“If we don’t throw away this candy, I am going to be as big as a house,” Sam mumbles through a mouth full of chocolate. A week since Halloween and we’re still going through all the candy the girls racked up.
I’ve never been one to dress up. The best part of Halloween was going with my boys to the local pub. I swear every woman, especially moms (something I never understood), who secretly want to engage their inner slut, dress in costumes to show their fetishes. We were always guaranteed pussy that night. Not that that was a problem for us at uni, but on All Hallow’s Eve the girls were freakier and uninhibited.
As fun as those days were, they don’t compare to Halloween this year. Who knew you could have so much fun with kids and friends when all you did was knock on doors and ask for candy?
Reid Beckett and Elise Bennett invited us to their townhouse for a family-friendly party. They live in Grammercy Park, an area sought after for its private park, and all the neighbors donned their stoops at dark to hand out candy.
Poppy stayed true to her original plan and went as I love Lucy. She fell head over heels for Graham Taylor’s sister, Lucy, who also came as her namesake. The two were the hit of every stoop they visited.
Sam and her girls went as the Spice Girls, using Zinnie to round out the five. I thought I would scream if I heard them sing “tell me what you want, what you really really want” one more time.
Even the guys dressed up and didn’t waste a chance to chide me for being the party pooper. Minutes before we left, Zoe pinned a piece of paper to my lapel that said, “Nudist on Strike,” when I sourly refused to participate.
“Here. We can throw mine away,” Zinnie says. “I don’t need it either.” She’s about to pour her bucket into the trash but Sam stops her.
“Just…let me get the Kit-Kats out. Oh,” she holds up a mini box of Milk Duds and rattles them. “These too. Oh—”
“Maybe we should just keep it,” Zinnie laughs and puts the bucket back on the counter.
“If you insist,” Sam giggles.
“Okay, lights out,” Zinnie says, hitting the button on the wall.
Today has been filled with crepe paper and homemade signs. It’s my birthday. This morning the girls insisted I wear the aluminum foil crown while I ate the French toast they made. I had foil stars to wish on, but I didn’t need them. I had my three wishes standing in front of me.
I blow out the candles as they finish an off-beat chorus of Happy Birthday. It’s Tuesday, so our weekly dinner was converted into a celebration. Sam and the girls started celebrating on Saturday though. My birthday has lasted four days now.
I never knew I could enjoy a birthday. Ours were never that special growing up, but it’s clear all three girls have strong family traditions built around their special days. Sunday night, the four of us ordered in, spending the night to ourselves. They insisted we lay in Poppy’s tent, the cover of it layered in star-shaped twinkle lights to mimic the sky. Zinnie and Sam each read aloud their favorite poem from Leaves of Grass while Pops held my hand. It is a memory I will always cherish. No one has ever celebrated me in the way these three girls have.
The lights come back up and there’s a fury of cake cutting and laughter. I’m growing accustomed to the level of activity in this place on Tuesdays. Sam looks at me through the chaos and it puts me at peace. I’m not Superman or the world’s best man, and that’s okay, but I am the best man for her. Because, fuck, this woman is incredible. She must sense that I am seconds away from falling to my knees and asking her to spend the rest of her life beside me, because she winks and her eyes dance in a way that tells me my real gift will come after everyone has left and the girls are down.
“I’m ready,” I tell Sam later that night while I’m balls deep inside of her. Finn gave me the best present of the night and shuffled everyone out the door at a decent hour. After bath and reading, Poppy is finally asleep and Zinnie should be by now too.
Sam moans as I circle my hips before pulling out and slamming back into her.
“Not yet. The girls need more time.”
Circle. Out. Slam.
“Don’t hide behind the girls. It’s been a month now. I am not going to change my mind.”
Circle. Out. Slam.
“I’m not.”
Circle. Out. Slam.
“Fine. Maybe I am,” she admits. “But right now, the only two people who could get hurt aren’t in this room. If this doesn’t work out, you and I can recover.”
My circle, out, slam falters at her words and I stop moving all together. Does this not mean to her what it means to me?
“I’m past the point of recovering. I thought you were, too.”
I hold still, waiting for her response.
“I lo—” She places a finger over my lips.
“I’m scared,” she breathes, and a tear falls silently from the corner of her eye. “I need time.”
“I can’t fix it if you won’t talk to me about it.”
“Why do men think they need to fix women?”
“I didn’t say fix you. You’re lovely. I adore you in every way. I said fix it. If there wasn’t anything wrong, you wouldn’t be frightened. I would give my life to make sure you never have to feel that again.”
Her body begins to tremble, and she visibly falls apart beneath me. I pull out of her. Sex is nowhere on my mind right now. I just need her to know she is safe and loved.
“I’m sorry,” she says as I hold her, giving her every ounce of comfort I can.
“About what?”
“Crying is hardly part of sexy time.”
“Don’t you get it? I want you. In every way. There is nothing to be sorry for. I mean it, Sam. This isn’t just sex for me. Or you. I know it. I see it in your eyes. I read it in the sweet texts you send me. I feel it when you kiss me.” I pause and kiss her swollen lips. “I want all of you. Even during sexy time,” I chuckle and move back on top of her.
Sometimes a moment’s break is all you need.