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Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 18 🍒 "I Wanted It To Be You"

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 7,467

Summary: Moving on from Joel, your life takes many unexpected courses: college, marriage.. yet you keep wondering What If..?

(Warnings contain spoilers, so please check beneath the cut if you're curious)

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (the difference is 17 years, and there are a few time skips throughout this chapter), starts in late 2003 and ends in 2023, Angst Angst Angst, brief mention of jailtime, breakup, parental issues, heavy on the mom guilt, underage drinking, dry humping, anonymous drunk sex (never ever do this, folks), vomit, reader going through a slutty era after getting her heart broken (just like Joel in Chapter 14), allusions to smut, time skips (labeled), panic attack, mention of drugs and alcohol, rough sex, creampie, surprise pregnancy, infidelity, lil bit of a makeout sesh with Tommy, semi-public sex, pussy pronouns, light degradation, Ellie is Joel's daughter, mention of cyberstalking (not as serious as it sounds), mention of reader having a therapist, Joel and Tess are married. If I left anything out, please LMK!

Author's Note: this took forever to write because the more I edited the more I wanted to add. And I know this chapter has quite a few time skips, I just wanted to highlight the important parts as much as I could. ALSO: I apologize for the unrealistically speedy law process at the beginning. I have no idea how that situation would pan out, but it would almost definitely drag out for months if not years.

So much angst here, but now the reader is all grown up! I wanted to add the convo with Sarah but this chapter was already getting so long, and I think it'll fit better in the next installment anyway.

Series Masterlist

"I would've said yes."

You've lost count of how many voicemails you leave Joel, who's been ignoring your calls, but this is the only time you say it, that you admit your love could have gone a different way if you'd just gotten back to that hotel room together.

You replay that night over and over in your head, but with different endings. In a perfect world, your father would never have even been there in the first place. In a separate, less perfect world, you would not have called out to him, just ignored him the way he ignored you. Then you'd have some peace of mind, and you'd belong with the man you love.

Each time you call Joel, you expect to hear his gruff voice on the other end of the line. And soon enough the ringing stops and goes straight to voicemail, where you leave him the words of your bleeding, broken heart:

"I would've said yes."

You haven't taken the ring out of its box, worried you'll jinx whatever luck you have left. Joel is supposed to kneel, take your hand in his, and place the ring on your finger. You've never envisioned what getting engaged would look like, but it definitely bears some semblance to tradition.

When Chris refused to press charges, the law stepped in and did it for him. Thirty days in the Bexar County Jail is what they sentenced Joel. That was why you couldn't reach him, why you felt like you were hitting a brick wall. It's a relief when you're finally able to speak to him.

"I'm so sorry," you cry to him over the phone, his voice like a warm and soothing balm. You imagine yourself curling into his embrace, allowing his arms to enfold you, make you small and safe, hidden from the dangers and ugliness of the world.

"You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for," he grunts.

"I love you." You sound pitiful over the phone but you don't care. "Joel, let me come see you and we can work it out. Please."

He sighs. "I got somethin' I need to tell you. Might change your mind how ya feel about me."

"What?" you ask quickly, your young mind scrambling to imagine what he could say, as if to fortify your already shattered heart. Your stomach sinks, nausea threatening to make the bile rise in your throat. "Joel, what is it?"

He's quiet for awhile and when he speaks it's monotone. "I've been seein' someone else."

It sounds like he's speaking a foreign language. You shake your head, looking at your wall calendar. It's only December. You last saw him in late September. The biblical manger scene on the church calendar your mom put on the fridge is an evil harbinger of time now lost.

"Who?" you ask, dreading the answer.

"Doesn't matter," he says gruffly, sounding uncomfortable.

"Tell me who," you insist.

With a deep sigh he relents. "Hailey."

Again, it's like hearing a foreign language. "Hailey? The girl I worked with? The one who went to Sarah's party? That Hailey?"

"Yeah."

"How.. how did this happen?"

"Ran into her at a bar my first night out of jail. I was lonely and she was.. she was there for me."

"What do you mean? Did you-" you take a moment to breathe, try not to let your emotions take over.

"I slept with her. That's all it is between us, just fuckin'."

It's like a punch in the gut. No, worse. It's a blade plunging into your heart over and over.

In a blur of upset and disappointment, you utter the words of anyone who's ever had a broken heart: "How could you do this to me?"

There's no answer for it from his side. His refusal to go into detail feels like he's hiding his fling with Hailey on purpose, withholding part of his new life to you, but you never stop to think he might be saving you from the pain he knows is due.

You cry after hanging up on him. You cry more than you did when he left you in San Antonio. You cry until you can no longer see because your eyes are puffy, nearly tiny slits that still somehow shed tears when you think of Joel with your ex-friend.

Once the sadness has been cried out, there remains only rage, simmering and profound. With small, practiced movements, you take the engagement ring in its box and mail it to Joel's address. No note, and no explanation needed.

"You're not yourself," your mom mentions one night when you push your plate away, your dinner barely touched.

"Not hungry," you mumble.

She sighs in exasperation. "I don't know what to do with you. You won't talk to me." She pushes her own plate away and downs the rest of her cheap wine. "You come home from God-knows-where, with a damn bruise on your face."

You touch your cheek where your father had accidentally knocked you backwards, wishing it was the only physical pain you endured from that night.

"..you don't bother with the chores anymore, you lock yourself away in your room, probably not even studying. Do you even attend classes anymore? Do you even care about your future?" she continues.

"No," you say quite simply.

"No??"

You shake your head and shrug, as if answering something as easy as 'do you want to watch a movie later?'

"I don't. Give. A shit."

Anita scoffs, refilling her glass. "Great. That's just great. Maybe I'll drink this entire bottle and give myself alcohol poisoning. Then I wouldn't have to deal with your shitty attitude anymore."

The scrape of your chair as you push away from the table is as loud as nails on a chalkboard. "You want me to talk? I'll talk." You lean forward, relishing this moment where your mom looks scared as shit.

"I said I was in College Station, but I lied. I was fucking Joel every weekend I was away. We met up in hotel rooms and fucked each other's brains out. And the best part of it all was that he loved me," your voice breaks but you're wickedly delighted by the look of shock and disgust on your mother's face.

You're on a tirade now that can't be stopped. "Two months ago I found Dad in San Antonio. I did," you nod, a psychotic kind of laughter breaking from you when she gawks. "And do you know what? He's forgotten all about us. He has a new family, new kids, new young wife. And he doesn't give a shit about you or me. He never really has, has he?" You realize you're standing, towering over her as you spit out all the venom she's ever poured into you right back at her.

"Now.. how does it feel to have the truth shoved in your face? To be deprived of the fantasy world you wanted so badly to live in, cushioned by your idiotic pretenses? Because I'll bet you could've gone your whole life not knowing, staying innocent. Well, Mother Dearest, fuck you."

Without a word you pack your things, your body moving way ahead of your brain, stuffing every necessary item into a couple of bags before you leave her house, with the intention to never return again.

Summer 2004 Louisiana

Staying with friends in a shitty apartment, you finish the rest of the semester before transferring to another school. Three schools in one year probably isn't a very good look on your transcript, but it's the first choice you make that is truly your own. Working two jobs over the summer you finally have the money you need to survive as you begin a new chapter in Louisiana.

You do everything in your power to get over Joel. The first step was deleting his number from your phone, even though you've already memorized it by heart. To be safe, you also delete Tommy's number, and Sarah's. It feels final, and a small part of you wishes they could get a notification informing them you no longer consider them important enough to keep, even as data.

It still stings when you think of Joel with Hailey. She's older, more experienced, and can probably do whatever he wants without being asked. After you've deleted the Millers from your contact list, you hover over Hailey's name, pressing it and, in a moment of antagonism, send her a text. I thought you were my friend, Turns out you're just a fucking slut Then you delete and block her number.

Dating other guys doesn't come very easy. It's as if they can smell the heartbreak on you, sense your loneliness and unease, the untempered anger simmering below the surface of your smile. You're a walking red flag and you know it, but that doesn't stop you.

You grind on a guy at a club after he buys you a few appletinis. Never mind that he's twenty five and trying to get you drunk so you'll fuck him. With your twenty-dollar Charlotte Russe dress hiked up as you drag your sopping panties over his clothed hardness, he sucks the apple flavor off your tongue, one hand gripping your hips while the other slips inside your underwear to rub your clit and you come for the first time in months. So loud, in fact, that you're caught and promptly kicked out of the club. When your partner (you never remember his name) asks to continue at his place, you decline, already walking to the next bar.

Once the high wears off, you are consumed with guilt as you think of Joel. What would he say if he found out? Would he even care? Maybe he's fucking Hailey right now.

And it hits you that it's already been a year since you first slept with him.

You pause in the middle of the street, coming back to earth when a car honks at you, cursing at you to hurry up and fucking move dumb bitch!

Walking on, you can't get the memory of the feel of Joel out of your head: the way his tongue licked into your mouth, fingers traveling down to play between your folds, telling you he needed you nice and wet before he fucked you, those thick fingers slipping in and playing you like a well tuned instrument, his lips gliding over your throat, resting just above your pulse point, then finding their way down the slope of your breasts, taking each nipple between his lips, his beard rasping against your skin.

You try to force the thought away, but it returns manifold. His mouth, the stiffened warmth of his tongue lapping at your cunt, drinking up every fucking drop and telling you you taste so sweet. He doesn't stop until you come more than once, finally fitting himself inside you, teasing you with the first few inches. Sure you can handle the rest, babygirl? before sliding in in one smooth thrust, joining you body and soul, moving against you just how you need.

You cover your face with your hands and wander into an alley, overcome with despair at the loss of your love, the loss of what innocence you thought you had. Both of those things given to someone who only saw fit to fuck you as he wished and discard when he couldn't handle the reality of your personal life.

"Are you okay?" a voice asks, approaching softly from behind. You turn and see a man, another college student like yourself, dressed in jeans and a striped button down. His features blur together until all you hear is his soft Southern accent and all you smell is his Curve cologne. The next thing you know you're kissing him, begging him to touch you, fuck you, and then he's spinning you to face the wall, dress hiked up, panties pulled down. Your arms support you against the wall as he pushes into you from behind and all you think about is him fucking the pain away, pumping into you hard and fast. He's nowhere near as big as Joel, but you've been so touch starved that the sounds coming out of your mouth are shameless.

Without warning you vomit, splashing your shoes and the wall in front of you with appletini puke, and the guy pulls out immediately, getting away from you as fast as he can, tucking himself back into his jeans.

You rest your forehead against the cool brick wall, spitting out the sour taste in your mouth as tears weep freely from your eyes.

September 2004

At the start of sophomore year you're the only one who doesn't have family come down to help move in, to visit with and take silly, memorable photos with. Nobody comes to your dorm and helps you decorate and put your belongings away. By the time your assigned roommate comes with her parents and little brother you're already set up, fresh sheets on your twin bed, your side already claimed.

You're reading when she comes in, a young girl, freshman, with hope in her eyes, excited to meet you, looking forward to her new life away from Montana or Missouri or wherever she says she's from. You're barely listening.

Who you do notice is her dad: mid-forties, slight beer belly, wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants with brand new New Balance shoes. You make eye contact immediately before he shifts his gaze away. His daughter, your new roommate Jessica, starts to unpack, asking you questions about the classes, what student groups to join. You offer what advice you can, stretching out on your bed in your tank top and running shorts. Her dad's eyes roam over your curves when his wife and kids aren't looking, and you unabashedly flirt back, making sure your shorts ride up, pulling down your tank just a little to expose more cleavage.

Once they leave for a quick tour around the campus you're back to your reading.

Jessica's dad comes back. Alone.

"I think I forgot my wallet in here," he says, giving a forced look of timidity as he checks his pockets.

"You didn't," you smirk, putting your book down and sitting up. "But you can stay if you want.."

He doesn't make an excuse about his family and you wouldn't care if they walked in anyway. Once the door is locked his hands are on your body, grabbing your ass while your hand goes down his pants. You tell him exactly what will make you come, and he does it so willingly it almost touches your heart.

Later as he's leaving and you're trying to get his cum off your bedsheets, he's asking you not to say anything to his daughter, as if you'd proudly exclaim that you fucked him, having barely remembered his name.

You're learning that a lot of men are the same at their very core.

You're a fantasy for the older ones, a college coed with daddy issues and an IUD. Having already been with an older man, you know just what they like, and when you give it you live for the way their eyes light up, and a little of their youth comes back to them for a moment.

It's almost pitiful how easy you figure out the opposite sex. Once you know what they want it's easy to become that, to dress how they want, to feign interest in the things they like, even to keep your thoughts to yourself. You learn to live inside your head, which until now has been the hardest thing to do.

But it's necessary when you're holding onto the headboard of some frat guy's bed while fake moaning as he's holding your hips, going as fast as he can because that's what they do in porn. Each and every guy has a Scarface poster above the bed, or Playboy centerfolds taped to the walls, neon lava lamps on the nightstand along with CDs by Kanye West, Franz Ferdinand, or Velvet Revolver. Your thoughts are elsewhere as you give halfhearted head.

You learn to feel nothing, not even pleasure, because they certainly can't tell that you fake every sigh and gasp.

But the older men, the professors, TA's, even men you meet off campus at the bars in town.. they are what interest you. It's not common for you to find yourself bent over a desk during your professor's office hours, or with your panties around your ankles when a one-on-one study session turns to something else.

You fuck men who remind you of Joel because you can't fuck Joel. It's his hands on you instead of theirs, his breath hot on your ear.. but no one else can fill the part of you that Joel hollowed out for himself when he made you his on a hot Texas summer night.

Though you think about him every day, soon enough, you start to wonder whether he was ever even real, or just someone you made up.

March 2006

Spring Break finds you at a beach house on the coast. The friends you came with are nowhere to be found, and you're pretty sure your drink is laced with something. The music is so loud that you hurry out into the night, seeking solace before the roaring waters of the gulf, black water topped with silver waves. Their rushing sound is soothing, yet you sink to your knees because your world is too heavy.

"I'm dying," you whisper to yourself, crying. Your chest feels tight. It's so hard to breathe, and it feels like your heart will explode.

Only one person on the entire planet comes to mind, and after all this time you still remember his number. You dial it, fingers savoring the press of each button on your phone. How many times have you called Joel and hung up before he could answer? There have been a couple of times when you dialed him while having sex, not sure if he ever picked up, hoping that he heard you moving on and moving away from him. That'll show him.

But you can't even breathe to talk to him. And what if he doesn't answer? What if he's changed his number?

You leave all his numbers entered on the screen but you don't hit the call button. Not yet. You have to think of something to say. Tell him you love him before your body rejects the air it's trying so desperately to claim into your lungs.

"Hey, are you all right?" a gentle voice asks behind you, and a hand is on your shoulder.

You flashback to that night in the alley, the guy who took advantage of you, but this time it doesn't go that way.

A man with soulful eyes and a kind smile kneels next to you, his hand remaining on your shoulder. "I think you're having a panic attack. Can I help you with that?" His voice is as kind and gentle as he looks, and you nod.

"Can you breathe for me? Like this." He inhales deeply and slowly, and when you try it it feels so foreign but you manage it.

"There you go," he says quietly. "Now breathe out.."

Soon he has your breathing back to normal, and you don't have to force your body to do what it naturally does.

"Tell me five things you can see," he continues.

A shaky breath in. Hey, at least it's a breath. "Um.. the water.. the sand.. the moon.. you.."

That's when you get your first good look at him, beyond the smile that works its warmth into your heart, and the eyes that search yours, exuding humanity that you haven't experienced in a long time. He's really cute. You can't deny that your heart skips a couple of beats.

"One more thing?" he says, his voice soft.

You snap back to reality. "Uh.. a ship.. out there in the distance?"

He glances behind him at the water, seeing the great big liner, possibly a cruise ship, on the inky horizon, and takes a seat next to you. "How are you feeling now?" he asks.

"Good.. I think. Better." You nod. "Thank you."

"May I?" he lifts your hand from your lap and turns the palm up, his fingers poised above your pulse point. You nod again.

He presses his touch to your wrist, and you watch his eyes calculating, his lips silently moving while counting. Despite everything you've been through the past two years, this is the most intimate thing you've felt.

"Your pulse is normal." He gently places your hand back on your lap. "Do you want to go back to the party or do you want to stay out here a little longer? If you want to go back," he adds, "I'll be with you, make sure you're okay."

You opt to stay on the beach, embracing the quiet for a little longer. This is the first time a man has had you alone and hasn't tried to fuck you. It's nice, for once.

Towards the end of the night he leads you back to the party house, guiding you through the throng of people there, the air rife with alcohol and the pungent aroma of weed. You're holding his hand, you realize as you walk together. He's your lifeline in this very moment. You grab your jacket and purse from one of the bedrooms, passing by couples making out, some slipping into rooms to do much more than kissing. To think you could have easily ended up there with a random guy makes your skin crawl.

"What was your name again?" you shout to him over the music.

"Justin!"

"Dustin?"

"Justin!"

You both laugh. You tell him your name and of course he mishears you.

He drives you to the small motel room you're sharing with your friends who are inevitably crashing at the beach house, too drugged or drunk or fucked to return for the night.

Justin smiles at you as the engine idles. "Is it okay if I ask you out?"

You exchange numbers, your heart thrumming with a pleasant nervousness. You haven't had a boyfriend since..

..not since Joel.

Don't think about him.

"You can reach out to me if you ever just feel like talking," he says. "I'm here."

So you do, and after a week of texting and a couple of late night calls and getting to know each other, you go for a date for the first time in three years.

Justin picks you up in a Honda Civic, and as you get comfy in the passenger seat you breathe in the scent of the black ice air freshener and his spearmint gum. The radio blasts Smashing Pumpkins at a level you know is too much but it only adds to the excitement of the evening.

He's a year older than you, native to Louisiana, and on leave from the Army.

Living just a half hour from your campus, you start to spend much of your time together. Movie dates, dinner dates, and dates where you just drive around, talking about nothing and everything.

You only sleep with him three months into your relationship, desiring to take things slow for once, to know him better than you have ever known anyone.

It's nice. It's like what you see in the movies, two people wrapped up in each other, soft, no words needed. For once your head isn't forced down into the pillow, or your pussy spit on. For once it's just normal, and normal feels so good.

June 2008 New Orleans, LA

Bourbon Street is alive, electric, no matter that it's a Sunday night. People will drift into work tomorrow still drunk on Zombies and Hurricanes. The entire street reeks of piss, but people either don't care or have been here long enough that it no longer harasses their senses. But more often than not, people are having too much of a good time to care.

You're behind the bar at little hole-in-the-wall place, slinging daiquiris and kamikaze shots when you hear a familiar voice and a tap on your shoulder. "Hey there, Cherry."

You turn and your eyes go wide. "Tommy!" You reach over the bar to hug him, nearly spilling a beer on him in the process. "It's been ages! How are you?

He looks older, more mature, even though it's only been five years since you last saw him: he's letting his facial hair grow, but his eyes still sparkle with mirth and kindness. "It's good to see you, girl." He's no longer with Sofia, their romance having ended a few years before, on friendly terms or so your cousin claimed. You always blamed yourself for the demise of their relationship, believing that your breakup with Joel cast a shadow over her own connection with Tommy.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

"We're good, just here in town, expanding the business."

"We?" Your hands start to shake, and you put away the bottle of gin you have your grasp on. Your heart starts to pound before the next words even leave his mouth.

"Yeah, me and Joel are lettin' off a little steam, wanted to toss back a few before we go back to the hotel."

You feel his eyes on you before you're even aware that he's here. Looking up, at a small table near the entrance, is Joel Miller. Your heart stops, and you don't know how it is you're still alive. He looks you up and down, appraising every feature and detail about you, and you wonder if you've changed in five years or not. You wonder if he still loves or hates you.

"...and we thought this was that bar where girls dance and pour tequila down guys' throats, but this is just as good 'cause you're here."

Tommy manages to snap you out of your trance. "Oh.. you mean Coyote Ugly.."

"Yeah, they opened one in Austin a couple years back but this one ain't never wanna go nowhere," he motions back with his head to Joel.

You return your gaze to the older brother but he's no longer looking at you, his glance dotting along the crowd, following a younger woman as she saunters up to him, smiling, flirting. Your stomach turns and you force a smile at Tommy.

"Whatever you want is on me."

Tommy's smile and laughter is infectious. "You sure about that, Cherry?"

"I'm sure," you say, pouring out a shot for yourself. "You know, nobody's called me that in a long time."

"What's that?" he catches a bright sparkle on your left hand, and quickly takes it within his own. "Cherry, you didn't tell me you were engaged!"

Joel must have one ear straining to listen because Tommy's outburst got his attention right away and he swivels his head to look at you.

"Yeah.. he's a nice guy." That's how you describe Justin to everyone: he's a nice guy. He'd proposed last year after your one year dating anniversary. "He's in the Army, they're shipping him out a week after our wedding. And I'm going with him."

"He's a good guy if he's an Army man," Tommy approves, just as Joel approaches, the woman he was talking to now gone. "So? Are we invited to the weddin'?"

You can't tell if he's teasing or not, and Joel's poker face gives zero indication as well. "I already sent out save-the-dates, but if you'd like to come I won't object. The more the merrier." For the first time you see Joel up close and your heart stutters, an irregular beat that you'd gotten used to in the aftermath of your disastrous breakup.

He's still so fucking handsome: the dark brown of his hair fading to what you can already see as gray, with gray patches in his beard. There are more lines around his eyes. There's still that jolt of electricity when your gazes meet.

"You happy?" he asks, his countenance giving nothing away of his true feelings, so it's difficult to gage whether he's legitimately asking, or simply being nice.

"I'm happy." But it sounds forced, like taking the pliers to your own mouth to fix your own abscess.

Joel only nods as you pour a couple whiskeys for them. "To Cherry getting married!" Tommy beams his salute and the three of you down the shots quickly.

It's sometime after your shift, and you're in the parking lot with Tommy, his arms around you as he presses you to the side of his truck. Or maybe it's Joel's truck. You don't know and you don't care, all you want is to feel something again. The nearness of Joel all night has rewired your brain, and as Tommy deepens the kiss, you're disappointed that it's not Joel's taste, not Joel's scent that surrounds you. Luckily he's not a bad kisser, and his hands roam everywhere you want them to be.

Better the wrong Miller than no Miller at all, your whiskey-soaked brain tells you.

"Always thought you were pretty," he whispers, hands palming your breasts over your shirt. "But you were Joel's from the moment he set eyes on ya, told me so himself. Leave that one alone, she ain't for you.'"

"He didn't want me enough.." your voice cracks as tears spill effortlessly down your cheeks.

"Don't cry," he says gently. "I don't got any tissues with me." He uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. "Still want me to give you a ride home?"

You nod, telling him you need to make a quick trip to the ladies' room to fix your makeup, and in the narrow hallway where the restrooms are hidden from the rest of the bar, you run into Joel.

"Sorry," you mumble, trying to get around him, but he puts his large hand on your shoulder to stop you.

"You gonna take my brother home and fuck him? Then marry some Army jackass?" he says as in disbelief.

You put your guard up, tougher now than you were five years ago. "What I do is my business. By the way, how's Hailey?"

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb." You push past him and start for the women's room to fix your makeup when Joel stops you again.

"You ain't gonna fuck my brother tonight, or any other night, babygirl," he utters.

There's a fire lit under you now. "Oh? What are you, the Morality Police? Fuck off."

"Fuck me," he says. "You know you want to. You're probably wet from Tommy, and I appreciate his gettin' ya ready for me, but I notice the subtler signs: your eyes are glistenin', you've been lickin' your lips every time you look at me, and you probably haven't noticed, but your nipples are pokin' right through your shirt. I bet they're just beggin' for attention, huh?"

He says all this while just standing in front of you, not crowding you like any other guy would. And you realize he's not even trying to rile you up. He's giving you a choice.

"What makes you think I want you? I have a good man who loves me. He's all I need."

"Needs and wants are different, babygirl. Once you're married you're stuck with him til' death. Hope you realize that."

"I'm aware." But it's already hit you: you'll be with Nice Justin for the rest of your life. You'll be a Nice Wife and maintain a Nice Home for the inevitable Nice Kids you'll have. You hate Joel for putting this thought in your head.

"He fuck you like I did?" he asks in an intimate tone.

You shake your head, already pulling him into the restroom with you. "Joel, no one's ever fucked me like you did."

Your body delights in the quick, sweet reunion with him. It's as if time has never separated you, as if both your hearts are whole again. His mouth greedily devours your kisses. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, the latter a bad habit. You're shoved into one of the stalls, fumbling with the lock while Joel's hands find their way across your body, one under your shirt, palming your breast, the other going into your jeans, expertly finding your soaked panties, crooking his fingers into your cunt.

Your back is pressed against his broad chest, his cock already hard inside his jeans, rubbing furiously against your lower back until he bends you forward to press against your ass, finally pulling your jeans and panties down in one go.

Too much time has passed for you to be gentle or even careful. He presses you to the stall door, nothing but heat and raw need between you. Words not needed, your only communication grunts and whispered curses that echo against the tiles of the cramped space.

"You ain't takin' no slow and gentle with me, sugar. i ain't got the patience for that right now." He nudges against you and it's a wonder you don't burn up with all the fire that inflames you. After so long it's a labor of love to fit him again, but as his fingers add pressure to your clit you get wetter, opening for him as easily as you did years ago.

"There she is," he says. "Been waitin' for me, been needin' a real man to fill ya up, ain't ya, babygirl?" he huffs in your ear, breath warm against your skin. "Answer me, baby."

"Yes.." your voice comes out in a hiss, your brain only thinking about his cock, the way it stuffs you, the only thing that completes you.

"That's what I thought. These lil' college boys don't know what to do with such a tight, pretty pussy. And neither does your fiance." He hikes one of your legs up, tucking your knee under his arm, keeping you nice and open, watching himself slide in and out of your weeping slit, slamming himself against you as he sinks his thumb into your puckered asshole, eliciting an all-but muffled gasp from you. "I know you called me just so I could listen to them fuckin' ya.. I know you never came with them, not once. This pussy is mine, has been from the very start."

You're no longer a virginal high school grad, and he takes what he wants from you, giving you what he knows you need.

The door opens but he doesn't stop, just quiets his own noises and clamps his hand over your mouth to squelch your sounds. The stall door jiggles and you put your hand over it until the person grumbles and walks away, muttering about having to piss. When they're gone Joel pumps into you relentlessly, chasing his pleasure and yours. He knows by now what will make you come, which combination of touches and kisses make your knees weak and your clit stand at attention.

"Fucking come for me, you little slut," he whispers, his tone almost loving if you didn't know better, and when you let go the pleasure is almost painful. Years of need and pent-up longing are released as your cunt squeezes around his rigid cock, milking him, smiling when you feel the warm spurt of his come as he presses deep at your cervix.

"That's my girl," he says proudly, your come spilling out already, lining his dick with a mix of both of you. "She's wrecked, split wide open like she's meant to be.. gonna send you back to your man drippin' with my come, used up like a good lil' whore."

His words add a sweet sting to the pleasure that has yet to ebb, resounding through your veins like thunder that takes its time in rolling away from the storm. Whore.. well, he's not wrong.

When your heavy breathing has subsided, you feel him start to slip out of you and you put your hand back on his thigh, a silent gesture to hold off.

"Missed you.. needed you," you mutter, tears of joy and relief and heartache brim in your eyes, until you allow the pleasure of the moment to take over without thought or feeling.

"I know.." he says softly, slipping out of you, careful as you're still sensitive.

That could have been the end. You could have gone your separate ways, but you're drawn to each other, and that doesn't go away easily. When you emerge from the rear entrance of the bar, Tommy looks up, and you can tell he expected that you'd end up with Joel instead. He simply nods as you pass him, walking with Joel to the tiny apartment you share with Justin, who's out of town visiting family. And as you and Joel spend the rest of the night locked in each other's embrace, you realize you don't care if he walks in on you, kicks you out, breaks off the engagement. You're with Joel and nothing else matters.

By dawn you wake up to find that he's gone, leaving only the scent of him on the pillow next to you. No note, no explanation, no goodbye. And once again you're sure you only dreamed up Joel Miller, used him as a mental escape for the life you were tying yourself down to.

It's very atypical for you to forgo a period, even at your most stressed, you can count on seeing that bright red stain on the toilet paper around the middle of every month. And when, by mid-July, you haven't even spotted, the first thing you do is take a pregnancy test.

All the men before have been careful, or you've been fortunate enough not to have a scare. But when you finally force yourself to look at the the little blue plus sign developing on the test strip, you realize this is no scare.

You're pregnant with Joel's baby.

The wedding takes place as expected, and your heart sinks when you walk down the aisle, seeing the joy on Justin's face. You've told him the baby is his, and he doesn't doubt it for a moment, that's how much he loves you. But for a fleeting moment you want so bad for it to be Joel at the altar instead.

The ceremony goes by in a blur, as everyone warned you it would. Group pictures are taken, the videographer is capturing the moments that photos alone can't encapsulate.

"Over here, honey!" photographer gets your attention. You barely hear him as you watch a figure walking out, one of the last guests to leave the church. From behind he looks like Joel, but you can't quite tell, and when your eyes fully focus, he's gone, and your own vision can't be trusted.

Tommy gave his regrets that he couldn't attend, and Joel simply never RSVP'd. But in your heart you know it was him, you know he had to come and see for himself that you're moving on, growing up and growing away from him. The only tether you have to him is the baby growing in your belly.

"Front and center, Mrs. Williams," Justin smirks, giving your cheek a soft kiss. "One more picture then we're onto the reception."

March 2009

Your daughter is born in the springtime, a loud and howling child from the moment she leaves you. The only time she's quiet is when she's in your arms.

"We need to decide on a name," Justin says, a little miffed that his daughter cries when he holds her despite his best efforts to soothe her.

"I told you, I like Ophelia," you say, gathering her into your arms to feed her.

"It's such a prissy name. And I can already tell she's not gonna be prissy."

"Then what do you suggest?" you ask tiredly. He doesn't seem to understand you've gone through labor for twenty four hours, only thinking of himself.

"Eleanor, after my mother."

You groan. "I always hated that name."

"Please, babe. It'll make her so happy to have her granddaughter as her namesake."

"Fine. Fine. But her middle name is Ophelia."

"Deal." Justin smiles as he fills out the paperwork.

"Eleanor.." you tell your baby. "But I'm going to call you Ellie."

Your mother once told you that when you become a parent, your life is not your own anymore. She said it as a kind of warning, a prophecy yet to be fulfilled when you were just a pre-teen, rolling your eyes at her warning you away from all kinds of danger.

You never expected she'd be right. Every waking moment holds more weight than ever before. Ellie is completely dependent on you, even as she grows and becomes more independent. It's you she looks to for validation when she does something right, and you she looks to when she knows she's in trouble.

She's smart as a whip, quick with a comeback and well versed in anything she can get her hands on. She excels in sports too-- individually, at first. As she gets older you notice a little bit of a mean streak in her. While she craves friends and wants to be part of a team, she has trouble making connections sometimes.

You have to wonder if part of that comes from Joel, his stubbornness and his lone wolf tendencies. Has he unknowingly passed down the most insecure parts of himself to his daughter? Sorry, his secondborn daughter?

Now there's literal proof of Joel Miller as a person, in human form, and she's trudging upstairs with her field hockey equipment and slamming her bedroom door.

Between the years of 2004 and 2008 you could almost convince yourself that he didn't exist, that he was a figment of your runaway imagination, born of a father complex and attachment issues. You work on yourself in therapy, feeling small as you divulge the innermost secrets of your heart and the intrusive thoughts, even going so far as to reveal that you've looked for Joel on social media, now that everyone has a profile.

Born of an intrusive thought, you type his name into the search bar on Facebook. Getting quite a few findings of those with the same name, you narrow the search. Joel Miller, Austin Texas His company logo comes up as its own page, and you notice it's changed, probably Tommy's idea as Joel never liked change.

Searching further you find his picture. There it is: Joel Miller, Boston Massachusetts

Huh?

You click on his profile while your heart thumps strongly within your ribcage. You wish you could let it out, set it free.

There he is, looking older than the last time you saw him, the grey more prominent in his hair, looking serious in his selfie. Even though it's just a selfie, a random moment in time, you can't help blushing, as if he's looking at you through the screen, appraising your own measure of aging. You wonder what you were doing that exact moment he took the picture.

But your hunger for knowledge needs to be fed, and scrolling down you swear you misread it at first.

Relationship status: Married

There's a roaring in your ears as your mouse hovers over the name next to those words: Tess Servopoulos

From there you check out her profile, see that she's from Detroit, five years younger than Joel. While his profile pic is only of himself, hers shows them together, on a hiking trail somewhere, Joel's arms around her from behind.

You slam the laptop shut, your blood buzzing in your veins. You feel distractingly alive, the heartache spreading through every muscle and nerve ending. Your past is brought to full fucking focus.

Against your better judgment you open the screen again and search through Tess's photos, specifically the ones of Joel. Most of the comments are from a couple of guys named Bill and Frank, who after some digging you come to find are married, and friends with Joel and Tess. You hit the jackpot when you find a video she uploaded, a fifteen-second clip of Joel holding a baby. Your heart stops when you realize the baby isn't his but Sarah's, and he's now a grandfather.

It feels like you're spying on them. You know so much about them by now, and the one glaring omission is children. They don't seem to have any.

Going back to Joel's profile, you hover the mouse dangerously over the Add Friend button. When you click it, it's the strongest rush you've felt in ages.

Weeks later, he hasn't accepted it. The sparkle of your anticipation is dulled, and with a heavy heart you click to cancel the request.

A couple years down the road you get a notification from Facebook Messenger while you're watching Narcos.

Message Request. Sarah Miller Hey! It's been forever! How are you?

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

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