Thin of the Tender Things

Aimee Bennett looked around the room she had grown up in. Only this wasn't Aimee Bennett's room. This place had belonged to Aimee

Soto

, and one had never felt so far away from the other. The only part of the room that was recognizable to her was the view out the window, and even there, the lemon tree had grown craggy and wild when she remembered a sapling.

She had lived in this room for sixteen years. She'd first shared it with Dani, but then her eldest sister Grace had gone off to college, and Dani had upgraded to her room. Seven years it had been hers and hers alone. She had grown from a child to a woman in this place, and it was engraved in her memory, as clear as any person she had ever known.

But not anymore. Her things were gone, packed into boxes in the attic. The room,

her

room, had been turned into a generic guest room. A bed with floral sheets, an end table that had never known much use, a dresser that had never held her clothes.

The walls were decorated with pictures of her and her siblings. She smiled from a golden frame, stainless steel railroad tracks over her teeth. She'd grown to hate the phrase "ugly duckling," but it applied. She'd always felt like the least glamorous of her sisters, not the elfin beauty of Grace nor the athletic power of Dani. She was nerdy little Aimee, the baby of the family, the bookworm, the teacher's pet. The one who could get away with anything, but never did. Boundaries were inviolate, and she'd spent her life respecting them without thinking.

She went into her closet--no longer her closet, but storage for linens--and dropped to her knees just inside the doorjamb. It was still there, hidden in the shadows by the door, nearly impossible to find unless you knew it was there. A butterfly, carved into the wood. She'd put it there when she was twelve, compelled to do it by something inside her that she didn't quite understand. It was her little secret and whenever the world became too much, she could stay right here and run her fingers over the cuts in the wood. She felt powerful in the secret, comforted, and ultimately whole.

Without her things, her posters, stuffed animals, trophies, books, and toys, the room felt bigger. Empty. She was home, but it wasn't the home she remembered. For the first time she regretted not bringing Emma. Martin wanted the time with their daughter, telling Aimee she should enjoy her visit home. But this wasn't quite home anymore.

The reunion had drawn her back. She didn't like the word. She kept imagine being judged by the same people who had judged her back in high school. The only reason she was going was to see the friends she'd lost touch with. And because she felt some urge, some calling to return home that she didn't truly understand. Maybe to truly understand that it wasn't home. Going back to go forward.

She hadn't been here for six years, not since getting married, moving a thousand miles north, and popping out a kid. She had a good life, but a hole lingered in the middle of it that she had no idea how to fill.

"Why didn't you bring Emma?" her mother asked as Aimee came downstairs. Her mother, Eloisa, had asked the same thing at the airport and again when they got home.

"You'll see her on Christmas."

"You promise to come this year?"

"Yeah, I promise." The idea of a warm Christmas had a lot of appeal, but she wasn't going to say that. "I don't know what you're complaining about. Grace's kids are like an hour away."

"Two. With traffic."

"Still!"

"I love them! But Emma's the baby of my baby," Eloisa said. "You can't blame me for wanting to see her."

"Okay, okay. I almost brought her, but I needed a break."

"I didn't need a break and I had four of you." Aimee refused take that bait. Eloisa, not eliciting the reaction she so clearly wanted, tried a different tack. "I would have taken care of Emma while you were here. Your father wants to see her too, you know."

"Okay, okay. Christmas! I promise."

"How about summer? Come down, go to the beach. Lord knows that husband of yours could use a little color."

More bait she wasn't going to take. Best thing to do was just agree. "Sure, yeah. I'll talk to Martin. We'll work it out. You can get all the Emma time you would ever want." Aimee went to the door.

"No such thing. Where are you going?"

"Meeting up with Shannon and Kayla."

"Oh, Kayla! How is she?"

"I'll let you know after I see her."

"Don't be smart," her mother said, walking over, then standing up on tiptoes to give her a kiss. "Have fun."

Aragon Beach wasn't big a big place, and it was a short walk from the Soto house to Fairview Avenue, the main drag of their quaint shopping district. Streets poked down to the beach, the shops growing more touristy as they went, the bars louder, the food greasier.

The town really did look smaller. It was such a cliché, and she was annoyed at herself for thinking it, but as Aimee walked down Fairview, she could not escape how tiny everything looked. When she was little, of course it had seemed huge. Even when she was in high school, driving from one end to another to make enough babysitting money to pay for concert tickets and the tanks of gas to get her there, it had been her entire world.

Aimee's destination was a place she'd never been called Average Joe. The storefront had been a video store in years past, when those were a viable business. Her cousin had worked there for years.

Aimee remembered coming here when she was a kid. Her cousin had introduced her to anime, and Aimee had fallen in love with the cluttered worlds of Miyazaki. Video Lab was gone now, vanished in the years Aimee had been away, and its absence irrevocably altered the landscape of this street. The sadness she felt was real, no matter how silly she felt mourning that old spot.

The bell at the door rang as Aimee pushed her way inside. She gave the place a once-over, looking for her friends, the rich smells of brewing coffee and sugar tickling her senses. The faces in her mind were them at twenty, the last year the three of them had hung out on these streets over summer break from different far-flung colleges. They would be different, heavier, maybe wrinkles, glasses where they hadn't been needed before. Aimee was confident she'd recognize their eyes. Those never changed.

"Aimee Soto?"

Aimee turned, not registering that the voice didn't sound like Shannon or Kayla, but fully expecting to see one of her two oldest friends anyway.

Instead, she saw a young woman she didn't recognize. She was dressed for spring in Aragon: shorts, a light jacket, and a Bikini Kill shirt they probably sold in half a dozen boutiques by the pier. The woman couldn't be older than twenty, her skin pale with a few freckles on her cheeks. She wore her crow-black hair in a shaggy pixie cut. Her chin was small, pointed, a tiny cleft in the center. Striking, no arresting really, were her eyes. Behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, they were glacier blue. With that color, they should have looked mad and empty, but the depth Aimee saw in them was anything but.

The woman stared at Aimee with those incredible eyes filled with unsure recognition, a frown creasing her forehead. Aimee read the look on her face, momentary panic over the embarrassment of saying the wrong name.

"Yeah. I'm Aimee Soto." And then it dawned on her. She'd seen eyes like that only on one person. "Oh my god, Kitty Morrison?"

"Yeah," said the woman, smiling in relief and standing for a hug. Aimee enfolded the woman in her arms. The last time they'd hugged, Aimee had to kneel. "It's Kit now, but that's me."

"It's Aimee Bennett now."

"Oh, wow." Kit looked her up and down. "You look incredible."

"

I

look incredible? Look at you! All grown up. You couldn't have been more than..." Aimee fumbled, the number escaping her.

"I was ten."

"Ten, wow. Twelve years." The reasoning came rushing back, why she had stopped seeing Kitty. Aimee had turned sixteen and gotten a real job at the ice cream place on the pier. Suddenly babysitting money didn't seem like much. She'd been shocked to find she'd missed it, but money was money. Only one job could enable her to see Depeche Mode at Staples. She shook the memory away. "How are you? What are you up to?"

"I'm good. I'm in school. Journalism major."

"Journalism? I could have called that. We used to play--"

"Newspaper, yeah," Kit smiled, color reaching her cheeks.

"That's so crazy, what are you--"

"Aimee?"

Aimee turned and this time she was certain this was Shannon. The other woman was rounder, but it was the same eyes, the same smile, the same voice. "Shannon, hey!" They hugged and Aimee gestured to Kit. "This is Kit Morrison. I used to babysit her."

"Hi," Kit said. "Listen, I have to go. It was awesome seeing you, Aimee."

Aimee hugged her again. She had the sudden memory of the first time she'd babysat for Kit, hugging the little girl who sobbed when her parents left. Aimee'd held her until the sobs dried up and the two of them had baked cookies. Awful, inedible cookies, but it had made little Kitty Morrison feel better. "I'm in town all week," she said impulsively.

"We should get a drink. Catch up." Kit gave her cell number and Aimee put it into her phone. It took a few tries because Aimee's hands were jittery for no reason she could name. Then Kit was out the door.

Aimee sat down with Shannon and before long Kayla joined them. The first part of the reunion of the class of '05.

It was like no time had passed at all. They fell into their old patter, all the shorthand and inside jokes that came from being in school together for years. They asked about Martin and Emma, and Aimee asked them about their families. Shannon had married the guy who ran the surf shop. Aimee and Kayla had a good laugh about that, since they all used to think he was ancient and maybe a little skeevy. Aimee was the only one with a kid (or "crotch fruit" as per to Kayla) and they both dutifully looked at pictures, Shannon markedly more interested than Kayla.

They promised to meet each other the following night. Aimee made it home for dinner with her parents. They remarked that it felt weird without Grace and Dani and Art, but not for Aimee. They had scattered to the winds just like she had, filtering out of the house one by one. Aragon Beach was a small place, not nearly big enough for the Soto kids. The house felt smaller but also emptier, as Eloisa and Arturo Sr. shrank through their middle age. Even those final two years of high school when Aimee was the only one left home couldn't compare to this.

Everything had shrunk. Everything except Kitty.

Kit

, Aimee reminded herself. Kit loomed large in her mind, no less so for being a mystery. She was twenty-two now, which meant senior year in college. She would be starting her life soon, for real. Only six years separated them. It had seemed like so much more, but that was how these things worked. When Kitty had sobbed for her parents, she had been five and Aimee was twelve. Those were different worlds. Now, they were contemporaries.

She found herself staring at her phone. She didn't know why she hesitated, but something put importance on this call, elevated it in her mind. She forced herself to scroll through the menu for Kit's number, stabbing the call button before her conscious mind could second-guess the action. She put the phone to her ear. The buzzing ring was a finger up her spine. She hoped Kit wouldn't answer and prayed she would.

"Hey." Kit's voice.

A long pause as Aimee registered that in fact was not the beginning of a voice mail. "Kit," she barely stopped herself from adding the second syllable. "It's me, Aimee."

"Yeah, I saw your name. Glad you called. Want to grab lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah!" The eagerness made Aimee cringe. When she spoke again, it was lower, calmer. "Yeah. Hey, is Gremmie's still there?"

Kit laughed. "It sure is."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Gremmie's it is. Noon?"

"Sounds good. I can't wait to hear how you've been doing."

"It'll be fun to catch up. See you tomorrow."

Aimee ended the call and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She held her phone to her heart, which was thundering and she wasn't going to interrogate why, merely enjoy a sensation she hadn't felt in a long time. She stared at the ceiling where the last remnants of her glow-in-the-dark star stickers still clung, now mere outlines against the white paint. Her heart refused to slow down, the pounding insistent. She hadn't felt like this in a long time. A memory sprang crystal clear in her mind, of the night Martin had made his move, when the making out took the next step. She had remembered his hand creeping down her body, touching first her belly, then the tops of her jeans. She had thought of that hand, commanded it with her mind.

Go! Come on!

By the time he had unbuttoned her jeans and his hand slipped beneath, it had been a relief. A short-lived one, replaced by a roiling in her belly as he started to work.

She came to her herself and found a hand on her breast, the other between her legs. She was still dressed. With Emma around, she hadn't had a ton of time to herself, let alone be with Martin. They'd let their sex life sputter, the few times they'd managed were hurried and unsatisfying. She hadn't been able to do much about herself either. She was alone, truly alone, something she hadn't been since Emma was born.

She'd discovered masturbation in this very room, learning exactly where she liked to be touched long before anyone else had gotten the opportunity. In those days, it had been every night before sleeping, a nice way to usher herself to dreamland. Now, this was a perfect way to celebrate her high school reunion would be going back to her favorite hobby from high school. The door was locked and she had sweet privacy.

She ran her hand up her belly, taking her shirt with it. The baby had left a little extra weight on her, and now she relished the soft feel of herself. It was more intimate, more sensual. Her breasts had changed as well, grown heavier, the nipples more sensitive. Emma had just been weaned too, and thank god for that. Her breasts were hers again, and as she brought her fingers to them, a delicious shiver spiderwebbed from each hardening point.

She sighed, allowing her mind to wander. She put Martin there first, but no, that wasn't right. Chris Evans was reliable. She'd audibly gasped during the sequence in

Winter Soldier

when he'd curled the helicopter. Martin had glanced over and stifled a chuckle while she burned with amused embarrassment. She imagined Captain America's mouth on her, taking her with the surety of a hero.

No, that wasn't right either. She let her mind off the leash. Let it wander. She eased into the sensations, following the technicolor threads that washed through her body. She felt her right hand, of its own accord, creep down her body. She undid the button of her shorts, the fly coming down easily. Her hand was on her panties now, soaking wet.

She opened her eyes to glance at the door once again. Still shut, still locked. She lifted her hips, sliding her shorts down and off. Her panties stayed. A far cry from the thongs she'd worn back when she was dating. The ones that showed off her ass, round and firm with a pleasant jiggle, the result of playing soccer in high school, then college, then every weekend at the park. Martin used to love to peel them off of her, but that was always the end of his interest there. Her ass was always

look but don't touch

for him.

She left her panties on because taking them off felt wrong. She wasn't quite safe, locked door be damned. She could still pretend that she wasn't doing this, if somehow someone came in, and her hand was jammed down the front of her underwear, her shirt hiked over her breasts, that she was doing something else.

Just checking for lumps. Being conscientious.

She brushed her hand over her pussy. That was another change. She'd shaved it all through college, but since Emma, what was the point? No one was enjoying it. Now she had cultivated what she'd started calling her mom bush, a shaggy covering of black hair. She stroked it now, soft like the rest of her.

She ran her finger down her cleft, and she opened up, hot and wet. She tucked her finger inside herself, gasping at the exploration, the brief blissful feeling of fullness. Then out, moving up, to the top of her, to her button. A swirl here, a feather brush and the sparks of pleasure radiated through her as tremors. She knew these places well. This was like coming home again. She could cum in minutes or she could stretch it out. She wanted to take her time, wanted to give herself everything that she had been missing.

Her mind, unmoored while her hands played, wandered down passages she thought forgotten. Back through her college boyfriends, their faces blurring, their attentions on her nothing more than a pleasant slurry.

And then her mind snagged. Caught by the hand of memory and spun into a wet embrace. One glorious night when the alchemy of desire, of alcohol, and of circumstances had been right. In her mind's eye, in the close heat of her dorm room, filling with the musky scent of sex, looking down at the bobbing head between her thighs.

The face looked up, and it was her friend Brooke.

That night had been the best sex of her life. No one had been as tender, as soft as Brooke. No one had known her secret places as well, exactly how to play them like a sweet instrument. The only thing better than the bolts of pleasure she felt as Brooke brought her to orgasm was returning the favor. Seeing Brooke writhing and moaning prettily was enough to bring on another bout of delicious shuddering.

But that had only been one night. It was like they had left their lives for one incredible night and when they returned, they couldn't recapture it. Brooke was never the same around her, going back to the same boyfriend she'd dumped right before. Aimee found herself with Martin not too long after that, and so that night had been put in the past. She scarcely let herself think about it.

Now, as her finger circled her button, throwing showers of sparks over her soul, all she could think of was Brooke's tongue drawing the same circles. Her breath caught and a low moan escaped from her throat. She gritted her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers shedding explosion after explosion. The sparks flew from her sex, igniting nerves as they landed in a scintillating snowfall.

In her mind, Brooke's face was between her legs, fingers fucking in and out of her as her agile tongue found places that only Aimee ever had in her most private moments. Each explosion triggered another and another, and she felt a final one behind the first, the sparks rebounding off it, each one making it grow and grow and grow.

She concentrated on her button now. And it wasn't her touch that pushed her over. It was Brooke's face, mouth hidden, her eyes meeting Aimee's. The final explosion took her. Her entire body shuddered in the ecstatic pleasure.

She lay there, limp on the bed. The smell of her hung low in the room. She didn't want to leave that space yet. She brought her hand up, her fingers shiny. Without thinking too much about it, she popped them in her mouth. Musky and bold, she pretended this was Brooke.

And then Brooke's face was gone and she saw Kit Morrison's eyes, looking like nothing more than the underside of a glacier, sunlight streaming through to the untouched depths.

Gremmie's was a burger grill on the sand. It had been open since the '60s, built for the surfers who were out on the big waves at dawn. It was a rundown shack with a wooden patio, plastic tables and chairs under sun-faded umbrellas. The guy working the flat top was the original owner's son, aged into a clone of his old man, portly, balding, and tanned. He kept the music turned up, all old hits from the '80s, while his daughters carried plastic baskets of burgers and fries to customers. Everyone from Aragon spent their high school years at Gremmie's.