“Now I’m worried.” Logan chuckles. His eyes meet mine as we sit perpendicular to one another on the couches arranged at a ninety-degree angle.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Logan teases.
“I don’t know that I’m ready,” I admit, staring at my own white envelope.
“It can’t be that bad, right?” Logan says, although concern fills his voice.
“You don’t have to share, as I said. As Ben said. Whatever he wrote is for you alone and to provoke thought.” Autumn hesitates, uncertain herself. “Or maybe cause action. Maybe both.”
I nod in acceptance, then turn to gaze out the window and notice Mason has gone down the stairs. “I think I’ll go check on him.”
I won’t need to grab a bottle from the bar. I’ll simply share with Mason as I did last year when I told him about my cheating wife and my plans to divorce Jeanine. Mason was surprisingly supportive. He got me drunk.
Descending the stairs, I quickly spot Mason sitting in a chair on the beach. It’s a wonder these things haven’t ever been stolen. However, they are solid, and you’d need to be strong to hike them away. That’s one thing I love about this area. People are rather trusting compared to where I live. The suburbs of Detroit aren’t nearly as bad as downtown, but you acquire a level of caution working in a large metropolis that you don’t need in a sleepy beach town.
“You okay?” I ask, falling into a chair next to Mason as a sliver of the descending sunlight reflects across the lake. I’m not relaxed enough to enjoy it quite yet, but it is beautiful, peaceful even. Unfortunately, this letter business from Ben has put people on edge.
“I will be,” Mason mutters, tilting his head back on the chair and closing his eyes. He tips up the bottle of tequila, reminding me of all kinds of trouble from last summer.
“Going for the hard stuff on the first night? That bad, huh?”
“What’s yours say?” Mason huffs. Lifting his head, he nods at me while ignoring my question.
“I didn’t open it yet.”
“Coward.” He’s teasing me, but he isn’t wrong. I don’t know what Ben could possibly say to me that he didn’t say while he was still alive. We discussed business and fatherhood. My divorce and his marriage. We even talked about my boys and how lost I felt with them. Ben wasn’t the type to hold back. If he had something to say, he said it, especially at the end when he willingly told everyone how much he loved them. And I was never strong enough to say the words in return.
The thought gives me pause, and a deep ache presses at my ribs.
“Fuck it.” I rip open the seal of my envelope and pull out a notecard similar in size to the envelope just like Mason’s. Also like Mason’s, mine has one line, and I curse Ben as Mason did at the cryptic words given to me.
Fly in love.
Just what the fuck does that mean?
+ + +
Later that night, I’m staring up at the ceiling, wondering what Ben could possibly mean in his message to me. He must have meant fall in love and simply misprinted his words. Still, the statement feels damning as he knew my relationship with my ex-wife was not inspired by love. It wasn’t even close.
Ben and Anna were in love, though.
The love of my wife is the greatest gift I ever received, Ben once said to me. It means more to me than birthdays and Christmas, and even this disease cannot take that blessing from me.
They were the very definition of the term. Under love in the dictionary, it reads: tender kisses, meaningful stares, and happily ever after. For an example, see Ben and Anna Kulis. Only, even their happily ever after has been ruined.
Suddenly, laughter filters up to my room. The window is open, the distant sound of the lake waves a melancholy harmony to my mood. The pleasant echo of giggles feels invasive. I want to lie here angry with Jeanine for cheating on me, marring my hopes of marriage and family. I want to lie here upset with Ben for dying and leaving cryptic notes I have no hope of fulfilling or understanding. I just want to lie here in peace.
Another trilling laugh flies up to my window, and I hastily hoist myself off my bed before rushing for the window. Gazing outward, I see who I assume is River dancing in her yard. Her hips sway. Her arms rise. Her head tilts backward once again. She spins in a circle, giggling to herself as if soaking up the darkness while relishing the moonlight. She’s wearing another one of those nearly see-through dresses. The wide collar topples over one shoulder and down her arm.
Her twirling brings her closer to a large chaise lounge in the grassy portion of her yard, and she knocks into the wood base, tumbling down to the cushion. Her laughter grows louder.
Is she drunk?
For some reason, my lips curl at the possibility. Awkwardly, she scoots upward on the chaise, resting her back against the angled portion. Her arms stretch over her head. Her legs straighten a second before her knees bend. As her head lolls to the side, one arm lowers, lifting the hem of her dress.
In my head, I’m the one lifting that sheer fabric. I’m the one sliding my hands over her summer warm skin. It’s me slipping between her legs. Kissing her inner thighs.
I should turn away from the window. I should stop watching, but everything about her mesmerizes me. Her hair glows once again in the dim light cast into the yard from the house. Her bare legs are exposed in the dark. Her hand disappears between her thighs.
Apparently, I’m a voyeur because watching her please herself pleases me.
Leaning a hand against the window trim, I lower my other hand to the stiff length tenting my shorts. The heel of my hand presses along my hard dick, and I groan as I observe her head roll against the cushion. Her knees spread wider. Her now-lifted dress pools around her hips, but I’m too far away to see anything sacred. There’s no mistaking where her fingers touch, though.
My imagination takes over again as I envision her with pretty pink lower lips, swollen and dripping with anticipation. I intend to French kiss her there, curving through those folds and lapping at her sticky sweetness. She’d taste delicious, like a summer peach.
A sharp hiccup travels to my open window, and her head tips back on the chaise.
That’s it, honey. Let me have a lick.
My mouth salivates. My hand hastily slips under the elastic of my loose shorts. Within seconds, my palm wraps around my rock-hard shaft while I fist my other hand on the window casing. I should stop looking at her, but I can’t. I continue to imagine it’s me between those bent knees and spread thighs. It’s me sipping and nipping at her, and she’s losing her mind. She’s soaked and dripping, leaking down her inner thighs as she clenches against my tongue. Her legs quiver, and her breath catches. She’s on the edge, and I work myself—squeezing, tugging, jerking my dick harder than I’ve done before. She’s effervescent, and I want that glow to spill over me. I want her otherworldly essence to coat my tongue.
Then she opens her eyes, sits upright, and looks directly at my window.
Shit.
Did she hear me? Did I say something out loud? Did my ragged breathing travel down to the yard?
Good God, I can’t seem to quit working my dick with my fist. I can’t see her eyes, but I’m certain they are looking up at me, knowing I’m here at the window, watching her get off. The thought tips the cup, and I spill over, pouring into my fist and covering my fingers in a liquid mess. My chest heaves and swells. I can hardly breathe. Though I work out religiously, I feel like I’ve never spent a day in the gym. My knees shake. My heart races, and I close my eyes for only a second.