“Ready to go?” Coach Jones asks, his tone casual, unaware of the turmoil brewing beneath my skin.
I nod, smoothing my hands down the front of my jeans and grabbing my jacket. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
We walk in silence toward the exit, his hand gently guiding me through the remaining crowd. But just before we step out into the cool night air, he leans in
“Uh… Eslin? Your zipper’s down.”
I freeze, eyes wide. And suddenly I remember exactly why. My skin heats with a fresh wave of embarrassment, and I turn away, fumbling to fix myself as fast as humanly possible.
He chuckles. “Hell of a party, huh?”
I don’t even respond. I just laugh it off, nod once, and step into the night, praying the cool air will sober my thoughts—and that my body forgets the man I’ll never be allowed to want.
“Hell of a party, indeed!”
“You really do look cute, tonight.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
“You are different than I expected. Outside of work.”
“Oh yeah? How’d you think I would be?”
We pass a group of ladies in sexy costumes and clearly over the legal limit of alcohol.
He gestures towards one of the women in a skimpy angel costume. “Most women are excited to get dressed up and sexy for Halloween, but you wear the most covered up version of Janet Jackson anyone has ever seen for a costume.”
I shrug. “I’ve never been the kind of woman who has to flaunt it to feel it. Sexy isn’t about how much you show—it’s an attitude. A presence. Either you carry it, or you don’t.”
He lets out a sharp breath and I can tell he’s impressed by my bravado on the subject.
I had a foster mother named Karen who used to be a prostitute, but she turned her life around long before I ever showed up at her door. She was tough, honest, and unapologetically herself. And she used to tell me the realest things. Things no caseworker or guidance counselor ever dared to say.
“There’s more to being a woman than what’s between your legs,” she’d say. “Don’t let television or some fool with a smoothmouth convince you otherwise. Sex appeal doesn’t come from skin. It comes from self-respect. That’s where the real power is.”
For the two years I lived with her, Karen was less like a mother and more like the big sister I never had. And I think, looking back, I learned more about being a woman in that small apartment with her than I have anywhere else since. About sensuality. About strength. About owning my presence without apology.
The sidewalk is a blur of color and chaos—tiny witches and pint-sized superheroes darting between stoops, plastic pumpkins swinging from sugar-sticky fingers. Parents trail behind in hoodies and costume accessories of their own, coffee cups in one hand, phones in the other. There’s laughter, someone blasting “Thriller” from a speaker on their porch, and the warm glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickering in every direction.
It’s the kind of neighborhood scene I used to dream about. One I never quite belonged to. One I was always passing through.
Coach nudges his head toward the crowd. “You think you want a family some day?”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh. Most men don’t like my answer to this question. “Who me? No.” And I leave it at that, because no is a complete sentence. But because it’s Darren Jones, he doesn’t let it sit there.
“Bad childhood?”
I look at him. “Why would you assume that?”
“Because most women who don’t want kids usually want to cut off the possibility of something happening to a child they love, like what happened to them.”
He says it so matter of factly like he read a page straight from the book ofme.
“Something like that.” I let out a sigh and decide to share a bit of myself with him. “I grew up in foster care and saw how many children went unnoticed, unwanted and unloved. And I always said that if I ever decided to have children, I’d pick one of them. A child that hates every birthday because it means they are one more year closer to aging out of a system that only chooses infants. Babies that can be molded.”
“Wow,” he says, and it’s not for show. It’s the kind of “wow” that carries weight. He grabs my hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “I love learning about you, Eslin Saunders.”
“Thank you for not taking pity on me,” I say quietly.
