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So it was my job to, five past seven, wake Henry up, at which point, we began cooking breakfast together. Not that I usually needed to wake him up. He rose earlier than I did, and when I went into his room, was always sitting up stock straight in his bed, waiting for the day to begin.
Jacking off would have to wait, even though my cock was desperate. Dreams filtered back into my brain, unwelcome but there, nonetheless.
During sleep, Phoebe had come to me. Not literally, of course. Dream Phoebe had climbed into my bed, and without a word, straddled my hips and taken my thick cock inside her. We’d fucked for hours in dream time. I’d watched her arch her back as she orgasmed, her kisses leaving a wet trail along my body, my hands holding her perfect breasts. The remembrance of touching her mussed hair was so visceral that, for one painful second, I wondered if perhaps it really had happened.
But of course not. Not after what I’d said, not after I’d run off. We were finished, through, finito.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and got up. No point thinking about what could’ve been, not when the whole business was done for. I could be regretful on my own time. This was Henry’s time.
Opening the door to my son’s room, I saw that, sure enough, he was up, his legs kicking waves into the sheets.
“Daddy!”
“Mornin’, kiddo.”
I planted a kiss on his forehead, swooping back his hair to make sure it landed properly. We’ll have to cut that soon, I thought. It was getting in his eyes.
“Breaky?”
“Heck, yeah.”
Together, we went to the kitchen. We were a well-oiled unit. Henry passed me eggs from the fridge and bacon from the freezer, and I fried them all up in a jiffy. As I plated the food, our kettle whistled. I paused to tear open a packet of hot chocolate and dispense it into a mug for Henry, pouring the hot water atop the granular bits.
Though Rough and Ready tended to desert weather, Henry had fallen for this idea of hot chocolate being a cool thing that fancy boys did. He hadn’t, however, quite picked up on the notion that it was a wintertime drink. I figured that it wasn’t a battle worth picking.
I dispatched coffee into my own mug — a “Keep Austin Weird” mug I’d picked up from my former life — and sipped at it gingerly.
“Bring me the tray, please, bud.”
Henry, quick on his feet, darted to a lower cabinet, flung it open and pulled out a blue wooden tray. I put two plates of eggs and bacon on the tray, followed by two more mugs of coffee, and then two sets of silverware. This would be my peace offering.
“You can start eating breakfast,” I told Henry. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
He nodded and took his plate and mug to the dining room, jumping into a dining chair that was still too tall for him. One day soon, I knew, his feet would reach the ground. You’ve got time, I told myself. He’s still a baby.
The air was still a bit crisp. It wouldn’t warm up until ‘round eight, when the morning sun really began to shine down on the concrete. The silver Airstream was dull in these lighting conditions, flat and unaffected. The tray was balanced precariously on my hands. If only I’d arranged it all a bit better, I worried, then perhaps I wouldn’t stand at such risk of dropping the whole load.
A thought stopped me. What if they weren’t up? Lord, it’d be just about the rudest thing as a host to wake up your guests and insist they eat breakfast. What if they were vegetarians? Well, no, I knew Phoebe wasn’t, but what about Jo-Beth? All at once, I felt like an inconsiderate fool.
But there was no turning back now.
Using my bare foot, I banged three times on the door of the trailer, then stepped back.
Well, fuck me again — I was still wearing my boxer briefs. When had I become such an almighty space cadet?!
Suddenly the door was opening, a small voice saying, “Hello?”
I couldn’t see through the blackness of the dark Airstream. “Phoebe?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry if I’m waking you. I brought breakfast.”
The door opened further back, and now my eyes adjusted to make out Phoebe’s form. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a large T-shirt hung just past the top of her thighs. I gulped and tried to keep eye contact with her and keep from lookin’ at those stems.
She made a go at tugging down her T-shirt, as if remembering how bare-legged she was, until Phoebe appeared to realize that I, too, was wearing next to nothing.
“Nice outfit.” The words were jovial, but the tone was dead serious.
