“Dunno,” he shrugs.
I head over to the main house to find my dad has already left for work. Rachel is home and whips up some avocado on toast with a side of crispy bacon for me, while whizzing around the kitchen tidying up and doing a load of laundry. The way she moves is totally relaxed. She’s doing five or six things at once and yet she seems perfectly at ease.
“Thanks,” I say when I’ve finished eating.
“You’re welcome.” She smiles at me, and her eyes soften. They’re blue like Luke’s, but not as light. More royal blue than sky blue. She considers me for a moment. “I mean it, Jess, and not just for breakfast. You’re welcome here. This home feels better with you in it.”
Her tone is light. Musical. Yet I’m left with no doubt whatsoever that she means it. I wasn’t expecting her to say it. It catches me off guard.
I’ve only had one coffee so far today, for Christ’s sake.
To my surprise a hot, confusing emotion rises from my chest and lands up in my throat.
Much as I hate to admit it, and believe me, I really, really hate to admit it, I can kind of understand what happened to my dad when it comes to Rachel. Objectively she’s very good looking. You know how some people look really great from some angles and a little average from others? Well, Rachel isn’t like that. She tends to live in jeans and T-shirts with very little make-up and yet she’s the kind of woman who looks good from any angle. On top of that, she seems totally unaware of it. She has this way of creeping under your skin before you even realize what she’s doing. There’s this wholesome realness about her that makes it hard to hold onto negative feelings when she’s around. I was determined not to like her when I got here. Absolutely determined. I’ve been quietly hating her from afar for years. It’s been less than a week, but I can already feel myself slipping.
On top of that, as we stand side by side loading the dishwasher, I’m hit by a mess of guilt and confusion about my actions last night.
What the hell was I thinking talking to him like that?
I must still be half asleep because some idiotic part of me wants to confess. I want to say, “I’m sorry Rachel. I’ll leave him alone. I promise. I won’t talk to him like that again.”
I manage to keep my mouth shut but it’s a lot harder than I consider ideal.
Once she leaves for work, I stand at the kitchen window and watch as Luke walks down the garden path. He picks his steps carefully, seemingly showing a preference for some pavers over others. He’s still wearing his sleeping shorts. They’re pale blue with a thin navy stripe. They hang low on his waist showing a hint of the V that disappears beneath them on either side of his groin. They’re so low, I find myself looking for traces of pubic hair. I hate myself for looking at him like this. He’s Rachel’s son. My stepbrother. A nice person who’s never tangled with anyone, least of all someone like me.
That’s another thing I’m not loving about myself right now. What’s my obsession with his virginity? Generally, I think the whole construct of virginity is a crock of shit. Some made up bullshit generally used by men to try to control women. I’m not a fan. I’ve never found myself remotely interested in how many partners a person has had before.
Why can’t I stop thinking about it now?
I guess I just keep wondering what he means by virgin. Obviously, I know it means he hasn’t had penetrative sex, but has he messed around in other ways? Oral sex is sex, right? Does he know that or is he falling victim to heteronormative views of what sex entails? What if he’s never given or received head?
Jesus. Poor guy.
What if he’s never felt a hand other than his own on his dick.
That can’t be, right, can it?
There’ve got to be guys in Carmel who find blond, blue eyed beefcakes with soft hearts appealing.
The kitchen door swings open and a blond, blue eyed beefcake with a soft heart blows in, sending a waft of fresh air, salt water and something frustratingly unplaceable my way. He tugs his sleeping shorts up before he sits down, the soft fabric cocoons his junk as he does it. I quickly shove my right hand in my pocket to stop myself from doing something stupid.
“Sweet,” he says when he sees the breakfast his mom left for him.
“Your mom asked if you could hang the washing out.”
He nods as he chews.
“Wanna go for a run later?” Before I have time to tell him I’d rather have my sinus cavities invaded by red ants, he adds, “I’ll take it easy on you, so you don’t cough up a lung.”
“You don’t need to take it easy on me,” I snap.
Turns out, he does need to take it easy on me. He really does. I used to run distance at school, but that was over two and half years ago. A sharp stitch in my side quickly reminds me of that little fact. Luke runs beside me. The quick, easy bounce in his step lets me know that while I’m circling the drain, he’s hardly feeling any strain. Now and again he sprints ahead, leaving me with no choice but to watch the way his athletic shorts hug the tight, round ball of muscle that is his ass. As soon as he gets far enough away for me to feel like I can breathe again, he circles back.
By the time we get to the beach I’m wheezing. He drops his tank on the sand and kicks off his shoes, hopping on this leg then that as he pulls off his socks. His back glistens with sweat as he jogs down to the water. I collapse flat on my back, so winded I’m fighting for my life, as he frolics in the water.
By the time I’ve recovered enough to sit up, two kids have commandeered Luke and he’s tossing a frisbee back and forth with them in knee deep water. I can tell the kids are having fun. They’re looking up at him with that glazed kind of hero worship that occurs when you’re little and you can’t believe your luck that a grown up is prepared to play with you. Little do they know this particular grown up is probably having more fun playing catch than the two of them rolled into one. Little do they know this guy is the product of a cinnamon roll and every breed of dog that has more than a passing interest in retrieving a ball.
Two women are sitting on towels nearby, keeping an eagle eye on the kids in the water. “What a nice boy,” I hear one of them say.
