Page 8 of Second Chance

6

A Bit Much or Not Enough

[Denton]

The last comment might have been a bit much. I’d like to say she started it with her comment about large things, but I’m sensing Mati’s missing her former sense of humor and her dirty mind. Too bad. She was quite the hellcat as a teen. It’s part of the nickname. Her hair reminds me of a lion’s mane, the color rich like burnt sunshine. It also framed her face in a wild manner. She would never qualify as strawberry blonde. No, that would be too cute for her. Her personality was all lioness. Protective. Mothering. Safe.

She was a high school star on the girls’ volleyball team, the Mountain Cats. Other schools had a field day with the name. Mountain Pussy was among my favorite. Peaked Kitties, mocked to titties, was another good one. Mati would never have been considered a kitten, though. She was too fierce. As for pussy, just try to accuse her of being one and a fist might meet your face.

I chuckle to myself and type: Night, Mati. Dream of big things.

There’s no response and something in my chest burns. I hadn’t realized how much I missed our banter. Or her.

We separated on rough terms. For all my accusations of her doing what Chris asked, I’d done the same thing. He was my best friend, and I loved him.

Tell her you don’t want her to go.

Chris’s voice rings through my head. I hurt her, but I did what he wanted.

I’m staring at the ceiling with my memories swirling like the fan above me. I’m somewhere off I-10E in New Mexico, and I can practically feel the Mexican border calling me, but I don’t have the patience to deal with that kind of shit tonight. Still, I could get some good weed there and a nice lay. Then again, I don’t need a disease. My dick doesn’t even get hard at the thought of some sweet Mexican pussy. I think of Mati, instead. The semi-wood surprises me. I shouldn’t be thinking of her like this. I shouldn’t be thinking of her like anything.

Funny thing about memories, though. Once they start, more tumble forth, and within seconds, I’m remembering sharing a bed with Mati as a teen. Pre-Chris. Pre-Kristy. It was another night of fighting off my dad, or maybe it was one of those nights I chose to ignore him completely and didn’t go home. I’d face his wrath the following day, but some nights I needed the reprieve. The beating could wait until morning.

I was fourteen. We were freshmen. Mati was wrapped around me, holding me to her chest which had developed quite a bit over the last year. She’s busty for a small thing, her mother would say, often publicly, and much to Mati’s dismay. Mati hated to be reminded she was a girl.

As she stroked through my hair, mothering me with whispers, I nuzzled into her breasts. Her fingers stilled, and my hand came to her hip. I remember shaking, my fingers fumbling as they climbed the outline of her body.

“Denton,” she whispered, my name an exhale.

I remember pulling back, lifting my eyes to hers.

“Kiss me, Mati,” I begged. I wanted to know what it felt like to have lips love me, instead of hating me, like the insults my father slung.

Her brow pinched. She hesitated, and for a moment, I thought she’d tell me to fuck off in true Mati fashion. Chris and I each flirted with her, but it was all in good fun. Neither of us would ever get with her. This was Mati, our best friend.

However, that night she must have seen something, something deep within me. Maybe she only took pity on me. Maybe she was curious herself. Whatever her reasons, she leaned forward, and our lips met. It wasn’t one of those overly passionate kisses at first, but it was more than kissing my best friend. Our mouths started slow, our lips lingering for a second before they moved. Hesitant. Curious. Sweet. Then the kiss deepened. We found a pattern to sucking at each other’s lips. Our mouths opened, and our tongues met. Mati giggled against me, and I smiled around her mouth. My hands moved up to her hair, a ray of burnt sunshine in the dark, and the kiss deepened. I grew hungry like I’d never eaten before, and I knew at that moment I’d never be full again. Her mouth on mine was everything.

I rolled her to her back, my hand lowering to her breast. An awkward squeeze and Mati pulled back.

“Denton,” she warned, or was it a question? Either way, I pulled away, rejected. Flipping to lay on my back next to her, I stared up at the ceiling. Her fan spun around and around like the thoughts in my head. I’d kissed my best friend, and I liked it, too much. My dick strained in my jeans, and I curled to my side, my back to her in my embarrassment.

My hand slithers into my boxers, and I do something I haven’t done since I was a teen. I whack myself off with the memories of my first kiss, the one kiss that changed everything.

+ + +

I’m on the road early after a restless night on a lumpy bed. I could stay at elegant hotels along my course, but I’m retracing steps, which means stopping at roadside motels instead. The memories come faster with each town I pass as I barrel toward Texas. It’s going to be a long day, and I’ve already had two cups of coffee. I checked my phone this morning for any additional words from Mati but don’t find any. For some reason, this irritates me.

At my first stop, I message her again.

Hey.

Master of words, mate, I tell myself after I hit send. I don’t know how to start a conversation, which isn’t typical. I’m a pro with the ladies, but then again, I don’t do social media with them. I’m a one-and-done kind of man. I’ll call if I want. I’ll send a text if I wish. Most mornings-after, I don’t do either.

I don’t bother checking back in until later in the day. Nothing again.

Mati?

I tap enter. This would be so much easier if I had her phone number. I could text her; however, data reception is terrible as I cross to I-20E. Hello Texas, here comes more memories. Hours into the state, I see the signs for Dallas, and the turnoff for Denton, the town I’m named after and the place I picked up my cousin, Tommy. His younger sister followed us the year after.

God, I’m tired, I think as I consider the journey my life has taken. Rockstar. Photographer. Model. It isn’t that I don’t have a good life, but I’m tired all the same. A little knocking in my chest tells me it’s more than that. I’m lonely. Fine, I admit it. I’m exhausted from the endless struggle: women, appearances, forced conversations. Small talk is one thing I hate most, and yet I’m attempting to small talk Mati. Fuck that.

The next stop I make, I furiously type.

Whatever Chris has for me, I’d like to suggest you open it. I’m not interested in secrets. Full disclosure. So just crack the envelope and tell me what’s inside. I can’t even imagine the prize at the bottom of the box. And I apologize if I offended you by stating the truth of your appearance.

Tap.

Send.

Shit.

Here’s the thing about social media messages, you can’t erase them once they’re sent, and this is one I’d like to take back instantly.