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It’s been three days since I couldn’t deny my attraction to Meg any longer, and these three days have been the best days of my life.
It’s almost like it’s not even Christmastime.
Or possibly like it’sfinallythe Christmastime I’ve always wanted.
Instead of feeling like the leftovers, I’m part of the main event. Meg ropes me into helping make more cookies than I’ve ever seen in my life, and when she confesses that she won’t be able to look at a flour bag without puking for at least six months after her annual cookie extravaganza, I laugh so hard at her grimace that I almost pull something in my shoulder.
And then I apologize for laughing at her with my tongue between her thighs.
When she adds a terribly-wrapped present under our terribly-decorated tree with my name on it, I reciprocate with an even worse-wrapped present that doesn’t fit under our tree.
Don’t tell her, but it’s a bent bicycle tire, and it’s in honor of a story she told me about an incident with a bike when she was thirteen, and I’m looking forward to watching her laugh until she cries when she opens it.
We go to bed about six times a day.
Sometimes she sleeps after I challenge myself to give her an even better orgasm than the last one.
Most of the time I do.
Getting old sucks, but having Meg help me with my physical therapy and reward me for a job well-done with kisses and blow jobs does not.
I don’t know how I never noticed what a refined sense of humor she has.
Or how she can be deadly with her aim when it comes to well-placed and well-deserved zingers.
Turns out we have a lot more in common when it comes to ideology and worldview than I thought.
And my best friend’s little sister is pretty fucking brilliant when it comes to making me think about things in a new light when we disagree.
When I told her I didn’t know what I wanted to do once I’m healed and officially off the payroll from the Fireballs—I don’t want to go into coaching because it’seasy, and I want to make sure what I’m doing is actually the right fit for me—she patted my leg, said, “Don’t worry, I’ll support you on my nanny salary,” and we both cracked up.
She knows even relief pitchers get paid enough that I can take a few years off, but I don’t think she was talking about financially supporting me.
I think she was talking about helping me find my purpose. Whether it’s coaching or something else.
“You got me my dream job,” she said another time. About forty minutes ago, in fact. “Why not let me help you find your next dream job?”
And that’s how we ended up here, again, on a picnic blanket beneath the tree with a fire roaring in my fireplace, both of us naked, and both of us very, very satisfied now.
“Are you sure?” I ask her as I stroke a hand down her bare hip. “You’re sure you don’t need another?”
She laughs and kisses me. “I think another would kill me.”
“Just to be sure, another chocolate-covered pretzel, or another orgasm?”
“Both.”
“Your belly hurts? Does it need kisses?”
Her eyes are dancing with what I’ve come to think of as her joy face. “This is the you I missed when I first got here,” she whispers.
“What me?”
“Thehappyyou. You used to be so happy, but then—”
I cut her off with a finger pressed to her lips. “And you used to be so sad, and I keep trying to make you sad, but—”
“Trevor.” She shrieks with laughter and rolls on top of me.
