by Lori L. Otto
“Almost sex,” I repeat softly. “Like, foreplay?”
“Yeah, I guess. The spy took this lady’s clothes off. He touched her bosom.” He says the word more quietly than the rest, and I laugh a little. “That’s what it said. Bosom.”
“And then what?”
“Then it was the next day and they woke up in bed together.”
“Ohhh,” I say to him. “The fade to black.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Like in the movies… when something is alluded to, but you don’t actually see it.”
“So you think they had sex?”
“I didn’t read the book,” I tell him, “but–”
“You didn’t read it?” he asks, nearly yelling at me.
“I was going to,” I lie, remembering the deal I’d made with him. “But every time I wanted to read, you had the book.”
“Oh,” he says, accepting my explanation. “Well I’m done with it now.”
“Good to know. But yes, if he took her clothes off and touched her bosom, and the author faded to black, it’s safe to say they had sex.”
“Is that what girls like you to call their boobs?”
It’s an odd question, but I asked for it. “You know, Will, it depends on the woman. It’s not really an everyday topic of conversation.”
“But they like to be touched there?”
“Some of them, yes. But all preferences in sex are based on the individual. What one woman likes, another may not. You can’t compartmentalize women as one entity. They’re all different.”
“I know,” Will says. “I like the blonde ones.”
“Hair color isn’t all that matters in women.”
“I like blonde ones with big bosoms,” he adds, putting emphasis on the word even he thinks sounds silly. I wonder how old the author is, to use that terminology. It sounds old-fashioned. I’d expect it in poetry, not modern-day fiction.
“Let me be clear: looks are not all that matters in women.”
“Then why’d you pick Livvy Holland? I’d take her, even though she’s not a blonde. Her bosom–”
“We’re not going to talk about her breasts,” I tell my brother quickly. “We’re not going to talk about her at all, in fact.”
“Why’d she kiss that guy?” he says, drying a plate.
I stop what I’m doing and look down at my towel, pulling at the frayed edges. “I don’t know, Will. I wish I knew.”
“Are you broken up?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you wanted to marry her, though.”
“Things change.” I shrug and pick up the silverware, drying each piece meticulously before putting it in the drawer. “People change. All I can do is accept her decision and move on.”
“Does she like him better than you?”
“Does it matter?” I ask, because I think I can say with certainty that she doesn’t. No matter what she did, how could she love him like she loved me?
“If she still likes you, you don’t have to accept the fact that she kissed him. You could get her back. You could tell her to promise never to do it again.”
“Promises are too easily broken,” I say softly, thinking about the letter I’d left in my room. It’s strange that we ended up on this topic. It makes me wonder if Will had gone through my mail.
Before dinner, I only took the time to check out the footnote before joining my family. I know my brother put away some laundry in my room after that.
“Did you read my letter, Will?”
“Huh?” he asks, and I can tell from his face that he did.
“Will, those letters are private, do you understand?”
“If they’re so private, why do you leave them in your desk like that?”
“In my desk. Not on my desk. I put them in my desk to keep them out of sight. Stop going through my things.”
“She says she loves you,” he pleads with me.
“She says that all the time. They’re just words strung into a sentence that no longer means anything to me. But don’t change the subject! I respect your privacy. I expect you to–”
“Jonny?” my mom says, pouring herself a cup of coffee my aunt had made. “Stop yelling at your brother.”
I bite my lip as I finish my part of the dishes. “Stay out of my room from now on,” I tell him on my way out. “And where Livvy’s involved, just stay out of my business.”
“Jon!” my mother cries out to me, trying to summon me back. I can hear the pity in her voice, and I hate it. After quietly shutting my door, I find the letter placed neatly in its envelope in my desk drawer.
I love you, Jon.
Our first Christmas together was eventful, to say the least. The Holland family was going through its share of drama. You fueled that fire and got into a nice argument with my dad, too, and then I said some things that made my home life a little difficult for a few days. There were a lot of moments of passionate conversations, but there wasn’t a whole lot of passionate talk between me and you.
There was sweet talk, though; when I opened up the small box that revealed the beautiful promise ring. You wanted me to have a constant reminder of how much I meant to you. It was a promise to be mine, forever.
Do you remember the promise you made?
Of course I remember it. I never forgot it. I’d hoped the ring would always remind her of my promises, but why didn’t she think of me that day? Why didn’t she consider all she’d be losing by kissing Finn?
I may never understand.
Would you ever honor it again?
Does she have any clue what she’s done to us? Any clue at all? Honor? What does she know about honor?!
I’ll make you any promise, Jon. Any promise in the world. You just have to give me a second chance.
We aren’t finished.
Promises
I feel like I’ve already done that. Didn’t we break up once before? Of course we did. I was mad at her and broke up with her, leaving her to consider the hurtful things she’d done to her father and the awkward position she’d put me in. She was acting like a child; acting like someone I didn’t know.
Have we just come full circle? Again I find her acting like someone I don’t know. She even admitted in my last letter that she’d become someone she didn’t recognize. How could I possibly accept promises from someone who isn’t even true to herself?
SECRETS II
“What’s your temperature?” my mom asks from the doorway before she leaves for her waitressing job before lunchtime.
“It’s 102.3,” I tell her as I fight the urge to swallow because I remember how painful it was the last time. “The medication should kick in soon. That’s what the nurse said anyway.”
“Do me a favor, Jonny, and stay away from Max as much as you can tonight. If he gets sick, they won’t let him in daycare, and I really can’t take a day off since I just started working at Nan’s.”
“Tell me about it,” I complain. “I didn’t want to leave the site this morning, but I thought I would collapse after an hour. I wouldn’t have been able to stay hydrated, anyway, with my throat swollen like this.”
“I can pick up some ice cream later.”
“I got some this morning. But thanks, Mom.” I’m not used to her doing things for other people, and especially not for me. Sobriety is changing her.
“No problem. Just relax and get yourself better. Everyone gets sick from time to time. I’d come give you a hug, but I don’t want to get sick.”
“Thanks,” I say. “The sentiment counts.”
I can hear Will playing his video games for most of the afternoon, even as I weave in and out of restless sleep. I think it’s nice that he doesn’t have to watch Max every day. I’m sure my youngest brother has a lot of fun at daycare, and Will has some time to be a regular teenager. For a few days a week, he only has to be responsible for himself.
In the afternoon, he brings the mail into my room, surprising me with another letter from Livvy. Having all day to m
yself, I miss her more than I usually do. As much as I’ve tried to sleep or focus on other things, the medication is making it hard to actually think. The only thing I’m really able to do is feel. I feel bad. I feel bad physically. I feel bad emotionally, too.
“Want anything?” Will asks.
“I just want to feel better, and I don’t want to get you sick. So get out,” I joke with him.
“Hey, got anymore books to read?”
I raise my eyebrows, then quickly try to hide my astonishment. Pulling my arm out from under the covers, I point to the top drawer of my dresser. “Look in there. Read some of the jackets and see if anything looks good.”
“I like this cover,” he says, flashing The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for me to see, “but it’s too thick.”
“Oh, no,” I argue. “There are five books there. Honestly, Will, I can’t think of a better book for you to read. It’s smart and funny. And I’ve read that one countless times. We could definitely talk about Arthur and Zaphod for hours. Please,” I plead with him. “It’ll be awesome.”
“I can barely carry it,” he whines.
“Then you need to work out more. It’s a book, for Christ’s sake. How wimpy are you gonna look to the fairer sex if you can’t even carry an admittedly oversized book?”
“Wait, is there sex?” He looks very interested now.
“Sure is,” I tell him convincingly.
“You said that last time and there wasn’t.”
“Well, then, I guess you’ll just have to read to find out, won’t you?”
“Whatever.”
“But, hey, Will, there’s so much more to life than sex. That seems to be on your mind a lot these days.”
“You brought it up!”
I don’t think I did, but I realize my mind isn’t very clear. With the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about Livvy today, I very well may have brought it up. It’s been on my mind.
I don’t admit that to my brother, though. “Just go read, Will. And let me know if you want to chat about it. Come tell me when you realize you love the book, okay?”
“Challenge accepted,” he says, nodding his head and leaving my room. He comes back moments later to shut the door.
Grabbing the letter, I struggle to decide whether or not it’s good for me to read it. I already feel beat down and defeated today, thanks to the strep throat. I don’t really need the added feelings of rejection that have accompanied every letter I’ve received from her. No matter what nice thing she says or what sweet memory she reflects upon, the lasting impression I have from each note is the image of her kissing Finn.
I’m too weak to say no today. I miss her too much. The footnote is a repeat of a previous one, which I find curious. I touch the paint surrounding the word to make sure it’s textured. For a second, I thought she’d resorted to making copies of her pleading love notes.
I love you, Jon.
I wish I didn’t love you, Livvy.
I remember your campaign to make my parents like you. You were always so conscientious of things you did and so concerned with how they saw you that your suggestion for Valentine’s Day caught me off guard. My father would never have forgiven you, had he known, so it’s safe to say Mom never told him.
The night before, I was scared. It wasn’t just the fear of getting caught, though. I was afraid of your expectations of the day. I’d kept my plans a secret from you for one main reason. I wasn’t sure what I’d be willing to give that day, and I was scared you’d be expecting me to give you everything. After all, in the four hours of alone time we’d had that week before Christmas, it went further than I’d planned.
She never told me that. Did I push her? Did I make her do something she wasn’t ready to do, because that was never my plan with her. Not sexually, anyway.
So a full day with you–more than twelve hours–I knew the potential was there for things to spiral out of our control. I wanted you in ways I’d never wanted anyone, and you weren’t afraid to tell me how you wanted me. Idle time, no chaperone, and two people in love were all the components required to make love–or to make a big mistake.
Making love to her was never a mistake. I hope she doesn’t think that about any of the times we were together.
On the morning of Valentine’s Day, I woke up with a nagging feeling that we would get caught, and the thought of my father catching us in the act made the act itself much less desirable in my mind that day. As I let the scenario play out in my head, I never could see you and him having another civil conversation, and I knew I didn’t want that to happen. So before you could get your hopes up, I told you how I felt.
No, my hopes were definitely up that morning. I’d bought condoms. I’d showered twice that morning because I was so on-edge. Although we hadn’t said we would have sex, I thought we would. I can’t say I wasn’t planning on it, because I was, but I hadn’t plotted the steps to make it happen. I figured it would be something that came about organically. I figured our making out would naturally lead to it. I figured she would let me try things with her I never had–and on that point, she still did, even if it wasn’t actual sex–and I thought her desire would build as her trust in me did.
But when she said she didn’t want to go all the way that day, I didn’t question her or pressure her. When we did make out, and when she did let me go farther than we had gone before, I had to temper my own thoughts with non-erotic things, like science and stories I’d read. If I hadn’t done that, I think I would have gotten carried away. I would have put her in the position to tell me no, and I didn’t want to hear that word.
I never did that day, and I was proud of that fact.
Even though Mom did figure out where we were that day, I still consider our actions a secret that we kept between ourselves. It was a beautiful day with you, doing things we love on our own and together.
Let’s keep more secrets between us, Jon.
We aren’t finished.
Secrets II
There is no us anymore. Is this a secret I’m keeping from her? Because she certainly doesn’t seem to realize that.
My swollen throat seems to get worse at the end of her letter. The throbbing headache won’t be helped by crying over her again.
Rolling over on my side, I reach to get my Science for Sustainable Development text and open it up to the bookmark. Focus on science. Forget about Livvy.
EIGHTEEN
After work on Saturday, I feel like I could conquer the world. Over the past two days, I simply couldn’t pull my weight. I was weak, and although the fever was gone, my throat still hurt and my head was pounding most of the time while I concentrated on my job. I didn’t ask to leave early, and that option wasn’t offered, either. The fact is, I’ve become someone they depend on at the site.
I like that.
“Will?” I ask my brother as I walk through the living room. “Do you want to go for a run with me? It’s nice out. You look pale.”
“Okay,” he says, putting the large tome face down, bending the spine. I know that bothers some people, but I love to see books showing their wear. It’s a sign of a good book that’s been shared by a lot of people. This particular copy was my father’s, and when it was given to me, it already had evidence of many, many readings by my father. Dogeared pages, coffee stains, even some notes in the column helped me feel more connected with my dad.
We both get changed quickly, passing my mom, aunt and littlest brother on the way out.
“Can I go?” Max asks.
“Buddy, I’ll take you for a lap or two when I get back. Will and I have a lot of ground to cover, and with your short legs, I don’t think you’ll be able to keep up.”
“I could ride my bike.” He could, but I really wanted some time alone with Will.
“Max,” Mom chimes in, “you said you’d help me make some cookies. Remember?”
Max still looks torn, and on the verge of tears. I check my watch. “We should be back just in time, then. You go help M
om, and then I’ll swing by and we’ll work off some cookie dough calories. Sound good?”
“I guess,” he whines.
“Good.”
Will takes off in a sprint, obviously racing me. I’m still taller than him, and stronger, so it’s easy to catch up.
“What’d you do today?”
“We went shopping. For some clothes, and for groceries.”
“Who?”
“Me and Max and Mom.”
“How was it?”
“Okay, I guess. She bought us a lot of stuff. It was cool.”
“Like clothes?”
“Clothes,” he says, “shoes.” I glance down and notice the new Nikes. “Pretty much anything we asked for. Ball caps, DVDs, some books. And then she bought a ton of groceries. So many that Aunt Patty was kind of mad.”
“Mad?”
“She said she was spending too much money.”
“I see. It does sound a little extravagant. I’ve never even owned a pair of Nikes.”
“They’re cool, right?”
“They’re nice.”
“Mom said it was payday, so she had a reason to celebrate.”
“Sounds like she may have some lingering guilt, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know she’s an alcoholic.”
“Yeah?”
“I think now that she’s sober, she’s able to see what she’s been missing in your lives. I think she feels like she has a lot of making up to do.”
“If I get new stuff out of it, that’s fine with me.”
“Don’t go all materialistic on me, Will. They’re just things. Things don’t mean anything.”
“Maybe not to you, but I’m tired of wearing worn shoes that don’t fit me and make me look like I’m homeless. I’m sick of kids making fun of me for wearing your hand-me-downs. I want something of my own. Something nice. Something that makes me look normal.”
Our run slows to a jog.
“Will, I know your life has been tough, but I’ve really tried my best to maintain some sense of normalcy with you and Max. I know I couldn’t always buy you the nicest things, or even new things all the time, but I never sent you out looking homeless. I tried to do right by you. I did.”
