The Future Is In The Air Ch 03

I stood and began to walk to my car, then heard sounds at the door.

"You've fallen in love with an absolute

bitch

," she sobbed as she exited her house.

She briskly stepped eight long strides to me, stopped, and reached slowly and tentatively out to me. I closed the five-foot gap and embraced her in my arms.

"I'm sorry, Lance, I'm so, so, so, so very sorry," she cried.

I held her close, wondering if her neighbors were observing the goings-on at her driveway.

"Okay, baby. Okay, I've got you," I whispered.

I clutched her wracking body to me for a few moments.

"Leah, I'm really starting to wonder if I don't understand you at all. I want to do better. I think I'm missing something important. I know I'm a nerd and might be a bit dense sometimes, but I don't think I'm an idiot."

"You're not.

I'm

the idiot," she cried.

We'd been on her driveway for about five minutes before her emotions eased.

"Hey. Can we maybe go inside? It's pretty chilly out here," I suggested, seeing our fogging breath.

She turned toward the door, holding my hand, guiding me.

"I'm going to make coffee. Decaf okay?" she asked as we entered.

"Sure."

For some reason, nerves began to prickle. I sensed an unsaid "We need to talk."

After she started the brewer, she came and sat next to me at the dinette.

"What you said out there makes me feel … it makes me feel very, very good to know you feel that way about me."

She paused a few moments. I heard her Keurig begin bubbling into its carafe.

"Lance, please don't let what I'm about to say scare you away⁠—"

"Just say it," I groaned, expecting what was about to come.

"I'm not ready to say it back. I'm just not. I like what we have and what we've become, and I love going out with you and all … but I can't say it back … yet. Forget this week if you can."

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but it also wasn't a crushing rejection.

"Oh," I sheepishly said.

"It's hard to explain, but don't … I mean, nothing needs to change. I'm absolutely not telling you I want you to let me go or anything like that. I'm not saying we've gotten too close or that I need more space. I'm not saying you're moving too fast, or are smothering me, and I'm definitely not breaking it off with you.

"I want to see where we go. I want to see us get even closer. I sincerely hope we do.

"I have to admit, this … event … this whole thing … after what you said out there, I know it's my own imagination creating a bad thing from nothing.

"I know it all sounds like an 'it's not you, it's me,' thing, and it kind of is.

"I'll be honest and tell you I've been burned before when I said the expected response out of polite reflex before I was really ready. I don't want to do that again. Just … please … just don't change anything. You're on the … hell,

we

are on the right track. Just … please wait for me, okay?"

I smiled at her articulate and very reasoned response. I had hoped to hear her say she felt the same, and it stung when she didn't. But, by clearly explaining how she felt, she bolstered my resolve and eased my disappointment. She wasn't pushing me away. She was simply honest with me.

I absolutely, positively

adored

her.

"You're pretty well-reasoned when you try," I said, earning me a chuckle.

"Yeah, I know. I've been a royal witch. I'd blame it on PMS, but that'd be a lie because my period ended a few days before you and I made salmon."

She made me laugh. Her bluntness, openness, and transparency clicked my feelings for her up yet another notch.

"I have to ask, Leah. I have to ask. You use the word 'charity' almost as a pejorative. Tell me what's going on in your mind, please?"

"It's hard to explain," she said, rising from her chair.

She stepped to the counter and poured two cups of coffee.

"In my brain," she began, "charity is all for people who can't provide for themselves, and I'm all for that. Like a lot of people, I donate things I don't need anymore, give to food pantries, and I donate to causes I like such as women's or children's shelters and stuff like that."

"Sure," I acknowledged, "Go on."

She paused. She seemed as though she was struggling for words.

"Leah, tell me what's made you so … I don't know, bitter? Most people appreciate it when they're given something they want."

"There's a

difference

, Lance! What you're doing … it's no simple gift! It's so …

grandiose

!"

"It's really not. Did someone do something earlier in your life that's made you so reluctant to even be

offered

something of value?"

"I don't know how much I can share with you right now," she said, again appearing cautious. "I'm afraid of what you'll think of me."

"Leah, hey! It's me, okay? I just opened my kimono and told you how I feel about you, and I'm not taking it back. Whatever has happened that's made you the person you are is something I would never use to judge you. Share with me whatever you're comfortable with. I'll even give you a little deeper peek at me. When you called me a bastard a few minut⁠—"

Her expression immediately reflected her regret.

"It was a heat-of-the⁠—"

"I know, but it's true," I interrupted. "I never knew my father. He disappeared when my mother told him she was pregnant with me. God rest her ever-loving incredible soul, as a single parent, she raised me into what I am now."

"She passed?" Leah asked.

"Yeah. Eight years ago. She was only fifty-three. By that point, I was very well-along in my career, but there's some things money can't buy, you know?

"She was sick for several years. Thanks to how she raised, motivated, and encouraged me, I could easily afford to manage her care and provide her a comfortable place to live. I could provide for all the care she needed and had the ability to send a plane to bring her brothers and sister. They were by her side with me the day she passed away."

"I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered. "You were a good son."

"Thank you, Leah. I really appreciate that. So, yeah, I'm a bastard in the literal sense."

"Me, too," Leah said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, but my mother died almost twenty-five years ago."

I was shocked.

"I know this might be impolite. I suspect you're younger than I am, but … how old are you?"

"Yesterday was my birthday, so I'm thirty-two, you jackass." She chuckled. "Is that an issue?"

"Well, that's five more than twenty-seven, so it's all good." I grinned.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You've never heard the adage?"

"What adage?"

"There's an old belief that the age of the youngest person in a romantic relationship shouldn't be less than half the elder's plus seven."

"Does that mean you'd prefer a twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend?"

"Absolutely not, and 'happy birthday' probably sounds pretty weak right now, but … happy belated birthday."

"Thanks, but … yeah, I've had better."

I saw her look into a corner and stare for a few seconds before her eyes went wide in surprise.

"You don't look forty."

I was impressed with her algebraic ability.

"Yeah, I know. I have a baby-face. I was asking because that means your mother died when you⁠—"

"I was eight. It's something I don't really like to talk about. Like you, I was with my mother when she died, but I wanted to be anywhere else because I

despised

her. I had nowhere else to go. I hated

everything

about her, Lance.

"I know, at eight, I was too young to know any better, but, even now, I still do. I can't bear to even think⁠—"

"Oh, god, Leah, come here, baby," I said, kneeling next to her chair, pulling her close to me so I could hold her as her tears came again. I held her as she cried and found a bizarre sense of comfort she was willing to reveal such raw emotion to me.

"She was shit, Lance. She really was. She was just …

shit

. She hardly ever worked. We lived on handouts. The morning she died, I had gotten myself ready for school, and found her in the kitchen pouring water all over herself.

"She fell down on the floor, shaking. I ran to the trailer next door, and they called 911, but she was dead by the time the ambulance got there.

"I went back into the foster system

again

. It was years before I learned what methamphetamine was, and what I had witnessed was an overdose. In my polluted, distorted brain, I thought I was somehow to blame."

"Oh, honey," I whispered. "But look at you now. How did you get from there to here?" I asked.

"If there's one thing I have to be thankful for, it's that my last foster family was good to me. I was bounced around for a few years between several homes, and when I was eleven, I was welcomed into the best home I ever had."

"Yeah?"

"I lived there for almost nine years, which is a rarity in the foster system. I was their first foster kid, and the second kid they raised. Their own biological daughter was a sophomore at OU when I moved in, and she was still living at home when they took me in.

"You know, that's when I caught the bug, because she liked to talk about her classwork and everything she was learning. When she got her first job, she brought me into several ATC facilities and showed me what she did. She's now an air-route specialist in the Chicago center. We're still close. I think of her like a real sister, and her parents keep in contact with me, too.

"Anyway, my foster mom taught me never to depend on or even accept charity like my mother did. She told me I was the only one who was in control of my life, and to never depend on the handouts of others. Both parents taught me the discipline I'd never had. Not the kind like getting the back of a hand to the head because I came home with a B on a report card. Discipline as in

teaching

.

"I mean, they empowered me, you know? Telling me I was the only one that owned my own outcome? That's … Lance, that⁠—"

"I understand, honey. At least I think I do. I can only imagine it, but I think I get it. But you understand, don't you, how what they did for you was both generous and charitable?"

"No, because the state paid them. And I don't think the taxpayers were being particularly generous."

"That's not what I mean. If they were especially good to you by mentoring and coaching you and instilling true discipline, that's generosity. Hell. It sounds like they kinda loved you. In my understanding, most foster parents are barely able to maintain the health and general well-being of their wards, let alone raise one into a fully adapted, independent, successful adult like you.

"That stuff was their own choice and doing. If their daughter, in simply talking to you about her studies and later career, created that … that spark of interest, she did that all on her own. That's

family

."

"I get what you're saying. I do, but I busted my

ass

to get where I am now. I was one of the salutatorians of my class in high school and won several scholarships and grants for college and paid off my student loans pretty quickly after I graduated. I got where I am by myself. I didn't need anyone's help. I didn't need charity."

I sighed deeply. She wasn't getting my point, and I decided I needed to be more direct. "Jeez, Leah, how stereotypically millennial."

"What the hell is

that

supposed to mean?" she yelped, and I knew I'd hit the mark.

"Girl, I'm going to be blunt. No, you

didn't

get there all by yourself. I think you're parsing things piecemeal. Your scholarships were both generous and charitable. Sure, you earned them by merit, but

people

funded them. You obviously worked very hard, and you absolutely deserved what you earned, and you did all of that because of the ethic your fosters instilled in you. If they hadn't gone that extra mile, you might be telling a

very

different story today. Don't be so high on yourself, because others played a part in who and where you are."

"I don't think I ever thought of it that way," she said.

She sat silent for several moments before she continued. "Lance, what you were doing did feel like a handout. In that moment. You surprised the hell out of me that you were doing all of … I mean, just how much work

have

you done?"

"So far? About thirty hours airborne, and maybe a hundred hours of study."

"And you did it all while working at your job, too?"

"No. Technically, I'm on a sabbatical. Except for this last week, I haven't even been to the office since I started the training."

"

See? That's

why it seems so wrong to me! You're doing all of it so I don't have to spend my own money?"

"Leah! Honey! Don't you get it? I am hoping to spend every minute I can with you! Also, it's not one-sided. I've learned a crap-ton of stuff which has already made me a better pilot. I'll benefit from the training whether or not I exercise the privileges.

"It just happens that you won't need to pay me. If you want to, that's fine, but I'm not asking for it."

I thought for a few moments for an analogy.

"Think about it this way. If you were married, and your spouse was a flight instructor, would you feel compelled to pay him to train you?"

"Of course not, but you're not my husband!"

I grinned at her sideways. "Hey. Even non-married couples share things with each other, right? But I get it. I think I overstepped my bounds and made an errant assumption.

"If you'd prefer to work with a CFI you choose yourself, by all means, do so. Hell, I don't even know if I'll be any good at teaching. All I know is that you picked up really quickly on the basics I've already shown you, so I think we're pretty compatible like that."

"Yeah. You're right."

She gave me a tender kiss, smiled warmly, and softly stroked my cheek with her hand.

"Sweetie, I want us to get better at this," I urged. "This past week has been an absolute hell. We shouldn't ever let confusion or misunderstanding drive a wedge between us. All I can ask is that you don't cut me out. If I make a mistake, or if I hurt you, I beg you to talk to me. We can figure it out, but only if we talk about it."

"Yeah. I get it." She sighed. "I kinda screwed you over. I'll try to do better."

"So will I, okay?" I offered her a kiss of affection, she returned it with unexpected intensity.

"I'm wondering if you'd consider picking back up where we left off last week before I turned into the shit I did. Because I really feel the need to be very, very close to you," she whispered.

"I don't think either of us is in the right headspace tonight. This past week has been emotionally heavy for the both of us, you know what I mean?"

"You're going back to your house?"

"Only if you want me to. What if you were to go put on some comfy jammies and just let me hold you tonight. I'd like to have you fall asleep in my arms and be close to you. How does that sound?"

"You are so sweet to me," she said before kissing me softly.

"Dress modestly," I warned with a chuckle.

She laughed warmly, then walked away.

I poured myself another cup of decaf. I heard her shower running faintly in the distance for about ten minutes, and then a hair dryer for another five or ten. I occupied the time deleting uninteresting emails on my phone.

When she returned, I noticed she almost matched me, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her attire was modest, but she still looked lovely.

"I haven't put on makeup or shaved my legs in like a week. I hope I don't scare you."

"Far from it. You are absolutely beautiful, Leah. You truly are, especially because now I see your freckles."

"You're too polite," she said, then beckoned me to follow her to her cozy bedroom.

She climbed into her bed, and I settled into the opposite side, encouraging her to spoon into me. I draped my arm around her, softly stroking her tummy.

"We really do fit together nicely," I said, echoing her observation from the prior week.

"Yeah," she whispered.

She scooched even closer, and I had to will away the physical response I had when her perfect little butt nuzzled the front of my hips.

"It's okay if you let that hand go a few inches farther up. There's a boob waiting."

I slid one up, cupped a little breast, and held her warm body.

She intertwined her legs in mine, which I welcomed. I softly stroked her arm and shoulder, and ran my fingers through her freshly washed hair, smelling its citrus-infused scent and listening to her occasional comforted sighs.

"Lance?" she whispered in the total darkness.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I know I'm a bit of a wreck but thank you for … your generosity."

"We'll figure this out," I said. "I really want to, but I won't say the ell-word."

"I know. Please, just … be patient with me."

I slightly tugged away the collar of her shirt and kissed the crook of her shoulder.

I needed to adjust my position a few times so my arm wouldn't go numb, but I kept my word. I held her close to me and listened to her breathing slow its cadence until she was in slumber.

I rolled to my preferred side but kept a hand or foot in contact with her. I craved the reassurance of her presence.

I awakened at about seven o'clock, and Leah was still out cold. I softly nuzzled her hair. It and her pillow presented the same wonderful scent of her favorite shampoo. I snuggled into her body's warmth for a while. I didn't want to awaken her, so I very gingerly shuffled myself to the side of the bed, then availed myself of the bathroom.

"Are you leaving?" I heard her whisper in the dimness when I returned.

"Nope, just needed the loo," I answered, climbing back under the covers.

"I wish you hadn't said that," she groaned. "Now I do, too."

When she returned, she offered me a tender kiss.

"That's not fair," I whined. "You brushed your teeth, and I've probably got morning breath."

She kissed me again, slowly tracing my lips with the tip of her tongue.

"I don't care," she said sweetly. She kissed me very, very deeply.

"Your audible last night was a good call. I felt so safe and comforted in your arms," she whispered. "I haven't had a full night's sleep all week until last night. It's morning now."

Her hand moved to my sweats, seeking and finding my flaccid penis within them.

"Oh," she whispered, "it's still asleep."

I grinned, though I doubted she could see it in the dim light.

"Maybe I can wake it up," she said softly.

She slithered slowly downward, untied the drawstring of my sweatpants while nuzzling my bits. I lifted my hips when I felt her tugging, and she slipped my sweats and briefs down my legs. She pivoted her little frame, and I felt incredibly intense sensations as she took my entire penis into her mouth, suckling and nursing.

Her position allowed me to stroke her butt through her fleecy pants. Its contours continued to marvel me. I traced my fingers from her tailbone, down the cleft, and between her legs, feeling the plump warmth of her vulva inside.

With my hands, I encouraged Leah to straddle me so I could nuzzle my nose into her crotch and smell her pussy through her pants. I groaned out loud when her aroma filled my sinuses. I could feel her pliant vulva with the tip of my nose.

"Please, Leah.

Please

get naked."

She quickly stood and shed her clothes. I pulled my tee over my head, and Leah pulled the ankles of my sweatpants free. We entwined our unclothed bodies in an eight-limbed embrace. Kisses turned into searches. Tongues stabbed, and mouths suckled.

In a demonstration of strength which, considering her tiny stature, surprised me, Leah rolled me onto my back, straddled me, and, with one hand, coated my glans by drawing it through her very wet slit.