Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  We walk down the cement steps into a small backyard with a rather elderly-looking grill. I pick up the tongs, and begin to rearrange the coals for better heat distribution.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just getting things ready for the meat,” I respond naturally.

  Now, I’ve only really known Sarah for a few months, but I’m quickly realizing that she’s pretty strong-minded. And with that whole hyphen episode painfully fresh in my mind, I sense that perhaps I’m entering dangerous territory here. And yet, God knows why, I press on.

  “See, I’ve learned from experience that if you arrange the coals like this, they cook the meat more evenly.”

  That last bit doesn’t seem to go over particularly well, and the silence that greets me is not reassuring. But I wait. And wait.

  Finally, “You’ve learned that from experience.” Not really asked as a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Experience as a teacher? Or a doctoral candidate, perhaps?”

  While I fight hard to maintain a straight face, I debate briefly whether I’d prefer to strangle her, or throw her over my shoulder and silence that sassy mouth in bed.

  “No, smart ass, as a barbecue-loving sex god who can make a woman come with just his giant roasted zucchini.”

  We stare at each other for a long, pregnant pause. But she cracks first, a smile splitting her entire gorgeous face.

  “No one messes with my barbecue, understand?” She points her spatula at me for extra emphasis.

  “Can I spank you with that later?”

  My answer comes in the form of a hard whack to the ass. With the spatula. I dig this girl. Big time.

  §

  Selene leaves the apartment shortly after dinner to meet up with her boyfriend, Kevin, presumably to give Sarah and I some privacy. I offer to do dishes, but she won’t have it, so I wander around a little on my own.

  That’s when I notice what I think is Sarah’s bedroom. The room is sparse, with just a bed, a desk, and some milk crates for storing books. My attention is immediately drawn to the red dress hanging on the open closet door. Thinking back to the other night, she looked unbelievable in that dress.

  But glancing inside the closet, I’m surprised to see that she has very little clothing. In fact, she may have the smallest wardrobe of any woman I’ve ever seen. She always looks great, but it dawns on me as I process the contents of her room, as well as that god-awful car, that she has no money. There are no extra things in this room. Just the basics.

  I never really thought about it but, clearly, this isn’t just a student’s budget; this is a poor student’s budget. I hurt a little for her, though I know she’d hate that.

  All of the sudden, several things happen at once. Glancing into the full-length mirror that hangs from the inside of the open closet door, a photograph reflected on the opposite wall of her bedroom catches my eye. I turn around to see it, as I hear dishes crash in the kitchen.

  Sarah, probably realizing where I’ve wandered off to, comes bursting through the doorway.

  The photograph on the wall is mine; it’s the one of the Golden Gate Bridge. I can’t make sense of that. I stare at it for a long time while I have an awareness that Sarah is closely watching me.

  Then, I turn to her with what I’m sure must be a look of pure confusion. She looks petrified.

  “How do you have that?” My voice is barely a whisper.

  She clenches her teeth together tightly before answering. “I bought it.”

  “When? How?”

  “I bought it from Charlie’s.”

  “But Charlie told me that my photographs were sold to an Asian woman and a guy.”

  “The guy is a friend of mine. I called him after I ran into you that day. I’m sorry. I should have told you.” She looks down at her hands, which seem to be shaking. “But I bought it before we became…whatever. And, the fact is, when I bought it, I could never have imagined a scenario in which you would ever be standing here in my bedroom.”

  My brain is on overload. I close my eyes, and I don’t know why, but the first thing to come out of my mouth is, “You paid $300 for this.”

  “Yes.”

  I turn to look at her, still stunned. “If I knew you liked it that much, I’d have given it to you.”

  A proud and defiant expression crosses her face. “If you knew how much I liked it, you could have charged me more.”

  I just stare at her. It still doesn’t make sense to me. She seems to have no money. Why would she do that?

  She continues, her voice shaky and tight, “I know you probably think I’m a nut job. I’m not. It’s just that your photograph reminds me of how much progress I’ve made personally over the past five years, and also that the work I’m doing on myself isn’t finished. And it’s special to me because I remember this one day when I came back to your class after school, and you were looking at this photo. You told me about your parents, and I knew you knew about my dad.

  “I felt so alone during that time in my life. And it was comforting to me that someone else understood what I was going through and, even more, had managed to survive it. Knowing your story gave me the reassurance that my life would go on, too. And it did. I’m sure you don’t remember that day, but I never forgot it.”

  Actually, she’s wrong.

  I do remember. I’d been hesitant about hanging the image in my classroom because it was so bittersweet for me. The day I took that photo was the last time I ever saw my parents. Sarah had walked in in the midst of my decision and commented on the image, telling me as an afterthought that her father had been an avid photographer. I could see that referring to him in the past tense was still jarring for her, and maybe that’s what prompted me to tell her my story. It was something I never did with anyone, let alone a student. But there was something in her face, a kinship of human experience that I guess wanted to acknowledge.

  Maybe I told her about my parents because I wanted to let her know that I understood. Or maybe I told her because I knew that she would.

  And I remember her reaction. It wasn’t pity or discomfort. It wasn’t the reaction that people like us usually get when others learn of our tragedies.

  It was simple kindness.

  It was empathy.

  All at once, I understand why it has taken no effort at all to fall for her these past weeks, why I’ve felt so at ease in her company. There are things she inherently knows about me without my having to say them, things she just understands because of our common experiences–the same things that I’ve had so much trouble through the years expressing to other people. And maybe the same is true for her.

  “Danny, I…”

  I lunge for her, pressing her against the wall, and kissing her with every ounce of emotion coursing through me. It’s a confusing jumble of them, for sure. But I know beyond all doubt that there is no one else I’d rather entrust that photograph to than her–that photograph that reminds us both in different ways of what we’ve lost and what we’ve survived.

  “You make me so happy,” I whisper against her sweet, swollen lips.

  That statement nowhere near covers all that I want to say to her, and yet, it’s the absolute truth. And more than anything else, that’s what I need her to know.

  “Danny.” Her voice is so full of the same raw emotion that I feel.

  And I have an overwhelming need to be inside her–to be connected, body and soul. I pull her skirt up to her waist and slide her panties down her legs. In an instant, my jeans are open, cock out, and I’m rolling on a condom from my pocket. I lift her from where she stands against the wall, and she willingly wraps her legs around me.

  With no real foreplay, I bury myself inside her and instantly feel a profound sense of relief.

  Mine.

  She moans and wraps herself tighter around me. It’s all the reassurance I need. I start to move, dragging my teeth along on her neck.

  There is no place for words here. And no words that would be equal t
o the task of expressing what our bodies already know. She runs her hands into my hair, pulling my head back hard. Then she presses her lips to my throat, running her tongue over my Adam’s apple, and across my jaw. It feels wild and unrestrained, and I love it.

  Honestly, the whole thing feels that way. I’m banging her so hard against the wall that I can hear her things falling off her desk. But I can’t help myself. Sarah provokes some of the most overpowering emotions in me. When I’m with her, I feel like I want to gorge myself in her–like I just want everything she’ll give me. Not just sex, I want it all. I’m greedy, but I don’t give a shit.

  The whole act takes no time at all. Within minutes, Sarah throws her head back and comes hard. It’s just about the sexiest thing I have ever seen. She’s completely uninhibited, her hands roughly pulling at her luscious breasts, and her body gripping my cock like she needs it to survive. I lose it; coming inside her so hard I nearly pass out.

  I push her back against the wall before I drop her, dripping sweat from my forehead onto her chest. Here we stay, collecting ourselves, my cock still inside her. Her cheek is against my cheek and she smells so good, like strawberries. Like mine.

  I feel her shudder, so I gently pull out, and ease her feet to the floor. But I’m not ready to let go of her just yet. Resting my hands on her hips, I lean my forehead to hers. Neither of us says a word for the longest time, still processing a mess of wildly erratic thoughts.

  This didn’t look like making love, but it wasn’t just fucking either. My feelings for Sarah are real, and looking into her eyes, I can see that hers are real, too.

  I push all of the hair off of her face with both of my hands and kiss her as softly as I can. I pour everything I’m not good at saying into that breath of a kiss, and hope that she understands the enormity of its meaning.

  Then, with great care, I remove her clothing and, lifting her in my arms, I carry her naked to bed.

  §

  We lie in her small bed, face to face under her well-worn light blue comforter, just enjoying each other’s touch.

  As I take in her every beautiful feature, it occurs to me that she could crush me. She has my heart in her inexperienced hands, and she’s so young that she may not understand how easy it would be for her to break it.

  I don’t know exactly where this can go, but I know I don’t want to be just some casual fling for her, which is so ironic considering that when I was twenty-two, every woman in my life was a casual fling. It was all about having these crazy life experiences.

  But, now, I find myself wanting more, and I know I’d be devastated if it turned out that, for her, I was that crazy life experience. What if I was the thing she would some day laugh about with her friends–that time she was banging her former high school science teacher.

  I realize that for better or for worse, I need to clarify where things stand between us. My feelings for her are beginning to spiral out of control, and yet we have no defined understanding of what we are to each other. This is all new ground for me, and it feels far too precarious.

  “Be with me, Sarah,” I ask her, “only me?”

  She looks conflicted, which doesn’t give me any comfort, and I sense that there’s some sort of debate going on in her head. Then, she lifts her hand to my face, and traces my features with her fingertips. I lean into her warm touch for reassurance that this discussion isn’t going to end with my heart in shambles.

  She’s searching my face for… something. “My exes have always told me that I’m closed-off and solitary.”

  I struggle to make sense of that. Here I am worrying that she may not want a relationship, and she’s worrying that she doesn’t have the capacity for one.

  “I don’t care what they’ve said.”

  “They’re not entirely wrong, Danny. I’m not good at this.”

  She looks so unsure of herself, so unlike the woman I’ve come to know. And that fills me with unexpected anger for all of the pricks who came before me–all the assholes who had no idea what they’d found in her. She’s incredible; I’m in awe of her.

  “You don’t know what you’re good at,” I tell her adamantly. “You haven’t been with me.”

  “Danny…”

  “We make each other better. Everything’s better now that we’re together. Don’t you feel that, too?” I bear witness to her self-doubt, fueled by too many relationships gone badly. I know very little of her history, but regardless of the details, I understand the sense of failure. I’ve had my share of them, too.

  “Be with me,” I implore her.

  It’s as if my certainty bolsters hers. Her face takes on the sweetest smile, studying me in careful consideration. “Okay,” she whispers, her smile now spreading across her lovely features. That smile is like summer.

  I grin back at her, so happy that I feel a little juvenile. And then I lean in, sealing my mouth over hers. We’ve kissed so many times, but this kiss feels new. And in a way it is. Because now the one I’m kissing is officially mine.

  Chapter 9

  Sarah

  DANNY PULLS UP IN FRONT of my apartment at exactly 6:00 p.m. on Friday. Through the window, I watch him get out of his car, dressed in work clothes and dark aviators. He looks like a movie star–so handsome. And also mine. Sigh.

  He strides up the front steps, carrying a white envelope in his hand.

  When I open the door, he dips me for a kiss, and then hands me the envelope without a word.

  “Test results?” I ask him, glancing inside.

  “I got tested on Monday. I’m clean. Not that I thought I wasn’t, but I wanted you to know.”

  I head to my desk drawer, and pull out my own results. I had been tested immediately after finding John with another woman, and, considering the circumstances, I hadn’t been nearly as confident about the results. But luckily for me, they were negative.

  “These are mine. I haven’t been with anyone but you since I had them done. And I’m on birth control.”

  “Well then,” he beams, busting out that supermodel smile of his. “We’re good! I want to take you to dinner to celebrate.”

  Really??

  “We just found out we can have sex without a condom and you want to go out to a restaurant to celebrate?”

  His face falls for a second. “Well, when you put it like that, it does sound idiotic.”

  “On the other hand,” he continues. “I’m starving, and I bet you have nothing to eat here but cereal.”

  “We could order in.”

  He crinkles his nose. “Let’s go out and consider it foreplay. I may not let you out of bed for the rest of the weekend.”

  We should have stayed in.

  We arrive at Paul Martin’s, a very popular new hot spot for happy hour. It’s crowded and loud, but it’s a celebratory atmosphere so it seems to fit our mood.

  Danny isn’t kidding about the foreplay. We’re snuggled close together in a booth–he has one arm draped casually over the back behind me, and the other is not so innocently working its way up my bare thigh.

  Throughout the meal, he insists on feeding me, offering me bites of the salt and pepper shrimp, dipping chicken satay into the peanut sauce and placing it to my mouth. He wipes a drop of sauce from my lips, and I lick his finger clean. My free hand is not so innocent either, and I enjoy watching him struggle to contain his reaction as I firmly squeeze the oversized bulge in his slacks.

  I’m on my third mojito, and mentally begging him to push inside me with the fingers he’s been teasing me with all night. Engrossed in his wicked expression, I don’t notice when someone stops in front of our table.

  “Sarah?”

  I instantly snap out of my sex haze. Or maybe not as instantly as I hoped.

  “It’s me, Jennifer Malcolm.”

  “Oh, wow, Jennifer! I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t expecting to see you. You look great!”

  Jennifer was a girl who had been in my graduating class at McKinley. We spent a lot of time together doing various theate
r productions, and became friendly as a result. She was always very outgoing and social, and I was pretty much the opposite. But she was nice; I liked her, though we didn’t keep in touch after we graduated.

  “So do you! It’s so great to see you!”

  It’s at that moment that she glances at my date, and then glances back again, this time giving him a long and thorough look.

  “Oh, my God, Mr. Moore?” she practically yells. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it’s you! Wait–are you guys, like, together????”

  It would be pretty obvious to anyone looking in our direction that Danny and I aren’t exactly having a business dinner. We look cozy and affectionate. Maybe overly so, but I don’t dwell on that.

  I look at Danny, and he’s white as a sheet.

  “It’s nice to see you, Jennifer. And please, call me Dan.” His tone is calm and professional, eerily so.

  “Oh, my God, Sarah,” she continues. (And I’m really wishing she would stop screaming that.) “I cannot believe this. Well done!”

  I’m nauseous at this point because I know Dan is secretly freaking out. This whole thing is mortifying. And it can’t get any worse, can it?

  It’s as though the gods themselves answer that question, angered from being called out repeatedly in vain.

  “Wait, have you two been together since high school?”

  With that, I’m pretty sure Dan has a coronary. Both of us gasp out, “NO!” Maybe he says, “God, no!”

  But I don’t think Jennifer is listening. She’s rooting around in her purse for something. Suddenly, she produces her mobile phone and starts to take a picture of us.

  “Here, lean in!”

  “Jennifer, no,” I plead, but to no avail. She’s in action.

  Both Danny and I force some sort of contorted expression that most likely looks more like constipation than the bliss that it was not five minutes ago. I have no interest in knowing what we look like in that picture. I just want this to end.

  Mercifully, the mobile rings in her hand. She says a quick goodbye, promising to get in touch, and rushes off.