by Zoey Castile
“Don’t move,” she tells me.
I push myself into her and she fucks my dick, riding herself into a climax.
When we’re finally finished, we are a mess of tattered clothes and panting breaths. Her hair has finally come undone, falling over her. She’s unreal. She’s the kind of perfect I don’t deserve.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says, and when she kisses my neck, something in my chest hurts.
“Thank you for wearing that.” I slap her thigh and pull her leg across my stomach. “One thing, though. Mari called me something and I’m not sure whether or not to be offended.”
“What did she say?” she asks, biting her bottom lip.
“What the hell is a zaddy?”
16
Save Me
LENA
November
I paint for hours, listening to a mix of songs that Patrick made me. I recognize the songs that I’ve played over and over again since I moved in, but there are others that he said he loves from Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. Ari says you get to know someone by the kind of music they listen to. The chords that make them melancholic and hopeful. The lyrics that stick to your head far longer than any pop-quiz answers that vanish after you take the test. Every time Pat shows me a different part of himself, I feel like I’m falling in love with him a little bit more. I’m sure it’s love that I’m feeling.
Sometimes, when I wake up before him, I watch how peaceful he is while he sleeps. His beauty startles me every time, and I want to whisper to him that I love him. But then he wakes up, and we sink into each other’s warmth and I lose the nerve.
A cold November breeze fans through the open studio window. I’m wrapped in one of Patrick’s hoodies, which has become my preferred way to dress inside. The strong scent of linseed oil and paint makes my nose itch from hours of inhaling the chemicals, but I’ve finally finished my first piece of the semester. The assignment was “home.” I painted a portrait of my mother surrounded by flowers. I wasn’t even meaning to, but I’ve found myself missing my parents more and more. I have plans for a matching one with my dad next since I have tons to catch up on. But the final assignment is the trickiest. It’s a free for all. Anything we want. I guess it’s Professor Meneses’s way of throwing a wrench in her course since she’s always so regimented.
“Babe?” Patrick calls for me from down the hall.
In the last two weeks, he’s kept his word and never disrupts me during my studio hours, but he will do it to make sure that I eat.
I hang up my apron, move my painting to a stand to dry. Only five more to go. Thankfully, the next one is watercolor. I pack the oils away and lay out the pots of acrylic I’ll need. I unfurl a roll of canvas so I can keep working after dinner.
“Lena?” Patrick says, and this time I hear the anxiety in his voice.
I drop everything and slide to the library in my socks. The shelves are built and the fireplace is crackling. Patrick is sitting and staring at a photo album. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing him like this—rivers of scars across his naked torso, a mess of golden hair getting longer every day. He is so big in every way, and so vulnerable in others. He scratches at his beard and looks up at me with glassy green eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, and I see the struggle there. “I haven’t seen these in ages. I didn’t even pack them up, I think.”
I sit beside him, pressing my shoulder to his. I take the photo, one of those standard Kodaks where the colors fade easily. In the picture, two little blond boys sit on a green hill. It’s the same view Patrick and I have from the deck. Between them is a brunette baby in diapers. Patrick and his brothers. It is like walking through a mirror and stepping into a past that doesn’t belong to me, but he’s taking me with him.
“I always thought Jack had taken them with him to Seattle.”
He pulls out another one. They’re a little older, the older brothers holding Jack by his tiny hands to help him walk. One with their mouths covered in red and orange dye from eating popsicles. Ronan and Patrick look so much alike as kids, I wouldn’t be surprised if Patrick revealed that they were twins. But I can tell my boy apart from the bright green of his eyes, like rough-cut crystals.
“You look happy,” I say.
“We were. In the ways it mattered, at least.” Patrick turns to me, and I offer him a kiss.
“Also, you make the exact same faces still,” I say. “Playful, sweet.”
He laughs, and shows me his parents. I see him in his mother’s face, his dad’s cheekbones and jaw.
“What in the world are you doing in this one?” I ask, picking one up where Ronan is holding his arms open and Patrick has a toddler Jack around the waist.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, a booming laugh that nearly tips him back. “This is the time Ronan and I tried to use Jack as a football.”
“Patrick!” I say, shocked.
“Ma was not happy.” As he breathes, trying to steady his breath, I know how hard he’s trying not to cry. He swallows hard and stares at the photo again. He touches the side of his hand to his left eye and then closes the box.
My stepmother said she hated when men cried because it made them weak, and what was the point of weak men? I hated her for saying that because she was talking about my dad. There was a time during his illness when we both knew he wasn’t going to get better and that we would have to live without him sooner than we thought. My dad cried and Ariana and I cried with him. But Sonia couldn’t—wouldn’t—handle his tears. Crying is for anyone who feels pain. Maybe if we stopped caring about who does the tear shedding, everyone would be able to communicate a little bit better.
“When Ariana was born, I put a ‘for sale’ sign on her and left her in the living room,” I confess. It’s something I’ve never told anyone.
Patrick flashes his white teeth, and his green eyes brighten. The sadness dispels, and then it is just the two of us and our memories. He tugs me over his thighs until I’m sitting between his legs. I rest my head on his chest and I feel complete in a way that startles me.
“Magdalena Martel. There is a dark side to you.”
I lean up and kiss his jaw. “You know my dark side better than most.”
He goes for my lips, and then we’re kissing on the floor. He’s on top of me, parting my legs with his knees. My body surrenders to him so easily, so willingly. He props himself on his elbows and I trace my hands over his chest. He kisses the tip of my nose.
“Don’t kiss my eyes,” I say, turning my face.
He chuckles. “Why?”
“My mom used to say that if someone kissed your eyelids they were telling you lies behind your back.”
He nods and kisses my temple instead. “And I thought my family had people beat on the Catholic superstition stuff.”
“Superstition and guilt.”
“Do you have any pictures of you as a kid?”
I shrug. “They’re at home.”
“Good thing your sister loves me and will probably send them to me if I ask.”
“Ovaries before brovaries,” I say. “But I was definitely the cutest baby you’ve ever seen.”
He nuzzles my neck, finding a spot that makes me squeal from how ticklish I am there. His fingers cup my waist and move down my thigh. I wrap my leg around him, pressing the heel of my foot into his firm ass cheek. He answers with a hip thrust.
“We’d have a cute kid,” he says.
We lock eyes, and I can see the moment he realizes he’s spoken out loud. His eyelashes flutter and whatever he wanted to say next gets stuck in his throat. I laugh to let him know that I’m not reading too much into it.
“Hypothetically,” I say, tracing a finger over his left pectoral. “We would have very beautiful kids.”
Heat fills my chest and I lick my bottom lip. There’s a 0.3 percent chance that I could get pregnant on an IUD. One of my friends had a copper one, and it shifted. Now, they’re about to we
lcome their third kid. I used to think I didn’t want kids. The world is too ugly, too mean. There are too many people already and it feels like no matter what we do, there’s no way that we’ll get ourselves together as a species to make it better. But after looking at baby Patrick and his brothers, and after the sincerity with which he said that, my ovaries give a painful squeeze. Or, it’s just my period cramps. Probably my period cramps.
“Lena,” he says, tentatively.
For the last couple of weeks, he’s hesitant when he says my name, like he’s setting up the stage for something bigger. A silly, girly, ridiculous part of me is waiting for him to tell me that, maybe, he loves me. Is that what I want? Is that what he needs? I read somewhere that the first three months of any relationship feel like some sort of paradise made individually for us. What happens come December when we get past the blissful stage? What happens when June rolls around and I’ve finished school early? Am I really going to stay here after working so hard? Am I going to move Ariana across the country, too?
“Where did you go, baby?” he whispers against my ear, a warm finger dragging the outline of my jaw.
“Just thinking about the future.”
“Because of what I just said?”
When I touch his chest, I feel how fast his heart is beating. “Yeah. But not in a bad way.”
I decide that the only way to really understand each other is to be honest. As honest as I can be with these feelings. We aren’t sitting in a car, but we can’t waste gas just to have real conversations. I take a steadying breath and tell him my fears, condensing my thoughts about our bliss stage.
“I don’t know much about relationships,” he says, flipping over and lying beside me. “But I know that when I’m with you, I’m a better version of myself. I know you have to decide after the end of the school year. But I’m not going anywhere, Lena. I don’t think I can go anywhere. That’s not fair to you. You should do what’s best for your career and Ari and you.”
He lets go of my hand and taps a nervous beat on his abdomen.
“You’re as much a part of my life as Ariana and my art,” I say. “Whatever decisions I do make, you’re included in it. As long as you want to be.”
He locks eyes with me. “I want to be, Lena.”
We lay side by side, listening to the fire eat away the logs, until our fingers search for one another at the same time and we become a tangle of limbs once again.
“I can’t,” I whisper, biting his earlobe as he tugs at the front of my leggings. “I have my period.”
“I heard somewhere,” he says, grinning devilishly, “that your orgasms are stronger during your period.”
I roll my eyes. “Please don’t tell me you read it on some dude blog.”
“Cosmo, actually. It might be wishful thinking,” he says. “But I can certainly try to deliver.”
He kisses the crook of my neck, nipping hard enough to draw a high-pitched sound. I can’t deny how much I want him, every minute, every day. It only gets stronger the more we’re together, and that’s scary. That kind of building pressure isn’t always good, I think. But I still find myself following him into our bedroom. I undress and get in the shower first to clean up a bit before I let him back inside. My breath is in knots at the sight of him, so fucking tall and muscular. His hair a tangle of golds, curling at the ends in the steam. He picks me up like I’m weightless and pins me up against the wall with his arms hooked under my knees. He presses himself inside me and stays there without moving as he kisses every part of me he can reach. My skin is raw from his beard against me, but I don’t want him to stop. I beg him to move, to fuck me harder and faster until he’s wrenching an orgasm from me. When he pulls out, I kiss his open, panting mouth. I could look at him forever.
“Patrick?”
“Lena?”
“Would you let me paint you?”
He presses his forehead against mine, the rainfall washing us clean. I see the doubt and fear, still fresh on his face. “I want to do anything you ask of me, Lena. Anything. But I can’t do that just yet.”
PAT
Thanksgiving Day brings gray skies and crisp, cold air that smells like it’s going to snow soon.
Lena and I walk through the trail that leads to Scarlett’s property. I carry a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Lena has the cherry pie she made last night. I definitely got my hand slapped trying to sneak a taste. Scarlett gave us very specific instructions of what we were allowed to bring because she’s been planning this all week.
From the moment I woke up, my nerves feel ripped open and frayed. Perhaps it’s left over from the conversation Lena and I had last week. She’s already thinking about her exit plan. She says that I’ll be a part of it, but what if she goes where I can’t follow? I made it to the grocery store, but I didn’t get out of the car. I went to a party and I took off my helmet for two minutes, but I haven’t tried again since then, especially after the call from my agent.
Miriam said that the paparazzi site XYZ had put out a call for recent photos involving the stars of American Speed for the upcoming one-year anniversary of the movie and accident. Will it really be in a little over a month? Daisy, my co-star, is happily starring in an independent film with a big-deal director. Everyone from the director to producers to the other actors have moved on with their lives.
“Remind me who’s going to be there?” I ask.
Lena makes her cute thinking face. “The guy she’s dating, I think. I forgot his name, but he works at a school.”
“Scarlett and the jock,” I say, chuckling.
“There’s Kayli, Mari, and you remember my friend River and her fiancé.”
“Is Montana a haven for wayward New Yorkers now?”
She nudges my side with her elbow, and I sling my arm around her. I hate that the encroaching winter means jackets covering her beautiful body. That’s more layers for me to take off, but I don’t mind the work. I kiss the apple of her cheek. What would I do this time next year if she isn’t in my life? My chest feels a painful tug.
I can’t think about what it would be like to lose her. I have to remind myself that she’s here, that while I have her, I need to do everything I can to make her happy, to show her what our life can be like.
What if I do all of that and she still leaves?
What if she doesn’t?
I stop to kiss her better, to kiss her hard. She balances the pie on one palm to better wrap her arm around my neck. Our puffy jackets make a swishing sound as we get closer and closer. I walk her into the sturdy bark of a tree.
“I find myself between a rock and a very hard place,” she says.
I laugh as I explore the spot under her ear, my brain calculating the best way to take her in the middle of this trail while not dropping our Thanksgiving offerings.
“Patrick Donatello, if you make me drop this pie, I swear—”
We break apart, sighing away the pent-up frustration. You would think with all the sex we’ve had the last couple of months I’d be tired, bored even. The old me would have left her in the middle of the night. Would I even have remembered her face? That version of me wouldn’t deserve to be in the same room as a woman like Lena. Thinking of it makes me cringe inwardly.
When she threads her fingers around mine, she becomes a lifeline, pulling me out of the storm of my thoughts. We reach the end of the path and I can’t help but remember standing in the same place holding a shivering Lena in my arms with her dirty, ripped dress. I don’t deserve her.
“You good, baby?” she asks, as our boots crunch on the gravel path leading to Scarlett’s house.
I don’t want to worry her with everything that’s going through my head. I’ll sort it out with Chris after Thanksgiving. For now, I assure her it’s nothing to worry about. Just nerves. This is the first time I’m in someone else’s house surrounded by people. The only ones I haven’t really met are River and her fiancé.
I can do this.
I wipe my feet on the mat in fron
t of Scarlett’s house. She moved back here after the divorce and the place hasn’t changed since I was a kid. The same rose garden is out front, the same creaky wooden steps. The Christmas wreath and decorations are a new addition, though, which is surprising since she said she barely had time to get dinner together.
I ring the bell, and Lena steals one last kiss from me, which is a terrible idea because I’m already wound up, and I’m pretty sure a raging hard-on was not on the list of pre-approved things Scarlett said we could bring to dinner.
Scarlett opens the door. At least, I think it’s her. I haven’t seen her dress up since Vegas. She’s in a cream-colored sweater that shows off her boobs—believe me, I feel so wrong noticing that—and her auburn hair falls in shiny waves.
Her light-brown eyes take in the sight of me and they get glossier by the minute.
“Oh, Pat,” she says.
“Don’t get weepy on me now, West,” I mutter, and scoop her into a hug. “Did you brush your hair?”
She swats my back, and I set her back on the floor. The lights in the house feel too bright. White twinkling ones line the entryway to the living room and the kitchen. Everyone seems to be congregated around the small kitchen table.
We’re the last ones to arrive and it’s only two in the afternoon. Even Mari is here, dressed in a tight black velvet dress. She’s chatting with Kayli while drinking wine and arranging a cheese plate.
“Pat!” Kayli says, offering a wide smile and her open arms.
This feels awkward. Too many eyes on me. Too many sorry expressions. What if they aren’t sorry? What if they’re showing support instead?
I embrace her, and she rubs my back. “I hope you brought the good stuff.”
“Nothing but,” I say, and hand over a bottle of Blanton’s.
“Come in, you two,” Scarlett says. “I got a late start but it’s all hands on deck.” Scarlett takes the pie and sets it on a dessert corner. There’s something shifty in her eyes, and I wonder if my jeans don’t conceal my erection like I thought.
