Very Wicked Beginnings

You’re on my mind. I love you, she said.

My heart dipped and from within, I got a burst of hope. The speaker and the gym zoomed away, making me forget about Dovey and if she had a boyfriend. Instead, I focused on my mom. It had been months since she’d texted me.

Did this mean she was finally moving on?

Was she ready to forgive me?

Love you too, I typed out. And of course I wanted to type more, like ask her if she’d come to my game this week or if she’d hang out with me and Dad tonight. Maybe she’d cook us some fried yucca, a Brazilian dish a lot like French fries.

But I didn’t ask those things because I didn’t want to push her. If a text was all she could do, I’d take it.

I went home that afternoon feeling unsure about seeing Mom but still happy about the text she’d sent me. And I wanted to tell her my big news. A local television station was coming out to interview the team at our home game against Copeland Private, one of our biggest rivals. And even though I was a junior, the team had voted me to be the spokesperson. Maybe if she could just see how much they respected me, then maybe she would too.

But when I got home from practice, Mother wasn’t waiting for me like I’d built up in my head. She wasn’t downstairs, and when I got upstairs her bedroom door was shut.

I knocked. “Mom, you in there? I—I got your text. I love you, too.”

I waited, my hands clenched.

Shuffling sounds filtered through the door. “I’m here,” she said, the finality in her voice obvious. Like this was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

Frustration rose. Something had obviously happened between the text at school and me getting home. I sighed. I didn’t understand her sickness, the prison that was her depression.

“Are you coming out, then?” I asked. Please.

Silence and then, “No. I—I just want to be alone.”

Oh.

I got worried.

“Mom, please don’t do anything stupid,” I begged through the wood, my voice gentle.

“I’m not. I’m fine. Just go,” her small voice said, the desolate sound in it breaking me into tiny pieces. Making me feel paper thin.

“Will you open the door a little? I want to see you,” I said. Because if I could just see her, then I wouldn’t worry.

She cracked the door, giving me a sliver of her beautiful face. She still had her pajamas on, but she’d combed her hair and showered. That was a big step. I smiled.

“See. All is well. Now go do your homework.” Then very gently, she shut the door.

And from behind the door, I heard her crying softly.

Dammit.

I pressed my forehead to the door and fought my own emotion, feeling myself sinking into a bottomless pit, falling further and further. Defeat built in me, and I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her to be strong and get over it and learn to live again and be a fucking mother to me, but none of those words spilled out of my mouth.

Because how could I ask her to be better when I felt so weak myself.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’d done this to our family.

After a while, I gave up on her opening the door. I shook off the darkness and drove the Porsche straight to Marissa’s apartment. An older girl who’d graduated from BA two years earlier, she was a dependable hook-up. Rich and vivacious, she knew exactly how to blow my mind. Among other things.

Loud music blared from outside the door but went quiet when I knocked.

She opened it, her eyes skating over my track pants and wife-beater. I leaned against the door jam and eased off my Ray Bans, cocking an eyebrow at her skimpy shorts and halter top, my eyes lingering on her ample tits. That was what I needed.

I grinned, turning on the charm. “Hello, Beautiful.”

She huffed, flicking a piece of blonde hair over her shoulder. “You didn’t call. You think I’m just sitting here waiting on you?”

“You want me to leave?” I murmured, biting my lip. Putting on a show for her.

She shivered, her eyes dilating, probably remembering the raunchy things we’d done in this apartment. In the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, on the patio. Marissa was wild, and I ate that up.

She pouted at me with red lips. “You can come in, but you’d better be good to me.”

I didn’t know about being good to her, but I could sure as hell make her feel good.

I walked in and she shut the door.

“You’ve never had better,” I said, pushing her up against the den wall and framing her face with my hands. She gazed up at me in what looked a little like adoration, which slowed me down for a second, because I didn’t want any touchy-feely emotions involved in this.

I paused, leveling her with my gaze. “Hey, we’re just having fun, right?”

She swallowed. “Yeah, sure. No strings, baby.”

Good. I kissed her long and hard until we were both panting and ready for more.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she whispered, wrapping her arms snakelike around my neck.

I cupped her breasts and squeezed, tweaking the nipples through her tight shirt.

“No, babe, right here. Going to make you come,” I promised. Because I didn’t want to wait. I wanted this ache gone, and I didn’t mean the one in my pants.

Bending over, I sucked on her tits through her shirt, making her gasp and clutch me tighter. We kissed for a while, both of our hands rushing to get the other undressed. Forgetting the ghost of my mother, I pushed everything out of my head except for sex. And that got really easy when she fell to her knees and took me in her mouth while I watched, absently and with little attachment. She could have been any of the girls I’d been with in the past two years.