Oma turned on her NPR but left it on low. It was kind of soothing: this low, melancholy voice I couldn’t quite make out, whispering in my ear.
Landon looked at me and gave me this sad smile.
And then he rested his hand on my leg, kind of on my inner thigh.
I stared at it: the way his fingers rested against the smooth gray fabric of my dress pants. His pinky traced the inseam back and forth, back and forth.
My ears burned.
I had this ugly feeling in me again.
I wanted to tell Landon to stop, but I couldn’t.
He had been so patient with me today, and maybe I should’ve been more patient with him in return.
But I didn’t want to get an erection in my grandmother’s car.
So I took my hand and wrapped it around his. I pulled it off my leg and wove our fingers together.
He gave me this look.
Like he was annoyed with me, maybe.
Or disappointed.
And I got another ugly feeling. Like I wanted him to just leave me alone.
That’s normal.
Right?
Even with finishing up at the PPCC—and dropping Landon off—we still made it home first.
I put the kettle on, set to 165 degrees so I could make some Dragonwell, and got changed out of my Persian Casual clothes.
I still felt kind of weird and tingly where Landon’s hand had been on my inner thigh, perilously close to my penis.
The garage door rumbled beneath my feet. I shook my head and pulled on some clean underwear and a pair of joggers.
I had to wait a minute before going downstairs.
Mom was at the door, holding it open for Dad. She murmured something to him, and he laughed and whispered something into her ear, and then he saw me.
“There he is,” he said, and pulled me into a Level Twelve Hug.
I couldn’t remember the last time Dad hugged me so tight or for so long. His beard rubbed against my cheeks. It had gone past the scratchy phase and into the coarse phase, where it wasn’t super soft but it wasn’t bothersome anymore.
I had never seen my father with a real beard before. It was darker than his sandy blond hair, almost a light brown, and it was patchy around the corners of his mouth.
I felt something wet against the side of my cheeks too, but I didn’t say anything about that.
I didn’t know how.
So I said, “I’m glad you’re home,” and squeezed him back as hard as I could, until he finally seemed to have enough. He patted my back, then rested his hand on the nape of my neck and pulled me in to kiss my forehead.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re home.”
