Chapter Text
The tip of Joel’s index finger pushes into one square shaped metal button. The first one once, the second one twice. Click . Click-click . The machine spits out the bills one by one. Ftftftftftft it says, stacking them on top of each other. A bunch of fifties, a bunch of twenties, only expected from an ATM at a truckstop where a few feet away, dust spins up under the wheels of old cars, where engines are revving before the sound is lost to the distance, and the sun shines in bright rays through the overgrown blades of grass opposite the concrete. Joel looks over his shoulder, pulls in a breath, waits the excruciating few seconds it takes for those bills to lay in a stack on a tray made also of that same scraped, dull metal. A bell chimes above the door when a woman steps out, flicking the top of a lighter hovering just in front of her face, and Joel grabs the door handle to hold it open while she smiles tightly, slipping into the cool air of the kiosk to grab some item from an aisle and place it on the countertop of the register. His eyes shift. “Keep the change,” he mutters, as he pays with a ten dollar bill that was already in his pocket, before leaving under the chiming bell and glancing at the ATM about to detach from the wall.
When his truck door closes beside him, he takes out the stack of bills and smoothes them over his thigh. His palm is clammy, too hot, and he looks out across the parking lot, at the gas pumps, the numbers glowing on the sign above the road. He looks down at the bills again. A heavy sigh leaves him. He tucks them into the pocket over his chest before he turns the key, pulls out of the lot, and flies down the highway, glancing at the rearview just to see everything getting smaller. Smaller and smaller until it no longer exists.
Sonya’s building is all exposed brick, at the end of the street, with tall trees behind the alleyway. The door is heavy at the back, the stairs are cold concrete in the air conditioning. Her door has gold numbers on the front, twenty-two it says. Someone has stuck a yellow post-it note beside the metal, with a thick, sharpied letter two on it. Two-two-two , it says then. She takes his hand when the door shuts behind him and he’s the one to flip the lock.
“How’s your day been?” she asks him, and he doesn’t want to answer.
“It’s been alright,” he says, noncommittally, and she looks at his chest while she nods. It doesn’t really matter what he answers to that question, because she treats him just the same, still unbuttons the top of this shirt softly, tilts her head until her hair slides back over her shoulder and he can smell it from above her. The bills rustle in his pocket. He swallows tightly. There’s always something a little bit humiliating about it that he’s sure she pretends not to notice. It’s easier once she has led him into her bedroom, and the cash is tucked away, and all of their clothes lay in a heap on the floor. He breathes slower when he feels her skin on his, soft against rough, silky hair against calloused hands and supple tits against coarse chest hair. The grating outside world is shut out, on the other side of the doors that lead into her apartment, unheard and unseen.
“How was your day?” he asks, his voice rough, kisses all over his shoulder.
“It was good,” she says into his neck, “Better now.”
Her friend’s perfume was a cloud above their drinks, heavy cleavage above sticky bar counters, and they whispered, their entire conversation was a series of whispers, and giggles, and no attention was paid to the world around them. They huddled in that corner, unaware of who was around. Truth or dare , her friend said, and a moment later, she spun on her barstool and tapped a man on the shoulder.
“How much would you pay for a night with me?” she asked him.
He was mortified, and it humored her. She saw an older man with no ring, she saw brown eyes and streaks of gray, she saw broad shoulders.
Her number was given freely and taken reluctantly.
“You should call me sometime,” she said, and he nodded but he didn't think he'd take her up on it. You see, someone like her isn’t meant for someone like him. There was something very disgusting, he thought, about the thought of his hands on her skin. She must’ve been twenty years younger, her cheeks were full and soft the way his were once, so long ago that not even photos would jog his memory. Her hair was silky, shaped into curls. There was shimmer on her skin and she had nails with little specks of color on them. Her hands were small, wrists fine like something he could crush between two fingers. He sort of hated her eyes on him, hated the search in them, wondering what she was looking for, that she would never find, the void he was familiar with and hoped that no one else would see. She had very pretty, green eyes, and he tried to look elsewhere but the alcohol took his willpower, flicked it away, made it impossible not to look.
They went home together that night, in a big, heavy, black truck with dust on the sides of it, at the bottom of the doors and above the tires.
“Pay up,” she said, laughing, and he took out his wallet. It was pure luck that he had bills, hundreds in cash from selling some shit from the garage — a reminder he tried to push away, of his life that smelled and looked like gray, dusty, concrete up against the soft silk that sat a foot away from them, all over her bed. He folded the bills, slipped them between two ceramic pots holding leafy, green plants, and returned his attention to her. It was only then that he could look at her, touch her, smell her, because then it was justified, then she got her end of a deal that was sick and immoral and terrible. She got money, he got her touch. He got, for one night, a reprieve from the type of loneliness that subdues you so deeply you’re too afraid to leave it.
Her number was etched into his phone after that. He did not call. Weeks passed.
But with the taste of blood in his mouth, the inside of his cheek chewed up, and his bed feeling colder than it ever had, he tapped to open a text message.
The ATM sat halfway between his work and her apartment. The bills were loosely folded and stuck between those two glossy, white pots. She was his until he left later that afternoon, until he got into his truck with sweat-damp roots and his chest burning hot, his groin still damp and sticky against the fabric of his boxers. Half-hard, again, just at the thought of it all, and his heart racing.
But a little bit less alone. And his skin was still warm from where she touched him. That felt nice too.
The third time Joel steps over the ledge into Sonya’s apartment, no alcohol numbs his nerves, and no adrenaline drives him forward. It is just him, only his flesh and blood, his own desire that propels him across that threshold. It’s only his need for the warm touch of another person, another woman, something he had forgotten the sensation of, so long had it been since the last time. It’s vague even in his memory, it takes him three tries to even remember her name.
Joel feels shame for his desires, embarrassment that burns under his skin when he touches Sonya. He should be at home, should spend every waking moment tending to Sarah. He had thirty years for himself, and that should be enough, he’s sure. His wants are nothing but a burden now, just something to distract him, to keep him up at night and make him yawn in the morning, make Sarah worry that he’s not sleeping well. She knows too much, sees the prescriptions on the bathroom counter, knows that there are things she can’t understand at fourteen and shouldn’t have to. It all compounds and accumulates, one thing after the other, hacking away slowly at Joel’s idea of the perfectly present father he should be. His ex-wife would surely be mortified if she knew where he was while Sarah was still at school, while she walked home, unlocked the door and began to do her homework. And he’s mortified too, but the disgust he feels at himself buckles under Sonya’s warmth, and it feels like part of him is also shut out when she closes the door. First the heavy door to the hallway, and then the white door that leads to the living room. Behind two doors, he is hidden away enough to be present, and when he is there, he is not a father. He is nobody’s brother in that bedroom, nobody’s son. He is only a man, and Sonya is only a woman, and he feels the last bit of embarrassment when he reaches into his back pocket and takes out a condom that he throws on the bed. The gold reflection of it should be a point of pride, maybe, but all it does is scare him when he feels her wince, holding his hand under her knee and moving as slowly as he can.
He knows that he’s the only one who has her like this, but he tries not to think about that, or even take the compliment. She was tipsy when she said it, he reminds himself, and though it doesn’t make her words any less true, he tells himself that they are, because it’s difficult to believe that it’d been nearly a year since the last time a man set foot in this room.
He saw the moment she tossed the joke aside, kneeling on her bed in her bra and panties, telling him that no , of course he doesn’t have to pay for this, but he also saw the understanding in her eyes, the acceptance of the boundary he had to set, for her more than himself, so that she wouldn’t be burdened with the love of a man like him, pathetic as it is to believe that anything he could possibly offer her might qualify as love. But Joel knows his nature, and knows that he can only hold her for so long before he begins to feel more for her than he ever should, and he can only hear her enjoy him and his body so many times before he begins to need that praise.
His heart races and sweat beads on his chest. It doesn’t matter how slowly he moves, or how soft she feels in his grip. He is still careful, aware of himself, sure he will hurt her some way or another. She looks back at him, her whole body moves with every thrust, like they are one. His own self consciousness distracts him enough to keep him from coming too quickly, numbed a little by the latex but mostly by his own certainty that he is one step away from a heart attack.
To think that she enjoys this as much as he does is beyond anything he can possibly comprehend, but she reaches back, kisses him, and he knows with certainty that this is how it is supposed to feel. And he doesn’t know how he’ll ever get enough, because it has never felt like this before. He has never been touched like this, enjoyed like this, he has never once felt wanted in the way he does now.
School is out for the next few months, and Sonya waves goodbye to the students, plus a little extra to the fifth graders who are off to middle school now. They run back to her as she crouches down, reaching out to her, and she can’t remember ever feeling any sort of attachment to her own school nurse when she was their age, but she hugs them tight, two at a time, even three, reaching around the girls who have come to her every week and every month. Sometimes they’ve knocked on her door wanting to sit in the couch and pet the stuffed animals, just to feel safe and looked after. They've come for stomach aches and wounds, both the ones she can put bandaids on and the ones that nobody can see. And she has always been there, in pink and blue and green and purple scrubs, with her hair in a matching ribbon, ready to listen and soothe and help.
The girls have cried, pointing towards their hearts and their scraped knees, and she has dried their tears, called their parents with their hand in hers, fed them crackers and warm tea, and her door has always been open for them all, no matter what’s been wrong. Despite the snot running down their faces, despite bloody noses, despite stomach aches she has had to clean off the floor and parents who have refused to leave work, she has loved her job every week of the school year.
So with a little bit of heartache, she waves goodbye to the girls with the glittery backpacks, and goes inside to pack her things. On her phone is a text message.
Joel (1)
He tells himself that four times is enough. Four times is enough. When he slams the truck door shut behind him and pushes a hand through his hair, four times is sufficient.
It has to be.
“Where have you been?” Sarah asks, lifting her head from the dining table where her and Ellie’s books are scattered all over.
He shrugs, crouching to undo the laces on his boots. “Doctor’s appointment. Just a prescription refill, nothin’ to write home about.”
Sarah cups her hand at the side of her mouth and leans towards Ellie. “High blood pressure,” she whispers to her friend.
“I heard that,” Joel says from the staircase, already halfway up, with his shirt halfway over his head.
That shirt is stained with perfume. It is stained with something that came out of a bottle with a gold logo that said YSL , whatever the hell those three letters might stand for, and he only knows this because he spent five full minutes in Sonya’s bathroom half an hour ago, tossing the filled condom, throwing cold water on his face, and cleaning the sticky, wet arousal from the hair at the bottom of his stomach, clenching his jaw and tensing every muscle in his body so as not to get hard again.
When he came back out, she was wearing a robe and laying on her stomach, thumbnails tapping at her phone screen as she composed a text message. He lingered in the doorway when her phone rang suddenly and she rolled her eyes to him before she picked up, answering that yes , she’ll bring flowers and yes , the cake for Mrs. Juarez will have freshly whipped cream and not the store bought kind. She made a chatty gesture with her hands, fingertips tapping against the tip of her thumb, tilting her head side to side.
He knew it was time to get out of there, but he just wanted to look for another second. Just one more look at her, forgetting what he had done, and the money still on her dresser, and the wet spot in her sheets that he knew damn well came from her.
So into the laundry the shirt goes, and he doesn’t want to lie to Sarah, doesn’t want her to have to wonder if she’s getting a stepmom, or just the promise of one, so he shoves the shirt into the bottom of his hamper and turns on the shower. His boxers have her all over the front, and on the inside of the fabric, and his cock twitches at the sight of the dried, white wetness that soaked his groin every time he pushed into her all the way.
He turns the tap, makes it as cold as he can handle, and steps in, hoping that his hours with her today will last him a while.
I have to be everything for her.
The dishwasher whirrs, the air fryer ticks, and I point towards the numbers on the sheet in front of her, slowly breathing so she does not think it’s a sigh.
“Come on,” I tell my daughter, “You just did another problem like this, think about what you did then.”
On the table in the hallway, the mail sits unopened. Bills I’ve got to pay, bank statements, the same shit every month. I’ll be sitting here tonight after Sarah goes to bed, getting just as frustrated as she is at her homework, at another set of numbers, and punching numbers into the calculator with just as much disdain as she does now.
It’s going to be a long night, with laundry that needs folding and soccer uniforms that need to be cleaned for this weekend. Lunches that need to be packed, packages that have to be picked up, dentist appointments to be scheduled, pick-ups and drop-offs and work at eight in the morning. Tommy who brings two coffees ‘cause he knows I don’t have it in me to sit in the drive-through and get it myself. I wish I could show up more. Our parents’ house is too fucking big and the drive to Arlington is a pain in the ass.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say, and her book is already slamming shut at the speed of light, thrown on top of the others, and Sarah has bolted up to help set the table.
I hold a plate out to her and she tugs it, but I don’t let go. She tugs again, rolls her eyes. “What?” I ask, “Didn’t you wanna help?”
She puts her entire weight into it then, two hands white-knuckled around the ceramic, yanking and yanking while I hold it, and it’s a little bit funny, I can’t lie. I let go and she goes flying, but she laughs. I just shake my head.
So I guess I don’t really mind it, most of the time.
In the beginning of any affair, there is always the clumsy clash of teeth that gives way to a smooth melding of lips, tongues slipping just past each other, the right amount of saliva smeared across Sonya’s bottom lip and Joel’s beard scratching her skin. It’s easy for them, falling into the right rhythm that doesn’t need small talk, and doesn’t need pleasantries, and doesn’t ask either of them to lay their hearts on the table before they shut the bedroom door behind them. In this affair too, there is the dance around the topics they’d rather avoid, the question of where either of them might find themselves on Sunday morning, and how many people are around the dinner table or how many of them are left empty. Who do you miss? They might want to ask. Who do you wish was still there, on this earth or in your home?
When he looks down at her, fists pushing into her pillow and her hands around his shoulder and the back of his neck, he wants to ask her every question he can think of. But instead, he leans down, grunts into the side of her neck, and lets the wet sound of her body fill his mind, pushing aside the need for more.
Late summer. Joel hates himself every time he picks up his phone at the end of a long week and reopens a text message conversation he has deleted multiple times. He rolls his eyes at his phone when he taps the contact, then the message icon, and finally types the words.
Hi Sonya. Are you free Thursday?
He knows he needs it, tilting his head side to side to feel the stiffness running down his spine, but he still hates himself when he locks his phone and sets it down after hitting send, staring at the TV while not seeing a thing, the black screen in the corner of his vision like a black hole.
Until it lights up, and she has responded not a minute later, to his horror and his relief.
hey joel 🤍 absolutely. how’s 2pm?
The stiffness dissipates a little, his shoulders sink while he inhales heavily. Her response is a relief every time, as much as he hates to see her words, and his own desperate message above it, and the reality of him reaching out at all, as if it’s not beyond perverted and immoral and revolting for him to touch her, no matter how much cash he rolls together and shoves between the two ceramics on the dresser in her bedroom. But that cash is the only thing that keeps the line where it is, though it might blur and bleed from the edges.
That works.
The cash draws the line, the cash compartmentalizes, and it tells him just as much as it tells her that what exists between them is transactional. What happens between Joel hovering too close to forty-five, and a girl in her twenties, not even nearing thirty — the filthy fucking man he is — in her bedroom, between her legs, is a transaction. To her, it is cash, and to him, it is the only time he knows that he will be taken care of. Because after helping and cooking and cleaning, playing the role of both parents to Sarah, driving out to assist his parents, and lending Tommy a hand at work, well, who looks out for Joel?
perfect💕
So he hates himself, loathes his reflection in the mirror, regrets that damn text every time, every day from the Friday he types it until the Thursday he arrives at her building. But no matter how much he hates himself, he is always on time, and he has never canceled on her. Because if one thing feels good in this world, it is her .