The Wedding Season

by Kayley Loring

  He suddenly lifts me up, carries me in his arms, over to the bed, and gently places me down on it. I lay there looking up at him, in my bra and panties. He pulls off my shoes, removes his bowtie, unbuttons his shirt. “I’ll kiss you and touch you for as long as you can take it. And when you want me to fuck—I will.”

  “Deal.” I sit up to unzip his pants. I can’t wait for him to do any and all of those things. When his pants fall to the floor, he reaches around to unhook my bra, tossing it aside.

  He leans down into me, so I lay back. He slowly removes my panties, and I feel so unsettled, lying here, completely naked, while he gazes down at me.

  “You are so beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

  I shrug and wriggle around, silently willing him to ravish me.

  He is kissing my neck, warm tongue swirling, lips sucking, teeth lightly biting. “Erin Duffy, you are beautiful and I want you to know it.” One of his hands is on the small of my back, while the other strokes my breast, my abdomen, my hips, the curve of my bottom, my thighs, gliding across my skin so lightly, surveying the landscape of my body with a tenderness that is unnerving—even for New York Me—but also so sensual.

  He kisses all around my breasts, my stomach, while I lie here trembling in anticipation but also in fear because this feels so intimate and real. No one has ever taken in my body like this before. I feel like I’m losing my intimacy virginity, and I don’t know if I’m ready for this sort of thing. Or maybe I’m not ready for this sort of thing with Scott Braddock.

  “You can’t stop thinking, can you?” Scott sounds a little bemused, but mostly disappointed.

  “I just…” I just can’t handle the truth. “I want you inside me.”

  “Is that what you want?” He licks me once, between my legs. It sends a shockwave through my entire body.

  “Yes.”

  “You just want me to fuck you.” He sounds angry and judgmental. Shouldn’t he be thrilled?

  I open my eyes and glare at him. “I’m not going to apologize for that.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Good.” I close my eyes and he disappears from the bed for a moment. Did I make a mistake? Am I pushing him away? What kind of idiot refuses the opportunity to have a man make sweet love to her?

  My thoughts are silenced when I feel the weight of him on top of me and he slides into me, feeling somehow bigger and stiffer than ever before. I gasp, feeling the hot sting, but welcoming the contact again, finally.

  This friction between us is what my body and mind craves. Is it so terrible that my heart is taking its time learning to crave anything more? Isn’t that something to be proud of?

  He inhales sharply through his teeth, then holds his breath, pressing into me, slowly building up to a rhythm, his body flat against mine.

  I hike my feet up, rest them on the backs of his thighs, and wriggle around, subtly changing angles. We are usually so much more athletic in our encounters, but he is so deep inside of me this time, fearlessly reaching a hidden part of me that needs to be reached. This time, it’s not like he’s giving me an orgasm—-thrusting it at me—it’s like he’s offering to let me take it.

  The dull pressure at the center spreads through me slowly, alternately pulling me inwards and towards him. It feels like I’m drowning and being rescued by him at the same time. I let out a sigh—of relief. Yes, my body is saying, yes, this is how it’s supposed to feel, keep going.

  Instinctively, our hips begin to rock faster.

  “Erin,” he whispers.

  “Shhh.” I hold his face and I kiss him, sucking on his tongue until I have to cry out because I am so overwhelmed. I say his name. Over and over and over.

  This must be what ecstasy feels like.

  My eyes are wide open. I look up at the ceiling, holding him tight when he comes. The sounds he makes are so beautiful—masculine and vulnerable—and I continue to hold him while my orgasms go on and on and on. Not fireworks, but warm waves of energy, and he holds onto me, absorbing all of it, and feeling pretty damn good about masterfully giving me what I didn’t even know I wanted, I’m sure.

  Chapter 18

  *Scott*

  When I asked Courtney to marry me it was because I felt an external familial pressure to do so. The drive I’m feeling now is entirely due to who Erin is and what she says and does and it’s all coming from me. It’s what I want.

  She’s what I want.

  I can imagine growing old with her. I can imagine arguing with her about what to watch on Nick at Nite. I can imagine arguing with her about which books to read to our grandkids. I can imagine arguing with her about whether I should take Viagra or Cialis. I guess I can only imagine growing old and arguing with her—but in a happy sexy way.

  Last night was amazing. Last night was different. Last night was more than just sex, that was a real connection—despite how much she struggled with it. Going so deep inside of her, hearing her say my name when she came. That was a first. She’s let her guard down with me here, and I love it. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone as much as I want to be with her, and it’s not just the craving I feel, of wanting to have her, I actually want to know her. I can’t wait to hear what she’s going to say next.

  “You’re watching me sleep, aren’t you?” Her eyes aren’t open. Her voice is scratchy.

  “You aren’t asleep.”

  “It’s still creepy.”

  “But you’re so sweet when you’re unconscious.”

  She opens her eyes and crosses them, sticking her tongue out at me.

  I’m so glad she’s awake because I’ve been waiting forever to kiss her, it seems.

  We’re lying in bed facing each other, holding hands, playing with each other’s fingers.

  When she held my hand under the table while my brother was being a dick to me—that was one of the best things anyone has ever done for me. Such a small quiet gesture, but it felt like she was lighting up a big neon sign that said: “Don’t worry, I’m here for you.” A thing like that, that means everything to me, it’s making me want to be everything to her. I’ve never felt this before. I’d do anything for her now, if she asked me.

  “Tell me something about you. Something important.”

  “I haven’t worn shorts in public since I was in high school.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t like the feeling of wind on my bare legs.”

  She laughs. A lot.

  “I’m serious.”

  “What do you wear to the beach?”

  “Full-length linen pants.”

  She can’t stop laughing. She ducks down beneath the sheets and blows on my legs.

  “Stop! I hate it! Oh God! It’s terrible!” I cover my legs with the sheets.

  “Aww you’re weird. I love that.”

  That’s the first time she’s ever said the word “love” in relation to something about me. I can tell it makes her feel vulnerable.

  “I love that I made you laugh.” She rolls her eyes. It’s a cheesy line, I know. But I’m feeling really cheesy. “Tell me something important and weird about you.”

  She thinks about it for about twenty seconds. “Okay. I was celibate for nearly a year before we had sex that first time.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “What?! How did you know?”

  “Um. I asked Maya.”

  “What?! Before or after the sex?”

  “Before.”

  “She never told me that!”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t believe our best friends are dating. That’s an important and weird thing.”

  “What’s so weird about it?”

  “I mean. You know. Because. You.”

  “Ahh. Say no more. Now tell me something else.”

  “You tell me something else.”

  “Okay. You’re a pain in the ass.”

  She reaches behind herself, grabs a pillow and smacks
me in the head with it.

  I continue: “But you’re my favorite pain in the ass.”

  “Aww.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry I smacked you.”

  “I forgive you.”

  I grab the pillow and smack her with it. “Now tell me something else.”

  “Okay. Ummm…Okay. You know I grew up in Boise.”

  “Yes, you’ll have to tell me something else.”

  “And in the summers, when I was growing up, we’d go to Priest Lake. It’s so beautiful, we’d rent a cabin and go boating and fishing and swim in the lake. And one year, when I was seven, there was a wedding photo shoot on the dock. The bride and groom and bridesmaids and groomsmen were dressed really cool and hipster-ish, all matching and nice, but I could tell they hired the wrong wedding photographer because he was really uptight and kept telling them to stand a certain way like in prom photos and they were all getting annoyed and it was really bugging me because they looked like the coolest wedding party ever, so I got up, in my bright yellow one-piece bathing suit, and I held my towel around my head like a veil and I started yelling “HERE COMES THE BRIDE! HERE COMES THE BRIDE!” and I ran down the dock and jumped into the water, in front of them, and they were laughing so hard, and that’s the shot that the photographer used on his website, and it’s still up there to this day.”

  “Show me immediately.”

  She grabs her phone, giggling, types in a web address and shows me the picture of this great-looking wedding party on a dock, and pretty little insane-looking seven year old Erin Duffy mid-air, jumping into the water while they all laugh. It’s an amazing photo, and I can actually feel my heart bursting out of my chest.

  I examine the background of the photo. Priest Lake does look beautiful. I look up at her, at Erin, and—miracle of miracles—she’s smiling at me. She’s smiling at me, the way she was smiling that first time that I saw her in Boston. The way I always wanted to make her smile.

  Erin Duffy owns my heart.

  “You want to get married there, don’t you?”

  She blushes and tries to frown. It’s adorable. “I don’t know. Yeah. I mean, I used to. It’s not something I think about anymore.”

  Liar. You’re thinking about it now, that’s why you brought it up. I try to imagine my family, in their formal attire, at a lake in Idaho.

  Then my phone starts vibrating and I remember, even before I look at the text from my Mom. “Shit. We have to have brunch with my parents.”

  “When?”

  “In like an hour. Uptown.”

  “At a restaurant?”

  “At my parent’s place.”

  “You’re telling me this now?”

  “Sorry, I forgot. My mom invited us last week. Family thing. Sorry I couldn’t get out of it.”

  “Are you sure you want me to go?”

  “I’m not going without you.”

  “Is there time for me to shower?”

  “Yeah, if you’re fast. We’ll leave in forty-five minutes. Shit wait. We have to pack and take our stuff and go to JFK straight from my parents’ place.”

  She punches my bicep. “Oh my God! I can’t believe you didn’t warn me about this! What should I wear?!”

  “It’s just brunch, you can wear whatever. Wear that dress of yours that you were going to wear to the wedding.”

  “Oh thanks. My go-to fancy dress is a Sunday family brunch dress in this world?”

  “Well. Don’t ask me then.”

  “Should we bring anything?”

  “Emotional armor.”

  “So your brother will be there?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Did you guys ever get along?”

  “Yeah. Sort of. Until I went through puberty and he decided I wasn’t his cute little brother anymore.”

  “You are definitely still his cute little brother.”

  She’s scrambling around the room, tossing things into her weekender bag. She’s so sweet, I want to throw her back onto the bed, but we can’t leave a family wedding early and arrive late to a family brunch within a twenty-four hour period.

  The Lyft car drops us off outside my parents’ Park Avenue co-op building at 9:57.

  Erin stares up at the yellow-white brick-façade high-rise. “It looks like the building from Ghostbusters.”

  “It is.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just kidding. That building’s on Central Park West. This is the Upper East Side.”

  “You grew up here?”

  “Not this building exactly, but this neighborhood. They got a two-bedroom when I left for Emerson.”

  “Down-sized, huh? My parents live in the same three-bedroom house that I grew up in. My mom refuses to redecorate my old room. I’m fairly sure it’s because they fully expect me to return to them and manage my Dad’s sports equipment store any day now.”

  “That’s because they’re nice parents. Mine got a two-bedroom—one of which is my Dad’s study—so I wouldn’t have a separate room to live in when my writing career inevitably crashes and burns.”

  She makes a pouty face and pats me on the back.

  At least my parents remembered to alert the doorman about my impending arrival, unlike the last time I visited. So far so good. Erin seems to hold her breath all the way up ten floors, until the elevator doors open onto the semi-private landing that leads to my parents’ door. They have not left it open. I hold my fist up to the door, waiting until I get the nod from Erin before actually knocking.

  Ten seconds later, Carter opens the door. He’s holding a glass of Bloody Mary. My father refuses to drink Mimosas, which he deems “too fruity.” Carter says nothing and gestures for us to enter.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Howdy,” says Erin.

  “Welcome,” he mutters. “You’re late.”

  “No we aren’t. Mom said ten.”

  “She told me nine-thirty.”

  “That’s because you’re always late.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  Erin doesn’t seem to even notice that I’m six years old all of a sudden, or that my brother has disappeared to the living room, because she is staring at all of the art in the entrance gallery.

  “Hellooooo! Come on in, be right with you!” Mom sings out from the kitchen, as though she was at a ranch making buttermilk pancakes. I happen to know they ordered delivery from a crepe place, because they always get delivery from the crepe place. She’s busy posting and tagging pictures from last night on Facebook. A bouncy Michael Buble tune is piped in from the in-ceiling speakers. I don’t think they listen to anything else. It’s like a dentist’s office, but unfortunately without the anesthesia.

  “Is that a real Basquiat?” Erin asks in a hushed voice.

  “It is.”

  “Surprisingly eclectic art collection.”

  “I know. They collect art as an investment. They mostly make their selections based on potential resale value.”

  “Not so surprising.”

  “Good morning, writers!” My dad is probably on his third Bloody Mary by now.

  “Good morning, sir.” Erin curtsies, and I can tell she immediately regrets it, but I will remember the moment forever, because my Dad curtsies back.

  “I hear you wrote The West Wing! I’ve been told by more than a few people that I remind them of Martin Sheen.”

  “They probably meant in Apocalypse Now,” I quip.

  My Dad stares blankly at me for a few seconds, and I expect to be written out of the will, but he actually bursts out laughing. It has been years since I made him laugh. “Very good,” he says, indeed sounding like Martin Sheen. “Very good.”

  I am one hundred percent sure he doesn’t realize that it was funny because Sheen’s character is totes crazy in that movie, but rather he’s flattered because Martin Sheen was young and fit in it. Regardless, I will take what I can get. Carter is
turning green with envy, or possibly from alcohol poisoning. He makes a call, probably to his girlfriend, to ask why she isn’t here. It doesn’t look like she’s answering, so he hangs up without leaving a message. He is not a happy bro.

  Erin stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear: “Your family doesn’t actually think I’m Aaron Sorkin, do they?”

  “Hard to say. Even if you were, it wouldn’t change their opinion of screenwriters.”

  My Mom ushers us into the dining room, compliments Erin on her pretty dress, and describes the contents of all ten flavors of crepes.

  Erin and I both reach for the Nutella crepes, while my beloved relatives choose the savory flavors, because they think that’s the classy choice. Erin and I are so lucky we know that Nutella is in fact the choice of classy people. Also because we don’t care.

  Erin does the right thing by asking my Dad about the art, and my Mom about the décor. I sit back and watch her do her thing, while trying not to think about all of the amazing noises she made last night. Before I know it, forty minutes have passed. Just kidding—I’ve checked my watch every five minutes.

  I let everyone know that I’m ordering a car to take us to the airport in half an hour. Our flight is in three hours, so it’s not too early at all. My Dad offers his car, and I can tell that means he likes Erin, because usually my Mom has to remind him to offer me the driver. I appreciate and decline the offer, continue to order a car, while watching my Mom ask Erin about her parents.

  Jackpot.

  I knew my Mom would like her, but I’m pleasantly surprised and impressed that she was able to charm my Dad. I should ask her for tips.

  Carter has been sulking in the background for most of our visit. It has been wonderful. He finally gets up to pour himself some coffee, then returns to sit next to me. Leaning back in the chair, he mumbles, “They like her.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s cute,” he says in the most condescending way imaginable.

  I nod. In less than half an hour we will be free and you will be stuck here being you, you dickhead.

  “So tell me about this screenplay you guys wrote,” he says, so loud he startles Mom. “What’s the genre?”