Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  We just sit there.

  Crap.

  With not so much as a word, Danny signals the waiter for the check, handing him a credit card without even looking at the bill.

  The second he signs, he grabs my hand, and practically yanks me from the booth. I’m cursing my shoe selection as we all but sprint to the car. He opens my side, hands me in, and closes the door.

  Coming around to his side, he slides in, starts the car and backs out. He’s not looking at me. He doesn’t seem to remember I’m there.

  The car ride home to my house is quiet. We don’t even put on the radio. I’m not sure what to do because I’ve never seen him like this. He’s brooding. His hands grip the steering wheel like death, while he stares straight ahead. His breathing is shallow, and his jaw is tight. I’m afraid if I touch him, he’ll explode. So I just sit. Absolutely still.

  My place is empty when we arrive, and I couldn’t be happier that Selene isn’t home to witness the strain between us. Danny sits down on the couch and scrolls through his phone for a full minute. At last, he closes his eyes and rubs his jaw with his hand. Still not a word.

  I sit down carefully, near him on the couch, and watch him out of my peripheral vision. Finally, I can’t take it any more.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  Hesitation. “No.” Okay.

  I’m barely breathing at this point, and at a loss for how to handle this. How to handle him. I suddenly realize how little I know of him.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” I whisper.

  He turns to me in a gesture of profound impatience, then fires up his phone, and opens Facebook.

  Without a word, he hands it to me. There, in his Timeline Review, is that awful picture of us with the caption “Sarah Kyle and Mr. Moore getting some serious sizzle on at Paul Martin’s!”

  We’ve both been tagged in the photo, and although Dan and Jennifer aren’t Facebook friends, I think she and I may be, so the picture is likely to get around some. Checking my Facebook, those suspicions are confirmed.

  Under the posting on my Timeline are thirty-two comments and counting:

  Like! Like! Like!

  You go, girl!

  Mr. Moore gets ‘em young!

  Look who’s into science NOW!

  Private lessons in biology? Sign me up!

  And the worst of it:

  I always knew he was a dog!

  “I can ask her to take this down, and, in the meantime, we can untag ourselves.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t out there,” he answers quietly.

  “I know. But nobody takes this stuff seriously, anyway.”

  He rubs his head, not really listening to me. “Dammit! How could I have been so fucking stupid?”

  “It’s not your fault,” I try, though I’m not sure ‘fault’ is the right word. But it doesn’t matter; he’s clearly not taking anything I say to heart.

  “I’m a professional. I can’t have this shit out there!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This,” he shouts, knocking a pillow from the couch. “This is exactly the problem. Shit like this calls my judgment into question.”

  “Your judgment? You mean being seen with me is bad judgment?” Now, I’m losing it.

  He rises to standing, frustration radiating off his body. One hand is on his hip and the other is running through his hair, causing it to stick up absurdly in all directions.

  “Don’t act like that. You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t have a damned clue what you mean.”

  “This is what I worried about from the beginning with you.”

  “Wednesday night, you told me you wanted me to be your girlfriend. Did you just mean behind closed doors? Am I your dirty little secret?”

  I’m just barely clinging to my last shred of control.

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “What? No! I just…I can’t…Dammit!”

  “You are an ass,” I spit out, pointing at him. “Who gives a damn what people say or think? We know we haven’t done anything wrong. Or at least I do!”

  “You can’t really be that naïve, Sarah?!”

  “Get out.” I march to my room, and slam the door.

  But the minute it closes, the adrenaline from our first real argument begins to recede, and I’m gripped with a sudden remorse.

  I hold my breath, willing him to come find me. Willing us to take back everything we said. Willing time to spin backwards to our kiss on the doorstep. Willing regret not to take the place of everything we’ve found together.

  But, instead, I hear the front door open, and then softly close. A car engine starts and my heart breaks.

  §

  I lie in bed for hours, trying to figure out where everything went wrong. When my initial anger subsides, my rational thought returns.

  I remember how Danny was in the classroom–stiffly professional, never smiling. He never joked with students or was familiar in any way. And yet, students still talked about him; they analyzed everything he did, looked obsessively for any trace of a misdeed. They loved the idea of a scandal.

  Looking back on that now, he must have been aware of how people watched him, whispered about him. How hard must it have been for him to be a young, ridiculously handsome teacher in a high school? How did one survive the scrutiny, day in and day out? I’d never really thought about it like that, but it must have been terribly difficult.

  I think about his question at the Cliffs.

  Does our age difference bother you? Or the fact that you were in my class?

  It didn’t bother me. I hadn’t given it a single thought. But, even at the time, I could see that it bothered him. How much? I didn’t know. Maybe now I have an inkling.

  The thought that continues to nag me, though, is that even if I move beyond the hurt, even if I find the empathy to understand where these feelings come from, this ultimately isn’t my issue. He still has to be the one to be okay with the implications. I know we’re not doing anything unethical. But does he?

  I’ll always be the one to get the “You go, girl!” But he’ll be the one to get the “I always knew he was a dog.”

  He has to shoulder the brunt of the judgment, however misplaced.

  And he has to decide whether our relationship is worth it.

  Because I can’t be with someone who has doubts.

  With that restless thought, I drift off into a fitful sleep.

  §

  I awaken to the ding of my cell phone, lighting up with a text at 4:45 a.m.

  Are you up?

  Yes. Where are you? I reply.

  On your doorstep, comes his immediate answer.

  I jump out of bed quickly, and, with no thought to my sleepy appearance, open the door to find Danny in his running clothes, bathed in sweat. His hair is drenched, his cheeks pink, and he’s leaning lightly against the wall.

  “Come in.” I search his face for any indication of what to expect, but he’s too masterful at keeping his thoughts concealed. His face is serious and carefully blank. As he steps inside, he seems to purposefully avoid any physical contact between us, which is disconcerting, to say the least. I find myself wrapping my arms around my waist in a revealingly protective way.

  “How long have you been running?”

  “A while.” His mouth curls up just slightly at one corner, suggesting that ‘a while’ is likely measured in hours. He doesn’t look worse the wear for it; his breathing is even and unlabored. Still, hours are hours.

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he says gently, and closes the door behind him.

  “Water?”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  I move to the kitchen, and take a glass from the cupboard, filling it with filtered water from the fridge. All the while he watches me, wordlessly, as though absorbing every detail. Handing him the glas
s, I meet his gaze. It’s softer now, and slightly pained.

  “Danny, I’m sorry for some of the things–”

  “Don’t.” He shakes his head, halting my apology. “You asked me when we first…met why I chose to teach middle school. What I told you was true, but it wasn’t the whole story.”

  He pauses to take a sip, then sets the glass on the counter, and looks back at me before continuing.

  “I was 24 when I started at McKinley. It was the perfect job for me, and I was so happy to be teaching a subject that I loved. But, it quickly turned out to be…difficult.” The word comes out with an undertone of what might be anger, or possibly regret.

  “Not the teaching part; that part was second nature. But the kids were only seven years younger than I was, and it wasn’t easy earning their respect. I quickly realized that I had to keep my distance, as much as possible.

  “But as bad as some of the students were initially, the faculty was worse. During my first week on the job, one of the more senior staff stopped by my classroom under the pretense of ‘welcoming me.’ It wasn’t much of a welcome, I assure you.” He shakes his head in remembrance. “He told me that I had replaced a tenured teacher, who was let go for misconduct after a lengthy process that most of the faculty thought was a witch hunt. They resented his removal, and they resented his being replaced by someone who was as inexperienced as I.

  “Not only did they give me no help in getting acclimated, they routinely made cracks about various student crushes. Not just cracks, really–insinuations about my character. I despised the way they toyed so loosely with my reputation, and in such an insidious way. So after four years at McKinley, I’d had enough.

  “That was the reason I jumped at the chance to go to Taft. I do love middle school; I’d never go back to teaching the upper grades. But it shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. And I guess that seeing Jennifer just brought all of that crap back in the very worst way. I wasn’t prepared for it. And I didn’t handle it well. I’m sorry.”

  The regret in his face speaks volumes about the veracity of his words, soothing much of the damage we inflicted earlier.

  Having finally said his peace, he reaches for me, and kisses me deeply, cupping my face gently in his hands. He doesn’t break the contact for what feels like forever. Then, he wraps his arms around me and hugs me tightly, tucking my head under his chin. His large, solid frame is sweaty, and smells of musky exertion, but I can’t think of a single place I’d rather be.

  “I’m grateful every day that you came into my life, Sarah,” he whispers into my hair.

  Standing in the quiet of my tiny apartment, the echoes of our argument fall away. Finally, I pull back, looking directly into his somber green eyes.

  “I know in many ways all of this is harder for you than it is for me. I want you to know that I understand that,” I say. But I need to know that you can deal with it, I don’t say.

  He shakes his head. “I accepted the posting on my Timeline. And I’ll gladly defend any criticism that comes our way from that, or anything else. It’s my honor and privilege.”

  “Danny,–” I begin.

  But he pulls me to him in a kiss, silencing any intention on my part to ease his remorse. He won’t allow it.

  He’s so magnificent like this–so raw and real. A big part of me is tempted to touch, to run my hands over his chest to his glorious six-pack abs. But I know he’s wrecked, and in need of sleep. So instead, I lead him into the bathroom, run the shower, and peel off his soaked clothing and shoes. I take out a fresh towel while he watches me, and place it on the sink beside him.

  He opens the shower door, about to get in, but stops, and gathers me in a tight embrace. Very quietly, he whispers something into my hair.

  With the din of the water, I can’t quite make out the words. But I don’t have to. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, and I press my lips to his beating heart. It’s strong and steady, and sure enough to carry us over the rough spots.

  §

  After showering, Danny climbs exhausted into bed. We wrap ourselves around each other, and succumb to a deep and peaceful sleep.

  I wake up several hours later to find him resting soundly beside me. His face looks so young and carefree. So unlike the tortured expression he wore when he finally came back to me last night, physically at a breaking point. All of the things he told me make me respect the man he is even more. I didn’t think it was possible.

  He’s likely to be very dehydrated when he wakes, so I quietly get up and head to the kitchen for a glass of water and some Motrin. When I come back, his eyes are open.

  “Hi, handsome.”

  “Is that for me? My head is pounding.” His voice is gravelly and sleepy.

  Nodding, I sit beside him on the bed, and stroke his hair while he rises up on one elbow and swallows the medicine.

  “Are we okay?” he asks.

  I nod, giving him a small smile that seems to relieve his concern that we’ve done any enduring damage to our fledgling relationship.

  “I couldn’t stand it if we weren’t,” he murmurs, reaching up to cup my face, and pulling me to him for a heartfelt kiss.

  Then shifting, he positions me beneath his warm body, and I’m enveloped by the alluring scent of sleepy maleness. He threads one hand into my hair and deepens the kiss, softly exploring my mouth with his tongue. I continue to stroke him, just enjoying the feel of his hair and face.

  Carefully, he removes my camisole, and drags his lips across my shoulder and down to my breast. I arch into him, loving the feel of his mouth on my body.

  The bed is so cozy beneath me, his heat radiating from my flowered sheets. I run my fingers up his muscular back and shoulders, enjoying the echoing warmth of his skin. Slowly, his mouth charts a course to my other nipple, and then between my breasts. I close my eyes, letting the sensual contact ignite every nerve in my body.

  It’s never really been like this before–slow and deliberate. Like making love. Like a physical manifestation of his apology. And it makes me wonder if this is the way he’s most comfortable expressing himself.

  I can feel his erection, solid and insistent, pressing against my thigh. But before I can reach for it, he continues moving south, thrusting his soft tongue into my belly button. His hands make a similar circular motion, kneading the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.

  “I worship you, sweetness. Every inch of you. Every beautiful freckle, every perfect curve. I’m going to demonstrate just how much.”

  All thoughts escape me as he licks languorously over the folds of my sex.

  “Oh God, yes, make me come.”

  “I will, but I want to be inside you when you do.” He rises over me, and I reach back to pull him closer.

  But, when I feel his bare cock at my entrance, I realize that this is the first time I’ll have had him inside me with nothing between us.

  An unexpected pang of fear grips my consciousness. Being with someone bare is a huge act of faith–of trust.

  The last time I was in this situation was with John. And his infidelity was a not only major betrayal of our relationship; it put me at physical risk in the most disrespectful way.

  Danny seems to be able to sense my sudden anxiety, and he stops, pinning my gaze with his soft, loving eyes.

  “Do you want me to wear something, sweetness? I don’t mind.”

  “No, it’s just…”

  I run my hands over his back, as I scramble to make sense of my emotions.

  What do I want?

  He just waits for me–as if he has the patience to wait all day. I look at his handsome face, and feel the heavy, certain strength of his hips between my legs, and I curse my history for making me doubt what I’ve found in him.

  When I was with John, there were so many instances with other women that gave me pause, but he always seemed to have a reasonable explanation.

  I just happened to run into her.

  We’re working on a project together, and I lost track of t
ime.

  Her phone died, and she needed to use mine.

  It was such a common occurrence that I started to believe that maybe I was the jealous type, though I’d never been like that before. In fact, that’s what he used to tell me.

  So, when everything came down with him, it was so much more humiliating because it had apparently been happening under my nose for God knows how long. How many people had been aware of his cheating? How many times did others snicker at my ignorance? And how many STDs had I dodged?

  I hate that I’m on this precipice with Danny, who isn’t remotely like John, and I’m struggling to push through this aspect of intimacy. Do I trust Danny enough to do this?

  “Sarah? Talk to me.” His expression is insistent, but his voice is soothing.

  This man turns heads everywhere he goes, and yet he’s never given me one single reason to doubt that he will be faithful. I don’t know why, but I have felt from the very start that I could trust him. I do trust him enough to do this.

  And I need to get beyond these negative memories.

  “Please, Danny. I want you inside me.”

  “Yes?” He’s always been so careful with me, making sure I’d never do anything I’m not a hundred percent comfortable with. Never asking for more than I was willing to give. It’s been that way from the beginning.

  “Yes. I mean that.”

  He takes a moment to assess my expression, and seems to find the reassurance he’s looking for.

  With that, he pushes inside me, groaning and letting his eyes flutter closed.

  “Shit,” he gasps out, holding perfectly still. “I need a second.”

  He’s like hot steel. The sensation of fullness is unreal. And there’s nothing between us. Nothing at all.

  Slowly, he starts moving. Just exploring. And I feel like I’ve achieved a major victory over my past.

  “Look at me,” he urges. I do, and the look on his face takes my breath away. “I know what this means to you, and I want you to know that your trust is sacred to me. And what we have together means everything.”

  I smile at his words, stroking his face with my hand. He responds by kissing it.

  Our relationship is beginning to feel serious–substantive like no other I’ve ever had. With the revelations of last night, I feel like I know him better, like I can finally reconcile the man I remember with the man I’m with today. And, maybe more importantly, he’s given me an insight into a part of his past that I’m guessing he doesn’t share with many others.