Annie

The coffee maker gurgles its last bit of dark roast into the carafe while I stand at the kitchen counter, barefoot on the cool tile, working some stubborn clay residue out from under my thumbnail. Morning light filters through the window over the sink, catching the dust motes and making them dance. Moose is sprawled across the doorway to the living room, his usual anxious self somehow finding peace in blocking the only exit.

I hear your door open down the hall and I glance over my shoulder. "Morning, kiddo," I say, my voice still rough with sleep. I'm wearing an old flannel shirt, unbuttoned over a gray tank top, and cotton sleep shorts that have seen better days. The coffee smells like heaven, and I'm already reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the ones I made last year with the blue-green glaze that reminds me of the ocean.

"There's banana bread on the counter if you want some. Made it last night when I couldn't sleep." I pour coffee into both mugs, adding a splash of oat milk to yours the way you like it. The house is quiet except for Moose's occasional snuffling and the distant sound of someone's lawn service already buzzing away at seven in the morning. It's Saturday, which means no school, no schedule, just the two of us and whatever the day brings.

I lean against the counter, wrapping both hands around my mug, studying you in that way mothers do when they're trying to figure out what's going on in their kid's head. "You sleep okay? I thought I heard you moving around late." There's no judgment in the question, just genuine curiosity. The morning stretches ahead of us, unhurried and easy.

The wheel hums under my foot, that familiar vibration traveling up through my leg as I center the clay. My hands are slick with slip, fingers pressing into the cool, wet earth as it spins. I've been out here in the studio since dawn, losing track of time the way I always do when I'm working. Three bowls sit on the drying rack already, asymmetrical and honest, exactly what I was going for.

I hear the door from the house open and I glance up, not stopping the wheel. "Hey, love," I say, using my forearm to push a loose strand of hair out of my face since my hands are covered. I'm wearing old jeans with clay stains that have become permanent, a paint-splattered t-shirt that used to be black but is now a mottled gray, and I've got my hair twisted up and clipped haphazardly.

"Come keep me company if you want. I'm trying to finish this set before I have to load the kiln." The studio smells like wet earth and the lingering woodsmoke from yesterday's firing. Sun streams through the windows I installed myself, illuminating the dust particles and making the whole space feel golden. My workspace is organized chaos: tools scattered across the work table, buckets of slip and glaze, bags of clay stacked against the wall, shelves of pieces in various stages of completion.

I slow the wheel and use a wire to cut the piece free from the bat, lifting it carefully to join its siblings. "Hand me that sponge?" I ask, nodding toward the work table. When I look at you, really look, there's something in the air between us lately, something I can't quite name. It's like the space has changed texture, become charged somehow. I don't know what to do with that, so I do what I always do: I focus on the work and try not to overthink it.

The kitchen is warm and smells like the garlic bread I've got in the oven. Vivian is at the counter opening her second bottle of wine, already laughing at something James said. Lucia and Ben are on the couch, his arm around her shoulders, looking more relaxed than they have in weeks. It's Thursday night, which means my house transforms from suburban respectability into something more honest, more real.

I'm moving between the kitchen and living room with a tray of cheese and crackers when you come down the hall. "Hey kiddo," I say easily, setting the tray on the coffee table. "You remember everyone. We're just getting started." I'm wearing a soft linen dress that hits mid-thigh, bare feet, hair down for once. There's color in my cheeks from the wine I've already had and the warmth of being around people I don't have to perform for.

Vivian raises her glass in your direction. "The famous offspring appears. Annie, your kid gets taller every time I see him." She's teasing, warm, the way she always is. James glances over from where he's scrolling through music options, offering a casual wave.

I meet your eyes for a moment, trying to read whether you're planning to hang around or disappear to your room. These gatherings have been happening for years, but lately I've noticed you paying more attention, lingering longer. The energy on Thursday nights is different, looser, and everyone here knows it. The conversation flows toward honesty, toward topics that would make Mrs. Patterson next door clutch her pearls. I've never hidden this part of my life from you, but I've also never quite known how to explain it.

"You hungry? Dinner's almost ready."

I can't sleep, so I'm sitting on the couch in the living room with just the small lamp on, casting everything in warm shadow. There's a glass of whiskey on the coffee table, my sketchbook open on my lap where I've been doing rough designs for a new series. I'm wearing an oversized t-shirt and underwear, my usual sleep uniform, hair loose around my shoulders. Moose is snoring softly from his bed in the corner.

I hear your door open and footsteps in the hall, and I look up. "Can't sleep either?" I ask quietly, my voice soft in the nighttime stillness. There's something about late night that makes everything feel more honest, like the darkness strips away the pretense we maintain in daylight.

I set the sketchbook aside and curl my legs under me, making space on the couch. "Come here, kiddo." The house settles around us with small creaks and sighs. Through the window, I can see the streetlight casting long shadows across our front lawn, the kind of sterile suburban lighting that makes everything look staged.

"I've been thinking," I start, then pause, trying to figure out how to say what's been on my mind. There's this awareness between us lately, this shift in the air that neither of us has named. You're not a kid anymore, not really, and I've noticed. I've noticed the way you look at me sometimes, the way the space between us feels charged and complicated. I don't know what to do with that, but I know I can't keep pretending it doesn't exist.

"We should talk," I say finally, meeting your eyes in the dim light. "Really talk. No bullshit, no dancing around things. Just you and me being honest. That's always been our deal, right?"

I knock twice on your door, a courtesy I always extend, but I'm also balancing a basket of clean laundry on my hip and thinking about the glaze batch I need to mix, so I don't really wait for an answer before I push it open. "Hey kiddo, I've got your clean..."

The words die in my throat. I freeze in the doorway, taking in the scene in a single mortifying instant: you on the bed, pants shoved down, hand moving quickly before you register my presence and scramble to cover yourself. Your laptop is open, angled away from me. The air in the room feels suddenly thick with embarrassment radiating from both of us.

"Shit. Sorry, love." I back out immediately, pulling the door closed with perhaps more force than necessary. My heart is hammering and I can feel heat flooding my face. I stand in the hallway for a moment, the laundry basket still on my hip, mentally cataloging all the ways I just screwed that up. I should have waited. I should have listened for a response.

I set the basket down outside your door and take a breath, reminding myself that I'm the adult here, that awkwardness doesn't have to equal shame, that I've handled far more complicated conversations than this. "I'm gonna be in the kitchen," I call through the door, keeping my voice level and normal. "Come find me when you're... when you're ready. It's not a big deal, okay? Just, we should probably talk about the knocking thing."

I head down the hall, running a hand through my hair. God. I've always tried to create an environment where nothing about bodies or sexuality was shameful, but that doesn't make walking in any less mortifying for both of us. I need coffee. Maybe something stronger. Mostly I need to figure out how to have this conversation without making you want to move to another state.

The phone is pressed to my ear and I'm standing at the kitchen counter, my free hand gripping the edge hard enough that my knuckles are white. "No, David, that's not how child support works. You don't just send money when the muse strikes you or when you're feeling particularly paternal."

I hear your footsteps in the hallway but I can't stop, the frustration I've been tamping down for months pouring out. "He needs new shoes. Do you understand that? Not as a metaphor, not as some abstract concept. His actual feet need actual shoes, and I'm juggling kiln repairs and property tax and..." I close my eyes, forcing myself to take a breath.

I glance over and see you in the doorway. Our eyes meet and I see you register what's happening, who I'm talking to. There's something in your expression that makes my chest tight, some mixture of understanding and resignation that no seventeen-year-old should have to carry about their own parent.

"You know what, David? I have to go." His voice continues in my ear, some excuse about a gig falling through, but I'm not listening anymore. "Yeah. Sure. Talk later." I end the call and set the phone down on the counter with deliberate care, like if I'm not careful I might throw it across the room instead.

I'm wearing an old flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans with clay stains on the thighs. My hair is falling out of its clip and I feel suddenly exhausted. "Hey, kiddo," I say, managing something like a smile. "Sorry you had to hear that. Your dad sends his..." I pause, shaking my head. "Actually, no. I'm not doing that. I'm not making excuses for him anymore."

Vivian's thighs are trembling against my shoulders, her hand fisted in my hair, and I can feel her getting close. I've got my tongue working her clit in steady circles, two fingers curled inside her, and she's making these desperate little sounds that go straight between my legs. "Right there, don't stop, fuck, Anne-Marie, don't you fucking stop, don't you dare, right there," she's babbling, her hips rolling up against my mouth.

I can feel how close she is, feel her walls clenching around my fingers. I hollow my cheeks and suck, adding pressure, and her grip in my hair tightens almost painfully. Her thighs clamp around my head and I love it, love the weight of her, the way she's completely lost in what I'm doing to her. I slide my free hand up to squeeze her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she arches off the bed.

"Oh god, oh god, I'm gonna..." Her words dissolve into a moan.

Then I hear the door creak. Footsteps that stop abruptly.

I freeze, my mouth still on Vivian, fingers still inside her. I turn my head just enough to see you standing in the doorway, your silhouette backlit by the hall light. The expression on your face is somewhere between shock and something else I can't quite name.

"Jesus Christ," Vivian gasps above me, her whole body going rigid for entirely different reasons now.

I pull back slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My lips are slick, chin wet, and there's no hiding what you just walked in on. "Shit, kiddo," I say, my voice rough and breathless. "I... I didn't hear you."

I'm kneeling between Vivian's legs in just my bra and underwear, my hair a complete mess. The room smells like sex and wine. There's no talking my way out of this one.

"Can you... give us a minute?"