There’s no penetration on Evan’s end. Just his lips loving my second pair of lips. His tongue drags titillating and slow across the swells of my labia. My entire being is in a trance, hips tilting, back arching, beckoning him inside of me. But still he doesn’t go. My mouth opens, an orgasm rolls through me from hair follicle to engine-red toenails, so damn hard that not a single sound exits my lips. Bliss is saturated against my tongue.
In an instant, Evan’s mouth is away from me. The sinking fear that I get during times where I rationalize how we do not belong, or how one day some bad shit is going to tear us apart, crashes through me. This pain in my chest is almost equivalent to the affliction of knowing I need to leave him one day.
Yet and still, my soul, my body, my mind is eager for him to stay. “What are you doing?” I murmur curiosity and craving blurring my words, at least I’m somewhat confident that I inquired as much.
Evan has arisen from the perfect spot, between my thighs. He stands before me and says, “You called me stinky, right?”
I’m too baffled to speak. This bastard has a cocky smile on his face. My pain equates to his pleasure.
“I assume dinner will cook for about an hour or so.” He pats his belly. “You declined my offer to accompany me in the shower. I think I'll survive.” There's a glimmer in his eye as he turns to walk away.
I scoff. “Survive! What about me?” I say to the back of his curly, chocolate-brown head as he saunters away from the kitchen. “Get back here, sous chef,” I grit out each word, while hopping off the counter.
Over his shoulder, Evan assures, “You've got this. I have faith in you.”
I glance at the water guns. This has to be love, either that or I wanna kill him.
An hour later, Evan has taped and pushed all of the boxes of knickknacks I refuse to part ways with from the top of the dining table onto the floor. After a hyped morning, I abandoned my efforts to save things Evan told me to toss yesterday while he was off and we conducted a more organized two-man moving party. We intended to spend the night tonight so I can prepare for the movers’ tomorrow morning.
He’s set the table for two. It’s not fully romantic in any sense of the word, there are no tapered candles. Despite the fact that most of the entertainment utensils are packed away, my bloody house of horrors has been transformed. As I place a bowl of fresh Caesar salad on the table, I see my father sitting across from my mom and a younger me. Though this round four-seater dining table doesn’t compare to the large home I lived in as a child, not by a long stretch, the environment reminds me of… home.
“What’s wrong?” Evan asks
“Nothing,” I shake my head, physically clearing it from the needless sentiments. This thing between him and I, well it will never last. Nobody goes half of their lifetime with shit being tossed at you all the while with such an optimistic outlook. Genuinely happy people are full of it. And my happiness used to reside in crafting the perfect chocolate soufflé, or infusing macaroons, better yet spending hours honing a wedding cake for someone else’s happiness. Now I have Nook, it’s a few months out of the gate with a team who will run it perfectly. The fear of failure with regard to Flour Shoppe has faded, because my happiness is in Evan. And contentment exists in the dismissal of the past…
But my man is patient and my blasé response didn't cut it. I add, “I had the ingredients for Negroni; I Googled real Italian drinks and it came up.”
He chuckles softly, though this is true, and placing myself at the butt of the joke deters his curiosity. I hate lying to Evan. And not ten minutes into the meal, have I already lied again.
“Sal… um....” I begin, clearing my throat, “Mr. Giugliano hasn’t returned since… since I found out the sneaky snake was a liar.”
Evan pauses for a moment, placing down his fork. His plate is all but polished off anyway. “Giugliano sent you the text saying he’d be out of touch at the beginning of last month. He hasn’t reached out to you since then?”
Fingernails biting into the flesh of my palms, I shake my head. “No.” I count to three within the chaos of my brain before picking up the lukewarm wine that I found during a scavenger hunt for something quick for us to drink.
Evan is silent once more.
“I’m gonna start the dishwasher,” I arise abruptly. “I’ve gotta go cram everything in it so tomorrow morning, all I have to do is toss the odds and ends into the boxes, and then viola, the movers’ can’t charge me for extra time.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Evan stands. His presence is overpowering, not to mention he blocks the way into the kitchen. These days any conversation about Milo ends in an argument, so I refuse. Any dialogue about that sneaky snake Sal follows then proceeds as two humans chatting then follows the same lines, with Evan asking me about him. And my guard rising higher than the Great Wall of China, only to be followed by an argument.
“Evan, I don’t wanna argue about him…”
His hazel eyes are speaking my language, honey-brown and full of empathy.
