Fourteen
Helen types Grant’s address into her car GPS, even though she knows she could get there by memory from years of school-bus routes still mapped in her brain. Eastbound on Route 22, then up the mountain, past Washington Rock, past the cul-de-sac of newly developed (now not-so-new) homes, just after the stop sign on the right.
She rings the doorbell and she can tell by the bright way that Mrs. Shepard greets her, Grant has already told her who to expect.
“It’s so good to have you here,” Lisa (she insists!) says. “Grant’s just washing upstairs. Can I take your coat?”
Helen tries not to gawk at the interior of this old Victorian. It looks vaguely familiar for a place she’s never been—she remembers seeing the lush peacock wallpaper in the drawing room (“aren’t we fancy!”) in the background of photos of parties she never went to, on Facebook. There’s an antique umbrella stand near the front and a cheerful little plaque that reads, “God bless this home with love and happiness.” This is where Grant Shepard comes from.
She washes her hands in the downstairs bathroom and studies herself in the mirror. She’s thankful that she woke up in a mood to accessorize—the black sweater dress is on the casual side, but the gold necklace and earrings save it from being too much of a lazy funeral vibe. She pulls her long hair back into a ponytail with a scrunchie after some debate. Then she texts her parents—
At dinner with friends, don’t wait up.
Grant is helping set the table when she walks in. He’s wearing an old Dunollie Warriors crew-neck sweatshirt that she has too, buried somewhere in the back of her closet.
“Can I help?” she asks, gripping a chair for something to do with her hands.
“No, no,” Lisa says, bringing over a steaming platter of green beans. “You’re our guest. Oh! Wine. We need a good wine.”
Lisa disappears into the kitchen and Grant grins at Helen lazily.
“She’s going to bring back the good stuff she’s been saving,” he says.
“Oh no, tell her not to—”
“We have to get rid of it before she moves anyway,” he says. “And she doesn’t like drinking alone.”
“Here we are,” she says, and returns with two bottles. “A nice red, but also, I found this lovely white while I was rummaging around and I thought, why not.”
Grant rolls his eyes. “Helen will think we’re trying to get her drunk, Mom.”
“Well, if she does get drunk, she can take a nice nap on the couch,” Lisa says, with a roguish wink. “That’s what I do when I’ve overindulged.”
Over the course of roast potatoes, green beans, leftover pot roast, and a surprise bottle of port that comes out before dessert, Helen learns more about Lisa Shepard than she’s ever known about Grant himself. She tells them about the sheep farms in Ireland that she’s been researching and how she’s narrowed her choice down to two likely options. One that’s a longer commitment and a bit farther from the parts of Ireland she’s interested in; another that’s a shorter commitment but maybe that’s a blessing in disguise—“You never know what could be waiting for you at the end of an opportunity rainbow.” Lisa tells Helen about her childhood in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and growing up as the girl next door to the Shepard brothers. “Very handsome, very in demand.” She reminisces about her wedding, and brightens when she remembers she found her old bridal portrait in the basement the other day.
“One second,” she says, and dashes downstairs.
Helen glances at Grant and can’t help laughing at his pained expression.
“Sorry,” he says. “She doesn’t get to talk to new people very often anymore.”
“She’s charming,” Helen says. “I see how you learned to talk to people.”
“I’m good at getting other people to talk,” Grant says. “She’s good at talking about herself. There’s a difference.”
Lisa reemerges with a framed photo of herself on her wedding day, in a Victorian-revival gown with puffed sleeves and a lace collar. “That was the style back then,” she says. “I remember feeling like the prettiest girl in Bucks County that morning.”
“You were a beautiful bride,” Helen says honestly.
“Mm.” Lisa nods, staring fondly at the photo. “I was a picture. Which ended up in the basement! Ha! That’s where these things end up sometimes.”
Grant sighs audibly and Lisa laughs at him.
“He’s embarrassed,” she says. “It’s so nice to be able to embarrass him. It’s been ages since he brought any of his friends over.”
“Mom, can we wrap up the show-and-tell before midnight?”
Lisa looks at the old clock in the corner and claps her hands. “Oh my god, it’s after nine! Well, time flies when you have good company.”
“And three bottles of wine,” Grant mutters under his breath, and Helen laughs.
“Helen, do you want some decaf before you get on the road?”
Helen presses her hand to her cheeks, feeling a flush of warmth from the wine. “That would be great, Mrs. Shepard.”
Grant glances at her warily when Lisa leaves the room.
“You shouldn’t drive. My mom practically poured a gallon of alcohol down your throat.”
Helen lays her head down on her linen placemat, feeling a warm kind of sleepy.
“Yeah, why’d you let her do that?” she yawns, and her eyes drift shut of their own volition.
Grant laughs—it’s a familiar rumble now.
“I’ll give you a ride once you’re more sober. You can get your car in the morning.”
Helen opens one eye and squints at him. “Such a sturdy oak.”
“Mom, bring the coffee upstairs,” he shouts into the kitchen, then leans over to rap the table in front of her. “Come on, if you fall asleep, I can’t give you the grand tour.”
They walk up the stairs slowly, ostensibly to look at the old family photos and framed childhood paintings on the wall, but also because Grant wants to be sure she doesn’t tumble over the railing, forcing him to explain the unexpected death of a second Zhang sister on his watch.
“You grew up in my childhood dream,” Helen murmurs as he leads her past the lounge area on the second floor. “I begged and begged my parents for an old house like this.”
“It’s not as romantic as you think it is,” Grant says. “None of the doors fit their frames, the heating system sounds like four ghosts ate a cat, and it’s colder than a witch’s titty in the mornings this time of year.”
Helen cackles, then pushes past him into the next room.
“This is your room,” she says with slight amazement. She looks around with such naked enthusiasm, he feels an urge to take a picture of her—unvarnished Helen. “You have a whole couch in it.”
“Yep,” he says, leaning against the doorway as she inspects his bookcase.
“A lot of sci-fi,” she says, scanning his paperback collection.
“Hard fantasy,” he corrects reflexively.
She laughs, then glances up at him with a suggestive smile. “Dirty.”
He feels something twist in his stomach and turns instead to a box by the bed.
“This might be interesting to you.” He pulls out a thick, leather-bound yearbook. “I think there’s even an issue of the Ampersand in there.”
“You’re kidding,” Helen says, and hurries over.
“Knock knock,” his mom says, and they both look over at the door. Lisa holds a silver platter with a pot of coffee and cups. “Oh, you found your old yearbook—how fun!”
“Mom,” he says.
“I’ll leave this right here,” she says, and sets it down beside the couch. “Have a good night.”
She pulls the door half shut behind her. Grant shuts it affirmatively. He tries to ignore the mounting headache that’s been building since dinner, watching his mother reveal layer after layer of their home life to Helen. What did you expect when you invited her? Why would you bring her here? Grant ignores that too, as Helen flounces onto the couch with the yearbook.
“I don’t even know where mine is,” she says, tossing her legs across the couch cushions casually.
His fingers itch with a strange need to squeeze her stockinged calf. He nudges her over and sits on the opposite end of the couch instead, so her head is next to his thigh. She seems to interpret this as a transitional position and shifts back again until her head rests in his lap.
Well, fuck. His hands hover awkwardly for a moment as she adjusts her grip on the yearbook so they can both see it. Finally, his left hand settles in her hair, while his right hand steadies the yearbook.
“Oof, we really over-tweezed our eyebrows back then,” she murmurs, flipping through pages of senior portraits.
His thumb sweeps along her temple, barely grazing her eyebrow.
“Looks like yours grew back all right,” he says, and he feels the rumble of her laughter.
“There you are,” she says, flicking his senior portrait.
“Hm,” he says, and watches his fingertips slowly scrape through her hair. She closes her eyes and exhales with a contented little “hmmph” and he forces his fingers to stop before he does something stupid.
“Flip to the extracurriculars section. My arms are tired,” she says, nodding at the yearbook.
He takes the yearbook and dutifully flips the pages for her. She uses her freed hands to release her hair from its velvet scrunchie, then leans back into his lap and takes the book from him.
His left hand resettles of its own volition in her hair. This time his fingertips comb through and massage her scalp.
“I hated my outfit in this picture,” she says, studying a group photo of the school newspaper club. “My sister borrowed the shirt I was going to wear.”
“You looked cute anyway,” he says, his voice sounding gravelly.
Helen laughs and looks up at him. “That would have made my year, if you’d said that to me back then.”
Grant smiles and tips her chin back down to the yearbook. His right hand lingers there, then settles and brushes the knuckle of his index finger back and forth along her jawline. It might be his imagination, but he thinks she leans into his touch like a cat starved for affection.
She flips the pages until she finds the student council photos.
“There you are again,” she murmurs.
“Here I am,” he agrees, and his knuckles brush past her jawline to skate down her neck, lingering at her fluttering pulse point. He doesn’t imagine it this time—she leans in and rubs her cheek against the inside of his wrist.
“Do you remember what you ran your campaign on?”
“No,” he says, his breath caught as he drags the backs of his fingers along her face, sweeping light contact against her skin and lifting just before her lips.
“I do,” she murmurs, and the movement brings her full bottom lip in contact with the edge of his thumb.
He swallows, his thumb lingering just between her top and bottom lip.
“What?” he asks, unsure what they’re talking about.
She drags her lower lip along the side of his thumb and suddenly he’s never been so hard in his life. It’d be embarrassing if he wasn’t so turned on. She turns her face slightly and presses a slow, warm kiss over the top of his thumb. What the fuck.
“You said you’d reform the parking space lottery, and raise funds for new Astroturf on the football field.”
She looks up at him and he swallows hard.
“Oh,” he says.
He drags his thumb down past her lips and settles it at her collarbone instead, trying to cool the mounting hot tension in his gut.
“I interviewed your campaign manager for the paper,” Helen is saying, and he can barely make sense of the words. She taps at a girl in the group photo. “I think she had a thing for you.”
His hand expands and contracts at the base of her collarbone, flirting with the inch of skin just below the neck of her sweater dress.
“You could have interviewed me,” he says, his voice rough.
She shakes her head slowly and he thinks it would take a miracle for her not to feel his pressing erection through the denim.
“You didn’t get back to me in time,” she sighs. “I was on a deadline.”
“Poor Helen,” he says, and his right hand has entirely given up the pretense of respectability and is now slowly running a rogue finger under her left bra strap. He stays on the path of the elastic, as if this proves something. “Always on a deadline.”
“Grant,” she says, with a whiny rasp to her voice that he suddenly discovers is the sexiest noise in the entire goddamn world.
“Hm?” He draws slow circles along the outside of her shoulder. Circle, circle, dot, dot.
She laughs. “Do the hair thing again,” she murmurs.
He slowly removes his right hand from the fabric of her sweater and pulls both of his hands through her scalp.
“That feels so good,” she whispers.
He doesn’t trust himself to respond and focuses instead on adding pressure as he runs his fingertips along her scalp again.
She drops the heavy yearbook on her chest, and one of her hands reaches up, her fingertips seeking out the side of his face.
He tilts his head and tries not to audibly groan at the feeling of her warm palm against his stubble. Her fingers drift innocently toward his lips, and he can’t help expelling a short, low laugh. He brushes a quick kiss against her index finger, then she drags the rest along his mouth just so, lingering long enough for him to kiss the tip of each finger.
He can’t resist pulling her pinkie into his mouth and running his tongue along its underside.
She taps an admonishing finger against his lips as soon as he releases it, as if he’s broken some unspoken rule.
He laughs and mutters, “Sorry.”
He takes the opportunity to kiss the inside of her palm, and she pulls her hand away. She grabs his own hands instead, and uses them to pull him down just enough so he’s hovering over her. Her eyes are closed, but he’s pretty sure by the rapid tattoo of her pulse that she’s just as awake as he is.
She takes a few slow, staggering inhales and exhales. The furious beat of blood in his veins slows down just enough to register her quiet sigh.
“Can I sleep here?” she asks, as his thumbs keep brushing against her skin. Back and forth, back and forth.
“If you want to,” he says, his voice a low gravel. He waits for a response, but none arrives. He feels her pulse again—it’s slow and steady; she might already be asleep. “I’ll get you a blanket.”
He tilts his head back against the wall for a second. Get a grip, Shepard. Then he slides her gently off his lap and stands. Down, boy. He downs a cup of cold decaf coffee, then walks down the hall to the upstairs bathroom. He finds a blanket in the closet and walks back to his room.
He frowns, confused, at the Helen-shaped indent on the couch. A thud downstairs brings his attention to the window, and his eyes adjust to the dark just in time to see her car pulling out of his driveway.
Well, fuck.
Grant shuts the door and drops the blankets on the couch. He notices a soft scrap of black velvet on the cushion—her scrunchie.
He leans over the couch and fumbles with his zipper until he releases himself. He shuts his eyes and strokes as he thinks of silky hair, Grant, do the hair thing again, that feels so good, soft trailing fingers, sorry, full lips and the barest hint of a tongue dragging against his thumb, that feels so good—
He comes with a quick, shuddering gasp, panting over the couch as his orgasm rocks through him.
. . . Fuck.