by P. J. Post
I’m afraid to say anything. And then she moans with frustration.
I slowly and methodically unbutton her jeans.
The snap pops.
She catches her breath.
But her hand continues to follow my own, never losing contact. She feels like she’s holding her breath.
But she can’t control her breathing once her zipper opens up. She pushes back against me with her ass and squeezes my other hand.
Under my fingers I feel the light fabric of her panties. I run my fingers along the lace top, teasing. She’s breathing heavy and steady under my touch. It’s happening so fast I’m not even thinking about anything beyond her reactions anymore — wanting to satisfy her.
I push my hand across the zipper and over her jeans. Her thighs are still together, but I push my hand between her legs to find her hot to the touch even through her jeans. She spreads her legs slightly and bends one knee. I press up and she moans softly, and then her moan cuts off abruptly, like she’s biting her lip.
I massage her through her jeans as her hips begin to slowly gyrate.
I slide back up and run a finger along her stomach in lazy circles and then back down, across the lace of her panties and then ever so slowly inside. I feel the soft down-like hair and push against the inside of her jeans to make room as she spreads her legs further apart. I cup my hand over her pussy, her hand over mine.
She moans again, but her breathing quickly turns to panting.
I caress her and then feel the pressure on the back of my hand — she wants me to go further. I slip a finger easily inside and then out, teasing at the edge. She’s soaking wet.
She shivers under my touch. I kiss the back of her neck again and squeeze her hand.
I slide a finger gingerly along, my fingertips slowly seeking her clit.
Her impending ecstasy controls my every thought as I gently caress her in slow, tiny measured strokes. Her breathing falls into a harmonic rhythm with my touch. I feel the orgasm building within her, in the tension of her muscles and the depth of her moans.
Her back arches against me and her hips begin to spasm. And then I hear her breathing change as her body begins to shake, disrupting our rhythm. He hand remains firmly against mine inside her panties, but something is clearly wrong.
She begins to whimper.
And just like earlier, the spell is broken.
I slide my hand up along her stomach.
“Please, don’t stop,” she whispers through sobs.
But these aren’t tears of impending release. I don’t know what she’s feeling, but it’s not right.
I take her in both arms and hold her tight as she begins to openly cry, shaking against me.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I sooth and reach over and kiss her on the cheek.
After a time, she begins to relax, but her hands continue to clutch mine with a vice-like grip. I hold her, trying to understand what’s in her head, what’s wrong, but like everything else about her — I’ll find out in time, maybe. I continue to sooth her, reassuring her that she’s safe and that I’ll never let go, even after she’s fallen asleep.
But I’m pretty sure everything is far from okay.
3
A Little Time
When I open my eyes again, sunlight is streaming in through the loft window, and Tonya is gone.
I roll over and stretch before standing.
I’m not sure what happened last night but it was fucked up. I’m really worried about Tonya and get downstairs quickly to smell coffee brewing. She’s sitting on the couch, wearing a thick fluffy bathrobe that covers every inch of her body, sipping coffee.
She smiles when she sees me.
“Morning, sleepy-head,” she says.
“Hi,” I say cautiously.
This doesn’t feel right either.
“Sleep okay?” she asks.
Yeah, except for the weird crying foreplay. I just nod.
“Too bad about Jimmy, but I had fun last night,” she says, still smiling as she takes another sip.
I have no idea what to do or say, this is something new for me too. And I’m still worried about her. She wasn’t drunk enough to have forgotten, not by a long shot, but was it the alcohol urging us on last night?
“I had a really weird dream last night,” she says.
So that’s how she wants to play this. Secrets are our stock and trade, so I’ll just add this one to the pile.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah. But I can’t remember it now. You know how it is when you wake up and you can almost remember it, but the only thing you know is how you feel. But not why.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. What did you feel?”
She stares at me and the façade crumbles as her eyes well up. She looks away and her lower lip starts to quiver.
Shit.
“I can’t do this, Connor. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“Do what?” I ask softly.
My heart stops.
“This. Us.”
There it is. I feel the weight of my sudden sadness pulling against me, like the inevitability of gravity.
“I don’t understand. I thought we had a good time last night. Are you okay?” I ask.
“No, I’m not,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I begin.
“It’s not you, it’s me. I mean really, it’s me,” she says.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“You already said that,” she tries to give me a joking grin, but it only sets her lips to quivering again. “I just need some time and maybe some space to think about things,” she says.
“Think about what? How can I help?” I’m trying to breathe.
She glares at me for a moment and then her expression softens.
“Stuff and I wish you could help, but you can't. I have to deal with this myself.” She smiles at me through her tears.
I step over to her and take the cup and set it on the mini-refrigerator. Then I pull her to her feet and hug her. She buries her face into my chest and cries again.
I hold her, wishing I could take away her pain.
We embrace for a time and then she pushes me back, sniffing as she wipes her nose with the sleeve of her robe. She’s a mess but she’s still adorable.
“A little time and we’ll be right as rain,” she says softly as she pats my chest and then walks back up the stairs. Her bathrobe is so long it drags on the floor, making her look like a little kid.
I watch her go and then grab my cigarettes and light one up as I step outside. It’s another hot day. The sky is blue and the breeze is gentle. It should be a beautiful day, but everything feels all fucked up — again.
But the important thing to remember is she just said she needed a little time. Last night was amazing before it turned weird, but it was still intimate, she trusted me. I know she cares about me, maybe not quite like I feel about her, but in time she might get there.
Time, that’s what she needs.
So that’s what I’ll give her. I have all of the time in the world to wait. I’ll never leave her. We’ll get there.
I close my eyes and focus on the sun on my face, trying to relax, but even though I’m trying to understand and have no intention of complaining about it to her, I’m still pissed. Not at her, just at the whole situation.
Fate’s a bitch.
I toss the cigarette and step back inside as the phone rings.
I pick it up, assuming it’s Todd calling about tonight. “What do you want prick?”
“Nice manners Mr. Clay. This is Connor Clay, is it not?” a gruff, yet cultured and unmistakably older voice asks.
I take an instant dislike to the guy. “What the fuck is it to you?”
“Charming. This is Bethany’s father; please put her on the phone.” The cultured tone is quickly replaced by country-accented irritation.
Motherfuck.
I want a piece of this asshole. How can a parent be so out of touch wit
h their own kid’s welfare — so clueless? Why didn’t he know that Tonya needed help, before she attempted suicide? Of course I know the answer. I’ve lived it, but Tonya grew up better than I did. This fuck has no excuse.
“What the fuck is your problem? How could you not know that she was in pain? So much for the fucking parent of the year award, huh, asshole?” I don’t think, I just I tear into him.
“Shut it!” he shouts.
His voice has that edge of authority, the kind that expects to be obeyed and as fucked up as it is, it still has the power to stop me in my tracks, even if only for a moment. I hate this shit. The show on PBS called it psychological conditioning — triggers.
But, it’s clear from his tone that he knows what I’m talking about.
“Look, son. I don’t know what you think you know, but get back to me when your balls drop. I’m not going to be lectured to by some ignorant little piss-ant. Go get my daughter and put her on the goddamn phone.”
He’s pissed but I don’t give a shit because that makes two of us.
“Who is it?” Tonya shouts from over the balcony.
Shit.
So the new and improved, I-need-to-get-my-shit-together attitude lasted almost a full day.
“It’s your dad,” I shout back.
She must have grabbed the upstairs phone because I hear her voice on the line, nervous and tense. “I got it, you can hang-up.”
And then I hear her dad’s angry voice, “What the hell is…”
I hang up.
I run one hand through my hair, careful of the stitches and then stub out my cigarette in the over-flowing, turquoise, beanbag ashtray next to the phone. I grab my smokes, flop down on the couch and chain-smoke another. I just want to make her happy but I royally fucked up my first test, and now I just have to wait for the lecture about how disappointed she is in me. And I deserve it. I shouldn’t have gone off on her dad.
It served no purpose whatsoever, but I still can’t help but open and close my fists thinking about the damage I could inflict on his face if I put my mind to it.
I thought I had lost my rage somewhere between the back of that police car after kicking my dad’s ass in front of Shauna or my trip down memory lane in the tunnel under Elm Street and standing in the rain with Tonya yesterday morning, but it’s still here, boiling away. I thought Tonya would put that fire out but now, as the pressure builds again, I wonder if it will ever go away. The PBS show didn’t have anything to say about that.
Her voice is rising and falling in pitch, intensity and volume, but I can’t quite make out what she’s saying. I hear her shout, “It’s my life!” a few times, but otherwise — nothing.
And then I hear her plead. “You wouldn’t. Please!”
The emotion in her voice shoots up my spine, another trigger. It’s like hearing a child cry out in pain. I sit up suddenly filled with a fight or flight reflex, jacked on adrenaline with no outlet. Her tone is full of anger and hurt — the sadness is unmistakable. I can’t bear for her to feel like this.
I lean back into the couch, my foot bouncing on the floor in agitation and continue to fill the Camel ashtray on the mini-refrigerator — one new butt for every time my rage spirals off on a new path of destruction. I’m trying to figure how to handle the situation and rehearsing my apology, when Tonya finally skips down the stairs.
She’s wearing pleated and cuffed dress pants, cream and brown, leather saddle-oxfords, a long sleeve, baggy white blouse with the collar turned up and her hair is curled and over-styled. But the most unusual thing is the makeup — she’s wearing a lot and has on a pearl necklace, looped like a choker. This is another look I’ve never seen. She reminds me of Diane Keaton in Annie Hall.
She’s cute and I like it, but considering how I feel about her, I’m not sure that counts for much.
I’m about to launch into my carefully worded apology when she interrupts me.
“I’m going to meet Carla and then Bradford’s picking me up later. I’ll be back tomorrow sometime,” she says with an oddly detached tone.
I forget my apology. “What’s up with your dad?”
“We’ll talk about it later, okay?” She looks as sad as I thought she sounded on the phone and I just want to fix it — just make everything better again.
But I don’t think that’s going to be an option. “I don’t like seeing you like this,” I say softly.
“You have a problem with the flats, my clothes?” she asks with a smirk, deflecting.
“I have a problem with you being unhappy,” I say sincerely.
“I’m not unhappy or sad or anything else. Really, everything is fine.” The words ring empty.
Something’s up.
She walks over, like she’s going to hug me but then stops and raises her hand to my chest, but even pulls that back, taking a hold of her purse strap with both hands instead. She just looks up at me with a nervous and awkward expression like she’s desperately trying to hide something.
What the hell is this all about?
My chest begins to tighten.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you, and my dad is being a complete asshole at the moment,” she says.
“Honest about what? What does he have to do with us?” I ask.
“I don’t have time to get into this right now.” Her eyes are getting glassy.
Now it sounds more serious than I thought. “Let me help, okay?”
“You can’t help. This is none of your business,” she says flatly.
Her tone freezes my heart.
I thought Tonya was my business, but I see now that I was hoping for too much. Her rejection is suffocating — a cold and unexpected slap of reality.
But it doesn’t feel like our reality.
I didn’t imagine last night. It happened — every laugh, every touch and that wonderful kiss. I know she said she needed space, but this is something else entirely. It’s like she’s not with me anymore.
Something’s changed in the last hour. She’s different now and I feel a deep, throbbing pain beginning to spread out from the pit of my stomach.
“I’m worried about you, Tonya.” I ask.
Her eyes narrow and she looks irritated. Her emotions are changing like the wind.
“I’m not sure, but I might not be around as much for a while.” She says it with that same detached resolve and seems to be focusing on something far away.
“You said you need some time, but what are you talking about now? Is this about last night?” I ask with an accusatory tone.
“Connor,” she says tersely. She meets my gaze with an irritated glare, and there’s that new thing in her eyes again — coldness. I don’t think this is about last night because she’s acting like last night never happened.
This must be her dad’s doing — fucking asshole. But the truth is, I have no idea what’s happened or who, if anyone, is to blame. This may not have anything to do with her dad.
The condescension in her voice turns the pain in my stomach to nausea and my knees feel weak. I’m suddenly anxious and that sense of belonging, forgiveness and home that washed so wonderfully over me before is already beginning to fade, like another dream.
“What?” I ask.
“Later, okay?” she asks quietly.
“Fine, whatever.” I don’t need to stand around here playing twenty-fucking questions and getting nowhere. “Did you forget about what I asked you last night?”
A look of sadness crosses her face for a moment. She looks unsure, like she’d rather not be in the van with me or anywhere else near me. And I’m not sure I care at the moment. Considering her unnerving and sudden personality shift, I’m not sure I even want her to go anymore, but maybe I’m over thinking things again.
“No, I didn’t forget but I can’t go with you. I’m meeting Carla at the Café,” she says looking away.
It hurts more than I ever imagined it could to think that Tonya is more concerned with meeting Carla for lunch than being with me at
the cemetery. Fine, I’m sure the conversation would suck anyway, but it’s a fuck of a long walk both ways.
“How about a ride over then?” I ask.
“Which one is it?” she asks absently.
“Forest Glen, the cemetery south of town,” I say.
I’m the one going to see my dead mom, but it’s Tonya that looks like she’s going to a funeral.
What the hell is going on in her head?
4
Perennials
“If it’s too much trouble, don’t sweat it. I’ll walk,” I say.
I glance back and she still seems unsure, but she still looks sad too. “Yeah,” she says reluctantly.
I’m frustrated and getting more and more pissed by the minute, but vow to shut the fuck up on the ride over because that’s all I need now — a ride.
I pull on my converse shoes, grab my smokes, Zippo, and two beers and step outside. It’s like walking into a furnace. I pull out a cigarette and light it as I walk across the parking lot. The smell of baking asphalt always reminds me of amusement parks.
Tonya climbs up into the van and starts it up. I hop in, thankful for the fake sheepskin seat covers as she hits the air conditioning. I lean back and plant my feet against the dash as the Golden Oldies radio station comes on, catching Blueberry Hill in mid-chorus. I follow the kick drum and hi-hat beats with my feet, tapping the dash in rhythm as I roll down my window.
I ignore Tonya.
I don’t really feel like talking to her, mainly because I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where we stand. She must feel the same way because she doesn’t say anything either.
We slowly make our way south through town as the air conditioning fights the heat. The hot air from the open window feels good against my face. My hair is whipping around my face, and that feels good too.
The lines between the power poles dip and rise like they’re guiding us. The houses slowly diminish in number until there’s only a farm house here and there along the way, most are dilapidated and forgotten, the paint long since chipped away, revealing crumbling gray wood walls under sway-back roofs.
