by Fiona Zedde
He could see the war being fought behind the otherwise opaque brown of her eyes. The urge to rip him—the trespasser—apart and pitch his entrails to wild dogs. But Stephen wanted. He wanted very much. The strength of his attraction for Rille overwhelmed both him and his common sense. He wanted her, and even though Sara’s “yes” was filled to bursting with “no,” he would take her and ignore the pain of the other lover. In time, Sara would get used to his presence. Or learn to bury her own misery.
For him, it was easy to bury his pain. Especially in other people. That kind of sublimation had come so naturally for him, especially in the last few months. Wake up, turn to the empty space in bed (certainly not the gaping hole of his grief), if there had been someone there, it would have been another kind of hole, another kind of burial, but it was still just as empty, as meaningless. With Rille, it wasn’t like that. She filled him. She freed him from himself. That firm, sure hand. The flint in her gaze that directed him without hesitation. That was what he needed. And that was what he would have.
Between him and Sara, Rille stirred.
“Sara, if you don’t want this—”
Sara’s gaze lashed Rille’s and to Stephen’s surprise, Rille fell silent.
“We’ll do this,” Sara said. “Because this is what you want. No other reason. I’d rather you do it this way than sneak behind my back. I’ve had enough of that. Enough.”
Rille’s thigh tensed beside his, other than that, her only reaction to Sara’s words was a smile with a glint of triumph beneath her lowered lashes. She didn’t seem like the type to cheat. From the beginning, she was adamant that their relationship remain honest, and that all parties involved know it was happening. On that first night, they’d met for dinner, despite the sparks that flew over his skin at her touch, despite her nipples tightening under the thin shirt for him, she insisted that her girlfriend know everything before they went any further.
Then later, after four months of tease and retreat, when his skin craved her beyond reason, Rille told him something that nearly made him call the whole thing off. But of course he hadn’t, and they’d continued. Carefully, then passionately, greedy like animals who’d just discovered the magic of flesh.
Looking at Sara across the table’s semi-circle, he felt again that pinch of remorse. The knowledge that he was going to continue with Rille even though this one did not want him to. Her look, he realized now, reminded him of Lucas. Stephen brought the beer to his lips and willed himself not to flinch from it.
Three Point One
Sara/2004
Stephen was pretty. Sara could see why Rille liked him. His skin glowed an impossible shade of dark that Sara could imagine Rille touching with awe. White teeth burned the eyes each time he spoke, and his hair grew strong and wild around his face. He was beautiful. Because Rille was vain, she liked that.
With dinner finished, they walked the darkened streets of the neighborhood, meeting each other’s pasts for the first time in words. But between these words, Sara sensed Rille’s eagerness for bed. In the way her gaze flitted between them, her two lovers, as if in the midst of a decision. In how she squeezed Stephen’s arm, touched the small of Sara’s back before allowing her hand to drift down. Rille’s body was liquid with desire for them. Sara could smell it.
Later, Rille got what she wanted. Them both, panting and eager for her. Unfamiliar drama in the queen-sized bed that Rille and Sara used to share alone. Afterward, the darkness was kind. Sara lay in it beside them, knowing that only Rille slept. Steven’s skin was sweat-soaked, drying. The muscles beneath his skin rippled lightly in the dark. She touched them, his belly, the sharp hip bone and that ridge of flesh, that V that some boys coveted. His warmth was the poison. It was what made Rille want him. Sara laid her hand flat against his skin, washed it down the hard plain of his belly. She dipped a finger into his belly button. Moisture. His hard penis nudged her hand.
Sara looked up and met his eyes. She blinked and slowly withdrew, pulling her hand away from him, pulling her body, its drape across the sleeping Rille, to lay back on her side of the bed.
The Visit
Sara/1995
Sara walked in on Rille searching. Outside, the sun burned brightly through the faint trailing clouds, showing off another beautiful Florida day. In Rille’s room, though, it was still night. The vertical blinds were pulled shut in front of the doors leading out to the balcony. Suspended from the ceiling, black velvet drapery hung down around the bed but gapped open, revealing rumpled sheets.
“I’m so fucking broke,” Rille said, looking inside a jewelry box, under books, in drawers, apparently compartments for a secret stash of cash that was all dried up. “I need money for dinner. Sushi. That’s what I feel like tonight.”
Sushi money? That’s what all this fuss was for? From the bits of rumor, gossip, and truth floating around campus, Rille came from a family of doctors—a plastic surgeon mother and a father who was a pediatrician—so she had no reason to search so desperately for cash.
Sara sat on the edge of the bed, pushing a pillow out of her way. “Why don’t you just eat at the cafeteria tonight? Your meal card is practically full.”
Rille ignored her and kept searching. Sara had a full scholarship to Vreeland plus an extra grant that paid for her non-academic expenses. She saved most of her money because she had to. If she ran through it, there was no money coming from anywhere else. Her parents’ factory jobs paid for their own household expenses and barely little else since Syrus’s funeral wiped out most of the savings they’d had.
“There has to be some money around here someplace.” Rille looked at Sara. Was she really going to—“Hey, can you spot me a fifty for food? I’ll pay you back later.”
Sara looked at her, not sure if she was joking. Then she shook her head. “No. I don’t have it like that.”
“Like what? All I’m asking is to borrow some money until next weekend.” She straightened to glare at Sara. “Don’t look at me like that. Just put it on your credit card.”
“I don’t have a credit card,” Sara said.
“Don’t your parents have a credit card they let you use?”
“No. Why would they? If they have one, it’s for them to use.” She rolled her eyes. “Not everybody has the kind of life you do.”
“What kind of life are you talking about? This is just regular shit.”
Of course. She would think that it was normal for everyone to have two rich parents with extra cash lying around for their kids to use.
“My parents aren’t rich, Rille. That’s not the kind of stuff I’m used to.”
“My folks aren’t rich, either. What are you talking about?” Rille dropped heavily into the bed next to Sara. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”
Her look was teasing, an abrupt change from her frantic search for sushi money. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at Sara. Caught by surprise, Sara flung her hands up to shield her face then Rille was on her, shoving her, squealing down into the bed. Rille straddled her in the bed, pounding on her with the pillow.
“Stop it!” Sara giggled, hands over her face.
She twisted in the bed until Rille was trapped under her and at the mercy of her tickling fingers. Rille erupted into giggles and screams.
“Sara! That’s not fair! Sara!”
They rolled around on the bed, laughing, with Sara’s skin getting hot under her clothes. The mattress bounced with their weight. Rille twisted her thin, agile body, slipping under Sara’s arm to pin her to the bed.
“Ha ha!” Rille gloated. She pressed Sara under her, laughing. “Let’s see who’s tickling now.” She flicked her fingers under Sara’s shirt, up under her bare sides.
Laughing, they squirmed together. The smell of Nag Champa incense rolled in the room around them, exhaling its heavy plumeria and sandalwood scent from the velvet drapery surrounding the bed. The smell reminded Sara of sex, of the eighteen nights and days they’d twisted together under the canopy while incense
sticks smoked from the long ceramic burner on Rille’s desk.
Sara’s body became liquid under Rille’s fingers. She wrapped her legs around her, drawing her closer between her thighs. Their laughter trickled away.
“Kiss me,” Sara demanded.
“What if I don—”
Sara rose abruptly in the bed to kiss her, pressing her open palms against Rille’s cheeks. Rille laughed into her mouth, kissing her back, pushing her into the bed. Her hands caressed Sara’s skin under the shirt, trailing up in minute increments toward her breasts, a slow torture of sensation that tightened Sara’s legs around Rille. She gripped her shoulders and kissed her harder.
“What’s that noise?” Rille asked, pulling back and panting above Sara.
It’s nothing, Sara wanted to say. But she heard the noise too. Insistently repeating in the room outside the haven created by the velvet drapes.
“The phone.” Sara licked her lips. She squirmed against Rille again, but she pulled away and slipped out of the bed.
“Hello?”
Sara sighed and rolled over, clutching the pillow to her chest. She breathed deeply into the scented cloth.
“You’re in town?” Rille asked whoever was on the phone. She paused. “Oh, that sounds nice. I don’t have any plans tonight.” Rille’s voice came closer to the bed. And she sank down into the mattress.
“Can my girlfriend come too?” Rille looked at her. My parents, she mouthed. “That’s great. What time?” She laid a hand on Sara’s shirt, her fingers a light pressure on the cotton. “We’ll be ready. Just come to the roundabout.” Her hand slid under Sara’s shirt. “Okay. See you then.” Rille hung up the phone.
Her grin was pure triumph. “We’re having sushi tonight. For free!” Rille squeezed Sara’s belly. “My parents are coming to take us to dinner.” She blinked down at Sara. “Oh wait, can you come? Do you have other plans?”
“No. I—uh, I don’t think so.” She and Raven had talked about eating dinner in the cafeteria together but hadn’t confirmed it.
“Good. They’ll be here in about two hours.” Rille leaned down into the bed, nibbling on Sara’s chin. She licked a hot line down Sara’s throat, hands sliding slowly up Sara’s belly under the shirt. “That gives us plenty of time to finish what you started.”
They barely had time to shower and get dressed before stumbling through Palm Court, giggling and falling over each other with kisses and hot touches, to meet up with Rille’s parents. Just before they walked out of the room, Rille had stopped to stare at herself in the mirror.
“Do you think I look all right?” she asked.
All Sara could do was stare. Who was this person and what happened to the hyper-confident Rille?
“You look great,” she finally said.
But she was still infatuated. Anything Rille wore looked good on her. And this familiar outfit of jeans and the violet blouse that brought out the streaks of light in her hair was no different. After Rille had dressed, Sara clasped her waist between her palms, breathed the fresh scent of her skin after the shower. She could have stood there next to Rille’s warm skin under the purple shirt forever.
“There they are.” Rille pointed to a dark sedan parked in the last parallel spot in the roundabout.
Two shadows sat in the front seats of the idling car. Rille waved, hurrying down the steps with Sara. At the car, she opened the door and the interior lights came on, revealing the luxurious beige leather upholstery. It smelled new and of a floral perfume. Rille scooted across the backseat and motioned for Sara to come into the car with her.
“Hey, Dad. Momma.” Rille leaned into the partition between the passenger and driver’s seat to kiss her parents.
“Merille.” Her mother greeted her with a penetrating look, touching Rille’s chin. “You need a haircut.”
Mr. Thompson sighed. “She looks fine, Beverly.”
He pulled the car out of the parking space and drove slowly toward the exit, mindful of students crossing the street, most of them paying no attention to the big car.
“This is her last year of college. She’ll be interviewing at graduate schools soon. Merille can’t afford to look like a drugged out hippie when she goes before those admissions boards.”
“As you’re always saying, dear, the women in your family know how to dress for every occasion. Our daughter is no exception.”
Rille flushed. But she fumbled for Sara’s hand, saying nothing to her mother about her hair or graduate school admission. “This is my girlfriend, Sara.” Her tone was belligerent. Challenging.
Mrs. Thompson stiffened, but Rille only pulled Sara closer to the middle of the backseat so her parents could have a good look.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Thompson said, barely glancing back at Sara.
Mr. Thompson nodded his bald head once in her direction. “Pleased to meet you, young lady.”
“How do you do?” Sara murmured, uncertain of how to act with this rigid family.
Rille squeezed her hand. In the car’s illumination, her parents looked very ordinary. Nothing like she thought the people who created this electric girl would be. Fletcher and Beverly Thompson didn’t even look like doctors. They looked like people. Average. Quiet. Cold.
Mr. Thompson was conservatively dressed in khakis and a pale blue Polo shirt. Her mother wore a white, sleeveless linen dress with a jade beaded necklace and matching bracelet that jingled as she turned down the music on the car’s radio. Music from the seventies.
On the surface, her mother looked just like her. The same lean figure. Curly pale hair and green eyes. But where Rille was darker, skin like cocoa powder, her mother was almost beige. Rille had obviously gotten her color from her father and her personality from somewhere else altogether.
“We read a great review about this place down in Saint Armand’s Circle. The sushi, they say, is phenomenal and so is the view of the water.” Mrs. Thompson glanced back at Rille. “I think you’ll like this place, Merille.”
“It’s not far from the conference hotel,” her father said.
With the sun setting on the palm tree-dotted landscape, they drove through the early evening. The air-conditioning and closed windows shut them off from the salty sweetness outside the car.
When I get a car, I’m never going to turn on the AC.
Beside her, Rille sat perfectly still against the leather seat, eyes straight ahead, watching either the road or her parents. Sara couldn’t tell which. Her hand rested lightly on Sara’s jean covered thigh, like an afterthought. Or no thought at all. Sara glanced out the window. Even though there were three other people in the car with her, she felt alone.
“The restaurant parking is right there, Fletcher.” Mrs. Thompson pointed at an upcoming driveway.
The big black car smoothly turned, pulling into a large parking lot with dozens of other cars. They parked beside a silver Jaguar and everyone got out. Sara looked around. The restaurant was small but pretty, like something out of a book; a Japanese-style pagoda with an archway flanked by full-sized bonsai trees. Dark red bricks lined the walkway to the entrance.
Mr. Thompson opened the door with a restrained smile. “After you, ladies,” he said.
In the restaurant, Sara didn’t know what to do with her hands. They flopped in her lap while the Thompsons looked over the menu, discussing what roll they wanted to try or what they didn’t prefer to eat.
“The mackerel is disgusting,” Rille said in response to something her father suggested. “I’ll never get it again.”
“It’s not for everyone,” he agreed.
Beverly Thompson touched his hand. “Honey, do you want to share the chef’s choice with me?”
Mr. Thompson turned back to his wife. “That sounds perfect. A good decision.” He closed his menu and glanced at Sara. “What about you, dear? What do you think about the selections here?”
Her face burned when all three sets of eyes turned to her. Was that scorn on Beverly Thompson’s face?
“I�
�m not sure about this sushi stuff,” Sara said.
She looked down at the menu, the safer choice of vegetable tempura and udon noodle soup more appealing to her inexperienced palette. Although she had been in America since middle school, Sara had never tried the different kinds of food available in her new country. Jamaican food was comfort. It was home. Only at school, where the menu items were completely American, was she forced to try something else. She had never been ashamed of her choices until now.
“Try the smoked salmon roll, then,” Rille suggested. “You might like that. And maybe the California roll. Most newbies like that.”
“Uh, thanks.” Sara clasped her hands together in her lap, head bent to stare at the menu.
She glanced at Rille, surprised she made time to help her with the sushi. Under no illusions about her new lover, Sara knew that Rille often looked out for herself in most things. And in this moment, Rille wanted nothing more than to slide some expensive raw fish in her mouth, glutting herself on what she’d wanted for hours, even happier because her parents were picking up the check. Why in the pursuit of her pleasure would she even care about Sara’s inexperience with this type of food?
The answer sat in front of her face in the form of Beverly and Fletcher Thompson, the most elegant couple that Sara had ever seen. It was weird how they perfectly complemented each other. His dark to her light. The way she picked at Rille while he assured his daughter she was already perfect.
Mrs. Thompson used her thumb to brush something from her husband’s cheek. He held still while she ministered to him, his eyes filled with her. In that moment it seemed like there was no one at the table with them.
When the waiter came back, Rille ordered for Sara, both appetizers and entrees, while Beverly Thompson ordered for her and her husband. Edamame. Basil rolls. Vegetable tempura. Bowls of miso soup. A squid salad. For skinny people, they sure could eat.
The food arrived and Sara stared at them with eyes rounded with amazement as they sampled plate after plate of appetizers. This wasn’t even the main course.
