The Girl Next Door

(Chapters 17 - 20)

-17-

Finn had been waking before dawn by habit for years, so it was disorienting to wake to late-morning sunlight pouring through the slats of his venetian blinds. He had no idea what time it was nor what day it was, and in that confusion, the typical alarm bells of single fatherhood sounded in his mind: Where was Catie? 

In the fraction of an instant before that panicked thought could stir him to action, the events of the prior night came flooding back in an onslaught of intensely-remembered sensation. Belatedly, he realized that Catie's absence was not the one that should most concern him. 

Emma. He stretched out across the span of the bed, then turned over to confirm what his senses had already told him: she was gone, though her vanilla-sugar scent still rose from the rumpled sheets, taunting his morning erection. He found a yellow sheet of paper on the pillow beside him, but he had to fumble for his glasses before he could read it. They should have been in their case on his nightstand, where he put them each night when he gave up reading for sleep, but after much blind scrambling, he ultimately located them on the floor, tangled up in the t-shirt he'd flung aside in his haste to get next to Emma. 

Once he put the glasses on, all manner of things became clear: the numbers on his alarm clock (it was nearly 11:00), the erotic disarray of his bed (one of his pillowcases was actually torn), and Emma's small, neat writing on the folded note. 

Sorry to leave you sleeping, but I have to work in the morning. 

I'm already looking forward to next time. 

The thought of next time made Finn reach down to stroke himself, though he was aware even through the haze of lust burning through his brain that he didn't have that luxury. Catie might be home at any moment. Hell, for all he knew, she might already be home, and the very idea that she might have peeked in on him while he slept, that she might have seen his current state, and the state of his room, was enough to quell his arousal. 

Hastily, he pulled on a pair of sweats and a bathrobe, and he put his head out the door to call her name. The answering silence was a relief, but he didn't count on her continued absence for long, no matter how mad at him she was. 

He set his room to rights and took a shower. Only there, behind the locked bathroom door and the muting sound of running water, did he finally let himself think of Emma and all that they had done, and to dream of next time, when they would do it all again (only he would pay more attention) and of all the times after that, when they would do that and other things, too, everything he'd ever dreamed. Emma had fueled his masturbatory fantasies all summer, but now that he had memory to draw from rather than mere imagination, the force of his desire was enough to bring him to his knees under the cleansing spray of the high-pressure shower head. 

When he shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, he put thoughts of Emma aside. He would see her tonight, and they would finally talk, but first he needed to sort things out with his daughter. 

Heather made blueberry pancakes for breakfast, one of Catie's favorite treats, but she was so sick with nerves she could barely taste them. Last night, she had been so desperate not to go home that her mouth had gotten ahead of her brain. The memory of her conversation with her father made her feel ill-not because anything she'd said was untrue-but because, true or not, she never should have said those things to her dad. 

He worked hard to take care of her. He was the best dad she knew: he listened to her and made time for her and always made sure she knew that she was the most important thing in his life, while other kids she knew had dads who worked too much or drank too much or paid too little attention to their families, and some kids didn't have dads at all. Catie knew her father felt guilty about not being able to do it all, and by complaining about his cooking and poor housekeeping skills, Catie had played on that guilt, which wasn't fair. Two months ago, she hadn't cared about the take out dinners and the messy house, and she didn't really care about them now. She would happily eat cold pizzas and wear dirty t-shirts for the rest of her life, if Emma were around.