Only one more link was about her, before the searches were for different people.
I didn’t want to click on that last one, but I did.
Finn Grayson Mays, infant son of Gavin Mays and Corabelle Rotheford, died on May 9, 2009.
My eyes burned. They hadn’t run a picture. Corabelle didn’t want one, since they all had tubes and wires on him, except for the last few, after they turned off the machines.
Finn was born May 2, 2009, in Deming, New Mexico. He is survived by his parents and his grandparents Arthur and Maybelle Rotheford and Robert and Alaina Mays of Deming.
When I saw my father’s name, I closed the link. He’d been at the funeral all right, jovial, relieved, and when he told some member of Corabelle’s church that at least the kids didn’t have to get married now, I asked him to leave.
He refused, and I should have left it alone. My mother was grieving, and the two of us going at each other was making it worse for both her and Corabelle. But I hadn’t left it alone. Then I ended up walking out.
Then not going back.
I shut the laptop. I didn’t want to think about these things. I wanted Corabelle. No one else was going to work, but she was being so darn stubborn, walking off with that other guy right where I could see it.
Rage surged and I fought to bring it down before realizing, hell, no one else is here. What did it matter if I walked around in a pisser? The room was scattered with secondhand barbells and hand weights. I stripped off my shirt and began working through my circuit. Getting physically exhausted would burn off this edge.
After a couple rounds, I wanted music, something loud and pounding. I stuck my phone into a pair of cheap speakers and set the playlist to punk. I switched to squats and ditched the boots and jeans. When the burn got good and solid, the anger started shifting to determination. I wasn’t going to let Corabelle go so easily. If that pipsqueak boy interested her, fine, but I could be unrelenting. And I knew every button to push.
Corabelle and I had been pretty heavy on the sex, and I snuck in her window most every night. Because of that, we could never agree on when Finn had been conceived. To make matters worse, her being on the shot and not finding out for a while meant everything was a big question. When she was about three months along, the doctors pegged the date as mid October. I remembered that period, right in the middle of this crazy time when she was trying to retake the SAT to qualify for one of the big national scholarships.
She was studying with Katie, another super-brain who was going for a perfect score. Corabelle was completely different for a while, alternatively manic and utterly chill. When I slipped into her bed, she’d be so willing. Not like she wasn’t always. Once all that started, we could scarcely keep our hands off each other. But during that time, she would try anything, do anything. We cracked open the Kama Sutra and just went after it, laughing at some of the more impossible positions. I felt like we’d never been closer.
I always insisted that Finn was conceived the night in the park. When I arrived at her house around midnight, she was bouncing off the walls. She’d taken an entire practice test and only missed three questions, and this was the closest she’d gotten to perfection.
Instead of crawling into her bed, we left, running down the street in the cool autumn moonlight like two kids finally escaping their parents. The little neighborhood park was silent and mostly dark. I pushed her on the swings and chased her through the monkey bars. Everything seemed possible, our future so close we could almost reach it, and Corabelle believed she could achieve this goal of the perfect score and a scholarship that would pay her way completely.
Eventually we tumbled in the cool carpet of grass. The night had chilled down, and she snuggled into me, her black hair a curtain across my chest. We had looked at the stars, I remembered suddenly, lying like we had on the roof. I’d have to remind her of that. I didn’t know any constellations other than the Big Dipper, and we didn’t really talk about that then. I just know she turned into me and slid her hand under my shirt and across my belly, and we were lost.
Too much. I set down a barbell and wiped my face with a towel. I hadn’t known how good I had it with Corabelle then, so willing, always matching me. That night had been beyond amazing, stripping down in the grass, the moonlight on her body, highlighting the curves of her breasts and waist and hips, brightening her hair as she crawled up to sit on top of me, straddling my waist.
Her face and the stars were all one picture as I touched every part of her. My thumb went between us and found that sweet spot. Her eyes closed and she leaned back. I could see all of her skin, smooth and beautiful. She gripped my free hand, squeezing, and by paying attention to her sounds and movements, I knew when I had her close to peaking.
I slid her body down, then up, until we were almost joined. Her eyes opened wide, and she smiled, adjusting so I slipped inside. I worked her faster and now she was frantic, leaning forward, her breasts near my mouth, bracing herself on the ground as she moved in a rhythm so hard, so perfect, that I could scarcely hang on myself.
I knew when it all burst in her. She forgot where she was, crying out loud enough to set a few dogs to barking beyond the trees, grinding herself down on me with such force that I had no choice but to let go, filling her up, hanging on, breaking free of the need to hold back right as she dropped flat against me.
We shuddered against each other, the quiet settling into the low hum of crickets and a faraway highway. I held her close and this time something came over her and she started sobbing. I thought maybe I’d hurt her, but she whispered “I love you” in my ear and the emotion was so intense that it flowed into me.