Jessica hugs Kristin close, allowing both of them the security to break down. I want to help, but I don’t want to be in their way, either.
I don’t know what to do here.
“Where’s Dad?” Jessica asks.
“He’s in Mom’s room watching a World War II documentary,” Kristin laughs, breaking some of the tension. “I think they’re up to the Battle of the Bulge.”
There’s no sign from Jessica that she wants me to follow them, so, not wanting to invade a very solemn family moment, I let Jessica know that I’ll be right out here in the waiting room if she needs anything.
She turns her head and says, “Thank you,” before walking off with her sister.
After about an hour, I walk up to the room and ask if I can get anything for anyone.
The father, startled by my presence, stands up and walks over to me, saying, “I’m Harold, Jessica and Kristin’s father. You must be Eric.”
“I am,” I answer and shake his hand. “I’m sorry to meet you under such difficult circumstances.”
“Well, we don’t pick the situations, the situations pick us,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I didn’t know if anyone was hungry or thirsty or if you guys needed anything,” I start.
Jessica shakes her head and Kristin ignores me entirely. Harold thanks me for the offer, but tells me that none of them are likely to eat anything until the surgery’s completed.
“All right,” I say. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right out here.”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Jessica asks.
“Sure,” I answer and we walk outside.
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” she says when we’re clear of the doorway, “but you really don’t have to stick around here. It’s probably going to be a while before we hear anything, and I think it might be best if you head home and get some sleep. I know I got you up really early and it’s already been a pretty long day for you.”
“I really don’t mind staying,” I tell her, “but if you’d feel more comfortable if I were to go, then I’ll do that. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll call you later, all right?”
“All right,” I tell her. “Please do let me know if you need anything or if you want to talk—”
“No, that’s fine,” she snaps, then softens her tone. “I’ll let you know if we need anything. You can take my car if you need,” she adds.
“I couldn’t do that,” I start, but she doesn’t let me finish.
“Kristin drove,” she says, “so she can drop me off on her way home.”
“All right,” I tell her again. “Just call if you need anything.”
“I will,” she says and smiles. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I tell her. “Let me know if you need to talk—”
“That’s all right,” she says interrupting me. “I’d better get back in there.”
It’s not until I’m down the hall, down the elevator, out the door of the hospital, across the parking lot and starting up her car that I realize why she reacted the way she did when I told her we could talk: My mother died of cancer.
* * *
I’m home for a few hours before I convince myself that it’s all right to get some sleep. I don’t dream, or if I do, I don’t remember any of it.
When I wake, it’s to the sound of my phone chiming.
With blurry eyes, I look at the screen.
It’s a message from Jessica.
The message reads, “If I were to stop by, is there any way that we could not talk about my mother or your mother or anything to do with the word cancer?”
I call her number, but she quickly rejects it.
A message comes in a few seconds later, saying, “Is that a yes or a no?”
“What happened?” I write back. “Is everything okay?”
My eyes are dry, so I close them, but I’m wide awake now.
The phone chimes again and I read, “Never mind.”
I quickly write back, “Yeah, we don’t have to talk about any of that.”
Wearing nothing but an old pair of sweatpants, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.
My phone chimes.
The message reads, “Open your door.”
The drink of water can wait.
I head over to my door and look out the peephole. Sure enough, Jessica’s standing just outside, her hands on her hips.
I open the door and she walks in without a word.
“Hey,” I tell her. “I didn’t know you had my address.”
“I got it from Irene,” she says. “That’s the problem with having mutual friends: it’s harder to escape one another.”
“Ah, got ya,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Can we maybe just not talk about anything?” she asks.
“That might be a little difficult,” I start, but as she turns to walk back out the door, I add, “but I’m willing to try.”
“Good enough,” she says. “Got anything to drink?”
“No,” I tell her. “I don’t usually keep alcohol in the house. I don’t really drink that often unless I’m out playing pool with…”
The impatience coming from Jessica is pervasive.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“This,” she says, and in two long, but quick steps, she’s right in front of me, pulling my head down toward her and pressing her lips into mine.
I kiss her back and put my arms around her, the desire inside me going from zero to a hundred miles per hour in nothing flat.
I pull back after a few seconds and start, “Are you sure you’re—”
“Shut the fuck up or I’m out the door,” she says.
If those are my options, the choice is simple enough.
Despite her seeming penchant for drinking when she’s stressed, I don’t taste any alcohol as our lips meet and part and rejoin time and again.
She’s pulling her shirt off and our mouths are hardly apart for a second as she lifts the fabric over her head, unhooking and dropping her bra as a simple flourish at the end of the motion.
“Tonight,” she says, “I don’t want for us to have sex, I don’t want for you to make love to me. Tonight, I want to fuck. Do you think you can handle that?”
A lot inside of me is saying that this is wrong, but I remember what it was like seeing my mom go in for treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery. If our roles were reversed, I’d probably be looking for the exact same thing.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I can handle that.”
“Good,” she says and pulls my pants down, my cock already hard.
She slips her long skirt up and around her hips and she takes my hand, leading me over to my own kitchen counter. Leaning forward, Jessica rests her arms on the counter and her head on her arms.
I position myself behind her and run my fingers over her slit.
She’s already wet, so I slide myself inside.
The next fifteen to twenty minutes—I don’t watch the clock—feel great physically, but in every other way, it’s just detached, almost lonely.
Every time I start to kiss her skin, she repositions herself and the only word she ever says to me is, “Harder.”
When I get close, I ask her where she wants me to come.
“Anywhere but inside of me,” she says. “I’m not on birth control.”
When I’m done, I grab a towel and go to clean her up, but she grabs the towel from me and cleans herself. She turns around to face me, and she’s crying.
I take her into my arms and her fingers curling into the skin of my back as she sobs against my chest.
What I want is to ask her what happened, but I don’t want her to up and leave, not when she’s feeling like this.
At this moment, I don’t know anything more than the fact that she’s still crying.
I hook one strap of her shirt with my big toe, the shirt falls out of my grasp and I grab it again.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I don’t want you to get cold,” I tell her and bring the shirt up to my hand and give it to her.
“Thanks,” she sniffs. “Do you have any tissues? I’m sorry I’m like this right now.”