After a tumultuous dinner at my parents’ house, I’m feeling restless again. It seems I don’t even get to enjoy a few hours of bliss in my newfound relationship with Abigail.
I take Abigail’s hand and lead her out of the house into the back yard while Diana and Archer help clean up. Long ago, my father carved a wooden bench and placed it under the willow tree at the back of the garden. Their property borders the creek, and the running water makes for a pleasant backdrop. I used to love to sit here alone and gather my thoughts, to study the shifting leaves throughout the seasons and observe the changes in my father’s garden based on the weather cycles.
“I used to collect acorns from the oaks along the creek,” I tell Abigail. “I’d bring them back here, take them apart, and study the differences between the burr oak and the water oak acorn. And my father was always here to listen to my discoveries.” I pull Abigail’s hand into mine, lacing my fingers between hers and tugging her close against me on the bench. The autumn night is chilly, but I don’t want to go back inside. “I used to think my parents’ marriage was convenient like mine and Heather’s. Dad stayed home with us and mom worked. They each seemed to have separate roles in our family and they seem very content with their division of labor.”
Abigail nods.
“I have since realized they share something much deeper,” I tell her. “My parents understand each other, help to bring out the things the other person most needs. They fit together, like cytosine and guanine.”
“I don’t know what those words mean, Hunter.”
I sigh. “They just…complement each other. They’re partners.”
We both look in the window, where my father drops a kiss on my mother’s forehead and changes the song on the stereo. They talk softly together while they both work to scour the roasting pan from the chicken. “Heather and I didn’t have a partnership, though,” I continue. “We had separate lives and…tolerated each other.”
Abigail sighs. “I think I can relate to that,” she says, telling me a bit about the beginnings of her relationship with Jack. In some ways, our lives were parallel before she came to Oak Creek. It’s hard for me to understand her parents wanting her to sacrifice her own ambitions, her own skills, for the family business, but I also see that my father left his career for the sake of Rose Mitchell’s ambition.
“But Hunter,” she says, “Your father seems like he made that choice willingly. And your siblings have been independent for a long enough time that Daniel could have returned to some sort of career if he felt inclined.”
She shivers, and I rise, tugging her to her feet. “Let’s go home,” I suggest. I rap my knuckles on the kitchen window and wave to my parents. We walk together to my house, with Abigail tucked under my arm.
“Will you stay with me again tonight,” she asks, her voice filled with hopefulness even I can identify. I nod and, as we climb the steps to her room, I contemplate the logistics of carving a doorway between our houses on the second floor.
Being in a relationship with Abigail is so much easier than simply desiring Abigail. I feel regret at not telling her about my feelings sooner. She seems to wake up each morning ravenous for sex, and I find that beginning my day with this type of release makes me a much more pleasant instructor at the college. My students seem less tense, even with the mid-term exam approaching.
I explained to Abigail that it’s hard for me to see her wearing tight clothing and bending to lift weights without overpowering lust. She alternates between wanting to have sex immediately after work, before we exercise, or else teasing me and forcing me to watch her deadlift in spandex before letting me devour her on the floor. I love letting her dictate the when and where and how of our sex life, and having this control seems to make her feel even better. It’s a cycle that just builds until I get to see her come multiple times a day.
I’m so caught up in Abigail that I forget to plan my caloric intake. We eat our dinners together on her couch, our legs entwined as she tells me about her favorite television programs. We play a game where we try to predict the answer to the final question on Jeopardy before Alex reveals the clue, and I feel delighted when Abigail correctly guesses the Panama Canal.
Each evening, we lie in her beautiful bed with our laptops. The draft she created of my research proposal is so well-argued, so persuasive. I swell with pride at the idea that this woman is my partner, this brilliant communication strategist. In the few months she’s been in town, she has helped reform my mother’s fundraising for the college, prepared me to present my work to an investor, and apparently helped set up a way for my sister to sell alcohol during the Autumn Apple festival this weekend.
“I already cannot imagine life without you, Abigail,” I tell her one night after she turns off the light. I had just achieved a personal objective to bring her to orgasm three times in one lovemaking session and I revel in the sight of her limp-limbed bliss. She smiles lazily and runs a hand through my hair. She drifts off to sleep in my arms and I am happily bewildered by how content I feel to be here with her. How lucky I am that fortune brought her to Oak Creek.