seventeen

Tessa

I’m lying awake, staring at the ceiling, and no matter how hard I try to shut my brain off, I can’t. Rolling onto my side, I face the open window, breathing in the smell of the ocean. I throw back the blankets, leaving my legs exposed.

“I came for you.”

Earlier, when Dante practically pinned me against the house, his warm breath dancing along my neck as he spoke into my ear, it took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to lean into him. How I wanted to press my cheek into the prickly roughness of his trimmed dark beard. His scent was intoxicating. Earthy with a hint of spice and sweat.

A light breeze blows across my skin, and need stirs within me. Slowly, my hand drifts down my body, halting when my fingers graze the lace fabric. Desire licks at my center. I slide one finger beneath the delicate material.

I miss sex; that’s all.

I spread my legs, slipping into my wet heat.

This isn’t about Dante.

Another finger.

It can’t be.

In. Out. In.

I bend the fingers inside me, in a come-here motion, and then writhe against my hand.

His mouth on me.

His tongue swirling inside me.

A quiet moan escapes me. I’m so close. It feels too good. The speed of the movement increases with every pass. Faster and faster. And, when I close my eyes, it isn’t Trevor’s face I see. I bite my lips to keep from crying out Dante’s name.

Unbidden tears prick my eyes as I tumble over the edge, soaring. My orgasm rockets through me. Then, too soon, the high of my release vaporizes. Swallowed in a sea of disgrace and regret.

Mortified, I get up to wash my hands, using the moonlight spilling across my room to guide my steps to the en suite. I don’t turn on the bathroom light because the last thing I want is to catch my reflection in the mirror. To see myself exposed without the shadows to shroud my shame.

I pad across the carpet and climb back in bed, tugging the covers up to my chin. Guilt clings like a second skin as I fall into a fitful sleep. The eyes that haunt me in my dreams aren’t blue. They’re dark. Mysterious. With an intensity so abysmal, it simultaneously excites and terrifies me.

Morning comes too soon. When I open my eyes, it feels like I haven’t slept at all. The memory of last night lingers at the edges of my mind, and I need to get out of this room.

I change clothes and go downstairs in search of caffeine. Stumbling to the fridge, I pluck the vanilla-flavored creamer off the shelf and then reach into the cupboard and snag a coffee cup. My eyes catch sight of the note Mama left next to the Keurig. She and my father have gone antiquing for the day, and I have the house to myself.

The weather is beautiful, so after I make my coffee, I head for the front porch, grabbing today’s paper off the kitchen table on my way. I plan to submerge myself in the madness going on in the world instead of the chaos causing havoc in my mind.

With my cup in one hand and the paper tucked under my arm, I twist the knob and pull the door open.

“Ah,” I yelp.

The unexpected sight of a pimply-faced young boy, his fingers curled and poised to knock, takes me by surprise.

Coffee—not scalding, thanks to the creamer, but still hot enough to burn—sloshes over the edge of the cup. “Shit.” Somehow, I manage not to drop the cup, and I set it on the entry table.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Really sorry,” he apologizes profusely.

I take pity on him. He can’t be more than seventeen.

“It’s okay,” I assure him, untucking the newspaper from my arm and placing it beside the coffee cup. Sticky tan liquid drips from my reddening hand, and I pat it against my jean-clad leg.

He holds out a clipboard. “Can you sign at the bottom?”

I notice the Best Buds Florist van behind him. I glance back to the kid whose name is Andy, according to the stitching on the polo he’s wearing, only to find him staring at my tank-top-covered cleavage.

“Andy.” I snap the fingers of my other hand, the one not covered in coffee.

He startles at the sound of his name.

“Eyes up here,” I say, my index and middle fingers pointing to my eyes. I pick the coffee cup up and tell him, “I’m going to go wash my hands. I’ll be right back.”

His face turns as red as his shirt. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, dropping his eyes to the ground. At least he has the decency to be embarrassed.

Once in the kitchen, I turn on the cold water and run my hand in the stream to relieve the slight sting of pain. Thankfully, I like a little coffee with my creamer; otherwise, I’m sure it would have been worse. I wipe the cup with the damp dishrag before drying it with a paper towel. Then, I wash the sticky residue from my skin.

“Let’s try this again,” I say aloud to myself. I pick up the cup and walk out to the porch.

Andy is nowhere to be seen, and the clipboard is sitting on the table between the two rocking chairs. Four large vases filled with white daisies sit on the top porch step. I can’t help but smile. It seems my dad has gotten romantic in his old age. Tulips are my mom’s favorite flower, but at least he tried.

Setting my coffee down, I pick up the clipboard and scrawl my name in the space. The sound of a door closing draws my attention, and I look up to see Andy carrying two more arrangements of white daisies.

“Okay, that’s all of them,” he says, refusing to make eye contact.

“I signed for the delivery.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiles nervously. “Do you need help bringing them inside?”

I open the door before turning to take the flowers from him. “I’ve got it, but thank you.”

“Have a good day,” he says and hurries away.

It takes three trips before the flowers are all positioned on the kitchen counter. When I deposit the last bouquet, I notice a small envelope. It’s not my mother’s name written on the outside; it’s mine.

I pluck the card from its plastic holder and open it.

TESSA,

JUST BECAUSE.

DANTE.

My jaw drops in shock.

In all the years Trevor and I were together, not once did he send me daisies. Instead, he sent long-stemmed red roses. Expensive. Beautiful. And way over the top.

It’s true; I’ve coordinated some of the biggest social events in Chicago. I might have run in those same societal circles, but underneath it all, I’m still the simple girl from South Carolina who will take white daises and peach chardonnay over red roses and Dom Perignon any day.

So, how did my brother-in-law pick up on the minute details that eluded my husband?

I head upstairs to retrieve my phone. I stare at it for a long time before I type out the first text I’ve sent to Dante in days.