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I keep loving her well after the orgasm ends. She does the same for me, keeping me in her mouth. Soothing me with strokes of her tongue, her hand.
I look down and see her throat work as she swallows the last of me.
My eyes burn.
I guide myself out of her mouth. She’s shaking.
I’m shaking.
“Brooks,” she whispers. “I don’t—I’m not—”
I’m not okay. But that’s okay, because I’m with you.
Pressing one last kiss to her belly, I climb to my feet. Scoop her up into my arms.
She nuzzles into my chest. Toys with the hair there.
I take her to bed, where we both fall asleep almost instantly.
“Is this a tradition now?” I ask, shoving O-Ku’s famous lobster temaki into my mouth. “Getting naked. Ordering takeout. Getting naked again.”
We’re sitting at my kitchen island. Takeout boxes litter the countertop. A bottle of white wine, open, sits beside it.
Greer, who’s in one of my Duke T-shirts and these fucking adorable boy-short panty things, smiles. “We have a tradition?”
“I’d like to have lots of traditions together, yeah.” I take a sip of the Sancerre. “I’ve lost so much time, you know? My parents and I barely hang out at Christmas anymore. I miss it. Not Christmas with my parents, necessarily, but the stuff that came with it. That came with being part of something.”
Greer puts a hand on my thigh. Even through my sweats, I feel the warmth of her touch. “Then let’s start making traditions right freaking now. The sushi. The getting naked. What about Friday night roller skating? Or really any kind of glow-in-the-dark activity.”
“Bowling,” I say.
She nods, eyes all squinty with happiness. “Laser tag.”
“Laser tag! Yes.”
“I have a bunch of glow-in-the-dark jewelry left over—had to order it in bulk.” Greer sets her wine back on the counter. “We can wear that and nothing else one night?”
I pick up my chopsticks. “I like the sound of that.”
“That little sixty-nining situation could be a fun Saturday afternoon tradition.”
“I love the sound of that.”
Greer gets up and pads to the bathroom. She emerges a minute later with a smile.
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“I just got my period.”
Grinning, I hold up my hand for a high-five.
Chapter Thirty
GREER
Taking a deep breath, I ring the doorbell.
It makes a fancy chiming sound inside the house. Suits the place; it’s less house, more tastefully extravagant mansion. It’s a red-brick behemoth with black shutters and an enormous gas lantern that flickers above my head, even though it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.
When Brooks and I were compiling a list of addresses for the fundraiser’s invitations, I wasn’t at all surprised to see his parents lived on Cherokee Road. It’s quite possibly Charlotte’s prettiest (and most expensive) street.
Towering oaks, most over a hundred years old, line both sides of the street. They provide shade to brick mansions set in the middle of massive, rolling lawns that are especially lush and green now that we’re in June.
My heart pounds. For the hundredth time, I wonder if this is the right move. But I felt like I had to do something to break the ice before the fundraiser. If it blows up in my face—welp, I tried. That’s all I can do at this point.
Brooks has started to open up to me about his parents. He’s expressed his frustration. His guilt over all the time they’ve lost, the three of them exchanging pointless small talk when they should’ve been addressing the elephant in the room.
“Maybe we would’ve all felt a hell of a lot less alone,” he said last night over jalapeño beers at Birdsong Brewery. “We could’ve been there for each other. Created a safety net of our own to catch one another when the grief hit.”
I’d felt the hurt behind that thought in my chest. Which is why I’m currently standing on the Huntleys’ beautiful front porch, an envelope and a box of chocolate covered pretzels in one hand and my heart in the other.
I’m basically Forrest Gump. I hope I’m as adorable.
The door opens. My stomach lurches.
“May I help you?” a gorgeous older woman with pale blonde hair and a familiar dimple in her chin asks.
I’m glad I wore my cutest sundress. Brooks’s mom is impeccably put together, from her Gucci loafers to her elegant knee-length dress and muted jewelry.
Swallowing my heart, I put on a smile and let the little speech I prepared fly. “Hi, Mrs. Huntley. I’m Greer Fieldstone, Brooks’s girlfriend. I apologize for showing up unannounced, but I wanted to hand-deliver this invitation.” I hold out the envelope. “Brooks and I are hosting a fundraiser for a foundation we just started in Lizzie’s memory. We’re hoping to raise money and awareness to address the mental health crisis in young adults. We’d be honored if you and Mr. Huntley would consider attending.”
Ever the consummate southern hostess, Mrs. Huntley shows her surprise by blinking once. Then she smiles and takes the envelope. “How lovely of you to bring this to us personally.”
