“Good. Be a man, Dirk. Don’t ever let me see you cry again.” And he never did.
The old, stained mattress still sits in the corner of the room. A pillow and an old blanket lay on top of it. I walk to the closet and look in. The light from the room is enough for me to see inside. An old suitcase, a pair of shoes, and poster of a motorcycle lay on the floor covered in dust and cobwebs. The hiding spot that protected me all those years was still there, covered with a piece of paneling. It was the one place Black didn’t know existed. He bought the house before I came along, but never had use for the room. I’m not sure he had even been in it until I moved in.
I had a mattress and clothes. He said that was all I needed, so that’s all I got. I look around the room at the white, wooden walls that need to be repainted. The original hardwood floors are dusty and worn, and the bedroom window is covered in cobwebs. The silence is the best thing about the house. It always was.
I cross the hall and turn on the light in what was once Black’s room. His bed is just like he left it—half unmade with his welder’s cap hanging on the post. His boots sit in the same place they did every night when he took them off, right by the door. The top of his dresser is an inch thick in dust and covers his loose change, spare keys, and an empty pack of Camel cigarettes. The black and white blanket over his window reads Harley-Davidson with the emblem printed in the middle.
I don’t step inside. I wasn’t allowed in there before, and as far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed. I check the bathroom, flushing the toilet and running the tub and faucet to get the rust out of the lines before turning out the lights and walking back to the kitchen. The lighting is dim; only one bulb illuminates the whole front of the house. I will need to swap out the blown ones before I leave. The refrigerator is empty, and the only things in the cabinets are a few cleaning supplies and some old dishes. I turn the water on in the sink, waiting for it to clear before washing my face.
I fucking hate this place. I don’t know why I torture myself by coming back here. I should have burned it down a long time ago. I grab my bags from outside and when the cool night air hits me, it helps to release some of the pressure in my chest. When I walk back in, it returns.
I lock the door, then pull two pillows and a blanket from the tote and throw them on the now fully inflated mattress. The house is cool, even without air-conditioning. The weather has been in the fifties at night, and the large trees that surround the house help to shade it from the sun. Tomorrow, I will probably have to plug in a window unit. The lack of insulation keeps the house about the same temperature as it is outside.
I’m undressed and just before climbing under the covers when I notice Saylor laying on the couch, sound asleep. How the fuck did I forget she was here? When my eyes land on her face, everything else disappears. My memories don’t matter. This house don’t matter. Black . . . He don’t fucking matter either. Only her. Saylor Samson.
I walk over to her, looking down at the beauty her god created. One arm hangs off the couch, the other is above her head. Her nipples are hard under her shirt that is stretched tight across her chest. I wonder if it’s because she is cold or because she is dreaming of me.
Her shirt is raised, making the lower part of her stomach visible, including her belly button that I have an urge to kiss. So I do. I place my lips on her stomach, the heat of her flesh burning them. I turn to look down her crossed legs, all the way to the tip of her boots that are covered in dust. I don’t know what I want more—to stand here and just stare at her fully clothed, or get her naked and hold her in my arms.
The battle is quickly won and I start by taking off her boots, then remove her socks and kiss her pink-painted toes one by one. I pull her jeans down her legs, kissing every inch of skin bared to me. She hasn’t stirred, and I know she can’t enjoy this while she is sleeping, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I like the way her skin feels on my lips. I want to cherish every part of her, and I know it’s not just because I care about her. It’s more, but I still can’t make out the word in my head.
I kiss her hands, up her arms, across her collarbone, up her throat, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then her parted lips. I carry her to the mattress, folding her into my chest and inhale her hair that still smells like her. Not a smoky bar, not perfume or hairspray, just her. I’m almost asleep. I’m in the hell hole I grew up in, and there isn’t a bad thought around. My mind is peaceful, my arms are full, and my heart is filled with something. That nameless emotion that I’ve never felt.
“Dirk?”