There are years and years between us, and every single one of them matters.
In the night, in my bed in the dark, my mind races. I wake up in a sweat. I bargain. I catastrophize. I rationalize until I’m exhausted.
When the sun rises, so does Elliot, and I fall into a sultry circular loop where nothing seems to matter other than the sounds he makes when I fuck him or spank him and the way he looks at me when I say his name.
20
Elliot
Iflyintoarage at work. I’m prone to flying into rages and other things, but it’s been a minute since it’s happened, so the strength of it takes me by surprise. One minute, I’m sitting at my desk, tapping away at a report that isn’t due until tomorrow, and the next, I’m fuming. Seething. Pulsing with a tight, vicious rage. All it takes is a client walking by, raising her hand, and lightly touching the pendant at the base of her neck.
It’s one of those Carrie Bradshaw necklaces I hate.
Hers says Alice, but it makes me think of one that says Damien.
My fury is instant. Teeth and fists clenching. I act immediately, almost without thinking.
Now I’m home early, standing in the study, taking in my handiwork. I’ve ripped the photograph of Damien and Sadie out of the frame and replaced it with a picture of Sadie on her own. It’s a picture I took a few weeks back. She’s sitting on the back porch, nose a little too large from being so close to the camera, eyeing the camera with curious contempt.
It isn’t the best print. I used normal paper from the office, not photograph paper. I didn’t care when I printed it out, and I didn’t care on the trip home. It’s not until this very second that it occurs to me that I’ve overstepped big time.
Nerves and trepidation flutter wildly, and I scurry out of the study to the living room when I hear Stuart’s car in the drive.
“Don’t tell Daddy I was in the study,” I tell Sadie, who trots at my heels keenly. She seems a lot more eager than I am to see how this is going to play out.
I put on my best how-was-your-day face.
“Can I help unpack the groceries?” I offer, like the good boy I’m sure as hell not.
Stuart’s mouth drops open and then lilts up. He looks at me as if I've just cured cancer.
My organs clench and start to gnaw at themselves.
It’s Friday, so Stuart opens a nice bottle of white and pours it for us as I set the table. He lets me choose the placemats and doesn’t seem to notice when I drink my wine quickly. He stands beside me as he tops up my glass. The familiar weight of his presence is heavier than usual.
“What about having leftovers to freeze for cooking wine?” I ask.
“Ah, it’s no big deal.” He smiles. “We can open a new bottle if we need to, can’t we?”
We get started on dinner. Stuart stays close to me the whole time. So close that I smell hard work and solid muscle. I smell big, fleshy palms and bright-red ass cheeks as well, but since I’m pretty sure those aren’t things people can smell, I suspect it might be my conscience at play.
I told Stuart about my embarrassing experience at the Indian store with Mat and Will the other day. He laughed at the time, but he must have been taking notes because we’re making butter chicken from scratch tonight. He sets the spices on the counter and patiently explains. “The garam masala will give us a fragrant, spicy taste with lots of layers of flavor. The turmeric has a hint of pepper, and the cumin adds sweetness to balance the spice.”
He opens each container and holds it up near my nose. I’m hit by the familiar rush, a quick blurry swirl, an early warning that I’m in danger of becoming inebriated on praise or attention.
“Remember how we browned the ground meat for the Bolognese? We’re going to do the same thing with the chicken.”
I make sure to keep him on my left side as I dice and stir, even though I know it’s ridiculous. He can’t see what I’ve done from here. The study is all the way down the hall, and even then, the gallery isn’t visible unless you stand in the doorway.
Still, better to be safe than sorry.
A rich, creamy aroma fills the room, wafting through the kitchen and dining area, spinning slowly with Nora Jones’s breathy voice and honeyed words. It’s not the first time Stuart has played this album, so I know he must like it.
I need a distraction to stop me from freaking out. Ineedit. I raise my eyebrows slightly and stretch my eyes a little wider than usual. “Is this music from the olden days, Daddy?”
“Olden days?” he booms, eyes flashing with disbelief and then humor. “Oldendays?”
He swings his hand back in a wide arc and lands a loud clap on my left ass cheek. I chuckle and jiggle my butt to shake off the sting. Stuart growls and lands another louder clap on my right. I don’t shake that one off. I savor it.
