His big hand presses her head to his chest. She’s so tiny against him, like the picture I saw of me as a baby when he rocked me to sleep. My new momma's hands grab his shirt and hold on tight as she cries. She must love him so much already, too, if she's hugging him.
"It took a while to find her, but now she’s ours. You don't understand right now, but you will one day. It’ll be your turn. This is what it means to be a Shay, Amos."
As I grew older, I learned more of what he meant, but never so much as I knew when I saw my woman.Four decades have gone by since then, andI’m no longer an innocent boy yearning for theunconditionallove of a mother.
I’m a man now, with a man’s desires, and I'm going to claim my woman.
This is what it means to be a Shay.
Chapter four
Mercy
Thedaypassesquicklyand before I know it, I'm pulling into my garage, cleaning the house from top to bottom, and cooking a lonely dinner for one from my meager pantry. I'll need to go grocery shopping soon. Should have stopped on my way home, but I'd forgotten all about it and now that I'm home, it's too late. I'm already here and not going anywhere.
I love my little brick house. It's just far enough away from town that I have the best of both worlds. Privacy and convenience. And as a bonus for my antisocial self, my nearest neighbor is about a mile away and hidden behind half a dozen abandoned warehouses between here and there.
When I first moved to Providence Falls, homes were almost as scarce as jobs, so when my realtor showed this one to me, I snatched it up. Both she and I were shocked that utilities were included in the rent, but, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, the penny pincher in me was elated.Apparentlythe landlord, AMS Holdings, is some big company that doesn't mind spending a little money to make a little more.
What I don't love about it, though, is how empty it is. Don't get me wrong—there's furniture in every room. Well, every room except one.
The guest bedroom.
I can't bring myself to put anything in it because I like to sit in there, close my eyes, and envision things.
Things like a changing table with a stack of tiny little diapers. My raggedy blue stuffedrabbit, the only tie to my past, sitting on a glider in the corner to stand watch in the night. A husband hugging me from behind as we look down at our little one sleeping in the bed against the far wall.
Butmyrabbitsits on the floor all alone in that corner.
Those things are just empty wishes. And ifwishes were horses, I'd have lost my virginity a long time ago. Isn't that how the saying goes?
Of course, I can't let myself sit in there too often or I'll wind up in a major depression episode. Still, it happens far more often than I'd like.
I never thought I would reach the age I am today and not have a family of my own. Just like all little girls, I daydreamed that a strong, handsome prince would rescue me and carry me off to his castle, where we'd live happily ever after with all of our children that would be named from the pages and pages of possible names I'd written down.
But it wasn't happening where I was in the big city. It was too big, I think.SoI moved, needing this to be a fresh start.
And it was, but putting myself "out there" and meeting someone isnotas easy as it sounds. Even here in small Providence Falls, guys on dating apps are sojudgyand—in my limited dating experience—only after one thing.
Sex.
Like guys everywhere else, they'll go after it however they think they can get it. Sweet talk, dirty talk...only to turn into a jerk of epic proportions when you don't respond to their junk pics like they think you should.
Sorry the sight of your withered penis being strangled by a jungle of pubic hair failed to ignite fiery lust within my loins.
That's been my experience. No pretty penises for me. I'd like to think I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to the male anatomy. I mean, not every man can have the perfect package, so if my perfect man who is head over heels in love with me has amicropenis, it's not the end of the world.
Am I being too picky?
It may be a shot in the dark, but I still want to hold out for someone who loves me for me, not just for my body or what I can do to them.Ahem—blowjobs.
Not that I've done anything remotely close to that, either. No, just one experimental summer kiss with a boy I once knew. A sweet kiss with dry, closed lips behind a shady tree. I remember our shy giggles when we broke away from each other, promising to meet in the same spot at the same time the next day.
But more importantly, I remember how I felt when he never showed up. I've often wondered why. Was it just a game to him? Did he get grounded by his parents and couldn't leave the house?
I'll never know. I was moved by the State to a new foster home a few towns over the very next day. And that's a prime example of why I'm hesitant to open myself up to heartache. Illogical, yes. But it's all I've ever known to do. It's not true, what they say, that time heals all wounds.
No... It only builds scar tissue.
