by Leisa Rayven
And just like that, I’m high. Embarrassingly so. I do a little dance and skip up the stairs to the house.
Mom and Dad stop bickering long enough to welcome me home, and I head straight up to my room.
A minute later, I receive a reply.
I laugh before catching myself.
Dammit. Not good.
I miss having sex with him, that’s all. Not the way he brushes my hand in the hallway. Not the secretive affectionate glances he gives me. Not the way he regularly drags me into stairwells or shadowy corners so he can kiss me.
It’s just the sex.
I close my eyes and try to calm my racing pulse as I resist the urge to text him again.
Admitting you have a problem is the first step.
I admit nothing. I don’t miss him.
*
“For crying out loud, Cassie. You’re playing with so much fire, you’re going to be incinerated.”
Exasperation is leaking into Ruby’s tone, and even over the phone I can imagine her eye roll.
We’ve been on the phone for over an hour. She’s told me all about a guy she met over the summer, and after she assailed me with far too many details of their sexual exploits, she started grilling me about Ethan. To say she disapproves of our arrangement would be a massive understatement.
After Ethan and I started hooking up, I tried to keep it a secret from her, but everything went south a few weeks later when she came home unexpectedly to find us naked in the living room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ruby so angry. She stood there and ripped into both of us. Didn’t even let us get dressed, just stood there yelling while Ethan and I did our best to cover ourselves with throw pillows.
After that, she didn’t talk to me for two days. She was mad about me getting involved with Ethan of course, but I think she was even madder I lied about it. Ever since then, I’ve vowed never to keep stuff from her, which kind of sucks because now she asks me if I’m having feelings for him again and I have to tell her the truth.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She makes a disapproving sound.
“What am I supposed to do, Ruby? Cut off all contact?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying to be careful. If you can’t handle being straight-up fuck buddies, then maybe you should cool it for a while. I mean, he hasn’t magically lost all his baggage, has he?”
“No, but I’m not making any moves here. I’m just reacting to his texts.”
“That’s going to be exactly zero consolation if he gets scared again and bails.”
“I know. But he seems . . . different. Bolder. Happier. I don’t know.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose I can’t complain too much. You have been a lot less mopey since you started banging him. Although you owe me money for all the condoms you’ve stolen.”
“I’ll pay you back. Plus, I’m on the pill now.”
“Really? So you two can bang bareback? Great. Can’t wait to walk in on that.”
“I’ve apologized for that a million times.”
“Doesn’t erase the mental images.”
“We weren’t even having sex.”
“You were about to. By the way, did I ever congratulate you on Holt’s cock? I meant to. Very nice. One of the nicest I’ve seen, in fact.”
Despite my newfound sexual confidence, I still manage to blush. “Well, with the sheer volume of cocks you’ve seen, that’s a huge compliment.”
“It sure is. Huuuge.”
We both laugh. I miss her so freaking much.
Unfortunately, I still miss Ethan more.
*
It’s Friday night, and the diner is packed. I’m getting slammed from every side, and although I like to think I can handle it, I’m getting more frazzled by the minute.
“Order up!”
I swipe hair away from my forehead and hurry to collect the plates from the kitchen. Back and forth. Smile and drop.
“There you go. Enjoy.”
The dinner rush seems to go on forever, and by the time I get a break at 8.45 pm, I’m exhausted and starving. I grab a burger and head out the back door to eat it. My phone buzzes with a message.
I laugh and shake my head as I text back.
Goddammit. How the hell do I reply to that?
And I’m back to laughing.
<**(Pretend I’ve invented fist pump emoticon & insert here)** See you in 4 wks. I’ll be the one w/the massive boner.> He signs it with a smiley face with the tag,
I laugh again. All of a sudden I’ve forgotten about the sweat running down my spine, the ache in my feet, and the smear of grill grease on the front of my shirt. Thanks to him, I’m smiling like an idiot, and when I go back inside one of the other waitresses asks if I just got lucky in the parking lot.
*
My parents are yelling again. Bickering like children over inconsequential crap. I’d go out but, as usual this summer, it’s raining. I put in my headphones and turn up my music.
I’m listening to Radiohead. Ethan always puts it on when I’m at his place. When I listen to it, I can almost pretend he’s in the room as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.
My phone rings and when I see his name my mouth goes dry.
He’s calling me. He usually texts.
I let it ring—don’t want to seem too eager. I pick up on the fourth and feign nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Uh . . . hey. Who is this?” Good one, Cassie. Keep him on his toes.
“It’s Ethan. Your caller I.D. would have told you that. Or do you just have me under World’s Greatest Lay?”
Hearing his voice does strange things to me. But I’d never let him know that, so I clear my throat and try to sound bored.
“Oh, hey.” Well, this is awkward. People who aren’t us do this. “Why are you calling?”
“Well . . . I was . . . I don’t know, I was jusht . . .”
“Jusht? Ethan, are you drunk?”
“Not totally.”
“Drunk is like pregnant. You either are or you’re not.”
“Then I’m not.”
“Drunk or pregnant?”
“Both. Although, I don’t know. I’ve missed my period. Pregnancy could be a possibility.”
I smile without meaning to. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. What are the other symptoms of pregnancy? I’m worried now.” His words run together a little. It’s kind of adorable.
When I close my eyes, I can almost picture him lying on his bed, tugging at his
dark, unruly hair. In my vision, he’s shirtless, and the hand that isn’t torturing his hair is somehow not holding the phone but grazing over the grooves between his abs.
“Cassie?”
“Okay, sorry. I think sore breasts?” I hear rustling. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off my shirt so I can check. Wait . . . mmm yes. They are a little sore.”
More fantasy images. This time of him running his hand over his naked chest. It does nothing for my deteriorating composure. “Your . . . pecs are sore?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Maybe you should come home and kiss them better.”
I freeze. Did he call for phone sex? We don’t do that. Or at least, we haven’t yet done that. I mean, he sometimes whispers stuff in class to make me blush, but he doesn’t call me to flirt.
“Cassie? Are you okay?”
Maybe.
It’s unclear.
My chest is tinged with pain.
“I shouldn’t have called.” He pauses. “I was lying here, thinking about you, and . . . I just wanted to talk to you, I guess.”
“Oh.” Ask him why, and see if he has the balls to tell you.
Of course I don’t. What we have is working. We both get off, and no one gets hurt. It’s completely free from “I called because I miss you,” and “I miss you because I love you.”
What we share is an emotional desert with an oasis of sex, and we’re happy with that.
“So,” he says, in an effort to push through the awkward, “what have you been doing?”
“Uh . . . I got a job.”
“Yeah?”
“At the diner. It sucks, but I need the money. What about you?”
“I’ve been pulling some shifts at the construction company I worked at before I got into The Grove. Long hours, but the money’s decent.”
“Uh-huh.”
We lapse into silence. I have the strongest urge to tell him I miss him, but I can’t.
“Well, I’d better go.”
He feels it, too. This is too personal. We can’t just magically become talk-on-the-phone friends. Texting is different. We can pretend to be detached. Anything more, and we’re heading back into areas that are murky and dangerous.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.”
He laughs. “Yeah. No problem. Worked out well. I’ll text next time.”
“Okay. Sure. Bye.”
“’Night, Cassie.”
I hang up and sigh. It’s better this way.
*
After the hideously awkward phone call, I expect not to hear from Ethan for a few days, but that doesn’t happen. He goes from texting a couple of times a week to every day. Sometimes even several times a day. Little things. Things that make me smile. That make me miss him way too much. I always reply. Our text conversations are getting ridiculously long. Of course it would be easier if we spoke, but as with everything in our relationship, we don’t do easy.
As the summer draws to a close, I’m counting down the days until I get back to Westchester. I miss everything about it: my apartment, college, my classmates, Ruby, even Ruby’s atrocious cooking.
Everything.
Especially him.
*
Yet again, I’d gone to bed to the sound of my parents arguing, so the next morning when I stumble downstairs to find them sitting calmly together at the kitchen table, I know something’s up.
“Cassie, honey. Sit down.”
Dad’s cradling a cup of coffee. Mom’s eyes are red. There’s a feeling of finality in the room. Nervousness prickles my spine and makes my throat tight.
“What’s going on?”
Before they say anything, I know.
“Honey, your dad and I have something to tell you. We . . .”
Mom stops. Dad puts his hand over hers and stares down at the table.
“You’re breaking up.”
Mom puts her hand to her mouth and nods. I nod, too. Dad finally looks up at me.
“This has nothing to do with you, kiddo. Your mom and me . . . we’re not good together. We love each other, but we can’t live together anymore.”
I clench my jaw. I’m not going to cry. I concentrate on the empty plate in front of me while they tell me how it’s going to work. Dad’s going to stay in the house. Mom’s going to move in with her sister. During holidays and vacation time, I’ll switch between them.
They ask if I’m okay. I tell them I am.
Mom tries to make me eat breakfast. I take one bite of toast and feel like I want to throw up. I excuse myself to go shower.
When the spray runs over my face, I pretend I’m not crying.
*
I sigh and berate myself for moping. It’s stupid to feel like this. I’m nearly twenty-one years old for God’s sake. I shouldn’t feel devastated that my parents are separating, especially since I’ve known for years they’d be better apart.
And yet, I am.
Thinking of coming home and not having them under the same roof makes me unreasonably sad. Imagining Mom moving out of the home where I was born and starting a new life without my dad makes me sad. Dad having to fend for himself for the first time since he was my age makes me sad.
As they drive me to the airport, I continue to act like I’m okay with it.
I hug them goodbye and tell them I’ll see them at Christmas, and then I wonder where we’ll even be spending it this year. Will we all get together?
The rest of my trip passes in a blur. I get on a plane. Doze. Get off. Sit glassy-eyed, waiting for my connection. Get on another plane.
I feel displaced. Lonely.
I spoke to Ruby last night. Explained what had happened. I tried to sound blasé, but she could hear something in my voice. She offered to cut her weekend short and pick me up from the airport, but I couldn’t do that to her. She’s happy with her new guy and deserves to savor the last few days of freedom before classes start. The last thing she needs is to have to console the latest victim of America’s epidemic divorce rate.
When the plane lands, I wait until everyone else has passed before grabbing my backpack and making the long walk to the exit. The flight attendants are annoyingly perky as they bid me goodbye and hope I’ll fly again with them soon. All around me in the airport, people are hugging and kissing, greeting loved ones. I pause to watch them, partly because they’re blocking my way, but mostly because just observing them makes me feel like some of their happy might rub off on me. At any rate, I’m not in any hurry to take a cab back to my empty apartment.
When the family in front of me finally moves, my breath catches as I see a familiar figure standing on the other side of the arrivals area. Tall. Unruly hair. Dark clothes. Pensive face. He seems nervous, like he’s unsure if I’ll be mad about him being there.
I’m not. In fact, I’m so happy, I could cry. My heart swells.
When he sees me, he must recognize my sappy expression, because he pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks toward me.
He looks good. So very good.
He moves sinuously, but with a sense of repressed urgency. Like he’s trying not to run over and swing me around in front of all of these people.
There’s so much I want to do to him. So much I want to say.
When he stops in front of me, he takes my backpack and places it on the ground. Then he wraps his arms around me, and gently pulls me against him. I hug his neck, and when he says, “I’m sorry about your parents. That fucking sucks,” I press my forehead into his shoulder to stop myself from crying. Ruby must have told him. I should have known that if she couldn’t be here, she’d make sure someone was.
The people around us slowly dissipate, and I just stand there and let him comfort me.
As much as I’ve craved sympathy today, until this moment I didn’t realize how much I
needed it to be from him.
He holds me and strokes my hair, and when he whispers, “I’ve missed you,” and I whisper it back, the delusion that we’re just fuck buddies goes down for the count.
*
By the time we get back to my apartment, it’s late and I’m exhausted. Ethan opens the door and carries my suitcase to my bedroom. Then he turns around and hugs me. He’s so warm and feels so good, I sag against him, almost drifting off. Only a thick layer of travel grime prevents me from fully relaxing.
“I need to shower.”
“Okay. You want me to make you something to eat?”
“We have no food.”
“I could go out and get something.”
He needs to stop with the sweetness. I’m in enough trouble here as it is.
“No, thanks.” I push him to sit on my bed. “Just . . . stay. I won’t be long.”
I grab my robe and head into the bathroom. When the warm water hits my skin, it feels so good I moan. I lather everything twice, then get out and brush my teeth.
When I get back to the bedroom, he’s exactly where I left him. He watches as I approach, his stare telling me how much he wants me. The familiar rush of power is back, but it’s accompanied by something else. A deeper need. Something I haven’t let myself feel for a long time. It makes my skin tingle and my heart flutter, because I know this is one of those moments that is going to define something. Me.
Us.
The thought makes me freeze in my tracks. We’ve been here before, and in the past I was always the one who put myself out there.
Not this time.
If he wants it, he’s going to have to ask for it. If he doesn’t, I have to walk away before my heart gets even more scarred.
I wait. He barely hesitates before standing and walking to me. He takes my hands and pulls me to him. Cups my face. Kisses me. So gently. Warm lips and soft tongue. Within seconds, an aching heat is twisting in my veins, but I don’t let it take over. He needs to steer us this time. If I hang back, I can decide if I’m willing to go where he leads.
His kisses become hungrier, but still deliberate. It’s like he knows any misstep will make me run, and he’s determined to not let that happen. He leaves one hand on my face as he tugs at the belt on my robe and slowly unthreads it. Fingertips brush across my chest as he pushes it open and off my shoulders, and it slumps to floor. I feel too naked, but I stand there and fight the fear as he claims every inch of terrified, goosepimpled skin in a way that’s so much more than just sexual.
