Sins of September (15 page)

I wipe a tear from my cheek as I fold the rest of Jesse’s work clothes and take them to his room to put away neatly in his dresser drawers.

I eye the bed—his bed where we first slept, and then made love and then slept again—naked, wrapped up in each other all night long. I know that in time, maybe sooner than I think, some other woman will spread her legs for him in that bed.

A pang of jealousy rips through me. And then another.

I put the last of his tee shirts away and see the box of condoms in the drawer. There’s about a half dozen left and I consider tossing them in the trash.

That would be too obvious, not to mention immature.

Then my sneaky side urges me to take a safety pin and poke holes through the wrapper to make miniscule pinholes in the condom and let Jesse play Russian roulette with the next bitch in his bed.

I’m able to resist
that
temptation too, though it’s a bit more difficult than the one where I simply trash them all.

I leave his room, shutting the door behind me, and decide a cold, cold shower is in order.

I come awake realizing it’s the middle of the night and I’ve been sleeping quite peacefully.

Then I realize Jesse has come to my bed. He’s beside me, his fingers tracing a slow, leisurely trail down the column of my neck, then lower, where the swell of my breasts start and I feel him slide the strap of my cotton camisole aside to allow his fingers access.

I play possum but I know I won’t be able to for very long because every place his skin touches mine feels as if some high-voltage electric current is coursing through it.

His thumb and forefinger capture a nipple, squeezing and rolling it until I feel the warmth of his tongue, circling it and nipping lightly at it with his teeth. I fail to suppress a moan.

“I knew you were awake,” he whispers huskily, his lips now peppering me with soft kisses. His mouth possesses mine and I can taste whiskey—at least I think that’s what it is. I know it’s not beer and Jesse occasionally drinks a Jim Beam on the rocks.

Something tells me this time he’s had more than just one or two. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” he asks, chuckling as he now removes my camisole from me entirely. I’m not resisting but my inner, mature voice is telling me that I should.

What the hell? I’m
eighteen
for Chrissake. And this is Jesse and I want him as badly as he wants me at the moment.

It seems as if the Jim Beam has caused him to grow more hands because they’re everywhere, covering every inch of me and his lips and tongue are quick to follow.

“Jesse—” I manage to squeak out. “Maybe we should . . .”

“Hush,” he silences me with his mouth on mine, his tongue parting my lips and possessing mine in a way they never have before. “I’ve missed you, September. You’re not leaving me,” he whispers hoarsely before moving downward, his tongue tracing a hot path across my belly, his fingers plucking at my panties, moving them down over my hips so that he has full access to my heat.

“Yes, I am,” I reply with some finality in my voice. “I
am
leaving.”

“No you’re not,” he insists, his fingers now teasing the folds of my sex, as his tongue continues its sweet assault. I’m determined not to play into this with him. My fingers are clutching the bottom sheet, my knuckles blanching as I grip it to keep myself from touching him back. I won’t give in to this lust, if I can’t push him away, I sure as hell won’t pull him closer. Then it’s on him—not me, or at least that’s the rationale my teen-age mind concludes since I’m enjoying every single thing he’s doing to my body.

His tongue is now lapping the folds of my pussy and I’m drenched for him. Despite my earlier resolve, soft moans of pleasure pass over my lips, and my head rolls from side to side as the electric impulses centered on my swollen clit are now permeating through the rest of my body. I whimper softly.

“What darlin’? Did you miss this?”

“No,” I lie, gritting my teeth.

He laughs and stops what he’s doing and I want to scream for him to keep it going. “You lie,” he murmurs going back to continue feasting on my pussy, licking up the juices that he’s brought to the surface. My skin is moist and tingles with the heat of his mouth.

I moan again. Louder.

“Mmm, you taste so fucking fine. I need to bury my cock in your sweetness, baby. Please let me, September? Since you’re leaving at all, how about one last time?”

He’s fucking with me I realize, because he doesn’t believe that I’m really leaving. He’s toying with me like some simple-minded adolescent that’s just tossed a random threat out there for attention.

He doesn’t see what he does to me; he is ignorant to the depth of my feelings for him because Jesse’s forgotten how to trust love after Mama. But that’s on him—not me.

And then I remember that Jesse was my age when he took up with her. It occurs to me that at eighteen Jesse felt that he knew about love, so why does he not understand that I do as well? Why is he blind to the obvious parallel that exists?

“Do you love me, Jesse?” I ask in the darkness.

He stops what he’s doing and I wonder if that one question coming from my lips at this moment has brought some sobriety to him, or if he’ll continue being an asshole that just wants some pussy.

“I-I care deeply for you. Can’t you see that?”

“That’s not the
same
thing. Did you love Mama?”

“Fuucck,” he growls. “What the hell?”

“Answer me.”

“Yeah, okay? Yeah I loved her. I loved her with all my
fucking
heart. But you already knew that.”

“Do you still love her?”

“Why are you asking me this shit?” he says, clearly pissed.

“Because I want the
truth.
It’s one thing for you to lay with me and not love me; I mean people do that
all
the time, right? I can handle it. But it’s a totally different thing if you lay with me and you still love her, because that—well
that
I just won’t have.”

“Christ—I guess you
are
more woman than teenager. You fucking already know how to suck the wind out of a passionate moment with all kinds of feminine complications, don’t you?”

He rises up from the bed and sits on the edge of it, running his hands through his thick mass of hair. “The truth is I don’t know how I feel about your ma. I know that when she first took off, I was mad as hell. I hated her with a passion. But you’ll learn that ‘hate’ is almost never what it seems to be at the time you’re feeling it. I mean, it’s usually a mixture of a bunch of emotions that you label as being hate. So when that was gone, there was just confusion, regret and some loneliness tossed in, along with some resentment. Do you understand?”

I shake my head because I don’t.

“It’s like this,” he continues, “I look at Scout and there’s no way in hell that I could ever hate or even not
love
the person that brought my baby girl into this world. I don’t understand why Libby did what she did. I carry some of that guilt for things between your ma and me that you didn’t even know about back then, all right? But I
can
tell you this: she loved you and she loved Scout. And the fact that she’s not made contact is puzzling to me because no matter what she felt for me, she loved you girls. So, I guess I’m saying I can’t judge her not knowing the circumstances. Do I love her? I always will. She was my first love, and she’ll always have a place in my heart. But I’m not
in love
with her. Not anymore.”

I’m not sure if I should feel better or worse hearing this, but I settle on feeling no different. “I
am
leaving, Jesse. It’s the right thing to do for all of us.”

“Why?” he asks, and in the darkened room, I can still see his face and his eyes and it’s breaking my heart.

“Why should I stay?” I ask.

“Because Scout needs you.”

I turn away, my hand is feeling around for my camisole that he removed from me earlier and I find it.

“And because I need you too.”

Need. Not Love.

Need.

He pulls me close again, thinking those words will melt me, change my mind, as if those words are enough compared to what I’ve said to him more than once.

They’re not enough. Not even fucking close.

“Remember the summer when I was seven years old, Jesse? And the other kids in the trailer park were making fun of me because I couldn’t ride the two-wheeler that Santa had brought me for Christmas?”

He pulls back, studying me through shuttered lashes. “What the hell made you think about that?”

I continue on, wanting to see his reaction. “I just remember how patient you were—and how relentless too. You spent almost a full Saturday teaching me how to ride my bicycle. You took those training wheels off, and said, “Enough of this shit, girl. It’s time for you to toss these and learn how to ride this bike.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he murmurs.

“And so I did. From that day forward, I didn’t need those training wheels, and it was because of you.”

I pull my top on over my head, and bring my knees up under my chin. “I don’t want you to need me like some crutch—something to get you through the night, some substitute or worse yet, some reminder of Mama. I want you to love and need me as a woman, someone that you’re not ashamed of being with.”

“Is that what you think?” he asks.

“That’s the way it is . . . for now,” I reply. “That’s the reason that I need to leave.” And then I tell him everything that occurred with Casey back in October.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure. Maybe it was because I thought you’d freak out and send me on my way yourself. I guess I needed to see things for what they were, and to come to the decision myself as to what was best for everyone, and this is it.”

He nods. And it’s quiet for several minutes.

Uncomfortably quiet as he rests his face in the palms of his hands, his fingers massaging his forehead.

“This is happening too fast,” he murmurs. “I need time to think this through, and to trust my instincts. Jesus Christ, you bringing up the past doesn’t help. I don’t ever want people to think what we have is . . . I don’t know—perverted? Ugly?”

“I feel the same way,” I reply softly.

He looks away, fighting the turmoil of emotions we share at this moment. “Look, you need to do what you think is best. I’m just fucked up at the moment. I’m sorry.”

I knew that he’d not fight it once given the facts. I find comfort in knowing that I made the decision of my own accord, and it never got to the point where Jesse was put in that position.

And he gets up and quietly leaves my room, closing the door softly behind him.

Scout and I put a fantastic Thanksgiving meal on the table at two o’clock the following afternoon. Despite Jesse’s slight hangover and general sheepishness over the activities of the previous night, he did really well in the praise department, and Scout virtually beams at his praise.

“September says that I need to start learning how to cook and stuff,” she says, piling mashed potatoes on her plate. “She said Mama and Gram are the ones that taught her, and she’s going to be the one to teach me so when I’m her age, I can cook and bake just as good as she does.”

“Well I don’t know about
all
of that,” I reply, feeling my cheeks warm under Jesse’s piercing gaze, “But I think you did well with the dressing and salad, Scout.”

Jesse is quiet as he starts carving the turkey. “What’s for dessert?” he asks, “A lesson in separating the lights from the darks for doing the laundry?”

My head snaps up to look at him, totally caught off-guard by his remark.

“Nooo,” Scout says giggling, “We have pumpkin pie, Dad.”

I drop my napkin, scoot my chair back and go to the kitchen, tears threatening to spill.

He’s making fun of me!

All I’m trying to do is help Scout learn things along the way—like I did. She doesn’t have any females around to help her.

I go to the sink and turn on the spigot so they think I had a purpose for coming in here. I stick a glass under it letting it fill.

I feel him come up behind me. He shuts the water off, and turns me around to face him.

“I’m sorry for that,” he says, “I’m not trying to poke fun at you. Shit! I’m not sure why I’m such an ass. I’m fucked-up, September. I’m totally fucked-up over this.”

“I’m glad,” I say, smiling. “And I know
that’s
fucked-up, but I’m glad anyway.”

He pulls me to him, and kisses me on the forehead. I feel the relaxation seep in to both of us, as we both release a sigh. “Don’t leave me,” he says simply.

I’m ready to carry this conversation further, but Scout’s voice invades the moment.

“Are you guys okay?”

She’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a frown creasing her forehead. “Are you guys mad at each other?”

I pull away from Jesse, kind of amazed that Scout doesn’t think there is anything strange with him hugging me. Probably because she’s so used to having him hug her. He’s an affectionate father to Scout, and being nine years old, she doesn’t understand the difference.

“No,” Jesse reassures her. “I was just acting like a butthead.”

“You do that sometimes, Dad,” Scout tells him in a very serious tone.

He laughs, mussing her hair and she follows him back to the dinner table where we enjoy our Thanksgiving dinner.

Afterwards, Scout and I guilt Jesse into cleaning up the kitchen and he does it without much arm-twisting. She and I play a game of checkers while watching
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
until Jesse comes in and commandeers the television for football.

Scout is immediately bored and goes to her room to play with her Barbie dollhouse. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do so I decide to give football a chance even though I don’t know much about it.

Jesse is more than happy to give me a crash course on the basics of professional football, and by half-time of the second game, I’m pretty good at calling the penalties by reading the hand signals given by referees.

“I’m impressed,” Jesse says with a grin as I call out a “Clipping” penalty. “You’re a quick learn, September.”