But I couldn’t have him back—I couldn’t go back, so I had to move forward and try to find joy in my life where I could.
Cassie stirred, murmured in her sleep, and her book flopped to the floor between her feet. I left it, and gently eased her down so her head was resting on my lap; she folded her hands under her cheek, on my thigh, stretching her still-healing leg out along the empty seats.
I’d sent Lucas another postcard the day before yesterday, letting him know I was finally coming back to Ketchikan…with a stowaway.
I had been shocked to discover how much I ended up missing that man. How much of my mental space and emotional energy had been spent on wishing I could see him, wondering what he was doing, hoping he’d continued his journey toward health and wellness, and that he was repairing his relationships with his sons.
Truth be told, in the deepest darkest parts of the night, when I was more asleep than awake, and my mind spun impossible fantasies that were more than dreams yet not really daydreams, I thought of Lucas. In the last several years I had purposefully forgotten about the importance of sex, and what having a physical relationship could mean to me. I’d woken up more than a few times with my thighs clenched together, my core aching, nipples hard, and mental images of him and me entwined and naked dancing through my mind.
The feeling of his hand in mine was seared onto my soul.
The sound of his rough, gravelly, southern drawl and vulgar expressions were emblazoned on my heart.
I’d managed to keep such things under some kind of control when I’d been around him every day, but now that I’d spent nearly two months away from him, all I could think of was him.
And the longer I went without seeing him, talking to him, being around him, the more intense my feelings grew …and the more wild my thoughts.
I sighed, staring into space, letting my mind wander:
How long had it been since I’d last had sex? It had been with Darren, obviously, and he had died three and a half years ago…closer to four, now. And, before his death, things had been…sort of cool between us, sexually. I don’t mean cool in a colloquial sense, but in a temperature sense. We’d gotten lazy and complacent, and he’d thrown out his back putzing in our garage a good six months before he passed, which meant it had physically hurt him to have sex. So…nearly four years since his death, plus probably four or even six months before that?
I tried to recall specifically the last time I remembered having sex with Darren.
It had been a Tuesday, a spring morning. He’d woken up early, feeling good, not much back pain, and we’d had a nice breakfast on our back patio, sharing a pot of coffee and chatting about our various plans for the day. I’d headed back to our room to shower and get dressed for my client meeting later that morning, and Darren had surprised me by following me back, and kissing me with a passion I hadn’t felt from him in weeks, if not months. The sex that had followed had been passionate and quick. He’d fallen asleep soon after, and, if I was being brutally honest, I had been left somewhat unsatisfied. It had felt great to connect with him, and I had deeply enjoyed the way he made me feel…
But I hadn’t reached climax.
Which, admittedly, I rarely did.
I shook myself out of that train of thought as Cassie stirred and sat up.
Her white-blond hair—a recessive genetic trait inherited from Darren—was loose and fine, sparking with static as she ran her hands through it, stretching with a groan.
“Still not boarding yet?” she grumbled, her voice scratchy and muzzy.
“Nope. Ten minutes or so, I suppose.”
She nodded, picked her book up off the floor, and smiled at me. “That was a good nap. Thanks.”
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You need to sleep more.”
She sighed. “I just can’t. My hours have been so crazy for so long that I just don’t know how to sleep more than four hours at a time anymore.”
She had been recruited by the troupe before she’d even graduated, which she’d done early, through insane hours of practice. She had all but literally lived in the dance studio and practice rooms, sleeping a few hours a night at most, attending classes early in the morning and dancing before, between, and after classes until late at night. And then, once hired by the company, she’d worked relentlessly to stay at the top of her game—the troupe was a competitive environment, viciously so, and to attain and retain status and seniority required constant practice and commitment.
And now she was at odds, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.
We both read in silence for a while, until the announcement for boarding blared over the PA system first in French, and then in English—“Flight DL1234 with service to Seattle, now boarding at Gate 81…”
As the first class cabin passengers lined up, Cassie and I began gathering our things, throwing away paper coffee cups and pastry bags, arranging carry-ons and purses, tucking books and magazines away.
In another fifteen minutes, we were seated in our business economy seats—her by the window, me in the middle, a middle-aged man on the aisle.
It wasn’t until we were in the air that Cassie turned to me. “Mom, are you mad that I’m moving back in with you?”
I frowned at her. “Of course not! What kind of a question is that, Cassandra?”
She shrugged. “Poppy only left for Columbia last year, and you just moved to Ketchikan.” She eyed me. “Would you tell me if you were?”
