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I filed that under things that make me sad, especially since I actually like my parents. I see them often.
“You ready, cutie-pie?” Candace asks Zach.
“I bought a new rocket kit for Grandpa and me. I sent it to your house. Did you get it, Grams?”
Shaking her head in amusement, she looks my way. “He’s ordering his own rocket kits?”
That’s not normal? “Yeah. Well, the Internet’s pretty easy to use,” I say a little defensively.
“This world. I swear,” she says, then turns to Zach. “Yes, I thought your dad sent it.”
“Well, he knew I got it. I bought it on his phone the other night.”
Zach hurries to the hatchback, but before he yanks on the handle, he zooms over to me for one more hug. I give it to him happily. “I’ll come get you Sunday night,” I say, rubbing a hand on his back.
He’ll be mine again for another full week in the city, and next weekend too. We’ve had a blast these past five days, and my tiny yard is proof, still covered with the lava from the volcanos that we erupted. Mount Loa has nothing on this father-son duo. But I also took him to the movies and then spent the early evening hunting down superhero costumes.
I’ve been busy, and that’s what I’ve wanted for years.
I head up the steps and inside, where I shower then get dressed. Once I’m ready, I walk through the kitchen, my gaze straying to the window that overlooks the tiniest of backyards.
The littlest tree house in the city looks awesome there. Maybe I’m not so wet behind the ears with this parenting thing after all.
I take off, leaving this part of my life behind for now. For the rest of tonight…I’ll be someone else.
The man I wasn’t able to be for most of my marriage.
* * *
Sometimes, your mind plays tricks on you. You remember a restaurant as being incredible the first time you eat there. Then you return, and the same dish just isn’t as good. As I head into the Albrecht Mansion that evening, dressed in slacks, a button-down, and navy suspenders as promised—a little Gatsby-esque, complete with a black Art Deco mask—I temper my expectations.
Life has taught me to expect little, even when I want much.
A few years of marriage spent trying to please someone unpleasable will do that to a guy. Make you stop…hoping. Marilyn was a miser, doling out tiny portions of love and sex and happiness to a starving man.
When I want to feel voraciously.
My jaw ticks at the invasion of annoying thoughts about my ex. I don’t want to spend an ounce of energy tonight on what went wrong in my romantic life. The answer? Nearly everything.
Just for one night, I’d like to experience the rush of connection. The thrill of returned intimacy. The heat of hot, hungry sex.
But only after she’s begged for it.
That’s what I want most. To drive that woman so wild she’s crying and begging for me to send her over the edge.
And just like that, I’ve figured out what’s been dogging me. The huge mistake I made two weeks ago. When I left the party that night and arranged to meet her again, I screwed up big time. I thought meeting her in the library during her break would be enough.
Her break won’t be long enough for the things I want to do to her.
My goddess might think I like role-play, and, sure, I do. But role-play is simply the start of what I crave.
It only scratches the surface of why I go to The Scene.
With the same desire that drives me to work countless hours when I’mthis closeto acquiring a new app, a new content play, a new online site, I stride up the steps, propelled by renewed purpose.
I’m determined to get my woman. I want an entire night with her, and when I get her alone during her break, I plan to propose just that—to take her home.
I turn the corner, heading down the hall, the piano music catching my ear. I tilt my head, a little surprised. I’d have expected something jazzy again, from the roaring twenties era to suit the theme. But instead, the song is “Crazy in Love.”
