Not That Kind of Girl

by Nia Forrester

  When Ian unlocks the door to his room and shoves open the door, my mouth practically falls open. It’s like a studio apartment, complete with a little sofa where a roommate’s bed would have been, framed posters on the wall, a mini-fridge and even a two-burner hot plate atop the fridge. On the floor is a rug that looks like it might be traditional Native American in origin, and there are similar tapestries displayed over his bed.

  The bed itself is not standard college-issue. It is queen-sized and looks cozy with a plump quilt, and multiple pillows in earth tones.

  I turn and look at Ian who seems to be waiting for my reaction.

  “You never told me you were an interior decorator in your free time,” I say drily.

  He shakes his head and shuts the door behind us.

  “Over-involved mother,” he explains.

  “She did all this?” I ask, taking it all in again.

  “Yup. Drove up for a weekend with my dad, brought a bunch of stuff and then they went shopping. It was kind of embarrassing, but you know, whatever makes her happy.”

  Whatever makes her happy. That causes a pang in my chest. I can’t remember what it’s like to have a mother who is made happy by making me comfortable, by taking care of me.

  I sit on the edge of Ian’s small sofa and then spring up again because I am still wearing my damp swimsuit under my jeans.

  “This is amazing,” I say.

  There is even an accent wall, painted a rich burgundy. And there are standing lamps, the shades mustard colored and casting a soothing orange light. On his desk is a proper study lamp, and Ian’s textbooks are laid out there, in order. This room does not comport with the stereotype of a college guy’s abode.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You can sit. It doesn’t matter.”

  “D’you have a towel or something?” I ask, shaking my head. I’m not going to be the one to ruin this catalog-perfect tableau.

  He pulls one out of the bottom of his dresser and hands it to me. I spread it on the sofa and sit, but still a little tentatively.

  He watches me, and I watch him. Everything I ever thought about who he is, is crumbling bit by tiny bit. The way he expresses himself, how silly he can be, how smart … He’s nothing like the jock who shows up in my and Kate’s room a few times a week and makes shallow conversation.

  “Tell me about your mother,” I say impulsively. “What’s she like? Tell me about your parents.”

  “My parents?” The question seems to take him off guard.

  And why wouldn’t it? When we left the party and came here, it wasn’t so we could share personal biographies, that’s for sure.

  “Yeah. What’re they like?”

  Ian lowers himself to the floor near my feet, his knees up, arms folded and resting on them.

  “They’re just … regular parents, I guess. My dad’s real into doing stuff for the Nation. And my mom’s just …” He indicated the room as exhibit A. “Like a mother. What’re yours like?”

  “My father’s a …” I pause because people always react to this. “A molecular biologist. And he’s basically everything that implies. Really smart but with … limited social skills.”

  Ian smiles. It’s a sweet smile, like he wants to show me he’s not unamused by my joke, but is not laughing at my dad.

  “And your mom?” he asks.

  “She’s dead,” I say flatly. I’ve learned that when I say it that way, people don’t ask questions.

  Ian blinks and leans forward a little. “Dang,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s been a long time.” I shrug. “Since I was eight.”

  We sit there in silence for a while and look at each other.

  I think this is the first time we’ve ever done this, just sat in silence and soaked each other up. I don’t know how much time passes, but we stare, and it doesn’t get awkward at all. I think we’ve both been wanting to do this, just size each other up unashamedly. Finally, Ian gives one last lazy blink of the eyes and extends a hand to me. I take it, and with our palms facing each other, he threads his fingers through mine so that for a moment, our joined hands make a steeple.

  He extricates our fingers so only the tips are touching, his thumb against mine, his index finger, and so on. He bends his fingers at the joints so the tips can maintain contact with mine.

  “You have the smallest hands,” he says, as if they are something wondrous. “And they’re so soft.” His fingertips slide down the length of my fingers, toward my palm.

  I shiver a little and close my eyes. This is the kind of exchange that only happens when two people are a little impaired the way Ian and I are. When the edges have been softened and you don’t have it in you to be shy any longer.

  He moves his hand even lower, then he is holding me by the wrist and tugging lightly. I don’t resist. I allow him to pull me toward him, so I am on my knees between his knees and we are almost face to face. Actually, we are his face to my neck, so he is perfectly positioned to lean in and kiss me there.

  I shiver and he pulls back a little.

  “You ticklish?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “So … I just make you tremble?” he smiles at me.

  I nod, and his smile fades.

  He kisses me again, the same way, light as a feather, almost experimentally, to see how I will react. On my neck, on my shoulder. He pulls aside the strap of my bathing suit and kisses me in the little groove the spandex leaves imprinted in my skin. He moves to the other side and does the same there.

  Both straps are down now, so Ian lifts his head and looks at me, a question in his eyes. My chest heaves a little before I nod.

  He peels the bathing suit down to the waist of my jeans and looks at my breasts. He cups the side of my left breast, his touch as light as though he’s holding something breakable. He dips his head and the tip of his tongue against my nipple makes me gasp. He looks up at me through his eyelashes and then takes more of me in his mouth.

  I arch toward him and his other hand works at the waistband of my jeans. I reach down to help, loosening and then opening it, shoving it down as far as it will go, which is only to my knees. To get it, and my swimsuit off, I’ll have to stand, but Ian doesn’t seem to want to pause what he’s doing, and I don’t want him to either.

  He moves to the other breast, his thumb caressing the one he has just left, and I am arching my back, restless and impatient for more, but trapped by my half-removed jeans. Ian pulls back and puts his hands on my face, cupping it, and kisses me hard and long and deep. We are gasping into each other’s mouths, lips crushed as if we’re trying to crawl inside each other.

  I pull back to take a breath and he stands abruptly. I think for a moment that he expects me to go down on him, but instead he lifts me from the floor and carries me to the bed. There, he pulls my jeans off the rest of the way but leaves the half-removed swimsuit on. When he looks at me, there is that question in his eyes again.

  Good Southern boy, I think.

  I don’t nod this time.

  This time I reach down and remove the swimsuit myself. I shimmy until it is at my ankles. There is a wet spot in the crotch, and it isn’t pool water. I look away from it and dare to glance up at Ian. I’m naked, finally, and he is looking right at me. Eager. Waiting.

  Chapter Seven

  When Ian enters me, it feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I am boneless and limbless. I am swirling light. He braces the weight of his torso on his forearms, looking down at me as he moves. Sometimes he leans in to press his forehead to mine, to kiss me, or just to breathe deeply against my neck, or inhale the scent of my skin. His eyes are clouded over but intent. He grimaces and slows, then stops, and moves again.

  My breaths are short, and shallow, my vision is blurry. I reach down to touch and hold him, and he grunts, arching farther into me, and holding still.

  “Don’t stop,” I say.

  “I have to.”

  He presses his forehead to mine but I tilt my head away
and flatten my tongue against his shoulder so I can taste him. He is alkaline from the pool, and salty with perspiration. He gasps and I feel him twitch inside me. It feels good, but almost ticklish and I smile.

  “What’re you smilin’ about?” Ian breathes. “You’re killin’ me right now. You know that? You’re killin’ me.”

  I kiss him then and he lowers his weight onto me, sliding his hands beneath us and grasping my butt in his large hands.

  “You too,” I say against his lips. “You’re killing me too.”

  But that’s not true. This feels too good. Nothing on earth is this good. So, it can only mean that I’m already dead.

  “Are you reading this for a literature class?”

  I am sitting cross-legged on Ian’s bed and thumbing through a copy of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. It looks like it has barely been read. The spine is pristine.

  Ian, lying on his back with sleepy eyes at half-mast blinks. “For psych class,” he says.

  “Psych?”

  “Something about dissociation. We’re readin’ excerpts of it. Like what if the picture is just a metaphor? You know, stuff like that.”

  “Huh,” I say. “What’s your major?”

  “Business Economics.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I’ll probably go to law school.”

  “You want to be a lawyer?”

  “Sports lawyer, or sports agent,” he says. “What about you?”

  “Math.”

  “Wait. What?” Ian raises himself onto his elbows and his eyes grow more focus. “You’re majoring in math?”

  “Applied Math, yeah.”

  “What is that, exactly?” He squints.

  I laugh. “Too boring to talk about.”

  “It’s not boring.” He shakes his head. “Tell me.”

  I sigh. “Ian,” I say. “You don’t have to …” I break off and shake my head again.

  “I don’t have to what?”

  “Nothing.” I swing my legs over the edge of his bed. “D’you have water?”

  “Don’t do that, Terri,” he says shaking his head.

  I freeze at the sound of him using my name, my real name, not that cutesy, annoying nickname that trivializes me. It tells me he’s serious, and maybe even annoyed. I turn and look at him over my shoulder.

  He reaches for me and runs his fingers down the center of my back.

  “What’s the point of this?” I ask, squirming away from his touch. “Of doing this ‘getting to know you Q&A’ if after Monday …”

  “You asked me questions too. You asked me about my parents. Don’t act like you don’t want to know me. Don’t try to get me to act like I don’t want to know you.”

  He’s right, of course. That is what I’m doing. Because after sex, when we’re supposed to look at each other in shame, and regret what happened and be mortified by the things we said while it was happening, I felt very much the opposite. I feel like we’re closer. I want to get closer to him still. Not only is my resistance at this point futile, it’s probably tedious.

  “Applied Math is basically using mathematical concepts to solve or understand real-world problems. Using it to develop predictive models, or to explain phenomena in just about anything … business, human services … whatever.”

  Ian smiles wider with each word I speak and by the time I’m done, he’s grinning. “Wow. So, you’re a genius is what you’re saying. Like your father.”

  I smile back. “Hardly. It’s just a different part of my brain gets activated by math than maybe yours, or someone else’s who doesn’t like math.” I shrug.

  “The abstract part of your brain,” Ian says.

  “Not really.” I shake my head. “Pure math is abstract. Applied math isn’t abstract. It’s practical.”

  “So, you’re practically a genius,” Ian says.

  I splutter into laughter and he pulls me back down toward him, so I am lying on his chest. The sheet that was partly covering me is between us, but Ian tugs and shoves it away, so we are skin against skin. I lean even closer and now we are chin against chin.

  “And you’re a goofball,” I say.

  “This close, it looks like you have three eyes,” he returns.

  I groan in mock exasperation and he kisses me.

  My lips are a little tender because when we kissed as we were, you know, going at it, we kissed really hard and with desperation. Ian seems to sense how tender they are so this time his kisses are softer. Beneath me, I feel him stirring again. He reaches up and anchors his fists in my hair. My sloppy bun in long gone, as are the curls I managed to get earlier in the day. Now, it’s just a massive puffball.

  He holds me like that, and we play for a while, soft lips and gentle tongues. I pay attention to his taste, the way he angles his head, the feeling of his fingers in my hair, and his hardness pressing into my pelvis. I store up every sensation. After this weekend, I’m going to want to remember it all.

  When Ian releases me for a second, I slide off him and go to his little refrigerator. There is no water inside. There are sports drinks, a couple protein shakes and three beers. I take out one of the beers and hold it up.

  “You want one?”

  “Haven’t you had enough to drink, young lady?” he asks, pretending to be stern.

  “No. I want to get more than tipsy. I want to be drunk and let you have your way with me.”

  Ian surveys me for a few beats as if trying to figure out whether I’m joking and I pop the tab on the beer, guzzling it fast with my head tipped back. When I lower the can, my head spins.

  “I already had my way with you,” he says. His voice sounds a little tight. “And I like you sober.”

  “Sober-ish,” I correct him. I can feel the alcohol doing its work on my already fuzzy mind. I return to the bed, bringing the beer can.

  I offer it to him, but he shakes his head.

  “I don’t need that,” he says. “Gettin’ drunk ain’ gon’ add nothin’. It’s just gonna take somethin’ away.”

  I lower the can and set it on his desk then crawl back onto the bed.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m being stupid.”

  Ian shakes his head again but says nothing.

  “Hey.” I nudge him in the side. “I’m sorry. Of course I don’t wanna be drunk.”

  “You think I don’t know how messed up this is?” he asks. “But I want to be here. I want you here. But if you don’t, and you need some excuse, or a way to make you … forget …”

  “I said I’m sorry. I just … It was stupid, okay? I don’t want to forget. And I do want to be here.”

  He exhales and looks up at the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Hey.” I nudge him again. “Who was your first girlfriend?” I settle against his side, hoping my proximity will disarm him again.

  He is still looking at the ceiling, but I see his eyes shift a little.

  “What?”

  “Your first girlfriend. Who was she?”

  He sighs. “Her name was Everly,” he says.

  “Everly what?”

  “Everly Mason.”

  “Tell me about Everly Mason,” I say, adopting the tone of a television news reporter. “How did it start between you two?”

  Despite himself, I can see Ian’s reserve cracking. He wants to smile but doesn’t.

  “I was in seventh grade. Got transferred to Mountainview Academy, a private school a couple towns over. There were like two other Black kids in my grade. No Native kids. I had a long braid down to the center of my back, and I ran really fast. So, you can imagine the stereotypes. But mostly it was harmless stuff.

  “I had a social studies teacher though, who liked to call on me whenever he made references to Native people. He’d go, ‘isn’t that right, Ian?’ even though half the time I had no clue what he was talkin’ ‘bout. One day after class Everly came up to me and she said, ‘I hate it when he does that. It’s so awkward.’ And I said, ‘Awkward for me, or for
you?’ And she started crying.”

  “Crying?” I repeat. “Why?”

  “I guess she thought she embarrassed me by mentioning it. That she was just as bad as our social studies teacher. After that she started sitting with me at lunch. And I was kind of a shy kid, so it was cool, having someone other than my track team friends.

  “Then people started calling her my girlfriend and I didn’t correct ‘em. When we had the seventh-grade dance, I asked her. And we kept going out until high school.”

  “And I’m guessing Everly wasn’t one of the two other Black kids in your grade?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, your first girlfriend was a woke, thirsty, Southern white girl.”

  At that, Ian cracks. He laughs and turns over to look at me. His eyes are alight again.

  “Why you keep mentionin’ the white girls?” he asks. “Does that bother you? Interracial dating?”

  “In principle, no,” I say honestly. “But occasionally when I see really attractive Black guys with white girls, I get like … an irrational … rage.”

  “As long as you know it’s irrational.”

  I nod. “Oh, I know it is.”

  “Is that how you feel about me and Kate?”

  Yes.

  “No,” I say. “Like you said, Kate’s cool. She’s a nice girl. And I did say, when I see really attractive Black guys …”

  Ian laughs and tickles me. I laugh and roll away from him. He rolls atop me.

  “You think I’m really attractive?” he asks, still grinning.

  “I think you’re beautiful,” I say, the laughter dying on my lips.

  Ian’s grin fades. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that.

  “Come to think of it,” he muses. “Kate reminds me of Everly.”

  I feel a pang of jealousy. And maybe it’s transparent because Ian reaches down, he cups my butt cheeks and pulls me harder against him.

  “C’mere,” he says.

  I soften my legs, allow my thighs to part so he is between them and I can feel him against me. I am slick, coated in the evidence of current and past arousal.

  “You ready for me again?” he asks. His voice is low and hoarse.

  I nod almost imperceptibly, and he pulls back, surges upward and slides into me. I sigh and we stare at each other, eyes locked as he moves. I grunt, and grip his ass, dragging him tighter into me, hooking my legs around his and thrusting upward. My movements are almost lewd, more uninhibited than I’ve ever been with anyone. I am giving but taking mine as well. I bite my lower lip and the noises I make are like those of a wild animal.