Fuck me.
And aloud I confirm, “Fuck me.”
Had you asked me last week if I would agree to sex when my vagina already took a pounding, my answer would have been hell no.
However, despite already feeling sore, I let Beckett have his wicked way with me before he departs for the day.
But hey, nothing a long soak in his tub won’t help ease.
While I’m in here, Clem calls.
“Any word on your car?”
“Still not ready. Won’t be fixed until after the holiday.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Disbelief shrouds her tone.
“What other choice do I have?”
“I could fly to get you, drop you to the cabin, and bring you back after the holiday.”
“Sweet of you, but I won’t be the one to take away your kids’ joy so close to the holiday. You know how I felt last year. That was the purpose of this trip. To not ruin the holidays for others.”
And yet, here I am. Squashing Beckett’s joy and fun.
Some houseguest I am.
“You can’t let this get to you every year. It’s not healthy.”
I don’t justify her response with one of my own.
I’m not saying she’s wrong. It’s just that I’m not prepared to deal with it, to face the emotions head-on.
My sigh echoes around the silent bathroom. “This isn’t my year to do that.” I close my eyes, deflecting the memories of my nephews’ past celebrations. Their smiles, their excitement.
Am I prepared to give that all up forever?
“I can’t talk about this, Clem.” It’s my go-to answer for when I don’t want to deal with something I can’t face. I shut down, run away, take the scaredy-cat route.
“Willafred. You can’t forever run away from your problems.” She sounds exactly like our mother. She gets a pass because she’s my twin. Coming from her, it’s not as derisive.
“I don’t run away from all my problems.”
A half-lie because running away from this one impacts so many aspects of my life.
“Can we talk about this next week when I’m home? You’re stealing all the joy from my bath.” I slink down lower in the water and rest my head against the back of the tub, fluttering my eyes shut.
“How’s the book coming?”
“Fuck off, Clementine.”
“Love you, too, Willa. Enjoy your bath. Talk soon.”
The line goes dead. I’m grateful for the technology of the iPhone to hang my side up once the call disconnects. I’m too relaxed to move.
I soak for a good thirty minutes, my mind vacillating between replaying my conversation with Clem and my night with Beckett. Those memories are more fun, and because I’m apparently a woman possessed, my fingers make their way under the water. At home, I’d use the handheld shower for situations like this, but Beckett’s bathroom only has the one on the wall.
It’s Beckett’s name on my lips when I work myself over, crashing down hard after the fall. So hard, a well opens up, a dam unleashed, spilling devastation everywhere.
