by Bourne, Lena
I don't want him to think that, it hurts. "This is good, isn't it? Do you think something bad will happen? Because I don't."
"Maybe not, I don't know," he says, and brushes the hair away from my neck with his free hand. "At least, I hope it doesn't."
He kisses my neck and I sigh, turning my head sideways to give him better access. My skin is so tender and every touch of his lips sends heat shooting down through my chest, into my stomach, finally pooling in a single spot between my legs. I let go of his hand, and reach back, pulling him closer. He places his leg over mine, and I push back against his erection, let it rest against me in the spot where I wish he could enter me right now. His hand is under my shirt, cupping my breast. He licks my neck and I moan loudly, rocking back against his cock. He's breathing hard now, his tongue tracing the line from my collar bone up to my jaw.
"Maybe we shouldn't start anything we can't finish," he says, right before he takes my earlobe between his teeth.
"But we can finish this," I whisper and slide my hand behind the elastic of his waistband, and run my fingers gently along his length. It's pulsing against my hand, the head all wet. I run my palm across, then grip his cock and slide my hand back down to the base. He sighs deeply, his tongue in my ear now, making me moan. I slide my palm up and down, all the way to the tip, back to the base, repeat. His breath is hot against my neck and coming in short burst now. He bucks his cock into my hand, meeting my movements. I'm breathing hard, because making him feel good makes me feel good too.
He clasps my hand over his cock to hold it still, and thrusts faster, more urgently. Then he grunts, and his stomach tenses. A hot wetness erupts all over my hand, wetting my pants and shirt.
I don't let go of his cock right away, enjoying his cum cooling on my palm. "How was that then?"
"That was fucking awesome, Gail," he says, and kisses my cheek then pulls away and lies on his back. I flip over and rest my head on his chest, listening to his breaths crackle as they return to normal.
"Maybe we should get up, or something," he says after awhile.
I'm running my fingers across the hills and valley of his ripped stomach, and I really don't want to stop. "Why would we do that?"
"Well, I really have to piss for one thing," he says and chuckles.
I lean back so he can get up. "OK, but come right back."
He sits on the edge of the bed and stretches. "I'm also kinda hungry."
Come to think of it, so am I.
"We could go to that place down on the beach. They have really good clam chowder," I suggest, sitting up too.
"Ewww, clam chowder, that's disgusting," he says and grins back at me.
"They have hot dogs and stuff too," I argue. I'm already almost tasting the soup, and I really want to have it.
"That's even worse," he complains.
"How picky are you?" I climb off the bed, the motion sending a sharp stab through my belly, but it recedes quickly and doesn't linger. "Fine, you decide."
Half an hour later we're walking along the sidewalk. The cold wind is sending my hair flying all around my head, and every step I take causes a sharp jolt of pain in my stomach. Scott watches me for awhile, walking as slowly as I am, then wraps his arm around me. I lean against him gratefully, my arm around his waist.
"You sure you can walk all the way to the beach?" he asks.
I grin up at him. "I hope so, because I really want that clam chowder." His eyes are blue like a cloudless summer sky today. "If not, you could always carry me."
"Oh yeah, that sounds like a lot of fun for me." He leans down and kisses me softly, just a peck, surprising me so I can't return it.
It takes awhile to reach the beach, and I'm winded by the time we do, my cheeks red from the cold.
"We can eat somewhere else," I say as we stop in front of the clam chowder place.
He smiles and holds the door open for me. "No, Gail, that's OK. I'll just have a burger or something."
We get a table by the window, which is so small our legs are touching under it. I'd prefer to be sitting next to him, but there's no room.
When my soup arrives, I dig in hungrily. It's too hot and scalds my tongue, making me curse. I really wanted to enjoy it.
"You should blow on that first," Scott says and hands me the glass of water.
"Why didn't you say something before?" I say and grin, taking the glass of water and dipping my tongue in.
He's just looking at me, not even touching his burger, his leg pressed firmly against mine under the table.
"What?" I ask.
"You're just so—"
"Clumsy, yes, I know," I finish the sentence for him, splashing the table top with water as I deposit my glass onto it, as though to prove my point.
"I was gonna say substantial," he says and smiles.
"What does that mean? Are you calling me fat?" I ask.
"No, Gail," he says, still grinning at me. "You're just so real and so fresh. And everything you're thinking is written right across your face, but I could probably never figure you out, not in a million years. I really like that."
"You just think that because I'm so unstable." I never could take a compliment of any sort to save my life.
I eat a spoonful of my soup, wishing I'd stayed quiet, and let him speak.
He takes a bite of his burger and for awhile we just eat, watching each other.
"You do like me though, right?" I ask like I'm twelve.
He snorts. "Isn't that obvious?"
"But why?" It suddenly makes no sense to me that he should. Or maybe I just want him to reassure me.
He shrugs like he doesn't know and takes another bite of his burger, chewing slowly. I know he knows, he's just teasing me.
"Well?" I ask.
"For one thing, you're really beautiful, but it's like you don't even know it," he continues. "And you're so unfake you can't even be fake when you're trying to be."
"Did you think I was beautiful the first time you saw me, by the pool?" I ask.
"No," he says, and I gasp, heat rising in my cheeks.
He laughs. "I saw you a few days before for the first time, and I thought you were like totally hot. You didn't notice me though, probably because I was, you know, just the help."
I breathe out sharply, slumping back in my chair. "Why didn't you want me then, after I did notice you?"
He leans forward and takes my hand. "I told you already, it just didn't seem like something you would normally do. And you seemed on the verge of losing it."
I wrap my other hand over his and squeeze. "I was. Sometimes I think I still might be."
He's studying me with those magnetic eyes, like he can see right into me, right into my soul.
"That's another thing about you," he says. "You just make me want to protect you and keep you safe. I've never felt anything that strong for a girl before. At least not one I wanted to fuck."
He grins but tears are spilling from my eyes. All I want to do is leap over the table and hug him, let him hold me and never let go. Because all the hurt in the world would go away then.
"And now you're crying," he says, staring at me through narrowed eyes.
I lift his hand off the table and kiss it. "It doesn't mean I'm sad. I told you I was unstable."
He hands me a napkin, and I take it, wiping away my tears.
The lady who brought our food before comes back over to our table.
"How's everything?" she asks, eyeing Scott like he did something wrong. Only he didn't and she has to know it.
"Everything's great," I say, smiling at her. "Can we have the check?"
I can't wait to get back to his apartment; it's the only place I want to be right now.
CHAPTER NINE
I doze off soon after we return home, watching the grey and lilac of twilight swallow the building across the street, Scott's arm resting on my belly.
When I wake up it's full dark outside and I'm alone in the bed. I hear the clanking of the lock and jerk up.
"I'll be right back," Scott says, light from the hallway outlining him in the open doorway. He's wearing his jacket and shoes, and I'm suddenly sure he's going to see that Swedish girlfriend of his. I'm too much to handle. He's just being nice to me because he feels guilty for raping me. Which he didn't, but still.
"Can you stay?" I ask, tears already a prickly ball in my throat, making my voice whiny and high pitched.
"I'll be back in a minute," he says.
"Can I come?" I get up. It could be the only way to stop him from going.
"Just lie down, Gail, I'll be right back."
But I'm already pulling on my shoes and grabbing my coat.
"Alright, if you insist." He holds the door open for me. He's still wearing his pajamas I see now, so maybe he wasn't lying. He's also clutching a white shopping bag filled with cans.
"Where are we going?" I ask after the door snaps shut behind us.
"To the attic," he says and turns on the light over another set of stairs leading up towards the roof. Upstairs, there's a landing with two doors, and he cracks open one of them slowly, peering inside. A long meow echoes in the room.
He opens the door and ushers me inside. "Hurry."
As soon as we're both inside, he shuts the door and flips on the light.
The room is cold, because one of the windows is open. A white calico cat wobbles towards us, her purrs echoing in the room. She's super fat, and can't walk very fast.
"You should've said you had a cat," I say, crouching down so I can pet it. She bumps her hand into my palm, then shuffles over to where he's already filling a bowl with food.
The room is filled with boxes, most of which are laid out in neat rows all the way to the ceiling. A few are open, filled with packaging paper and small magnets like the one he gave me. I never even unpacked it when I got back to Yale, and I'm really sorry for that right now.
"She's not my cat," he says, and rubs it behind the ears, making it purr louder still. "And I didn't think you'd appreciate seeing it."
"Why? I love cats."
He straightens up and looks at me, his eyes golden brown in this light.
"What?" I ask, because his gaze is too intense.
"Never mind."
I glance back down at the cat, which is wolfing down the food now, grunting softly. Its belly bulges out in weird bumps.
"Because she's pregnant?" I ask barely above a whisper.
He shrugs, the plastic bag rustling as he wraps the handles around his hand. "Yeah, I thought it might upset you."
I close the distance between us so fast it feels like I'm flying. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his head down, and kiss him. Why did I ever run away from him? Right now, if anyone suggested I do that, I'd punch them.
"We should go before she finishes eating," Scott says, pulling his lips away just enough so he can speak. "Otherwise she runs down and it's hell coaxing her back up here."
I follow him outside, clutching his hand. "Why don't you just adopt it?"
"I'm trying to get my dad to take her," he says. "But our old cat died in the spring, so he's all against having another one. I hope he'll come around soon, though."
"Your cat died? That's so sad," I say, clutching his hand tighter. We're back in the apartment and I should let him go so we can take off our coats, but I can't.
"Yeah, but she was pretty old, like eighteen or something," he says and begins taking off his jacket.
I finally let go of his hand, because I'm being ridiculous. "I never had any pets growing up. My mom was allergic."
"It must have been nice to have a cat growing up," I add to chase away the image of my mom's glistening dead eyes, staring at the ceiling.
"Sure," he shrugs. "We had two for as long as I can remember, and a stray here and there, but most of those left or died soon. I used to think the two that were ours were chasing them away because they were there first."
I follow him into the kitchen, and watch him dig out one of the plastic containers of food from the fridge.
"Want some?" he asks popping over the lid.
"Cold lasagna?" I ask. "No thanks."
"Who's picky now?" he asks and digs in.
I shrug and arrange the clean laundry that's strewn all over the table into a neater pile so he can sit down and eat, looking around for a better place to store it.
"You're not very neat, are you?" I ask.
"I don't mind a little mess," he says. "Never did."
I give up on straightening up his clothes, and cast a disproving look over the rest of the apartment. "This is not just a little mess you have here. Ever considered getting some furniture? Like a closet or a real bed?"
He grins and licks the fork. "But a real bed would make too much noise downstairs during sex."
I feel myself blush which only makes him grin wider. "You're such a prude, Gail. I can't believe you're the same person from a month ago."
"I'm serious," I say. "You need furniture."
"I'm planning on getting some eventually, but it will be such a hassle," he says and takes another bite of the lasagna, still staring at me like maybe he wants to eat me.
"Couldn't you find someplace already furnished then?" I ask.
A shadow crosses his eyes, like I said something wrong.
"My mom used to have her shop downstairs where the bakery is now. She owned this whole building," he says. "So, at least living here is rent free."
"Oh, so you don't really like living here. I understand. Sorry I brought it up."
"I'd rather not live here. It's just really sad," he says, scraping off the last of the lasagna from the box.
"I can imagine." The mere thought of going into my mom's room now that she's dead chokes me, and turns my legs to lead.
"She was just talking about turning this place into a real studio a few weeks before she died," Scott says, staring past me at the window. He points to it with the fork. "She was going to have her working desk over there, where the light is best, and her materials on shelves along the walls. She brought me here to show me everything like a week before she died."
Tears are running down my cheeks now, and I'm shaking.
"Why are you crying, Gail?" he says, his eyes focused on me.
I just shake my head, because if I speak I will wail.
"It's alright. I only just remembered this. It was a long time ago. Mostly I don't even remember my mom that clearly anymore," he says, and wipes the tears from my cheek with his palm. "When I do, it's more like her essence I remember when I think of her. And it's not a bad feeling. It'll be the same for you, after a few years."
"I can't feel my mom anywhere," I sob. "I just see her dead body whenever I think of her."
He stands up and pulls me to my feet, hugging me tightly, running his hand over my hair. "That'll fade, don't worry about it."
"How do you know?" I mutter into his shirt. I want him to be right, but I'm not sure he is.
"I just do, trust me," he says, his voice coming from deep inside his chest.
But I have to know, have to be sure he's telling the truth. "Did you see your mom dead?"
"No, they took her away before I got home," he says, stroking my back gently. My fingers are digging into his side, because if I let go I might float away and never come back. My mom just died and I'm such a bad person for wanting to feel better, to forget her.
"How do you know then?" I insist.
He sighs, and his arms tense around me. "For a long time, after my friend David, Janine's boyfriend, died, all I could see was his dead body on the floor of his apartment. But that passed, and now I can remember other things too. Which can be worse, I won't lie to you. But it's getting better."
"Worse?" I stammer. How can it be worse?
"Death is hard."
"It is," I manage. He's been through so much of it, and all I want to do right now is make him feel better, tell him it will all be alright. But how can I do that, when I don't even know
if I ever will be?
"We can talk about something else," he says.
"OK," I mutter.
I let him lead me to the bed, and curl up beside him, my head on his chest. I'm still holding onto his side, because the abyss is closing in fast like it's feeding off his pain too now, growing vaster and scarier. If I let go of him we'll both get swallowed up forever.
Scott's phone ringing wakes me the next morning. He's lying on his side, with his back to me and my arm is draped across his stomach. He curses as he reaches for the phone, and I wrap my arm tighter around him, so he won't get up.
"What?" he mumbles into the phone.
"Don't fucking tell me you're still asleep," a guy yells into the phone so loudly I can hear the words clearly. "We'll be at your house in fifteen minutes and you better be ready."
"Oh, shit, I forgot," Scott says and moves the phone so it's farther away from me. "Maybe I'll just go next week."
"You really are a piece of work, Scott, you know that? You forgot? How could you forget? You don't get to forget. And no, you're coming today. You're the last person who gets to miss any visits. Fucking shit, forgot? And I'm here in Westchester at the crack of dawn, so no way you're not fucking going." The guy on the other end is not even pausing to take a breath, and he's yelling so loudly I'm half sure he's in the room with us.
Scott hangs up and tosses the phone back onto the chair that serves as his nightstand.
"Who was that?" I mutter.
"Mike," he says, and turns so he's lying on his back. The phone blares back to life, but he makes no move to pick up.
"And you just hung up on him?" I ask.
"He was yelling. It's the best way to handle him, trust me," he says and brushes a few strands of hair off my face.
"Maybe you'd better pick up," I say, just as the ringing stops. "Where do you have to go anyway?"
"To visit my brother, Derek," he says, as though speaking from very far away until I'm sure I'm going deaf. "But I'll go next week, don't worry about it."
His phone chimes with a new voice mail message, then starts ringing again.
"You should go, if you already had plans," I say. "Don't think you have to stay on account of me."
