Adam

The night has that velvety quality of time standing still by the time we stop kissing. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused as she looks at me. The embers inside them are mere flickers, and then she closes her eyes and her breaths turn even. Apart from my jaw aching and my whole body feeling like putty, I'm not ready to sleep. But that's mostly because I know that as soon as I close my eyes, this dream will be over and the nightmare will start.

I wish this couch was large enough for both of us to lie side by side, but it's too narrow. As it is, my shoulder is twisted painfully, and I'm still resting too much of my weight on her.

I could carry her to bed. But how would she take that?

Kissing her was amazing, but I want more, and she knows that very well.

Instead, I disengage and sit up. Her eyes flutter open, and she reaches for my arm as I slip it out from under her, but she misses and goes right back to sleep.

I pick up the throw blanket from the floor where we kicked it off the sofa and cover her with it, unable to take my eyes off her face. Relaxed in sleep, her lips slightly parted and still swollen bright red from all the kissing, her cheeks pink, though fading back to her natural paleness.

I move to the armchair, unable to peel my eyes away. The thin blanket covering her does little to hide the soft curves of her breasts, her hips, the long one of her thighs. What I'd do to her, if she let me.

But even that desire is faint, and my cock's not so much throbbing in need, as it's pulsing in anticipation of things to come.

I'm completely willing to wait. I have no idea how I'm even able to rein it in with this girl. Maybe it's a biological failsafe to prevent my cock from fucking up a good thing. Or maybe I just can't say no to her. Besides, the kissing was already better than anything I've ever had with a girl. So the rest must be something worth waiting and wishing for.

I don't know when I dozed off, but I wake up with the cold grey dawn and a cramp in my neck. I know I've dreamt, because my heart's pounding, sweat's cooling on my face, and my chest is constricted with a general feeling of dread, but, for the first time in months, I don't remember the details of the dream.

Taylor's still sleeping, turned away from me now, her face burrowed into the backrest. She's kicked off the blanket and I reach out to get it, moving too fast and waking the pain in my lower back. It's supposed to be healed, but I still have to be careful not to move too fast in the mornings.

She stirs and turns over as I drape the blanket over her, but doesn't wake. It's six AM, and I have ten unanswered calls from my uncle. He needs to come fix the sink for her this morning, the sooner the better. But it’s too early to call him back.

I should go home, shower, return the truck to my uncle, but I don't want to wake Taylor and I don't want her to wake with me gone. So I sit back down and just watch her. It's the most relaxing, peaceful thing I've ever experienced, better even than the silent understandings I have with Mom.

My phone starts buzzing in my lap once the sun is streaming into the room, breaking my daze. It's almost nine and Pat's calling again. I must have fallen asleep, but I don't remember doing that either. Nor did I dream.

The buzzing wakes Taylor, so I ignore it. She sits up, looking around like she's not sure where she is. Then she sees me and smiles, her face lighting up like the best sunrise ever.

"You stayed," she whispers, her voice hoarse with sleep.

"Yeah," I say and laugh, I can't help it. "But I should go now."

Her face falls like the sun's gone behind a cloud, as she sits up and fixes her shirt. "Oh, OK."

She's not meeting my eyes. I wish she would. So I stand up too fast again, ignoring the pain in my back, and kneel in front of her, kissing her forehead. "I'll be back later. But right now, I have to get my uncle to fix the plumbing for you. And he needs his truck and tools for that."

She brushes her fingers across my cheek, like she's not sure I'm really here. "But then you'll come back? I had a great time last night."

"I did too," I say and take hold of her hand and kiss her palm. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Why don't you go back to sleep for awhile. You look like you need it."

She nods and I straighten up, kissing the top of her head again. I can't actually keep my hands off her, but somehow I manage it anyway. It's such a weird thing, this pull she has on me. I've never had a problem leaving in the mornings, but with her my legs are heavy like I'm wading through quicksand.

When I turn back at the door she's lying down, but she's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. It’s something between regret and happiness, and neither one is winning out.

* * *

I don't even bother calling my uncle back, I just drive to his workshop, above which he's also been living since his wife died three years ago. He can curse me out just as well once I'm there, and I want to hold on to the soft, fuzzy feeling of spending the night with Taylor a while longer.

Pat barges out of the workshop as soon as I pull up, towering over me in all his six foot five glory as I climb out of the truck.

"Where the hell were you, Adam?" he growls at me. I should push him away, if I don't want to come across as a total pussy in this confrontation. But he looks pissed enough to start something if I do, so I refrain.

"Around. What the fuck's with the third degree?" I say instead and edge along the truck, slamming the door shut. "I couldn't fix that water problem. You should go take care of it right away."

"Oh, I should go take care of it right away, should I?" he snarls. "Who died and made you boss? Must've missed that memo."

Pat's never been an easy going type of guy, but something's got him extra riled up today, and I don't think it's me late returning the truck.

I don’t break eye contact with him. "Just sayin', these people are your clients."

It's pretty perplexing he has any clients in the first place, seeing as the Archers don't exactly have a rep for being trustworthy. That must've been his wife's influence too.

I can literally see his face go from the grimace of being about to take a swing at me, to the confusion of not being quite sure he should risk it. He shouldn't. I'm not taking shit from any member of my family anymore.

Behind him, my brother Brad is leaning against the doorframe of the workshop, probably hoping for a show. He's grown up to be huge, possibly even taller than my uncle.

Pat snatches the truck keys from my hand and takes a step back. "Who's gonna go pick up your daddy, if I don't. And I'd think you'd know how to fix a leaky pipe by now."

"What? He's not getting out until next Monday," I blurt out, my mind frozen. I know I had one more week before I had to see the old bastard. He was only halfway into his ninety day sentence when I came back here.

"No, dummy, it's this Monday! As in today!" Bradley yells from the doorframe.

"Right, well can't he go by himself?" I ask my uncle, pointing at Brad. "He knows where the prison is. And what it looks like from the inside."

It has the desired effect of turning Brad's face a very bright shade of red, but he's even less ready to test me than Pat.

My uncle looks at Brad and then back at me. "What's the problem at the cabin?"

I shrug. "It's bad. You should take a look at it."

"Fine," he says and heads back toward the workshop, elbowing Brad out of the way when he doesn't move fast enough. "You two go get your dad. You're supposed to be there at eleven."

Seriously? I've successfully managed to get by with a few very short phone conversations with my father since I came back home, and now I'm supposed to spend an hour in the car with him. This day started out so good. What the fuck happened?

"You coming?" Brad calls, holding the door to his mustang open. Shit. If I go, I also get the added benefit of riding in the back of that ridiculous car for an hour.

"Just drop me off at home," I say as I get in at the passenger side. "You're big enough to handle this one on your own."

"Shit no, you're coming," he says, turning the engine. "Pat said you have to."

"What are you, twelve?" I put as much venom into my voice as I can, glaring at him like I'm about to break his neck. "Drop me off at home or you'll be sorry."

The thing is they none of them know what I'm capable of now, but they know enough not to risk finding out. The old man won't hold back. I've managed to postpone it with him by not talking to him, but that honeymoon's over. He's not happy about me leaving the Marines, and he won't stay quiet about it. I know him well enough for that. But I'm also done being the family's punching bag.

Brad doesn’t argue and twenty minutes later I'm taking a cold shower at home. Mom's cooking downstairs, and I can smell the burning up here. It'll only get worse once Dad arrives. I should just pack up and leave now. All things considered, that might be the best option for all involved.

* * *

Mom's scurrying around the kitchen when I come down carrying my backpack. Julie's leaning against the living room wall, her face in her hands.

She looks at me as the last step creaks. Her long brown hair's a mess, but her green eyes are just short of spewing flames. Her and I are the only ones to have inherited my mom's coloring. Our three brothers are all blonde haired, blue-eyed giants.

"You're leaving?" she spits out, and it's more of a statement. "Typical!"

Her late night, frantic phone calls about how she can't take care of Mom on her own anymore did a lot to persuade me to come home. I set the backpack down by the stairs automatically, but don't answer her.

"Just look at her. She's been like this since six in the morning. Already burned three pots," Julie complains staring at Mom and wringing her hands. "I can't get her to calm down. I can't…I can't do this anymore. Mom needs to be committed. She's not sane."

Her anger is far from pitiful right now. She may look like my mother, but her temper is all Dad, and she's yelling at me like it's all somehow my fault.

I ignore her and walk into the kitchen. Mom's wearing a floral summer dress over her ratty pink nightshirt, most of the rollers in her hair hanging off by mere threads. White smoke is rising from a pot on the stove.

"Mom, why don't you just sit down for awhile?" I ask, saying the first thing that comes into my mind. I have no idea how to calm her down. Her hands are shaking as she looks at me, opening and closing her mouth, but no sound comes out. Then she starts slamming her hands into the sides of her head.

I reach out automatically to hold her hands back, but she's strong in trying to break free of my grasp and I might hurt her if I don't let go.

As soon as I do, she rushes to the stove and pushes the smoking pot off the burner.

"It's all ruined. All of it. I have no lunch ready, and it's almost time. He'll want his lunch." Her voice is strangled, monotone, like she's just thinking out loud.

"Just leave it, Ma," I say. "We can eat out."

But she doesn't seem to hear. She fills another pot with water, dumping a few fistfuls of vegetables in before even turning the burner on.

"See what I mean?" Julie asks somewhere behind me. "She needs professional help. This can't go on. She won't even get out of my way, so I can cook lunch. She's brain damaged. I wish Jesse was here, he could always calm her down."

There's a shrill tone of fear and regret in her voice beneath the anger. I wish Jesse was here too. But he doesn’t want anything to do with any of us.

"Don't talk about her that way, she's just nervous," I warn. "I'll take her upstairs and you get some take-out or something."

"Take-out….right. And who’ll pay for that? You?"

"Yeah, I'll pay," I say and toss my wallet onto the table. I haven't exactly been saving up for retirement, nor been careful with my spending, but I can afford a fucking family lunch. Anything to end this sorry scene.

I grab my mom's arm, a little too harshly maybe, but it'll be worse if Dad comes home and sees this.

"Come on, Mom," I tell her softly. "It's almost time. You should go finish your hair and makeup. Julie will finish up in here."

"Yeah, Julie will just take care of everything," my sister snarls behind me, tossing a pot into the sink.

Mom looks up at me, her eyes wide but completely unfocused. "Yes, you're right. Maybe I still have time for a nap? Do you think?"

"Yeah, I think you do," I tell her.

I'm surprised Julie doesn't lash out again at the suggestion, since Dad should be home within half an hour. When I look at her, she's gazing at us with a pained expression on her face, like she's about to burst into tears.

I lead Mom out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. She lies down and closes her eyes, but grabs my hand when I draw the covers over her.

"I'm glad you're home, Adam," she says, more firmly than I've heard her say anything in a long time. "Please stay."

She means in general, not right now. And I really wish I could say I will. But I can't lie to her.