by Whitney G.
We both laughed, and I slapped her ass.
“You’ve got an hour to get ready. There’s something I want to do with you today.”
“Can we do that after another round of sex?”
“Absolutely.”
Four hours later, and after multiple rounds of sex, we took separate showers and met in front of my car.
“No bikes?” Rachel asked.
“After looking at the way you’ve struggled to walk straight today? Probably not.”
“Fine.” She blushed. “Are we going back to the pastel park benches?”
“Not at all. I want to take you to see some other things you’ve missed out on since you’ve been at sea.” I tossed her my car keys. “We’ll start at the east end of Main Street, and you can drive.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” She tossed them back.
“You can.” I shrugged and opened the driver’s door for her. “You complained about my driving every day when we were in high school, so I’d love to finally see how yours compares.”
“I meant to say that I can’t,” she said, setting the keys on the hood. “I never got my permit … Or my license.”
“What? Why not?”
She shrugged. “The summer after we graduated high school—when we weren’t talking, I failed the test like three times. They said that if I failed it again, I’d have to wait an entire year to take it.”
“So, instead of walking next door and asking me to help, you decided not to take it?”
“I didn’t want to see you again after graduation.” She smiled. “Hence, Semester at Sea.”
“I forgot how mature you were.” I shook my head. “What part of the test did you fail? Parallel parking, lane switching and speeding, or gear knowledge?”
“All of it.” She paused. “On the last test, I forgot to move the car out of reverse, so I backed into a group of cardboard people at full speed.”
“And the test before that?”
“I never made it out of the parking lot. I tensed up once I got behind the wheel and forgot everything.”
“Okay.” I grabbed my keys and opened the passenger door for her. “We’ll catch up on the campus stuff you missed this weekend. You need to learn how to drive.”
“I’ll get my license eventually.” She slid onto the seat. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.” I cranked the engine. “I’m going to spend the rest of this week teaching you how to drive whenever you’re not in class, and you’re going to pass the test next week.”
She leaned back in her chair and rolled down the window.
“Buckle your seatbelt.” I looked over at her. “They give you five points just for that. Please tell me you always did that without them pointing it out.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Jesus, Rachel.” I reversed out of the driveway. I clasped her hand behind the gearshift and drove to the other side of town, to a long and secluded stretch of sand where my father taught me how to drive.
Shutting off the car, I looked over at her. “Lesson number one, sit in my lap.”
She blushed. “So, you were only kidding about teaching me how to drive?”
“No, I was quite serious.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed my chair back. “But if you weren’t able to learn the regular, boring way, I don’t see why we need to repeat that …” I leaned forward and trailed my finger against her lips. “Besides, I think the first thing we need to do is make sure all the stress is out of your system.”
She sat there looking at me, not moving, so I unbuckled her seatbelt and slid my hands under her thighs, lifting her into my lap.
“Lesson number two.” I paused as my cock hardened in my pants. “The longer it takes you to learn the basics, the longer it takes us to have sex on my front seat.”
“I’m not the one who wants that,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “You may want to come up with something else.”
I slid a hand under her dress, sliding my finger through her soaking wet panties. Then I slipped two fingers inside of her, immediately feeling how soaked she was.
“I think what I came up with is perfect.” I kissed her shoulder. “Now, tell me what you remember about the first things to do when you get into the car …”
Track 18. Don’t Blame Me (4:27)
Rachel
Subject: URGENT. Meeting Needed ASAP.
Hey, Rachel,
I hope your first semester on land is going well. (Are you missing anything about Semester at Sea yet?)
Something important has come to my attention, so is there any way you could meet me during my office hours when I return from leave next month?
P.S.—Congratulations on both of your pieces winning top honors at the Rose Awards.
Arnold Hinton
Academic Advisor
Subject: Re: URGENT. Meeting Needed ASAP.
Mr. Hinton,
My first semester on land is going great. (Not missing anything at all .)
Can we do the first Friday of next month at 3:00?
P.S.—Thank you very much.
I refreshed my email, waiting for his reply, and a text message from Ethan appeared on my screen.
Ethan: I think I deserve to be paid for my services, since you finally got your driver’s license …
Me: I’m low on cash … Will you accept my mouth and a blow job?
Ethan: Depends on if you’ll give them to me while I’m driving my car or not …
“Are you going to spend this entire dinner looking at your phone, Rachel?” My Dad’s voice made me look up. “You haven’t said a single word for the past twenty minutes.”
“My apologies.” I set my phone down and sighed.
I’d managed to avoid spending more than a few minutes with him since the semester started, and before I could call to reinitiate contact on my own terms, he’d shown up at the house today and insisted on whisking me away to a “family dinner.” The only problem was, the woman sitting between us would never be considered family to me.
Never.
“I love your house, Rachel,” his wife said. “And I think it’s really cute that you and Ethan are cordial enough now that you can live under the same roof. I would’ve never thought the two of you would be on good terms.”
“Dad, can you pass the salt, please?”
He passed it to me.
“So, um …” His wife smiled. “Did you two keep in contact while you were away at sea, or did you just run into him when you returned?”
I salted my mashed potatoes and stuck a spoonful into my mouth.
“Rachel.” My dad softly scolded me. “Stella is trying to talk to you.”
“Is she? What did she ask?”
“She asked if you and Ethan Wyatt kept in contact while you were away at sea, or did you run into him when you returned?”
“We kept in contact while I was at sea.” I sipped my wine, avoiding Stella’s fake smile.
“So, he kept up with your port schedule and sent you letters?” Stella asked.
I picked up a knife and smeared butter on a roll.
“Rachel Marie Dawson …” My father set his napkin on the table. “I’m not sure why you insist on being disrespectful to my wife, but—”
“Because she’s disrespectful to me!” I snapped. “You two bringing me here of all places is also disrespectful to me. Why would you even do that?”
His face paled as he looked down at The Blue Lake Café’s menu. Then he clasped his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize … It still doesn’t change how rude you’ve been to her over the years, and I would appreciate it if you at least tried to accept this.”
“Let’s go ahead and talk about why that’s never going to happen, shall we?” I felt my blood boiling. “I believe she took on that ‘wife’ title about sixteen months after your first wife, my mom, died right?”
“Rachel …” There was hurt in his eyes. “Rachel, please don’t do this right now.”
“Please don’t do what?” I shrugged. “Ask how the hell you could marry my mother’s best friend less than two years after she was gone? I’m sure that’s not something your daughter should ever dare to ask.” I looked Stella straight in her eyes. “You were my godmother. How the hell do you sleep at night?”
She looked as if she was on the verge of tears.
“If you’re expecting me to ever accept the two of you being together,” I said. “You’re wasting your goddamn time.”
“Rachel, look.” Stella swallowed. “I know it looked as if it was fast at the time, but if you would just listen for a few seconds.”
“I’ll never be interested in a single word you have to say.” I stood to my feet and looked at my Dad. “The next time you want to ‘catch up’ with me over dinner, don’t bring me here, and don’t bring her either.”
I walked away before he could respond, rushing past the parking lot and down the street. I made it to the café on the corner and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down.
It was no use. I’d inherited part of my mother’s “hot-head” personality, and I knew it was going to take me a long time before I felt okay again.
I started making my way to a bus stop and felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. A text message from Ethan.
Ethan: How is the dinner going?
Me: It’s great .
Ethan: You used to only send emojis when you were upset … How is it really going?
I didn’t answer.
I continued walking to the bus stop, feeling tears prick my eyes with every step. When I made it to the shelter, I looked at the schedule and realized the next bus wouldn’t be coming for thirty minutes.
As I was slumping onto the bench, Ethan’s blue convertible pulled up next to the stop.
“Something told me to get dinner over here, so I could be close by,” he said, smiling. “You want to get in?”
I stood up and got into his car.
His lips met mine before I could buckle my seatbelt, and he looked into my eyes. “How long did you last?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“That’s five minutes longer than I originally thought,” he said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Would you like to bend over my lap and generously caress my cock with your mouth for the ride home, then?”
“Seriously?” I looked over at him and laughed. “That’s the real reason you’re close by, isn’t it? Because you wanted a blow job while you drove?”
“Of course not.” He smirked. “I was close by because I care about your emotional needs.”
“Sure.” I rolled my eyes and unzipped his pants. “That’s a first.”
“It isn’t.” He kissed me before I could unbuckle his belt. “I always have.”
Back Then: 18 Years Old
Ethan
Subject: PROM. Get Jealous.
Dear Ethan,
I want you to know that I’m really happy that our principal decided that you can’t run for Prom King. (You winning Mr. Popular three times in a row should be more than enough for your big-ass ego. Not that I would’ve voted for you, anyway.)
I also want you to know that whatever you have planned for your night (with Shelby Hannah #ugh) will pale in comparison to my night. Since my date is Clive Harrison, a perfect gentleman and last year’s football MVP, he will be picking me up for pictures at six o’clock, taking me to a five-star dinner downtown, and treating me to the best dance of my life at the prom.
I’ve also decided that if all goes well, I’ll go back with him to his downtown hotel room afterward. (He got us a room at the Marriott!) I’m sure you and Shelby will just fuck in the front seat of your car …
Hope you’re jealous.
Forget You,
Rachel
P.S.—Do you think my dress looks okay? Like, do you think Clive will like it?
P.P.S.—Am I too excited about this?
Subject: Re: PROM. Get Jealous.
Dear Rachel,
Thank you for reminding me why you’ll always be my number one hater. (For the umpteenth time, I’ve won Mr. Popular FOUR times in a row—all without your pointless, wasteful vote.)
No wonder Clive has been quiet about who he’s taking to prom this weekend. Somehow, telling everyone he’s taking the most unknown person in our class isn’t a great conversation starter. My night probably will pale in comparison to yours, but only because I think the prom is more than enough for someone I don’t even like that much …
I refuse to believe that you’ll ever have sex, so I’m not even going to say anything about him getting you a room at the Marriott. (Except that his older cousin is the general manager there, so I highly doubt it took him much effort to do that …) Me and Shelby will be fucking in the back seat of my car.
I’m far from jealous.
Forget You,
Ethan
P.S.—If you’re talking about the red dress you’ve been waltzing around your room in every day for the past two weeks … Yes, he’ll like it. (Everyone will.)
P.P.S.—If you were anyone else, yes. Since this is your first time actually going out, no.
On the night of prom, I double checked to make sure I picked up the right violet corsage for my date and made sure there wasn’t a dirt spot anywhere on my blue convertible.
As I was putting on my tuxedo jacket, I looked outside my window and noticed that Rachel wasn’t waltzing around her room in her prom dress like usual. She didn’t even look like she was halfway ready.
Instead, she was sitting at her desk, crying.
Confused, I pushed up my window and tossed a pen at her window.
She looked up and wiped her eyes before pushing it open. “Yeah?”
“Does your perfect dress not fit anymore or something? Why the hell are you crying?”
“I’m not going to prom anymore.”
“What?”
She sniffled and held up her cell phone.
“I can’t see the screen from over here, Rachel.”
“He invited me out as a joke. He said he thought I knew that he wasn’t being serious, and that no offense, but if he was going to have a date, he would never pick me. He’s going with Theresa Kline—Homecoming Queen. Why did I think that he would pick me over her anyway, when they were still dating? How could I be so blind and dumb?”
I knew I was supposed to say something thoughtful or meaningful right now, that I should probably say something like, “You should go anyway. Show him what he’s missing,” but I was running late, so I could only shrug.
“Well, that’s highly unfortunate,” I said. “I guess I’ll tell you all about the prom when I get back.”
Her jaw dropped and her face reddened as I shut my window, and I waved at her before leaving the room.
Back Then: 18 Years Old
Rachel
I tossed another Kleenex into a flower pot and plopped down onto my porch’s rocking chair. I’d been tempted to go to prom without Clive and have a good time anyway, but my make-up was a disaster, and the second my dad’s new girlfriend (i.e. my mom’s best friend) showed up to “help” me with it, I fucking lost it.
As if my dad’s idiocy wasn’t enough, Clive’s cruelty cut me deep. He was the first guy at our school to ever ask me out, and I thought he actually liked me.
My heart felt heavy and I couldn’t believe that he could be so mean. We’d texted each other nonstop for three weeks straight about all the things we were doing to prepare for our big night and he’d said, “I want to share my prom with someone I’ve secretly had a crush on for a long time.”
I can’t believe I fell for that shit …
I picked up my phone and sent him another string of nice texts to prove that I was the bigger person.
Me: FUCK YOU, Clive! I hope your dick falls off!
Me: I can’t believe you played me for all those weeks.
Me: Fuccckkkkkkkk Youuuuuuuu!
Shaking my head, I
tried not to think about how much fun everyone else was having. Tried not to picture the parade of luxury vehicles that was standing outside the ballroom and the nonstop nineties music hour that our principal had promised.
I was tempted to text some of my friends (well, “associates”) and ask them how everything was going, but I held back. Not a single one of them returned my text when I said I wasn’t able to come to prom anymore.
They didn’t even ask me why.
As I was contemplating how I was going to spend the rest of my night, Ethan’s blue convertible cruised down the street and into his driveway next door.
Stepping out of his car, he tossed his jacket over his shoulder and I waited for him to walk over to the passenger side and escort Shelby up to his room, but he didn’t.
As he let the top down, I realized no one was sitting in the passenger seat.
He took off his bowtie and tossed it onto the backseat, then he made his way over to me.
“Don’t you dare think about stepping onto my porch, Ethan Wyatt,” I said. “I will scream bloody murder.”
“I’ll take that risk.” He smiled and sat in the rocking chair next to me anyway. “How was your night?”
“Seriously?” I snapped. “Like, you have the audacity to sit there with a straight face and ask me that?”
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me.
“I just want you to get it over with,” I said, sighing. “Go ahead and rub all the salt in my wounds. Tell me everything I’ve missed out on tonight, and try not to say it with too much enthusiasm, if you can.”
“Trust me, I really want to, but there isn’t that much to say.”
“You could at least tell me who won Prom King,” I said, surprised that he was being somewhat decent about this. “The fact that it’s not ‘you’ is the highlight of my night.”
