Deep down, I know she’s doing it to spite me. She wants me to react and as badly as I want to call her mi preciosa niña tonta, I keep that comment to myself. It’s true though. Right now, she’s being a precious, silly little girl—precious because she really thinks a little bit of forced flirting with a quarterback on her behalf is going to make me lose my cool.
She’ll have to try harder than that to get me to react.
Winter breaks are often boring for me, but it’s the best time to really focus on myself. I run on the treadmill in my apartment every day, doing one fast mile, then two, then three. Sometimes I sprint on it when I’m really pent up…like now.
I haven’t been able to bring a woman back to my apartment since that damn kiss with Amber. How does she have me so wound up? So desperate for more? What the hell can I possibly do with a college student anyway? I’m thirty years old. I’m a grown-ass man, and yet I’m hungry for more of a nineteen-year-old girl.
It’s not right. None of this is right.
I try to sleep at night, but I can’t, so I jack off to the thought of her and that damn kiss—her tongue rolling with mine and the taste of grape on her tongue. I turn up the speed, running faster. My feet pound into the treadmill and it’s a good thing I live on the first floor. When the time on the treadmill is up, and slows down, I hop off, panting wildly, hands on my hips.
I need to get her out of my head. I have to stop wanting her…and there’s only one person who will be able to help me with that right now.
I pick up my phone and send a text, knowing damn well I’ll regret this tomorrow.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It has been a relief to be on winter break and to be back with my mama in our cozy home.
There are books stacked on the coffee table and magazines left open. There’s a puzzle on the dinner table with only ten or so pieces placed together, the rest scattered, which proves Mama started the puzzle but gave up on it. Most likely because she didn’t have my help.
“Really, Amby, it’s so good to have you back home.” Mama reaches across the sofa to squeeze my hand. We’re currently watching the new version of Charlie’s Angels on Blu-Ray. The sun is setting outside, making the windows glow behind the blue curtains.
“I’m glad to be back too.” I squeeze her hand. “I may need to borrow your car soon. I want to buy you something for Christmas.”
“With what money?” she asks, giving me raised brow.
“The money you were sending me for food. I saved some of it.” I grin sheepishly.
“Mm-hmm, okay. I see. Instead of sending my money back to me, you stash it and then pretend to buy me a present with it, but what you’re really gonna do is buy yourself a new pair of running shoes or a pair of shorts from Nike, aren’t you?”
“What? Mama, no!” I break out in a laugh.
She purses her lips, waiting for me to crack.
“Okay, maybe I was going to buy some shoes with some of it, but I am still going to get you a gift! And not all the money is from what you sent me either. I had some saved from graduation.”
“Yeah, yeah. All I know is it better be something nice,” she titters just as the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it.” I push off the couch and make my way to the door. I check the peephole and see it’s Mrs. Goldbury, our next-door neighbor. She always stands out in her gowns, and with how white her hair is. “Hi, Mrs. Goldbury!” I chime as I swing the door open.
“Oh, sweet Amber, baby!” Mrs. Goldbury lifts her worn, brown hands to cradle my face. “It’s always so good to see you!” She brings my head lower to kiss my forehead.
“It’s good to see you too,” I laugh.
“How is college treating you? Your mama told me about that racist coach. She’s lucky I’m old now.” Mrs. Goldbury walks inside like she owns the place, just as she always does, and I close the door behind her.
“College is good. Getting better,” I tell her.
“What do you need now, Mrs. Goldbury?” Mama asks, fighting a smile. Mama likes to pretend Mrs. Goldbury is a nuisance but if anything, Mrs. Goldbury is like a second mom to my mother. My grandma died when Mama was six, but when she moved here and met Mrs. Goldbury, she had an instant connection with her.
Mama often cooked for her, and when her husband died, she went over to check on her every day. When Daddy died, Mrs. Goldbury did the same for us.