I take the enchiladas out of the oven at 6:55, because my parents are due to arrive at seven. I can’t help but sneak a piece to test the flavor. I have to admit, they taste delicious.
I'm always trying to diet but carbs are my downfall. I try to exercise and eat well but I’m very busy and I often have to eat on the run. And when I do have time to cook, I like to enjoy what I make.
As I finish off the last bite and then set the table, I glance at the clock. My family is late, as usual, and I’m not surprised. Sometimes I wonder why they demand a nice home-cooked dinner once a month, if they can never be bothered to show up for it on time.
For once I have nothing to do but sit down and stew. How dare they be late. How dare Charles blow me off yet again tonight. He's supposed to be here, but he's not, of course. How dare Jensen not swoop me up on his way out of the holding room and make love to me right in front of the judge.
What the hell has gotten into me? …
The doorbell rings, interrupting my strange thought process.
“We were running so late, I didn’t have time to stop and pick up the cake,” my mom says right away, in lieu of a greeting. “Don’t be mad.”
Well, great.
Now there’s nothing for dessert. But that seems like small potatoes compared to all the other items on my list of gripes today.
“All right,” I tell her, and usher them in. “Who’s hungry?”
“Well, we know you are,” quips my sister Samantha. Her latest- in- high fashion- trend clothing hangs off her skinny frame.
“Girls, don’t fight,” my mom says cheerfully.
I bite my tongue and begin serving the enchiladas.
“These are kind of cold,” says Samantha.
“The microwave is right over there,” I tell her, in a tone that even to me sounds chillier than the food she’s complaining about.
She's right that it's cold. But it's not my fault they were so late.
“Be nice to your little sister, Riley,” my dad says.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He insists on acting like my sister and I are still adolescents, except when he demands to know my career achievements and accomplishments, and acts as if I should already be a Supreme Court justice by now
“Where’s Charles?” asks Samantha. “Does he have cold feet again?”
“Very funny,” I say. “He had a networking event for work.”
But she's right. I go out of my way to please Charles's dad— not just because he's my boss but also because he's my boyfriend's father— but Charles never returns the favor. He often seems annoyed to be with my family.
I can't blame him for that, because they are annoying, but it's just something that people in a relationship are supposed to put up with and do. I'm beginning to realize, however, that Charles and I don't have much of a relationship. Instead, we just have a big, fake show we're putting on for the sake of his dad, which benefits both of us but makes neither of us happy.
“That’s nice. I guess he has his priorities in order. I might bring a guy I’ve been dating to your next dinner. He’s in finance. He’s, like, a billionaire.”
You don’t say.
“And how’s work going?” Dad asks.
I swear he only comes to these dinners so he can check up on his investment of my law school tuition.
“It’s great, Dad. Mr. Holt and I are working on a really big case that’s going to trial soon. I get to handle a lot of the trial, which I’m really looking forward to, even though I’m nervous.”
“Will it make you partner?” Dad asks.
“It could definitely play a big role in it,” I tell him.
“Good. I can’t get over your luck. Engaged to the founding partner’s son. And now handling a trial with your bigshot future father-in-law.” He nods proudly as he eats the enchilada. “This is spicy.”
“I’m sorry.”
My parents don’t like spice and although I tend to use a lot of green chile in my cooking, I tried to tone it down for them.
"Also, we're not engaged."
I've corrected him on this so many times but he always conveniently forgets.
“It’s her hard work, dear, not her luck,” says my mom.
I smile at her gratefully.
“Her hard work in the bedroom,” snickers Samantha, prompting me to glare at her.
If she only had a clue.
And then my mom adds, “All those late nights spent studying, and now working, instead of having family time.”
I roll my eyes at one of my mom’s favorite complaints.
The rest of the dinner progresses “well,” as in, better than usual. But by the time it’s over, I’m anxious for them to leave so I say, “I need to work on a brief for a while tonight before I turn in.”
“Well, we will definitely get out of your hair,” my mom says, with a jealous pout.
“I didn’t mean it like that…” I quickly say.
“Let her work, Luanne,” my dad barks at her. “She has an important trial coming up, that she needs to do well on.”
It’s like he’s talking about my senior year AP Algebra test. And my mom wants to have family pizza and game night instead of letting me study. Some things never change.
“All I have to do tomorrow is get a pedicure,” Samantha chirps.
Some things really never change.
I walk them to the door, grateful that they’re leaving, although not looking forward to the pile of dirty dishes they left behind for me to wash.
An hour later, I sink into a tub full of bubbles and try to relax. Visions of Jensen soon return to my mind— it’s as if they never fully leave.
I imagine him walking through the front door in a military uniform, bringing the cake that my mother forgot. We feed it to each other while undressing each other. He smears it all over my body and then licks it off me.
My hand sinks underneath the bubbles to pleasure myself the way that I wish Jensen would. If only I had chosen a guy like him instead of a guy like Charles, maybe my life would be a lot different right now.
Maybe I still can choose a guy like Jensen, after all… I can't help but think. I'm sure Charles's dad would be fuming, not to mention my own dad. But I'm tired of living the life everyone else wants me to live.
I picture Jensen lifting me out of the tub and making love to me on the bathroom floor. Even just fantasizing about him makes my life seem so much more exciting.
Stop it, I tell myself. Stop thinking about Jensen when you're still with Charles.
Then I think, maybe it's time to do something to change that.
I'm thinking about getting out and grabbing the magic bullet from the drawer under the sink. But just from touching myself, and thinking forbidden thoughts about Jensen, I already feel a spark quite similar to what I'd felt while using the vibrator.
There it is again, I think. Did I just make myself come?
Maybe every time I try it, I'll get better at it. And I have to admit that thoughts about Jensen don't hurt that process, even though they do hurt my life goals.