Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Josh turns. He stares at the missed call notification glowing on his screen, a tiny, bright lighthouse in the dim room. His thumbprint smudges the glass as his hand tightens. He should call back. He knows he should call back. But calling back means choosing that reality, the one where he’s just a son who’s fucked up, and not a man standing in a room where the air still crackles from a kiss that felt like a truth serum.
“She’s probably home,” Carrie says. Her voice is small, drained. She’s hugging herself, standing in the middle of the room like she’s lost. The ruined blouse, the smudged mascara—she looks beautifully, tragically shattered. “You should go to her.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move. The phone feels like a brick in his hand. The rational part of his brain is screaming logistics, damage control, filial duty. It’s a loud, familiar scream. But it’s being drowned out by a deeper, older hum, the one that started years ago watching her twist the stem of a wineglass, listening to her laugh at something that wasn’t that funny. That hum is now a roar in his veins, insistently pointing out that his mother is a capable adult, and that Carrie is right here, and that the taste of her is still on his lips.
“Then go.” She doesn’t sound convincing. It’s a script she’s reciting.
He finally looks up from the phone, meeting her eyes. “What if I don’t want to?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” He tosses the phone onto the couch. It lands silently in the folds of his coat. The deliberate action, the rejection of the outside world, hangs between them. He’s choosing. They both know it. “She’ll survive the night. She’s survived worse than me.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say.”
“It’s true.” He takes a step toward her. “And you’re still here. You haven’t kicked me out. You could have slammed the door. You didn’t.”
She has no rebuttal. Her silence is a cavern he walks right into. He stops just in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, to see the faint pulse in her throat. The apartment is so quiet he can hear the soft sigh of her breath.
“This is the worst idea I’ve ever had,” she whispers, more to herself than to him.
“Probably.” He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw, a contrast to the hunger of before. Her eyes flutter closed. “But it’s the only one that feels real.”
When he kisses her this time, there’s no hesitation, no phone to interrupt. It’s slow and deep, an exploration laced with the bitter aftertaste of consequence. Her hands come up to his chest, not pushing away, but gripping the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself. He walks her backward, not breaking contact, his movements deliberate. The backs of her legs hit the cool granite of the kitchen island.
He lifted her, his hands firm under her thighs, and set her down on the hard surface. The forgotten wine stain on her blouse was a muted burgundy Rorschach between them. He nudged her legs apart, stepping into the space, and her head fell back with a soft thump against the cabinet behind her. His mouth left hers, trailing down her neck, biting lightly at the frantic beat of her pulse. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, not pushing him away.
The guilt was still there, a shrill note underneath the symphony of sensation. But it was fading, overwhelmed by the sheer physical reality of him—the solid weight of his body between her thighs, the scratch of his stubble against her collarbone, the scent of night air and whiskey on his skin. This was madness. But it was a warm, consuming madness, better than the cold, lonely sanity waiting for her tomorrow.
His hand slipped under the silk of her blouse, his palm rough against the smooth skin of her stomach. She arched into the touch, a silent plea for more. He found the clasp of her bra with an ease that spoke of a frustratingly intuitive skill, and his mouth followed the path of his hand, his tongue tracing the line of her ribs. She cried out, the sound foreign and desperate in her own kitchen.
“Josh,” she breathed, his name a question and an answer.
He looked up, his eyes dark and utterly focused. “Yeah?”
She couldn’t form the sentence—what are we doing, this is wrong, your mother—it all dissolved into incoherence. Instead, she slid her hands under his shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his back, the heat of him. She pulled the fabric up, and he obliged, breaking contact just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.
The sight of him, bare-chested and breathing heavily in her kitchen, was surreal. He was all lean muscle and intent, a fact her body recognized even as her mind struggled to catch up. He leaned in again, kissing her with a possessiveness that stole the air from her lungs. One hand cupped the back of her head, protecting it from the cabinet, while the other worked at the button of her slacks.
The zipper hissed open in the quiet.
A chill skated over her skin, followed immediately by a flush of heat. This was the point of no return. Not the kiss in his mother’s house, not the frantic touch against the fridge. This was it. She helped him, shifting her hips to let him peel the fabric down her legs, the silk of her underwear following. He knelt on the tile floor, and his mouth was on her inner thigh, his beard a rough contrast to the soft skin. She choked back a sob, her head swimming.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice thick.
She forced her eyes open, looked down the line of her own body to where he knelt. His gaze was unwavering, holding hers as he did something with his tongue that made her vision whiten. Her hips bucked off the cold stone. Every nerve ending was a live wire, sparking and fusing. The world telescoped down to the pressure of his hands on her hips and the devastating rhythm of his mouth.
It built too fast, a wave gathering force from a deep, neglected place. She tried to fight it, to hold on, but it was useless. It crashed over her, a silent, convulsing release that tore through her with shocking violence. She stiffened, a cry trapped in her throat, her fingers gripping his hair hard enough to hurt.
He gentled his touch, slowing, drawing out the aftershocks until she was boneless, trembling against the cabinets. He stood, his own breathing ragged, and kissed her stomach, her sternum, the hollow of her throat. His touch was softer now, almost reverent. He undid the remaining buttons of her blouse, pushing the stained silk and lace aside. She felt exposed, utterly seen, and it was terrifying. And exhilarating.
He fumbled with his own jeans, the rough sound of a zipper loud in the quiet. Then he was there, the hard heat of him pressing against her. He hesitated, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes searching her face. No words were left. There was only this suspended moment, balanced on the knife-edge of a decision already made.
She answered by wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him closer.
He entered her slowly, a filling, stretching absence becoming a profound presence. She gasped, her body arching, accommodating him. He went still, buried deep, his whole body trembling with the effort of control. His eyes were clenched shut. “God, Carrie,” he muttered, the words raw and shattered.
Then he began to move.
It wasn’t frantic. It was deep, measured, each stroke a deliberate claim. The granite was cold and unyielding against her back, a sharp contrast to the burning heat building inside her again. He shifted his angle and hit a spot that made her gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders. He made a low, approving sound and did it again. And again.
The rhythm built, a counterpoint to their ragged breathing. She lost herself in the sensation, in the sheer physical truth of it. This was happening. He was inside her, in her kitchen, his mother’s best friend. The wrongness of it fused with the intensity, creating something almost transcendent in its taboo. She met his thrusts, her hips rising from the cold stone to meet him, each impact a silent defiance of every rule they’d broken.
He was murmuring against her skin, half-words, praises, curses. “So long,” he gritted out. “Fuck, Carrie, so long.” His control was fraying, his movements becoming more urgent, less precise. She could feel the coiled tension in him, nearing its peak.
She was close again, the pressure coiling tight and low in her abdomen. She opened her eyes. His face was a mask of agonized pleasure, veins standing out in his neck. Seeing him like this, so completely unraveled because of her, was the final push.
“Josh,” she cried out, a broken sound.
It triggered him. His rhythm shattered into frantic, driving thrusts. He slammed into her, once, twice, a third time, and with a guttural groan that was pure release, he buried his face in her neck. She felt him pulse deep inside her, the hot, final surrender. The sensation tipped her over the edge a second later, a softer, deeper wave that left her shuddering and clinging to him as the world slowly, reluctantly, pieced itself back together.
Silence.
The only sounds were their labored breathing and the hum of the refrigerator. He was heavy on her, his weight pressing her into the unforgiving granite. She could feel the rapid thump of his heart against her own. Neither of them moved. The reality of what they’d done began seeping back in, cold and insistent, around the edges of the fading warmth.
He finally lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, sated, but confusion was already clouding them. He pulled out of her gently, the loss of contact making her feel suddenly, achingly empty. He rested his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, bracing himself, looking down at the floor. The tile needed cleaning. She noticed a tiny crack in the grout near the baseboard. Mundane details rushed in to fill the moral vacuum.
“Okay,” he said, the word hollow. He pushed himself upright, turning away from her to deal with his clothes.
She slid off the counter, her legs wobbly. The cold air hit her damp skin, raising goosebumps. She gathered her slacks and underwear from the floor, not looking at him. The stained blouse hung open. She felt used. And guilty. And, beneath it all, a treacherous thread of satisfaction so profound it felt like a sickness.
He turned back, his jeans fastened, shirt still off. He looked younger again, vulnerable in the aftermath. “I should…”
“Yeah,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear him say it. “You should.”
He picked up his shirt but didn’t put it on. He just stood there, holding it, looking like he wanted to say a hundred things. None of them came out.
“Go home, Josh,” she said, her voice flat. She wrapped her arms around herself again. “Really, this time.”
He gave a single, tight nod. He walked to the couch, grabbed his coat and phone, and headed for the door without looking back. He pulled the door open and stepped out into the night.
The click of the latch was a full stop.
She stood alone in the middle of her kitchen, the scent of sex and shame thick in the air. Her body ached in specific, telling ways. She looked at the counter, the smooth granite where he had laid her bare.
Against the counter, a faint, smudged imprint of her own hand was visible in the condensation from a discarded glass.
JOSH TURNS.
He stares at the cracked phone screen like it’s a live grenade. Für Elise taunts him, the final notes dissolving into a silence that feels heavier than any sound.
"Are you going to answer it?" Carrie’s voice is husked out, raw from shouting and kissing. She hasn’t moved from the spot where he left her. Her arms are wrapped tight around herself.
"It stopped." He thumbs the screen awake. One missed call. No voicemail. The lack of a message feels worse, a void where her anger should be. He hits the callback button and puts it to his ear, his eyes locked on Carrie. The phone rang four times, then clicked.
“You’ve reached Linda. I’m probably screening. You know what to do.”
The beep was painfully cheerful, a recording from another lifetime.
"Mom. It’s me." He sounds young, even to himself. "Call me back. Please. Just let me know you’re… wherever you are. Just call me." He ends the call and shoves the phone back into his coat. The action is violent, final. "She didn’t pick up."
Carrie lets out a breath she didn’t seem to know she was holding. It was a shaky, uneven thing. "She needs time. We all need time."
"Time for what?" The question bursts out of him. He paces two steps in her confined living room, a caged animal. "Time to get used to the idea? Time to pretend it didn’t happen? What’s the plan here, Carrie? Because I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“The plan is damage control,” she says, her voice gaining a thin veneer of the practical woman she was supposed to be. “We avoid each other. We apologize to her, separately, and we mean it. We let this… whatever this is… die before it does any more harm.”
He stops pacing and looks at her. Really looks. At the smudged mascara under her eyes, at the way her silk blouse – that fucking blouse – was still wrinkled from his hands. “It doesn’t feel dead.”
“It has to.”
“Why?” He took a step closer, but the charge was different now. It wasn’t pure desire. It was desperation, laced with a terrible curiosity. “Because it’s messy? Because it’s hard? You’ve been settling for easy your whole life. Nice, safe, easy conversations with easy men. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t you dare,” she spat, color flooding her cheeks. “You don’t know the first thing about my life.”
“I know you didn’t push me away. Not in the kitchen. Not just now. I know a ‘yes’ when I feel one, even when it’s too scared to say the word.”
Her defiance crumpled. She looked down at her bare feet on the polished hardwood. “It was a mistake, Josh.”
“Call it whatever makes you sleep at night.” He drove a hand through his hair, frustration etching lines around his mouth. “But you don’t get to unilaterally decide it’s over. Not after… after years of this. You felt it too. All that time.”
A confession hovered in the air between them, unspoken but deafening. She didn’t deny it. She just stood there, absorbing the accusation. Finally, she spoke to the floor. “Feeling something doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t give you permission to burn everything down.”
“Maybe it needed burning.” The words were out before he could stop them, stark and cruel. “Maybe all that polite, careful pretending was just kindling.”
She flinched. He immediately regretted it, but the regret was a faint echo behind the louder, more terrifying truth of the statement. He meant it. The perfect, curated world of his mother’s book club and holiday cards felt flimsy and false next to the raw reality of Carrie’s mouth under his.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket. A text this time. They both froze. He pulled it out, his pulse hammering in his throat.
It was from his mother. No words. Just a location pin. A map to a place called the Lookout, a scenic pull-off on the winding parkway about twenty minutes out of town. A place people went to make out in high school. A place you went to be alone. A cold dread, entirely different from the heat of guilt, settled in his gut.
“What?” Carrie asked, reading the alarm on his face.
“She sent a pin. The Lookout.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s not at a diner.” He was already moving, grabbing his coat. “It means she’s sitting in the dark in her car on the side of a mountain road.”
“Oh, god.” Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. All their fraught drama suddenly seemed small and disgusting, a petty fire beside a forest blaze. “You have to go. Right now.”
“I know.” He was at the door, yanking it open. The night air rushed in. He paused, half in, half out, and looked back at her. The question was there, unasked.
She answered it anyway. “You go alone. I can’t… seeing me would make it worse. Just go. Please. Make sure she’s okay.”
He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin, and then he was gone. The door slammed shut, leaving her in a silence that was now vibrating with a new, sharper fear.
She waited until she heard his truck start, the growl of the engine fading down the street. Then her legs gave out. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor of her foyer, her back against the cool plaster. She replayed his words. Maybe it needed burning.
The selfish part of her, the part that had thrilled to his touch, wanted to believe he was right. That they had uncovered something authentic beneath the rubble of social niceties. The rest of her, the part that remembered Linda bringing soup when she had the flu, Linda crying with her when her father died, knew it was just a pretty lie you tell yourself to justify being the villain in someone else’s story.
She didn’t know how long she sat there. Time became a sticky, meaningless substance. The silence was complete until her own phone, still lying on the floor where she’d tossed it earlier, chimed with a calendar notification. Dental Cleaning, 10am. The blinding normalcy of it was almost funny.
She pushed herself up. Her body ached as if she’d been in a fight. She walked to the kitchen, needing water, needing to do something mundane with her hands. She filled a glass from the tap and drank it leaning against the sink.
Her reflection in the dark window over the faucet was a stranger’s—hair wild, lips swollen, eyes hollow with a shame so profound it felt like a physical taste in her mouth, metallic and sour.
She turned from the ghost in the glass. Her hip bumped the handle of the refrigerator door, sending a tremor through her. The memory arrived not as a thought, but as a full-body sensory replay: the cold stainless steel against her back, his heat against her front, the hard edge of the counter digging into her spine as he kissed her throat.
A wave of nausea rolled through her, hot and sudden. She stumbled backward, turning, her palms slapping down flat on the cool granite behind her for balance. She bent over, bracing herself, waiting for the sick feeling to pass.
The granite was smooth and unyielding. She stayed there, head down, breathing the scent of citrus cleaner and her own perfume gone wrong. This was a different kitchen, a different counter. But the posture was the same. The surrender was the same.
Against the counter. Again. Always. Trapped between the cold, hard surface of her choices and the empty space where her best friend used to be.