by Anthology
The words jealousy and one-night stand didn’t exactly go together.
The prickly feel of his mustache and beard added a decadent edge to the pleasure, a tickling rasp that sharpened every swirl and thrust. Her crash over the edge was effortless, her noises a cry she didn’t bother to stifle.
James was asking for her mouth on him by the time she caught her breath, and his requests for her to Do it again. Fuck, please, do it again, had her fingers between her legs even as she took him deep into her throat.
Sated, they fell asleep, not waking until sometime in the middle of the afternoon. There was a reluctant pout on James’s face when he admitted he had to head back to campus. He searched for his clothes and dressed slowly, then crawled back on top of her and asked when he could see her again.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Rory knew she was setting herself up for another fall, one she’d hit rock bottom from once already and didn’t want to have to suffer through again, but she hadn’t felt this good in ages, and she didn’t want to give him up yet. Maybe they could extend this a little longer.
She told him her schedule for the week, wrote her phone number down on a gum wrapper, and sent him on his way.
Her body thoroughly worked and her heart light, Rory stepped in the shower. Lounging under the hot spray, she stroked her limbs with soap and let herself pretend that whatever was blossoming between her and James had no expiration date.
Pretended, like when she was a student at Pearce, that she had all the time in the world.
* * * * *
“You seem different today.”
Rory caught the ball Kaleb launched at her. “What do you mean, different?”
He shrugged one bony shoulder and waited for her throw. When the ball slammed into his mitt, he lifted the brim of his baseball cap to look up at her, squinting in the sun.
“I dunno. You’re...smiling more, I guess.”
“Yeah, you are,” Noah agreed from the picnic table where he’d been banished until he finished his math homework. “It’s weird.”
“It’s a gorgeous day,” Rory insisted, smiling up at the sky. After months being stuck inside, being outside in nothing more than a T-shirt and jeans was fan-freaking-tastic. “Isn’t that enough to make me smile?”
Kaleb shook his head and sent another pitch sailing toward her. “Nah. It’s more than that. You’re like, happy, or something.”
Damn these kids and their stupid ability to pick up on stuff.
They were right, though. She was happy. She’d been practically floating since James showed up at open mic night again three days ago, arriving in the middle of her afternoon shift with a notebook and his guitar. She was too busy to give him much attention—the temperature had gone so mild that Mr. Ryan had opened all the doors lining the front of the café and set up the wrought iron tables they left outside in summer, nearly doubling their capacity. It meant tons of customers, and a very busy evening for Rory.
Having James there though, sitting at the table and smiling whenever he caught her eye, was like her own personal sun shining in the middle of the room. Gretchen had gotten the swing of things enough to take over the register for a bit, and Rory took her break when James went on the stage and sang Toad the Wet Sprocket’s All I Want.
Emotions bubbled up like sea foam as she stood in the corner and watched. Yes, she wanted was to feel this way, too. To be this close to whatever they had. To feel the same, for as long as she could.
She’d attacked him in the stairwell of her building after they’d closed. Kissing him as she walked him up the stairs, she’d backed him up to the third floor landing, and some of that old-Rory-deviance made a full-fledged reappearance. She’d dangled one of the condoms she’d bought earlier that week in front of him and dared him to fuck her, right then and there.
Half of her hoped he’d run, because he was definitely too good to be true.
The other half got exactly what she wanted.
Kisses against the wall, hard, dirty, his cheeks ruddy with want. She’d expected to ruffle him—he was Mr. Manners, after all—but there was nothing but determination in James’s eyes as he unzipped, grabbed the condom from her and sheathed himself.
“Be loud,” he’d said roughly into her ear.
Then he bunched up her skirt, lifted her easily and sank inside.
She’d had to bite down on his shoulder as he found the perfect rhythm. The angle hit her G-spot, and James encouraged her to moan louder, to bite harder, his hands gripping her thighs tight enough to bruise. When his thrusts got sloppy, his release imminent, he brought his thumb to her clit and made her come so violently her voice broke when she cried out his name.
He’d wrecked her even more thoroughly after that, though, when he’d fished her keys from her bag and carried her inside her apartment. Laying her gently on her bed, he’d undressed her slowly. Pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, then her neck, her shoulder and downward, canvassing her skin as if he were performing a sacrament.
Rory shook herself out of the memory. Kids to take care of and everything.
“You’re pretty smart for a seven year old,” she told Kaleb, then launched the ball over his head.
“Hey!” he shouted, then went running. He caught her pitch at the edge of their property and did a little victory dance. Rory couldn’t help but laugh.
Betting him he couldn’t balance his bat on his palm for more than a minute, she left him to his own devices and plopped down on the bench across from Noah. His tiny brow was scrunched in concentration. She pulled a juice box from her messenger bag and stabbed a straw into it.
“How’s that math coming along?”
“Okay, I guess,” he said on a sigh. “I like writing better.”
Rory’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah?” Noah had done nothing but complain about schoolwork nearly the whole time she’d been his sitter. This was new.
“Yeah. Being creative’s fun.” He poked his pencil at her bag. “How come you have Sesame Street patches?”
Rory shrugged. “Because Sesame Street’s great. I learned a lot watching it.”
“But you’re a grown up. Isn’t that show for babies?”
“There’s lot of cool stuff out there for babies,” she said, then winked at him. “And besides, I’m not really a grown up.”
“Yes you are. You couldn’t babysit us if you weren’t.”
Rory busied herself with sucking down some of her juice. Despite her age and the responsibilities and bills that had become her reality, she didn’t think of herself as an adult. Part of her was still that kid at Pearce, the one who’d spent all her time running from one thing to the next with pure glee, squealing when she saw her friends, sitting on the green with a Blow Pop in her mouth or blowing bubbles out of one of those little plastic bottles. Now she’d become her polar opposite, hiding herself away, the closest thing to friends she had two boys under the age of ten.
“I mean, you’re like, twenty-four,” Noah added. “You’re old.”
She glared at him. “Old enough to not have to do spelling homework anymore.”
He stuck his tongue out at her, and she did the same right back. “Finish it before your parents get home, and you can play Nintendo for a while.”
He did an Arsenio fist pump before going diligently back to work.
Later that evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ryan packed the three of them in their car and took them out for ice cream. Rory knew they’d only asked her along to be nice. She didn’t actually belong with their family, and sometimes seeing them all together cut too deep.
But it was free ice cream. She wasn’t turning that down.
The best parlor in town had opened for the season. The mini playground set up next to it was crowded with sticky-fingered children, the clear, beautiful weather having brought dozens of families outside. Rory ate her Rocky Road and hovered between the edge of the gravel-filled play area and the benches where the parents sat, not quite an adult, not quite a child, one foot in each
world, not really belonging in either. She felt so old but like a little kid at the same time, unable to move forward. Time passed, the world changed, but Rory didn’t.
Her life was a CD stuck on repeat.
Kaleb and Noah launched off the swings at Mr. and Mrs. Ryan’s call that it was time to go, running toward them and flinging their arms around their parents’ middles. It made her miss her parents so badly she could’ve cried.
They dropped her off at home a short time later. Moving through her apartment without turning any lights on, Rory eyed her journals, piled up in a crate behind the a line of hanging fabric. The words still beckoned, often stacking together in her mind when she caught a particularly beautiful moment of nature, sonnet and prose coiling up inside her like ivy, expanding until she sometimes couldn’t breathe. But that part of her life was a closed door, one she’d shut a while ago and was terrified to open again, like a child fearing the monsters in her closet.
The blinking light on her answering machine was a great distraction from that train wreck of a thought.
“Hey,” the recording of James’s voice said. He sounded so warm and husky, like he’d been singing too much again. “I’ve missed you this week. I have a pretty full day tomorrow, but I’d love to see you. Come by campus if you can.”
She played the message several more times, needing to hear him say he’d missed her, wanting to call him back but refusing to let herself.
Damn him. Damn him for being so perfect, for coming into her life now. She felt like Molly Grue in The Last Unicorn, furious at Amalthea for arriving when she was ruined and haggard. When she was this.
If only she’d met him two years ago. When she’d been a different person, one who’d imagined a beautiful future for herself. She didn’t want to think about the future now, because even if she could figure out what to do with her life other than serve coffee, even if she decided to take up writing again, it would be ages before anything actually happened. Getting published was a pipe dream to begin with, let alone something that could be done quickly. And thinking about what lay ahead meant acknowledging how soon James’s graduation would be here.
Rory crawled into bed and reached over to the answering machine, replaying his message one more time. It was the only way to stop herself from thinking about how little time she had left before he moved on, and this thing she had with him was over.
Chapter 6
Rory was mentally kicking herself as she waited outside James’s dorm. What the hell was she doing? It was her only evening off. She should’ve been trying to grab as many shifts as possible, and yet here she was, on campus, just liked he’d asked.
Part of her knew she was here because James had woken up the part of her up that loved sex. Even though she'd been basically celibate since graduation, years ago she'd craved it. So much so that she’d lost track of how many guys she’d slept with, never giving a rat’s ass about what kind of rep it gave her. After all, when you were raised by two people who still believed in the sixties mindset of If it feels good, do it and proudly wore their Make love not war buttons, you didn’t spend much time caring about things like morals.
She’d made sure to stay safe—she wasn’t that stupid—but she’d screwed dozens of guys here, and in almost every place possible. She should’ve published a list of them for public benefit: The Unofficial Guide to Pearce College’s Best Get-Lucky Spots. She could’ve made a fortune.
Part of her wanted to show James that bad girl side of herself. He wasn’t totally innocent himself, but their last tryst had been somewhat hidden. If she fucked him someplace where they could be caught, maybe his well-mannered side would take over. He’d see whatever it was they were doing as a fun week and disengage. And then she’d be able to walk away from all this unscathed.
It was a good plan to have in her back pocket, because the two of them couldn’t go on forever.
She buzzed his room again. James hadn’t answered when she’d dialed his room number into the little key pad outside the door ten minutes ago, so she’d been loitering outside, figuring he was in the shower or making some food down the hall.
When a group of residents finally came out, she made a casual duck inside, calling out a quick “Thanks, I lost my keys!” and heading up the stairs.
Her heartbeat ratcheted up higher with every floor she ascended. James wasn’t in his room, though. His door was locked, the suite he shared with a group of other guys quiet and empty. A handwritten message was scrawled across the dry erase board on his door: Class till 7, then practice at the music center.
Rory checked her watch and sighed. Another hour to kill before he was free. She could go. Leave a note that she’d been here and was sorry she’d missed him, then begin the trek back into town. But she didn’t really want to do that. Besides, meeting him in the music center could prove interesting. That building had private practice rooms.
Soundproof ones.
Outside once again, Rory wound her way along the cement pathways criss-crossing the green. Students frolicked everywhere—sprawled out on towels with their books, playing Frisbee on the lawn. It was warm enough that many of the dorm room windows were wide open, the sounds of Dave Matthews and Indigo Girls wafting out of them. They made a strange chorus together, and Rory bobbed her head to the different beats as she made her way into the student center. It was crazy busy, everyone rushing to get in a bite during that lull in between afternoon classes and evening ones.
Her height came to her advantage as she weaved through the bodies, finding her way easily around the top floor of the building. A balcony at the far end looked out over The Apron, the brick walls leading to it plastered with signs and posters advertising upcoming performances, summer house shares and opportunities abroad. In the corner, a bunch of girls had a CD player blasting The Macarena and dancing along.
Rory cringed. The fact that songs like that were taking over the airwaves made her want to yank her hair out. At least they weren’t singing Jewel.
Trying to block them out, Rory plopped into a lounge chair and unwrapped a piece of gum. It was either that, or give The Spice Girls over there an education about what real music was.
A memory surfaced, one of Rory and her parents on the drive up to Pearce, and a fierce debate on the difference between grunge and protest music. They’d said Kurt Cobain was like Bob Dylan, comparing Smells Like Teen Spirit to Subterranean Homesick Blues.
There was no comparison. Sure, Dylan had been referencing important aspects of the Civil Rights moment and the Vietnam War in his songs, but he didn’t bare his soul the way Kurt had, exorcising his own personal demons with every performance.
That was the appeal of grunge to her. It wasn’t just the chaotic, unpolished sounds of the electric guitar, the heavy drum beats or the wild, thrashing mosh pits the music inspired. It was because the lyrics were so raw, the artists speaking straight from their souls and using the medium of song to voice real subjects, real pain.
The best poetry she’d ever written was with music like that in the background. Its brutal honesty seemed to be able to yank the words straight from her.
Maybe it was coming from Seattle that made their music so dark and edgy. Rory had always wanted to go there, to see the wet, dreary corner of the world where grunge had been born. Where Kurt Cobain had written about being unloved, confused and misunderstood.
Funny, though, because the lyrics that had once made her write so freely now only reminded her how alone she was. And Kurt, so brilliant in his time, had become forever immortalized as the angry, betrayed teenager she still felt like.
Rory’s gum lost its taste. She needed to keep moving.
Picking herself up and spitting her gum out in the trash, Rory went back outside and onto the concrete patio. The recently remolded library stood between the student center and the music building, filled with brand-new technology she’d never been able to experience. Ethernet outlets in the floor. Holes in the tables the students could string their laptop cables through. Th
e entire was campus digitized, the library’s whole catalog on the web.
Stepping past the glass double doors, she tiptoed inside. It was so quiet in comparison with the rest of campus, and as much as she loved loud music, she’d cherished the sounds in here even more. There was something electric about the hum of academia, of whispered words and turning pages, all of it against the backdrop of an air conditioned hush.
She could’ve come here and read over the last few years, even written. No one would’ve stopped her. She’d used her financial state as a defense, certain she could never eek out any poetry when she was spending all her time trying to keep her head above water. But was it really lack of funds stopping her from pursuing her dreams of being published? Or had she turned away from that path like a resentful child, rejecting everything her parents had taught her because they’d taken away her safety net, not even bothering to check on her after the fall?
Had she forgotten how much she’d loved this?
Rory went to the second floor poetry section. Her fingers soft over familiar tomes, she sought out her favorite book of Adrienne Rich poems. She’d sold her copy in the Great Purge of ‘94, sure it would never matter to her again, but now as she flipped through the pages to The Floating Poem, Unnumbered, Rory wanted to regain this snippet of her past.
It was a snippet that might get her what she wanted out of James, too.
She dug some change out the bottom of her bag and made a quick copy. Tucking the pages into an inside pocket, she returned the book to its shelf and hurried back out into the day. She wasn’t waiting long at the entrance to the music building before James loped down the path, his face lighting up when he saw her.
“Hey,” he said, bending down to kiss her cheek. The rasp of his whiskers made her shiver. “I was hoping you’d stop by. Have you been here long?”
“Nah. Just stopped in the library for some light reading.”
“You mind hanging out with me for a while? I have some homework to do and I need the piano to do it.”
