“Yes. Yes, I do.” I don’t think I’m lying. I’m not just saying it so she’ll close that gap and let me kiss her like I so desperately want to. I want her, and I want this relationship to work more than I want anything, other than to never drink again.
When she finally does kiss me, her lips are all the sweeter knowing what we just made it through.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sundays are the one day a week Juliana and I always have off together. Unless we have some plan involving brunch or a drive that requires an early alarm, we stay in bed late and refuse to acknowledge the sun’s come up until we’re satisfied with one another. This morning, however, when I roll over to tuck my arm around her and kiss her until she wakes up, the bed is cool and my arm falls flat, empty. I rub my eyes and see it’s only about nine, but that still feels a little early for her to be awake before me. My girl loves her sleep.
I haul myself out of bed and peek in the kitchen, thinking maybe she’s putting the coffee on. There is coffee percolating already, but I don’t see her until I hear her a minute later. Her voice rings out over a newly started shower, and I’m not sure why I didn’t think bathroom immediately. I shrug it off as still being too sleepy, and pad back to bed. Then her voice changes.
I’ve never heard Jules sing before.
I press my ear to the closed door and listen to the words rise from her throat. She’s singing in Portuguese, not English, but her voice is sharp and clear and, like everything else about her, beautiful. It’s even lovely when she cuts herself off mid-sentence to swear, still in Portuguese, maybe about shampoo in her eye or nicking her leg with a razor. Then she starts up again. I press the door open quietly and slip in without letting too much of the steam from her too-hot shower escape, and silently slip out of my pajamas. When I poke my face around the shower curtain, she turns to me with a smile, like she was expecting me to join her all along. She pulls me under the spray with her and wraps her arms around my neck.
“You sing?”
“Now and then,” she says with a shrug. She leans her head back to rinse the conditioner out of her hair, and I admire the length of her neck and the light stretch of her muscles under her bronze skin. I pull her a little closer, and when she looks up at me, she winks at me in that half-way and then drops her gaze down between us. She gives me a look that’s equal parts amused and a little baffled that I’m, well, totally aroused.
“I liked hearing you sing,” I say in my own defense.
“My singing made you horny?”
“A little. It is also the morning. But I liked listening. Sing again?”
“I can think of way more fun things we can do naked in a shower together.”
“Who says we can’t do both?”
She laughs. She flicks a few strands of her hair plastered to her chest back over her shoulder and wraps her arms tighter around my neck. “Close your eyes, then. I feel weird when people watch me sing.”
I oblige, and the bathroom fills with her voice all over again. I’d go weak at the knees or something if slipping in the shower weren’t so dangerous. But God, the things this girl can do to me. The things I love finding out about her. Her voice overtakes my mind, and I bask in the lyrics I can’t understand.
The only thing about the moment that isn’t perfect is the water turning icy a second later. But then, since it only ends the singing and not the rest of our morning together, what’s the harm?
***
Being with Jules curbs my desire to drink. I haven’t lied about that. But I’m still an alcoholic, still not even a year into recovery, and for all the magic she is in my life, Jules isn’t going to change that all on her own.. The few-and-far-between nights I spend in my bed alone are the worst, but as the weeks wear on, my yearning for a drink (or twelve) comes on a little stronger every day. Every hour, really. If I thought the desire would weaken the closer I got to one full year of sobriety, I was apparently dead wrong.
I suppose I could connect it with what falls next month—the one-year anniversary of Mac dying—but that’s just grief talking. My drinking was bad well before Mac died. More likely it has to do with that crap day I ran into Dylan, who for better or for worse, I’m really beginning to miss. We haven’t been close in a few years. Not coincidentally around the time my drinking started to get really, really bad. But it doesn’t seem all that long ago. We even went and got tattoos together—a Scottish thistle on my left shoulder blade, his inner arm—on our eighteenth birthday.
When it comes to missing my brother, I’m not sure if it helps or hurts that Mattias and Lukas treat me so much like one. We tussle when our conversations get heated, never enough to actually hurt one another, of course, but enough to burn off the testosterone in our bloodstream. Mattias and I tease Lukas about the people he dates. Lukas and I razz Mattias for not getting Anja pregnant yet, when we all know that a baby is something Anja wants above all else, and soon. It’s all in good fun, this sort of guy stuff. It’s good to have them. But I find myself thinking sometimes about how Mattias’s dry humor is similar to Dylan’s. That Dylan and Lukas both wear their hair a little long and shaggy, and are left-handed. It’s comforting and weird at the same time, because eventually I remember that while they’ve taken to calling me “brother” when we’re hanging out, we aren’t actually blood. My bridges with my blood are basically ash on the wind these days.
It’s in support of Lukas that I’m settling in a booth with Jules, Mattias, and Anja at a late-night cafe so far across town, I’m not even sure it’s Denver anymore. The place hosts an open mic night once a month, and we’d all been floored when Lukas announced he was signed up to play. I’d seen a couple of guitars in his apartment on occasion, but I’d figured they were showpieces, not things he actually used. For all I knew, they were left behind by some ex of his, like an old hoodie or pair of underwear. No. Really. You could sell all the items Lukas’s exes have left behind in the past few years and probably pay rent for a month with the proceeds.
What surprises us all when he takes the stage is that, not only can he play, he’s actually good. His ten-minute session blows away most of the other people who’d come before. He’s playing Brazilian songs their father loved and played to them when they were kids, Mattias explains, and as we watch, Juliana hums softly next to me. My mind flits back to the other morning, and I tuck my arm around her hip and rest my head against hers.
Lukas has budgeted his time for three songs, and at the end of his second, he gets easily the most thunderous applause the audience has given any performer. He takes a little mini-bow and smirks in our direction as he plays a few chords. Juliana stiffens next to me and scowls.
“He wouldn’t dare…,” she mutters under her breath.
Mattias bangs the table next to her elbows and laughs. Lukas says into the microphone, “I know she’s not on the signup sheet with me, but I can’t play this song without my sister’s help. She’s a little shy. Can I get a little encouragement for her?”
The crowd applauds again, and I poke her in the side. She swears and shoots both her brothers a death glare. Still, she saunters up and stands next to Lukas at the microphone. When he begins to play, she begins to sing.
It’s a folk song, Mattias explains, one that their father and Juliana used to sing together. But I don’t need the explanation—it’s the same one Jules sung the other morning. She’d asked me to close my eyes, because people watching her made her nervous—but there she is, up on the little makeshift stage, and everyone in the place is staring at her. I’m pretty sure my heart should swell with pride during a moment like this, but instead, a pang of jealousy rips through my gut. Because everyone is watching her. Complete strangers, Anja and Mattias, even Lukas looks up from his guitar and looks at her like she’s the real star of the show. And I wish they wouldn’t. Something baser and far more jealous than I’m proud of kicks in and I wish they’d just disappear, so this could be my moment with her again. It’s not so wrong to want another moment like this with my girlfriend, right?
I’m jealous—every fiber of my being is teeming with jealousy. And I don’t exactly know why.
They’re sent off when the song finishes to a cannonade of applause. Stewing in envy as I am, I excuse myself outside for a cigarette with just a quick nod.
Anja joins me. I wish she hadn’t, because I prefer stewing by myself.
“You okay?” she asks, using the end of my cigarette to light her own because I haven’t lit her one. I’m too irritated to think about it.
“Fine.”
“That’s convincing.”
I groan. “It’s nothing.”
I can tell by the look on her face she doesn’t buy my lie. “Did one of the guys say something to upset you while I went to the bathroom or something?”
“I’m not upset,” I snap.
Her expression turns dour. “Seriously. What’s wrong? You weren’t like this five minutes ago.”
I want to deny things again, but that would be ridiculous. I let my shoulders slump and shake my head. “I just had this thought that that would be something she’d only share with me. She said she was shy about it.”
“What, singing?”
“Yeah. I only heard her do it for the first time the other day.”
“That’s what’s bothering you? You’ve only been dating her a couple of months, Ez. What sort of relationships have everything all out in the open so quickly?
“I didn’t think she’d be so open to singing in front of a room full of people she doesn’t know, all right?”
“That’s a little possessive, don’t you think?”
“I’m not possessive,” I say. “Forget it. You obviously don’t get it.”
I shouldn’t say things like that to Anja. She’s the one person who nearly always gets the shit going on in my head.
“Is everything all right with you since that fight? You haven’t said anything else about it.” Anja says.
“We’re fine,” I insist. “Never better.”
She blows smoke through her nose. “You’re still being careful, right? You’re not… Never mind.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course we’re being careful.”
“I don’t mean condoms. I mean—is it possible you’re replacing booze with sex? With her?”
My left eye twitches. I really wish Anja had stayed inside. “What the fuck?”
“It happens sometimes. It’s something to be cautious of. I don’t want the nitty-gritty about what you two do, but it’s a new relationship. Is it possible?”
It’s a new relationship! I think. Of course we’re fucking like rabbits. That’s what people do when they first get together. “Our sex life is fine, Anja, and none of your damn business.”
“Why are you getting so pissy with me?” She actually sounds hurt—it’s pretty hard to hurt her feelings. She’s not easily riled.
“I’m fine. I just don’t appreciate your nagging.”
She stubs her cigarette out on the wall and shakes her head. “It was a question, you know. I ask you questions sometimes. I’m your sponsor, Ezra. That’s my job.”
“I’ll let you know when I want a drink, Anja. Leave what goes on between me and my girlfriend behind closed doors to me, all right?”
She throws her hands up in the air. “Why don’t you cool off out here and come inside when you feel like being less of an asshole?”
I roll my eyes and puff away at my cigarette as she storms away. The fucking nerve on her.
When I do finally go back inside, I bypass my seat and head towards the bathroom to wash the smoke off my hands. There are two unisex bathrooms, but one has an out-of-order sign on it and the other is locked, so I shove my hands in my pockets and lean back against the wall to wait.
It’s Juliana who breezes out a minute later. She’s shaking her hands in the air to dry them off, and grins when she sees me.
“Is that violinist still playing?” she says in lieu of a greeting, then shudders when a shrill shriek of strings reverberates through the cafe.
“What, you couldn’t hear it in there?” I ask, nodding towards the bathroom.
A devilish grin crosses her face. “Oh, it’s super-quiet in there. Very, very soundproofed.”
Without another word, she’s pulling me through the door and securing it behind us. This isn’t something we do, have ever done, and if my head were on a little straighter, I’d probably tell her no and make our excuses to head out early. But right now? Right now I’m desperate to feel her as mine. As soon as the door closes behind us, I have her pinned to the door with my hips flush against hers.
Her lips are pliant and lush under mine. I slip my fingers into the belt loops of her jeans and press into her further, melting us into each other as our tongues glide together. Her fingertips graze my belt buckle, mine move to lift the bottom hem of her shirt up to wiggle my hands under the cotton garment and find her breasts, pull down the lacy cup, and tweak her nipple until it’s turgid and sensitive. This is the sort of thing teenagers do in a coat closet at a party after a couple of hits from a bong and bad keg beer, not twenty-somethings in a cafe bathroom. But the thought of peeling my hands off her, of pushing her away? Never going to happen now. I want her too badly, and she clearly wants me, too.
I spin her around and back her up until she’s flush with the sink, then lift her by the hips until she’s perched on the edge. Our lips separate with a loud pop to hoist our shirts over our head. I greedily slide the straps of her bra down and nip at the exposed skin. She throws her head back, the most lovely little half-gurgle, half-moan getting caught in her throat before it can slip past her lips. I love that noise. I’d die a happier man than most if that was the only sound I heard for the rest of my life.
I use my teeth as much as my lips, tongue, and fingers as I work her breasts, claiming them with tugs and twists maybe a little harsher than normal. She writhes from where I have her pinned with her shoulders pressed against the mirror, and tugs on the hair at the nape of my neck. An uncomfortable little squeak escapes her throat, so I haul her off the sink and kiss her hard while I work in earnest at the fastenings of her jeans. I wiggle my hand between layers of fabric and her smooth, supple skin to burrow my fingers between her thighs. Another kiss or two, and she’ll be ready. I need her to be ready.
A higher part of my brain says to kiss her the way she likes being kissed after a long day when she wants to forget how shitty the world can be and lose herself in a few minutes of ecstasy. I love kissing her like that, making her feel loved and desired and gorgeous, but that’s not how I kiss her right now. I kiss her like she’s oxygen and I’m drowning, gulping her down like she’s the only thing that can save me. She’s water for a parched throat. She’s sustenance for the starving. I kiss her like she’s everything and if I don’t possess her, I won’t know how to carry on. Her fingers are laced in my hair and her hips are undulating against mine. If my pants were down around my ankles like hers are, we’d be connected by now.
So I can’t wait, and I don’t. It’s painful to stop kissing her, but try as we might, it doesn’t work to stand and do this, and that sink probably can’t be trusted for how this is going to go. I spin her in place, her hips turning willingly under my palms, and whip my pants down to my knees. I half-kiss, half-bite her shoulder and force her forward until her forearms press against the mirror. I can see her mouth fall open when I trail my fingers between her thighs again, nudging them open and tilting her ass upwards. She’s soft and warm and perfect when I sink inside her.
I grasp her hips like she’ll disappear if I let them go, and start a punishing pace—slow is not in my lexicon right now. She feels too good, and the noises coming from her mouth and our skin as it slaps together with each thrust roars in my ears. I attach my mouth to the crook of her neck and force myself to feel everything. This is the one time it’s okay—even better—to feel everything. The flesh of her hips is pliant under my grip. When I look down, I see her face contort in a hundred ways at once, and God, she’s breathtaking when s
he’s like this. She can’t keep her eyes open and she’s so flushed I wonder if she remembers how to breathe. She mutters my name like it’s the only word she remembers.
As I study her face in the mirror, I get a glimpse at my own… and what I see is terrifying. I’m feral. My eyes are crazed, my eyebrows knitted together like I’m possessed. My skin is red and feverish. I almost don’t recognize myself. I look insane.
Maybe I am insane.
“Ezra, God!” Juliana cries, and I feel her clench around me. It snaps me away from looking at myself in the mirror, and I remember I’m the reason she’s making those delicious noises. I clutch her hips tighter and guide us until she’s quivering beneath me and I can barely hold it together. I mutter something obscene in her ear and she nods rapidly. Then, with one final roll and grunt, I’m spilling inside her.
Inside her.
Inside… oh, motherfucker.
I rear back, and the sight of myself uncovered and slick with her jars me. We’re always so good about using condoms. I haven’t been this stupid since….
“Shit. Shit, Jules, I didn’t….”
She must feel the stickiness between her thighs before she whirls around and sees me holding myself in my hands. She holds her hands over her mouth to muffle anything she might say.
A pounding on the bathroom door snaps us into action. After a quick search, we pull our clothes back on. She splashes a handful of cool water on her face while I make sure we haven’t left any actual trace of what we’ve done anywhere, other than the hint of rumpled clothing and swollen lips. She uses a hot, damp paper towel to wipe off the counter where she’d been pinned and I slowly open the door. To either our endless relief or undying horror, it’s Lukas on the other side of the door. He laughs at us at first, but I cut him off by storming past him. If I hear him laughing like that anymore, I might sock him in the jaw.
Anja’s stare when I return to the table is like a sucker punch to the gut.
You’re wrong, Anja, I want to tell her. I’m not using her like that. It just… happened. Unprotected.
The Fix Page 12
