I only kissed that one guy. But he doesn’t count as anything, because as soon as he mentioned his wife, I slapped him and walked away.
Cliff Note’s version was this:
I guess we had been flirting for a couple of days. Smiles and eye contact. As we passed in the lobby, or when our parties were seated near each other at the hotel’s restaurant. I’d see him by the pool at around three in the afternoon, usually with a group of other, jock-looking guys, some good looking, some not. Guys’ guys. Definity not boys, but maybe not quite so much men yet, either. And this guy, my guy, the one with the perfect hair and perfect smile, and perfect golf shirt with the perfect shorts and the perfect laugh, and I’m sure the most perfect hands when he’s got you up against the wall.
Knowing that I was alone to watch him when I wanted, that my brother was not going to notice, as he was busily fixated on the fifteen year old on vacation with her family from North Dakota, I indulged in ogling this guy from behind my dark sunglasses for three days before we finally spoke to one another. Up until that point, it had been innocent.
By the time he showed up that Friday afternoon, the day before I was set to fly back to Boston, back to real life, back to my boyfriend, I was a bit mopey over John. He was never home when I called in the evenings, sometime after dinner, but before I would take a walk on the beach under the stars. I wondered where he was spending his nights, far from my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to read, but thoughts of John sneaking around with Abby pervaded my brain until I was convinced she must be the reason he was so unreachable.
Cooper had joined a deep sea fishing excursion, still excruciatingly smitten, and invited by the North Dakota family to join their trip. My parents had model homes to see. I was alone at the hotel for the whole afternoon.
At the gift shop in the lobby, I had purchased a new armful of women’s magazines, and one slightly more tell-it-like-it-is men’s magazine. I was pouring over these new articles of how to dress for your man, how to tease your man, and how to please your man, as I reclined in my favorite chaise. Fixating on sex, pondering positions, contemplating role playing and getting busy in public places. I was heads down in an article entitled “A Letter to My Lover: Confessions from a Not-So Good Girl” when suddenly my guy, my perfect guy, was sitting down next to me. I quickly flipped the magazine over, which revealed an ad for tampons. I groaned and flipped it back over to reveal the cover, with its perfect, glossy-lipped model and headlines meant to grab women’s attention as they paid for bread and milk at the supermarket.
“You looked thirsty,” he said, placing a bottle of Bud Light on the small table near my chair.
“Thank you,” I smiled, my stomach fluttering as I fumbled for something to say. My mind, primed and ready, jumped to sex with him in public or any position he wanted. Blushing like wildfire. “That is very sweet of you.”
Oh. God. I had never had a stranger hit on me, not a grown-up stranger with a gold card and an expensive watch. Again, if I could yank that naive, silly girl to the side and whisper in her ear, “No, that is not sweet. That is a play. By a player.”
But again, I wouldn’t have listened to my older self.
We chit chatted. He was at the resort with a group of buddies on a golf trip. He bought me another drink. He was from Chicago. He thought I was pretty and had noticed me earlier in the week. He invited me inside to the bar for some food and more drinks. I looked around. The pool was deserted. And I accepted.
Mr. Perfect. I’ve forgotten his name, or blocked it out, or perhaps never got a name at all. Perfect smile, perfect teeth. Perfectly smooth as he opened the door for me, followed me inside, put his perfect hands on the small of my back to guide me to a table in the darkened bar. I had slipped a short sundress on over my swimsuit, the straps of which could not be convinced to stay put on my shoulders.
I was in over my head, and I knew that when he twirled his finger into one of my fallen straps, and tugged on it a little. But I liked it, this feeling of someone just deciding that he wanted to be with me, and not making excuses for it. I liked how the waitress was seemingly at his beck and call, as he motioned for more drinks with a flick of his empty glass in the air. She smiled and flirted, even with me sitting there, and I liked how his hand was on my knee as it all happened. I liked being the center of his attention, his eyes intense as he listened to me tell him I was heading home the next day. He leaned in and kissed me and I felt myself kiss him back.
I forgot all about John and any promises I had made to him. I forgot all about school and dorms and dining halls. I blamed it on the Bud Light as I sighed and leaned in further and let him kiss me more. His perfect hands having a perfectly easy time up my tanned legs.
“You are so much hotter than my wife,” he mumbled into my neck. I pulled away quickly.
“What?” I demanded.
“C’mon,” he said, leaning in and trying to kiss me again. “I said you are way hotter than my wife. You are like, wow, you are,” he trailed off, his hands still working their way up my short dress.
“I’m nineteen,” I said bluntly. “Barely.”
That stopped him. He looked thoughtful, considering, I am sure, the number of alcoholic drinks he had purchased for this underage girl he was now groping in the bar.
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked, frustration and worry knitting his perfect brow.
“Why didn’t you tell me you have a wife?”
“Jesus,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, acting cool. Perfectly cool. The room was spinning and I was drunk, which meant I was that carefree and careless girl, the one who got drunk and kissed anyone who paid attention to her, and didn’t really care about some wife sitting back home in cold Chicago. I wasn’t interested in getting him into that kind of trouble. He relaxed, and smiled. Perfect smile. Perfect idiot.
“We could go up to my room,” he actually suggested.
That was when I slapped him, and walked away.
It was a perfect slap.
***
Ok. Technically, I cheated on John. But I figured if I didn’t think about it, it didn’t happen. My perfect guy had been an almost perfect dalliance, and I chalked it up to alcohol fueled by my search for the holy orgasm. All that reading, all that thinking, all that sexual energy, had to be released in some manner, I reasoned.
The puking, I figured, was punishment enough. I couldn’t remember how many beers I had enjoyed as the perfect cheating had taken place, but it was enough to have me crouched and miserable in the tiny airplane bathroom the next day, each turbulent bump in our journey a beer-burp reminder of my transgression. Alcohol had never betrayed me in that fashion. I was glad when I was back at school, where I could forget about spring break and rely on John to remind when I needed to switch to water.
***
Back in New Hampshire, April was sneaking up behind winter, threatening to goose its frigid ass and send it packing. My black wool coat made its way to the back of the closet, and my cute, short leather jacket was back in heavy rotation. I tightened up my salad and cereal regimen, regretting those five winter pounds that clung tightly to my thighs, taunting in my warm weather wardrobe. Tiny purple and white crocuses were poking their hopeful little blooms through the crusty snow around the nicer buildings of campus.
Molly had spent the break in The Pit. Texas, I guess, was too far for just one week. She was in our room when I returned, and actually had a friend over. Tammy was a nice girl who lived on the other end of The Pit, and was just as lonely as Molly.
I set about unpacking my bags, and smiled when I heard the heavy steps of Doc Martens in the hallway. I knew John by the sounds of his boots. I pretended not to notice, until he was standing in the doorway.
“Well, look at that,” he said, making his way into the room past the two girls at the computer. He nodded at them and walked up to me. “Who knew such a fair Irish thing like yourself could get so deliciously tan?” he asked. He peeked into my blouse.
“Excuse me!” I laughed. ‘We aren’t alone.”
“I just wanted to see where that tan ends,” he said. He kissed me on the lips. He peeked into my blouse again.
I kissed him back quickly, and removed his hand from my shirt. I wished for Molly and Tammy to disappear.
He took the hint and took a seat on my bed. Leaning back against the wall, with his legs stretched out and his hands behind his head. he made the twin bed look tiny. He watched intently as I resumed unpacking. When I pulled my bathing suit from the tangled mess of socks and underwear, he snatched it from me, and held it up in front of his face.
“Is this what you wore all week?” he asked, eyeing me up and down.
“It might be,” I answered coyly.
“And you expect me to just sit here, when I haven’t seen you in a week, and keep my hands off you?” He was grinning, enjoying the fact that he was making everyone in the room uncomfortable. Although Molly and Tammy appeared to be absorbed in their Tetris game, it was not that big a room.
“Here,” I said, tossing my ratty gray sweatshirt at him. “I also wore this all week, so see what you can do with that.”
He jumped up from the bed, grabbed our two coats from the chair, and threw me over his shoulder. I let out a squeal, and threw the t-shirt I was still holding down on the desk. Molly and Tammy were giggling as he carried me out the door, down the hallway, and up the stairs. He stopped just outside the doors, in the soupy cold of the early spring evening.
“I’ll put you down if you promise to follow me home,” he stated.
“I make no promises to anyone!” I declared. He smacked my butt and resumed walking, with me hanging over his shoulder like a ragdoll.
“I’ll scream,” I threatened, laughing wildly. He placed me gently on my feet. When the blood rushed from my head back to the rest of my body, and I had regained my balance, he handed my jacket to me.
“I would have followed you home,” I said smartly, smoothing my hair. We walked in the direction of Holt.
“So, what did you get me? What did you get me?” he demanded excitedly like a little boy.
“My undying adoration,” I answered.
“I want more,” he said, pouting.
“Oh, I also got you a blue wax alligator from a vending machine at Gatorland in Orlando.”
“Awesome,” he said.
***
Once in his room, we quickly answered any questions he may have had regarding the nature of my tan lines.
I tried to do what the magazines suggested. I tried to let my mind relax, to focus only on the here and now. But the “now” became the “then” too quickly, and I was left with just the “here.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathed heavily in my ear. I felt the weight of him relax on top of me. “I couldn’t help it. It’s been so long.” He rolled onto his side, and traced his finger lightly across the bikini lines on my chest.
“I missed you,” he said quietly. I wanted to believe him.
“I missed you, too. A week felt like forever,” I said. “What did you do all week?” I hoped my question sounded innocent.
“Worked.”
“That’s it?”
“I saw some friends from high school,” he said, pulling the sheet up and covering me with it. My arms and legs had broken out in goosebumps. “I didn’t see Abby, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I may have been,” I replied, turning on my side to face him.
“You can stop wondering. I heard she has a new boyfriend. Zeke or Zak or something like that,” he said. I thought I detected a small sneer as he said it, but I let it go. I was eager to move on from talk of spring break.
“You ok with that?” I baited. I couldn’t help it.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I told you,” he said, his index finger resting on my lips, “you are the only woman I want anymore.”
“Hmmm,” I closed my eyes, and he kissed me.
“I love you, Greer,” he said. I opened my eyes.
“I love you, too,” I answered.
Though I must have thought it a million times, it was the first time I said it out loud.
Chapter Nine
With Spring Break now history, and the warm weather nipping at the heels of April, students began once again expanding their social repertoires to include the great outdoors. Second semester brought the added advantages of more familiarity with campus and the surrounding area, and upperclassmen friends with knowledge to glean.
There was rumor of an outdoor party complete with kegs, guitars, and a bonfire, at a mysterious place called Dole’s Farm, just off campus. There were no directions. Just advice to follow the railroad tracks until you “feel like partying.” Hippies.
John and I made plans to make the trek off campus with Topher and Patrick. When we reached the railroad tracks, and the light of campus was well behind us, John and Patrick began reaching into their backpacks and pulling out cans of cheap beer. Milwaukee’s Best was always a popular one, or Natural Light. Shiver.
And that night, when my stomach did a flip-flop at the smell of the cheap, pale beer inside the can, all three of the boys looked at me funny. Even in the dim light of the random streetlamps and almost-full moon, they looked at me funny.
“Having some trouble with that beer, Miss Bennett?” John asked.
“Um,” I stammered, my mind reeling back to that last day of vacation. All those Bud Lights. His perfectly skilled hand on my knee. Puking my guts out in the airplane bathroom. “Um, yeah. I mean no. Um, I just don’t want it.”
I knew I was making the situation worse, being so cryptic. I laughed, trying to make it sound like no big deal.
“Something happen on vacation? Something you want to tell me about?” John pushed. I must have looked like a cat with feathers sticking out of my mouth.
It was best to own it, I thought. So I did what I had to do, and blamed the bartender at the hotel pool bar. He never carded me. I drank too much sitting all by my lonesome there by the pool. Surrounded by saggy old ladies and men in swimming trunks, of course, not horny married men out to stick their tongues down my throat. Too many Bud Lights as I lay there, alone, on my chaise in the sun, pining for the day I would return home to school. I blew smoke up his ass as best I could and avoided any mention of a cheating husband or the small but still distasteful thrill of being “the other woman.”
“Just no beer for me tonight,” I said, putting an end to that particular line of conversation.
When we arrived at the spot where we could hear the others, we veered off the tracks and headed up a small, bushy embankment. Over the crest of the hill was a clearing, where a blazing bonfire was crackling and about thirty people were milling about. Someone was playing guitar, and people were singing Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecelia.
When John saw Ben and Jared, he stumbled off in their direction, leaving me with Topher and Patrick. John was weird about those two groups of friends, keeping a distance between his world in Holt, second-long, and Ben’s world over at Harrison. Patrick found a spot to leave the backpacks out of the way of most of the people, at the base of a clump of trees, and wandered away for a bit, leaving Topher and me on the outskirts of the party. Once our eyes adjusted to the dim light, it became almost easy to see among the dancing shadows thrown carelessly about by the fire. My memories of that night have a sort of strobe light effect.
We could see that a group had gathered, and were huddling together in a tight circle. I saw the flicker of a lighter, and heard laughter. I could pick John’s deep but careless laugh out of a crowd.
“They’re smoking,” I said to Topher. “You can go join them, if you want.”
“Nah, its ok,” he replied.
“Really,” I pushed, “It’s ok. I might even want to join, too.”
“Are you serious?” he asked me. “You ready to try it?”
“Maybe,” I said, wanting a beer but not wanting a beer but wanting the feeling of being a little less, me. “I’m
not going to freak out or anything, am I?” He laughed at me, and looked around. He had that look in his dark eyes that sometimes made me wonder how he could be so perpetually single.
“C’mon,” he said to me, taking my hand and leading me to a large fallen tree about ten or fifteen feet from where John and the rest of that group stood.
We took a seat on the log and I realized we had a perfect spot to view the entire party from our comfy perch. In front of us were the guys, glowing and coughing in the shadows. Off to our left was the bonfire and most of the people. It was where the keg was being manned, though how they got it out into the woods was beyond me.
Topher had his head down, and was rooting through his pockets to find something. I gazed out across the scraggly, thin grass to John in the huddle in front of us. I could hear his laugh above all the others, and I could tell by the tone he was no longer sober. I smiled to myself. I found I had a soft spot for the goofiness in him when he let his guard down.
“Here,” Topher said, handing something to me in the dark. It was a small brass pipe, stuffed with marijuana. He handed me a lighter.
I held the illicit item in my hand, feeling the weight of the metal in my palm. It was warm from being in Topher’s pocket. I hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do. I wanted to smoke it. The curiosity was getting to the point of unbearable. It had always been so easy to say “no” when it was more theoretical than actual; but in this new world of mine, it was the norm rather than the exception. But if I did smoke it, did that make me a hypocrite? Would it make me weak? What exactly was my problem with it, anyway?
Beware of Love in Technicolor Page 12
