by L.J. Shen
I swallow a bitter lump of tears. Oh, my God. Poor Amber. Poor, poor Amber. And poor Sage. I’ve been so focused on how I feel, I forgot that there were other people around me.
“Sage.” I cup his cheeks with my palms, my chin quivering.
“I’ve never wanted anyone but you, JoJo. Not truly. Not wholly. Not obsessively.” He steps closer to me, his body flush against mine, his leg between my thighs, his lips on mine as he speaks these words. “You want the truth? Here’s the truth: I asked you to be my fake girlfriend because Mark wanted to make a move on you. And it occurred to me, out of fucking nowhere, that I’d rather die than see you with someone else who holds the potential to give you the things that you need. It occurred to me that I would never be able to be happy for you if you married someone else. It occurred to me that I can’t even think of being with anyone but you, and when I do have a child, I want it to be with you. I love you, JoJo. But you already know that. I’m also in love with you. Crazy about you. Can’t live without you.”
I kiss his lips to shut him up and to give him everything he needs, my fingers running through his hair, his hands on my waist, pulling me close. We’re one entity. Whole and broken. Happy and sad. Lost and so unbelievably found.
“I love you so much,” I breathe, the words pouring from my mouth in a rush. “I’ve always loved you. From that day in the meadow, when the rain knocked so hard on our bodies I thought we were going to go back home with bruises on our skin. I loved you ever since, and I never stopped loving you. Even when I tried really hard. Even when I dated other men.”
He hoists me up, my legs wrapped around his narrow waist, and carries me to his bedroom. Not mine—his. It’s a statement. I very rarely wander into his bedroom, and only after I ask and only when I need to take something specific. He lowers me to the bed, ever so carefully, his mouth on mine. Never leaving mine.
He fumbles with his jeans. I fumble with my mini dress. We kiss. We bite. We mess around like the two teenagers who wanted to so bad but never dared. I’m here. All of me. Every single part of me is in the present, and it’s raw and beautiful and everything I’ve ever dreamed about wrapped in a bow made of memories and sweet childhood moments. We strip down in silence, our eyes never leaving one another. We kick our clothes to the foot of the bed and his groin is on mine and our lips are kissing, biting, and caressing. My breasts pop free from my bra, and he takes one of my nipples into his mouth, closing his warm lips over it and circling the areola with his tongue. I arch my back.
“I love you.” His breath tickles my sensitive nipple, and he works his way down my torso, peppering feathery, wet, hot kisses all over my shivering body. “I love you, I love you, I fucking love you. No matter what happens in my life, you’re the constant thing I can count on. The shelter in the storm, the calm in my chaos.”
He bites my inner thigh, and I roll my head onto his pillow that smells of cinnamon and aftershave and him. His tongue meets my sensitive flesh, licking my arousal, but this time he is not demanding and starving. He is sweet and considerate.
“Jesus, Sage. Jesus.”
I can barely breathe. He is teasing me with his mouth to a point of tears before he slides a finger into me, curling it when he is deep enough to reach my magic spot.
“I love you.” He continues kissing my pussy. “And I love you, too, JoJo,” he says, and I laugh, swatting his head softly. My orgasm washes through me like an oasis. I shudder quietly before his corded, muscled body rises up and his lips meet mine again for a deep kiss.
“Love you. Have I said that lately?” He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, and I’m in heaven, I’m sure of it. I might even murder the person who wakes me up from this dream.
“Not lately.” I kiss his temple. “Better tell me again.”
“I love you, Jolie Louis. The kind of love that burns through the skin.”
Hmm. Is it bad that I want to tattoo this on my forehead?
We kiss some more while my hand trails down the dusty line of hair arrowing from his belly button to his cock. I fist it and move my hand back and forth. I could do this all day without getting bored. Admiring his body. Learning what gives him pleasure. After a few minutes, he raises his head and looks me in the eye.
“Not to sound dramatic, but, baby, I think I’ll die if I don’t fuck you right this minute.”
“So do it.” I smile. He reaches across his bed and fumbles for a condom in his dresser’s drawer. Then he rolls it down his cock as we both watch in awe, as if this is the first time for both of us—and in some weird, screwed-up way, it kind of is, at least for me. I’m not a virgin, but I feel like one right now, as he slides on top of me again.
“I love you.” It’s my turn to say. “Every part of you. The broken boy. The strong man. The lighthearted jock and the heavyhearted kid. Every piece of you is loved and cherished, Sage Poirier. Always remember that.”
He enters me in one smooth stroke, and I moan at the sudden sensation of being so full, not only physically, but also mentally. My back curls against the sheet when he starts moving in and out in a rhythm I’ve yet to experience with a man. His movements have no start nor ending. His hips roll back and forth constantly, like an erotic dance between two bodies, and we quickly find the pace that makes us both pant harder and faster. I’ve never looked in a man’s eyes when we had sex before. It felt too weird. Too awkward. But with Sage, I can’t help not to.
His eyes are an open wound.
Mine are a bandage that wants to make it all better for him.
This is it. This is everything I wanted. He and I. Fully and completely committed to one another. His movements become jerky. I begin to quiver again. I swear I’ve come with this man more times than I did with all my previous partners combined, which really says a lot about his dedication, but also about men in the sack in general.
“I’m about to come, baby. Please come with me.”
I nod. Coming on command is the kind of thing that always made me snicker when I read it in books, but now I get it. It is doable when the person asking you to is the biggest turn-on you know.
We come in each other’s arms, with him moaning my name and me whimpering when his cock drills into me one last time, and part ways on a kiss. Both our bodies are covered in sweat. We look spent, happy, and so much younger than our years.
He rolls on his back and stares at the ceiling.
I roll to my side and put a hand on his abs.
“Shit,” is all he says. I throw my arm over my eyes and laugh. He’s been talking sweet to me for an hour, so it only makes sense he’ll be back to his old self now.
“That bad, huh?” I joke. He turns to me and pulls my arm from my face.
“That good. I never thought it could feel like this.”
“Like what?”
He takes my wrist and presses it against his pouty, perfect lips. “Like forever.”
The dirty beige hallways don’t feel quite the same the day after.
Neither does the cafeteria, which constantly smells of stale pretzels and burnt coffee.
Neither does my body. Nope. It feels lighter and much more capable.
And if I were anyone else, I’d probably say some bullshit about being a different man, but unfortunately for the world, I’m still the same douchy jock. The only difference is I now have sex with my best friend (six times in less than twenty-four hours, but who is counting?), and I don’t want to read too much into this, but damn, it puts a stupid-ass smile on my face, which I can’t seem to wipe off.
Enter: Amber.
I see her coming out of Sabatta Hall just as I make my way to the weight room. I stop. Last night, we left everything hanging, and as much as I felt bad about her miscarriage—the doctor told her it might’ve been due to the fact that she still drank heavily at parties before she’d found out about the pregnancy—I was too fucking wrapped in my own universe with JoJo. Which is shitty, I know. So I stop and clap a hand over her shoulder. She looks tired, and I feel guilty. When Amber f
ound out that she was pregnant, I said I’d support her no matter what. She wanted to keep it, but still hadn’t told her parents. Then the miscarriage happened three weeks ago and I’ve been trying to be there for her, but most of the time, that entails her telling me we need to try to have a baby again.
“Yo. What’s up?” I squeeze her shoulder softly, giving her my most genuine smile. People pass us by, talking to each other, laughing. Amber shoots me a look, flipping her blonde, straight hair on an eye roll.
“What do you want, Poirier?” Her voice is pointed, like her expression. I look left and right, somehow still freaked out about JoJo seeing us. Even though I know she gets it. She’s the kindest girl I’ve ever met. She felt so guilty about what happened to Amber. Like she had something to do with it somehow.
“To check how you’re doing.” I ignore her snark. “See if you need anything.”
“I need you to stop fucking around and give me attention. That’s what I need.” She juts her chin out, defying me. I scratch the back of my neck, trying to figure out if this is a joke. Throughout the last month, I’ve been her designated bitch. Drove her places. Let her hang out with the boys and me at Barnie’s. Even helped her with her studies. She tried to hit on me countless times, and I blocked it, because even though we shared a fling, I really couldn’t see us doing anything more. So this is unwarranted at best and rude at worst.
“Huh?” I cock my head sideways. She slaps my chest. Hard. I take a step back, looking at her like she drank from the crazy fountain, then ate a big dish of psycho.
“You,” she points at me, her eyes narrowing, “are not focused on what’s important. I just lost our child, Poirier. Do you get what I’m saying? I’m mourning. I’m hurt. I don’t need to see you parading your new piece all over campus, telling people she’s your girlfriend. It’s so disrespectful.”
What. The. Fuck.
I straighten my back, shaking off some of my surprise.
“I really have no idea what in the good fuck you’re talking about, woman. Jolie is not a piece. She’s my childhood friend and we’re dating now. It has nothing to do with me wanting to be there for you. When we hooked up, I said it was for fun. We had fun. The condom broke. Not so fun. Shit happened in-between. Fucking terrible, I know. Now we’re dealing with this. Together. Look, I’m still here for you, yeah? But this has nothing to do with JoJo.”
Her lower lip is shaking. People are starting to stop and look. Stall with their phones. Pretend to mess around with their bags. Shit. It’s becoming a scene, and that’s a problem. I take Amber by the elbow and usher her outside, away from the hall and toward a tree overlooking the entrance of the building. It’s a gray day, and no one is out but us. I lean over her—not too close to give her the wrong idea, but close enough so that she knows that I’m serious.
“Anything you need,” I say, “I’m here for you. I mean it.”
“I need you to leave her.” Amber’s tears are now falling like a flood, and I want to stop them, I do, but I can’t. Not the way she wants me to.
“Amber…”
She throws herself at me, her fists curling around the collar of my jersey. She gets into my face. “Please, Sage. Give us a chance. You’re going away next year. Do you think Jolie will go with you? She’s not the kind of girl to leave her family. I know her type. I’ll do it for you, Sage. I’ll leave this place for you.”
My eyes darken, and my thoughts jumble in my head. So when Amber seeks my warmth, burrowing into me for a hug, I give it to her.
Because I gave her something else without meaning to.
And now she lost it.
Because I need to make this right for her somehow.
And because I’m afraid that she is right about JoJo.
You know the part in the movie where the couple gets together and everything works out and everyone gets their happy ending? Well, this is not what happens in real life. At least not to me.
The day starts with Chelsea informing me that she and Mark are not going to the Christmas charity event in New York because she has a job interview for an au pair position in Canada. The woman is heavily pregnant and looking for a full-time nanny to assist her when the baby is born. Mark is going with her, and they’ll be flying back to spend Christmas with her family right after. They’re moving fast, and I’m happy for them, but at the same time, I wanted so badly to spend time with my best friend in the Big Apple.
Then, I get fired by a text message. Travis, my boss, who apparently has the diplomatic skills of a swordfish, sends me the following message:
Hi, Julie. Trish told me you had a falling out yesterday. I’m going to be completely honest. She’s been with us for a decade now and this could be a problem. I think it’s best for everyone if you just hand in your resignation tomorrow after your shift. Thanks for your service and stuff. – Trav.
At first, I think about firing him back my unfiltered response:
Hi, Gravis (oh? You’re not Gravis? Well, guess what, I’m not Julie. It’s Jolie, you prick!). No need to sugarcoat it. You want me gone because you and Trish meet at the kitchen three times a week before her shift and do some ungodly (and unsanitary) things on the counter. I am more than happy to offer my excellent services to someone who appreciates them. Have a nice life. –Jolie.
But, of course, like the good Southern girl that I am, I settle for being agreeable:
Travis, thank you for your message. I regret to hear about your firing me (because that’s essentially what this is), but I’m in no way going to argue with you about it. Since your response to my altercation with Trish was immediate, I think it is only fair that my resignation will be immediate, as well. I will drop by to pick up my last check next week at a time of your convenience. Thanks. –Jolie.
After getting fired—just when I think things cannot get any possibly worse—I land my butt in a library’s chair, trying to study for my next lit exam, and open up my MacBook. Five seconds into reading an essay about the history of the English language, I rub my eyes, trying to concentrate. When I feel something gooey and warm connecting with the side of my head, I freeze. It slithers down my hair and slaps my face, and my first reaction is to cover my face with both palms. After I hear the knock of whatever’s been thrown at me dropping to the floor, I raise my head and look to my right, where the thing came from.
Amber.
Sitting at the desk beside me.
Smiling.
I look down. It’s a Starbucks cup. I touch my hair, sniff around me, the shock still working its way to my system. It’s my now-cold pumpkin latte with marshmallow. Jesus H.
Bitch.
I know her reasoning behind it, and I get it, I do—it hurts. I can’t even begin to imagine how much. But it is also not my fault.
My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up and make my way to her. She is sitting with her sorority friends, their army of cardigans, pearl necklaces, and mechanically straightened hair in full attendance. I look sloppy in comparison. My Chucks are dirty, my blonde is also red, and my clothes are too casual. And still, they can’t treat me this way. Ever.
“You need to stop this.” I slap my hand on her desk, lifting my chin up to look down at her. She stares up at me with a conceited smile I’m dying to wipe off of her face.
“No, I don’t. You have something of mine that I want back.”
“And I suppose that’d be Sage?” I tilt my head sideways. She shrugs, snorting out an unattractive laugh she’d never allow herself in his presence.
“And his money. And his future. And his status. Basically, everything. The best thing about being upfront with you about it, is that you’re too goody-two-shoes to even tell him I ever said it. Because you don’t talk badly of people, do you, sweet girl? I know all about you and your running-to-see-mommy-every-other-weekend tactics.”
Tactics?
Tactics?!
She thinks I go through life trying to impress someone? My best friend? Is she nuts? I don’t even need anyone to answer this q
uestion. Of course, she’s nuts. No one of sound mind would ever think in this direction. I lower my body, lean into her face, and whisper, “I know what happened to you, and I’m sorry that it did. I am. But you cannot break us up, Amber. I suggest you move on, and while you’re at it, take a very long look at your behavior and priorities. Because you’re not being assertive or street-smart here, girl. You’re being a manipulative bitch.”
The words slap her, one by one, and I see her cocky smile melting into a shocked, wide-eyed grimace. One of her friends—a brunette who is wearing a lemon yellow cardigan and a matching headband—crinkles her nose.
“Wait, how do you mean after what happened to you? What exactly happened to you?”
“I…I…”
Another girl, who sits directly in front of her, bolts up from her chair and shakes her head. Her face is so red it is completely possible she might explode.
“Jesus Christ, Amber! Tell me you didn’t go through with that stupid plan! Faking a pregnancy and then a miscarriage? Like, hello, newsflash! Your life is not a bad General Hospital episode!”
I stagger backwards, gripping the end of my desk and staring at a very embarrassed, very angry Amber as her eyes broaden and her chest heaves up and down, the adrenaline of the lie catching up with reality.
Everything turns red.
Then black.
Then white again, because the lie is not mine. Not mine to keep, to be burdened with, nor to carry.
I turn around to collect my MacBook and my shoulder bag and dash outside the library door, making my way to the nearest bus station back home. Amber is after me. I hear her heels clacking against the floor. I don’t turn around, mainly because the notion that I can do something terrible to her—slap her, yell at her, or curse her out—is strong.
She might be that kind of person, but I’m not.
