The Co-op

Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

L A RYNN

A better woman wouldn’t enjoy Deacon’s obvious discomfort. A better woman would probably push an adult conversation and use the opportunity to tell him, “Hey, I’m not nineteen anymore and I know how to play a casual game and still have fun. Let’s not continue to assume the worst of one another.” Even though I am competitive, I’m not always petty or childish about it. Anymore. When it comes to him beating me on the beach, I could also remind him that he plays multiple times a week whereas I haven’t in multiple years , but I don’t, so… obvious growth there, at least.

But, here’s the thing. Self-awareness does not always equate to self-control.

Because I’m also enjoying the side-eyeing and odd flinch here and there. The little tilt of his head like some silly, confused pup when I respond to his flirting in an unexpected way. I’ve been leaving bobby pins in unusual places, tossing them on his bed, or leaving some in the coffee mug he refuses to put in the cupboard. Hair ties in his car or in the tool belt he leaves lying around every day. After he left his beard trimmings in the sink again, I put the toilet paper roll on backward—three times in a row. He came stomping out of the bathroom the last time and I’m certain he was about to break, but I was splayed out on the chaise in my favorite silk robe and, before he could speak, I told him, “Oh, by the way, I grabbed you your favorite sub from the cold case at the end of my shift. It’s in the fridge next to some pie.” I find myself stocking up on all his favorite snacks, really. Maybe I’ll start putting hair ties in his favorite cinnamon sugar pretzels.

“You—a pie ?” He blinked stupidly, a roll of toilet paper in his hand.

“Mm-hmm. Cherry. I know it’s your favorite.” I bought it premade from the store and just baked it here, even messed up the crust a little to look a bit more rugged. Then I threw the box away in the neighbor’s dumpster to hide the evidence, but he didn’t need to know any of that.

I moved the vinyl record I was studying away and watched every inch of his face as I crossed my legs, smoothing them over one another, the robe riding up. He fumbled the roll and bent clumsily to pick it up, rubbed a palm over his brow and down his jaw, across his mouth.

“Did you want something else?” I asked coyly.

“What?” he barked. “No, I—no. Uh, thanks. For the sandwich.” His eyes bounced between my face and the hem of my robe. And then, because once again, I am not a better woman, I kept my knees together and brought them up, let them fall to the side, let one of my hips be utterly exposed, the robe caught in the crease, my ass hidden behind my tucked feet.

“Sweet cream,” I said.

He fully swayed on his feet and I nearly choked on my own glee, had to suppress an evil giggle. “W-what?” he said, dazedly.

“The ice cream I got to go with the pie. It’s called sweet cream. It’s just French vanilla, really.”

“I—um—” he stammered as he shook his head, cheeks and ears crimson. “I have to go. Skunk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Mrs. Gold.”

“You’re not making any sense, Deacon. You feeling okay?”

He half-turned his body to look out the doorway, the toilet paper hovering in front of his jeans. “Mrs. Gold is a yearly regular at the campground. She stays in one of the semipermanent Airstreams there, and she thinks a skunk is living under her deck.” He darted his eyes my way before they went back to the open doorframe. “Really, her idiot grandson and his cousin have been smoking weed and throwing their roaches under it. None of my business, but I have to at least reassure her there are no skunk—shenanigans.”

“Right…”

“Well…” His expression cycled from want to irritation to confusion again. “I’ll, uh, see you later.” He then grabbed his keys from the basket and fled out the doorway, toilet paper still in hand.

I find ways to justify all of this to myself.

It’s all just to pass the time. It’s not serious. I’m certainly not hurting the man. He dishes it right back, believe me. Apart from his first angry naked stomp, he’s constantly shirtless and in sweats or gym shorts that make me feel like a pervert. This morning he strolled into the kitchen, fresh from the shower, holding only a hand towel over himself. He grabbed an apple and crunched into it loudly, chewing over the sound of the coffee brewing. When I turned to glare at him I asked with a saccharine grin, “Enjoying your breakfast? You’re chewing so loud you probably woke up Sal.”

He replied by lifting that towel and wiping his mouth primly, eyes on me to see if I’d succumb to sneaking a peek. As if my pride would’ve allowed that. I held my breath and thought about the budget.

“Have I ever told you how good your morning voice is? Makes me imagine all sorts of things,” he replied, before he sat bare-assed at the kitchen table, crossed one strong thigh over the other, and continued chomping his apple. I didn’t have my bearings enough to spar. Especially since his morning voice felt like hot wax dripping down my back.

In addition to these more obvious little stunts, he’s got the art of the subtle seduction down to a science, too. Times I don’t even think he’s cognizant of what he’s doing, which incidentally happen to be things that make me feel the most out of my mind. I’ll come home to him in one of his stupid unbuttoned shirts, bare chested underneath. He’ll be on all fours and sanding a spot of hardwood we agreed to try and restore. Something twangy like Rufus and Chaka Khan on the record player, something that toys and plays with my libido like a string instrument and makes me feel like I’m walking into my own weird, dreamscape porno. The giant fan will be blowing and he’ll stand up, safety glasses on, his bronzed skin glistening, and God, I’ll want to laugh or tell him he looks ridiculous, the fan making his shirt billow around him like some dirtbag male Beyoncé… but the effect is like dropping ink in a tub of liquid—heat bleeds and spreads and curls through me. My stomach will loop over the way he pushes his safety glasses up into his hair, for God’s sake, or how he looks when he steps in from going to check the mailbox in the mornings, in his shorts and his unlaced boots, sipping coffee from my favorite mug that he’s commandeered for himself.

It’s a nonstarter, though. And if he calls my bluff I don’t know what I’ll do, because I simply can’t—won’t—act on desire again. I’m mature enough to know that I can’t handle that, at least. I couldn’t handle it the first time. We only have to be a functional enough team to make this thing, this renovation, happen.

And it is happening, just not as quickly as we thought. But, after nearly a month in, almost all of the demo is done, with the plumber on schedule for right after the Fourth of July. We know where things should end up and overall it’s going to be a great layout for a single-family rental upstairs.

And… maybe all of this makes me a terrible person. It undoubtedly highlights just how dysfunctional I am, but I also think this is the most fun I’ve had in years.

Most of the time.

Some of the time I end up frustrated, twisting the night away in my sheets and spending the next day on the edge. Short and irritable and in need of relief. I can attend to myself, but typically won’t. The absence of a door makes it feel too close to him when he’s in the house.

But then there are days like today, when I’m off work and he’s gone. Deacon let me know he’d be staying over at Santa Sea tonight—something about the same Mrs. Gold wanting him to set poles to hang string lights from and to go over the Fourth of July barbecue menu and festivities—and I had to smother the urge to cheer.

The moment I registered the sound of the door shutting downstairs I charged up the only toy I own and tidied around the house so there would be no other distractions in my way. I decided I couldn’t take not having any sort of barrier any longer, so I bought one extra curtain and a shower rod to rig in the doorway, so at least I have that in addition to my divider. An hour later, there’s an audio erotica episode primed and ready on my phone, my curtain is closed, and I’ve even lit a candle for myself to set the mood. It does briefly cross my mind that I should consider using this time to find a hobby, but it’s simply not on my hierarchy of needs at the moment.

I settle down into my bed and put my headphones on, shimmying under the cool sheet, practically giddy with anticipation. I push play on the episode, adjust the volume so that it’s loud enough to drown out the buzzing of my— assistant— and close my eyes…

The narrator describes the way he’s kissing down the length of the heroine’s spine, she on her knees in front of a mirror. His rough hands skim her skin, curling around her hips and between her thighs. She leans up and back and he’s talking to her from their reflection, and…

… and, dammit, it’s Deacon’s face in the mirror next to me, chin at my neck, mouth beside my ear, his dark eyes meeting mine. I’m watching his fingers working between my legs, the bones in his hand shifting. The tattoo as his other palms a breast, his big thumb sweeping across my nipple. I can practically feel his hair in between my fingers when I reach up and grab at the pillows with one arm above me, feel his rough calluses on my skin. I turn off the vibrator. No way am I going to reward that kind of thinking. I’m not training my brain receptors to react with more of those chemicals in response to him. I take a deep breath and retrain my focus. There’s an actor that does it for me from that one Regency show. Yes, he’ll do. I turn it back on. We were robbed of him in season five. Longer dark hair, coffee-colored eyes, an easy, sexy smile. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like Deacon. Son of a bitch. I turn it off again. By now in the audio they are well into things (and each other), but I can’t get my brain to reconcile.

Fuck it. I’m too pent up to put myself through this. I’ll worry about getting him back out of my system and any subsequent withdrawals later. I toss my head, let his face fill the picture in my mind. I press the button and nothing happens. Press it again and there it goes—

Flickers out, and dies again.

Goddamn it! This thing is fully charged and has been my trusted companion for like, six years. Like hell is it allowed to let me down now. The light is on but nothing is vibrating. I turn it off, and turn it back on. There it goes again, oh thank God. I feel like I’m teetering on the edge. I feel like I am the edge and I need to get off . The audio is doing nothing for me and I am fully letting myself picture Deacon again, his tongue running up my neck and the way I know his stubble would grate against my skin, and FUCK IT DIES AGAIN. I’m about to throw the thing when I hear a noise over the dulcet moaning in my ear. I rip out my headphones and I definitely hear something coming from the kitchen.

I shove the toy under my covers, scramble out of the bed, and throw on my robe, sweat in my hairline. I slide open my curtain and round the corner to the kitchen.

And find Deacon.

Setting a sizzling cast-iron skillet down onto a potholder on the table. He doesn’t even look my way when he asks, “Fajitas?”

“Oh!” The sound barrels out of me, three octaves higher than normal, and I gulp. “Sure, that sounds good.” He couldn’t have been here long or heard anything because there is zero doubt in my mind he’d be giving me shit if he had. I try to steady my breathing and grab both a water bottle and a beer from the fridge.

“Here, let me,” he says, taking my drink from my hand. He proceeds to tear the cap off with his teeth, something he knows I hate, but I am too shaken to acknowledge. Hands me a wedge of lime.

“Th-thanks.”

We settle at the table and assemble our plates. I’m about to take my first bite when he pops up out of his seat. “Oh! Music. Want to listen to some music?” he asks cheerfully.

“Sure,” I say back lightly. Surprised at this good mood. Normally he comes back from seeing Mrs. Gold, grabs a tool, and starts breaking or taking apart something.

He sifts through the music until he finds what he’s looking for, then comes back to join me at the table. “Cheers.” He holds up his own beer in salute.

“Cheers.” I clink my drink to his.

The food and tune flood my system, some happy oldie I can’t help but nod along to.

And then I notice him not eating.

I look up to his face—red. Laughing silently. A vein pulsing in his forehead at the effort.

The song’s lyrics hit me.

“… she’s giving me the excitations

I’m pickin’ up good vibrations…”

“Good Vibrations.”

No. No, no, no, no. An embarrassing gurgle of sound escapes me as I try not to choke. I groan around the mouthful of food, heat flooding my cheeks.

Goddamn it. He heard me. I turn my face away toward the window and swallow painfully. I remember those Greek mythology stories of women walking into the sea and suddenly see the allure.

He’s now clutching his chest, laughing heartily, a full, booming sound, his head tossed back and wiping tears from his eyes.

“I thought you were gone for the night!” I scream.

“Oh, believe me, I know. I thought you were gonna take all night, too. I tried to make a bunch of noise in here to let you know. Banged around pots and pans and everything.”

“You did not. ”

“Oh, sugar, but I did . ” He chuckles, shaking his head, his eyes watering further. Gasping for air.

I groan and push away from the table, ready to hide for the rest of the evening. Perhaps forever. At the minimum, I’ll leave the country. I’m bilingual, there are options for me.

“Wait, Lar—” he says between chortling, grabbing my wrist to stop me. “Don’t be embarrassed. You were just having a wank. A few, it sounded like. We all do it, but damn, how old is that vibrator? Sounded like you were trying to power up a generator in there.”

I snatch my wrist from his grip. “I didn’t have anything,” I snap at him. “It died on me. I thought you were gone and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this”—I make a circle in the air—“is a fairly tense situation.” And then I stomp off to my room that is not a room, close my curtain, and start to change my clothes.

I don’t often cry when I’m sad, rarely do when I’m angry. It takes a high amount of physical pain to pull the tears from me, but… but I almost always cry when I’m embarrassed. Which is, in fact, embarrassing. The emotion clogs my throat now. I want out of this house.

So much for the confident siren I tried to embody. Back to the emotionally and sexually stunted angry bitch I go.

“Lar—LaRynn,” comes his voice through the curtain. I see the silhouette of him bracing himself in the doorway. I pull my arms through my tank top, walk over, and rip it back open. Chest heaving while I breathe through my nose, willing myself not to cry.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he says, eyes gentling. “I just thought we could have a laugh, that’s all. I shouldn’t have, though.” He sighs and swallows. “Maybe I should’ve known that you wouldn’t like to be laughed at when it comes to that kind of thing. I’m sorry.”

He did know that once. About the younger me, at least. Learned it from experience, which in itself is its own sort of chagrin, despite how long ago our sexual history took place. He was endlessly patient and kind in private back then. Never made me feel dumb when I got shy. I think it was part of what made me think we were more than we were…

But, I haven’t exactly been giving off the same inexperienced, curious-yet-clumsy impression I did when I was in my teens. Have been trying to act far from it, in fact.

He looks me up and down then, frowning. “Are you going somewhere?”

I know I’ll regret it the moment I decide to say it, and I do it anyway. I want to take something back from him. “Maybe I’ll go find some tension relief.”

His eyes turn thunderous. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he growls.

I duck under his arm and make my way down the stairs. “Pretty sure you know exactly what it means.”

“What, gonna go find some sunburnt surfer bro to serenade you with a guitar?” he spits. “Have some quiet missionary while avoiding eye contact? Pack one of your candles, babe.”

“We both know I prefer to be on top,” I toss behind me.

I get all the way down the stairs, my hand twisting open the knob when his palm snakes out to land on the door, pressing it closed again.

“Don’t.”

I turn around and find him hovering behind me, something desperate, devastated, and furious in his expression. He looks tortured. I can’t bring myself to put him through it, dammit.

“I’m just going for a walk, Deacon,” I quietly concede. “I wouldn’t.” I can’t. Some truly awful part of me wishes I could. I have every right to, and though it was a vague and awkward exchange, he did tell me he would respect my wishes. But I don’t want anyone but him. I can’t even masturbate without him filling my head, apparently. I hate myself for it, but it’s the truth. I’ve fucked myself over with all my engaging back-and-forth with him. He takes his hand back from the door, and I escape into the evening air.