Page 47 of Beautiful Crazy
“Okay, but wait,” Charley says, head turning in my direction. “Was their orgasm-inducing fun?”
Suddenly, both of their eyes are locked on mine, and I feel my cheeks heat all over again. Huffing out a laugh, I reluctantly nod before diving into telling them all about the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.
The one I can’t stop thinking about.
The one I desperately want to happen again, but my body had to go and fuck it all up by sending me to the hospital, putting an appendix-sized wrench in my plans.
Twenty
Everett
I’m elbow deep in grading papers, a glass of wine beside me, and music playing from the old record player I found in my grandma’s closet earlier this week.
Elvis Presley.Her favorite.
I remember as a kid—I’m not sure how old I was, but I know it was young because she was still living in Seattle—I would spend the night at her house some weekends, and we’d lie in her bed, listening to song after song of his play. She’d tell me little facts she knew about him, or recite memories she had that certain songs brought back.
Those days spent with her taught me such a rich appreciation for music, one that I’ve carried with me my entire life. These past couple of days, I find myself missing her more. Which I don’t really understand. After she moved to Blossom Beach when I was younger, we weren’t insanelyclose or anything. We talked, sure, but it wasn’t an everyday—or even every week—thing.
Grief works in weird ways, I suppose.
I find myself wanting to reach out to my father, which makes even less sense than my missing her because what the hell is he going to do? Chastise me some more for moving across the country and tell me I’m being childish for having feelings? Once I got old enough to realize I’m never going to please him, I stopped wanting to be around him. Sure, the incessant need to please him never went away, but the wanting to be around him, spend time with him, make memories with him, that all went away. So, why now, in the face of death, do I suddenly want to mend this relationship?
About halfway through this stack of papers, a knock sounds from the door. Glancing at the watch on my wrist, I note it’s after eight in the evening.
Who would be at my door this late?
Flicking the deadbolt and opening the door, I’m surprised to find Sutton standing on the other side of it in a pair of pajamas and wet hair.
“What’s up, buddy?” I step onto the porch and glance around, seeing if Gemma is out here too. I know she got home from the hospital today. I’ve spent the entire day wanting to text and check on her, but talking myself out of it because I’m sure she’s overwhelmed as it is, and I don’t want to add to that stress. Not seeing her, unease unfurls low in my gut as I ask, “Is everything okay?”
“Um…” He runs a hand through the wet strands atop his head, looking down at his feet before back up at me again. “I don’t think my mom is feeling okay, but I don’t think she wants to ask for help.”
“Why do you think she doesn’t want to ask for help?”
“Because she told me she was fine, like, twelve times when I checked on her in the room, and she had a washcloth covering her eyes and the lights off.”
“Want me to come check on her?” I ask, my pulse racing, concern clutching at my chest. The procedure she had was simple enough, but who knows the kinds of things that can go wrong. He nods, chewing on his bottom lip. “Okay, hang on.”
Quickly, I swipe my phone off the table next to the mess that is my work, slip into a pair of shoes, and meet Sutton on the porch.
“Aside from the washcloth covering her eyes, what do you think is wrong with her?”
“She’s not eating much,” he says, peering up at me. “And her skin looks whiter than normal.”
“Hey.” Pressing a hand to his shoulder, I kneel until I’m eye level with him. “Your mom had surgery a couple days ago, and that means they took something out of her body, right?” He nods. “I think it’s pretty normal for her to not be eating as much as she usually does and for her to look a little pale, but I’m going to check on her, make sure everything is looking good, but I’m sure your mom is fine, okay?” He nods again, this time with tears in his eyes. Lip quivering, he chomps down on it, sniffling. “Moms are strong, much stronger than you think. So, try not to let your mind wander too much, bud, because I’m sure she’s A-okay.”
My heart breaks as the first tear falls. I’m sure it’s so scary being his age, and seeing his mom not feeling well.
“How can I help you feel better?” I ask. “Do you need a hug? A fist bump? A high five? What can I do?”
Sutton’s voice cracks as he says, “A hug, please.”
My arm is out, and I’m hauling him into my chest before I know it, and he clings to me as his shoulders shake with his cries. It’s not but a minute before he pulls back, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Thank you.” He offers me a sad smile.
Mussing up the hair on the top of his head, I offer him a smile back before we head inside. It feels like I’m intruding on her space, and my stomach clenches as we walk down the hall toward her bedroom. If she’s not feeling well, the last thing she probably wants is her neighbor stomping into her bedroom, poking his nose around. But if I can do even one thing to help dry the eyes of the boy who’s following behind me, I will.