I cringe now. But that was six years ago, and Becca was my first everything. We’ve learned so much about each other since then. And Becca was so appreciative of me saying what I wanted. After that, she was like a house on fire.
How could I be mad about any of that?
The note in front of me reads, “I want to do it like that tonight. Exactly the same. Except without the trespassing charges.”
My wife has me right where she wants me. That hard rod inside my jeans aches, pressing against my zipper. And it’s likely going to stay like that for the rest of the day.
Dirty notes or sexting at lunchtime are nothing new. But Becca’s different.
I love her for using college-rule paper, ripped from a notebook and folded up tight five or six times. It feels like passing notes in high school, which makes it feel extra nice and dirty. And there’s always a sketch. I’m not talking about crude dick doodles. I mean a real, thought-out, skilled pencil sketch. Today’s image is a set of glossy, parted lips. A little swollen. A hint of tongue in the shadow in between. Smeared lipstick. Not just any lips. Those are Becca’s lips, and they are lifelike. Fucking eager.
My heart kicks. My already sweaty body feels ten degrees hotter now.
Folding up the note, I carefully slide it into my overstuffed wallet. Eventually, I’ll need to do something with all these notes. Like a scrapbook or something. Or maybe an individual gilded frame for each one on our bedroom wall.
Becca would kill me. So, I have to do it at some point, just for a laugh. But it’s not funny. She’s incredibly talented, and I want her to see what I see.
The only thing worse than ending lunch break with an erection is ending lunch break with an erection and an empty stomach. So I rip through my lunch, futilely hoping that maybe two ham and bacon sandwiches, a bag of Doritos, and three chocolate chip cookies will take my mind off what Becca just did to me, and ease the throb. But when I finish off my lunch, I’mstill going out of my mind. I wash it all down with the rest of my soda and stare out at the scenery.
It’s a shit assignment, but it pays well, and at least there are trees and mountains everywhere you look.
This gets me thinking…wouldn’t it be more fun to hide away in a mountain cabin for two weeks? No, it’s not all-inclusive, but I like cooking alongside Becca. We rarely get to do it except on weekends when her boss doesn’t make her come in.
Cooking pancakes for ourselves would be fun. Hell, I’d even eat a salad if Becca made it, if it meant I wasn’t expected to be social with other people besides her. I think on a cruise you’re supposed to see other people and do activities other than staying in your cabin, giving each other rim jobs. Lame.
Maybe someday we’ll do the cabin thing. Or a beach house. Becca likes beaches more than she likes the woods. Right now, though, the cruise is being paid for by Becca’s dad, so I’m just showing up and doing what I’m supposed to do.
And I’m not rocking that boat. I do what I have to do to get along with this family.
Whatever. In the end, I’ll be married to the best woman there is. Doesn’t matter to me where we get married, or where we honeymoon, as long as we’re together, and away from her meddling parents once and for all.
Two
Becca
My mother calls me at work with bad news.
“Supposedly, the champagne roses won’t be here in time. The woman on the phone said the best they could do was blue hydrangeas.”
“Blue hydrangeas are nice,” I say, pretending I know things about flowers.
But if I had to choose between roses and hydrangeas, hydrangeas win. Nothing against roses, but champagne? Isn’t that just beige?
I have the phone propped precariously on top of the stacks of folders I’m carrying into the working lunch at Gamble, Gamble & Gamble, the ridiculously named, family-owned law firm where I work as a legal assistant in Black Mountain. I don’t love the commute, but it pays well for someone with only a high school diploma and a quick executive assistant certification.
My mother’s calls about the wedding have become so frequent that I’ve had to use my earbuds to talk quietly so it doesn’t appear that I’m on personal calls all day at work.
I should ignore her, but she’ll just call again, even after I’ve told her I can’t answer phone calls at work. And also, if I don’t answer, she’ll make decisions without me. Not that I have the brain space for more decisions, but her tastes are…just not my thing.
To be fair to my mother, though, it is pretty close to the time I usually take a lunch break, and she has no way of knowing that the senior partners have called a last-minute “working lunch” meeting.
My mother scoffs. “Well, I told her not to even think about it. Not for this wedding. Hydrangeas!”
So why are you calling about this, if you don’t need my input on this little snag? I want to ask.
I trudge into the conference room and start passing around folders to everyone already seated around the table.
The meeting hasn’t officially begun yet, but it’s time to wrap it up this call.