Love at First Fight

by Aarons, Carrie

  About an hour later, I’m getting ready for bed, our date kind of ending in a parting of ways because the other housemates had already arrived home. I won’t say I wasn’t disappointed that Smith didn’t sneak in a little kiss on the porch, but it was probably too risky.

  The door is open as I turn the faucet on, prepping it for hot water to wash my face. I pull my toothbrush from the over-the-sink mirror cabinet, and squirt some toothpaste on it. Just as I’m about to put it in my mouth, Smith comes in, standing behind me with a wry smirk on his face. I can’t help the shy smile that spreads over my lips as we stare at each other in the mirror.

  He reaches past me, to open the mirror and grab his own toothbrush, then repeats the process I did.

  We stand there, brushing our teeth together, and it’s so normal that it feels hilarious. But at the same time, it’s a moment that’s bringing us closer together. I’ve always wanted to be with a man who will participate in the most mundane of activities with me, but do so just because he wants to be near me. That’s what Smith is doing right now, and my heart is practically melting.

  After a minute or two of eye-flirting in the mirror while we brush, I try to daintily spit and wash off my toothbrush. Without thinking, I set my brush down and back up, wondering if I should leave.

  “Did you just leave your toothbrush on the sink?” Smith says through a gob of toothpaste in his mouth.

  “Maybe I did.” I shrug one shoulder flirtily.

  He spits his out, wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, and then comes toward me. Any shred of disappointment left from the anticlimactic end of our date is wiped away.

  Because he slides his palms to my cheeks, blinks once, and gives me the best first date kiss I’ve ever gotten.

  20

  Smith

  This is going to be an awful day.

  I can just tell, from the moment I wake up, that grief is shrouding me like a cloud that won’t lift. It happens sometimes, ever since Stephanie passed. My eyes will open in the morning, and I just know that the reality of her death is going to sit more heavily on me that day than it does some others.

  When I go to lift myself out of bed, my limbs feel like gelatin, and my temples are pounding as I pull on a fresh pair of boxers. As I’m pissing and brushing my teeth, a zing of fury so palpable rushes up my spine, that I have to hold myself back from punching the mirror above the sink.

  There is only one thing to do, and thank God I’m in the Hamptons so I can go to a place that might help.

  As soon as I step out of my room in a T-shirt and athletic shorts, Molly is crossing the hall to the bathroom. She’s wearing tight workout pants and a tank top, and even with the state of my mood, my cock perks up at the sight of her curves.

  “Morning. Where are you off to?” she asks with a smile, spotting my backpack and water bottle.

  “Shadmoor State Park.” My voice is curt and gruff.

  “Oh … okay.” Her smile instantly vanishes, and I know she thinks she’s done something wrong.

  “It’s not about you, Molly.” The words out of my mouth make this even worse.

  And her face completely shutters. “Right. Of course.”

  She’s about to shuffle off awkwardly to the bathroom, and I gently grab her elbow. Sighing through gritted teeth, I try to keep my grief and mourning at bay for a moment.

  “I had a great time last night, this isn’t about that. I’m just … I need to go somewhere. Get out of your head, you didn’t cause this. It’s just … I have to go out.”

  Still, even with my explanation, I can see her visibly shrinking in front of me. I’ve done this, caused her to think this way. After a year of speaking to her with little more than veiled disdain, of course she thinks my reaction this morning has something to do with rejecting her.

  Molly is about to speak, to pull herself away and try to hide her emotional response when I talk first.

  “Come with me?”

  The question pops out before I can stop it, and once it’s out, I want to take it back. I wanted to go on the hike alone, to try to clear some of the cobwebs from my brain and heart, but I also don’t want to alienate her. I suppose Molly is about to be clued into the real Smith sooner than I wanted to let him out.

  “Okay,” she accepts without hesitation.

  It takes Molly all of five minutes to be ready, and that is refreshing because all of the other women I’ve dated take up to an hour, even for a hike, which is where I tell her we’re going. She joins me on the driveway, her own backpack slung over her shoulder, and I swing a leg over my bike.

  “We’re, uh … taking your motorcycle?” She audibly gulps.

  Her fear, tinged with the lust I see in her eyes, breaks my tension and makes me chuckle. “Don’t worry, I won’t go too far over the speed limit.”

  Watching her pull my extra helmet onto her pretty blond ponytail and then swing a leg over behind me might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. And when she wraps her arms tightly around my waist, the dumbbell of anger that was sitting on my chest seems to ease up.

  Molly lets out a squeal as we take off, but I feel her relax into my body as I drive, winding the bike through the busier roads and then out toward the ocean. The state park is one I’ve visited often, and the closer we get, the more my grief seems to recede to just a painful twitch in my chest.

  I’m thankful that Molly seems to intuit that I don’t want to talk about it, that I just want her to be next to me, because when we arrive at the hiking path, she just follows my lead. We strap our backpacks on and begin to walk, into the tree-lined bluffs first and then up and up until the sound of the ocean becomes clearer. I know the point I’m trying to reach, and it takes some effort, but Molly never complains.

  We work together, pointing out footholds, or I help hoist her onto the next level of terrain.

  Finally, we’re at the destination, and I help her up the small, jagged ridge of the Hoodoos, until we’re standing atop the cliffs looking out over the ocean.

  “This is beautiful.” Molly exhales, gazing out onto the massive body of water with such wonder.

  “It was one of my sister’s favorite places,” I tell her, looking out upon the waves myself.

  The gaze of her hypnotic hazel eyes lands on my cheek, but I can’t look at her. “You used to come here with Stephanie?”

  We’ve never spoken about my sister, and yet I find it oddly comforting that Molly doesn’t pretend she doesn’t know her name. It would have annoyed me to have to explain the backstory, to introduce my twin posthumously, and I’m glad Molly doesn’t make me do it.

  I nod. “We summered out here in house shares for a few years together. Steph loved it, the idea of getting away from the city. She was in public relations, and was always on the go, but out here, she got to be still. This park was her favorite, climbing up here to these bluffs. She’d sit here for hours by herself, meditating or listening to podcasts. It’s where I come when I need to feel her on the really bad days.”

  I’ve never admitted this much to anyone about Stephanie, not even my family. But Molly’s calm demeanor and unassuming listening skills, they just soothe me. It’s not easy to open up about my twin sister, but this is the easiest I’ve found it, in Molly’s presence.

  “Is this a really bad day?”

  I gulp against the tears in my throat. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about her,” Molly suggests.

  It’s nice that she didn’t ask me to tell her how she died, or ask about my sadness or grief. After losing someone so close to me, I notice the way people phrase things when it comes to grief. So many people want to focus on the sadness of things, how the person died or how it’s devastated your family. Not a lot of people wanted to go back, to know about the goodness of my sister before this tragedy happened.

  “Steph was … the brightest light. She was spunky and so smart, she’d help a wounded animal one second and then be harassing a guy in gym class for making some rude comment about a girl�
��s ass. My sister was the best of this world, a fighter with a heart of gold. She never gave up on people, no matter how many times they let her down, and she was the funniest person I knew. God, she could make a full-fledged comic piss his pants; I saw it one time. We had this connection, she and I, because we were twins. They say that whole ‘I know what you’re thinking thing’ is a myth, but it’s not. It’s like having a piece of you walk outside your body, that’s how in sync we were. And since she’s been gone, it feels like I’m missing a piece of me.”

  I look out over the water, almost as if I might find that piece of me. It’s not an exaggeration to say that it feels like a chunk of who I always thought I was ceased to exist the day Stephanie died.

  “I’m so sorry you lost her.”

  Molly just comes up and hugs me, and even though I’m larger than her, even though my arms wrap all the way around her body, it feels like she’s the one holding me. She’s comforting me, there is nothing sexual or suggestive about this embrace. It’s one person trying to soothe another’s pain, and I break a little.

  I bury my head in her shoulder and the black chasm of mourning that’s overtaken my soul the past six months gives way. Sobs wrack me; silent, angry, devastating convulsions that leave me exhausted with each expulsion of energy.

  After a minute or two, they stop, but I still hang onto her. It’s the first time I’ve ever opened up about this, and it’s strange that it’s not to one of my family members, or someone like Peter.

  But in a way, I kind of knew it would be Molly. Stephanie knew how I felt about her. I can almost feel her grinning down on me, in a told-you-so kind of manner.

  It almost feels like my sister’s last prank, the last act of stubbornness. She’s putting us together, will force me to confess my feelings, and she’s going to use her story to do so.

  21

  Molly

  “Mol, we’re playing tennis, let’s go!”

  Peter walks by my chair, hitting the top of it, and I’m roused from the dream-like state I was in. I’ve been baking in the sun for almost an hour, content to do absolutely nothing.

  “Play with someone else, I’m relaxing.” I pout, my body protesting any form of physical activity today.

  “No. I need a partner,” a voice whispers in my ear, sending tingles racing all over my body.

  Well, now I’m most certainly not lethargic whatsoever. Smith stands to his full height, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, and he looks like he could be on the courts at Wimbledon with that sharp all-white tennis outfit. He looks absolutely edible, all Hamptons glamour, as his gaze stalks over me. Although I can’t see those beautiful blue eyes, I can feel them on all of my most sensitive parts.

  It’s been three days since our date, and three nights of making out in the bathroom at night. We flirt in hidden corners and hallways throughout the day, he’ll leave me little notes under my pillow, and we brush our teeth together every night. After that, well, let’s just say those make-out sessions haven’t stayed PG. There have been hands under shirts, some flirting with the waistline of pants, and a shirtless Smith. Certainly a sight to behold.

  He says he wants to take me out when we’re in the city this week, as we’ll have more freedom to actually go on a date. I kind of like the sneaking around, as much as it gives me paranoia. I know it would be weird to these people, who I all met through my ex-boyfriend, if I started dating another one of their friends. The thought of them finding that out has unease sloshing through my stomach, so I’m completely fine just keeping this to ourselves for now.

  “I have to go change, then.” I blink up at him.

  “You could play in that.” Those devilish, dark orbs rake down my body.

  I might be wearing a bathing suit, but Smith might as well be untying it with his eyes, that’s how naked I feel. It’s sinful, how much lust this man can pack into one sentence.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll be a few minutes. But I don’t want to hear anything about being paired with a lame partner, you got it?”

  “I would never.” He smirks and makes his way off to the court.

  How different our conversations are from just a few weeks ago. Smith was making comments not too long ago about how I couldn’t afford the loser’s prize of a lobster dinner, and now we were shoving our tongues down each other’s throats in the bathroom every night. Life is indeed strange.

  I hop off my beach chair and head inside to put on a pair of workout shorts and a tank top. I definitely don’t have anything professional to play in, not like Smith, but I could make do. That thought keeps hitting my mind, how much things have already changed between us. I still can’t believe he shared so much about his sister on that hike at Shadmoor.

  It was clear, from the moment I encountered Smith that morning, that something was wrong. At first, I thought it was me. I thought I’d done something wrong, said something wrong on our date, and that he was just avoiding ever having to interact with me again. That had sunk my heart fast, little chunks splintering off and plunking into my soul.

  But I was thankful he’d let me tag along. It was a small gesture that this wasn’t about me or our date, and I honestly wasn’t going to press. I was just going to hike with him. Except once he started opening up, I was even more shocked. I was around the group when his twin sister, Stephanie, had died tragically. It was awful. I went to the funeral with Justin, even though I felt weird being there because I thought Smith hated me. I remember how Smith cried over the casket; I’m sure that was the most pain I’ve ever seen another human in.

  Clearly, and for obvious reasons, Smith is still completely broken up about her death. It doesn’t seem like he’s coped at all, and I was honored he put his trust in me. I have a feeling he doesn’t talk about her much, though I didn’t ask or push. I let him tell me what he wanted to get off his chest. In a very short amount of time, I think it bonded us closer to each other.

  I walk back out of the house in my tennis match gear, holding a spare racket that someone had put on the kitchen table.

  “We ready to do this?” Marta flexes her muscles like she’s in for some healthy competition.

  My sneakers hit the green, bouncy material of the court floor, and I nod to her. “Yeah, I’m ready to have some fun.”

  “Fun? We’re getting lobsters out of this. We’re about to clobber you guys.” Peter puts his best mean face on, but it doesn’t really work.

  Peter is a doctor, with manicured hands and a kind of metrosexual-style to him. He’s anything but intimidating.

  “We’re going to whoop their asses.” Smith winks at me, and my heart skips a beat.

  A man like that should not be allowed to wink at an innocently unassuming woman.

  The match starts out slow, with Marta serving, and the first three tries ending in faults. When we finally do get going, the sun beating down on the court; it becomes a fun jest of words and thwacking. Peter keeps making these very girly moans each time he hits the ball, and everyone, including the spectators sitting on the side of the court, keep laughing our heads off.

  Smith and I are a good pair, with him taking the back of the court and me up front. His legs are longer to catch the stray shots before they go out, and I have pretty good reflexes to react to the bloopers Marta keeps trying to trick me with.

  “Good point, partner,” he says after I whack the ball to a place Marta can’t reach, and it bounces twice on the court.

  Smith walks past me, brushing a hand over my hip. My skin turns to goose bumps in under a second, even though it’s about eighty-five on this court. He’s taunting me, flirting with me right here in the open, and knowing I can’t do anything but blush.

  Well, that and be totally flustered. Because two serves later, he swats my ass with his racket, congratulating me.

  “You’re killing it.” He winks, and my panties are soaked.

  That might as well have been his hand caressing my butt cheek, that’s how much friction he sends burning over my ass and between my thighs
.

  “Stop.” I cut my eyes at him, not able to keep the embarrassed grin off my face.

  No one outside the vicinity of our hushed voices is any wiser to what’s going on, but if he keeps this up, I won’t be able to control my own actions.

  “It’s not my fault your perky ass is on full display, bent over every time a serve is coming toward you,” Smith whispers.

  It probably looks like we’re having a quick team pow-wow to discuss strategy, when in reality, the man is initiating me in foreplay in plain view of five other people. This flirty, friendly version of Smith is way more dangerous than the guy who used to hate me. Or pretend to, according to him.

  We continue our game, and it’s our serve on forty-love for the winning point. Smith lines up the shot, and my God is he a dazzling sight. I have to shield my eyes from the sun, which is gleaming down on his tan body, as he stretches to his full height to whack the ball. His shirt pulls up, revealing the line of abs I’ve recently been feeling up in our shared bathroom.

  The point is hard, with a dozen or so back and forths over the net. At one point, I think Marta’s got me, because she sends a short little hit over the net and I have to sprint to catch it. On a wing and a prayer, I heft all my might into my arm, batting the ball with my racket. It just barely goes over the net, and Marta dives for it.

  But she’s too late, and it bounces again, then out of bounds.

  “Yes!” I pump my fist, jumping up and down.

  Though I may be an agreeable, and some may even call me meek, person, I love winning a hard fought competition.

  “Damn it!” Peter stomps on the other side of the court.

  “Yeah!” Smith runs up beside me.

  I offer my hand up in a high five, which he completely bypasses to instead scoop me up into a victory hug. He twirls me around, and then slowly lowers me down his body. Every one of my curves hits every lean muscle on the front of his body, and by the time my sneakers touch the court, my nipples are so hard, they could cut glass.