That night, after making my bed with the new, freshly washed and warmly dried sheets, I crawl into bed with a much-needed glass of wine and a book. I devoured the last one in the airport terminal while waiting for our flight. To be honest, that probably wasn’t the best setting for a book like that. This one is new, although used. Most of my books are. I find them at yard sales and thrift stores, the outdated kind of erotica that don’t exactly make New York Times Best Sellers, but are enough to drift me into a world far away from the one I live in.
Within an hour or so, I am already about six chapters deep and getting to the good stuff.
Jameson is looking at me from across the room, refusing to leave despite the fact that he doesn’t belong here. Despite the fact that at any moment, my sister–his ex-girlfriend–could come home and we would be caught red-handed. But I know when Jameson’s blue eyes darken to that oceanic color and his jaw ticks in the corners, he’s not thinking about anything or anyone except me.
Slowly, one calculated step at a time, he makes his way towards the bed, and I find myself lying back, almost as if he willed it and I have no choice but to listen. His very presence in the room is dominating enough to make me do exactly as he wishes.
My legs part as he drops to his knees in front of me. His hot breath on my pussy, and I wait in anticipation for this contact. For his mouth to cover me. For his tongue to tantalize me. It’s all I’ve thought about for days, and now, as he kisses my thighs and trails towards the part of me that is aching for his attention, it is finally becoming a reality.
I close the book and set it down, breathing heavily. I even have to throw the quilt off because the room is suddenly too hot.You can do a lot of things that aren’t sex.
The voice in my head creeps back in, and I bite my lip. That voice isn’t wrong. Ash eating me out isn’t sex.
Which means even if he does it, I am still a virgin.
And as long as I am still a virgin, I haven’t broken any of my rules, right?
Right.
Chapter 22
Asher
On Monday morning, I call Harper into my office. I want to make sure we are on the same page.
“Is something wrong with the schedule?” She asks, thumbing through the tablet I gave her to keep track of my meetings and such. “I thought I got everything on there.”
“The schedule is great,” I tell her. “I just had something come up. I need the meeting with the whiskey company rescheduled. It’s a virtual meeting, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Okay,” she nods, making notes. “What do you want me to put for–”
“Just mark it as personal,” I interrupt her. Harper looks up at me, a little surprised. I am aware that she normally knows every detail of my day. Where I am, who I am with. But this is different and unnecessary to go into. “I’ll be back in a couple hours, around lunch.”
“Of course,” she nods.
I feel a little bad being so discrete. But if she knew, she’d understand.
White Oak Extended Care Center is near Parker, Colorado. It’s a little over half an hour’s drive from the office. I moved out of my parent’s house at eighteen to attend CU in Boulder. AfterI left, they sold our Cherry Creek home and bought a smaller house in Parker. For years, they lived a quiet life, happy to be out of the city but close enough that I could still see them regularly. They retired and spent their days doing things they loved. Dad loved fishing, especially fly-fishing, and he made and sold carefully crafted lures. Mom loved to bake, garden, and quilt. They also loved the beach and would go on a cruise each year. They enjoyed snorkeling, shuffleboard, and dancing the night away on those trips. They had a good time and enjoyed retirement.
But that was before. Before Dad died, and before Mom fell into a deep depression that would consume her. I used to think nothing could break them. They were the perfect couple. They had me later in life than most couples do, but they were young at heart and I like to think I kept them active in body too. When my dad died, Mom’s spirit seemed to die with him.
At first, I didn’t think she needed to be in a home. I was convinced she just needed time. But when she started to call and ask if I’d seen Dad, I got concerned. I realized that wasn’t one of the stages of grief. It was as if she got stuck in the denial stage and never moved past it. When that happened, I knew she needed full-time care.
White Oak is okay as far as homes go. They offer everything from assisted living to end-of-life care. Mom is somewhere in the middle. She still has energy and all her usual sass, but she needs assistance. Her daily routine is scheduled, monitored, and recorded.
Dementia is not a word I ever thought I’d hear when it came to my parents. But it’s almost like when she lost him, she lost herself. It’s fucked up how the greatest love stories often have the most tragic endings.
“Today is a good day,” the nurse tells me as I get my visitor stamp at the front desk. “She’s eating well and wants to go for a walk in the gardens.”
“Constance loves the gardens,” the receptionist says and smiles.
“Yes, she does,” I agree. “She always has.”
Today’s visit wasn’t because anything was wrong. I didn’t get a call saying she was asking for me, or had stopped eating, or wouldn’t stop crying. Those days are hard. Too hard. Today was more about me than her. I just felt the need to see her. Today, I needed my mom.
We walk slowly through the gardens of the greenhouse. I specifically chose White Oak for the greenhouses. That way, even when it is raining or snowing during Colorado’s bitter winter months, she can enjoy the greenery and flowers.
“It’s always so lovely in the garden,” she says as we pass a cluster of brilliantly colored flowers. “The hydrangeas are in full bloom.”
