Reese
The Duquesne Incline was a historic staple in Pittsburgh.
When we were younger, our parents used to bring all of us kids out to ride the old rickety cable car up Mt. Washington to the historic outlook over the city. It had been so magical as a kid, all of our faces pressed against the glass as we rode up, the pizza we’d stuff our faces with once we got to the top. But tonight, as Charlie and I rode the eleven o’clock cable car up to the top, it was beyond magical.
It was surreal.
I watched her profile as her eyes skated the lights in the distance, the car creaking and groaning as it pushed us up the incline, and she was no longer the little girl I’d known. Her long, dark hair was still down, curtained around her small, pale face. Her eyes were heavy and tired, from the alcohol and from something else I wished I could reach inside her and pull out to inspect, to fix.
The guilt I’d once felt for looking at her that way because she was too young had faded, but it was replaced by the fact that she was a married woman. I had to keep repeating it to myself, had to have those thoughts on replay so I wouldn’t forget. Because looking at her this way, in this light, in the cold — it was easy to forget.
“I haven’t done this in years,” Charlie confessed when we reached the top of the incline. We climbed out of the car, skipping the little museum at the top and opting for the scenic overlook that was just outside the old building, instead. She slid her arms over the railing, her dainty wrists hanging over the edge as her eyes swept the view. “In a decade, actually. Gosh, I feel old saying that.”
I chuckled, twisting the top off the hot spiced cider I’d whipped up at my place while Charlie waited in the car. “You’re not old,” I said.
“I feel like it sometimes.” Her voice was soft, almost like the song of a bird. “I feel tired.”
“I think we all do.”
I passed her the lid of the Thermos, filled with cider, and took my own sip straight from the bottle. It was hard to take my eyes off her in that moment, to not stare at the flush of her cheeks, at her dark eyes, wider and brighter now that we were looking out over the city. Those eyes stayed on mine for a moment before she turned back to watch the spot where the two rivers met at The Point.
A shiver wracked through her, and I shrugged off my coat, draping it over her shoulders.
“Are you nuts?” she scolded, but she pulled the coat around her tighter. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll live.”
She smiled, a lazy, drunken smile that curled softly on her lips like the tips of a warm flame. “Thank you,” she said, nudging her shoulder into my rib. “Always such a gentleman, even when you were a rule-breaking piano prodigy.”
I always waved her off when she referred to me that way, but inside, I beamed. There weren’t many people in my life I’d ever really wanted to impress, but Charlie was one of them, along with my father. I still remembered the first time he heard my audition for Juilliard, and he told me that even though I was a little shit, he was proud of me. Those were his exact words.
I missed him.
For a long while, Charlie and I just stood there, both of us leaning over the railing and pointing out different things here and there as we drank the cider. We found the stadium where the Steelers played, and the field belonging to the Pirates — those were both easy staples to spot. We joked about our parents and their long nights at the country club we spotted off in the distance, or how we used to play in the water down at The Point. We told ghost stories about the old historic buildings downtown, and even tried to point out our old houses, which was mostly from memory of our parents pointing them out as kids. We couldn’t actually see them, but we could imagine them, the two yards touching, two families sewn together by proximity and later by love.
Every now and then, a sadness would sweep over every inch of her, from her tired eyes to her small hands cupped around the mug of cider. And though I knew Cameron was the one responsible for that sadness, I couldn’t deny that I was happy he’d been too busy for their date.
If it meant I got to have this night with her, I’d wish for him to screw up time and time again.
“He is my favorite,” Charlie spoke after a long period of silence.
She took a tentative sip of her cider, her eyes focused on the lights below us, and I frowned, wondering if she’d read my mind about Cameron. But her next words steered the conversation in a completely different direction.
“The little boy you saw me with earlier this week,” she clarified. “Jeremiah.”
I opened my mouth to ask a question, to ask why he’s her favorite, but something told me she already knew what she wanted to say. So I just stood beside her, our arms touching, and I kept my eyes off in the distance to give her space to feel out her words.
“I had a son,” she said, her voice cracking.
It was the last thing I expected her to say, and the words hit me like a shot gun bullet, piercing me at different depths. It was the first time she’d mentioned her son, and I knew she hadn’t brought him to dinner with her parents. There was no way Gloria would ever miss out on the opportunity to see her grandson.
My stomach churned, already sensing the direction the conversation was going.
Had. Past tense.
“Actually, I had two. Twins.” In my peripheral, I saw her smile, her pink lips turned up in a sad kind of joy. “We’d been so happy to find out we were having two. It was the best eight months of my life, being pregnant with them. But Derrick, he was stillborn.”
A pained breath escaped my nose, and I closed my eyes tight, wishing I’d heard something else out of those sweet lips of hers. I put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into me, just letting her know I was there, but she wasn’t finished yet.
“The other, though,” she said, her voice shaky, and I didn’t have to pull back and look at her to know there were tears in her eyes. “He was a fighter. I held him for less than a minute before he was rushed off to the NICU, where he lived for the next nine days.” She shook her head. “The only nine days of his life.”
“Charlie, God, I am so sorry,” I whispered, tucking her closer to me. I wrapped my other arm around her as her head fell against my chest, and I was thankful I’d abandoned the empty Thermos on the ground. I had both hands to hold her, to embrace her, to stroke her hair and rub her back. “That’s… I don’t even have the words. It’s heartbreaking.”
“It was,” she choked. “They would have been five this year, starting kindergarten, probably in my class. Derrick, he would have been the oldest, even if just by a few minutes, and I imagine he would have had the same strong build as his father. But Jeremiah,” she said, and my heart cracked with the realization.
He had the same name as the child in her class, and he would have been the same age.
“I think he would have favored me. Just from those forty-eight seconds of holding him, of feeling him against me, I think he would have been the small, timid bookworm like his mom.”
“Shit, Charlie…”
“When Jeremiah — the one you saw me with — when he walked into the classroom on the first day of school this past August, my breath caught at the sight of him. I can’t explain it, but before I even knew his name, I just felt this pull to him. And then when I called roll…” She paused, shaking her head where it was buried in my chest. “Oh Reese, my knees buckled. They nearly gave out. It was like my own son was there, in some way, not completely, but in a way that told me he’s still with me somehow. In my heart, in spirit. I don’t know. It sounds silly.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It feels silly,” she confessed. “But, I’ve had this connection with him ever since. And he’s just like I imagined my little Jeremiah would have been. Quiet, shy, but so, so smart. And kind. His heart is as big as the world, and I know when he’s older, he will do amazing things. I just know it.”
I didn’t have any of the right words that I needed to comfort Charlie in that moment. I didn’t even have words for myself, to ease the ache that had built heavier in my chest with every word she’d spoken. All this time, I thought I’d seen a woman who used to be a girl, broken by a marriage that didn’t make her happy.
How wrong I’d been.
How devastatingly naïve and stupid I’d been.
“Sometimes, I have entire days go by where I don’t think of either of them,” she said softly. “On a weekend day, a Saturday or a Sunday, when I play in my garden or clean around the house or lose myself in a new recipe. And then when I think of them again, I feel terrible for ever forgetting, even if just for twenty-four hours.”
“It’s okay to keep living,” I assured her, still rubbing her back with a warm, hopefully comforting hand. “You know they would have wanted you to. They’d want you to be happy.”
“I know,” she said, but she shook her head. “It’s easier to say that, though, than to actually believe it. To actually do it.”
Charlie let me hold her, both of us silent, both of us moved in our own ways.
I wanted to crawl inside her and hold the most tender parts of her. I wanted to wrap her heart in my arms, soothe her bruised and aching soul with my touch. But, then again, hadn’t her husband wanted to do the same? How had he handled all of this? Was this the reason they were so distant, that she was so sad, or was it something more?
After a moment, Charlie breathed a long, heavy sigh into my chest. “I still have stretch marks from them, you know,” she whispered. “Marks from a birth that barely happened, from children I never got to raise.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight, fighting back the emotion threatening to overcome me in that moment, at those words. Then, I placed my hands around her thin arms, pulling her back from me to look into her eyes.
“Show me.”
Her eyes were wet and wide with confusion as she looked up at me, the lights from Pittsburgh shining in their gloss. “What?”
“Your stretch marks. Show me.”
Charlie’s brows bent together, her hands hesitant as they moved to her stomach. She opened my coat she wore first, then unbuttoned her own beneath it. Her hands finally found her thin blouse and she yanked it from where it was tucked into her jeans, lifting it along with the tank top she wore underneath.
Chills broke against the pale skin of her bare midriff, and I dropped to my knees, leaning in closer to find the shiny pink marks that ran across that white skin like tiny roads on a map. I pulled one glove off, reaching forward with warm fingertips that made her shudder when I pressed them against those marks. My fingers skated the lines, the thick bottoms of them that faded off into thin tips. A tear fell from where Charlie watched above me, hitting my wrist, and I cast my gaze upward to find hers.
“Charlie, they’re beautiful.”
And then, she broke.
Charlie’s face warped, emotion taking over her, and she collapsed into me. Her arms wrapped around my head, pulling me into her bare stomach, and I wrapped my own around her, too. I caught her as her knees gave out, as tears ripped through her. Her tiny shoulders shook and small cries left her lips in sounds I knew would haunt me forever.
My little tadpole, no longer innocent, no longer untouched by the cruelty of life.
I waited until her sobs had subsided, all the while holding her tighter and tighter, letting her know I was there to bear the weight she could no longer hold. Then, when she was quiet, I stood, lifting her chin with me so her eyes would find mine.
“You are an amazing mother already, Charlie, and I know you will make your future children happier than you can even imagine now.”
Her face warped again, but she fought against it, nodding into my hand that had found her cheek.
“And you are the best teacher I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You are touching lives daily, Jeremiah’s included. Those marks on your stomach, while they are forever a part of you, they do not define you. They are not a sign of your weakness or of your failure.” I smiled then, rubbing the pad of my thumb along her cheek. “They are a reminder of your strength, of your love, and of the miracle of life.”
Charlie choked out a laugh, and a smile broke on her face, her eyes still glistening in the soft light of the city. She nodded, and then without even a second of hesitation, she pressed a kiss into my palm.
At that, both of our smiles fell.
She watched me, her eyes flicking between mine before they fell to my lips, and damn if that didn’t send a jolt of electricity right between my legs. I stepped into her, thumb still brushing her cheek, her jaw, and when she lifted her eyes to mine again, a new kind of presence fell over us.
“Why didn’t you kiss me that night?” she asked, her voice a broken whisper.
I swallowed, my free hand coming to her waist, pulling her into me. Charlie lifted onto her toes, and my fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, capturing her fallen hair between our skin. If we had lit a match in that moment, the entire Duquesne Incline would have gone up in flames, along with every shred of morality we both tried so desperately to hold onto.
“You were sixteen, Charlie. I was leaving.”
“So, then, why would it have mattered? Why not just kiss me?”
She was so small in my hands, but so largely present in every other part of me. She always had been.
“For the same reason you don’t hold your hand in a fire just because it’s warm,” I answered. “Because it burns.”
Her eyes were still on my lips, as if she were watching each word I said leave them in finely written script. Charlie’s chest hit my ribs as she stepped farther into me, and I bent to meet her forehead with mine. We both took a breath, long and deep, inhaled in a moment of torture and longing, and then Charlie let it go with the sigh of reality.
“I can’t drive,” she said, her fists tightening in my sweater. “Can you… will you take me home?”
She pulled back then, and I let her go, squeezing my eyes shut tight until I knew she could see them again.
“Of course, Tadpole. Whatever you need.”
On the way back down the Incline, Charlie’s eyes watched the city again, and just like before, mine watched her.
But it was a completely new woman I saw this time.
A beautiful, strong, broken shell of a woman.
A beautiful, strong, broken shell of a woman whom I wanted so desperately to save.
Charlie
My eyes were puffy and tired as I dragged myself up my driveway, tossing a wave back at Reese. He waited until I unlocked my front door and slipped inside before he pulled away, and I sighed, tossing my keys into the dish by the door and shrugging off my coat.
For a moment I just stood there, my back to the front door, eyes closed and head cast upward. I didn’t know if I was sending up a prayer of thanks or one asking for forgiveness. Maybe both. The evening’s events blurred behind my vision, and I couldn’t make sense of anything — least of all the fact that I’d asked Reese why he hadn’t kissed me fourteen years ago.
The entire house was dark, save for the kitchen light, which was just enough to light my way as I kicked off my boots and padded in to make a cup of hot tea. I needed to sober up a little before bed, and my throat was raw from telling Reese about the boys.
I still couldn’t believe I’d told him at all.
The way he’d listened, the way he’d held me as I broke completely in his arms, it was enough to move me to tears again as I put the tea kettle on the stove. Once the water was heating, I leaned against the kitchen counter beside it, pinching the bridge of my nose with a sigh.
How long had I wanted Cameron to hold me that way, to fall to his knees and kiss the scars left by our children? How long had I silently begged him to talk about it, to acknowledge it, to let me know it was real? With Cameron, it was as if those months, that day, those roughly two-hundred-and-sixteen hours, as if none of it had happened at all. He was able to pack away the nursery — out of sight, out of mind — while I lived with the scars they left behind.
For Cameron, there was before, a big blank, empty space, and then after. But we never talked about the catalyst that propelled us from the first to the latter.
Still, I felt guilty for finding comfort in another man, in another person, period. It felt weak and inexcusable that I’d done so. I wanted to blame it on the alcohol, on the nostalgia of being back on the Incline, but I wasn’t sure I truthfully could.
Had I been aware of Reese ever since he’d come back into town? Had I secretly wondered what it would be like if he had never left at all?
It was impossible to say, and it only made my head hurt more as I stood in my kitchen, wishing for answers that wouldn’t come.
“Fun night?”
Cameron’s deep voice startled me, and I jumped, pressing a cold hand to my chest before I let out a relieved sigh at the sight of him.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
“I wasn’t going to sleep before you got home, Charlie. I’m your husband.”
His tone set me on edge, my defenses rising of their own accord as I stood to pull out the jar of tea packets. I filtered through them, not meeting his gaze. “You say that like you think I’ve forgotten.”
“It’s late.”
I glanced up at the time on the microwave as the tea pot began to scream. I moved it gently off to the side, clicking off the burner and ripping open the packet of tea I’d chosen. “It’s only one.”
“Thirty. It’s one-thirty, and you didn’t think to call your husband or even send a text to let him know you were okay?”
“Did you call or text?” I threw back at him, turning long enough to watch his face as I said the words.
His jaw tightened, and I noticed how tired his eyes were, how his hair had been mussed like his hands hadn’t left it all night. His beard was growing in again, dark stubble now that he would tame as it grew longer.
“That’s right,” I said. “You didn’t. And I’m home now, so what does it matter, anyway? You had to work, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Don’t pull the work card.”
“Why not? It’s your favorite one to pull.”
Cameron’s head snapped back as if I’d slapped him, and I couldn’t find it in me to apologize as I turned back to the stove. I couldn’t believe I’d said it either, but at the same time, I was glad it was finally out. I never wanted to push Cameron, never wanted to fight with him or make him feel bad for working so hard to provide for us.
But I needed him. I’d needed him for five years now, and it was like he didn’t have a single clue.
I filled one mug with the steaming water, dropping a bag of chamomile into it and noting the steep time.
“Want some?” I asked over my shoulder.
Cameron didn’t answer, so I shut the cabinet that housed our mugs and dunked the tea bag as the silence stretched between us.
“Where have you been?” he asked after a moment. He still stood in the opening where the kitchen met our dining area, his arms crossed over his chest, checkered sleep pants hanging on his hips.
“Happy hour. I told you that.”
“You stayed at a bar until one in the morning.” It was a statement — one he didn’t seem to believe.
“I did.” The lie came so easily from my lips, I almost shocked myself. But the alcohol had softened me, or maybe hardened me. I just didn’t care anymore. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Cameron watched me in that moment like he didn’t know who I was at all. “And how did you get home if you had been drinking that long?”
I swallowed, turning back to the stove to pull the bag from my tea and lifting it to my lips. I blew on the hot liquid, the steam warming my cold nose. “Reese drove me.”
“Reese,” he repeated, tone flat.
I nodded. “Yes, you remember him, right? From dinner at my parents’?”
“I know who he is, yes. Was he sober?”
I shrugged. “Sober enough.”
Cameron smacked his hand against the wall, snapping my attention back to him. “Damn it, Charlie. Stop being nonchalant about this. It’s almost two in the morning and you don’t seem the least bit apologetic about the fact that I’ve been worrying about you all night. And then you tell me that Reese drove you home, and not even completely sober?” He shook his head. “I told you to call me if you needed a ride.”
“You were working,” I reminded him, abandoning my steaming tea on the counter as the anger and defensiveness steaming up from inside me took precedence. “And the phone works two ways. If you were so worried, why didn’t you check in?”
My blood was boiling, and in the back of my mind, I realized this was what I’d wanted — a fight. I wanted a reaction out of Cameron — any kind of reaction. He was finally noticing me, finally looking at me and feeling something after so long of feeling nothing at all. But now that I had it, that reaction I’d been so desperately seeking, I didn’t even care.
I was indifferent to how I’d made him feel tonight. Maybe because he’d been indifferent to how I’d felt since we lost our sons.
Guilt flooded me as I toiled with the thought that, perhaps, I didn’t care because someone else had given me attention. Someone else had looked at me first, had asked me how I felt, had wanted to make the hurt disappear.
Reese had beat him to it, and now, Cameron’s attention didn’t feel warranted.
“I’m tired,” I said when Cameron didn’t have anything else to say. I dumped my untouched tea into the sink, but when I went to move past Cameron, his arm shot out to block the door frame.
“We’re not finished.”
“I want to go to bed,” I threw back, louder, my eyes finding his. “It’s late.”
He scoffed. “Oh, now it’s late.”
“Whatever. Goodnight.” I ducked under his arm, but before I could reach the stairs, one strong hand wrapped around my forearm and ripped me backward. I opened my mouth to protest, to scream, to cry, but nothing came.
Because in the next instant, Cameron’s mouth covered my own — hot and angry and needy.
I pushed against him, my hands pressed into the middle of his chest as I tried to break free, but he only wrapped me in his arms tighter. His mouth opened and without hesitation, mine opened, too — letting him in, letting him taste, and in that instant, I was his again.
In that instant, everything I’d wanted for so long came to fruition, and all the confusion and anger melted away.
He possessed me with that kiss, one I hadn’t felt from his lips in years. He’d kissed me, sure. We’d had sex, yes. But the passion had been absent — the want, the need, the look in his eyes that he finally had again, one that said he couldn’t live another second without his hands on me.
He wanted me. My husband still wanted me.
I sighed, melting into him, my hands wrapping around him and sliding up to grip his messy hair. I tugged on it as his fingers yanked my blouse and tank top from my jeans. Cameron broke our kiss long enough to strip them over my head, letting them fall to our feet as his mouth found mine again, his hands squeezing my exposed breasts with enough force to make me wince.
He kissed me so hard I thought he might draw blood, or leave a bruise in his wake, but I didn’t care. Maybe a part of me wanted him to mark me, to remind me I was his, to obliterate any other feelings I thought I’d had earlier in the night in the arms of another man.
I ripped at his cotton t-shirt, pushing it up over his ribs with my hands before he reached behind his neck to pull it the rest of the way off. He lifted me then, my legs wrapping around his waist, and he moved us up the stairs as his mouth devoured the skin of my neck, my collarbone, my breasts.
It was all consuming, the way he kissed me, like he’d sat on his hands for years watching me and unable to touch me. It was as if access had been granted for the first time, even though he’d had me for years. I closed my eyes and saw the man who’d taken me on our wedding night, felt the man who’d stolen my heart on our very first date. As his passion mixed with the alcohol floating through my system, he was all I could see, all I could feel, all I could care about.
And even still, I couldn’t feel him close enough, couldn’t see all that I wanted, couldn’t ever tire of hearing the way he groaned in appreciation as his hands roamed my body. It had been untouched for so long, but with every kiss and squeeze and moan, it came to life at his command.
Our moans echoed off the walls as he carried me through the hall to our bedroom, and before I registered what was happening, my back hit the down comforter of our bed, the soft gray fabric puffing up around me.
Shakily, I pushed up on my elbows, watching with appreciation as Cameron yanked his pants and briefs to the floor in one fell swoop. He sprang forward, hard and ready, and I bit my lip at the sight.
His eyes were hooded and dark, his jaw set with the intention to bring me back to him. The want rolling off him in that moment was the most intoxicating drug, one I’d craved for so long. And though it was the same drug, it was a new high, one much more powerful than I remembered.
He tugged on my jeans next, pulling me to the edge of the bed, and then his hands flew over the button and zipper. The denim I wore was so tight, almost like it had been painted on me, yet Cameron was able to peel it off of me as if his hands were liquid heat and the denim was butter. My simple nude panties came off next, the lift of my hips the only help he needed.
And there was no body worship, no soft kisses on my thighs or at my core, no time spent working me up to his touch. That was how he touched me on our wedding night, how he made love to me the night we’d moved into our new home. But tonight, he was claiming me.
So once I was naked beneath him, Cameron gripped my hips with passionate force and yanked until my hips hung slightly off the edge of the bed. He positioned my ankles on his shoulders, himself at my entrance, and with his eyes hot and needy on mine, he flexed his hips with a groan, filling me to the brim.
I arched off the bed, the thickness of him stretching me all at once after so long of being empty. I was overcome with a searing pain that faded quickly into an electrifying pleasure as he pumped in and out of me, fast and quick, taking what was his. My hands gripped his strong forearms, nails digging into the skin, and he bit the tender hollow of my ankle before kissing that same spot.
There were no words. There never were with Cameron.
It was only his lips on my skin, his eyes capturing mine, his hands tightening around where he held me, as if one loosened grip would let me slip right through his fingers like sand. I lived inside that moment with everything I desired. My husband wanted me, he loved me, I was his and he was mine.
For that hot moment of passion, I was the woman I once was, and Cameron was the man I remembered.
I hoped we’d both stay.
Cameron bit the skin at my ankle, snapping my attention back to him as he used both hands to spread my legs wide. His fingertips trailed down the inside of my ankles, calves, knees, thighs, until one hand wrapped around my hip and the other moved to work my clit. He wasn’t easy, wasn’t slow. No, he worked my clit like he hated it, like he hated me, and my orgasm didn’t build like a slow tide but like an earthquake.
I arched up off the bed, reaching for his neck and pulling him down into me as he bent to fill me even deeper. I climbed him like a tree, and he never stopped moving, never stopped flexing, pushing my climax to last longer than it ever had before.
“Oh God, Cam,” I moaned, biting his neck to keep from screaming. He growled at the sensation, and just as my orgasm receded, he found his own, pumping into me with force before stilling completely. Cameron held me there in his arms, our bodies hot and slick and stuck together as he moaned. I felt him emptying inside me as I kissed all over him — his neck, his chest, his jaw — before finally claiming his mouth with my own.
When he was finished, he trembled, falling to the bed with me still in his arms, with him still inside me. We both panted until our breathing evened out, his hand sweeping through my hair, my fingertips tracing the soft hair in the middle of his chest.
It was what I’d wanted. I’d gotten exactly what I’d wanted.
And as I came down from the orgasm my husband had given me, I saw the face of another man I’d given a piece of me tonight, too. The apathy I’d had downstairs vanished, replaced by a painful guilt.
I couldn’t deny I’d done something wrong. If I hadn’t, the guilt wouldn’t be there. If I was innocent, I wouldn’t have felt dirty in the clean bed I shared with the man who put a ring on my finger eight years earlier.
I cringed, curling into Cameron’s arms and burying my head into his chest in a mixture of shame and apology. Of course, Cameron didn’t know I even had anything to apologize for.
As he pressed a loving kiss to my forehead, I knew only one thing.
I had to stay away from Reese Walker.