Minutes later, Carlie, determined that everything go according to her romantic whims, winked at me and hustled her brother across the yard, whether he wanted to go or not. I bolted the door behind them and turned to lean against it.
‘So. I thought we said we were taking a break?’ I said.
‘You said we were taking a break.’ She was still irritated.
I reminded her that she had to leave by Tuesday morning – the break was university decreed, after all – and she conceded.
I stared at the floor, knowing damned well what I was to her. I had to tell her. I had to put it all out there, because she had everything so wrong. I’d shielded myself too well. So well that she couldn’t see the truth.
‘It’s not that I don’t want you. I lied, earlier, when I said I was protecting you.’ My eyes rose to hers as she sat, silent, still curled into the corner of my sofa. So impossible, so beautiful. ‘I’m protecting myself.’ My palms braced against the door, and I forced out the thing I feared, and the desire that had bided its time, waiting to crush me. ‘I don’t want to be your rebound, Jacqueline.’
Her thoughts were readable, even from this distance. She wasn’t sure how I knew, but she saw that I did. I waited for her to try to explain that she cared about me – because I knew she did. I waited for her to argue that she just wasn’t ready now, to claim that she was giving me what she could, to ask why I couldn’t be satisfied with that.
‘Then why are you assuming that role?’ she said instead, rising and crossing the carpet, her eyes on mine, unwavering. ‘It’s not what I want, either.’
I accepted her body, pushing into my space like she’d pushed into my heart. She’d chipped away at the wall between us until it collapsed and turned to dust at my feet.
‘What am I gonna do with you?’ I asked, palms cupping her face, and she said she could think of a couple of things. Unwilling to wait to find out what those things were, I picked her up and carried her to my bed.
I loved her silly, furry-cuffed boots. Off they went.
I loved her blousy knitted top, pink and white swirls, like a watercolour sunset my mother had painted on Grandpa’s beach when I was very small. Off it went, too.
I loved her snug, curve-hugging jeans that wouldn’t simply slide down her hips – they had to be tugged while she wiggled. I tugged. She wiggled. Off they went as well.
Her bra and panties were silky-smooth and matched the creamy tone of her skin. Front clasp. Bra off. The last thin scrap of fabric covered the part of her I wanted to taste, soon. Panties, gone.
She lay in the centre of my bed, naked, and I was fully clothed, but barefoot. I stood, staring down at her, prolonging the moment. She squirmed, her chest rising and falling, her hands kneading the comforter beneath her.
I reached to pull my long-sleeved T-shirt off, unhurried. The squirming increased as I slid the sleeves down my arms, flexing them. I combed my hair back from my face and took a measured breath, like a light tap on the brake. Slow. Slower. My jeans were threadbare – I didn’t wear these out, because they always seemed to threaten spontaneous disintegration. Ripped in three or four places, frayed around the hems, the seams, and the waistband, which hung at my hipbones. One button, undone. Two.
Jacqueline’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, her br**sts lush handfuls I wanted to feel against my chest, against my palms and fingers and face as I sucked those hard, pebbled ni**les.
As if I’d said this aloud, she whimpered softly.
‘Soon, baby,’ I whispered.
At the third button, I could have shoved the jeans down – they were loose enough. I paused. She panted. Fourth button. I pushed the jeans down and stepped out of them. Her eyes grazed over all of me. She licked her lips. Yes. Her hands clenched, tight fists at her sides. One knee rose restlessly.
Boxers down and off.
She started to rise, but I pointed at her and shook my head. Stay. There. Reading the silent command in my eyes, she lay back down, biting her lip.
I took my wallet from the desk behind me and removed the condom, rolled it on. One knee on the foot of the bed. Her soft skin was a feast, and I wanted to devour her. She spread her legs, just enough to welcome me. I wanted to slide the tip of my tongue from her ankle to her thigh, licking and charting an unhurried, torturous course. I wanted to taste her, but that would have to wait, because I had to possess her. Now. I crawled forward, my body shaking with anticipation, just as hers was.
When I rose over her, she reached for me and I paused, staring into her eyes, and then rocked into her, fully. Her arms surrounded my shoulders, fingers clutching the hair at my nape as she cried out. Sweeping my tongue through her mouth, I kissed her, holding myself still. Mine, I thought. Yours, her body answered. I began to move, and she held tight, humming and moaning, crying and pulling me inside, everywhere I wanted in. She came apart seconds later and I plunged my tongue into her mouth, stroking deeply and swallowing her pleasure, making it mine. I growled her name, shuddering, and dragged her with me as I collapsed at her side.
I love you, I thought, but heard nothing in return.
Her fingers moved over the petals tattooed over my heart.
‘My mother’s name was Rosemary. She went by Rose.’ I stared at the ceiling.
‘You did this in memory of her?’
I nodded against the pillow. ‘Yes. And the poem on my left side. She wrote it – for my dad.’
Her fingers traced the poem, and I shivered. ‘She was a poet?’
‘Sometimes.’ My mother’s face smiled down at me – a memory that I couldn’t place now. I held on to whatever I could of her. ‘Usually, she was a painter.’
Jacqueline made some comment about the artist genes and engineering parts that comprised me, and I laughed at this visual, wondering aloud which were the engineering parts.
She asked if I had any of Mom’s paintings. I told her that some hung in the Hellers’ place, since they used to be so close. I would, perhaps, show her those. Others were in storage in the Hellers’ attic or Dad’s.
She began questioning me about their friendship, and at first I thought she was merely curious about the longstanding relationship between the Hellers and the Maxfields.
‘They were all really close – before.’
Before was an uncomplicated word, and it would never express all I’d lost when my timeline split in two, hurling me into an after I would never escape. I couldn’t reach through that curtain, ever, and see my mother as she was. Touch her. Hear her voice the way it should have been.
‘So. I thought we said we were taking a break?’ I said.
‘You said we were taking a break.’ She was still irritated.
I reminded her that she had to leave by Tuesday morning – the break was university decreed, after all – and she conceded.
I stared at the floor, knowing damned well what I was to her. I had to tell her. I had to put it all out there, because she had everything so wrong. I’d shielded myself too well. So well that she couldn’t see the truth.
‘It’s not that I don’t want you. I lied, earlier, when I said I was protecting you.’ My eyes rose to hers as she sat, silent, still curled into the corner of my sofa. So impossible, so beautiful. ‘I’m protecting myself.’ My palms braced against the door, and I forced out the thing I feared, and the desire that had bided its time, waiting to crush me. ‘I don’t want to be your rebound, Jacqueline.’
Her thoughts were readable, even from this distance. She wasn’t sure how I knew, but she saw that I did. I waited for her to try to explain that she cared about me – because I knew she did. I waited for her to argue that she just wasn’t ready now, to claim that she was giving me what she could, to ask why I couldn’t be satisfied with that.
‘Then why are you assuming that role?’ she said instead, rising and crossing the carpet, her eyes on mine, unwavering. ‘It’s not what I want, either.’
I accepted her body, pushing into my space like she’d pushed into my heart. She’d chipped away at the wall between us until it collapsed and turned to dust at my feet.
‘What am I gonna do with you?’ I asked, palms cupping her face, and she said she could think of a couple of things. Unwilling to wait to find out what those things were, I picked her up and carried her to my bed.
I loved her silly, furry-cuffed boots. Off they went.
I loved her blousy knitted top, pink and white swirls, like a watercolour sunset my mother had painted on Grandpa’s beach when I was very small. Off it went, too.
I loved her snug, curve-hugging jeans that wouldn’t simply slide down her hips – they had to be tugged while she wiggled. I tugged. She wiggled. Off they went as well.
Her bra and panties were silky-smooth and matched the creamy tone of her skin. Front clasp. Bra off. The last thin scrap of fabric covered the part of her I wanted to taste, soon. Panties, gone.
She lay in the centre of my bed, naked, and I was fully clothed, but barefoot. I stood, staring down at her, prolonging the moment. She squirmed, her chest rising and falling, her hands kneading the comforter beneath her.
I reached to pull my long-sleeved T-shirt off, unhurried. The squirming increased as I slid the sleeves down my arms, flexing them. I combed my hair back from my face and took a measured breath, like a light tap on the brake. Slow. Slower. My jeans were threadbare – I didn’t wear these out, because they always seemed to threaten spontaneous disintegration. Ripped in three or four places, frayed around the hems, the seams, and the waistband, which hung at my hipbones. One button, undone. Two.
Jacqueline’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, her br**sts lush handfuls I wanted to feel against my chest, against my palms and fingers and face as I sucked those hard, pebbled ni**les.
As if I’d said this aloud, she whimpered softly.
‘Soon, baby,’ I whispered.
At the third button, I could have shoved the jeans down – they were loose enough. I paused. She panted. Fourth button. I pushed the jeans down and stepped out of them. Her eyes grazed over all of me. She licked her lips. Yes. Her hands clenched, tight fists at her sides. One knee rose restlessly.
Boxers down and off.
She started to rise, but I pointed at her and shook my head. Stay. There. Reading the silent command in my eyes, she lay back down, biting her lip.
I took my wallet from the desk behind me and removed the condom, rolled it on. One knee on the foot of the bed. Her soft skin was a feast, and I wanted to devour her. She spread her legs, just enough to welcome me. I wanted to slide the tip of my tongue from her ankle to her thigh, licking and charting an unhurried, torturous course. I wanted to taste her, but that would have to wait, because I had to possess her. Now. I crawled forward, my body shaking with anticipation, just as hers was.
When I rose over her, she reached for me and I paused, staring into her eyes, and then rocked into her, fully. Her arms surrounded my shoulders, fingers clutching the hair at my nape as she cried out. Sweeping my tongue through her mouth, I kissed her, holding myself still. Mine, I thought. Yours, her body answered. I began to move, and she held tight, humming and moaning, crying and pulling me inside, everywhere I wanted in. She came apart seconds later and I plunged my tongue into her mouth, stroking deeply and swallowing her pleasure, making it mine. I growled her name, shuddering, and dragged her with me as I collapsed at her side.
I love you, I thought, but heard nothing in return.
Her fingers moved over the petals tattooed over my heart.
‘My mother’s name was Rosemary. She went by Rose.’ I stared at the ceiling.
‘You did this in memory of her?’
I nodded against the pillow. ‘Yes. And the poem on my left side. She wrote it – for my dad.’
Her fingers traced the poem, and I shivered. ‘She was a poet?’
‘Sometimes.’ My mother’s face smiled down at me – a memory that I couldn’t place now. I held on to whatever I could of her. ‘Usually, she was a painter.’
Jacqueline made some comment about the artist genes and engineering parts that comprised me, and I laughed at this visual, wondering aloud which were the engineering parts.
She asked if I had any of Mom’s paintings. I told her that some hung in the Hellers’ place, since they used to be so close. I would, perhaps, show her those. Others were in storage in the Hellers’ attic or Dad’s.
She began questioning me about their friendship, and at first I thought she was merely curious about the longstanding relationship between the Hellers and the Maxfields.
‘They were all really close – before.’
Before was an uncomplicated word, and it would never express all I’d lost when my timeline split in two, hurling me into an after I would never escape. I couldn’t reach through that curtain, ever, and see my mother as she was. Touch her. Hear her voice the way it should have been.
