JACKSON
When I told my mother that April agreed to the terms of the inheritance, she was much too pleased with herself. She was haughty, like she knew all along that she could break my wife. April has an iron will, that's something I know for certain, but it needs to be unburied. She needs to realize she's allowed to use it. My mother would love to keep her this way - meek, mild, and submitting - but that's no way to live. Especially not for April, to whom it doesn't come naturally. She's meant for great things.
I know that when I look at her. I know it when she speaks. I know it when I watch her do the most mundane things, the simplest of tasks, that she's a force to be reckoned with. I smile to myself now, as I sit in my favorite armchair with a sketchpad balanced on my thighs, as I think of how my father would've loved her. He would've raved on about her just as I do in my head; it would be nice to have someone who sees her the way I do. I wish he were here.
I can nearly picture him over my shoulder, watching the image I draw come to life as if it isn't breathing already, across the room. I can't help but create art from April's image - I get such an urge to do it, one like any other, whenever I lay eyes on her when she's at peace. At the moment, she's reading a book that she found in the library - Jane Eyre. By the looks of it, she's already halfway through and enjoying it immensely. Her eyes are moving, flickering really, across the pages and she hasn't spoken in a couple hours. I came in here to read as well, but the focus soon died as her presence tempted me to take out my pad. I don't know how long it's been since I started, but I have most of her shape penciled in. I got the expression on her face exactly right - pensive, concentrated and a bit tight - but my favorite part so far are her hands.
I love her hands almost as much as I love her neck. She's not a tall person by any means, but her hands and fingers are dainty and her neck is willowy and graceful. With the way she's sitting now, though, it's not easily visible. But her hands are, as they lightly grip the book. Her nails are painted a blush pink, kept natural and round. She doesn't bite them, she always keeps them nice, and they catch my attention frequently. I love the way her fingers feel in mine, small and nimble. The way I drew them culminates those qualities into the image, perfecting the portrait in the tiniest of ways.
I make a few adjustments, knowing that if I want to make this professional and refined, I'm nowhere near finished. It will need color and time, perhaps an entire redraw. But for now, I'm satisfied with what I created. I look up from the pad to find that April's eyes are no longer on the book, but staring into space. Her mind is just as far away as it was before; it's clear she's deep in thought. Over what, though, I can't be sure.
Instead of staying quiet and wondering, I decide to speak up. Communication is important between husband and wife, and specifically with us. The lack of such has proved to be more detrimental than I could imagine. So many things could've been easier had we just discussed them. It's not an easy lesson to learn, but I'm willing to try. I've begun to learn that when it comes to her, I'm willing to do nearly anything. I'm willing to figuratively to travel great lengths I wouldn't have even considered with my past relationships. That's why I felt so secure in telling her I love her - there's not a single doubt in my mind over it. Even just looking at her puzzled face in this moment, I'm sure in the fact that I love her. There's not a reason to be pinpointed; I just do.
"What's wrong?" I ask, breaking the silence as I told myself I should.
My voice startles her, her shoulders flinch at the sound. Her eyes come to meet mine, but only for a split second before traveling back to the pages. "Nothing," she murmurs, shaking her head softly.
I nod to myself and darken a few lines on the sketch. I deepen the gentle crease between her eyebrows as she visibly becomes more intent on whatever thoughts run through her mind. I know the focus isn't directed towards the book anymore; after watching her, it's clear she's not reading. "Sweet pea, you haven't turned a page in five minutes," I say, knowing full well that she's quick reader.
She looks up again, this time peeved. "Why are you watching me?" she asks.
"I know there's something on your mind," I say. "It's all over your face."
She presses her lips together and inhales sharply, turning her head to the side. As her profile comes into view, I admire the slopes and ridges of her face - her strong but adorable nose, defined cheekbones, small chin. She is fragility personified, but only on the outside. I know the inside to be much different. "I'm fine, really," she says, looking out the window. She can't see much, it's past sunset and the glass is black. All that's visible is the reflection of the room - the glowing lamps, flickering fireplace, and me.
"I don't believe you," I say.
"Jackson," she sighs, turning back.
"If you don't want to talk about it, I can accept that," I say. "I just don't think that's true. I think you do want to talk about it."
Her eyes flash admittance as she casts her gaze towards her bent knees. She closes the book, carefully keeping her place with a leather bookmark she must have found, and lets it lie across her thighs. She traces the cover art while keeping her chin ducked close to her chest, then lets out a long, pensive breath. "I don't know," she mutters.
"You can tell me anything," I offer.
Her eyes dart to mine quickly, then back to the look. She shakes her head, chews the inside of her cheek, and shrugs one shoulder. "You're not gonna like what I'm thinking," she says. "It won't make you happy."
"I'm fine with that," I say. "You don't have to censor yourself for me. I hope you know that."
We lock eyes for a longer beat this time, and something within hers tells me that she hadn't known as much. So, I'm glad that I said it. She needs to be aware that around me, she can say and do whatever she wants. She can be exactly who she is, because that's the version of her I want. I don't want any false pretense or facade, or the person she thinks I want her to be. I want April as she is at her core, but I'm not sure I've gotten to know that version of her quite yet. "The thing is," she says. "This isn't what's bothering me. But it's on my mind, too. You're saying all these wonderful, kind things to me now. And I know you mean them. At least, I think you do. But if you mean them, how could you be as horrible as you were to me when I first came? That person was still you. That's what you're capable of. You made me feel so small. And now, suddenly, I'm your sun? I don't get it, Jackson." She pushes hair out of her face and looks at me head-on. "I don't understand you, I'll be honest. I don't know how you can go from hating someone to being absolutely head-over-heels for them."
"I never hated you," I say. "Let me make that clear."
"You made it seem like you did," she points out.
"I…" I begin, but I falter. "I'm sorry."
She nods curtly, saying, "I appreciate that."
"I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I took you for granted and I knew I was doing it. You say you're confused at how my behavior could change… well, so am I. But you're the one who changed it. Spending time with you has brought me back to who I really am. And if I'm being honest, which I promise I am, I don't know much about this person, either. The last I saw of him was when I was 14 years old. I'm learning things about myself at the same rate you are."
"But this isn't an act?" she says, sounding vulnerable. "You aren't tricking me, are you?"
"April, no," I say. "When I told you I loved you…" It's strange, saying the words aloud again. She was right before when she said that I hadn't expected to be left hanging. I didn't. I don't know much about myself as of late, but it seems I know even less about her. I had pictured her returning the sentiment and the scene panning out in a 'happily-ever-after' variation. Clearly, I had it wrong. That doesn't mean there's less feeling behind my words, because I still stand by them, but it makes me feel exposed knowing she won't mirror them. It makes me feel naked, in a sense. Like she could pummel my heart if she so chose. And in my entire life, I've never been at the will of someone else. With her, though, I can no longer say that. She might not know it, but she has me in the palm of her hand. "I meant it. I would never say something like that if my heart weren't behind the words."
Her eyes return to the cover of her book as she nods. "I know that," she says. "Really, I do. It's just… I don't know. I keep having to make sure, I keep having to go back over it because it doesn't feel real. Things like this don't happen to girls like me. And before you try and dispute that, you know it's true. I'm living a fairytale, Jackson; what little girls dream of when they're tiny. Making a home in a castle with a rich prince who adores them. I have that. But I've done nothing to deserve it."
"It's not about deserving it," I say. "It's already yours."
"I know, but…" she trails off. "I guess I'm just waiting for the moment when it gets taken away."
So, that's what the root of all this is. It makes sense, given her past, that she'd be scared of comfort disappearing. It makes sense why she can't let herself settle or take her walls down. Up until now, she's been stripped of things she'd held dear - everything except her mother and sisters. The whole reason she joined me in this house and took my name was to save them from losing what little life they knew. She's done everything in her power to protect them from feeling the loss that she shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere," I tell her soberly. "Like I said before, I made vows to you. I don't make promises I can't keep."
She lets the words sit and for that I'm glad. They seem to do some soaking in, and I hope that, in time, she'll start to believe me. "I'm just afraid that I won't be able to give you everything you want," she says.
"What do you mean?"
She picks up the book and hugs it to her chest, blinking rapidly as she wraps her arms around it. "What if I can't get pregnant after everything that happened to me?" she says. "What if it happens again?"
My heart splinters, hearing that. "I won't let it happen again," I say.
"I might have messed up my body before," I say. "You don't know. You weren't there."
"We'll go to the best doctors in the field and get you checked out, if that's what you want," I say. "To make sure it was a freak accident, to make sure your body can hold a child. We'll make sure of it."
"What if I'm right?" she wavers. "What if it can't?"
"Then, we'll figure it out," I say.
She opens and closes her mouth, then swallows as she tips her head towards the ceiling. She rests it on the pillows under her and drums her fingers on the book, creating small, hollow sounds that reverberate throughout the room. "I'm not sure what kind of a mother I'd make," she says, her voice nearly a whisper. I strain to catch what she says.
"A wonderful one," I say confidently.
The sureness of my tone forces her eyes to mine. "Why do you say that?" she asks.
"April, look at how you take care of your little sisters. Really, your entire family. You've been their backbone since your father died. Kimmie and Alice see you as their second mother. You have such a warmth about you, such a caretaker's heart. Our baby will be lucky to have you as their mother. So lucky."
She softens a little, the apples of her cheeks blushing a dusty pink. "Thank you," she says earnestly.
"But me, on the other hand. I don't know anything about babies. You'll have to teach me."
"I will," she says, tucking hair behind her ear. "But I don't know how to raise a child in this kind of life, Jackson. I don't know… I don't want…"
"My mother inserting her influence, I know," I say, making the statement easier. "I don't, either."
"Oh," she says.
"She will try," I say. "But I'll push back. I'll do everything I can for you and our baby. Even if that means we have to… I don't know, run away to Paris, or something. We'll do it."
"Jackson," she laughs, shaking her head.
"I'm completely serious," I say.
"And leave all this?" she asks, gesturing towards our immaculate surroundings.
"All of it," I say.
She giggles softly and continues to shake her head, then changes her position on the couch. "Do you want to come sit with me?" she asks, and I jump at the chance. With my sketchpad in hand, I curl my body around hers gently - my back against the cushions, one arm over her waist, our legs intertwined. And as I try and adjust our mess of limbs, the pad comes open to the page I'd been working on and she sees my depiction of her. "Wait, Jackson," she says. "Is that… did you draw me again?"
For a moment, I feel I've been caught in the act or like I've done something wrong. But when I look to her face, she isn't angry or upset, but curious instead. Confused, maybe, or at a loss. "Yes," I say, opening the book further so she can see the image.
"This is me just now," she says, tracing the lines as she leans on me. "You drew this… just now?"
"Yes," I answer again. She shakes her head and lets a puff of air through her nose. "What?" I say.
"Nothing," she replies. "It's just… I have no idea how you see me as this beautiful. Because I'm really not."
"April," I say, catching her attention. She turns her head and, in our close proximity, almost bumps my nose with the tip of hers. "Yes, you are." She rolls her eyes lightly and looks away, back towards the paper. "My father used to tell me, back when we would draw together, that someday I would find my muse. I never knew what he meant, to be completely honest. I wasn't quite sure what a 'muse' was. I had no idea it could be a person until you came and I started seeing the world differently. In everything, I see art again. The beauty came back to my canvas because of you."
She faces me again, this time letting her nose touch mine. She nuzzles it softly and I relish the feeling, heart fluttering. I wasn't aware that my heart could physically flutter, but it's proving quite capable. "Are you saying that I'm your muse?" she asks
"Yes," I say. "But that's not all you are to me."
She smiles with her lips closed and caresses the side of my face, trailing her fingers over my facial hair. I love the way her fingers feel, so graceful as they dance over my skin. "I'll tell you what you are to me," she murmurs, and I can smell her minty sweet breath.
Instead of fluttering, now my heart takes to jumping. I find myself excited over what she'll say next, if she'll take the plunge and tell me she loves me. I'd be lying if I said I don't hope for exactly that, and the anticipation is nearly killing me. But, after she takes a breath to complete the statement, she loses gumption and her shoulders deflate by a fraction. "What?" I prompt, hoping to still get it out of her.
"I don't know," she responds, and I pretend like I'm not at all disappointed.
I let it roll off my back as best I can and tell myself what I already know: I need to give her time. I won't allow myself to rush or force her, because that's the opposite of natural. It wouldn't be right, either. I meant what I said before - that if she's never ready to say it back, I'll find it within myself to deal. Saying it only to please me would be worse than not saying it at all.
We lie there on the couch for a while, lightly kissing and touching each other. Her book finds its way to the floor, but my drawing stays tucked between us as she turns on her side and wraps herself around my body. Her kisses are saccharine and slow, like she's trying to memorize my mouth and everything inside it. Her fingers spread out so her hands span as much of my back and shoulders as they can, and I smile against her lips as she nudges herself closer, even tighter to me. "You make me feel beautiful," she tells me after a long while has passed, breaking a kiss to speak. When I look at her, I notice her lips are swollen and red, just the way I like them.
"Good," I say. "Because you are."
"I want to try something," she says. "It might be crazy. It might be totally inappropriate...but…"
"What is it?" I ask.
"I want you to draw me naked," she says. "If that's something you'd want to do. I-I know it's weird, but you see my body in a way that I never have. And… and I was hoping that if you drew me… just me, without anything else on, maybe I could start to see myself like you do."
I sit up hastily, and the fact that I'm half-hard doesn't go unnoticed. "April, it's not weird at all," I say. "I'd love to."
"Right now?"
"Right now," I say. "Get undressed and I'll get my easel."
"Lock the doors when you come back," she says, wearing a small smile as I stand up.
I kiss her as an afterthought and stroke her cheekbone with my thumb. "I won't be long," I tell her. I resist the urge to run to the studio, but I don't dawdle by any means. I gather what I need - the easel, graphite, a canvas, other odds and ends - then hurry downstairs to join her again. I lock the doors as she said to do and then turn around to see her; even though I had been expecting a masterpiece, the image in my head couldn't hold a candle to that of which is draped over the couch.
She's entirely nude, save for the wedding ring on her left hand that's lying above her head. When we lock eyes, she tenses and inhales, making her rib cage stand out, but I shake my head. "Just relax," I tell her. "Pretend like I'm not even here."
Her muscles lose their tension as she finds the position she'd first been in. I find a stool and set it up behind the easel, getting comfortable while making sure I have a good view. I want to make sure I don't miss a thing - from the way her hair tumbles over her shoulders to the subtle pricks of her nipples, the soft, concave bowl of her stomach, her lithe thighs and what's tucked between them. "Is it good?" she asks, shifting her hips.
"Lie flat," I say, peering around the canvas. "Your right arm over your head and your left draped across your ribs, so I can see the ring."
She adjusts in the way I tell her and looks to me for approval. I can't get enough of the expression in her eyes. "Like this?" she asks.
"Right leg bent," I say. "Left stays down." She moves accordingly and everything falls into place. "Yes, sweetest, just like that," I say.
All she does is breathe while I work. It's clear, as she lies there, that she has no earthly idea of her beauty; she's so demure as she blinks slowly and keeps her eyes on me - just as steady as mine are on her.
The smoothness of her body is easy to capture with fluid strokes of the graphite pencil. I accentuate its length, the grace in the way her limbs fall, and the natural curl of her hair. I spend time on the minute details like her eyelashes, cupid's bow and fine eyebrows; I don't miss a thing. The room is so quiet that at times, I worry if she'll fall asleep, but she doesn't. She stays alert throughout the process, never growing fidgety or impatient.
There's more eroticism involved than either of us can speak for. The sight of her entirely bare as I'm fully clothed is enough to turn me on, but the fact that she's willingly putting herself on display for both of our pleasure nearly tips me over the edge. It's incredible, how sexy she is without being aware of it. Incredible.
"How's it going?" she asks after about an hour has passed. I've been locked inside my mind, unspeaking, for the entire duration. I've been too concentrated on perfecting her depiction to bother with words.
"Very well," I say, shading a small area of her inner thigh. I can't hold back for much longer, though. I want her so badly, and as she's right in front of me she's nearly impossible to resist. I have the bare bones of the drawing on paper - it won't be hard to finish now. So, I stand up and set my tools down, walking slowly over to her with the ruse of adjusting her body for the portrait.
"What are you doing?" she asks, watching me with doe eyes.
I kneel next to the couch and swipe a bit of hair from her shoulder, pushing it onto the pillow. She watches me with a soft smile and lets me manipulate her, then jumps with surprise as my hand grazes over a puckered nipple. "You look delicious," I tell her, leaning in for a kiss that she readily gives me.
I skim my hand down and get a good grip on her hip, squeezing for good measure. She smiles, winding her arms around my neck to get me closer while moaning into my mouth. I swallow the sound and pull her to rest on her side, closer to where I'm resting on the floor. "Mmm," she whimpers. "You're such a good kisser."
I blink lazily, eyes barely coming open as she watches me with lust in hers. "Come to the studio," I say.
"Why?" she asks.
"I want to paint you," I say, holding her breast while dipping my face into the crook of her neck. I kiss her warm skin, laving my tongue over her throat as I feel her take a slow, cleansing inhale that lifts her chest.
"You can't bring your paint down here?" she says.
"No, no, you misunderstand," I say, lifting up. "I want to paint your body."
"Oh," she says, eyes wide. "You can do that?"
"I can create anything anywhere, as long as you'll let me," I say.
"Have you painted skin before?" she asks. "Like you want to do to me?"
"No," I answer truthfully. "My muse is the only one who's inspired me enough to try it."
She purrs, clinging to my neck so I can sit her up. "Take me to the studio, then," she says, eye contact never faltering.
I lift her perfect, naked form into my arms and carry her up the stairs with confidence, locking the studio door after turning the light on a dim setting. The floor is clean but already covered with years' worth of paint splatters, so I direct her to lie in the middle of it as I gather my colors. "Arms above your head," I say. "And relax, just like before."
Using a new color palate, I take samples of sapphire, ivory, and deep gold. I swirl the brush around in the gold, shiny flecks glinting in the light, then lower the brush to her areola. She flinches at first, unused to the fine hair moving against her skin, but soon goes lax as I continue the repetitive circles. Her back arches as I go further, widening the rings from her areola to the round of her breast and the supple underside, until the whole of it is a small, aureate orb. I do the same to the other, making sure my strokes are calculated and thorough, and by the time I'm through, her nipples stand straight up - all the blood having rushed to them. Her breath comes shallower as she tips up her chin, eyes on the ceiling and ribs pressing insistently through her skin as she struggles to keep composure.
I don't let on that I'm feeling the same, though. Instead, I mix the ivory with the blue to create a color akin to the sky and expertly smear it over her belly. I make sure the paint is applied evenly, stopping just above her belly button after I'm finished creating the abstract design that found its way to my mind's eye. Then, I dip a brush into the deep blue and make small strokes between her hip bones; the action makes her squirm with arousal, pelvis lifting from the cold, hard floor. As I glance between her legs, I see that her lips are already glistening - I've worked her into quite a state.
I create the same design on her back and make defined streaks along the round of her ass, and by the time I'm finished, she's covered in beautiful color. With her fiery hair fanned out around her head, she's a landscape unlike any other I've seen. Her eyes are alive and her pulse is racing, and I don't waste time in stripping my clothes and joining her in a state of total nakedness. "Jackson," she breathes, grappling for my shoulders. "You'll get covered in…"
"Good," I say, overlapping her body as I place one leg between both of hers. My erection rests on her inner thigh, but not for long as she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me flush against her. I feel the slick coolness of the paint transfer onto my body and I relish the sensation, hands gliding across her skin with ease as the colors blend over both of us.
"Oh, god," she moans when I find her breast with my mouth. The paint is non-toxic, but I regret how differently she tastes as I lick her to the point of no return. She trembles beneath my tongue, fingernails digging into my scalp, and when I come up, the paint has nearly disappeared from that portion of her skin. I can only imagine it's now on my face, in my beard, as I kiss along her inner thighs and find golden imprints left behind. I wipe it away before I go down on her, pressing her thighs apart with both hands as she lifts up to meet my waiting mouth. "Oh, Jackson," she groans, pulling at my hair harder. Her hips grind against my chin as I part her lips with two fingers, licking her in long, slow strokes that send her reeling into another dimension.
I lose track of time as I'm between her thighs, in the heat that I would gladly drown in forever. I only come back to earth as she pushes me away by the forehead, cries echoing throughout the small room and breath coming in tepid bursts. I lift up, panting myself, and look her in the eyes as I say, "You want me to stop?"
"I can't… I can't breathe," she smiles, one hand to her colorful chest. "You're too good. I can't…"
"Oh, yes you can," I say, smirking devilishly as I lower again to find her clit with expert ease.
She screams when I do. One short, staccato shriek as she tries to roll onto her side, but I shove her hips back into place. I move my jaw quickly, roughly, against her and suck on her clit in a defined pattern that I know will bring her to orgasm - and it does. It doesn't happen quietly, either. When April comes, her whole body is involved and I can't get enough of it. Her thighs lock around my head and deafen me - but it's not unpleasant. In fact, it's completely the opposite. I love being at her mercy and knowing I was capable of bringing her to such a pleasure point. She sobs with ecstasy as her legs quake and tremble, hands still in my hair as I suck another orgasm out of her, this one more of an aftershock than an earthquake. By the time her muscles relax and her thighs have gone slack, she's whimpering while trying to catch her breath. Spread eagle, too, which is my favorite way to see her.
"Too good, huh," I murmur, kissing my way up her body to leave a blue lip-print on her cheek.
"Yes," she says. "God, yes, I can't believe how… I just can't…"
"Shhh…" I murmur, kissing her neck as her breath finds its normal rate again.
Punctuating the act, her hips jerk one final time and I can't help but smile in response. I crawl up her body and stroke her outer thigh, cupping her ass so her knee bends in and presses against my side, enveloping me entirely as she holds my face and kisses me hard. I know what that kiss means - it means she's ready for more and I'm more than ready to give it to her. So, with one swift motion, I adjust my hips and sink inside her - all the way. She groans against my lips and holds my head tighter, not letting our bond break, and I don't move. I stay buried within her, relishing how it feels, and she locks her ankles behind my ass to urge me even deeper.
"Oh, fuck," I grunt, mouth moving sloppily over hers.
"Jackson," she says, breaking apart so she can look steadily into my eyes. She blinks, putting those hazel eyes on display, and licks her puffy lips. "I don't want our baby to come from… fucking," she says, then drags the backs of her knuckles down my cheeks. I tip my head to the side and lean into her touch, scooping my hips as I do. Her jaw drops because of it and I feel satisfied as I continue to listen. "I want you to make love to me," she says. "I want our baby to be created that way."
"I'm with you," I say, kissing her surely as if to prove my point.
"I know," she whispers.
Taking what she said to heart, I move fluidly and slow. I don't thrust into her like it's my last day on earth and I'll die without an orgasm; in fact, it's much of the opposite. I roll my hips and take all the time in the world, hitting every nerve as I watch sparks light up behind her eyes. Her mouth stays open as she pants, gripping my shoulder blades as best she can while I make love to her thoroughly and passionately. I don't leave an inch of reachable skin unkissed, and I make sure to worship her as she deserves to be worshiped. She's a work of art in more than the color on her body, but in everything she is.
I badly want to tell her again that I love her, but I don't. I don't want to ruin the moment with the inevitable expectation she'll feel to say it back. Applying pressure isn't the way to go, so I stay silent. I lift my head and look into her eyes while hoping mine convey the correct emotions, and the smile on her lips tells me they do. "You're beautiful," she tells me.
"So are you," I murmur, dropping a kiss to the corner of her jaw. She inhales like she's about to say something else, but no words come. I don't wait for them to, either. Instead, I press my lips to hers and feel the coil wind tight in my groin, threatening to burst at any given moment. Because of this, I pull up to look at her again and she nods - but I still need to ask. "You want this," I say, gritting my teeth as I stave off my orgasm.
"Yes," she sighs.
"I'm gonna come," I say. "You don't want me to pull out?"
She tightens her ankles around my ass to keep my body exactly where it is. "No," she answers definitively.
"Okay," I say.
She closes her eyes and tucks her face close as I come undone, losing the contained rhythm I had found and instead replacing it with one that's uncontrollable. My hips buck wildly against hers, the sound of skin against skin joining that of her breath in the air. I empty everything inside her body and feel euphoric because of it, stars dancing behind my eyes as she clings to me with every ounce of strength she has.
I don't pull out until I get a third orgasm out of her, one that comes quietly and sure. She clings to me like a vine, wrapping every limb around what she can reach, and quivers as it ravages her nerves. She lets out a satisfied-sounding, one-syllabled whimper when it's over, then lets her head flop to the hardwood floor, spent.
I pull out with a slick sound and glance between us to where our bodily fluids have created quite the mess with the paint. We're both covered in a slew of different substances, but there's no rush to clean up. No urgency. We're allowed to lie here in bask in the afterglow of what we did; what we might have made. So, we do. And before I can draw her nearer, so does so herself. She plasters herself to my side and wraps a leg around me, resting a flat hand in the middle of my chest where paint still dries.
"Do you think it worked?" I ask.
"I don't know," she says, still breathless. "But that was the best sex I've…" She yawns, which makes me smile. "Ever had."
…
"So, have you two had relations since our conversation?"
I shake my head and roll my eyes, on the phone with my mother a week later. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed as April is in the bathroom, soaking in the tub with candles lit. I can hear the soft rise and fall of her voice as she sings to herself, which would make me happy if the voice in my ear weren't so annoying. "That's none of your business," I snap.
"But oh, it is," she says.
"It's not," I say. "I don't know why you care, anyway. You won't see a cent of the money."
"So, she's pregnant?"
"What? I… no, I don't know."
"Then there's no money to worry about."
"You know what I mean," I say. "The second half of my inheritance is exactly that - mine. It's not for you to worry about, because my affairs are not yours. You won't touch that money."
"Oh, Jackson," she says. "You're so sensitive when it comes to your little wife, aren't you?"
"Please, stop."
"You never used to be touchy when it came to keeping things within the family. But now, you two are a unit without me, aren't you?"
"That's typically how marriage works," I say. "You, as the mother, are not included. You don't get a say in how we arrange our funds."
"Oh, they're hers now, as well?" she prompts. "That's interesting."
"Of course they are," I say. "April is my wife. What's hers is mine and what's mine is hers."
"You have quite a bit more on the line," she says. "What's hers is yours. So, what would that be? The tattered blanket she came with and the hair on her head?"
"Stop talking," I say with a clenched jaw. "I won't let you speak about her like that. You won't belittle her."
"Take a breath, son," she says. "She's my daughter-in-law. I would never harbor ill will towards her." I make a noncommittal sound in my throat. "I wouldn't," she insists, then feigns pain. "I'm hurt to think you'd assume so."
I hear movement in the bathroom, then the sound of water draining. Shortly after, April's soft voice calls, "Baby?"
"Mom, I can't talk," I say, looking over my shoulder. "Just a second, sweetest. I'll be right there."
"I wasn't finished with you," my mother says. "I'm interested to know whether or not you've been trying. This is information I need to know, Jackson."
"No, it's not," I say.
"I don't appreciate the way you're treating me," she says. "Remember who brought you into this earth, son. I raised you better than to disrespect me like this."
"It's not disrespect, mother," I say. "I need to go."
I hang up without saying goodbye to find April watching me from the bathroom, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her body. Her hair is in a dry, loose bun atop her head, and her eyes look a bit troubled. "Was that your mother?" she asks.
"Yes," I answer, dropping my elbows to my knees so I can rub my temples.
She walks over, feet making soft sounds on the carpet, before stopping directly in front of me. She lifts my head from where it's resting and holds my jaw in her palms, cradling my face in the gentle way only she can. "Did she upset you?" she asks. I nod my head. "What happened?"
I let out a long, exasperated sigh. "I don't want to upset you, too," I say.
"You won't," she assures me, then sits beside me to take one of my hands in both of hers. Her skin is impossibly soft - I have no idea how she gets it like that. "Just talk to me."
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand and raise my eyebrows. "She asked if we'd had sex since the meeting," I say. "Moreover, asking if there's a possibility that you're pregnant."
Apprehension flashes across her face as she asks, "What'd you tell her?"
"Nothing," I say. "I told her it isn't her business, though she continues to claim otherwise."
April runs her top teeth over her bottom lip, creating a straight, white line in their wake. "I mean, there is a possibility," she says, moving to press a flat hand against her stomach. "But I don't know."
"I know there is," I say.
She looks at me with guarded eyes. "It's been over a week," she says. "One of those high-end tests would be accurate."
I stroke her knuckles with my thumb, strong and sure. "Do you want to take one?" I ask, then amend my thought. "Don't do it just because of my mother."
"No," she says, shaking her head. "No… I've been wondering myself. Haven't you?"
It's been the only thing on my mind since we had sex, but I haven't let her know. I kept it to myself because I was unsure how she felt in the aftermath. I didn't want to seem too excited if it's something she's dreading. I still don't know how to properly react. "Yes," I say. "Ever since."
"Yeah, me too," she says. "But right away, you know… wouldn't have been accurate."
"So, you want to take a test?" I ask. She nods. "I'll have Calliope run to the pharmacy."
When Calliope comes back with a few, top-notch brands of pregnancy tests in tow, the expression on her face is hard to read. "I wasn't made aware you were trying to get pregnant," she says, handing me the bag.
"I'm not," I say smartly. "April is."
She rolls her eyes. "Don't play stupid, Jackson. It isn't a one-man job."
"April only needs one man," I say. "Me."
"Stop beating around the goddamn bush and talk to me," she snaps. "Are you trying to have a baby, or was this an 'oopsie' deal?"
I stay curt and pulled together, standing straight with set shoulders. "We're trying," I say.
"Huh," she responds, eyeing me.
"What does that mean?" I question.
"It means 'huh,'" she retorts.
"I don't have time to stand here and let you pass judgment on our decisions," I say.
"Does this have anything to do with the second half the inheritance?" she asks.
I blink hard and inhale so deeply it increases the size of my chest. "Of course it does," I say tersely. "Now, if you'll excuse me." I turn on my heel and head up the stairs to where April is waiting - still in the bedroom. I find her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, hair combed now as it begins to curl around her shoulders. "She brought them," I say.
"Oh," she says, looking up as if she hadn't noticed me before. "Okay. I… um, well, I might as well."
"Sure," I say, and my stomach jumps as I hand her the multiple boxes.
She doesn't invite me into the bathroom and I don't call attention to the fact that I wanted her to. Instead, I pace the room and shove my hands into my pockets, closing my eyes as I try to focus on anything besides what's behind that closed door.
It seems like an eternity that April is in there, and the sound of the door opening makes me jump. I turn around while pretending not to have a sense of urgency, eyes on her right hand as it's full of the tests I'd given her. I can't read the look on her face whatsoever - it's eerily calm, but there's plenty toiling beneath that facade.
She takes a step forward and sets the tests down on the top of her vanity, all five of them in a line. They all read the same thing - and as if I needed a clearer picture, with no intonation she states, "Negative."