When The Rain Falls

20. Cheery Pain in My Ass

20 CHEERY PAIN IN MY ASS

FINN

I sink deep into the living room sofa, staring at the ceiling. I barely slept all night. I couldn't sleep. Not in our bed. Not without her there. It felt wrong. Empty. Cold. She's gone. She's actually gone. It was the first time since losing Laurel that I've had a moment to myself. In the wake of her death, there had been so much to do, the girls to think about, and so many people around us. This was the first morning back in our house. Except it wasn't our house anymore. Because she's gone. Really gone.

I desperately want a hole to open up and swallow me. I don't care where it takes me. I'll go anywhere. I just don't want to feel anymore. I'm rubbed raw with feelings. And more will come. Every day. I have to be strong for Ruby and Vivian. They need me even more now. How will I do it? How can I face today and every other monotonous day after, when I just want to curl into a ball and disappear? I'd been so completely helpless back in the hospital. I desperately wanted to change places with her. To take away her pain. I wanted to stop the flood of bad news. I wanted to fix it. But I could do nothing but watch as life stole her from me. From us.

And him. The baby. The one I'll never know. How is it even possible? For life to go from a fairytale to a horror movie in the course of a week?

Bile rises up in my throat. Panic pounds in my chest. It chokes out my breaths. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

I hear the sound of little feet padding down the hall. Viv must have snuck out of her toddler bed again. She rounds the corner and stands there in her pink onesie. Blanket over her shoulder, thumb in her mouth. Her eyes smile when she sees me. Oblivious to the torment on my face. She continues past the living room into the kitchen. I hear the sound of her pounding feet alter as she moves from carpet to linoleum. "Mama," I hear her small voice cry out. "Mama!" she calls cheerily.

Fuck. Just fuck. Just plunge a fucking sword into my heart. Air rasps raggedly in my chest with each inward breath.

"Baby. Come here."

I hear her feet redirect as she stomps towards me.

"Mama's not here, baby. I'll hold you." I tell her as tears pour down my cheeks. She comes over to me and climbs into my lap. She rests a head on my chest. She doesn't understand. And I don't have the words to explain that her mama, her everything, is not coming back. Ever.

I grip her tightly. Like gripping her is the only hold I have left on reality. And then I sink. I sink into a deep, dark hole.

The sound of my doorbell ringing wakes me up the next morning. I pull myself out of bed, exhausted. How can you wake up as tired as you go to sleep? What the fuck does my body do when I'm unconscious? I slip into my grey jogger pants and throw a t-shirt over my head. The ringing chirps once more. Goddammit. This better be important. I quicken my pace slightly, but only slightly. I'm not expecting anyone this early on a Saturday morning and I don't particularly care if they have to wait a little longer.

When I pull open the front door, Aimee is standing there with bright eyes, her perfect mouth spread into her signature smile. I bet no one ever has to ask her if she's ready for the day. But is the day, on the other hand, ready for her?

"Up and at ‘em, bear." She slinks past me, running a tantalizing finger across my body as she winks.

"Didn't I just get rid of you?" I tease. My voice is gravely from sleep.

After our little rain dance last night, Aimee went home to change into dry clothes and then we picked up the girls from the dance. They chattered quietly in the backseat the whole way home. Julie spent the night and I heard them continue chattering and giggling until one in the morning. Why was I awake that late? I didn't want to be. But my mind wouldn't shut down. It was swimming with thoughts of Aimee and how I’m letting her steadily destroy all my plans.

"You did. And, lucky you, now I'm back. Where are the girls?" She glances around the quiet, empty living room, utterly stupefied. It’s almost like she doesn’t understand the concept of, I don’t know, peace . I close the front door. Which is clearly symbolic of the door closing on my chances for a quiet Saturday morning.

"Sleeping. You should try it.” I check my watch. It’s 8:00 a.m. Someone should tell Aimee that it’s too early for socializing on a weekend. I give Aimee a scowl, but she brushes it off. Maybe it’s because I kissed her. And she no longer sees my mouth as a source of threats. Yeah, I royally screwed that up.

"Well, I told the girls I'd pick them up bright and early for a day of fall activities. And it's bright and early," Aimee says. She spins around and walks down the hallway towards my kitchen. I catch that goddamn scent of lavender in her hair again.

"Come on in, I guess," I mumble under my breath in front of a now-empty foyer.

"Oooh, someone's not a morning person," she teases over her shoulder. “Is there actually a time of day when you're not grumpy?"

"For starters, when you're not here," I answer her as I lumber along behind her. I can’t help it. I can’t help being an asshole. I don’t think I know how to not be an asshole. I kissed Aimee last night. And it was fucking amazing. And it only made me want more. And now I don’t know where we go from here. Because everything looks different in the daylight. And now that kiss is starting to look like a bad idea. Because after you jump, you’re expected to swim. And as much as I’d love to do that, my body is still unreliable.

“Oh yeah? Is that why you kissed me last night? Because I made you so grumpy?” She chuckles as she stops in the middle of the kitchen and turns to face me. It’s a warm, bright chuckle. My eyes roam down her chunky cardigan that’s open over a thin tank top, past her tight, ripped jeans, and down to her booties. It makes me realize that there are so many parts of her that I haven’t seen yet.

"I can't deal with your nonsense. Not before coffee." I walk past her and head towards the cupboards.

"We're going to get coffee on the way. That's part of it," she explains, propping a hip against the counter.

“ We ?” I ask. I grab the coffee machine from against the wall and pull it closer to the edge of the counter.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want to come.”

“Aimee,” I sigh, completely frustrated. “Come where ? I have no idea what’s happening,” I say as I fumble around the buttons on the machine.

“Relax, bear.” She laughs, scooting her ass closer to me. “You look like you’re going to be kidnapped.”

“I have a feeling that I am.”

“We’re having a festive fall day. It’ll be fun. We’re going to get pumpkin spice coffee, then we’ll hit up the pumpkin patch, then go Halloween decoration shopping, then, who knows where we’ll end up?” I push Aimee’s ass down the counter an inch or two and pull out a drawer. I remember how it felt to run my fingers over the curve of her round cheek. And I want to fucking kiss her again. This is terrible. I think.

“It’s only September,” I scold her. “It’s too early for Halloween.”

She gives a mock gasp as her palm flies to her chest. “How dare you. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. This time.”

"Hmph." I look down my nose at her wide, brown eyes; vivid and bold with humor and energy at 8:00 in the morning on a fucking weekend. "That's weird," I say as I pull a coffee pod out of the drawer.

"What's weird?"

"I don't remember summoning the devil this morning." I decide that if Aimee’s anything, she’s part devil. All seduction and temptation. And impossible to resist at the moment.

"You think I'm the devil?" Aimee laughs, clearly amused.

"Either that or you work for him," I say. I pop the coffee pod into the coffee maker.

"I would never work for the devil," she says solemnly. "I'd be an independent contractor. You know, so I could pick my own hours." A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth at that comment. I turn my head away from Aimee, prop both hands on the counter, and bite my lip.

"Hey, stop making coffee," Aimee scolds. I put my hands up in surrender and slowly turn around to face her. "You’re ruining the itinerary.”

Her gaze travels down my body and I find her studying me critically. “What do you have to wear?" she asks.

Wait, wear? What the fuck is happening now ?

"I was planning on wearing clothing. If that's ok with you," I say dryly.

"What kind of clothing?" What kind of clothing? Seriously? Jesus. I lean a hip against the counter.

"Jeans?" I say tentatively, checking her face to see if that was the correct answer. She's looking at me expectantly.

"And?" she prods.

"And a t-shirt?"

"Wrong," she says. "Flannel or plaid. We’re going for a fall vibe. Do you have one of those cute knit hats?"

I glare at her. I glare so hard.

" You're not wearing flannel or plaid," I point out.

"What a good boy. Look at you, so observant," she teases. " I ,” she emphasizes, “am wearing a chunky sweater and booties. Fall. Vibe." She gestures across her body. Her tight jeans look almost painted onto her body and I kind of want to take a giant bite out of her. I mean, she did bite me…Fair is fair. By my count, she still owes me one bite and one more kiss. And then we’ll be even.

"What if my t-shirt has a skeleton on it?" I ask her.

"You have one of those?" she asks, a mix between surprised and hopeful.

"It's a hypothetical question," I point out, crossing my arms. Aimee blows out a breath in a way that says, stop wasting my time, which I find ironic considering she's the one who woke me up at eight in the morning to tell me what to wear to a pumpkin patch. Her mouth forms into a pout and I’m trying not to think about what I could do with those lips.

"You get dressed. I'll go wake up the girls," she says. With that, she bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I follow behind her as I head to my own room. I don't hate the view. Not at all.

"The girls love being woken up at 8:00 a.m. on a weekend," I mumble, staring gratuitously at the way her ass moves with her body. "You might want to consider wearing body armor."

I half-heartedly wrestle my body into a pair of jeans. I'm pulling a grey henley over my head when I hear a knock at my bedroom door.

"What?" I call out.

"How's it going in there?" Aimee asks as she opens the door and steps into my bedroom without waiting for me to invite her in. That was awfully bold of her. What if I was in my briefs? Or what if I was completely naked with my dick in my hand? Which was something that I only considered doing for half a second. The restraint I am capable of…

"Finn, no! You're not wearing that. Here, I'll help you." The help comment makes me snort. There's absolutely nothing helpful about this woman. She walks into my closet and begins rifling through my clothes. God. She's just touching all my things and egregiously violating my privacy.

Laurel was the last woman to be in that closet, I realize, for absolutely no reason at all. I shake the thought away. And now Aimee is in there.

"Does the pumpkin patch really have a dress code?" I ask dryly, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. Aimee ignores me.

"You look tired. Did you sleep?" she asks while flipping through the shirts in my closet. A panicked thought strikes me. I may have some dirty magazines in there. I mean, I haven't used them in ages. They're more of a relic from my college years. They're probably vintage or something by now. But I don't remember where I last put them. I run my hands nervously up and down my thighs.

"How about you, do you ever sleep? Or do you get your energy from sucking life out of everyone around you?" I mean, that would explain why she has so much of it and why I have practically none.

"So funny," she says. She pulls out a blue button up shirt and examines it. "I bet this looks really nice with your eyes," she says as she puts it back. "You have some really nice work shirts." That's mostly because Laurel picked them out. Ten years ago, if not more. I find myself living in this weird reality. Where the present and the past keep colliding.

"Your closet is so organized,” she says. Her fingers trail across my suit jackets. Of course, it’s organized. It's a closet. Closets are supposed to be organized.

“I bet you never even have to dig for anything in here. You can just see everything you own at a glance."

"Are you telling me you can't?" I ask.

"I use the piles organization method,” she answers. I study her.

“Piles?”

“Yeah, this pile is dirty. This pile is clean. You know . Piles .”

“Fucking hell,” I murmur. “That’s disgusting.”

Aimee scans my closet until her face stops to rest on something in front of her. "Oooh! This is perfect," she cries, pulling down a blue and grey flannel shirt that I don't recognize. Again, probably from Laurel.

"It's supposed to be hot today,” I tell her, eyeing the offending shirt.

"It'll be breezy. It's always breezy," she explains. I groan and let myself fall backward into the mattress.

"Here." She walks over to me and tosses the shirt on my prone body.

I give her a scalding frown.

“Are you going to make me dress you, too?” she asks. “Because I’m not opposed to that.”

“Trust me, I know you aren’t,” I mutter as I sit up and pull my henley off my back. “Your favorite place to be is in my personal bubble.” Aimee begins to walk past me and I land a playful swat on her ass.

“What was that for?” Aimee scolds, but I can see in her eyes that she absolutely loved it.

“For waking me up at 8:00 a.m.,” I tell her as I slip my arms into the flannel. “For making me wear this ridiculously thick shirt,” I add. “And because I like touching your ass.”

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer a real ass,” she sasses, propping a hand on her hip.

“Aimee, there’s nothing lacking about your ass. Trust me.” I think about pulling her lips into mine again, but that’s as far as I get when I hear footsteps coming down the hall.

"We're ready!" Vivian bursts into my room, catching me standing next to Aimee with my shirt unbuttoned. I wince, but she doesn’t seem to notice that anything is up, particularly, half my dick. "Dad, you’re coming, too? Yay!"

" Yay ," I say sarcastically, working my buttons. The sarcasm masking what I truly feel. Because I can’t help but notice that this feels good. This feels right. This feels exactly like what was missing. Energy. Adventure. Something for us to do together. All of us. Almost like a normal, fucking family. Almost.

"Where's Ruby and Julie?" Aimee asks.

"Downstairs," Vivian says, leaning on the doorknob.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go get your shoes on. Pumpkin lattes await !" Aimee exclaims in a sing-song voice as she sweeps her arms in the air like some demented fairy godmother.

"I don't like coffee," Vivian wrinkles her nose.

"Well, hurry anyway. If we don't get your dad some coffee soon, he’ll turn into a beast ,” Aimee exclaims in the same sing-song voice as she mimics her arm-sweeping motion from before.

Vivian and Aimee laugh. The mixture of their laughter sticks to my ribs. Weighty and substantial. I don't hear Vivian laugh enough, I realize. No one in this house really laughs enough. There's hardly anything to laugh about anymore. At least that was the case. Until Aimee.

On her way out the door, Aimee wanders over to my dresser. She peruses the framed photos displayed there. She glances over our wedding portrait, a picture of Ruby and Vivian in the bathtub together, then her gaze settles over a picture of me in my college baseball uniform, beaming next to my pitching coach after throwing my first and only perfect college game. My coach's messy handwriting is sprawled across the bottom in Sharpie. "Life's not perfect, but this game was. Hold onto that feeling."

"You look cute in this picture," she says.

"You mean I look intimidating and athletic," I tell her, buttoning up the last button on my flannel shirt and adjusting the collar. "I look like the West Coast Conference Pitcher of the Year, to be specific," I continue. "I look like I just threw a perfect game."

"Seriously?" she asks. "That sounds impressive."

"Have you heard of John Olerud?" I ask. I'm sure she doesn't care about baseball. But I can't help it. I feel compelled to share. Aimee shakes her head. You can't be from Seattle and not know who John Olerud is.

"Played for the Mariners from 2000 to 2004?" I try.

Aimee winces. "I don't really like baseball," she says. I widen my eyes in disbelief.

"Fuck, Aimee. Did you just say you don't like baseball? Baseball is so... American ."

She just shrugs. I notice that she has freckles. Just a light dusting. Just over her nose and the top of her cheeks. They’re barely visible. You’d only notice if you were looking for them.

"You might as well have just said you don't like apple pie,” I scold. “Or golden retrievers,” I add. “Or cheese in a can."

"Cheese in a can?" she asks, the corner of her mouth turning up playfully.

"You don't think cheese in a can is American?"

"I think cheese in a can is disgusting.” She criss-crosses her arms over her chest, making a perfect shelf for her dainty breasts. Reluctantly, I peel my eyes away.

“Ok, Miss Piles,” I tease. “Olerud was one of twenty-six players in all of baseball history to hit for the cycle multiple times," I explain.

"Yeah. I don't really know what that means." She wrinkles her nose. I don’t know how she does it. How she can transform her face from sinful temptress to pure innocence with just a wrinkle of her nose.

"For God's sake." I feel the passion rising in my chest. "It means he hit a single, double, triple, and a homerun in a single game. And he did it multiple times. It's one of the rarest feats in baseball."

"That's...cool?" she says, unimpressed. I pick up the picture of me in my college baseball uniform.

"Olerud was a Cougar," I explain, pointing to the picture.

"Um…" She folds her arms loosely in front of her chest. "He was a middle aged woman who hit on younger men?"

"Christ." I raise my eyes to the ceiling and bite back a smile. "No," I say exasperated. I point to the logo on my baseball uniform. "He was a Cougar. Washington State University."

"Oh!" she says, lightbulb going off in her brain. "So you both went to the same college," she says, understanding dawning across her face.

"Yeah. Not at the same time, obviously," I say. "I just think it's cool that my baseball hero and I both wore the same uniform at some point in our lives."

"Aww," she coos. "Cute."

"No, Aimee. Not cute. Intimidating and athletic," I remind her, setting the picture back down on my dresser. She pats my arm reassuringly.

"Sure, bear," she says. "It's really intimidating that you and your little baseball hero wore matching outfits together."

"They're called uniforms ," I correct her. But she's already walking away, an amused chuckle under breath. Hips swaying. Jeans pulled tight around her ass. And she’s back to temptress.