I sigh and let my hands flop over my head, knowing I should change my panties, which are so soaked they’re beginning to get cold, and wonder if I’ll ever hear Xavier knock on the door.
In the past-before Saturday, when everything changed-Xavier was never one to sweep things under the rug, always believing that communication was the most important thing. But now that I’ve come on to him, now that I’ve seduced him, all bets are off, it seems.
After a while, I get up and finish my homework, watch TV on my laptop, and text Christine for hours about nothing. Xavier never knocks on my door.
Around midnight, the house deathly quiet, I creep downstairs and find a plate of chicken, rice and asparagus carefully wrapped up in the fridge for me.
I feel abandoned by Xavier, and sad. But at least it’s better than the apartment, I think, digging into the chicken. At least here there’s food.
#
Xavier
#
Fuck my life.
For the rest of the week, I’m unable to face Hazel. I’m paralyzed by what happened, and ashamed. My little girl saw me come.
I should have locked the bathroom door. I shouldn’t have been jerking off in there at all. And, although I know she can’t read my thoughts, somehow it’s all the worse for knowing that I was jerking off fantasizing about her on her knees in front of me.
Fantasizing about my stepdaughter begging for my cum.
At night I make dinner for her, but don’t call her to the table. How could I dare tell her what to do, after everything I’ve done? How could I expect her to spend time with me?
But she needs to be taken care of. So I make her meals, and drive her to school in strained silence, and on Saturday Gisele the housekeeper comes and does Hazel’s laundry for her, washing all those little pairs of white cotton panties I’m far too interested in and can’t let myself touch.
All the while, I’m consumed by a raging, uncontrollable lust. It’s like a dam has broken inside of me and once released, nothing can contain the powerful tide of desire that’s coursing through me.
On Sunday night, I walk over to Bob’s house for drinks. As business partners, we probably spend enough time together as it is-especially considering that Bob isn’t even a particularly close friend. But being able to walk four doors down to Bob’s house is convenient, even if the walk is made longer by the sheer size of the houses on Southwest Marine Drive.
It was Bob who convinced me to buy out here, Bob who knew about the listing for my house. He knew the original architect. Maybe because of the age difference between us, Bob is in many fundamental ways so different from me. Different values, different humour, different interests. It’s odd to think that when we met at my first architecture job, I could never have imagined that we’d end up going into partnership together, starting our own firm, becoming neighbours.
Maybe Bob is a close friend after all, it occurs to me. Just by default.