Shameless

by Nina Lemay

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve only been here for a year and a half.”

  He laughs. “I remember when I was your age. A year and a half was about forever.”

  “How old are you anyway?”

  “Thirty-two this winter.”

  Yikes. Eleven years older than me. That’s not weird. Is it? Why do I even care enough to do the mental math?

  “Well, there was school to keep me busy. And then…” and then there was work, but I refrain from saying it. “I hated it back home. I wouldn’t have stayed, not even if—”

  I cut myself off again. What the hell is wrong with me? Why is it that I managed to go for the first year and a half without a single person knowing more than my first name, and suddenly I’m spilling my guts?

  He doesn’t call me on it. “Small towns are tough,” he says with a shrug. “I grew up in a village not far from Quebec City. I used to think it was the highest form of sadism, to raise a kid in a place with more ducks than people his age.”

  I giggle. “And what about now?”

  “What about now? Now I wish my parents hadn’t sold the house for less than the price of a new Toyota to the first person who offered to buy. I would have had a place to get away to. Where it’s quiet.”

  We walk side by side for a while, even though the sidewalk is narrow and crowded. It pushes us closer together until my shoulder brushes against his, and before I know it he’s threading his fingers through mine.

  “So,” he says after a while. I don’t notice that he stops, and my hand breaks away from his for a moment before he catches it again. He nods at a small terrace of a café, with a lineup in front of it that snakes all the way down the sidewalk.

  “Ice cream? Please don’t tell me you’ve lived here for a year and a half and never been to Bardot’s.”

  “Bardot’s?” I can’t hold back the giggles.

  “Oh, my God, you haven’t.” He pretends to raise his eyes heavenward in horror. “Get in line, you ignoramus. This is the best confiserie in town.”

  “That’s not how you pronounce ignoramus.”

  “I knew you’d get stuck on that.”

  We walk to the end of the line, holding hands. The people in front of us don’t spare us a glance, talking amongst themselves, the girls fanning their bare shoulders. I get on tiptoes to see how far we are from the entrance.

  And then I glimpse a face on the other side of the line. It has the effect of the proverbial bucket of ice over my head. I flop on my heels and spin around.

  “That bad?” Emmanuel asks jokingly. I shush him.

  “What?” he asks in a hushed voice. I turn to face away from the street. “What is it?”

  “Audrey,” I mutter. Shit. Shit shit shit.

  “Who?” it takes him a beat, but then I see his smile fade as he remembers. “Ah, calisse.”

  I thought he’d pull his hand out of mine like it was on fire—that would have been the natural reaction, not to mention the sane thing to do. But instead he grips my hand tighter, so hard I think my fingers might snap like matchsticks. He turns around and starts down the street, in the opposite direction, pulling me after him.

  “Wait!” I hiss. But he leads me past the line to the street corner, and we turn into an alley. He stops next to some giant recycling bins and a stack of boxes. Here, it’s dark, and the din of the main street is distant, faded. I can hear our mismatched breathing.

  “Think she saw us?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Is that bad?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting. We’re all adults here, and I can technically socialize with whoever I want. And grab an ice cream with whoever I damn well please.”

  “Who are you trying to convince?”

  “We’re not doing anything wrong, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Oh.” The smile creeps nervously back into the corners of my lips. “So you’re just worried that she won’t have such a crush on you anymore, if she sees that you’re that flirty with all your students.”

  He doesn’t find it funny. “It’s a small class, Hannah. I just want to avoid unnecessary drama.”

  “Gee, all you’d have to do is take her out for ice cream tomorrow night. There, crisis averted.” I try to make it a joke, but something about the words stings. And not just me, from the look of it. He lowers his head until shadow falls over his face and I can’t see his eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “What?” my voice quivers, the forced cheer in it rings hollow.

  “I overstepped the boundaries.”

  Stunned, I look at him. I’m so tempted to take that tiny extra step to cover the distance that separates us, to tilt his chin up until he’s looking me in the eye. I want to know what’s on his mind, what he’s thinking and feeling. But at the same time I’m painfully aware that whatever it is, it’s none of my business.

  He said so himself.

  “You wanna go to the car?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I want to sound like I’m cool with it. But I’m not. And for someone who pretends to want to fuck ugly old men for eight hours a night I sure suck at faking it.

  “What about that ice cream?” my voice is subdued.

  “Another time. Bardot’s will still be there tomorrow.”

  I hang my head and follow him. We don’t go back out on the main street, for obvious reasons, so I trudge behind him down a poorly-lit side street. The weeds and vines from people’s front yards spill out onto the sidewalk; the air is filled with the scent of late-blooming flowers and earth, not stifled by the stink of cars. Streetlights far above cast a flickering orange light over everything, turning it all into a strange twilight world. A cat darts across the sidewalk in front of us; I wonder if it’s black?

  Then again, can my luck get any worse?

  The car beeps in greeting, jolting me out of my thoughts. Mutely, I get into the passenger seat.

  “So where to?” he asks, starting the engine.

  “Huh?”

  “Where do I take you?”

  “Well…” I trail off, cluing in to what he means—where’s home?

  “Just take me to Berri-UQAM station,” I say.

  “You’re not thinking of walking. It’s late.”

  I clench my fists, even though I’m sitting on my hands and he can’t see. “I can walk. It’s only a few minutes from the subway and it’s not that late.” And I can stand up for myself. I’m not a baby.

  “It’s not a good neighborhood.”

  “Look, if I get mugged in an alley, I absolve you of all responsibility,” I say. I guess a little bit of all that bitterness seeps onto my tongue and into my words, because his gaze darts from the street ahead to me and back.

  “I didn’t save you from passing out in a club only for you to get mugged in an alley.” I hear a hint of a smile in his words.

  “You just want to know where I live,” I snap. I stare out the window though I can’t see a damn thing past my slightly distorted reflection. When he doesn’t deny it, I look up.

  “Is that so wrong? You know what brand of shampoo I use. I can’t know what street you live on?”

  “Whatever happened to overstepping?” I stare at my tightly clenched knees, regretting what I said. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

  “It’s not the same,” I mutter. “You brought me there. You didn’t have to, you could have just left me on the sidewalk in front of the ER.”

  “First of all,” he says levelly, “I never would have done that, no matter who you were.”

  I curse myself. Of course he wouldn’t. He’s Emmanuel. He’s the freaking knight in a white Audi.

  “Second of all,” he drives out onto the main street and takes off with a faint roar of the engine. Gravity squishes me into the leather seat. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. “Second of all, I don’t think you realize this, but I actually have a lot more to lose over this than you do.”

  “Oh yeah?”

&
nbsp; “You don’t believe me?”

  No, I don’t, because I’m not as naïve as he thinks and I have a rudimentary understanding of how the world really works. That men are forgiven all and welcomed back with open arms and women are branded as sluts, as whores, as untouchable and undesirable and cast out, forever, with no forgiveness and no redemption. Society doesn’t want them. Guys like Emmanuel won’t date them.

  But luckily I don’t have time to put all this into words, because he goes on.

  “You think you could get into hot water because of your job? Maybe. Maybe that’s how it works back where you came from, but here? If, say, you did decide to file a complaint against me—with the police, with the school—and say that I drugged you, took you to my place and raped you? They’d believe you. I’d lose my job… best case scenario. So if anything, I should be the one doing everything I can to appease you.”

  “I’d have no proof,” I say. My voice is hoarse.

  “Doesn’t matter. They always believe the woman in these things.”

  “God,” I choke on a bitter laugh. “Are you kidding me? What planet are you from?”

  “That’s how it works. Here in this province at least. I’m not saying it’s perfect, but you’d get the benefit of the doubt, almost for certain.”

  I dig my fingers into the leather seat under my thighs. “Wow,” I sputter. “You really have no idea how this works, do you.”

  “I just told you how it works.”

  “That’s only words, Emmanuel. Words. Actions are different.”

  “How so?”

  “Yeah, yeah, say we do live in some crazy fantasy utopia and you lose your job and everyone believes poor little me, even though I have no physical proof and I take my clothes off for a living. You think that’s it? Sure, they’ll follow through with their protocols. The big bad teacher leaves. And then what? I’d just be that stupid drunk whore who got the favorite professor fired. Who probably lied about the whole thing anyway, and oh, make sure you don’t sit too close to her, you might catch gonorrhea. My life is going to be discussed and dissected on every social network in existence. Even if they don’t kick me out of school, how long do you think before I quit of my own accord?”

  I fire off the last word and collapse against the back of the seat. My chest is rising and falling like I ran a 5K and heat creeps over my cheeks.

  He’s silent. Thank God. I don’t know what I’ll do if he starts to grill me, to try and puzzle out where that came from, to analyze and overanalyze my words.

  “Wow,” he finally says. “You really are bitter, you know that?”

  I stare straight ahead, at the highway unfolding in the beams of the headlights. Stunned.

  “Me? Bitter? Maybe you’re the one who’s out of touch. I’m just realistic.”

  “Boy, then I’m glad I’m not realistic,” he says. Anger boils within my chest. Is this a joke to him?

  “You don’t have to be,” I say grimly. “You’re a man.”

  He turns onto an exit ramp and stops at a traffic light. The blazing red gets in my eyes and I shield them with my hand. He doesn’t say a word. He won’t even look at me.

  “I get it,” I say. “Ugly depressing shit. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “No,” his reply surprises me. “I’m not someone who sticks his head in the sand to avoid ugly depressing shit, as you put it.”

  “Then what?”

  “I just didn’t think it was any of my business and you didn’t seem like you wanted to share anyway.”

  A lump rises in my throat. I’m glad he’s not looking at me. The light changes to green and he drives on.

  “So. This is it, the metro. Which exit should I leave you at?”

  Spoken so lightly, casually, like he’s nothing more than an extremely handsome, articulate cabdriver and I’m a troublesome fare. How did we get here so soon? It hasn’t even been five minutes.

  I gulp. I’m not going to ask him to drive me to my street. I’m not.

  “Right here.” I grip the seat tight. “Right here is fine. This is actually closer to my place than the subway stop.”

  Slowly, he pulls the car into a parking spot. The street is dark and empty. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the door?”

  I’m not.

  He undoes his seatbelt. I undo mine. If I was a normal person, this is where I’d tell him I had a really nice time, or some such platitude. Nice seeing you, I’ll text you. Well, you have my Facebook… just drop me an email, all right?

  “I’m not trying to convince you to do anything,” he says. “Either way, it looks like I’m too late.”

  “Too late for what, exactly?”

  He shrugs. I can’t see his face very well in the dark, but his voice sounds sad.

  “You are how you are. It’s not my job to try and change you and besides, you’re an adult. It’s just, how do you say… it’s a shame.”

  The word scorches me like a branding iron.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, you’re so young. You have everything ahead of you and you already decided to be set in stone.”

  “I am not—”

  “I don’t miss being twenty, you know. I thought I knew everything and it turned out, well...” He chuckles sadly.

  “That’s condescending,” I choke out. “I’m not some delusional child.”

  “I never said you were. But if you keep clinging to this vision of the world that you have, you will never have a chance to find out different. And I just think… that would be sad.”

  His gaze meets mine. His eyes look deep green again, dark and intense.

  I don’t know if the world is really different from what I see. That sounds like a bad philosophy paper by a first-year. How much of what we perceive is real, blah blah blah. Is there really more to the world than what’s inside my head?

  I look into his eyes and wonder what he’s seeing right now. Probably not the same thing I see in the mirror every morning, it can’t be. There’s your proof of all the solipsistic theories in the world, because he looks like he wants to kiss me.

  His hand slides, hesitant, across the edge of his seat as he leans closer. The black ink of the letters on his knuckles is stark against his skin.

  “Show me,” I say.

  And he kisses me. Our lips don’t meet smooth and choreographed like in movies. The stubble on his cheek grazes the corner of my mouth, leaving behind a burning trail, and then his lips cover mine. Nothing hesitant about them. Assertive, self-assured like I thought his kiss would be, the promise of those strong hands and broad shoulders and arrogant posture made real. But he’s anything but arrogant. He gently nips on my lower lip and his hands caress my neck, my jaw, cup my face. He’s holding me like I’m something fragile and precious. I see the long shadow his eyelashes cast over his cheekbone, the dots of stubble, the slight creases in the corners of his eyes as his eyebrows furrow in concentration.

  I’m afraid to close my eyes.

  He has that lavender scent, sharp and clean, with a note of wild muskiness lurking underneath when you get close enough—that note that’s just him. I don’t know what to do with my hands so I slip them under his jacket and put them on his waist, right above his belt. I finally start to sketch out what his body looks like under his shirt: sinewy and fit and hard.

  His hands finally move on, mirroring mine, down to my bare belly exposed by my cropped top. The little hairs along my spine stand on end. An involuntary shudder courses through me, making my abs tighten and quiver. His hand finds the small of my back and settles there, guiding me forward with smooth confidence, pulling me toward him. The heat of his palm melts through my skin into my bones and up my spine, softening my muscles until my entire body feels like hot wax held together by a membrane of skin. I tuck my hand under his belt, just the fingertips—past the hem of his shirt where the pads of my fingers find hot, smooth skin over taut muscle.

  He groans softly into my mouth. I lean in and slide onto his l
ap, barely aware that I’m clambering over a car seat. It’s just so smooth and natural, the grooves of our bodies clicking together like a jigsaw puzzle. His hands on my waist, spreading goosebumps all over my belly, up my back and down my arms; then they move up, up, under my top, stopping when they find my bra. Pausing, hesitant.

  I kiss my way along his jaw and his neck, peel away the collar of his shirt to continue down his clavicle. His hand settles over my bra and I can feel its heat through the fabric, a tiny little jolt of sensation that lights up my nerve endings like a Christmas tree.

  My mind floats up, under the closed sunroof of the Audi, and watches me from there, impassive. I’m aware of everything I’m doing, too aware, but I don’t stop. My body continues like an automaton, the lips, the hands, performing the motions. Like I’m a car on cruise control, easing into the familiar mode. I know what happens next.

  A part of me, very deep down, hopes I don’t.

  Only one way to find out.

  I go for his belt buckle, find it, tug on it. It yields with a soft clink.

  And just as I’m about to stick my hand down his pants, he pulls away.

  “’Annah,” he pants. His hand slips out from under my shirt and dives down to catch my wrist. His fingers wrap around my wrist bone, strong and firm.

  Maybe it’s the touch that zaps me back into my body, disrupts my functioning. The false step that throws off the whole routine, the bad note that ruins the aria.

  “What?” I whisper. My body’s nerves settle into normal mode one by one.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “This isn’t right. This is… overstepping.”

  I sit back. I’m still balancing with my shins on his legs—kind of like at work when I lean in, my hair brushing over a customer’s face, and ask in a seductive whisper if he wants another dance.

  I blink at him in utter dismay. Thrown off. Tossed overboard into unfamiliar territory and I don’t know what to do.

  But I want to be doing this, I start to say. We aren’t doing anything wrong. Is this because of what I said earlier—I didn’t mean anything by it.

  And there are other reasons, crowing happily from the back of my mind. But I try to shut them out.