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“Anna...” My name is a plea on his lips as he writhes. “Baby... Please, I’m going to...”
I run my palm along the amor-plate of muscle that is his belly, and he releases with a sharp cry.
It’s warm and viscous and salty sweet. I’ve never done this before, staying with a guy to the very end. But with Drew, I drink him down. Until he goes soft and helpless in my mouth. And I know that I am in deep, dark waters. Because, although this feels like addiction, I’m not so sure it is anymore.
twelve
Anna
I need perspective. I need to remember why keeping my resolve is a good plan. I need to go home. Mom’s off on Mondays. Fuck it; I’m skipping class.
I give her a call to let her know I’m coming. It’s a perfect autumn morning when I climb on my Vespa and head toward my mother’s house. The scooter isn’t very practical; I can’t use the highway and must stick to back roads. I know I’ll catch hell from my mom yet again for driving it to her house. But I love the feel of air rushing over me, and the ability to weave in and out of traffic.
Even so, it would be smart to trade my scooter in and buy a car. I don’t like driving the Vespa in rain, and the winter months flat-out suck. I have some savings—hell, my mom would buy a car for me, she hates the scooter so much.
Indecision regarding my scooter fills my thoughts, and I’m happy about that. It keeps me from thinking about other things, other people. Soon enough, I’m pulling up in front of the house I grew up in. It’s a 1920s colonial made of Georgia red brick.
I love this house, with its five windows along the top floor and four windows, two each flanking the red center door, on the ground floor. I love that somehow it managed to escape the dreaded Tara-style front porch that so many southern homes try to emulate.
It’s a simple, unpretentious house. And though the front walk has always been clean and inviting, I’ve never really used it, choosing to go in through the side door instead.
I pull up into the carport, parking next to my mother’s ancient blue Mercedes. She’s had the car as long as she’s had me. Just looking at it fills me with a sense of homecoming, as does the smell of old brick and decaying crepe myrtle flowers.
Through the window, I spot Mom at the stove. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t aged. Then again, my mom never seems to age. She’s magically preserved. Slim and fit, she wears sky blue silk lounge pants and a thin cream cashmere sweater. Her glossy black hair tumbles artfully around her shoulders, and she gives it an impatient flick as she pulls the old battered moka pot off the stove.
Although my mother is a southern lady, she’s also a doctor and second-generation Italian, which means I’m getting a cappuccino and fruit for breakfast instead of biscuits and gravy. Her one concession might be some fresh low-fat scones.
She turns as I open the door, and her heart-shaped face brightens. “Banana!”
Mom hurries over to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I’m surrounded by the scent of lavender that she favors. “How has my baby been?”
“Good.” It’s the only answer I can think to give.
With a nod, she sways back to the moka pot and proceeds to pour thick, rich coffee into a waiting cup half filled with heated milk. The scent is homey and mouthwatering. If I could just once achieve my mother’s coffee perfection, I’d be a happy girl indeed.
“Come,” she urges. “Let’s sit and talk.”
She places the cup next to a set place, complete with linen napkin. Freshly cut melons, strawberries, and raspberries wait in a crystal bowl. This is my mom at her finest. Warning bells ring in my mind. More so when she turns and pulls a tray of hot scones from the oven. Those do not look low-fat.
“So,” she says as she serves me a scone and doles out some fruit. “Anything new going on?”
This is standard fare. Mom doesn’t like to pry, but at least she’s interested in my life. I think she’d be less gracious about it, however, if I told her that I’ve been fucking the star quarterback in my bedroom. My cheeks heat as I take a sip of coffee. God, that’s good.
I close my eyes and savor the flavor. “I’ve missed you, Mom.” I don’t know where that came from, but it’s the truth.
Silence falls over me, and I open my eyes. Her eyes, so like mine in shape but a deep, dark brown, stare at me. “Is something wrong, Banana?”
I shrug and take another needed sip. “Can’t a girl miss her mother?”
“Of course she can.” She cups my cheek with her cool hand. My mom’s skin is always cool. “Only, I know my baby and something’s upsetting you.”
Sighing, I start in on my scone. I was right. This is not low-fat, and it’s my favorite orange and lemon flavor. There’s even fresh butter on the table, soft and waiting for me to dive in. I slather some on a section of scone before popping it into my mouth. Heaven.
“I’m fine. Happy.” And though doubt assails me on a constant basis, I am happy.
The truth slaps so hard that I flinch in my seat. I’m happy. I awake filled with anticipation. Fight sleep to keep the feeling close to me. Why can’t I enjoy it? Accept it? God, what a fucked-up mess I am.
“Mom—”
