Put my number in your phone, then use it. I want to know how you’re feeling. Got some stuff to deal with for the club. Back for the weekend. Spark.
His number is listed below. There’s something utterly reassuring about being with someone who tells me what to do. There’s no guessing what he wants. If he’d just left his number, I would have dithered all day about whether to use it or not. Instead, he’s clear. He’s expecting me to call. So, now, I don’t need to worry about it.
I left my phone upstairs on my side table, so I’m slowly heading towards the stairs when there is a loud knock at the door. Grinning, I gingerly rush to open it but am surprised to see my landlord. He has a black eye that looks sore and tender.
“I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner,” he says. “But I wondered if I could come in today and do some work on the place.”
“Aren’t you supposed to give me notice?”
He looks as confused as I am. Then he checks the driveway. “Your boyfriend was . . . quite insistent that I come take care of some things today.”
Boyfriend?
Oh, shit. Spark hurt him. My heart bounces.
It’s quite the dichotomy to realize that everything Spark does is to look after me, and yet he doesn’t think twice about hurting someone to make it happen. And worse, I feel zero guilt. I’ve messaged the landlord so many times over the past year to let him know when things have broken. Like how the wind caught the garage door in the last winter storm and blew it off its hinges. And how the fridge leaks from somewhere, and I have to keep a tray under it.
“He’s just worried about me living with some of these fixable problems I messaged you about months ago.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he replies, and I gesture to him to come in and do what he needs to.
While he brings in his supplies, I get dressed in the bathroom, where there is a lock on the door. Once I’m done, I head downstairs with my phone and make a cup of coffee. My landlord, along with the help of two other people, has removed the back door and is in the middle of pulling the frame off. There is a new door propped up against the fence. It looks solid.
I didn’t mention needing a new door.
I program Spark’s number into my phone and message him.
So I guess I have you to thank for the new back door.
It takes a moment, and then I see dots as he types. It was a terrible door. Anyone could have broken in.
I laugh. Of course he was worried about how easy it was to get into my house. Anyone like you?
Little chick, I can still break into the new one.
I thought we agreed you were going to knock.
Meh. How are you feeling?
Better than I probably should be. I guess the bath worked.
Just the bath?
I pause. I’m not good at flirtatious games. I want to tell him how much I miss his hands on me. I want to tell him that I wish I’d woken up next to him this morning while he touched me again like he did yesterday.
My phone buzzes. Stop overthinking, Iris.
I send a laughing emoji. How did you guess?
Because I learned last night that you have a small problem expressing yourself. Want me to go first?
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. When he went first last night and said all those things, it was . . . incendiary. I stroke a fingertip along my lips.
Yes.
I’m pissed I’m at a truck stop just outside of Yonkers instead of there with you. Leaving you in bed last night was real fucking hard. Kinda like my dick which has thought about the way your pussy hugged my fingers for most of the damn night.
I take a sip of my coffee to ease my suddenly parched throat.
After taking a deep breath, I start to type. I can do this. I can be the sexually confident woman. I wish you were here right now so you could show me what you’d do with that hard dick of yours.
I hit send before I can delete it or overthink it. But I screw up my face with nervous excitement.
There she is. I like bold Iris. I gotta get back on my bike in two minutes with a raging boner. If I call you later, you wanna be bold some more?
I look out of the window where the landlord and his goons are sawing wood for a new doorframe. Spark did that for me. Without me asking him or prompting him.
I think that’s enough for one day.
It takes a moment before I get a response. I’m gonna call and take my chances anyway. I called the school. Told them you weren’t coming in today because of the accident. They said get well soon. Later LC.
LC? It takes me a minute. Little chick.
And he called the school? Jesus. We need a chat about boundaries.
There’s another knock on the front door. This time it’s Thomas and Michael. Michael is proudly holding a large bunch of flowers. “Wanted to come see how you are,” Thomas said. “And I promised I’d take Michael out on the trains.”
I’d messaged Thomas from the hospital to let him know and to ask if he knew a good mechanic.
“For you,” Michael says and thrusts the bouquet of slightly battered daisies at me.
I press them to my nose. “They smell so good. Did you smell them?” I say offering them to Michael.
He bats them away. “No.”
“Okay. Let’s go put them in water.”
“Lots of trains,” Michael says as he follows me to the kitchen. “Yonkers. Grand Central. Times Square. Penn Station. Asbury Park.”
I look at Thomas, my eyes wide. “Wow. Great memory. It must have been a grand adventure.”
Michael opens his tablet and shows me a list. “Thomas made a list,” he says.
Thomas grips Michael’s shoulder and shakes it playfully. “That’s right, I wrote it. But you followed all the instructions like a champ. Why don’t you go sit down?” He points Michael towards my sofa. When he’s out of hearing, Thomas leans toward me. “I forgot what a shit show trains are, but he only got overwhelmed twice. I’m getting a rideshare back.”
“I think Cillian forgets he’s a young adult and capable of doing more than he lets him. I’m glad you two did this trip together today,” I say as I grab a vase and arrange the flowers. “These are lovely.”
“They were lovely when we got on the train in Yonkers, but Michael wanted to hold them all the way here.” I’d forgotten what a great smile my brother Thomas has. Since walking in Cillian’s shadow, he’s lost a bit of it. Even at his young age.
On autopilot, I start to make Michael his favorite drink, a hot chocolate. “Do you want one?” I ask Thomas.
He shakes his head. “I’ll take a Coke if you have one.”
I grab one from the fridge for him before I take Michael his drink.
“How’s the wrist?” Thomas asks as we all sit down. Michael has put on his headphones and turned away from us. His sign he wants to be left alone. And after such an epic adventure, we let him sit and calm himself.
“Hurts, but not as much as the rest of me. I feel like I hit a wall.”
Thomas huffs. “I know how that feels.”
“You do?”
He shrugs. “Can’t work with Uncle Cillian and not get hurt occasionally.”
I look at Michael, then to my other brother. “Don’t you want to get out?” I ask. “We could go somewhere with Michael. The three of us could live together until Michael is settled. I wouldn’t mind taking care of him. With two incomes and shared expenses, we could work it all out, right? We’d be able to afford Michael’s support staff if we got jobs somewhere it’s cheaper to live.”