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“You’re divorced. You’ll always be Thompson to me.”

She digs her nails into the hair at the back of my head, and my dick will not settle down, maybe ever. I’m not sure where all this passion is coming from, but I’m unwrapping this present tonight.

“Bring her to me!”

2

JILLIEN

What the fuck is happening? This. I’m feeling this. He’s so damn hot. Liam Fletcher is hot. So much sexier than his lame social media posts. He’s the gin in my juice right now. Damn.

“Ok, Ma,” Fletch yells, then turns back to me with a sensual, sexy, give-it-to-me-now smirk. He attacks my lips again, pushing me hard against the front door. It’s hot and rough. And all of a sudden, there’s no more curiosity, only purpose. Our bond is palpable. When our eyes connected, somehow he anchored this present to our past, and I’m helpless against its pull. His insanely manly scent surrounds me, and I’m melting into him. I’m all tingles and dirty thoughts.

Our kiss is way too laced with lust and desire. He’s the best kisser. Soft, then hard and intense. Fletch is so familiar and so new at the same time. What the hell? Long-retired places inside of me are sparking to life. Good, dirty places and deep emotional ones, too. It’s a swirl of fucking sexy nuttiness, and I don’t know what to do about it, so I kiss him deeper.

I’m off-kilter, but I know don’t want to stop and go talk to his mom. As much as I love Bev, I want to stay here and old-school grope and make out for a while. His eyes are bluer and deeper than my recollection. His social media pictures are not doing him justice. His beard is supple and deep chestnut, and his shoulders are broad and inviting. His thick curls are like I recall but now cropped respectably, instead of the wild mess from our childhood.

He tears himself away from me, but his arms are still on the door behind me, caging me in place. “Tell me you’re staying.”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving now.”

He kisses me quickly and grabs my hand. As he removes my coat, he gets a glimpse of my dress. He moans in approval, and I smile. I take a tissue out of my purse and wipe the lipstick that’s smeared all over his face. He looks a bit like a murder scene with the red smeared down his neck. I didn’t think I’d be kissing anybody. Whoops.

“Sorry.”

“Good God, no, Jilly. Don’t be sorry. Did you get it all?” I nod as we turn toward the hallway mirror. I wipe my neck where he kissed it and quickly reapply my lipstick. He stands behind me while I do, watching. His hands are casually on my hips, searing a handprint on them in my mind. We look oddly settled, like we’re in a portrait. He kisses the top of my head and pulls my hand. And it all feels as if I’ve walked into a different life, but one that seems perfectly normal.

I adjust my dress, and he lets go and looks at me from head to toe. “Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous.” It’s an upright dress, a little low-cut, but the skirt is ‘long enough for church’ as my mother used to say. Black with a flirty skirt. He’s wearing a plaid Christmassy shirt and a shiny green tie. The look is J. Crew domestic holiday party host. But his kiss is anything but domestic. It’s exotic and forceful. The way he rasps at me and tastes like sin is far from any L.L.Bean catalog model I’ve ever imagined.

I know he’s divorced with no children. This house is achingly familiar and homey, but it feels a little empty, even with a party going on. I want to kiss him again as soon as possible. It’s rather erotic to think about someone wanting to kiss you decades. I suspected a time or two, but it never played out like I thought it might. His sister constantly reminded me of how he cared nothing for me in that way. She never failed to tell me Fletch thought I was repulsive or inconsequential. She was always full of shit. It just took me a second to figure it out.

With his back to me, I open my dress just a smidge to be a little enticing. My gold chain necklace gets caught and pulls it open too much. When I sit down, I try and adjust the dress. I look like I’m trying too hard, and I’ve stained him. Everyone might think he’s warm and flushing, but I distinctly see the remnants of YSL Rouge Paradoxe smeared all over his neck. I’m not usually such a disaster.

I hope I was decent. Perhaps I’m a lousy kisser. I have other talents. I should tell him. Or should I? Perhaps I pull up my resume and try to impress him. I have no idea what’s going on with me or him. My hands are a little trembly.

“Liam, were you keeping her to yourself?” His mother chides and nudges me. He sits next to me and I’m going into heat. I put my arms around him in a seated hug and subtly wipe off my sweaty, shaky hands on his shirt. It’s plaid, no one will notice.

“It’s so good to see you guys.”

“You too. Quite the surprise, girly. You look incredibly beautiful tonight. Glad to see you, as well.” Bev smirks as he compliments me.

“Thank you.” My eyes flutter a bit like I’m a fucking heiress in an Edith Wharton novel. I’m playing demure, but in reality I’m sizzling with thoughts of him.

He looks down at his feet while still holding me. I burrow into him. I want to inhale him.

His mother commands, “Liam, get us drinks.”

I reluctantly let him stand. Then he’s pulled into a conversation with other guests, and I gaze at him and listen to Bev half-heartedly. He told me I’m beautiful and I can’t seem to stop smiling. Perhaps we disappear for an hour or two and figure this out. Can he push me up against a door again? Because I do not recall that being something we did the hundreds of times we hung out. I like it. I think we should keep it in our repertoire.

The door I’ve walked through thousands of times is now forever changed. I’m on a couch that I’m sure he’d call a davenport—it looks identical to the one his parents inherited from his grandparents. They’ve always had davenports, not couches or sofas. This house is old and incredibly well cared for. There are still needlepoint fronted pillows and all the dark mahogany side tables with spindly legs and tiny formal drawers that aren’t big enough to hold anything but a coaster dotted around the room. But it has touches of modernity. The chairs are in the same configuration as they are in my memory but the coffee table is midcentury.

Steely Dan’s “FM” echoes through the house, sucking me into a time warp. I can hear his parents discussing gardening schedules with this playing in the background. I soaked in every word of their caring, witty, adult conversation. No yelling, or even worse, silence. They filled the space. I wanted to learn everything worldly so I could converse with them. These were people talking to each other, not at each other.

This house was my happy place. No one was fighting except Liam and his sister. In my mind, there were no secrets here. I found myself here a lot to avoid listening to our mother bitching about either our father or the latest person to have wronged her. Now my mom just curses age and time.

My brother was the baby, and I was everyone’s cheerleader. I had to be brilliant, on the ball, secret keeper Jillien in that house. But in this house, I could be all that Jilly could become; brave, silly, and unencumbered. My self-confidence, when I have it, stems from this house. I used to believe in things, and this house taught me how. The flicker I feel for Liam is tied to the belief that life is great and nothing is hard. I’m intoxicated with that carefree spark. The one I forgot I used to have. I’m thinking of digging her out of storage tonight. Sparkly Jilly could be fun.

Staring at the study reminds me of Lisa and Liam fighting over what old movie we should all see—Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or War Games. We saw both back-to-back at this old retro theater. As I often did, I sat between Liam and Lisa, and my thoughts drift to Liam and I sharing popcorn. I grin as my attention glides back, trying to reconcile memories of us being children with us as adults who are inexplicably attracted to each other. My concentration breaks as he asks a question.