by Theresa Weir
“Ah, this is a great song.” He paused to reload his roller before continuing on the wall.
“What is it?” I asked. “I’ve heard it before.”
“Magnetic Fields. ‘All My Little Words’.”
“Ah. The song felt like the yellow on my brush.
“It was on 69 Loves Songs. Came out in 1999 I think.”
A music geek.
Over the past week I’d never asked Ian about his personal life. I didn’t know if his mother was still alive. I didn’t know if she’d remarried and if he had a stepfather and siblings. I didn’t ask him what he’d majored in. I didn’t ask him what kind of music he liked. All I knew was that he liked vegetarian burritos—and he’d been back to Mean Waitress three times just to prove it.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to know any of those things about him. I did. But this could go two ways. One, I didn’t want to be disappointed in who he turned out to be. Or two, I didn’t want to find out he was wonderful. Both would be bad for me because if I ended up disappointed in him…then this time right now would lose its magic. And if he was wonderful…then it would hurt more when I had to leave.
Because I never stay. Rose was the longest relationship I’d ever had with anybody, and that was because she was a little like me. She didn’t want to know. If conversation turned sad, she’d say she had to go somewhere. And she’d leave take off. If you were her friend you learned to never let conversation get serious. Not even the adoption stuff. Just a drive-by conversation.
For me the crack always came down to the time when the guy wanted to know more—and I didn’t want to share more. I didn’t want to share the deepest me. With anybody. Things would start to get weird, and I’d begin to pull away because the act wasn’t working anymore. And he’d begin to pull away because he felt my distance. He’d reach the point where he finally understood he could only know the surface me.
So I learned not to ask. And I tried not to care. And I tried not to think about the past or the future and just enjoy the moment we were in.
But now I knew he liked good music. Burritos and good music. What else didn’t I want to know about him?
“I love this color.” I looked at the wall instead of looking at him. I couldn’t look at him anymore. “It’s so happy,” I said, trying to redirect my thoughts while feeling myself getting sucked into the dark place.
My comment must have seemed like an invitation, because he put down his roller and crossed the room to admire my handiwork. “I wasn’t sure about it when we picked it out,” he said, “but I like it. It looks good with the dark trim.”
I nodded, and my eyes took in the pale yellow and the dark trim, then I looked at him even though I was trying not to look at him.
“You’ve got paint all over your face,” he said with a smile.
“What?” I felt my cheek but my fingers came away clean.
“Like a spray of freckles. I couldn’t see it from across the room, but up close—” He laughed. And God, he had the greatest laugh.
He pulled a scrap of cloth from his back pocket—a towel I’d cut up earlier—and with an earnest expression he began wiping my forehead.
One of his hands was on my arm, holding me while he gently erased the spray of pale lemon freckles. “It’s even in your eyebrows.”
Then he touched my cheeks.
“It’s even on your mouth.”
Then he touched my mouth.
He stroked the cloth across my bottom lip with an easy tugging motion…then paused. And the hand on my arm tightened just a little.
He was so close. I could see the shots of brown in his green irises. I could see every pore in his jaw line. I could count every dark whisker.
He smelled like cotton, like something that had been dried outside. His hair looked soft and I wanted to touch it, see if it felt as soft as it looked. He didn’t smell like other guys. Not like the guy who’d driven the tow truck. Not like perfume pumped out of the stores at the Mall of America. And he didn’t stink like the dirtsters—that specific model of hipster who didn’t take a shower or wash his clothes. He smelled clean, like skin and hair and natural fabric.
I think I was still holding the brush, because I heard drips of paint hitting the plastic drop cloth. And now another song was playing, this one sad and haunting and beautiful and happy, something I’d heard before but couldn’t place.
So many times over the past week I wished he hadn’t stopped me the night we first met…
I dropped the brush and latched my fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and I hung on. Just hung on.
“I’m not really your sister,” I whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back.
“You know?”
“Rose told me.”
“She has a big mouth.”
“It just came up. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I wanted to torture you.”
“That’s what I figured.”
I wanted to tug him down, but the floor was covered in plastic and we were standing in front of a huge window. Instead, I took his hand and led him up the stairs. He started to move past my bedroom, in the direction of his, but I shook my head and pulled him inside my soft blue room with the shiny white trim. I smiled at him as I unbuttoned his jeans.
He pulled in a kind of shuddering breath, and I felt his belly go taut. “We aren’t drunk,” he said.
“I kinda wish we were.”
“We know how well that worked out.” He unsnapped and unzipped my pants, and we both shucked them off and stepped away. Boxers. He was wearing boxers.
I tugged off my T-shirt and he did the same. It was so bright in the room. Too bright. I suddenly felt self-conscious. I’d never done this in the daylight. Only at night. And usually drunk. I felt a sense of panic and I turned to the bed, pulled down the covers, and dove under a sheet.
He laughed. “You might not remember, but I’ve seen you,” he said.
“This is all so strange,” I said breathlessly, holding the sheet to my chin, staring at his face, his beautiful face.
“We can go back to painting.”
“Would you call me a tease?” I teased.
“I’d call you…coy.”
“Coy? That’s awfully old-fashioned.”
“Then exasperating. Sweet.” He was thinking.
“Quirky?”
“Sad. Funny. Secretive. But not a tease. Not quirky.” He held out his arms. “So what’s it going to be?”
“You aren’t going to woo me?”
He smiled. “No.”
“You aren’t going to beg?”
“No.”
As he stood there, I found myself wanting to know all about him. I wanted to see the places he’d lived, and I wanted to experience his life at Berkeley. Had he been poor? Rich? Had he worked his way through college? He was smart. He’d probably gotten a full ride, but even with a full ride you had living expenses. Did he have a stereo? Did he have a record collection? What bands had he seen? Had he been to Coachella? Did he play an instrument? If so, what? Guitar? Piano? He seemed more like a piano guy. Did he draw? Did he write? Did he like good movies, or shitty movies? Had he ever had a pet? Did he like dogs? Or cats? Did he ever cry? Would he cry when this was over?
Stop. Don’t think about that. Why are you thinking about that? You don’t want to know any of that. You don’t need to know any of that.
I tossed away the sheet and I got out of bed and went to him, pulling down his shorts until they dropped around his ankles. And there it was, every bit as big and as beautiful as I remembered. I would never think of painting in the same way again.
I cradled him and stroked him, then I pushed him back. He took a couple of stumbling steps out of his shorts to fall into a wooden chair. He didn’t reach for me. Instead, he held the sides of the chair like he was hanging on for dear life.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
With his face turned toward me like someone welcoming a cool rain, he clos
ed his eyes. And waited. I could see the pulse beating in his neck, and I could see a flush across his cheeks. His chest rose and fell, his breathing carrying a sense of expectation.
He was going to make me do all of this.
I slipped off my bikini panties, then unhooked my bra and dropped it to the floor before placing my hands on his knees, bending over, and kissing the soft velvet tip of his penis. He pulled in a deep, shuddering breath but didn’t open his eyes. And didn’t reach for me.
I straightened and straddled his thighs. And because I knew he wasn’t yet completely in the game, and I knew he could change his mind at any second, I guided him to me and slowly lowered myself until he stretched and filled me.
No foreplay, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to claim him. For now. Just for now.
He was breathing harder.
I placed my hands on his shoulders and began to work my hips. I caught a flash of movement and saw us both framed in the oval mirror attached to the dresser. I must have made a surprised sound, because his eyes flew open. In the reflection I saw his head turn until we were both looking at the image of us. Erotic, but also strangely innocent and beautiful.
“You carried that mirror in here,” I whispered.
“I never thought I’d see us in it.” His voice was tight and breathless. “Not like this.” He let go of the chair and his hands moved up my thighs and my arms, caressing my breasts, lifting my hair back, spreading it over my shoulder so it hid nothing.
I’d never brought a boy into this house. Not like this. Not for sex. I never thought it would ever happen. I’d never wanted it to happen.
It was my turn to close my eyes as I pressed myself into him, wrapping my arms around him, feeling his young, firm skin, smelling his young sweet scent.
He finally, finally took control. With his hands on my hips he lifted me from him and followed me to the bed as I walked backward and he walked forward. Pressing me into the mattress, the weight of him on top of me, he kissed me. And I realized it might have been our first kiss, because I had no memory of another.
“You taste like flowers,” he said in a hushed voice.
“It’s lavender.”
His lips were soft and they moved slowly over mine, nipping and gently sucking. Time ticked away as he explored my body, and when I thought I might scream and beg him to come inside me, he did just that, moving with sure and deep strokes.
The city faded and the neighborhood faded and house faded and the rooms faded until it was just us.
Chapter 15
This is the part of the relationship I love. Some people call it the honeymoon phase, but it’s the only phase for me. The wonderful before the end. I get that I shouldn’t think that going in, but it helps for me to know it’s temporary. It helps for me to know it will never get too personal. It will just be magic and when the magic stops the relationship ends.
I never tell guys that because what’s the point? It would only hurt them, and it would only lead to confusion about something that’s very clear to me. I can’t have a guy in my life. Not a guy who never leaves. I think part of it is because of who I am when we’re in the magic. I can be everything he thinks I am, because for a while I believe it too. I need to believe it too. But that state of mind can only last so long.
Sometimes I think I should see a shrink, because I do have a lot of crap to deal with. But then, at other times, I think, I’m the one who gets this. I’m the one being realistic.
I guess some would consider me a downer, but I like to prepare myself. I like to know where I’m going. And other people just want to be oblivious to it all. And those people—when the world crashes down around them—those people can’t handle it. They break and they freak and they quit school and they quit work and they start doing drugs and drinking and never get out of bed.
I can handle it. Every time I break up with a guy the next day is fine. I’m fine. I go to work and I hang out with friends and I don’t need breakup sex. The day is the same as any other day. Because I’m always prepared. I always know the end will come.
Over the next two weeks, Ian and I kept going on the house, but we didn’t get as much done because we spent so many hours allowing ourselves to be distracted. We had sex all of the time, in almost every room. I hate to admit it, but we even did it in the kitchen, utilizing the counter and finishing up on a chair. We had sex in the shower as we scrubbed the paint from our bodies, paint we’d gotten everywhere while rolling around laughing on the floor. Occasionally a knock would sound on the door, and we’d both stop moving, Ian buried deep inside me. And we would look into each other’s eyes, and we would listen while the footsteps walked away, and then we would laugh and keep going.
He really did have the most beautiful body. Not all muscular, but lean and firm, his skin soft and velvety, and a penis that was actually lovely to look at. Because really, aren’t a lot of them just plain gross? But Ian’s had this lovely color, pale and smooth and not that veiny even when fully erect. I loved to kiss it and lick it and curl my tongue around the tip until he moaned and ground himself against my mouth. I wanted to take a photo of it and frame it and hang it on the wall. A few times I actually thought about that. About taking a picture when he was sleeping.
I’d pull down the sheet and stand there and look at him. I knew he would be out of my life one day, and I wanted to remember it, and remember how he looked in bed in the morning, his hair a mess and curling over his forehead and around his ears; his jaw dark, needing a shave, his lips red from the night before.
But I didn’t take a picture. Of course I didn’t. I just tried to memorize him. His flat nipples, his flat belly and the faint line of hair that trailed from his navel to his penis.
Sometimes I wondered why he never volunteered any information about himself, but Ian was smart—another thing I liked about him. I suspect he knew, maybe not in words, but he understood that I always wanted him to be that guy I met in the bar. The one-night stand who just stayed a little longer. Because when that happened, when you knew someone wouldn’t stay, it led to sexual experiments that a person might be too shy to try if you knew you might be together for years.
During this time, and in between the sex, I went to school. And sometimes Ian helped me with my harder classes. Those days we’d sit in the finished kitchen, books across the table, white cupboards behind us along with the cement countertop, and he’d lean close and carefully explain a math equation.
Those evenings made me feel a sense of warmth and completeness, a calmer kind of happy that was just as good as pale-yellow walls. And those nights we’d go upstairs to my room, because we always slept in my room, and our love would be so tender and sweet it almost hurt my heart. Almost. And I would feel his hands tremble against my skin, and I would blow against his neck, soothing him. He would lock his fingers in mine, and he would wrap an arm around me and hold me tight.
This. This is what I’m afraid of, I’d think. And I would know I was getting too close to what I didn’t want, and what I couldn’t allow. It was getting too real.
When I felt that kind of night in the air, and as that kind of night became more and more frequent, I’d tell him to sleep in his room, and I’d tell him I had to get my seven hours because I had an exam in the morning. And he’d go to his room, my father’s room, and I’d hear him turn and sigh, and I’d imagine him naked under white sheets. And I would miss him.
I never wanted to miss him.
Chapter 16
“What do you think about this table?” Ian asked.
We were standing on the front lawn of a massive stone church located in Dinkytown. The church was having their annual bazaar that involved the congregation dragging in all of their crap until every corner of the church was filled. What wouldn’t fit inside sat outside on the lawn.
Visitors to the Twin Cities always rave about the fall, saying it lasts forever. Two months, usually. I don’t know if that’s so remarkable because I’ve never lived anywhere else, but I’ve co
me to the bazaar almost every year. It’s where I got my dresser with the oval mirror, and one time I picked up a vintage hat with black netting that I’ve never worn. Maybe someday…
We both had albums tucked under our arms. Me, Songs of Leonard Cohen, the one with “Suzanne”; Ian the Rolling Stones Let it Bleed, the one with the cake on the cover.
We both wore hoodies that we’d unzipped as the weather had warmed up. Leaves crunched under his sneakers and my boots, and I could smell coffee coming from a nearby café.
The table was nice. It looked like something that had maybe come from a grandmother’s house, something that would have had a crocheted tablecloth and a matching buffet. But the idea of picking out furniture together made me uncomfortable.
I checked the price tag. “It’s kind of expensive.”
He didn’t seem to have a problem spending money on stuff for the house, and I’d started to wonder if he was some trust-fund kid, or if my father had stashed away more cash than I’d thought. I could ask, and Ian would probably tell me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
He bought the table.
Borrowing a screwdriver, we removed the legs and carried the top to the van, laughing because it was hard to hold, pausing to rest, finally wedging it inside to return for the table legs and our albums. Like some couple. Next he’d want to buy a gas grill and a patio set.
I felt a flutter of fear, fear for the end. I’d never feared the end before. That was my thing. Don’t fear the end of a relationship. Embrace it. When one door closed another door with a good-looking guy behind it opened.
I’m so shallow.
Instead of driving back to the house, Ian aimed the van in the direction of the University of Minnesota.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I want to drive through the campus.” At the light on University Avenue he peeled off his sweatshirt and tossed it behind the seat. “I’m filling out an application for a master’s program,” he said.
