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Jaxon
2012
Ican tell you the exact moment I startedlookingat Claire St. James as more than just Simon’s babysitter.
She was sixteen, almost seventeen. Still in high school. I was eighteen and just graduated. Working construction, same as now, and taking night classes at community college. My mom works second shift at a nursing home so when Claire agreed to watch Simon so I could make my classes, it was a godsend.
Anyway, she’d been watching Simon for a while, long enough for us to get ourselves into a comfortable routine. Usually, when I come home, she’s at the kitchen table doing homework, and Simon’s in bed, upstairs. We’d make small talk while she gathered her stuff, and then I stand at the back door and watch to make sure she got in her car safely. Gailena, Illinois: population 3,317 isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime and corruption but knowing she’s safe makes me feel better.
This particular night, when I came home, her homework was spread out all over the kitchen table like always, but she was nowhere to be seen.
I don’t know what I thought—just that she was supposed to be there but wasn’t. I called her name. Nothing.
I charged up the stairs, and headed for the bedroom I share with Simon, and there they were. Simon in his little toddler-sized bed and Claire in mine.
Seeing her in my bed did something to me. Made me see things differently. Her differently. Woke a part of me I’d shut down a long time ago. In an instant, everything changed.
Standing there in the doorway, looking at her, I had the urge to go to her. Pull her clothes off and put my mouth and hands all over every part of her that was soft and pink that I could reach.
And then she woke up. Apologized for sleeping in my bed. Told me that Simon had a nightmare and wanted her to stay with him. I told her it was fine. I broke routine. Told her I was going to jump in the shower instead of walking her out because I suddenly didn’t trust myself around her. I’m not sure how long I stayed in the bathroom. It felt like hours. When I finally emerged, she was gone.
I’ve always thought she was pretty, even before things got weird on my end. Light brown hair. Wide eyes, their color caught somewhere between blue and green. Full breasts. Soft curves. The kind of mouth guys dream about. The weird part of it all is that when I think about her, it’s not always about fucking her. Most of the time, I just think about her. I like her. I like that she turns her nose up at jarred spaghetti sauce. That she plays hide-and-seek and builds blanket forts with Simon. That she’s sarcastic and sweet and way smarter than I’ll ever be.
I like her.
I might even love her a little bit.
Shit. I don’t know—the point is, it’s been brewing for a while. At least it has been for me. Two years later and I still can’t breathe around her, get within two feet of her, without having to fight the urge to get her under me. I can’t even lay in my own bed without thinking about what I’d do to her if she were laying in it with me.
I’ve always managed it though because I never once felt like the feelings were mutual. She’s always kept her distance. Been polite. Accommodating. Simon adores her, and clearly, the feeling is mutual. Bottom line: without her, my mom and I would be screwed. I never felt like I could afford to mess this up. My family needed her too much.
But that was before.
Before I heard what her sister said. Saw the panicked flush erupt across the back of her neck. The way she responded when I touched that back of her hand. Her wrist. The way her breath caught in her throat. Eyes glazed over. Lips parted.
Before any of that happened, I was prepared to live with the random fantasies and raging hard-ons. The cold showers and mandatory masturbation sessions that having her around induced.
Now?
No. Not so much.
Now, I’m wondering how many times I can make her come between putting Simon to bed and my mom pulling into the driveway while I pull bath duty, and she cleans up the dinner mess downstairs.
“Jax?” Simon calls out to me from the bathroom.
Shit. “What’s up, buddy?”
He’s five now and thinks he’s entirely too old for supervised baths. The compromise is that if I have to supervise, I do it from the hallway, outside the open bathroom door.
“I like Claire.”
Double shit.
“Yeah...” I sigh because I know where this is coming from. What he’s thinking about. “I like her too.”
“I’m glad she stayed for dinner.”
“Me too.”