says, his eyes searching mine. He parts his lips and then closes them, giving me a soft smile as he rubs his hands over my arms. “You were perfect. We can talk more next time?” he suggests.
I take that to mean he wants more of this, and maybe I’m a hopeful idiot but I want more too. “I’d like that. I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah”—he smiles, leaning down to kiss my hair—“I’ll see you around.”
I get into my car, and he watches me go. I don’t know how but I feel exhausted and amped up the whole drive home. It’s almost like my body is on autopilot to get me home safe. I definitely need to stop driving myself to Avalon.
When I get home I feed the cats and step foot in my studio for the first time in forever and I paint.
I stay up till four in the morning, mixing acrylics and getting it out of my system. Art has been a passion of mine in so many ways. Early in my education, I wondered if I could do it professionally, but realized the monetization part of it all was too crippling. Instead, I pursued education, and being able to teach about fine art, creating was a hobby, an outlet.
One that I’d long forgotten, and I almost wanted to berate myself for letting this slip away from me.
But as I look at the base layer of the painting, there’s a deep satisfaction that fills me.
It has a long ways to go. But I look at the man, one side of him with eyes closed, face to the sky in pleasure. The other half looking down with hooded eyes seeking approval.
I’m not sure what I’ll call it just yet, but I go to bed feeling sore and satisfied.
Maybe I’m going to be okay.
I sleeptill nearly two in the afternoon, with short bursts of disruption as different cats curl up on my side and others bat me,seeking attention. I’m not sure why I do this today, just that I know it’s been far too long since I’ve had a chat with my aunt.
I drive to Rest Haven Memorial Park and walk to her headstone, standing there with a massive sun hat as the sun beats down on my back.
“Hey Aunt Helene,” I say, and thankfully no one answers or I’d really need to go back to therapy immediately. “It’s hot as fuck today. You’d hate it,” I tell her, looking around and wondering why she ever set roots in Florida when she hated the sun, a firm hatred she instilled in me.
According to Aunt Helene, SPF was a religion and the sun was the antichrist of that said religion.
“So, I joined a sex club and started painting again. I know you’re very proud of me,” I joke, smiling down at her headstone. “Will wants me to sell back his shares, and I don’t know what to do. What would you do?” I ask.
But I know the answer. My Aunt Helene was the embodiment of a feminist icon. She never married, but had many lovers. Education was her life, another trait she passed down to me. When I came to live with her at fifteen, I was no longer a kid; I was an adult. Aunt Helene treated me as such, and I’m grateful for it. She took me to museums; we traveled together; she taught me about life and art, and all the richest things the world had to offer.
She died when I was finishing my doctorate program, and I feel like that was the exact time I latched on to Will and his family for dear life.
