Halfway Girl

by Bailey, Tessa

  “Yes, Jerimiah. Yes.”

  “Yes to being my girl?”

  She nods into my neck, gasping, her fingers twisting in my T-shirt.

  “And I’m your man, Birdie. Not going to ask for a yes on that—it’s true whether you say it or not. I’m fucking yours,” I say into her ear. “I’ll paint your walls and fuck your body and kick down every door in your way. Just be mine.”

  “I’m yours.”

  The sweetest words I’ve ever known are muffled by my shoulder, but I hear them. They pass through me like a bolt of lightning and make a bonfire out of my heart. The love inside me and the pleasure riding me into the ground combine forces—and something breaks loose inside me. My lower body jolts, stomach shuddering. A bellow gathers in my throat as pleasure I didn’t even know was possible takes me over in cresting waves. It hurts. It hurts the way my balls wrench up before emptying and I lose vision, my arms wrapping around Birdie to keep me grounded. Violent, blissful ripples travel through the deepest parts of my manhood and Birdie rides me through every one, whispering in my ear praise I never expected but needed. Yeah, I think I needed it.

  “You big, gorgeous man. So good inside me. So deep. Come so hard for me, Jerimiah.”

  That roar I’ve been trying to trap inside me busts loose and I tip my head back to let it out, yanking Birdie forward on my cock, needing to give her body that final spurt of pleasure/pain. And then I collapse back against the wall, rain falling on my face as Birdie snuggles close on my chest, our bodies still joined until I remember to exercise safety and shift my hips, sucking in a breath as my still-at-half-mast dick slips free. My arms close around her automatically, she sighs my name and I can’t believe I have the privilege of holding her.

  It takes a good few minutes for her to tense up and I sense maybe Birdie is still fighting a battle to keep her distance from me. But I’m not going anywhere. I let her know that by rubbing circles into her back, massaging her scalp…until she falls fast asleep on top of me.

  Hating the idea of waking her up, I do realize we can’t stay here forever.

  “Birdie. Beautiful,” I murmur in her ear. “Which building are you in? I want to take you home to sleep.”

  When she sighs back her dorm location and room number amongst mutterings about beauty pageant costumes, I ease my guilt by swearing I won’t show up at her dorm uninvited.

  Starting tomorrow.

  I pick Birdie up in my arms and tuck her face into my chest, using my body as a shield from the rain as I carry her back to her dorm. When I knock on her door, her roommate slaps a hand over her mouth to trap a shriek.

  “Is she dead?” the roommate whispers.

  Those words alone make my heart plummet, but I manage a tight head shake. “Sleeping.” Ignoring the girl’s obvious trepidation, I step into the room and place Birdie on the bed covered in rumpled black sheets, knowing without confirmation that it’s hers. There’s a picture perched on her small nightstand depicting Birdie and two adults—one bearded man and a petite blonde woman—in scuba gear. Another photo sits beside the first, of Birdie and a girl who looks a lot like her, save some major differences. Birdie’s eyes are quiet with a thousand thoughts behind them and her sister is throwing herself in front of the camera like a sacrifice. For all their differences, it’s obvious they love each other very much.

  In front of the picture, there’s some loose change, some round-rimmed sunglasses and a notebook…with my name doodled in the margins.

  At least forty times.

  It’s a wonder the pounding of my heart doesn’t wake her up.

  She might be scared of what’s happening between us, but not too scared to consider me. To think of me. I leave her sleeping to go to finish the mural, then I head to my football game with a chest filled with hope. And not a small amount of fear that Birdie is stubborn enough to let her fear win.

  Chapter Five

  Birdie

  It’s dark when I wake up.

  My hands fly to my boobs because the last thing I remember is having them plastered against Jerimiah’s chest and mooning over how good it felt. As far as I can tell, he is not in this pitch-black room with me, but I turn on the lamp and search anyway, as if my six-foot-a-thousand lover might have accomplished the impossible feat of hiding himself.

  Nope, though. Not here.

  My hands drop to the sheets bunched in my lap, unable to tell if I’m relieved or disappointed. Oh yeah, right, Birdie. Stop lying.

  Fine. If he were here, I’d be cuddling him like a giant teddy bear. I’ve never fallen asleep so easily in my life and I must have slumbered through being carried back to my dorm and put to bed like a toddler. And I know why, too. During that stolen time with Jerimiah behind the mural, I escaped my own head. Thoroughly and completely. My usual insecurities didn’t exist. I was absorbed in Jerimiah and the way our bodies moved like they’d been crafted from the same mold. Designed to please the other. My sore muscles and the still-sensitive flesh between my legs is proof of that. While Jerimiah was inside me, I was lost to everything but him. Us.

  Not once did I think about how my own desires were selfish.

  Weren’t they, though?

  This afternoon with Jerimiah was the longest I’ve gone without thinking of Natalie. Or considering what she would want. I let her go for so, so long.

  I pull in a deep breath and hold it, closing my eyes and conjuring her image. It’s alarming to be disconnected from her for an extended length of time. I don’t think I’ve gone longer than a matter of minutes since she died and I’m immediately relieved when I can visualize her. Tension follows, though. Rapidly. The calm I fell asleep and woke with is gone and all I can do is let the strain overtake me. The strain of keeping both of us alive, fighting to do it. If I hadn’t been so thoroughly robbed of the tension, I might never have noticed its severity.

  “It’s not good,” I whisper, glancing over at her picture frame. “She wouldn’t want this, would she?”

  No, she wouldn’t. Natalie was a tension reliever by nature. Always dancing, always forcing everyone to join in family game nights and impromptu plays she made up in her head.

  Those memories of her are how I should keep her alive. Not by denying myself happiness on her behalf. I’m tarnishing the person she was by only reaching halfway for what I want. What I need.

  Who I need.

  “Jerimiah.”

  With a hiccup, I throw my legs over the side of the bed, searching the dim room for something wearable. Realizing I’m sticky from sex, I make a frustrated sound, grab my shower caddy and truck it to the bathroom. It’s empty for once, which is weird. The dorm bathroom is usually Grand Central Station. Where is everyone?

  Football game.

  They’re at the football game.

  I should be there, too. This man who’s come to mean so much to me in a short space of time is on the field and I’m not there to support him. Even worse, he doesn’t know that I’m all in on this relationship. For chrissakes, I told him I wanted to be friends.

  “Idiot,” I mutter, washing the shampoo out of my hair. My heart remains in my throat the whole time I dry off and throw on something from my roommate’s closet, because I have nothing clean and desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is how I come to be running across campus in a denim romper and combat boots. God help me if I have to pee.

  My wet hair whips out behind me as I traverse the quad, sprinting in the direction of the stadium and my path takes me past the mural. I don’t plan on stopping at first, but something catches my eye and I slow to stop, my heart galloping in my ears.

  My section of the mural has been repainted. Terribly. That’s how I know it’s Jerimiah’s work. He has painted the two tree branches that represent me and Natalie, but there’s a difference. Instead of climbing alongside one another, never joining, they’ve merged into one stronger branch and a pink flower has blossomed at the top.

  A small sound leaves my mouth and I brace a hand against my chest.
>
  I can honor Natalie’s memory by being stronger, like two branches joined. Taking the bond we shared and making it something new and beautiful. Something uniquely mine. Maybe I’ll join the sorority, maybe I won’t. But it will have to be my decision. Every decision I make will be mine, starting now.

  I put a hand on the wall, right on top of the blossom, and I finally, finally, let my sister go in peace. She’ll never leave me, but I’m giving myself permission to grow into something of my own making.

  A cheer livens the evening air and I glance ahead to where the stadium sits, glowing like a beacon. I’ve never been to a college football game and I have no idea what to expect. Definitely not shirtless men in red body paint chanting on their way through the security line, the scent of beer and barbeque clinging to their skin. Impatience claws at me while waiting for the people in front of me to purchase tickets. The sounds coming from the other side of the enormous curved wall tell me the game is already well underway. I don’t even have a plan once I get inside. I can’t exactly rush the field, but this urgency to see Jerimiah is fierce. Without even telling him very much about Natalie, he saw right inside me. He knew exactly what I needed to feel liberated without the guilt and I can’t wait to tell him. To hold him and be seen by him.

  Because I see him, too.

  As soon as I get inside and clear the tunnel, there he is on the sideline, towering several inches above everyone. His shoulder pads transform him from a giant to a freaking Transformer. Where his teammates never seem to stop moving with nervous energy, he remains completely still, his hands hanging from the neckline of his jersey, waiting for his turn on the field. And damn, those pants make his butt look amazing. Good enough to bite.

  Might have to follow through on that.

  I plop into a seat in the stands without taking my eyes off him and realize our team is losing. Tension sneaks into Jerimiah’s shoulders when the other team kicks an extra point and I know he can’t help feeling responsible. He might have decided to stop covering for his bonehead housemates, but he still can’t help feeling the weight of responsibility. Can’t help wanting others to succeed. If only there was a way for him to do that at less cost to himself.

  An idea flips a switch in my head and I smile, the vibration of anticipation buzzing up my arms. Jerimiah helped me conquer my own struggle today and I want to return the favor. And more than anything, I want him to know I’ll be here after the game, waiting for him, whether he wins or loses. Even if he tells me he has webbed toes. I’m here, rain or shine.

  “Hey,” I say to the group beside me, nodding at the obviously last-minute signs they’re holding up over their heads. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare Sharpie, would you?”

  “Yeah.” One of the girls digs in her purse, never taking her eyes off the field. “You need poster board? My boyfriend misspelled the word defense. If you don’t care that everyone sitting behind us will assume you’re an idiot, you can use the other side.”

  “I’ve been called worse. Thanks.”

  Several minutes later, I hold the makeshift sign face down in my lap, my knees bouncing beneath it. Jerimiah is out on the field, and holy shit, I’m suddenly into football. He’s just so impressive. Every time he tackles someone, everyone around me winces and I want to yell that’s my man! Who am I anymore? I don’t know. I do know that we’re still losing and Jerimiah is growing more and more frustrated by the second, but he’s saying nothing. Just listening and executing. Listening and executing, like the reliable human being he is.

  Even I can see their strategy isn’t working, though, and I know more about astrophysics than I know about football.

  When Jerimiah jogs off the field, I bite my lip and stand, holding up the sign I made. Someone behind me yells, “Defense is spelled with an S!” But I ignore him and peek beneath the poster board, hoping that against all odds, Jerimiah looks up and sees what I’ve written—

  And he has.

  My heart stutters in my chest when I see him stopped at the edge of the field, his head tilted, hands limp at his sides. As he watches, I turn and let the crowd see the front of the sign and get a lot of whistles and cheering in response. In bold, black Sharpie, I’ve written, “Number ninety-nine is all mine.” A week ago, I would have cringed over seeing someone hold this exact same sign, but here I am. I’m leaping out of my comfort zone, the same way Jerimiah did by painting with no artistic ability in front of his peers, even though he was uncomfortable with being the center of attention.

  When I turn back to the field, Jerimiah removes his helmet and smiles up at me. It’s the most genuine, beautiful smile I’ve ever witnessed and there’s no help for it now. I’m going to have his children someday. The deal has been sealed.

  I don’t expect what happens next. There is a game in progress and thousands of people are here watching. Maybe I should have expected Jerimiah to drop his helmet and stride toward me, though, his long legs making quick work of the distance between us. The closer he gets, the more anxious I am to be in his arms, though, so as soon as he’s within a few feet of the front row, I drop the sign and run down the stairs.

  “Can I just—”

  “Yes,” Jerimiah calls back, nodding at a transfixed security guard.

  “Seriously, just…jump over?”

  “If you don’t, I’m coming to get you.”

  “Oh my God.” I throw a leg over the barrier and fix him with a look. “Not a word about the romper.”

  Jerimiah is laughing when I land against his chest. He’s sweaty as hell, but ask me if I care. I press my cheek to his shoulder and let him almost crack my ribs with a hug.

  “I’m yours, huh?” he breathes into my hair.

  “Yup.”

  “And you’re mine, Birdie.”

  It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “That’s right.”

  I feel his fingers slide into my hair and tilt my face up—and then he’s kissing me. Not innocently, either. If there are kids in the stands, their mothers definitely cover their eyes. With my toes dangling several inches above the grass, Jerimiah lays one on me and my lips open to receive his tongue. I’m barely conscious of the crowd hooting and whistling because there’s so much promise in what he does to me. That moment we share.

  I never expected to find my forever so soon, but here Jerimiah is, telling me in no uncertain terms that we’re going to face the future together—and I’m telling him yes.

  With a low sound of regret, Jerimiah breaks the kiss, pressing his lips softly to my forehead before lifting me back into the stands.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks, his brow creasing with concern.

  My expression is pure guilt.

  Jerimiah shakes his head. “Help me take care of the girl I’m in love with.”

  My heart is so heavy, I’m surprised it doesn’t tumble right out of me. “Okay, I will. Promise.” My laughter is watery. “I love you back. I don’t care if it’s crazy.”

  With joy, disbelief…and a growing confidence, Jerimiah turns back toward the field and impossibly, he walks even taller than before. He picks up his helmet and swings it back onto his head upon reaching the sidelines and the command that rips out of him drops a hush over the crowd. His teammates stop what they’re doing and listen—and Jerimiah leads them to a win while I munch on a hot dog.

  He helped me find my independence.

  I helped him find his voice.

  And the years to come are brighter than the stadium lights.

  Epilogue

  Birdie

  Play it cool, Birdie.

  Stop checking out your boyfriend every nine seconds.

  Trying to be a casual ogler, I recline the passenger seat of Jerimiah’s truck and turn toward him sideways, stacking my hands beneath my cheek. I sigh, as if groggy from sleep, then crack an eyelid. Oh, and then there’s a long, drawn out, blissful sigh—silent, because I’m playing it super cool—over the picture he makes driving, the world whizzing past his stoic profile. I’ve never seen him
drive before. We’ve been dating for two weeks and since we both live on campus, we walk everywhere.

  To my dorm room, where he kisses me at the door, before saying good night.

  To his frat house, where I kiss him at the door, before saying good night.

  Bottom line: We’re really sick of saying good night.

  There are rules—and roommates—that make it impossible for me and Jerimiah to spend the night in the same bed. Turns out, two weeks was our limit on that bullshit. This morning, I woke up and found him standing outside my door, car keys in hand. He swept me with that impatient, I need forever to start now look, and said, “Let’s go meet your brother and Naomi. I need permission to ask you to live with me off-campus.”

  “What?” I’d shrieked like a dumbass. Then, “Okay, let me pack.”

  So here we are. I’m mooning over my boyfriend across the truck’s console and no one could blame me. He’s like a big, beefy warrior with mighty fists and forearms…and male anatomy to match. My God. I was Jerimiah’s first lover and he’s already hit expert level. He knows how to use that thing now, so yeah, I’m mooning. I’m mush. I’m in love.

  I love him so much, it’s scary.

  It blows my mind how long this incredible human was hiding in plain sight. Yes, we are insanely compatible in the physical love department, but this connection we have reaches far past that. We care for each other, we encourage each other. I’ve told him things that I never thought I’d tell another living soul. My deepest fears about my diabetes, regrets I’ve been harboring about my sister, tentative hopes for the future. It’s like the moment we met, my heart carved out a nook for Jerimiah and he fit himself inside of it and my thoughts were transferred to him. He knows me. He knows me so well in such a short time, and while people will call us crazy for moving in together after two weeks, they can’t know how absolutely vital and natural it is for us to be in the same place at the same time.

  We need each other in every sense of the word.