Read Online Happily Ever After: A Novel by Elizabeth Maxwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Maxwell
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any leverage. I worry he will collapse from the stress.
“God, Sadie,” he says, each time he slams me against the wall. “You feel so good today.”
“I’m . . . glad . . . you . . . think . . . so,” I say, in between thumps. There’s a nice landscape by a local artist hanging to the right of my head. It bounces off the wall in perfect rhythm with the pounding. In this position, I swear I can feel his penis touching my molars. Standing up is not my favorite. I always end up longing for a footstool.
When we’re done, we collapse on the hall carpet. It’s a fairly new carpet, a pale green that works perfectly in this narrow space. Fern, I think it’s called. I shift my body weight so gravity will keep the semen from running down my leg and staining the fern carpet. Jason runs a hand from my midsection down between my legs. He lets it linger there.
“So,” he asks. “Your turn?”
Without waiting for an answer, he moves into position, spreading my legs so he can fit between them comfortably. My hip flexors strain. I start to relax. From here, I can see down the stairs and out the front door. Greta has watered the potted plants on the outside steps, but still they wilt in the outrageous heat.
Jason’s tongue works its way from my knee toward the promised land. I have not yet come up with a way to tell him that licking my knee is a waste of good saliva. I have very few nerve endings in my knee. But apparently, that is where he has determined he should start, and I do not want to come across as ungrateful. His tongue is warm, and I close my eyes. I like the part right before his tongue plunges in. The anticipation, the promise, knowing the good stuff still awaits.
And there I am, ready for the good stuff, when the phone rings. Jason’s head pops out from between my legs like a gopher’s.
“Do you need to get that?”
No. I really don’t. I want to stay here and enjoy your tongue making loopy circles around my clitoris until I cry out and pull your hair.
“Allison was sick last week, right?” he adds.
Jason remembering things like Allison being sick feels intimate in a way that bothers me, like a fingernail cut too short. But he’s right. I have to answer the phone. There will be no promised land today.
“Shit,” I sigh. I stand up, none too gracefully, and dash for the phone.
“Good morning,” a chipper voice says. “This is Billsford General Hospital emergency services calling.”
I stop breathing because when a hospital calls, it can only mean your child is dead.
“Is this Sadie Fuller?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
“We have a man here who claims you are next of kin?”
“A man?” The air rushes out of me. I’m covered in goose bumps. Allison is not a man. But I have no brothers or uncles or nephews that fit the bill either. The goose bumps return.
“Is his name Roger?” I ask. “How old does he look?”
“Young,” she says. “Probably twenty-five or so. And I don’t know if his name is Roger. That’s part of the problem.”
Roger is very attractive and very fit. He can stand on his head for days. But he looks at least forty. Although I regularly tell him he can still pass for thirty-two because I want him to be happy.
“So you don’t know his name?” I ask. “And he doesn’t either?”
“No,” she says. “He appears to be suffering from memory loss, but he remembered you well enough. Name, phone number, and address. He was brought in this morning. Really good looking.”
She sounds embarrassed by that last bit, but now I know it’s the Target guy.
“Can you tell us his name?” she asks. “Does he sound like someone you know? He even described what you look like.”
How sad for me. It’s hard to get away with dressing like a slob in a place like Billsford. Someone is always around to bust you. I’m about to say I have no idea who the man is, that I stumbled upon him looking dazed and confused in Baby Products and did my civic duty and that was
“God, Sadie,” he says, each time he slams me against the wall. “You feel so good today.”
“I’m . . . glad . . . you . . . think . . . so,” I say, in between thumps. There’s a nice landscape by a local artist hanging to the right of my head. It bounces off the wall in perfect rhythm with the pounding. In this position, I swear I can feel his penis touching my molars. Standing up is not my favorite. I always end up longing for a footstool.
When we’re done, we collapse on the hall carpet. It’s a fairly new carpet, a pale green that works perfectly in this narrow space. Fern, I think it’s called. I shift my body weight so gravity will keep the semen from running down my leg and staining the fern carpet. Jason runs a hand from my midsection down between my legs. He lets it linger there.
“So,” he asks. “Your turn?”
Without waiting for an answer, he moves into position, spreading my legs so he can fit between them comfortably. My hip flexors strain. I start to relax. From here, I can see down the stairs and out the front door. Greta has watered the potted plants on the outside steps, but still they wilt in the outrageous heat.
Jason’s tongue works its way from my knee toward the promised land. I have not yet come up with a way to tell him that licking my knee is a waste of good saliva. I have very few nerve endings in my knee. But apparently, that is where he has determined he should start, and I do not want to come across as ungrateful. His tongue is warm, and I close my eyes. I like the part right before his tongue plunges in. The anticipation, the promise, knowing the good stuff still awaits.
And there I am, ready for the good stuff, when the phone rings. Jason’s head pops out from between my legs like a gopher’s.
“Do you need to get that?”
No. I really don’t. I want to stay here and enjoy your tongue making loopy circles around my clitoris until I cry out and pull your hair.
“Allison was sick last week, right?” he adds.
Jason remembering things like Allison being sick feels intimate in a way that bothers me, like a fingernail cut too short. But he’s right. I have to answer the phone. There will be no promised land today.
“Shit,” I sigh. I stand up, none too gracefully, and dash for the phone.
“Good morning,” a chipper voice says. “This is Billsford General Hospital emergency services calling.”
I stop breathing because when a hospital calls, it can only mean your child is dead.
“Is this Sadie Fuller?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
“We have a man here who claims you are next of kin?”
“A man?” The air rushes out of me. I’m covered in goose bumps. Allison is not a man. But I have no brothers or uncles or nephews that fit the bill either. The goose bumps return.
“Is his name Roger?” I ask. “How old does he look?”
“Young,” she says. “Probably twenty-five or so. And I don’t know if his name is Roger. That’s part of the problem.”
Roger is very attractive and very fit. He can stand on his head for days. But he looks at least forty. Although I regularly tell him he can still pass for thirty-two because I want him to be happy.
“So you don’t know his name?” I ask. “And he doesn’t either?”
“No,” she says. “He appears to be suffering from memory loss, but he remembered you well enough. Name, phone number, and address. He was brought in this morning. Really good looking.”
She sounds embarrassed by that last bit, but now I know it’s the Target guy.
“Can you tell us his name?” she asks. “Does he sound like someone you know? He even described what you look like.”
How sad for me. It’s hard to get away with dressing like a slob in a place like Billsford. Someone is always around to bust you. I’m about to say I have no idea who the man is, that I stumbled upon him looking dazed and confused in Baby Products and did my civic duty and that was
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