Thinking about this I came all over myself, gasping, the hard-on taken care of, but the need and the emotional ravaging no better. Worse, really.
I used Kleenex on the worst of the mess, clambered down the ladder and took a long shower. Thinking, wondering.
Should I let her go? Give her time to think? Go after her?
If I went after her, my need to talk things through would take over. I’d drag her truths out of her, and if Cassie hated anything, it was to have the things she’d kept buried dragged out of her. I think she was equal parts relieved and almost resentful for the way she’d broken down in my arms.
She’d needed it, but now that it was out, there was no putting it back.
Just like with me, and my sexuality.
It was loose, now.
There was no putting it back into the cage.
If I saw Cassie, I was worried I’d go feral. Become a caveman. Drag her back to my cave and fuck her senseless.
It wasn’t like me, this wild ravenous, possessive need. It was…almost abstract, a thing other than me. I’d cultivated this persona of untouchable reserve. Complete calm. Wisdom. Composure. Artistic expression, and being in touch emotionality. This other part, cut loose by Cassandra Goode, was all animal. Primal sexual drive. Mad need. Possessive male dominance.
It scared me.
Absolutely terrified me, if I was being honest. What was I supposed to do with it? How did I express it? I couldn’t let it loose. I couldn’t give in to it. Cassie wasn’t mine. She clearly didn’t want to be, judging by the way she’d left. Secretly, sneaking out.
I’d seen the conflict, but she’d still left rather than face me, rather than face what we’d done last night.
What we’d created, together.
Namely: us.
That sense of us had been conceived last night—I’d pulled out before coming, true. But it was a thing no less real and physical for all that. Us.
And she’d run away from that.
And, for once, I wasn’t content to let that stand.
I wasn’t going to just let it slide. Accept it. Tolerate it.
I deserved more. Even if it was her telling me she didn’t want me, didn’t want us, couldn’t handle us, that I was too much for her, that what we’d done was a mistake never to be repeated, I deserved her giving me that face to face.
But, I’d give her three days to figure that out herself. Three days to decide what to do, on her own. To find me, to talk to me.
The first day was hell. I had a full schedule, so that mitigated things, a bit. But it wasn’t enough to keep me from dwelling on Cassie. So, for the next day, I called the first half a dozen names on my wait list and filled in gaps, so I was booked back-to-back for twelve hours straight, with a single thirty-minute break for lunch.
It wasn’t enough.
I did the same for day three, and it took every ounce of control I had to not tear Ketchikan apart looking for Cassie.
Finally, well after midnight on the third day, I flopped onto my bed and resolved to go look for her the next morning.
Cassie
“Cassandra Danielle Goode. Get your ass out of that bed this instant. This has gone on long enough, young lady.” Mom was pissed. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ve allowed you three full days to wallow in whatever misery you’re in. I get it. I’ve been there, sweetheart.” Softer, now. Gentle.
I just grumbled under my breath and turned away from her. Faced the wall. The bed dipped as Mom sat beside me, and her hand brushed through my hair.
“Talk to me, honey. What’s going on? It’s not like you to lay in bed for three days.”
I ignored her.
“Cass.” Firmer. “Stop this. Stop being petulant. Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.”
“I’m not going to fit into my big girl panties in another week, Mom,” I groaned.
She just laughed. “Is that what all this is about? You got on the scale and it was a few pounds up?”
“A few pounds? Mom.” I finally sat up and turned to face her. “Try ten. TEN! I weigh one-fifteen, Mom.”
She just cackled. “Oh, the horror! What will you do?”
I glared at her. “What the hell, Mom?”
She touched my cheek. “Even with the ten extra pounds, Cass, you still have lower body fat than ninety percent of the rest of the female population on the planet.”
I wriggled. “You’re missing the point.”
She stared at me, into me, seeing me. As only a momma can. “Cassie-lassie.” She gathered me in her arms, held her to me. “Talk to me, baby. Talk to Momma.”
This was like sitting on Ink’s floor to put on my pants. Crying in a ball, surrounded by him.
And now, Mom?
Was I a child all over again?
“I messed up, Mom.”
“How?”
“Ink.” I swallowed.
“You messed up with Ink?” She stilled. “You’re not—”
“NO!” A little too loudly, because that had almost happened. “No, Mom. I’m not pregnant.”
“Thank god for that,” she breathed.
I pulled away to eye her. “What does that mean?”
She shrugged, unapologetic. “It means you are in absolutely no shape, mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually, or financially, to be having a baby.” A pause. “For that matter, neither am I, if you must know.”
I laughed. “Yeah, you know what—you’re right about that.”
“So, then, what?”
I shrugged. “It’s just…a lot, Mom.”
“I can’t decipher that, Cass. You’re going to have to elaborate.”
I groaned. “I need a shower.”
She moved aside so I could climb off the bed—still dressed in the red yoga pants and tank top.
Mom sat on my bed while I got in the shower, and then she sat on the toilet lid. “So.”
I sighed. I shampooed, washed, lathered in conditioner.
Finally, I spoke over the shower noise. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know. He’s a lot. He and I…we had…we have…it’s…” I groaned again, rinsing conditioner out of my hair. “It’s just a lot. And I don’t know what to do. And I ran away because he scares me shitless, but not because of the way he thinks. I ran, and now he’s going to be hurt and angry because he has serious abandonment and rejection issues, and I played right into them in the worst possible way. But I’m scared. Emotionally. Of him. Of…possibility. Of—of everything being around him means for me. Mostly, that he knows I’m not—that I haven’t…”
“That you’re a train wreck of unresolved issues?” Mom suggested.
I laughed. “Wow, Mom. Thanks.” I laughed again, wryly. “But…yeah, I guess that’s accurate.”
She was silent as I rinsed off one more time, and then shut the water off. Mom handed me a towel from around the back of the shower curtain, and I toweled off and wrapped it around me. Tucked it in place, and stepped out, around Mom. Brushed my teeth. Brushed my hair.
Mom watched, thoughtful.
Heedless of Mom still being in the room, I dropped the towel to get dressed—the six of us, Mom, my sisters, and I were not concerned with family modesty around each other, and we frequently changed in front of each other as the situation required. So this wasn’t an unusual or weird thing, for us.