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Michaela sees the way John looks at her. And it is John that he insists that she calls him now that she's eighteen, not Mr. Willard, which is what her New England-raised sensibilities had dictated way back when they met.
She's gotten used to it now. Calling him John, anyway, not the looks he gives her. Those still feel weird. But mostly she's able to ignore them since it's not like she's ever really alone with her best friend's dad. He's mostly just a presence in Sophie's house, lurking upstairs while they watch TV in the basement and yelling after them to be safe when they head out to just hang out at Maggie's house; it's not a party, promise!
She's been friends with Sophie since what feels like forever, but in reality only since the seventh grade when she moved down here to a tiny mid-Atlantic town. At the time, John—Mr. John back then—had still been married. Mrs. Cece was a warm, kind woman, and effortlessly cool. An art teacher at the local community college, she'd always been decked out in beads and eccentric clothing; ceramics made by her friends had filled out the kitchen cabinets and casettes recorded by little indie bands that played local bars were always loaded into the stereo. But most importantly, she had an effect on John that had left when she died and never came back.
He looked at Mrs. Cece like she hung the moon. Now, she sees the same look directed her way. And for the first time, she and John are alone together.
Sophie's out—just ran to Blockbuster to pick up Hellraiser II, finally out on video, instructing Michaela to stay behind and keep an eye on the pizza bagels they'd just put in the oven—and John's just wandered into the kitchen for a beer. And to look at Michaela.
"Drink, Mikey?" he asks, pulling a Heineken out from the fridge and waving it in her direction. The nickname always used to make her smile; her own father has never been the most affectionate guy and Michaela's always been the clear favorite of both John's and Mrs. Cece's out of all of Sophie's friends.
Tonight, it just kind of feels weird. She watches as he pops the top of the bottle and takes a long drink that he punctuates with a grin, clearly waiting for her to say yes.
But what comes out of her mouth is, "I'm eighteen," like he doesn't know that.
He does, obviously, and he answers, "Plenty mature," with a wink, and Michaela can't help the way that her face goes warm. "I don't mind if you girls drink," he continues with a glance toward the door Sophie had just left through. "Just do it in my house where I know you're safe, and don't drive, you know? Come on, you think I didn't know about that handle of Burnett's you two stash in the basement?"
"You know about that?" Michaela asks. Fucking embarrassing. The heat on her face has undoubtedly turned into an obvious pink flush.
"I was a teenager once too, you know," John says with a wry smile on his face, looking back her way over the top of his beer. It stays like that for a second, but then, like he's had an unbidden thought he can't chase away, his face sobers up and the grin turns into the mournful expression he wears a large chunk of the time ever since Cece died. A weird sense of relief floods through her at the sight of it. It's not like Michaela likes seeing her best friend's dad like that, but she kind of prefers it to the lecherous grin.
"Uh, yeah," she answers when he raises an eyebrow over the sad twist of his mouth and it becomes clear that he's expecting her to keep up the conversation. "I'll wait for Sophie. I don't really like beer anyway."
"No worries," he says, turning back to the fridge. "Something else? Kool-aid? Iced tea? Nicer vodka than Burnett's?"
"I'm okay. Thanks, though," she says, and then is saved by having to say anything else by the oven timer buzzing and the smell of slightly-burned tomato sauce wafting through the air. "Pizza bagels," she says with a vague gesture, and John nods his head at her as if to give her permission.
If they were at Michaela's house, her dad would be posted up in the other room watching baseball and generally being indifferent to whatever Sophie and Michaela were up to. Here, John says, "Sit down a second," when she makes to turn around and carry the food down to the basement. Maybe that's why she she complies.
"Talk to me a second," John says. Prods, really, a wheedling in her voice that makes her feel a little bad for him. "Come on, you know a daughter isn't inclined to open up to her ol' dad. And she doesn't have a mother to tell who can relay stuff to me. I just wanna hear about what you girls get up to now that you're graduated. Last summer before college! That's gotta have brought some good times."
"Oh," Michaela says wrinigng her hands. What, is she gonna tell him that they all got high in the bed Noah's truck last weekend at the field party he threw? Is she gonna tell him that they'd all gone cliff jumping and ran from the cops? Is she gonna tell him that when they all played never-have-I-ever at Maggie's last weekend, she was the only virgin? "Well, you know."
"I said I've been a teenager, Mike. I've never been an eighteen year old girl," John says with a wink. The mournful frown is gone, and Mikey looks down at the pizza bagels dumbly to escape whatever expression his face morphs into next. "So no, I don't know. Any boys on the horizon? Any guys to break it off with when you head off to school?"
"Oh," Michaela says, stuffing one of the bagels into her mouth to have to keep from talking for just a second. It's way too hot; she tries to ignore the way it burns her tongue. John doesn't take his eyes off of her, just takes another long sip of beer.
"Oh," he mimics, not unkindly, when he finishes and wipes his mouth. The bottle's already empty, but he doesn't get up and get another one. "Soph had that little boyfriend, I remember. Isaac. The guy who took her to prom."
"Yeah," Michaela nods, relieved that they're talking about Sophie. Maybe that is all he wanted, just to hear about his daughter. Nothing too crazy. "Yeah, he's…yeah. They weren't really serious. They're both going to State, but I think they both kinda wanted to go into college unattached."
"Ah well, as long as she's happy," he says, and then manages to wipe the relief away in one fell swoop by asking, "What about you, Mike? Gonna do long distance with anybody while you're up at that fancy art school?"
She blushes, the embarrassing truth coming out of her before she can stop herself. "I'm single. Always have been."
He leans back, puts his arms behind his head with an appraising look.
"Pretty girl like you? The boys don't know what they're missing. Still, nothing wrong with that; I hope you don't feel bad about it," he says, and, well. She has always felt bad about it. It feels kind of nice to hear that, even if it's from her friend's dad. "Saves you from having to go through a breakup. Of course, doesn't really prepare you for college, though."
Nevermind.
"What do you mean?" she asks, trying not to obviously glance down at the watch on her wrist. She wishes she had something to fiddle with. The label on the beer bottle that's fraying under the condensation, maybe; she wants to reach out and grab it. Sophie's taking forever at Blockbuster—how many fucking people could be renting a movie on a Friday night? The entire town?
"Well, college guys don't like virgins," John says, pulling her out of her thoughts. It's said so matter-of-factly, and it's so absurd and inappropriate that Michaela can't help but awkwardly laugh—and way too loudly—to cover the way his statement makes her shiver. Like he's trying to give her privacy to be embarrassed in peace, John stands up to get another beer.
"I, uh," she manages finally. That was a weird thing to say, but she is an adult now. Maybe he's just trying to be a cool parent, or something. It's just that it's not really working. "I'm gonna go to the basement," she says, but before she can stand up, John's already returned from the fridge; this time with two beers, cold necks curled in his fingers.
"No, stay," he says. "Sorry, that was totally inappropriate of me. It's just…" he trails off, eyes and mouth going forlorn again. The widower, the smiling dad, the guy that looks at her like no guys in high school ever had. A constant cycle.
"What?" Michaela asks, knowing in the recesses of her brain that she shouldn't invite him to say more. But she finds herself feeling particularly bad for him in this moment, a guy who's so lonely that he has to make conversation like this with his daughter's best friend. Besides, she still misses Mrs. Cece too. She gets it. Pangs of sadness still hit randomly, and she's just the best friend of her daughter.
"Cecille went to art school too, you know," he says. "You just remind me of her. Artsy and passionate, all that."
"Yeah, I know," Michaela says, and busies herself by digging at a groove in the kitchen table with her thumbnail. John's heavy gaze on her is tangible. "She, uh… I mean, she's kind of the reason I wanted to go. She was so cool, and so talented, and she always encouraged me with my dumb little drawings. I don't know. That's probably stupid."
"No, it's not at all," John says. "You kind of look like her too, you know? Soph is all me. You've got Cece's curls somehow."
Almost as if he doesn't know that he's doing it, John reaches out and brushes a finger over her hair, a soft look on his face, lips parted slightly. There it is again: that uncomfortable feeling, a pit in her stomach that she recognizes distinctly as dread, but also a nagging voice in her brain that says, he likes you. And he wants you.
There's nothing to say to that, but she doesn't have the heart to move his hand. The A/C is on, but her body feels so hot all over.
"It's crazy that you've never had a boyfriend. That you're a virgin," he says, puncturing the bloated silence.
It's so startling that Michaela can't help but mumble, "I'm nothing special," before she thinks the better of it. She should shut this down, but she can't bring herself to. Instead, she sits still as John's fingers pull a bit at her hair. She bites her lip and looks up at him, studying him through her eyelashes. He's not…bad-looking. For a dad, he's pretty hot. Closely shaved beard that was once dark brown and is now shot through with grey, weathered lines on his face that make him look older than he is. Eyes that are a little bloodshot, but not hard or cold.
"Nah, you know that's not true," he says, shaking his head. "Come on. Mike, I've…" He breaks off with a sheepish grin and finally pulls his hand from her hair to run it through his own. She can still feel a sting from where he'd tugged. "You probably know I've been looking at you for a while. Sorry if it's made you uncomfortable."
"No, it's…" She's looking at the table again, the bagels gone cold. What's she supposed to say to him? Don't be sad about your dead wife? "It's fine."
"You flattered?"
"Mr. John," she says for lack of anything better to say. It stumbles out of her mouth clumsily, like she's missed a stair on her way down the front porch.
"It's John, Mikey, come on."
"John, sorry."
He waves a hand. "It's just… God, I can't believe you girls are headed off to college at the end of this month. Growing up so fast. I'm being such a dad about this, huh? I just worry about you two."
"Thanks," she says with an awkward shrug, blowing out a little breath at the conversation turning back around. Hopefully. "I think it's gonna be okay."
"You're gonna be off on your own. Boys take advantage of you. And you're gonna be so far away, up there in New England."
"I'm from there, remember? I've got family nearby. I'm really not worried about it."
"By the school?"
"A state over," Michaela corrects. "But not far. I can take the train."
"Still," he says with a sigh, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. It's damp. "Like I said. College guys… I said it all wrong. It's not that they don't like virgins, I guess. Who wouldn't like being the first? It's more like…they'll take advantage of of someone who hasn't done it before. Bad sex. You're not even gonna have a chance to know what good sex is before you go, that's a shame."
"Uh," she stutters out, mouth falling open. "I mean. Are you offering?"
She tries for a joking tone, something to deflect the situation. Maybe she should say more. Maybe she should say, stop talking to me about this, and head off to the basement and lock the door. But at the same time, she feels a pathetic little tugging in her gut at the idea of turning John's attention totally off of her. As long as they can keep the conversation to just that, maybe it's okay to indulge. Besides, Sophie will be home any second and then she can go down to the basement and they can pretend this never happened. And then, in just a couple weeks, she'll be eight hours away from this town and John and being the only virgin in her friend group.
"Ah, Mikey," John says, finishing his second beer. He slides the third one he'd brought across the table to her. "Go ahead, honey, have a drink. I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that."
"I was just joking," Michaela says, trying to sound firm. "I mean—I don't think we should be talking about this seriously. Right?"
He shrugs. "I mean, you're an adult, and you asked if I was offering. It didn't really sound like a joke. Think about it: I think you'll feel better with some experience under your belt."
John punctuates his statement by placing his hand on her bare thigh, and it's the dog days of summer, and she's got a tiny little denim skirt on, and he's dangerously close to crossing the line of plausible deniability. The rough skin of his palm tickles against the little stubs of her leg hair, and she wishes more than anything that she'd already changed into her PJ shorts. Not that they leave much to the imagination either, but the only fabic barrier between John's fingers and her pussy is her thong. She could do with one more layer.
His hand is cold and obvious against her, from both the beer and the wedding ring that he still wears. He's left-handed. She'd never picked that up in the entire six years she's been coming over here. Funny what you notice at times like these.
"John," she says. "Mr. Willard. Come on."
"Listen," he says, insistent now. "You're gonna like it. I can make you feel better than any college guy can. Even if it has been a couple years. You'd be my first since Cece; come on, you can't tell me that isn't flattering."
It is, that's part of the problem. Still, Michaela had always had this kind of vision for losing her virginity. This grand, ridiculous idea that she'd finally get her first boyfriend and she'd be in love and there'd be candles and like, I'll Make Love To You playing. Just for the first time; after that, she could be less serious.
"No, it is flattering," she says. "I just…"
"Soph is gonna be home soon," John reminds her. "Just the tip, maybe? You just need to get a feel for it. Trust me, when you get to college you're gonna be really glad you have the experience."
Before Michaela can respond or even think about how the hell she should respond to that—a protest, a cry, a firm no, an I'm gonna call someone with an insistent glance at the cordless on the wall of the dining room—his hand has moved from her thigh to under her skirt.
"You already wet?" he asks in wonder, pressing the pads of his fingers right up against her slit through her panties. He's not even looking; his eyes are still on her face. There's no doubt he's done this before, done this a million times, unlike those college boys he keeps going on about. And here she is, with that feeling of dread back in her stomach and her dumb cunt leaking without her permission.
"Sorry," she says finally, pushing his hand away and squeezing her legs together. She's gotta say something. "No. I don't think so. No."
"Mikey, honey," John says, not sounding the slightest bit put out. The look—the perv look, what else can she call it—is back on his face. "You wouldn't be wet if you didn't want it."
"That's—" She gulps. It's not true. Or is it? She's never had somebody else touch her pussy before. Just herself when her parents are asleep or out of the house, and that never seems to work in any real satisfying way: she'll grind her palm against her clit, hump her pillow, think about every movie star or musician she's ever found attractive with his tongue inside of her and come up with nothing. She's never been able to understand what Sophie and all them are talking about when they bring up orgasms.
Trust me, you'd know, their friend Selena had said once after Michaela had said I'm pretty sure I've had one before when Kara said that her boyfriend Sean said that girls almost never came during sex. When everybody else had insisted that they do, she'd felt stupid not speaking up. So she did, and then she felt stupider.
"Open up for me, honey," John says, putting his hand back up her skirt and not waiting for any sort of permission. He makes quick work of rucking it up, the denim pressing against her stomach, easily felt beneath her thin tank top. Wildly, absurdly, it's all she can think about: the fold of the fabric, the way it rubs against her belly-button ring, anything but what John's doing, which is slipping her panties down around her thighs, her calves, her ankles.
"I don't think this is a good idea," Michaela manages to bite out, shutting her eyes. "Please, John. I don't want to."
"You're going to thank me later, trust me," John insists, and he's got that authoritative dad voice going that sends a shiver down her spine. She's heard it a million times: telling Sophie to clean up the basement like he asked, scolding her the two of them swear they'll be home from the movies at 10:30 but show up at 11, getting on the two of them to do their homework before they're allowed to do something fun whenever Mikey comes over after school. She never thought she'd hear it like this.
"Uh," she says.
"Look," John says, and then, instead of following it up with anything, he slips a finger between her labia, right inside of her. Michaela can't help but let out an embarrassing yelp, and she resists the urge to bury her face in her arms as she squirms at the unfamiliar touch. John moves his finger around exploratorily but confidently, pressing up against the soft walls of her lips for a moment before finally shoving it to the opening of her hole for real. When he starts moving in earnest—just a little, just a crooking c'mere motion—Michaela can hear the unmistakable snick of wetness coming from herself.
At Maggie's eighteenth birthday party a couple months ago, the girls had all gathered around her family's computer at one in the morning and watched some shitty porn her older brother had downloaded and thought he'd hidden away safely in a folder on the desktop labeled School. Michaela knows that sound. Knows what it means. She's mortifyingly, undoubtedly into it, or at least her body is.
"Uh," she says again, but this time it comes out much higher pitched, because John presses his finger in further and slips a second one in too, sliding them back and forth with ease. Something weird and metal presses up against her hot skin. Despite the way he's moving against her, her whole body feels frozen with the realization that it's his fucking ring.
"Hear that?" he asks. "You're so turned on for me, hon. You need more: how about this? We'll do just the tip, like I said."
"I don't think—" Michaela starts again, but before she can finish her sentence, John's already pulled his finger out of her and started unbuckling his pants, getting his dick out unceremoniously. It's already half-hard. One finger had been barely bigger than a tampon, two not much more, but his dick is…not.
"C'mon," he says. "Here, this is going to make it easier, okay? Listen, I'm a single dad, I don't know what girls get up to, but surely those Cosmos have taught you about cowgirl? C'mon," he repeats, "get up here. It'll go in easier, feel good for you."
John pats his lap but doesn't wait for Mikey to make any moves, like he knows she feels glued to her fucking seat. Instead, he gets a hand around her waist and as if pulled by some invisible string, she moves. It's only once she's positioned over his thighs that she starts thinking about how uncomfortable the hard wooden chair had been. And how hard her heart is beating.
"You really grew up this last year, you know?" John muses, hand back in Michaela's hair now. "You're so mature. And you look so much like Cecille. Fuck. Here," he says, and moves Michaela's hand to his dick. Logicially, she knows what to do with it, she's seen porn, but instead she lets it lay there limply and tries not to think about what a penis feels like: oddly soft, veiny, and really, really, hard.
I don't want this, she keeps repeating to herself like a mantra. I don't want this, not with Sophie's goddamn dad! But he's still talking and he's louder than her inner monologue.
"Like this, see?" John coaxes as he moves her hand beneath his. It's like a bizarre, sexy, awful facsimile of that scene from Ghost. "You definitely wouldn't want to go off to college not even knowing how to give a handie. And look, I'm easy, alright. Sitting there, that little tank top on, looking like Cece did when we first met… Look, I'm like halfway there. Barely have to do anything. An eighteen year old guy's gonna be like that too. I remember…it always took like five minutes, tops."
He chuckles, and she…is still wet. She can't not feel it, damp against his thighs because he's pushed his basketball shorts down around his knees, and now she's rubbing up against his pubes. And she's sick and desperate and she doesn't know how to stop her body from doing this.
"Normally," John continues, blissfully unaware of the crisis inside of her head, "I'd treat you right. Open you up all slow so I slide right in. But clock's ticking, don't want Sophie to catch us, and, well… It's not like some college kid is gonna bother to take his time,either, you know? So just—I'll make it as good for you as I can, okay? Just the tip."
"Mr. John—"
"John."
"John. Please stop," she tries one last time. "I really don't—"
"If you didn't want it, honey, you wouldn't be so wet. I'm just going to put the tip in, okay?"
With that, he curls his hand around the base of his dick, pressing it up to the hole where his finger had been just moments ago. He moves it in an almost clinical way at first: a circular motion that stretches the walls of her hole just the slightest bit. A little prod, but it feels…weird. Painful-but-not-really, like the pull behind her knees when she bends over to touch her toes while stretching at track practice. The pull lasts just a little too long, and she makes to close her legs on a reflex, forgetting that she's fucking straddled over his thighs, and there's no hiding anything from him.
"You like that, huh?" he asks, but he isn't looking at her and he doesn't see the way she shakes her head. Instead, he's looking down at where they're joined and adjusts himself enough for her to be able to see that the tip of his cock is shiny. She's not sure if it's her—still leaking wetness, still feeling that telltale tremble inside of her pussy—or if it's him, pre bubbling from his slit with how bad he seems to watch this. Without anything around it, his cock flops against his stomach, thick and hard, and, and—
"Shouldn't we use a condom?" she blurts. Her voice sounds high and she can feel the desperation of it in her throat and it's pathetic.
John shakes his head. "I'm not gonna come in you, don't worry. Let's just— Well— You ever had an orgasm before? I know you're a virgin, sweetheart, but I mean when you're alone. Or if a boy has fingered you, or anything like that?"
She doesn't know what's wrong with her, because she actually admits the truth, shaking her head no.
"Oh, well," he says in a much softer tone. His hand moves from her hair to cup her cheek, and it almost feels like a real boyfriend's would. This entire time, Michaela's been attempting to stare at nothing: at the wall, at John's shoulder, at her left hand, clenched in a fist by her side. Now, his voice is so full of emotion she can't help but meet his eyes, which are so warm. It's like he really cares if she finishes or not.
"What?" she manages to choke out.
"I'm gonna get you to finish. Don't worry," he says, and then all of a sudden, he's pushing inside of her. No longer just his tip, Michaela can't help but cry out at the intrustion. It's big. Maybe. To her, at least, which makes it worse. She hasn't exactly had a lot of dicks inside of her to compare to. Even so, when John fills her up she can feel it all over her whole body, like she's full to bursting. She can feel it in the soles of her feet. "Okay?" he asks, rolling his hips and eliciting a nervous, loud breath out of her.
"Mm-mm," she manages to squeak out, with a minute shake of her head, but it's like he's decided that now that he's in he's not gonna get out, because he uses the palm on her shoulder to pull her closer. A totally rhetorical question. An unwilling moan leaves her throat as he sinks in further, hitting a sensitive place so far inside of her that she feels like they might as well be in her stomach.
"I'm gonna make you feel good," he says like an oath, and grasps her hips with both hands. It's a firm grip, but when he rocks her up and down on his cock it's gentle, and the feeling starts to turn from a painful one to one that feels undoubtedly good, yeah. There's no other word for it. A weird, unique, pleasurable buzz.
Sometimes, when Michaela tries to masturbate, she does get to the edge like this. She'll manage to move her clit against the soft, worn fabric of her pillow in a way that makes that distinct sensation build inside of her; a little flutter that teases at the edge of her senses. It never goes anywhere, like a wave that doesn't crest. For once, it feels like it's actually building toward something.
Like she needs to understand the origin of the feeling, she stares in slightly horrified wonder at the place where her stomach presses against his; he's totally sheathed inside of her and there's no longer any sort of gap between their bodies. 2 Become 1 or whatever the Spice Girls said. It's a stupid, insane thought that comes into her brain completely unbidden and totally, completely out of place. That was the kind of first time she was supposed to have.
But maybe that would've sucked. Maybe the guy would've been like John said, fast and just total crap and not bothering to make sure she felt good at all. Not like this, not with John, whose eyes are shut in pleasure as he moves and mutters little praises out all the time. You feel amazing. You're gorgeous. So tight. Can't wait to feel you shaking around me, and that's—she thinks she might—
Oh, god, she can't let herself come from this. This can't be her first fucking orgasm. Shouldn't she be able to stop this from happening? She should've stopped this from happening. It feels like it's been an hour since John—since he—
But when she manages a glance at the clock on the microwave, it hasn't even been five minutes. Beneath her, John's hips are already starting to buck harder as he jackhammers her up and down, less sensual and more businesslike, the fastest way to complete the task in the shortest amount of time, and the fucked up part is that it's working. The more he moves, the more she bounces on his cock and the more moans come out of her and her tits push against his chest as he pulls her close, the more she can tell she's about to tumble over that proverbial edge she's never managed to quite get close to before.
"Oh, my god," she bites out with a cry, the muscles of her cunt starting to pulse without her even doing anything. Her legs move, her hand flutters at her side, grabbing at nothing.
"There you go," John says. "I knew I could get you to enjoy this. Now just let go and finish with me, honey."
His sentence breaks off to a grunt on the dimunitive, and Michaela can feel it: something hot and sticky inside her as she shoots, his thighs pressing up against the back of hers, his mouth parting in pleasure.
She can't help herself. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes and a moan is escaping her own mouth, which is contorted in pleasure and disgust and oh, it feels so—
Her cunt clenches around him, just like he said it would, trying to take in every inch of him. Something is wet against her skin, smearing against her and it can't be anything but his cum leaking out from around his cock.
Selena hadn't been kidding. What had just happened could never, ever be confused with that tiny little tingle she gets when she clumsily presses her fingers inside of herself. Her breathing is so hard; she's panting like a fucking dog and all she can think is how can I feel that again?
"See?" John says when they both come back to reality a bit, his own breath coming in short bursts too. Sweat beads at his temples and glistens in the dim dining room light. "Jesus, Michaela. You're amazing. I knew you'd like that."
Gently, he lifts her off of him and pulls down her skirt, but leaves her to pull up her own panties. Her face feels like it's on fire and she feels like she's fucking leaked through her tampon with how wet and cold the cotton is against her cunt.
Fuck.
Tampon. Period. She can't quite grasp what had just happened; the reality hasn't set in, but one thing is for certain: he fucking came in her, finished inside and she isn't on the pill because she'd never had sex before. Why would she embarrass herself by asking her mom to help her get that? God, but she feels like she's on the verge of puking as she has the thought, praying to whoever might be listening that she'll get her period at the end of the month and she doesn't have to show up to her first semester at college knocked up by someone she could never, ever admit to.
John would know who'd done it, though. He'd know it couldn't have been anyone but him. And then she'd have to go back to him, because who else could she have?
She can feel her mouth working, but she doesn't manage to say anything.
Instead, she watches as John tucks himself back into his pants like she's watching her dad watch TV—she knows it's happening, but it isn't quite playing out in front of her—and the tip of his dick still shiny with her own fucking pleasure. He's saying something, she thinks, and it almost manages to distract her from the distinctive noise of the garage door opening and shutting, but not quite.
"Oh my god," she exlaims, finally pulled out of her reverie. "Sophie—"
"Will see her dad and her best friend having a beer together, and be mad that she missed all the fun. Relax, sweetheart."
Michaela nods. She tries to. It'll be fine. Sophie will come in the door and complain about the long line and say that she decided to stop by 7-11 for snacks to make up for it and Mikey, are you okay? You're acting weird.
And Michaela will nod and say that she's fine, maybe it's PMS or something, but all she'll be able to think about later, while she lays on the pullout sofa with Sophie breathing evenly next to her, will be that John is upstairs. And that she's already ruined herself for anyone else. It'd be so easy to go back for more, and feel that good again.