BY THE TIME I WAKE UP, shower, and make my way to the kitchen, the counters are loaded with raw chicken, fresh ears of corn, sweet potatoes, flour, and all the things that will make this day incredibly fattening and lots of fun. My boyfriend, the rock star, is peeling potatoes . . . and not very well. I better take that knife from him before he never plays piano again.
“Let me get that, baby.” I reach for the knife, but he holds on.
“I got it.” He leans up for a quick kiss before returning to the pitiful pile of stumps that used to be potatoes.
Aunt Ruthie levels a wide-eyed stare over his head, begging me to get him out of her kitchen.
“Um, Rhyson, maybe we should go check on things downstairs at Glory Bee,” I say. “See if we can find a way to stay out of sight, but still help down there.”
The awkward silence following my statement swells in the small kitchen.
“What?” My eyes flick from Rhyson to Aunt Ruthie. “Something wrong at the diner?”
“Well, we’re taking the week off.” Aunt Ruthie wipes her hands on the apron I gave her one Christmas.
“The week off?” My jaw drops. “Glory Bee has never been closed for a week.”
“Exactly.” Rhyson frowns at a particularly stubborn section of peel. “Aunt Ruthie’s past due for a vacation.”
“And if we close the diner while you’re here, easier to keep your visit off the radar.” Aunt Ruthie goes to the sink to rinse a few chicken thighs.
“Can you afford that, Aunt Ruthie?” I can’t keep the concern out of my voice. If my presence here costs her something, I may need to find somewhere else to recuperate. I don’t miss the quick look Rhyson and Aunt Ruthie exchange. A conspiracy if I ever saw one.
“Or maybe I should ask Rhys if he can afford it?” Hand on hip, I tilt my head and give him a meaningful look. Letting him know the jig’s up. “What did you do, Rhys?”
He sets the knife and potato aside, standing up to wrap his arms at the elbows around my hips.
“What I always do.” He kisses my eyes and then my nose. “Whatever it takes.”
“What did you do, baby?” I repeat, but this time brushing the wild spill of hair back from his face.
“He asked me what it would take to close Glory Bee down for the week,” Aunt Ruthie answers for him. “And he’s covering our losses.”
I glance over my shoulder at Aunt Ruthie, rinsing a big bucket of black-eyed peas, wearing her “no shame in my game” face.
“Unlike you,” she says with a grin. “I have no trouble taking money from your rich boyfriend.”
Rhyson’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly, but I don’t miss the satisfaction in his eyes. Still, his shoulders tense under my hands while he waits for my response. I know I’m stubborn and sometimes unreasonable, but this was sweet for Aunt Ruthie. And she really hasn’t had many breaks since Mama passed. And none before.
“Thank you,” I whisper, tipping up to kiss his chin.
For a moment, he’s not sure what to say. He studies me an extra second before kissing behind my ear.
“Any time. Every time.”
“It’s a good thing, too,” Aunt Ruthie says. “Already had a few reporters nosing around.”
“What?” All softness drops from Rhyson’s expression. “You didn’t tell me that. I can get security here today.”
“No need for that. We threw ‘em off the scent.” Aunt Ruthie shakes her head and scrunches her nose. “Closing the diner and keeping a low profile with just a few folks we know we can trust should be fine.”
“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “Everyone coming today will be a friend who won’t say anything. We’ll be in the backyard. It’ll be fun. We’ll show you all the wonderful things the country has to offer.”
He tightens his arms around me, a smile softening his lips.
“I already got the best thing this place has to offer.”
There are some days that bundle all your favorite things into a series of moments you’d live over and over again if you could. Today is one of those days. I’m surrounded by people I’d forgotten were my favorites, people I can tell aren’t sure what to make of me now, but are trying to act normal. Trying to reconcile the little girl who sang in the choir and volunteered at the homeless shelter every Christmas Eve with the woman who’s been on tour and in the spotlight. Whose well-documented relationship is speculated about on every blog and entertainment report Whose rock star lover sits right beside her at the picnic table behind our little house, and can’ t keep his hands to himself.
It’s subtle. Maybe. Probably not, but Rhyson doesn’t seem to care, reveling in the chance to be open with his affection. Arm around my shoulder and kissing my hair while we watch the kids play kickball. Showing off for me and yelling “Did you see that?” across the yard when he beats Mr. McClausky at horseshoes. Weaving our fingers together on the table while he talks football with a few of the guys. This is Georgia, where college football is a religion, and the SEC its mightiest denomination. The men’s fervor about it breeds humor in Rhyson’s eyes and around his mouth, and the more they forget he’s famous, the more he relaxes, seeming as at ease in a group of strangers as I’ve ever seen him.
“Now what’s so great about this chicken in the pot?” He holds a golden crispy drumstick poised at his mouth.
“Oh, just taste and you’ll see.” I lick my lips, eyeing the food piled high on my plate. Yams, corn pudding, black-eyed peas, potato salad, and the centerpiece, my favorite chicken fried in a big old grease-filled black cast iron pot.
To call his first bite rapturous would not be an exaggeration. I’ve seen Rhyson in orgasm, and I’m a little insulted that his response to a drumstick doesn’t look much different.
“That,” he says, pointing to the chicken he holds in a death grip. “Is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Good, huh?” I bite into the huge, crispy breast Aunt Ruthie set aside for me.
“Good is a paltry word for it.” He digs in, groaning over every morsel until his plate is nearly clean.
“Kai, will you cook chicken in the pot for me when we get back to LA?”
“What?” I laugh and scrape the last vestiges of corn pudding from my plate. “Set up a big ol’ black pot by your fancy swimming pool?”
“Why not?” He grins, reaching for his third piece of chicken. “Grip would love this.”
“How’s his project going?”
“Okay.” Rhyson shrugs, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin. “I’m supposed to be executive producing it, so I’ll have to get back to LA soon.”
I’m determined not to let my disappointment show. I shred a roll into tiny pieces on my plate, eyes glued to the remnants of my meal.
“Hey.” Rhyson cups my chin, gently tilting until our eyes connect. “Not for a few days.”
“It’s fine. I don’t want you missing commitments because of me.”
“You’re my only commitment today,” he whispers across my lips. I should be self-conscious about the eyes on us, but I can’t make myself care. We haven’t been all extreme PDA, but no one could miss that we’re together. Between the sex tape and the fallout from the public fight we had, discretion has become such a habit for me. I pull back a little, hating the heat in my cheeks under his knowing look and grin.
The day is waning into late afternoon by the time we’re all done. Stacks of Tupperware fill the small refrigerator in our kitchen once everyone has gone, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m feeling every moment of this perfect day in my aching arms and legs. In my bones.
“I don’t need you to tuck me in.” I still can’t fight back a yawn when Rhyson pulls the cover up and bends to kiss my forehead. “But you could lie down with me.”
“You’ll go to sleep quicker without my erection poking you in the back.” He laughs at the face I make. “You know it’s true and I can’t help it.”
“Rhys, you could—”
“Go to sleep, Pep.” The smile falls from his face. “I’m afraid you overdid it today. Your meds will kick in soon, and you could use a nap.”
“Okay, but don’t let me sleep too long. There’s still some day left.”
My eyelids flutter and fall. I’ll never use the word “exhaustion” carelessly again because I’ve never felt this bone-deep level of fatigue, punctuated by moments when you literally cannot fight sleep. It overtakes you. And just as I’m about to try one more time to persuade Rhyson he should lie down with me, I’m pulled under.
An hour, two—I’m not sure how much later, I wake up with the saltiness of tears on my lips. It’s been a long time since I dreamt of my father, but he was in that dark well of fatigue I fell face first into. I don’t remember all the details, but his face was clear. The day I sat in his lap, and he told me about the deepest of loves was so clear I could feel him tugging my pigtails and see my lavender tutu puffing around my little eight-year-old legs. Feel the bite of my new ballet slippers. I loved him so much, and that was the last time he held me. Why his betrayal and abandonment should still make me cry in my sleep after fifteen years, I can’t understand.
I pull the sheet up to my face, wipe away the tears and toss my legs over the side of my bed, glad to find them less weak. The nap did me good, and maybe this surge of energy I feel is a mirage, but I’m pursuing it until it fades. I need to do something, and I know exactly where I want to do it.
“I’m going out to the work shed,” I tell Rhyson and Aunt Ruthie, both huddled on the couch watching television. Rhyson never watches television unless I make him, so I’m curious to see what has him looking so enthralled.
“We’ll be fine,” he says, eyes barely leaving the screen to flick to me and then back again.
“It’s awfully dusty out there, Kai.” Aunt Ruthie’s eyes remain fixed on the television, too, her words and attention absent. “Be careful. We’re just catching up on the shows I recorded.”
“What is this?” I step closer to the screen. “The Young and the Restless”? Are you kidding me, Rhys?”
“This stuff’s fantastic,” he says with a completely straight face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Um, because I haven’t watched soaps since high school?” I laugh and shake my head, dropping a quick kiss on the beautiful mess of his hair. “I’ll be out back if you manage to pull yourself away.”
“Uh huh.” Eyes back on the screen. This is so much fuel for me to tease him about later, I just let it go.
It’s going to rain. Crossing the backyard, the rain sends its scent ahead of the storm, and the air is heavy with it, caressing my face like warm velvet. The sun is setting, painting the horizon with one last explosion of color, the last vibrant glimpse of daylight.
Mama’s wind chimes still hang over the work shed door, and the slight breeze stirs them to sing a prelude for the storm. The door falls open, squeaking under my hand. Out of habit I thought I’d forgotten, my hand reaches blindly to the wall on my left, finding the light switch that doesn’t even have a faceplate anymore. The stale, unstirred air confirms that no one’s been here for a long time. I think everyone knew how special this place was to Mama, what a solace it proved to be, and after she was gone, just let it be.
The small mattress in the corner reminds me that I was her exception, the only one who ever joined her. Some days after school and dance practice and dinner and dishes, I’d come out here to watch her make things while I did my homework. The memory is so clear I almost see the younger version of myself, back pressed to the wall, legs crossed on the thin mattress, Trapper Keeper balanced in my lap, number two pencil in hand, one long braid hanging over my shoulder. We didn’t even talk much. She knew I needed to get my work done, and I suppose I knew she needed the quiet to think. I rarely asked her about what.
The scents of Mama’s hobbies collide, fragrant and varied, trapped in the unstirred air of this room all these months. I venture over to the shelves, still neatly lined with Ball jars, vivid with the colors of her fruits and vegetables. I kick off my shoes like this is holy ground and pick up a jar of her strawberry preserves. I was in the eighth grade when she won the blue ribbon for her preserves at the county fair. I was ten when she started making soap, selling it at the diner to make extra money to cover my ballet class.
Were these just hobbies? Things on the side to make extra money? Rituals that kept something sweet or fresh always on our table? There was a sadness that hung around Mama when she was out here that she rarely showed beyond that door. I don’t know if it was a privilege or a burden that I saw it when I was here, diagramming sentences and learning about the Civil War.
Did she come in here to ponder what my father took from her? What she’d lost? Mama always sacrificed for my improbable dreams. Not many actually make it the way I have, the way I am, but Mama always believed I would be a star. Her dreams, in comparison, were so modest. Be a good wife and mother. Make a home. Have a happy marriage. The irony of my dreams, so farfetched coming true, and her simple hopes being crushed doesn’t escape me.
I pull down a jar of pear preserves. Strawberry won the ribbon, but pear was always my favorite. The Ball jar top untwists easily under my fist, the little lid popping back to free the scent of pears. I dip one finger into the sticky mixture, tasting the nostalgia of early mornings, biscuits smeared with preserves. Maybe it’s been so long, or maybe this was a bad batch, but it leaves something slightly bitter on my tongue. Was it always there? Did I never notice? Did Mama stuff the isolation, the unhealed pain, the unrelenting loneliness into these Ball jars so that she could smile for the world beyond this shed? Is this where all her hurt went? Was I too young and self-absorbed to detect it before?
The wind chimes tinkle and the door opens, bringing no light now that the sun has set. I don’t know how long I’ve been out here, but the frown on Rhyson’s face tells me it may have been too long.
“You okay out here, Pep?” He leans a shoulder into the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m fine.”
I prop a hip against the worktable, watching his confident stride toward me. What must it be like to be Rhyson? So sure. So strong. I can’t take my eyes off him, and he’s not even trying to seduce me. As soon as he’s close enough, I’m reaching for him, my arms slipping around his waist, my head dropping to his chest.
“You finished your soap operas, I presume?”
“You do not get to tease me about that.” A chuckle vibrates in his chest, rumbling against my cheek through his t-shirt. “Aunt Ruthie and I were bonding.”
“Over soap operas?” I lean back, smiling at my beautiful man.
“Whatever it takes.” He reaches down to drop a kiss on my lips, the smile fading. “Bristol just called.”
My smile fades, too. Work. LA. Real life. Scandal. Secrets. Crack the door and it all floods in.
“And?” The question lands on his chest since I won’t lift my head to look at him.
“I promised Kilimanjaro I’d meet with them face to face when they came to LA to talk about a deal with Prodigy.” He cups my neck, caressing the skin under my hair. “They arrive tomorrow and leave the next day.”
“Of course you should go.” It’s so stupid to have tears in my eyes. I blink several times until they dry up, coughing a little to cover the tremble in my voice.
“You’re coughing.” His hand slips to the small of my back. “Should you be out here at night?”
“Rhys, I’m fine. I just coughed. I . . . it’s okay.” I run my thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip. “I’m fine. I want you to go back to LA. Kilimanjaro will be great on Prodigy, and I don’t want you to lose them.”
“I’ll be back in a couple days.”
“You don’t have to.” I lower my eyes to my toes, feet bare on the little rope rug Mama placed at the work table.
“I had a surprise getaway booked for us after the tour.” He smiles at the shocked expression I know is all over my face. “Yep, but those plans were foiled.”
“No one says foiled,” I say absently, still processing the vacation I missed. “Where were we going?”
“I still have it tucked away, so I’m not telling you. I’ll surprise you with it when you least expect it. Just you and me.”
He leans down to brush his lips over mine. When he would pull back, I grip his neck, deepening the kiss, my tongue insisting, searching his mouth. The thought of losing him for even just a few days after so long without him squishes my heart in my chest. I fist his thick hair, my hands wandering down to squeeze his ass.
“Okay, Pep.” His breath comes heavy, and he inserts a bit of space between us, but his cock bridges the short distance to poke my stomach. “Maybe we should get back to the house.”
“Why?” My husky question hovers between us, our eyes locked, my desire as palpable as a touch. I haven’t had him in over a month, and I know he thinks we shouldn’t here at Aunt Ruthie’s, but we should. I lift the t-shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. Rhyson’s eyes fix on my simple black bra, on my nipples poking against the silk, turgid and begging for his lips and tongue.
“Pep, I think—”
“Technically, out here we aren’t under Aunt Ruthie’s roof.”
I slip one strap off my shoulder and then the other, undoing the hook at my back so it falls away, exposing my breasts to the air.
“Fuck, Pep.” His words shake in the stillness.
“Make love to me, Rhys.”
“You’re exhausted. You’re just getting over pneumonia.” He swallows, his eyes ignoring the excuses and crawling over my breasts. “You . . .”
His words trail off as I unsnap my jeans, urging them over my hips and down my legs until only my black lace panties remain.
“I won’t break.” I grin up at him, feeling a little wicked on the cusp of screwing my boyfriend in the room where I did my high school homework. “But you can try.”
I dip one finger into the jar of preserves, scooping up the thick juice. I reach up to paint his lips with it. Before he can lick it off, I tilt up on my toes, lashing away the sweetness with my tongue, rubbing my bare nipples into his chest. He groans, hands spanning my back to draw me closer. The hunger, delayed and put off by the tour and by my sickness, roars to the surface of our kiss. His palms skid over the small of my back and into my panties to cup my butt, skin to skin. Pear-sweet words fall from his lips to mine.
“Aunt Ruthie—”
“Isn’t thinking about us when her soaps are on.” I grip his dick through his jeans.
“Shit, Pep.” He drops his head until our temples rest against each other. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” I unsnap his jeans, slipping my hands into his briefs to touch him, cupping his balls and pulling on him. My knees almost buckle at the warm, silky strength in my hands. “I need you.”
I need him pushing between my legs, rushing hot and liquid inside of me. I need his lips closing around me, sucking, licking, biting, tasting me like I’m as sweet as these preserves. Mostly I need him to chase away the half-sad memory of my mama in this shed. To kiss away the bitterness of her loneliness. The last traces of uncertainty remain on his face, and I’m determined to wipe them away.
I dip my fingers into the preserves jar again, eyes tangled with his as I smear the gooey thickness over my nipples. Rhyson’s eyes, mist grey, go dark and hot, prickling my skin with heat.
“That’s just not fair,” he breathes, hoisting me by my waist up onto the wooden table.
His head lowers, lips closing over my breast until it disappears in his mouth, worshipping each nipple and lingering to suckle and bite. I grip the edge of the table behind me, want splintering right down my middle and spreading my thighs, a blatant invitation for him to take what unequivocally belongs to him. He presses his eyes tightly closed, one hand at my back, pushing my breasts up and into his mouth. I’m licked clean of the preserves, but he can’t stop. I see it all over his face, hear it in the compulsive suckle, feel it in the rough tug of his lips over my breast. He moans like it hurts, but I see such deep pleasure on his face it pounds my heart and snatches my breath.
“The mattress.” The words labor past my lips, barely making it. “Let’s go to the mattress.”
Rhyson looks up for just a moment, his dark eyes wandering to the wall where the mattress waits. He walks us there, my legs clenched around his waist.
“Aunt Ruthie’s quilts are on the top shelf.” I nibble at his bottom lip.
He sets me on my feet to grab a quilt, which I spread the over the mattress, feeling his eyes burning over my body in just my tiny panties. He swallows, his voice coming out rough in the quiet room.
“Are you sure, Pep? Just a few days ago you needed help to the bathroom. If I hurt you—”
“You won’t. I’m fine.” I grab his hand and squeeze so he feels my need. “I want you, Rhys. It’s been so long.”
“Damn right it has, but I can wait.” His eyes search my face, looking for any sign that I’m not well, not ready. “If I need to, I can wait.”
“But I can’t.” I lie down on the mattress, diving my fingers into my panties, emboldened by the desire he keeps trying to dam back. “I can’t wait, Rhys.”
I rub myself, my breath catching at the first touch. Rhyson’s eyes fix on my fingers, back and forthing under the silk. I’m hot and wet and slick and swollen, every fire-tipped stroke tantalizing my heart right out of my chest. It’s so good. So much better with him watching, but it’s not him. Not his touch.
He drops down to join me. With his eyes fixed on my fingers, I take his hand, slowly pushing it beneath the black lace, inviting him to join me. He swears so softly it barely reaches my ears, but he meshes our fingers, the rough calluses on his fingertips a sweet abrasion over my clit.
I haven’t been with many men, and I’ve never been this bold with anyone else. I may still hold onto a few secrets, things I’m not ready for Rhyson to know, but there are no secrets between our bodies. He knows every spot that sets me on fire. He knows that when he starts with one finger, it makes me gasp. That when he adds another, I have to bite my lip to stifle a scream. When he strokes me with his thumb and thrusts with his fingers, it’s not long before I . . .
“Ahhh!” My back curves, heels digging into the mattress, the first orgasm stretching me taut as a wire. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Rhyson.”
“I could watch you come all day, Pep.” He says it against my neck, scattering kisses over my shoulders, sucking my nipples, instigating another wave that takes me under, gasping, drowning, dying a little every time. Then resurfacing, coming back to life.
“Gimme your hand,” he says. I offer him the hand that’s clenched around a fistful of mattress. “The other hand.”
His eyes slide down my body to where my hand lies just beyond my black panties, fingers still wet and shiny. Watching me watching him, he takes my fingers into his mouth, rolling his tongue over them until they’re licked clean. He slides down my body, pushing my knee, gripping the back of my thigh and dipping his head between my legs, mouthing me through the panties before he coaxes them aside and then down and then off. Every lash of his tongue pushes me over that precipice again. My hands are buried past the knuckle in his thick hair. My legs flop open, a silent plea for him to take as much as he wants. And though it’s so good my eyes roll back in my head, none of it is enough. None of it satisfies that longing at the very bottom of me that cries out to be filled.
“I need you, Rhys.” Through barely open eyes I watch him. “You, baby.”
I taste myself in his kiss before he turns me onto my side, nudging my knee up just a little bit. He’s hot and hard behind me, an urgent press, but so gentle, so careful with me, guiding my thigh with his, angling me to his satisfaction before pushing in, a slow, sure thrust. The moment he fills me, my face twists with the pleasure of it. He grips my hip with one hand, the other reaching around, tilting my head up for a kiss. His hand wanders from my hip to my breast, thieving my breath. The whoosh of air from my mouth breaks our kiss. I turn my head into the pillow as he pumps into me from behind, a silent scream wrenched from me.
“Don’t stop. Rhys, baby, don’t stop,” I pant into the pillow.
“What is this?” he breathes into my neck. “It’s never been like this with anyone, Pep. I promise you that. Never.”
“I know.” I bite my lip to keep from crying out, even though we’re alone out here. “I know.”
“I need to see you.” He flips me onto my back and plunges back in, almost too much, but my body stretches around him, eager and pliant. “Let me see you.”
He doesn’t just mean to look into his eyes when I come for him. Whatever this is, it shoves aside even our base desires, ignoring our limited understanding of intimacy and closeness. Winnowing down deeper and deeper until it hits bottom. Until it crash lands in our souls, and I can’t even take it. My soul is flayed open, like he’s peeled back every layer and laid me out. I know Rhyson feels it, too, his pace becoming more urgent. He rolls into me like thunder, pushing impossibly deeper until he hits that spot and my last reasonable thought flees my body. We are mindless together, a frenetic madness possessing our bodies, our cries mingling in the sweet-scented air until we both shake and tremble and clutch.
Every emotion coalesces into this joining, and I can’t help it. I weep into his neck. Tears flowing, not just for everything this is to us, but for my mother who never had it. I know she didn’t. She couldn’t have. If my parents had this, my father never could have walked away. And mingled on my lips with the taste of our kisses, is the bittersweetness of everything trapped in mama’s jars.