February 1998
Alone in the Houses' master bathroom, Stacy rinsed the bristles of her toothbrush. As she hunched over the vanity, immaculate and nimbus-white against the room's rich blue palette, she rolled her shoulders, knotted with the strain of the evening.
A week ago, she and Greg had discovered a brief, stern phone message from his father. "The family is celebrating your mother's sixtieth birthday on Sunday," he'd said. "I'll expect you for dinner on Saturday, and your mother wants to meet the woman you've been living with, so bring her with you."
Despite Greg's best attempts to acquire a weekend shift and avoid his father's summons, they had arrived, two corked bottles of anxiety, on time for dinner on Saturday evening. The front door had opened to reveal a short, broadly smiling woman who spread her arms to her son, gathering him against her for a long embrace. A moment later, formal introductions still in progress, Stacy had found herself similarly engulfed, a "wonderful to finally meet you, dear" in her ear.
Blythe's open and amiable welcome had been diluted by John's reserved one. He'd extended no physical greeting beyond a faint-but not unkind-smile and an invitation to sit at the table. Stacy had pretended to dismiss Greg's tense grip on his fork and smiled when John had half-teased, a chuckle in his voice when he'd expressed his gratitude that she'd survived Greg's hazardous driving to afford them the opportunity to meet. Over dinner, John had abandoned attempts to engage Greg in conversation and instead inquired about Stacy's profession, her education, her family. She had responded with polite diplomacy until John had remarked in a sober tone that Greg's life could use the balance and stability of a woman and a family. Stacy's cheeks had flushed hot, Greg's body had stiffened, and Blythe had stood from her seat, announcing that she had baked an apple crisp for dessert.
After dinner, Greg had pulled her close to him on the sofa, his hip and thigh flush against hers, while Blythe guided the conversation, asking about Greg's practice and sharing family news-"Aunt Sarah's a grandmother now. Rachel had a baby boy, Zachary, last month." Greg had squirmed beside her, reached for her hand, and linked their fingers together until the four of them had adjourned to their respective bedrooms, tension rising from him like a vapor.
Stacy splashed water around the drain, careful to clear the sink of toothpaste smears, capped her travel toothbrush case, and stuffed it into their leather toiletry bag. Blythe had laid out a bar of soap and a pair of washcloths, and Stacy soaped one of the cloths, bending low over the basin to wash her face. She massaged the soap across her skin leisurely, lazily, prolonging her private time to unwind.
Face refreshed but still damp, she stepped into the hall, bare feet halting and ears perking at the faint sounds of voices drifting from behind the closed door to her left. Helplessly drawn to the door, paranoia churned inside her as she strained to hear the conversation, alert for signs of disappointment or disapproval. The first words she distinguished, however, resonated with approval, high, breathy approval: "Yes, that's it, John. Yes." Stacy's hand clapped over her mouth to muffle her gasp as she fled, darting to the guest room on her toes.
Giggles fought their way up her throat as she closed the guest room door, but Greg's face sobered her enough to swallow her laughter. When his eyes fell on her, pressed against the door, his brows angled sharply and the furrows in his forehead deepened. He squinted at her.
His voice revealed a tinge of annoyance. "What?"
Stacy bit her lip, reluctant to relay what she'd heard, and cast her eyes to the floor.
"Oh, stop with the scared little girl routine. It's been a week, for God's sake." He strode to the door and laid his hands on her shoulders.
"No, Greg, it's not-"
"For the last time, Stacy, Pennywise is not hiding in the drain. I swear, I'm never watching another scary movie with you again." He guided her away from the door. "Now scoot."
"Where are you going?"
He jerked his thumb towards the hall. "Bathroom. Gingivitis isn't sexy, you know."
"No." She shimmied into the narrow space between Greg and the door, blocking his path. "You can't."
"Don't worry. I can fight off killer clowns. I'll be safe." He reached around her for the doorknob.
"No, I mean, you shouldn't. You shouldn't, uh, go down there."
"Why?"
"Because..."
He raised his eyebrows. "Because...?"
She shook her head, fighting a grin, fingers toying with her hair. "You really don't want to know."
"Oh, no. No, don't tease me like that," he said, pointing at her. "I hate teases."
A smile spread over her face as she flattened her hands on his chest and fanned her fingers wide. "You love teases," she said and slid her hands over his shoulders, rising on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. The tip of her tongue traced his bottom lip and drew a quiet hum from his throat before she broke away, dragging her fingertips over his body.
His persistence, however, refused to rest. As his eyelids fluttered open, he asked, "So, seriously, what's the big secret? Do I need to torture it out of you?"
"Greg," she said, "I know you have an innate need to satisfy your interminable curiosity, but, trust me, you'll be sorry to hear this."
He sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, spill it."
"Please, just let it go."
"Tell me or I'll find out for myself." He paused, drumming his fingers on the small of her back. When she refused to reply, he steered her clear of the door and opened it. "Fine," he declared. "I'm going."
One of his feet stepped into the hall before Stacy blurted, rapid-fire, "Your parents are having sex!"
Greg froze. One heel dug into the plush carpet. His knees and elbows locked. His muscles flexed, bulging with tension. He pivoted to face her, feet still firmly planted, stunned. He stared at her, his eyes as huge and wide as a barn owl's. His mouth opened, closed, opened again before he finally stuttered, "What? They're-they're what?"
"Well, they were," she replied, smirking. She linked her arm with his and gently pulled him back into the room, closing the door. "I don't know if they're finished yet. I didn't stick around for the finale."
He unlinked their arms and paced a horseshoe around the bed. He stopped, blinked. "They were-what?"
"At first, I just thought they were talking," she explained, her voice wavering with repressed laughter, "but then I heard your mom-"
"Whoa! Stop, stop! I don't need the nasty details, thank you." He glared at her, adding, "Will you stop smiling?"
Her cheeks ached with the effort of assuming a straight face. "I'm sorry, honey, but-"
"No, stop it. It's not funny."
"Well, consider yourself lucky that you didn't actually hear it. You would have been truly traumatized, I'm sure."
"Oh, yes, I'm so relieved. Thank you for reminding me of my good fortune."
"You're such a drama queen," she said, stripping off her shirt, preparing for bed. "It's really not a big deal."
"Sure, not to you." He followed her example, speaking while his head was still caught beneath the fabric. "They're not your parents." He balled up his t-shirt and tossed it onto their closed suitcase. "Maybe we should leave," he said. "We never should have come in the first place. Let's just go."
"Go where? You're practically undressed. You might as well just-"
"Here," he said, scrambling to pick up their shirts from the floor. He pressed hers against her chest. "Just throw this back on. We could find a hotel or something."
She pitched her shirt over his shoulder and replied before it struck the floor. "Right, let's wander an area that neither of us is familiar with, in the middle of the night, on the off-chance of finding an available hotel. Brilliant."
"We could always sleep in the car."
"It's February. It's twenty degrees outside."
"So we'll bundle up, take a few blankets. I'll even snuggle with you."
"We can't leave."
He bounced on his toes, whining, "Why not?"
"Because," she said, a grin pulling at her lips, "it's your mother's birthday, and she's gone out of her way to feed us, make us feel welcome and comfortable. She'll be hurt when she finds out that you spent the night in your car." Stacy circled her arms around his waist, her fingers playing along his spine.
"She'll never know. We could sneak back into the house before she wakes up."
"So, tomorrow morning, when she asks you if the bed was comfortable or if you slept well, you'll, what, lie? You told me it's impossible to lie to her."
He sighed, closing his eyes and tipping his face towards the ceiling. A soft, frustrated growl rumbled out of him. "Fine, fine, we'll stay," he said, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.
Stacy dropped a kiss to his collar bone, hands stroking over his ribs. Her fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxer-briefs, over his hips. "Come on, Greg, let's go to bed. It's been a long day. You need some sleep."
He huffed a tiny laugh. "Yeah, unfortunately, unless I have the help of a tranquilizer, or alcohol, or a handful of sleeping pills, I doubt I'll be getting much sleep."
Stacy rolled her eyes, shoving him towards the bed. "Oh, grow up, Greg," she said, shedding the rest of her clothes and burrowing beneath the blankets. "You're a mature adult," she paused, then added, "well, physically anyway." Before switching off the bedside lamp, she noticed his scowl. "You'll get over it."
"Christ, just let it go," Stacy said, shifting on her side to face Greg, who lay stiffly beside her, blinking at the ceiling.
"Can't," he mumbled and shifted restlessly, legs thrashing beneath the bedcovers. "I'd like to see you try to sleep with a bad, never-ending porno stuck in your head." His heel struck her shin like a ball-peen hammer.
"Damn it, Greg," she hissed. One hand wrapped around his forearm, squeezing fiercely; the other soothed the sting in her leg. "Lay still or, I swear, I'll knock you out myself. There's a nice, thick hardcover on the dresser."
He rolled onto his back. "For the love of God, do it." A groan dragged out of him, his knuckles kneading his temples. "I can practically hear the bedsprings."
Stacy pursed her lips, willingly succumbing to a temptation to heighten his discomfort. "Actually," she said, "I couldn't exactly hear any bedsprings above all the heavy breathing."
He squeezed his eyes shut, covered his face with his hands. "Ugh, Stace, what-why would you-that's just-why?"
"Because you wouldn't let me sleep for days, creeping up on me, taunting me with that damn clown voice. Now I get to terrorize you. You were right; it is fun."
Greg uttered a strangled whine and covered his face with a pillow.
She propped herself on her elbow, cheerfully musing, "I always thought your parents had a more regimented, Puritanical approach to sex. Procreation purposes only." She grinned when he curled the edges of the pillow around his head. "I bet your mother's always on the bottom."
From beneath the pillow, his muffled voice pleaded, "Please stop."
Stacy's grin morphed into a full open-mouthed smile. "Your father probably has a cadence rhythm, keeps time in his head." In a military beat, she chanted, "In, out, in, out, in. In, out-"
"As much as I appreciate the digs at my dad," he said, lifting the pillow and drawing a deep breath, "I'd appreciate it even more if you'd shut up. How would you like it if I told you that your boss is 'secretly' having an affair with your department secretary?"
Stacy's brows furrowed, temporarily taken aback. "Oh my God. Really?"
He raised one eyebrow, nodded.
Her nose wrinkled. "What a pig. That's disgusting."
"See?"
"Okay, it's more than I'd like to know, but it's not exactly mortifying. I don't have to hug my secretary goodnight when I leave the office. You, on the other hand, have the sonly duty of kissing your mom's cheek before you leave. Who knows what touched her cheek tonight."
Even in the dark, his glare smoldered. "If you don't shut up, I'll deposit a dirty little souvenir on your cheek," he threatened, miming several swift jerks with a closed fist.
"Oh, please," she scoffed, a smile playing on her lips as she turned her back to him. "You wouldn't be able to get it up now if I brought in a dozen swimsuit models." As she settled her head on the pillow, she felt the firm grip of his hand on her shoulder pulling her onto her back.
He shifted over her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, his voice low, "You should know by now that I don't need a dozen swimsuit models."
Stacy's smile lost its smugness as his knee parted her legs and his open mouth pressed a kiss behind her ear. He slid his hand over her neck and palmed her breast, canting his hips forward to rub against her, already semi-hard in his briefs. Her chin tipped upwards as her back arched-a helpless, automatic reaction. When he turned her head to the side and traced the cord of muscle in her neck with his tongue, a quiet moan broke in her throat. His whole body jerked against her, and she felt him grow full and hard between her legs.
"See," he breathed against her skin. "That's all I need."
When Greg ambled down the stairs the following morning, fresh from the shower, Stacy intercepted him outside of the kitchen. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Good morning," she said.
"Morning," he replied. "I smell breakfast."
"Blueberry pancakes. I'm going to help your mom in the kitchen, scramble some eggs," she said, curling her fingers into his hair, still damp from the shower. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Do you think they heard us last night?"
He shrugged, smiling. "I don't know. Why do you care?"
"Because it's not exactly the best first impression."
"Well, you should have thought of that last night, when you were naked and moaning like a-"
She slapped her palm against his chest. "Greg."
"Oh, relax. If my dad heard, he's not going to say anything, because he knows it'll embarrass my mom, and, if she heard, she's probably hoping we just conceived her first grandchild, so I wouldn't worry."
Stacy dropped her chin to his shoulder, releasing a soft groan as Greg's arms curled around her and pulled her against him. She peered into the kitchen where Blythe was flipping a pancake at the stove. A sigh caught in her throat when Blythe met her eyes and, smiling broadly, winked at her.
Throughout breakfast, the red blush in Stacy's cheeks refused to fade. Blythe's smile lasted the entire day.