We sit at the kitchen table, eating and talking some more about the classes we are taking. I behave in a civilized manner and thank God she can’t see what’s going through my mind. I keep imagining her straddling me as I sit in my chair. She is riding me gently but taking all of me inside of her. My hands are on those slender hips of hers that Anthony had worked over so enticingly for me just a short while ago. I’m moving her back and forth to me. I imagine running my hands down her back and around her bottom, clutching her there and my finger stroking her anus. I imagine the initial shocked look on her face as my eyes lock on hers. I gently push my finger into her there. I’m gentle and go slow; even in my fantasy, I know she’s not experienced, and I want to savor every moment of her pleasure. She accepts my intrusive touch and looks at me pleadingly. I slowly push deeper into her most secret entry, feeling my cock pumping her warm, wet pussy through the thin wall separating my finger from my dick. Damn, I have an active imagination.

The intimacy of my thoughts is intense, and by the time dinner is over, my body is more than ready for her. But I know my place. Instead of in bed, we end up on the couch watching TV. The weather is continuing to get worse, and the snow keeps falling. She falls asleep with her head near me on the couch, and as she sleeps contentedly, I reach out and stroke her soft silken hair. It shines in the soft lamplight of the room, and it feels as silky as it looks. I shouldn’t be crossing this boundary, but I can’t help but steal this touch. At midnight, I decide I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, and even though I’m not ready to say good night to her, I rouse her. She staggers off to bed, and I do the same. It will be another long, lonely night alone.

* * *

I feel so comfortable I could sleep forever, but I roll over and the alarm clock says six-thirty. I know I’ll have to get up soon. I roll back over and close my eyes tight to try to squeeze in a few more delicious moments of sleep. When I wake next, it is because I feel the bed move. I roll over, and Logan is lounging on the pillows. He brushes a few strands of my hair caught in my eyelashes away from my eyes as I look up at him, and he quietly wishes me a good morning. I respond the same and start to sit up. That’s when I get the good news. Everything is closed down. Snow day. The university, schools, even all non-essential city jobs and most private companies as well.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, when you hear the words “snow day,” life just gets better. I get up as Logan continues to lounge on the bed and look out the window. There is at least a foot and a half of snow on the ground. My cell starts to ring, and I run over grabbing it from my bag. It’s Sara calling me in case I haven’t gotten the good news yet. She asks how I will be spending my free day, and I lie that I’ll likely just watch soap operas and binge eat. After chatting for a few more minutes, I let her go and join Logan on the bed. He comments on my poor lying skills.

I can feel the discontentment showing on my face. “I know. I don’t like lying to Sara.”

“I know you don’t.” He looks at me for long serious moments, understanding blatant in his expression. But he doesn’t allow either of us to linger on this thought too long. “Come on. Let’s make breakfast. Or why don’t I make breakfast while you try not to injure yourself on any cooking utensils.” Now I’m smiling again. I love being with him.

We eat pancakes and lots of them. Afterward, I help with the dishes—the only thing he’ll let me do in his kitchen at this point. As I wash, he dries, and I feel so comfortable that even this simple task is pleasurable. I watch as he stretches to place things on high shelves, and I’m struck when his shirt rises up, and I see his flat and tight stomach. It’s not that I haven’t seen his stomach before. But I’m caught off guard like the first night I spent here, and I gasp at the sight of him. He doesn’t notice fortunately, and I do my best to act normal. When we finish, we watch a movie that happens to have enough “strong sexual content” to make me blush, and I swear he senses it. We are sitting close on the couch, and I am rigid with nerves.

He finally reveals his apparent psychic abilities when he speaks without ever even glancing at me. “Relax. You look like you’re going to come unglued.”

Yeah, right. I’ve never wanted to be touched more. I keep imagining his hands on my breasts and his mouth on my neck. I want that and more. I’m wet and wanting him to touch my wetness so much it aches, but he doesn’t. To add insult to injury, Amy calls. They talk for a few minutes. Now that the roads are clear for the most part, she wants to come over, and of course he has to refuse. He finally hangs up with her.

“You could take me home if you want.”

“If I didn’t want you here you wouldn’t be here.”

“If Amy wants to come over she should be able to. She is your…”

“I thought Amy came over if I wanted her to? Or am I wrong?”

He sounds annoyed with me, and I instantly fall silent. We are still sitting close on the couch, and after a few uncomfortable moments he reaches over and takes my hand and offers a quiet apology. We finish watching the movie, but he doesn’t immediately take his hand away from mine when the movie ends, and I find my body is pulsing with excitement at his touch. But eventually he moves away from me, and I’m left missing the warmth of his hand on my skin, the gentle caress of his palm, and his apparent comfort at being so close to me.

It is a wonderful lazy afternoon. He disappears to his room to fold laundry and hollers after me to grab him a water. As I enter his room, I’m nervous to invade his space, but he starts an easy conversation, and before long we’re both sitting comfortably on his bed talking about nothing in particular. When I next look out his bedroom window at the winter sky beyond, I note with a stab of disappointment that the snow has stopped and it is getting dark. It will be time to go soon.

Chapter 7

With Christmas come the memories of my past. I can’t help but be depressed every time I remember the holidays of my childhood. Memories definitely fade over the years, but not those cherished memories of Christmas trees, music, gifts, and most of all, my mother. We were never wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but I always had more than I could want under the tree. Our family gathering had only consisted of the two of us, but it was festive regardless. Since my arrival in Allendale, Sara’s family has always been good at involving me in their family gathering, knowing well that my own poor excuse of a family would be celebrating with a beer in some dark beer hall.

I usually spend the night with Sara on Christmas Eve and join them for Christmas Eve church service. Then I wake with the family the next morning to celebrate the day. I struggle every year to be cheerful at the Harringtons’, and I know that it doesn’t escape their attention. They are of course gracious enough not to ask me about my quiet, distant behavior, understanding my reasons. I’m always thankful to be there, knowing full well the alternative is just too depressing to bear. Still, my emotions always seem to betray me, and I feel guilty for bringing my sadness to them.

So it comes as something of a surprise when mid-afternoon of Christmas Eve rolls around, and my father pops his head in my room. I’m just starting to get my things together to head over to the Harringtons’ and can’t hide my surprise to see him. He is sober and speaks nervously without the benefit of alcohol pulling the strings of his personality. I’m naturally shocked as my father usually only speaks to me when he’s drunk and pissed off. He otherwise ignores me.

Awkwardly, he begins. “I want to have a dinner today… Like a Christmas thing. I’ve never cared much for all that holiday bullshit in the past, but you’ll be gone next year, and I just … well … thought we should at least do that. You know?”

I manage a weak, “Yeah.”

But the gaping-mouthed look on my face makes him think better of his plan, and he suddenly stammers on. “I mean, it’s no big deal. I don’t care if you don’t want to…”

“No! I think that’s a good idea. We can do that.” I’m not by any means convinced that my father actually wants to spend time with me, but I can’t help but hope that maybe some part of him is trying to reach out to me.

He continues. “Well, I’m going out to the grocery store to get the food and maybe you could just put out the plates and whatever. Do you like fried chicken and stuff? I think they’ll have that in the buffet.”

“Sure. Um, that’s … that’s fine with me.” I’m still struggling to keep the incredulity from my voice.

He suddenly turns heel and heads for the door. I sit on the side of my bed stupefied for at least ten minutes before heeding his advice and setting the table. I know that he won’t care what dishes are set out or if they’re even made of something other than paper, but I decide, given the occasion, to use the real plates; nothing fancy or even pretty mind you, but if you dropped one on the floor, it would break, and that had to count for something. I set the table as neatly as I would have at the restaurant and wait anxiously for his return.

* * *

Why the hell isn’t she answering her damn cell? She told Sara she’d call when she was ready to be picked up. And when five o’clock rolls around without hearing from her, Sara starts trying to reach her. It is now nearly five-thirty, and the Christmas Eve service is going to be starting at six. With no word from Rowan, everyone starts to get concerned. My family knows she is always in a delicate state this time of year, but it is so uncharacteristic of her to simply not call like this. Their anxiety can’t even compare to the angst I am feeling, having firsthand knowledge of the powder keg she is living in.