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I’m certain of it. My earlier unease ripples inside me as I frown and stare back.
The man finally gets the hint, mounting his bike, and riding off with a deafening roar from his engine that’s worthy of a beast.
He’s gone, but something tells me it isn’t the end. He was here for a reason.
A reason I’ll soon find out.
chapter two - sydney
“Peaches, you don’t gotta be here,” Pop murmurs between blinks of his heavy eye-lids. “I can handle things.”
“Stop talking crazy, Pop. You can barely walk from the bathroom to the bed. Here.”
I guide him up the step stool at the side of his bed. He slides under the bedsheet and sits propped up on the lumpy pillows he insists on keeping. His face is fixed into what can only be called a glower.
He’s been in a mood all evening. He protested when I made him his chicken pot pie and he wouldn’t watch a minute of Wheel of Fortune, one of his favorite shows. Any conversation I’ve attempted has been stunted after only a few words. He wants me to leave him to his sulking, but I refuse.
Before I returned to Boulder, he had been living in squalor. Basically biding his time ’til he passed away.
We lost Mom prematurely. I refuse to lose Pop too.
“Here,” I say, handing him his assortment of pills. I follow up with a cool glass of water. “Drink up.
His glower deepens. “Just like your mother. You even look like her.”
I smile with a roll of my eyes. “I’madopted, Pop.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve morphed into her.” He guzzles down several gulps of water after swallowing the handful of horse-sized pills. “You should be off living your life, Peaches. Go on and go. I’ll be alright. Always have been.”
Softening at the hoarseness of his voice, proof enough he’s not well, I lean in and kiss his cheek. “Not going anywhere. You’ll just have to get used to it.”
“Stubborn just like your—”
“Mother,” I finish with a small laugh. “Goodnight, Pop.”
I ease the door to his bedroom close and then walk the short length down the hall into my own. It’s the bedroom I grew up in. Boy band posters still plaster the walls and the twin bed is smaller than I’m used to, but I’ve been making do.
Over the next hour, I shower, change into my sleep shirt, browse the internet, and then finish my night by jotting down more thoughts in my little purple book.
Nothing too crazy. Just a few lines about Pop’s bad mood and the letter he received. I pause for a second and consider writing down the bit about the weird motorcycle guy outside our house, then decide against it.
Setting my book in my nightstand drawer, I turn off the light and get comfy in bed. It’s in the moments laying in the dark that I often question life most. If I’m satisfied with the way it’s going and if I can make changes. If I should pursue things about my life still shrouded in mystery.
Pop isn’t the only one with the complicated past.
As my brain creeps into childhood trauma territory, I do what I can to chase it away. I inhale calming breaths and refocus my thoughts to what’ll make me relaxed.
What makes me feelgood.
It’s been a while. Waaay too long.
Suddenly in need to scratch an itch I’ve ignored, my hand ventures down the front of my panties. Even if it’s my own touch, it feels like coming alive again. My fingers circle my clit and I rake my teeth over my bottom lip to keep from releasing the moan in my throat.
I ignore the fact that in this bed, many years ago, I had discovered this kind of touch. I had experimented and done what I’m doing now, paranoid I’d be caught at any moment.
The paranoia hasn’t left. As my fingers work their magic and my body sinks into the growing pleasure, in the back of my mind, I’m paranoid as hell. I’m straining my ears for even the slightest noise that’s out of place.
Fortunately, the dead end street we live on is silent during the day let alone night.
