While I got dressed, Jillian used the bathroom, then threw on a t-shirt and underwear. “Give me two more minutes,” she said, taking a pair of blue plaid pajama pants from her dresser drawer. “I want to send some soup home with you.”
I followed her to the kitchen, which was actually on the second level of her townhouse, a long narrow space with plain maple cabinetry, stainless appliances, and beige marble countertops. She had two framed photos on the breakfast counter next to a wine rack holding six bottles of red. One photo showed her wearing a white lab coat and holding a diploma, a stethoscope around her neck, and her entire family surrounding her. The other was a close-up of Jillian with an arm around each sister, taken when they were kids.
I picked it up. “Look how cute you guys are.”
“Thanks.” She pulled a plastic container and matching lid from a low cupboard, and a large blue pot from the fridge. “I think I’m about ten there. We thought we were so cool because we’d eaten red popsicles and it made us look like we were wearing lipstick.”
“You’re close to your family.”
“Very. What about you?” She ladled soup from the blue pot into the container.
“Yes. They helped me out a lot when Scotty was a baby. Took us in. Gave me a lot of advice. As you can imagine, I was clueless.”
“Most guys your age would be.”
“Yeah.” I set the picture down. “But it started to get a little stifling, all the advice, especially after we got the autism diagnosis.”
“Is that why you moved here?” She put the blue pot back in the fridge and pressed the lid onto the container.
“That’s one reason. But I also felt like it was time for us to be on our own. Scotty was about to start kindergarten, so I figured that would be a good time to do it. The move was rough on him, though—a new room in a new house, no grandma and grandpa living with us, a new neighborhood, new school…he doesn’t like things to change.”
“Well, I’m glad you made the move.” She came over and handed me the soup. “Hope you like pumpkin.”
“I do.”
“I made it last night. It’s Natalie’s recipe. She’s teaching me to cook,” she said sheepishly.
“Why do you look embarrassed about that?”
She threw her hands up. “I don’t know. Because I’m thirty and I should know already?”
“Fuck that. There’s no deadline on learning new things.”
“True.”
“I love to cook, you know.”
Her eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you?” I poked her in the side, and she giggled.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“My dad was actually the cook at my house when I grew up, so it never seemed strange to me. Plus, without another parent in the house, it’s been on me to put meals on the table by myself.”
“Is that enough?” She glanced at the soup, looking worried. “I should have given you extra for Scotty.”
“It’s plenty. I’m sure he’s already eaten. His dinner is at six sharp or the world ends.” I kissed her cheek. “Thank you. Next time, I’ll cook for you.”
“Sounds good.” She put her arms around my neck. “This was fun. I hope you aren’t home too late.”
“I will happily suffer the consequences if I am.” Wrapping my free arm around her waist, I hugged her close, inhaling her sex-and-citrus scent. “I’ll call you this week.”
“OK.”
She walked me to the door, and after one more kiss, I forced myself to leave.
On the fifteen-minute drive home, I did nothing but think of her, every sense bombarded with memories. I could still feel her softness, taste her sweetness, smell her skin. I could still see her eyes closing, her back arching, her fingers clutching my shirt. I could hear her quiet sighs and her loud cries, my name a plea on her lips.
Fuck. My balls ached, and my cock did not seem to understand that there would be no encore tonight. I shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, trying to adjust myself.
But it wasn’t only that I wanted to have more sex with her—although I did. (We hadn’t even gotten to position two on my church list.) That feeling of lying next to her afterward, talking and laughing and touching each other…I wanted that, too. I’d never had that with anyone, and it was so easy with her. And I wanted to hear more about her—what did I really know?
I knew how she liked her martini. The name of her vibrator. That she was allergic to perfume. Drank champagne at weddings. Wore fuck-hot lingerie under her clothes. She liked red wine and popsicles, pumpkin soup and flannel pajamas, black lace and pearls.
But what was her favorite song? Her favorite color? Her favorite movie? Did she sleep on her stomach or back? Did she like e-books or paperbacks? Sand or snow? Staying up late or waking up early?
Then there were harder questions.