“I can’t wait. Your honey cake is heaven,” Calvin gushed.
“Oh, Calv. You sure know how to make an old lonely woman feel good about herself.” Betty blushed.
“You’re not old and you’ve got me,” he said, giving her a half hug. “I’ll see ya later.”
“Not if I see you first,” she said back with a wave and a small laugh.
The dynamic between Betty and Calvin was like mother and son, but Betty wasn’t his mother. His parents were dead. But Calvin never told me how they died. What happened to them, and were they the reason Calvin’s birthday was, as Betty put it, complicated?
26.
Calvin
I entered the kitchen with a towel wrapped around my waist—fresh from a hot shower. Grace stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand. The smell of bacon and garlic entered my nose, and I breathed deeper, trying to get more of the best scents a kitchen could offer. I knew she’d ruin it soon with those brussels sprouts.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked.
She looked over her shoulder, and I think I almost saw her mouth drop open. Her eyes scanned my dripping wet body. I had done a poor job of drying off.
“Cooking up those brussels sprouts you love so much,” she said with a flirty smile.
Grace continued to stir her wooden spoon slowly, moving around the sautéed bacon and garlic, but her eyes stayed on me. I liked those eyes on me. That’s where they belonged.
I took a few steps into the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”
“A beer would be great.”
“You got it.” I pulled two cold ones from the fridge and popped the caps off. “Here.”
She took it from me, and we both tipped the beers back and drank—our eyes never breaking contact.
“Need any help?” I offered.
“No, Calvin. It’s your birthday. Let me worry about everything.”
She smiled, and it was inviting.
I took a step closer to her, pretending like I was trying to get a better look at the food she was cooking up, but what I wanted was more of Grace. She backed into me a little and turned her head, looking over her shoulder. When she didn’t jolt away or apologize, I knew this was the moment—our moment. I leaned down a few inches and kissed her. My lips were on hers, and all of a sudden, she was kissing me back. Her body turned toward me. Her hands went to my back, my chest, my stomach. Her mouth opened, and I slid my tongue in, circling around hers. She practically moaned. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her as close as she could possibly get to me. I could have crushed her to ashes—that’s how bad I wanted her. My hands ran through her hair and down her back, settling on her firm backside. She pushed me hard, and I let her, until I was thrust into the kitchen wall. The Sheetrock cracked behind me but I didn’t care. I’d fix it later, or maybe I’d leave it there to serve as a reminder of this very moment. The moment Grace became mine. One of my hands moved from her backside to her breast, grabbing it, caressing it. She moaned again. Her hand traveled down my chest, my abdomen, through the opening of the towel, and I grunted in pleasure when she gripped me. I moved my mouth to her cheek, then her neck, her ear—sucking and kissing—while her hand stroked and pulled.
Grace was all I wanted and all I needed. She was everything between the sun rising and the sun setting. She was the sensation you get after you felt a jerk on your fishing pole （literally）。 She was the smell of coffee and the burn of whiskey. She was a hard day’s work and a well-earned lazy Sunday. She was a garden full of ripe vegetables and a field of overgrown grass. She was everything and she was nothing, which made her the perfect amount of something. I couldn’t get enough of her.
Her pull became a little harder, essentially in sync with me. My towel fell to the ground. I brought her lips back to my mouth, and she kissed me harder. Her tongue entangled mine like barbwire, hooking me, holding me. Where her tongue couldn’t hold, her mouth sucked and her teeth clenched, creating a subtle but pleasurable pain. The sounds that escaped me were new, but I would remember them forever, for they marked a moment in my life . . . a moment that split everything I knew in two: a beginning and an ending. Grace was the middle, the good part—the white cream between Oreo cookies, the heart of a medium-rare steak, the center of a Tootsie Pop. She was all those things and more. My hand slid down the front of Grace’s jean shorts, beneath her panties, my fingers crept along her pelvic bone and just as they touched her center, the screen door flung open.
“Happy birthday, bro!” Joe yelled.
She quickly backed away from me as I bent down to pick up my towel. Joe put his hands over his eyes.
“Sorry,” he said as Grace scurried to the stove, and I covered myself.
After I was covered and Grace had stirred the pan a few times, Joe moseyed into the kitchen.
“Can’t you knock?” I practically seethed.
“Sorry,” he said again.
I shook my head, shaking away the anger. I didn’t want to scare Grace by pummeling the shit out of my brother.
“How much do you remember of last night?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.
He shrugged. “Not much.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I’m not sure what happened. I hadn’t even drunk that much. It was weird. Like I was in a daze.” He rubbed his forehead. “Felt like I had been drugged or something.”
“I think you drank more than you thought you did, Joe.” My eyes narrowed. “You owe Grace an apology,” I added.
“I know.” He nodded. “Grace,” he called out.
She turned toward him, feigning interest. I had a feeling she’d already made her mind up about Joe, and I didn’t blame her. I should have my mind made up about him too, but he was my brother. No matter what he did or what I thought, my brain was wired to always, always, always give him the benefit of the doubt—whether he deserved it or not.
“Yeah, Joe.”
“I apologize for last night. I can’t remember what I said or did but I know I was an ass, and I know we haven’t known each other long, but I am sorry for having to say sorry and having to have something to say sorry about.”
Grace nodded and glanced briefly at me. “It’s fine, Joe. I accept your apology.”
I knew what fine meant. Fine meant it wasn’t fine, but it was fine for now. She paused and squinted. “Actually, it’s fine if you get my car fixed in the next three days.”
So—she was done with me, done with whatever this was. I felt my face frown and forced my muscles to relax, maintaining a neutral look.
“You got yourself a deal,” he said. “And I really hope what I did last night doesn’t get between you and Calvin.” He gestured toward me. “I think you two are great together.”
Grace simply nodded, and Joe turned to me.
“Calvin, I’m sorry about the way I acted last night. It was out of line and it won’t happen again.”
I wanted to ask what was out of line and what behavior he wouldn’t do again but he didn’t remember what he had done, and Grace wouldn’t tell me either. What could he have done or said to make her slap him across the face? What made Grace tick? I really wanted to know.