Chapter 10
For the next few nights, Delores and I hang out. We go dancing at clubs and stay in; we start movies but miss the endings; we have long hours of sweaty sex—the kind you feel dirty about afterward and can’t wait to do all over again.
We also talk—surprisingly. In bed or across the dinner table.
On top of the dinner table.
Dee’s chatty. A sharer, an explainer. She also has . . . theories . . . on just about every topic imaginable. Though all of her theories are entertaining, some are pretty out there. Take this, for example:
“John Hughes was a raging sexist pig.”
“How do you figure?”
“Look at The Breakfast Club. The guys get five main stereotypes—the jock, the criminal, the brain, the a*shole teacher, the cool laid-back janitor. What do girls get? Two. The beauty queen and the whack job—subliminally telling generations of teenage girls they can be beautiful or they can be crazy, but not both. Because at the end, when the crazy girl gets beautiful, she’s no longer crazy. It’s f*cked up. I’m going to start a petition about it.”
Or this:
“Microwaves are evil—I’ll never own one.”
“O-kay.”
“The sharp rise in childhood illnesses, allergies, and developmental disabilities can all be traced back to the moment microwaves became common fixtures in the home. It’s malevolent consumer abuse. But you have to keep it to yourself. Corporations have ears and eyes everywhere, and there’s no lengths they won’t go to, to cover it up.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Then, there’s this little gem:
“You actually think the Egyptians built the pyramids?”
“Sure—it’s well documented.”
“Oh, you poor, gullible man. How were they able to move stones as big as a house? How were they able to make underground, structurally sound tunnels and rooms without any engineering equipment? Or, for that matter, how were they able to shape and cut the blocks at precise and identical angles?”
“Well . . . if the Egyptians didn’t build them, who did?”
“Aliens.”
“Aliens?”
“Of course. There’s tons of proof that aliens have been visiting Earth for centuries—you don’t even know.”
Nope, and I don’t want to. That last one is too freaky—and plausible—for me.
I wake up Saturday morning to the sounds of running water from the shower. And the screechy echo of Delores’s singing from inside it. “I Knew You Were Trouble” by Taylor Swift is probably the most annoying song ever written—but hearing Dee’s awful rendition just makes me chuckle.
Never one to waste good wood—particularly the morning kind—I grab a condom out of the nightstand drawer, slip out of bed, and step into the bathroom.
“. . . trouble . . . ah . . . ah . . .” Her eyes are closed and her head is tilted back to rinse her long hair under the spray. “. . . ah . . .”
I get into the shower and waste no time, going immediately for Dee’s succulent nipple that’s already pointy and proud. She’s not startled. She doesn’t yell. Her pitchy “ah” changes to a muted moan, and her hands slide across my shoulder blades, pulling me closer.
I like that she knows it’s me, without opening her eyes.
I realize the likelihood of anyone else worshipping her beautiful tits at this place and time except me is slim to none. But what I mean is . . . she knows my touch. My sounds, my movements. We’ve become used to—attuned to—each other in the greatest of ways. I know she likes her hair pulled just before she’s about to come. And she knows it drives me crazy to watch her finger her nipple ring or when she traces my abs with her tongue.
Once she’s rubbing—squirming—against me, I release her breast and devour her lips, sliding my mouth against hers and my tongue inside her warm heat. Without breaking the kiss, I roll on the condom with deft fingers. Then I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her against me with little effort.
Her legs take their natural place around my hips. Cock in hand, I drag the head across her p-ssy and even with the warmth of the water raining down around us, I feel how hot and eager she is.
I push inside her fully, pressing her back up against the tiled wall. She tears her mouth from mine and moans. Her head tilts back as I start to move—strong, deliberate strokes that fill her completely. I pant against her cheek. She bites my shoulder and I groan.
Her legs squeeze me tighter, and I move faster. Wanting to go deeper. Harder. More.
Always more.
She grunts. “I love your cock. It’s perfect.” She grinds against me, lifting herself up and down on me, in time with the movements of my hips. “F*ck me, Matthew . . . f*ck me with your perfect cock.”
Her words get me hotter. Make me harder.
I feel the flutter of her muscles starting to contract around me—tightening—making each thrust of my hips all the more intense and eye-crossingly pleasurable. I speed up even more, wanting us to come together.
Her back is flat against the wall, not an inch of space between our chests as I press into her deeper and deeper. Then she’s clenching me, holding me inside as she comes with a high whimper. And I’m right there with her—crying her name as every nerve in my body explodes in a rapturous frenzy.
Dee kisses me again. Slower this time, almost tenderly. I don’t let her go right away, but I bury my face in the crook of her neck, content to stay right here with her. All day if I could.
She nuzzles my ear with her lips and whispers, “Good morning.”
“I’ll say.”
I turn, so we’re both directly under the spray, and eventually I loosen my embrace and set her down. Wearing ludicrously satisfied smiles, we wash each other slowly then step out into the steamy bathroom.
As I towel off, I glance at my watch. “Shit, I’m gonna be late.”
Dee rubs her hair with the cotton cloth. “Late for what?”
I smirk. “I’ve got a date.”
For all of Delores’s insistence that she doesn’t want to be serious, it’s obvious my statement bugs the hell out of her. Her elegant shoulders stiffen, her chin rises, her eyes darken and narrow. She tries her best to keep her voice nonchalant.
Tries—and fails.
“Oh, a date? That’s nice. Good for you.”
I grasp her hips and pull her up against me so she’s got nowhere to look but at my grinning face. “You want to join us?”
She tries to pull away. “It’s a little soon for a threesome, don’t you think?”
My ears perk right up. “You’ve done a threesome?”
On second thought, I don’t want to know.
“Never mind. Don’t answer that. Although I like where your thoughts are headed. I’m not asking for a threesome. I’m asking you to come to the zoo . . .”
“Sounds kinky.”
I squeeze her hips. “. . . with Mackenzie and me.”
Dee processes my words. Then she smiles—a relieved, grateful smile. She thinks a moment more. “Won’t Miss The-Dry-Cleaners-Will-Never-Get-That-Out have a problem with me tagging along?”
Many families are way too involved in each other’s business. You know the kind I mean. Sisters who refuse to speak to each other because one married a guy the other didn’t like. Brothers who come to blows because of a bitchy girlfriend, and friends who fall out of touch because someone refused to listen to advice that was never asked for in the first frigging place.
Even if Alexandra full-out hated Dee’s guts, out of respect for me, she’d never show it. For months, Drew tried to tell me Rosaline wasn’t the girl I thought she was, and even though I didn’t believe him, even though he turned out to be right, he didn’t rub my face in it.
The best kinds of families try to stop a train wreck—but if they can’t, they still show up to give first aid to the walking wounded.
“You’ll be with me. She’ll be fine with it.”
Alexandra and Steven’s east side condo is a gorgeous place—I think it was featured in Architectural Digest or something. Despite the grandeur of it, Lexi still manages to make it feel like a home, not a museum. She opens the door for Dee and me, and we walk into the shiny, marble-floored entryway.
On her best behavior, Dee says, “Hello, Alexandra. It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Delores—what a surprise. You’ll be joining Matthew and Mackenzie at the zoo today?”
“I will.”
Lexi smiles, but there’s a teasing shine in her eyes. “That’s nice. Only, I do try to discourage Mackenzie from throwing her food, so please remember to set a positive example.”
I put my arm around Dee. “We’ll try to control ourselves . . . but I make no promises.”
At that moment, Mackenzie comes riding into the foyer. She drives her red, bell-ringing tricycle around the circular mahogany table in the center of the room, shaking the ornate arrangement of orchids and lilies in their vase. Reminds me of Danny Torrance from The Shining but without the hair-raising eeriness.
Mackenzie parks the trike and climbs her denim-overall-wearing self off. “Hi, Uncle Matthew!”
I get a hug.
“Hey, princess.” I tilt my head in Delores’s direction. “This is my friend Dee. She’s going to come to the zoo with us today, all right?”
Mackenzie’s never been a shy kid—she’s confident and candid, no matter where she is or who she’s with. Traits that run strong in her family.
“Hi, Miss Dee.” The “Miss” is all Alexandra. She’s drilled titles of respect into Mackenzie’s head since she learned to talk.
Delores waves. Then Mackenzie zeroes in on the black fur vest she’s wearing. She reaches out and pets it—like a rabbit. Then she asks, “Is that your Halloween costume?”
Dee’s wearing tight white pants, a white top, and black sneakers that someone Bejeweled within an inch of their lives. With the vest, I can see why Mackenzie might think it’s a costume—a Dalmatian, or a zebra.
“Mackenzie, that’s rude,” Lexi admonishes.
But Dee waves her hand. “No, it’s fine.” She crouches down to eye level with Mackenzie. “I like to dress like every day is Halloween.”
Mackenzie’s face brightens. “That’s cool. Can I do that, Momma?”
Alexandra shakes her head. “No. You only get to be Frankenberry once a year.”
With that, I get handed a neutral-colored man-purse with all the essentials that have to be in reach whenever any child Mackenzie’s age leaves the house. And we head to the zoo.
When I was a kid, I thought zoos were pretty f*cked up. You take a bear, or a lion—the king of the jungle—and lock him in a 300 by 300 foot cage, add some greenery, and expect him to be happy? Wild animals are meant to be . . . wild. As I got older, I realized that a lot of the animals were rescued because they were sick or injured and wouldn’t survive on the outside anyway. Although there’s something to be said for nature taking its course, now I look at zoos as a wildlife retirement home where lions and tigers and bears get to live out the last of their days being cared for and catered to.
It may not be as exciting as living in the wild . . . but it sure beats being dead.
Dee, Mackenzie, and I spend the afternoon visiting all the exhibits in the Central Park Zoo—the lions, the reptile house. Unlike every other woman I know, Dee actually likes snakes. When she was a kid, she wanted a boa constrictor for her birthday, but her mother said no. Her cousin bought her a rubber one in consolation.
We eat lunch—pizza—and I don’t even look at the hot dog cart. My days of chili dogs are over.
Dee buys Mackenzie a polar bear balloon and they have a long discussion about how many balloons she would need to be able to fly, like in the movie Up. Dee—because she knows about gases like helium—was actually able to figure out how many on her calculator. Mackenzie was totally impressed.
I just hope she doesn’t get any ideas.
At the moment, we’re eating popcorn and watching the penguins. And Mackenzie asks no one in particular, “Did you know the girl penguins got the boy penguins by the balls?”
Dee chokes on a kernel.
Mackenzie doesn’t notice. “Uncle Drew say the girl gets ta pick any boy penguin she wants—they has ta dance for them. Then, the boy penguin has ta carry the egg on his feet for a long time.”
“Those girl penguins are some pretty smart cookies,” Delores comments. And Mackenzie nods vigorously.
Next we move on to the monkeys. I’m not sure of their breed, but they’re small, white little puff balls that can only seem to sit still if they’re trying to mount each other. Delores snorts and Mackenzie says, “They wrestle a lot.”
I chuckle. And talk low in Dee’s ear. “These horny little guys are giving me ideas. We should go before I embarrass myself.”
Mackenzie—because she obviously has dog hearing—asks, “Uncle Matthew, whas ‘horny’ mean?”
I’m quick with the save. “Excited.”
She nods . . . and files it away in her adorable, unpredictable mind.
The three of us climb out of the cab back at Alexandra and Steven’s. I hold Mackenzie on my shoulder—she’s half asleep. Dee carries Mackenzie’s balloon and her bag and about a dozen small gift shop items I couldn’t not buy her. Alexandra lets us in, and Mackenzie perks up, trying to rub the weariness from her eyes. I set her on her feet, and she hugs us both, thanking us without being told.
Alexandra tells her, “There’s a package on your bed—it came while you were out. I think it’s the Elizabeth American Girl doll Grandma bought for your birthday, the one that was back-ordered.”
Mackenzie’s mouth forms a precious O, and she practically vibrates with excitement. “I been waiting for dat! I’m sooo horny!”
Then she scampers out of the foyer to her room.
Alexandra turns stormy eyes on Dee and me. “Care to explain that?”
I rub the back of my neck . . . and then completely throw Steven under the bus. “You should really talk to your husband. He needs to watch his language around Mackenzie.”
I’ll make it up to him, I swear.
Dee joins in. “Yeah. Kids are like sponges. They just suck up everything around them.”
From the look on Lexi’s face, she’s not buying it.
“We should go,” Delores tells me.
“Yes, we should.” I yawn. “The amphibians really wore me out. Bye, Lexi.”
“Bye, Alexandra,” Dee says.
Then we run.