Page 34

At some point in the night, both girls come into my bed, one on each side of me, causing me to sleep as if I’m wearing a straitjacket. I wake up sweaty and tired but also ecstatic because I get to see Elijah today.

Frank is already here when I come downstairs. Merry is making coffee. I turn on the TV in the living room, put on a show for the girls, then go check on my dad.

I find him sitting on the commode, totally naked. I start to turn away, to give him privacy, but he says, “Oh, hey, Nikki,” as if it’s not at all weird that I am looking at him as he sits on a toilet.

“Hey, Dad.”

Naked, he looks so frail. He’s lost so much muscle mass. His formerly thick and sturdy thighs are sinewy and weak.

“When did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

Frank comes in and says, “Oh, yeah, he’ll sit there a while. I don’t think you can tell when you poop, can you, Rob?”

He claps my dad on the back, as if they are buddies. Dad laughs, as if in agreement that they are buddies.

I leave him be, go to the kitchen table, text Elijah to make myself feel better.

Hey you. You ready for me?

Him: Very ready, indeed. How’s your dad?

Elijah knows the routine now—I drive up on Fridays, spend time with my dad, then come to see him. Not everything is a lie.

He’s not good. It’s just all moving so fast

Him: I’m sorry. I will do my best to make you feel slightly better

I’m counting on that

I go through the motions of the day, sitting with my dad, playing with the girls. Merry seems to enjoy the company, so I don’t feel much guilt when we approach the afternoon and I say, “Are you still okay with me staying at Prisha’s tonight?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll just spoil the girls rotten, won’t I?” she says to the girls.

“Where are you going, Mommy?” Grace asks.

“I am going to visit a friend, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“We stay here?” she says in her baby voice, which must mean she feels like a baby, small and vulnerable. I give her a hug.

“Yes. A sleepover with Grandma Merry,” I say.

“A sleepover?”

She looks worried, but then her brows unknit, and she smiles mischievously.

“Do we get ice cream?” she asks.

Merry looks to me, and I nod.

“Of course you do,” Merry says.

“Ice cream!” Liv says, throwing her arms in the air.

“Ice cream!” Grace shouts.

Assured of their joy, I change into a maxi dress, something I bought last year, when Kyle and I were talking about a family trip to Hawaii.

I pictured myself walking on the beach, effortlessly sexy, the slits in the side of the dress revealing my tanned-and-toned thighs (I also pictured mermaid waves in my hair, though my hair is stick straight and would never hold such waves).

We were about to buy airfare and book a hotel—we were going to splurge for a week at the Grand Wailea—when he got a promotion at work and felt it wouldn’t “look good” to immediately take a vacation.

I waited for him to resurrect the idea, but he never did.

Once I get in the car, I touch up my makeup and spray myself with perfume.

The girls never see me primp. I don’t want them to be suspicious.

I don’t want them to say something to Kyle like “Mommy got so pretty and then went to see her friend.” I’m hoping they don’t even mention that I left them alone with Merry for the night.

Kyle. I remember that he texted earlier, a “just checking in.” He rarely checks in.

I text him:

Hey. All fine here. Hope you’re feeling better

Then I put my phone back in my purse and start my drive to Elijah.

When Elijah opens the door, he says, “My lady,” and gives me a little bow.

“Hello, kind sir,” I say.

He closes the door behind me. I lean in to kiss him, but he backs away. “Not so fast,” he says.

Is he concerned about my alleged germs? Annoyed for some other reason? He doesn’t seem annoyed. He seems up to something.

“I want you to fully relax tonight,” he says. “You are not allowed to pleasure me in any way.”

“What?”

“Exactly what I said. You drove all this way after feeling sick. I want to take care of you.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I know he’s not talking about feeding me soup.

I give him a suspicious half smile. “Okay then.”

He takes my hand and walks me to the bedroom, where there is soft music playing—something instrumental—and candles are lit. It smells like lavender.

“How about a massage?” he asks.

“I would never say no to that.”

Though, actually, I would. For a while, Kyle was into offering massages, mostly because he expected them to lead to sex.

I didn’t realize that this assumption was in place until he had given me a few massages and they had all led to sex, each time sooner than the last. That’s when I started to get annoyed with his “loving offerings” of massages and began to say “No thanks, I’m good” when he asked.

When he acted dejected, like his feelings were hurt, I told him that the massages felt calculated, like a means to his desired end instead of an end in themselves.

He said, “I thought you liked foreplay. I really can’t win,” then sulked for days.

I lie back on Elijah’s bed, and he is on all fours, hovering over me.

“Do you mind if I blindfold you?” he asks.

Well, this just got interesting.

“Go right ahead.”

“It’s just that I want you to be able to fully relax, to sink into your body. Sensory deprivation. No distractions.”

If he’s not careful, I’m going to come just listening to him talk.

He reaches into his nightstand drawer and retrieves a blindfold. I’m just uneasy enough to make a nervous joke: “So you just have blindfolds lying around?”

He laughs. “No. Ordered it yesterday. Thank you, Amazon Prime.”

The premeditation of all this has made me wet.

He places the blindfold over my eyes, hooks the straps around my ears.

“I’m going to take off your dress,” he says.

“Please do.”

“Shhh,” he says. “Just rest.”

He slips my dress off my shoulders, then shimmies it down my body.

Then he reaches under my back to unhook my bra.

He slides off my panties, and I’m sure he can see how wet I am, but he doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t touch me there either, although everything in me is telling him to do just that.

I lift my hips, and he gently pushes them back down, which only makes me want him more.

“I’m going to bring you something to eat,” he says.

I hear him walk away, and I’m tempted to lift the blindfold to see what he’s doing, but decide to play along.

I hear him return, then feel his weight on the bed near me. His breath is near me. He is hovering close to my face.

Something touches my lips. Just barely. I reach for it with my tongue. It’s cold, a piece of fruit maybe. He pulls it away, and my tongue chases after it. He laughs softly. Then he brings it back and lets me wrap my lips around it. A strawberry.

There is more after that—grapes, dark chocolate, spoonfuls of sorbet.

“We’ll have a full dinner in a bit,” he says. “I just wanted to give you a little appe teaser .”

There is something tickling my belly. I squirm. Is he touching me with a feather ? I can’t help but giggle—over the tickling and the ridiculousness of this.

“Shh,” he says.

He stops with the feather, or whatever he’s using, and begins to graze my skin with his fingertips, goose bumps following in the wake of his touch.

He starts at the soles of my feet, gently stroking each toe.

I try to enjoy it, try not to think about the state of my toenails, my cracked heels.

He travels up my calves, traverses my knees, lingers on my thighs.

I lift my hips again, but he pushes them back down.

His fingertips move over my lower belly, then up to my breasts.

My breasts haven’t felt like part of my sexual being since I became a mother.

Even now, nearly two years out from breastfeeding, I think of them as my retired saggy milk sacs.

Elijah reminds me of the beauty they have on their own, detached from the service they provided.

They are no longer perky and taut, but they seem to suit him just fine.

He dances his fingers around my nipples, cups my breasts, one in each of his hands, massages them gently.

They are tender and sore, and for a brief second, I exit the moment and wonder if I’m going to get an ill-timed period all over his sheets.

I forget about that as he makes his way to my shoulders, then down my arms, then back up to my neck. It’s nearly impossible for me to lie still as he works his way around my neck and up to my scalp. Every time I start to writhe around, he places his whole hand on my belly until I settle.

How long have I been wearing this blindfold?

It could be ten minutes or three hours. I’ve lost all track of time.

I’ve transcended time completely. Finally, he moves his fingers to my vagina.

He strokes softly, seemingly without a next step in mind.

I feel the wave of an orgasm approaching, starting way back at the horizon line, then moving toward shore, gaining in size and velocity until it’s bigger than any wave I’ve experienced before.

My low, guttural groan increases in pitch until the wave crashes and my head arches back and I let out an eeee like a hyena in heat.

I assume he will lower himself on top of me, take his turn, but he doesn’t. He resumes massaging me. He reaches inside me—one finger first.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He puts two fingers inside me. “And this?”

Before I can answer, another wave swells, and I come again.

“What are you doing to me?” I say.

“Shh.”

He goes on like this, stroking my body, then using his lips to kiss every inch of me, except for where I want him to kiss. I come again and then again. Four times in total.

“You are insane,” I say.

“Are you ready for the blindfold to come off?”

His voice is slow and steady. I’m starting to wonder if he does this professionally, if he’s some kind of male prostitute who specializes in making women come without actual sex.