Page 15 of In Your Wake

Screw taking my time. I rub the latex toy against my body, pushing it into my pussy all too much in a hurry, needing this orgasm out of me so I can get back to sleep.

But lingering, and definitely unwanted thoughts, keep barging in and snatching me from the moment.

Why did my brain bring me back to one of the toughest nights of my life?

And why does my skin burn and my orgasm grow every time I picture Mitch above me, looking down with that heat in his green eyes and that annoying smirk on his lips?

5

Family Dinner

Mitch

Roused by the smell of home-cooked roast chicken and vegetables, my stomach rumbles, but the massive boulder of tension resting in my gut doesn’t make me too interested in filling it with food.

I pull out a chair at the dining table, taking a seat across from Maxine. She’s fixating on her plate with a piercing glare, her delicate fingers skimming across the edge of the wooden table’s surface.

I stare at her hands: the simplicity of her short, nude, round nails, the smoothness of her skin, the uncomplicated beauty she’s always possessed with no desire to embellish it. Something that contrasts against the puck bunnies that usually hover around me after games.

Announcing my presence by clearing my throat, Maxine doesn’t even lift her head. It’s as if I’m not even here. I guess she’s still not over me calling her a world-class bitch yesterday.

“Need my help with anything?” I ask my mom as she sets a salad bowl on the table.

“No, thanks, sweetheart. You sit. I’ve got this.” She grips my shoulders, holding them for a few seconds longer. Sympathy swims in her eyes, sending shards through my heart. She gets how awkward I feel right now.

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” I offer and hear Max scoff. I catch her eye-roll. “Look, Max,” I begin once Mom is out of earshot, but am interrupted by the sound of Dad’s metal walker as it scrapes the floor right outside the kitchen.

Maxine rushes to his side, while I take way too long to accept how helpful she is. I finally snap to, shoving my chair back to lend a hand, but I’m left stunned by Maxine’s sharp glare. She wraps her hand around Bill’s arm, guiding him to his dining chair at the head of the table.

I watch the entire scene unravel before my eyes, guilt-ridden for not reacting quickly enough, and especially for the rift that’s between us now.

What I really can’t stand is how Maxine is more like a daughter to him than I am a son. When the hell did that happen? Sure, she was always around when we were kids, and we treated her like family, but this is odd. His betrayal affected her as much as it did me. Shouldn’t she hate his guts?

Once seated, and with the table laden with far too much food, my parents lower their heads to say grace. When Maxine drops her head, too, so does my brow. She used to have very choice words about religion, and her atheism knew no bounds. I hear the quiet hush of my father’s prayer spoken through his dry, pale lips, and wonder if his current condition has ignited a belief Maxine didn’t use to have.

When they’re done praying, Mom scoops some mashed potatoes onto Bill’s plate, and he thanks her, giving her a genuine smile that meets his eyes. The sight of it stirs my emotions, and my eyes sting. I reach for the vegetables, my hand landing on Maxine’s, and freeze. I leave it there, without pulling away, but oh, she does. As if I’ve burned her with my touch, she grimaces and seems so disturbed, like she’s itching to go wash her hands.

She used to love when I touched her.

“Go ahead,” she offers, tucking her hands into her elbows.

I lean back, drumming my fingers on the table. “No, I insist.”

“No, really. All yours.”

There we sit, our eyes locked in a battle of pride, the weight of my parents’ gaze pressing down on me.

“Enough,” Bill snaps. “You’re acting like children.”

“Come on, you two,” Mom adds. “Eat.”

Maxine releases a long breath, shoveling some vegetables onto her plate, then pops a green bean into her mouth, but her eyes never leave mine, like she’s keen on winning this ridiculous staring contest.

“Mitchell…” Dad warns.

I turn to look at him, annoyed that I have to break first. “Sorry, Dad.”

As I pile chicken onto my plate, he begins. “So, we asked you both to be here tonight because we need to talk about the inn. Robyn and I have thought a lot about this, and given my health…” He halts, turns his gaze toward his wife, and seizes her hand. “We’ve decided to transfer ownership of the inn to both of you.”