his calves. His yelp of protest makes her giggle. In seconds, he’s turning to face her, tickling until they’re both breathing too hard.
That isn’t all that’s too hard. The press of his erection on her thigh is too familiar to deny. And it’s Christmas, Effie thinks when they move together, when he kisses her, when he slides inside her. How could she say no to him at Christmas?
Because the “no” is on its way, and she feels it every time he tries to hold her hand. A few days ago, Effie got some mail addressed to “Mrs. Heath Shaw” despite never having signed up for anything, ever, using anything close to his last name. They’ve been living together in this apartment for nearly four years, and what had been meant as a temporary solution has started to feel far too permanent. Still, it’s Christmas Day, and she lets the pleasure overtake her because it’s too hard to resist him even without the shiny lights and promise of something special under the tree.
Heath slides a hand between them to stroke her in time to his thrusts. He’s close, she can tell, but he’s holding back to make sure she gets off first. It’s perfect. She can’t stop it. Heath’s touch is magic, it’s fire, it’s fireworks and jingle bells. She comes with a low cry into his kiss, and Heath laughs, so pleased to have done that for her that he joins her in the moment after.
They sprawl in silence for a few minutes. She times the spacing of her breathing to his. Their hands are linked. He’s falling asleep, but Effie is wide-awake.
It would be so easy to stay here with him and Polly in this tiny, bordering-on-decrepit apartment. Easy to keep struggling through school and work and raise this child with him. But what would not be easy is this, the linking of their fingers and the sound of his breathing next to her in bed. Love is not easy, Effie thinks as she pushes up on her elbow to look at Heath’s face in the faintly brightening light coming in through the window. She keeps herself from tracing the lines of his face with her fingertip, because she doesn’t want him to wake.
She loves him. She will probably never love anyone else, not like this. But how would she ever know if she could, if she doesn’t try? If this is all they have because it’s all they believe they can ever have, how is that good for either one of them? To never have even the illusion of a choice?
Down the hall comes the pitter-patter of little feet. Polly is awake. Effie shakes Heath and slips out of bed to pull on her robe as the faint squeals of joy come from the living room. Together, Effie and Heath follow the delighted laughter. Polly dances in the multicolored glow from the tree they left lit all night for just this reason.
“Santa!” Polly cries, clapping tiny hands. “Santa was here!”
“I’ll make coffee.” Heath kisses Effie on the cheek and squeezes her for a second.
“Wait. Hold me close,” she murmurs when he moves away. She pulls him back for a longer embrace as they watch Polly shaking each package. She hasn’t yet figured out she’s allowed to tear into them. Effie squeezes Heath, her cheek pressed to his chest.
This could all be so easy, if only it weren’t always so hard.
The phone rings. Her mother, frantic and desperate, incoherent. Heath holds out the phone and Effie takes it, alarmed, until she can get her mother to slow down long enough to speak.
“Your father is dead,” her mother says. “I need you to come to the hospital.”
Dead? That cannot be. Her father is always there, has always been. Her father can’t be gone. What will Effie do, if this is true?
What she does is go to the hospital, leaving Heath to stay with Polly so Effie can help her mother take care of everything that needs to be taken care of. Phone calls. Arrangements. She stays for two days at her mother’s house in the bed that had been hers for as long as she can remember, listening to the low, keening sounds of grief filtering to her from down the hall and finding herself incapable of going into her mother’s room to offer her any comfort.
On the third day, Effie finds her mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee in front of her and a grim look. She has a sheaf of papers. She pushes them toward Effie.
“There’s money. Your dad’s insurance policy. There’s enough here for you to move out of that apartment. Get yourself a place. Unless you want to move back with me...” At the look on Effie’s face, her mother laughs harshly. “Of course not. Of course you don’t.”
Effie looks at the numbers on the papers. It’s like swallowing an icicle, this sudden realization that she does have a choice. With this amount of money, she’ll be able to buy a house. Support herself and Polly while she tries to make a go of her artwork. This money is freedom, and Effie knows she’s going to take it. She has to.
“I won’t beg you to stay,” Heath tells her. “I won’t fucking do it, Effie.”
“I don’t want you to beg me. I want you to be happy for me.”
He won’t look at her. She can’t blame him. Effie is upsetting this easy familiarity they’ve built together. She is breaking them apart. She can’t explain to him why it has to happen, for both of them. She’s not quite sure of it herself, except that before now she felt she didn’t have a choice, and the money has made it possible for her to make one. Before, Effie thought Heath was the only man she would ever be able to love, but she’s never tried to find out otherwise, never fallen in love with someone new.
All they’ve ever known, really, is each other, but that was not a choice either of them made. It was forced upon them. How can either of them know if there isn’t something better, if she doesn’t do this now? If she doesn’t try, for both their sakes?
She lets him believe she’s selfish. She takes his anger. Then she steps back to let him go.
She is going to have to let him go.
Effie loved the curve of a man’s thighs. Muscles, crisp and curling hair. She let her mouth follow the bulge to Bill’s knee, which she nipped lightly before letting her tongue trail slowly over his calf to the blunt knob of his ankle. This time when she pressed her teeth to his skin, he groaned.
Effie looked up at him for a second before moving up his body to straddle him. She let her fingers dig into his chest, not hard enough to break the skin. He wouldn’t like that. When Bill grabbed her hips, she let her head fall back. The brush of her hair along her shoulders, almost to her waist, sent shivers all through her. Her nipples tightened, craving his mouth.
“Touch me,” she said.
Obediently, Bill’s hand slid between them until his knuckles pressed her clit. He rocked his hand against her. The pressure was good—not enough to get her off, but still nice. Bill had big, strong hands. He could circle both her wrists with one of them, though he never had and Effie doubted he ever would. He was too afraid of hurting her.
“Do you want to taste me?” she asked.
Bill groaned again. “You know I do.”
She wanted that, too. Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty and charming, but their date had been bland and unremarkable. He’d been nice enough. Polite. He’d insisted on holding the door open for her and pulling out her chair, which was a pleasant surprise.
He
