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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. “Good night, Pop.”
I ease the door to his bedroom shut 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 a 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 of scratching an itch I’ve ignored, my hand ventures down the front of my panties. Even though 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 at night.
Most of our neighbors are older than Pop. They go to sleep with the sun and rise with it too. It’s not uncommon for the only sound at night to come from the whistles of the wind.
My eyes close and I focus on the pleasure. On my fingers rubbing circles on my clit in just the way I like.
I’m sooo close. Right on the edge of my orgasm.
It’s coming, it’s a couple more rubs away—
A creak of a floorboard sounds loud in the otherwise dead silence. My bedroom window is on the side of the house, but close enough to hear the sounds on the front steps. I’d know that creak anywhere. Just another thing about the house that needs repair.
My hand freezes in my panties and my eyes pop open. I lay still and listen for more. Listen to confirm if I’m hearing things or if I just heard what I think I heard.
Seconds go by, and nothing.
I’m about to return to my secret activity when it happens again. Only this time, it’s not the creak of a floorboard. It’s the jiggle of what sounds like our brass doorknob. I spring up in bed, my heart booming in my chest.
Is what I think happening really happening? Is someone trying to break into our house?
I leap out of bed and quickly slink into the hall. On my way, I grab the baseball bat from the coat closet.
