When Grady comes back to the apartment, he has clean laundry and my favorite flavor of Blue Bell ice cream—Pecan Pralines 'n Cream.

"I can't believe you remembered." I set the computer aside to take the very full bowl. It even includes caramel sauce and whipped cream.

There are only two distractions that I'd consider worthwhile right now, and ice cream is one of them.

"How could I forget? You got me hooked on it, too." Grady pulls off his shirt, and it reinforces the other.

I take note of how, uh, ready I still am. It's getting late, though, and he's been up since dawn. His eyes look heavy. They've been like that for days. We may be at the end of it, but we're still in crisis mode. It might be a while before leisure activities are resumed to their full capacity. Much to my dismay. . .

In just his boxers, he goes into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start.

He didn't leave me wanting earlier, but it isn't just about me. I could certainly go for another round and get results that are just as satisfying, if not more so, but I'm not typical, and this isn't that late for me. I went from supporting myself through college, to finals and graduation, and then right into the Quinn fiasco. Throw in some jet lag, a few all-nighters and long day-naps, and I shouldn't really compare my needs to Grady's.

As much as I may want to push things forward, it might not be what's best for him. He seems to prefer quality over quantity, and a man like that may dwell too much on greatness. I wound egos all the time, but I actually care about his. All in all, I should clear a path—a complete assignment and no clothing—but leave it up to him.

While I'm rushing to finish everything up, the ice cream headache seems fitting for the memory attached to it. Like so many things, it's bittersweet.

Sharing things with Grady was one of the highlights of my childhood. Our bond may have otherwise been forgettable from his standpoint. And I was usually pretty stealth about it. I had to be. It was my guilty pleasure, and I understood the risk, even at a young age, of getting caught.

It's fairly safe to assume, since he brought the flavor home for me, that Grady has only fond memories of Pecan Pralines 'n Cream. I'm glad for that and wish I could say the same. It was my special treat when I was "good." When it came to chores, I was easily bribable and that brought it to the freezer every so often. I was the only one who supposedly liked it, though, and yet it never seemed to last very long, and that became a bone to pick. One time, my mother dug up a reason to pay attention and gave me the full interrogation when there were two bowls in the sink. I blamed Quinn, who was picky and weight conscious at the time, so it was an obvious lie, almost too obvious to my vain, nitpicky mother. She must have seen or suspected something as well, and I was "grounded" until I told the truth.

It took a week for me to break, and I tried all kinds of fake excuses. But she didn't give me an end date until I told the actual truth. I guess it was the one time I was caught, and, of course, the flavor stopped showing up in the freezer.

Compared to a lot of kids out there—like Grady—I was undeniably spoiled. This example, taken by itself, wouldn't exactly absolve me of anything. You might think I'm just looking for another reason to hate my mother, and when a person does that, they usually succeed. Still, if I really sat here and thought about it, the subtle acts of cruelty would be in the double digits. In recent days, the cruelty has been outright, the examples adding up in that regard as well.

I know the wounds are still raw, but I think it's safe to say, it's over between us and will be for good. Forget see her. I never want to speak to her again.

It's not something I'd do lightly, and I know, deep down, that she's a victim too, and that someday, she'll come crawling back, more pathetic, insecure, and needy than ever, asking for help or forgiveness. Her attempt to throw me off my own life course has been quite the setback in almost every way, the one exception being Grady. That being said, I have no doubt, when she comes to me, I'll have my shit together, and I'll be confronting the situation from a place of strength that she'd never understand. Giving her what she wants would be easy and expected. The refusal would be met with shock and ire. And with guilt, blame, and belittlement, her sharpest weapons, she'd do everything in her power to bring me to her level. And it wouldn't be enough. Not by half. This may sound cruel as well, but you could argue it's deserved. What goes around comes around, I guess.

I carry this sentiment into the final paragraph of my report. Thanks to Pecans and Pralines, it's shorter than it would have been before, but it's much less forgiving. And that settles it. The report is complete, and the flavor will be a staple in our shared freezer until death do us part. I hit save and set both the computer and bowl aside just in time to watch Grady walk in, wearing just a towel.

You'd think writing off my own mother would be a mood killer. Maybe it would have been, just hours ago, but, now that it's all said and done, I feel almost . . . celebratory. I know that'll pass, too. I'll be all over the place for a while, and anyone capable of empathizing, Grady among them, will claim this is normal. I don't know what is or isn't in these types of circumstances, but I do know that we won't suffer for it, not in the bedroom anyway, if I have anything to say about it. We've devoted too much time to suffering already. Our whole adult consciousness, really. It's high time we stop.

Grady doesn't look like he needs any extra convincing. He gets into bed naked, trying to act like it's no big deal, but the slight hard on is a dead giveaway.

When he flips off the light, my eyes go blind, but every other sense is heightened with curiosity, and desire, and appetite, for what's tried and true, and what's yet to be accomplished. With him, I can't see myself being too squeamish. He'd never hurt me, and in light of that, I'm game for anything. I look forward to showing him and surprising him, not all at once, but slowly and smoothly, one titillating favor at a time.

We meet each other in the center of the bed. As soon as our lips and bodies make contact, it becomes very apparent that he's not too tired for me. Nature is quick to take its course. The three-day waiting period and ruined encounter from earlier have done some damage to his patience, it seems. Within moments, he's between my legs and his bare penis is teasing and tempting the perimeter of a very wet hole. If it weren't for his size, he'd probably slide right in. I'm almost in the frame of mind and state of being to let him. I'm getting my period in a day or two. It should be fine, but he—and it brings about a big sigh from us both—does the "right" thing and rolls off me.

And, of course, the contraception pause gives him a bit too long to think about things. Some of his concern bubbles up. "Are you sure you're all right? Do you need to talk to someone?" Although the condom is in hand, he eases himself back into bed a foot away from me, some of his progress lost.

I scoot over to him. He slides a leg over to allow for my presence in between his knees. "I have you."

"Yeah, but you . . . don't talk to me." He clenches up during that last part.

I suppose, with the tip of his penis in my mouth, it isn't the best time to have a conversation.

Full rigidity returns to him with a surge that even straightens his spine.

I start him off fast but shallow with decent suction. Then I ease up, grazing a hand up and down the rest of his shaft and taper off with a lick and a light kiss. "I will. Just let me get used to the idea of someone giving a shit about me."

"Same." He tears the condom open with his teeth, puts it on in a hurry, and then comes at me, full force.

Next thing I know, I'm on my back, legs spread. We land at a bit of a diagonal on the bed. It's all kind of jerky and a tad rough. It makes me giggle. My hands are by my head, like I'm surrendering to an arrest. They're in no place to help guide him inside of me, but he doesn't seem to care or need it. He's in position, and I'm so wet from now and earlier that every luscious inch of glides right in. And as he descends, slow but sure, I tremble, anticipating pain that doesn't come, not until the final inch.

I cry out when he hits resistance. He pulls back and returns shallower. It becomes a controlled eagerness, fast but with less depth and force. The pain dulls to pleasure. I calm my breathing and enter this heady, altered state. I'm tingly, flushed, and damp from the knee up. I have only so much brain capacity at the moment, and that's fine by me. I'm able to focus solely on him. And it's about damn time. The intruders can go to hell as far as I'm concerned.

While he's hard at work, he presses his lips to mine, and with my hands roaming up his neck and through his hair, I keep him there, our mouths going at it, too. And through this kiss, I'm able to express some of my needs, and he seems in tune to them.

There will be mistakes. We'll push each other too far, but we're both capable of drawing lines and respecting boundaries. We'll find our rhythm and achieve the balance that few can.

Sex isn't always a reflection of one's personality or a mirror of what's going on in real life, but with him, they align. It's not a surprise, but it's still a relief. I've certainly been wrong before. Those good in bed and an asshole in real life and vice versa. . .

I could certainly get myself there like this—conventional, steady, moderate, and with him doing most of the work. I'm perfectly content and comfortable, but I start craving something bolder and pull away to flip over. I separate my shins and brace myself. Grady gets himself back in position and then pushes inside of me with his hands on my hips.

It's a completely new angle for us. As careful as he may be, it's shocking and explosive. I almost lose my grip on the sheets. He seems to hit every internal organ on the way in and within a few thrusts, he groans out his approval. It's his favorite so far, I think. And some of the tethers to his control seem to snap. Once a few of them go, I doubt the rest will hold. It's too much tension and pressure for us both.

Biting my lower lip, I bring a hand into the fold to help us both along. He can probably feel the vibration and clenching. I know how to get myself there, and I bring myself to the summit without going over, while he's losing the fight, trying to do the same.

His rhythm becomes erratic as does his breathing. He seems to forget if he's coming or going, and then, it's almost a trip and a fall, like gravity is finally taking its course. He goes all the way in. I add the final stroke to myself, and then I'm welcoming him to the brink with a moan and a full body of gratitude. We coast at that high, as still as we can be in these circumstances. It's like flying after a freefall. Then he gives us both a few more lazy but indulgent thrusts. It keeps us afloat in a way that's choppy but particularly blissful at every bump and hitch.

For a few moments, we just hang there, spent but at peace. I battle the need to collapse. Grady lingers inside of me. The pressure is easing, but it's making the throb more noticeable. When he rubs a distracting hand up my back and side, I get a chill in the breeze of the air-conditioning and then feel him withdraw. He pulls the condom off while I lift off my hands and rise to my knees. He's still there and close. The heat of him is something I can't help but lean into. In response, I get a one-handed embrace that glides over both breasts and the knee-weakening brush of his lips on my neck.  

"You are. . ." he exhales against my hair, seemingly at a loss for words. "Too good to be true."

"Well, I'm here. It's real, and you better get used to it. I ain't goin' anywhere."

"Mmmm," he answers, like I'm edible and he's still too hungry to walk away.

He bounds out of bed after that, hastily but reluctantly, and disappears in the bathroom. He returns in record time and gets back in bed just as I find the will to get out.

From the crying earlier and all the events that followed, I'd need a good hour of tidying up in the bathroom if . . . my mother's version of perfect was what I was after. I only give myself five minutes, though, because it's dark, I'm exhausted, and screw her.

Back in the bedroom, Grady is on his side, facing the middle of the bed, looking incomplete, despite being half-asleep. I climb in beside him and scoot closer, still naked and quick to realize that he is, too. When he stirs, the bed and blankets do as well. He seems to use the last of his energy and consciousness to settle back in, our legs tangled, and bodies converging.

"It's been a week since this all started," I inform him. "I know it's probably been the worst week of your life, but. . ."

"Any week, ending like that, can't be that bad. Now that it's all said and done, I have to say, it's probably been the best week of my life, and that's saying something."

"What's it saying?" I turn my head to ask. "That I make everything rose-colored? That I'm an incredible lay, and it puts all your past experiences into perspective and not in a good way?"

When he's tired and satisfied, he laughs more, and I get a decent chuckle out of him. "That and I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I know there's an obligatory waiting period, but I wish there wasn't. I hope that doesn't scare you."

"It doesn't. When it comes to you, there's not much I'd say no to."

Whenever he "asks," he'll get the answer my sister was too selfish and shortsighted to give. I know I'm young, but when you know, you know, and the waiting game is more about pleasing others. And quite frankly, I'm at a place where I couldn't care less about that.  

He says hmmm dreamily, and then our week is wrapped up with a kiss on my shoulder and—fingers crossed—a good night's sleep. We certainly need it, because the next week of our lives together is about to begin, and it will undoubtedly have wild spikes in all directions. Once my report gets out, it won't necessarily be any "easier." But, with Grady—ably, willingly, and loyally—carrying half the load, I think I can do this. I won't break. Not again. I'll be as strong for him as he is for me, and it will end, once and for all, in our favor.

We are on the right side of the law, and like they say, Texas is not something to mess with. I could try to find a dozen other ways to say it's over for them, but I'll leave it at that. Maybe they don't know it yet, but they will, soon enough. And from that place of strength I was talking about, I hope to be the one to tell them.

<<<>>>

There's more than one kind of breakup, and Taryn provides an excellent example. With that in mind, I'll close the here and now portion of this tale with another round of Bailey Zimmerman's Where It Ends.

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Did you enjoy Taryn's "After" chapters?

Do you have any predictions?

Where WILL IT END?

The EPILOGUE will bring this tale to a conclusion, folks, and Grady will be the one to share it.

Thanks so much for reading!