The guy laughs. “Not necessarily.”
Without another word she turns around, steps past both of them and walks steadily down the hall. The idea that in that place she might have—she can’t even complete the thought.
Back on the street, there’s an electric feel to the air, the threat of a storm. The wind has picked up, and clouds have moved in. She waits near the car, and Chris is there a moment later, nuzzling his face into her neck. Pulling her head away from him, she says, “There was no way.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I would have taken it without looking.”
He pulls her against his chest. She isn’t quite ready for a hug. Her face winds up in the moist, metallic heat of his armpit. Why do guys’ bodies smell so much stronger than girls’? What’s churning away inside them that women don’t have? Is it elemental, like testosterone? Or emotional, all the ways they hold everything back, feelings that rot beneath the skin—
Chris says, “We could go back to the beach and sleep—”
“It might rain,” she says, looking up. Rough-edged clouds are advancing, a scruffy gray blanket yanked across the black sky.
“I’m really exhausted,” she says.
“We’ll find somewhere else,” he says. “Didn’t we see someplace back by the state beach?”
So they drive back the couple miles they’ve just traveled to a motel they’ve already passed twice tonight. Island Beach Motor Lodge. The man at this desk is a little bit older, and better dressed. He isn’t smoking or watching TV. A love song plays on a radio. He stands with both hands behind the desk, fingers tapping anxiously against some unseen surface as he listens to their request and asks for Chris’s ID. “Can’t rent to you if you’re under twenty-one. I suggest that you go up to the Heights.”
“We were just in the Heights,” Chris says. “Come on, man. We’re looking for someplace clean.”
The man eyes Ruby up and down. “Rules are rules.”
It comes to her, what she needs to do—she twists the fake ruby into her palm so that only the metal band shows. Then she steps forward and rests her hand on the desk, saying, “I know you probably get a lot of irresponsible people showing up in the middle of the night. But honestly, I went to the place in Seaside Heights where we were supposed to stay, and it was gross. Like, cockroaches and broken furniture and worse. Maybe for high school kids, that’s all they need because they’re just here to party. But we’re on our honeymoon, and we’re looking for something nice.”
“Your honeymoon?” His eyes shift back to Chris, who throws an arm around Ruby.
“Um, yeah. Mister and missus,” Chris stutters.
The man blows air through his lips, a flapping, exasperated noise. “Hold on.”
As he picks up a phone and presses a button, Ruby adds, “And we can put down an extra deposit, for cleaning, or security, or whatever, if that would make things nice.”
An older man walks through the door in a bathrobe a few minutes later. He looks like he could be the first one’s father. He looks, in fact, like he could be her father. Same thick white hair—Clark is not even fifty but he’s gone totally silver—same gangly body. OK, the face is different on this man—the nose is smaller, the eyes not so blue. But still. The resemblance makes it painfully simple to imagine what she looks like through his eyes. She hasn’t fixed herself up in hours. She’s wearing Chris’s clothes. His pale skin looks almost green in the fluorescent light. Maybe she should have stayed in Dorian’s preppie clothes. She might pass inspection now.
“Where are your bags?”
“We don’t—” Chris starts to say.
“Look, this is a family operation, and we don’t go for—”
“We don’t need them right now,” Ruby interrupts. In the last half hour, she has begun to understand the implications of what Chris meant by not having a plan. She didn’t expect that “making it up as we go along” would meant that she would have to take charge. “Bags are in the car,” she says.
The man takes another look at her, scrutinizing.
Chris says, “How much? I’ve got a lot of cash.”
“I want a credit card.”
Chris looks at her. He lowers his voice. “Do you?”
“Yeah, my father—for emergencies.”
“Mine is maxed out,” he says, adding quickly, “I have to pay for it myself.”
She digs into her purse and finds the MasterCard behind her driver’s license—an ugly photo of her in a gray sweatshirt, her hair pulled back so severely she looks like the new inmate at a women’s prison. (All those years she spent never wearing makeup!) She feels a pang of reluctance as she hands over the plastic, knowing that her father will see the statement at the end of the month. She’ll have to lie, say she’s here with some girlfriends. Clark knows she’s in Seaside. He’ll understand that she has to sleep somewhere. Of course, he’ll suspect she’s with Calvin. Is it better to let him think that? She’ll pay him back. And if she can’t afford it, what’s he going to do? Cut off her tuition? Let him. She wouldn’t miss college. She could leave Manhattan. She could move in with Chris.
She realizes that she doesn’t even know where he lives.
Standing at the threshold, Ruby pauses. She lets Chris enter ahead of her, watches as he flicks on lights. The room offers no surprises—two full-sized beds covered in mismatched patterned bedspreads, a nightstand between them. A lamp glows there, and above it she sees a faded, framed print of a lighthouse sending its beam across a stormy sea. (She’s seen this lighthouse before, it’s somewhere on the Jersey Shore. Barnegat? Sandy Hook? The names come back to her from other family vacations. Other moments when Jackson was alive…)
Thick vertical drapes block out the windows, and when Chris pulls them open she can see, even from the doorway, that they weren’t given a room with an ocean view. All that is visible is the parking lot where they’ve left Chris’s car and beyond that the grid of streets. Speckles of rain are landing on the plate glass. A thick, soft smell floats out toward her—she recognizes it as carpet powder, the kind you sprinkle on a stained rug and vacuum up. The illusion of having cleansed a problem. But after the Surfside, she’d give this one the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.
God, am I doing the right thing?
For one moment more, she absorbs the possibility that she might still turn back, might still wait. Then Chris, deep inside the room, makes an about-face and swings his arm wide, saying, “Look, honey, cable television.”
It’s not the prospect, the likelihood, of sex that halts her here in the hallway. She’s not afraid of what might happen. But the ordinariness of the room is a damper on her sense that the events of this night have been fated—like taking a bite of a hot dinner she’s been salivating over and discovering it to be cool in the center. How can she hold on to her sense of meant to be in a room so unremarkable?
It must be on her face, this indecision, because Chris sends her a look so questioning that she fears she has hurt his feelings—has introduced some element of doubt to what up until now has been mutually understood. She takes a step backward. “If this is a honeymoon, aren’t you supposed to carry me over?”
There’s a sudden bright flash—a jagged zip of lightning through the window. As Chris walks toward her, ready to pick her up, Ruby hears thunder roll.
The kissing is more than good. The desire to kiss—to keep on kissing—is strong. After Calvin, that’s important. She feels the kiss unfold, her mouth like a night bloom opening to the dark humidity. It’s one long kiss, not a series of little pecks to interrupt a jabbing tongue. Chris is a better kisser than Calvin—or is it that he’s simply the right kisser for her? Maybe Calvin’s kissing is right for someone else? Maybe for a boy. Maybe he won’t figure out how to kiss until he kisses the kind of person he really desires.
Chris’s hands are under her shirt, fingertips cold as they trail across the warm sunburned patch on her stomach, the souvenir of her few hours at the beach. When she thinks of his hands and no
t his mouth, she feels the panic of moving too fast. Her thoughts fly back to the first kiss in Alice’s bedroom—he didn’t ask, he just went for it. Then he lured her from the club and into his car, and now they’re in a motel room. What if he’s no different than Calvin, another boy with money who gets whatever he expects—
“Are you OK?” He has pulled away from her mouth, his hands have slid down her ribs to her waist. “Something just changed.”
“No—”
She sits down on the edge of the bed. Thinks about the noise the springs make—will people be able to hear? This is a family operation. She’s removing her boots, her socks, wiggling her freed feet. There’s a little pop in one ankle. She cleans her toes of sand. A weird memory—Jackson used to call the dirt between his toes “little acorns.”
She says, “I was thinking of when you kissed me this afternoon, back at the house.”
“You tasted like beer.”
“You tasted like mouthwash.”
“Is my breath bad now?”
She shakes her head. “Is mine?”
“Nah. You taste great.” He moves in again, but she stops him. He says, “Something is wrong.”
“I kind of want to take a shower, before anything.”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead.”
She takes a few steps toward the bathroom.
He says, “I could kiss you in the doorway of the bathroom. Like old times.” She turns around, taking in his shy smile. He adds, “I’ve always wanted to take a shower with a girl.”
She’s showered with Calvin but doesn’t want to say so. There’s such eagerness on Chris’s face—that same face she’s already seen high, and sad, and humiliated—that she finds she’s holding her breath, as if waiting for some signal. She’s going to be naked in front of him, they’re going to be naked together. It’s not the same as with Calvin—with him she would undress in the bathroom and get in the shower and then moments later he’d pop through the door saying. “Is the water hot yet?” and strip before she could reply.
She and Chris are going to do this side by side.
She says, “You can lose your shower virginity with me.”
He moves closer. She pulls her shirt over her head, stands there in the same black bra she’s worn all day. She feels the air on her skin. He stares at her.
He says, “I’m embarrassed.”
“You?”
“You’re so sexy, and I’m just—” He runs a finger along her neck, and down into the space between her breasts. She puts his hand on the cup of her bra, and he gently squeezes. He moves his fingers up to the strap, tugs it softly off her shoulder.
She helps him take his shirt off, too. The line from his neck to his shoulder is a strong curve, his shoulders are bony except at the cap, where the muscle is rounder.
“I’m too skinny,” he says. “I can’t put on bulk.”
“No,” she protests, though she is almost alarmed by how lean he is. His torso is a plank, stripped of any excess, skin stretched over striated muscle, bone, sinew. There’s nothing to pinch. The veins stand out in his arms. He’s probably always been this thin, but when she met him on their Catholic weekend she wasn’t thinking about his body. Now she can’t take her eyes off him—the concave chest with its two dark nipples, the scraggly dark hairs above his navel, the slanting lines of his lower abdomen, moving from his bony hips down into the waist of his jeans. She hasn’t seen a lot of naked men. Calvin, of course. Her brother, careless around the apartment. Her friend Tara’s boyfriend, who streaked through a slumber party, his thing sticking out stiffly. Men’s bodies are so strange, there’s almost nothing soft or warm-blooded about the way they look. They are more like machines than like mammals. Their bones seem like parts.
She stands and then pulls him to his feet, too. She unfastens the button at his waist. She tugs downward. He is wearing navy blue boxer shorts, crumpled up inside his pants. He pushes the jeans down, and the boxers loosen around his thighs. She can see how his penis is thickening, nudging the cotton cloth away from his leg.
This is where Calvin would grab her hand, press it against him, and start the rubbing that he himself would eventually finish off. This is where she would begin to count each stroke, rhythmically, as a way to pass the time. But Chris has kept his hands at his side, letting her lead. She turns around so he can unfasten her bra. It slides off. She turns back to face him. He’s still smiling. He’s harder than before.
“I’ve always had to do all the work,” he says. “With girls. Like, be the one to…”
She pulls his hands to her waist. He unbuttons the jeans she’s wearing, his jeans, and then she’s in her panties, and she takes him by the hand and leads him to the bathroom. Just to walk across a room half naked—it’s not something she’s done before. The only sound is the rain on the glass, coming down hard, as if someone outside is clattering an electric typewriter, writing down their story as it happens.
In the bathroom mirror she glimpses the bruise darkening on her hip, the spot where she hit the floor during the scuffle. It’s a dark smudge in the bright room, with its white tiles and pastel towels, its smells of cleanser and soap.
They stand outside the tub while he adjusts the knobs and giggle as the room fills with thick vapor. It nearly obscures them from each other. And then she doesn’t know who’s doing what first but they’re both out of their underwear and kissing, arms wrapped around each other. She’s no longer worried about moving fast. He lifts her up. His grip all sinew and sharp angles. He places her in the tub. Catches her when she nearly slips. Water cascades over them, still hot but bearable, except on her stomach, where it’s like fire on the sunburn. She turns away from the jets. Now he’s behind her, pressing hard into the small of her back. She reaches back—for a split second she thinks that she’s grabbed his wrist. He’s so thick. He’s bone-hard. She slides her hand and finds the head, that rubbery dome. Who was it who said—Benjamin, that’s right, Benjamin had said to her that Chris was small. Which is clearly untrue. Why do guys all care so much about their size? Why are they so competitive? Phallocentrism, that’s what her women’s studies professor calls it.
Chris’s hands are wrapped around her, soaping her breasts, her nipples have never felt so hard, his hand moves down to her stomach, cool on the burn, and then down some more into the tangle of hair. The soap moves around. She can feel him being tentative so she puts her hand on his and lets him know to push, to clean her, she wants to be clean there, for him.
He turns her around and lets her rinse off and then, awkward, drops down to his knees and digs in with his fingers to find the lips of her vagina. She puts her hands in his hair, clamps on to him for balance. His mouth goes into the mossiness. She widens her stance, anticipating already what she hasn’t ever experienced. This is not something that Calvin or anyone has done to her. A mouth on her clint. She’s touched herself and knows what can happen, and it’s like that at first, his tongue like a finger but slippery. She finds a way to brace the wall so she can lodge herself onto the force of his tongue.
“Lower,” she dares to say, and then guides him with “yes, there” and “no, lower,” figuring this out as best she can. Not like a finger at all, his tongue sets her trembling and arching her back. She worries she might fall. Pushes him away and nudges back to the lip of the tub. She yanks the shower curtain out of the way, the water will get everywhere, so what? Chris hasn’t stopped eating her out—that’s what this is, eating out. She feels a laugh welling up. Such a vulgar phrase, eating out, but now she’s part of it. He’s eating me out. It seems comical, joyous. She needs to find her balance. She grabs him by the hair, pulls him off, slides backward out of the tub—a wobbly maneuver onto the bathmat. She lays herself down. She hopes the mat is clean. She doesn’t care.
Chris has crawled out of the tub after her, a diver coming up from the depths to gasp for air before plunging in again. He knows how to do this, God, he really does, thank you, thank you. Is that OK, to thank God for sex? Shivers an
d shivers, it’s getting more intense, God, there’s pine in the air mown grass blossoms sap the stickiness of leaves she’s humming moaning into the wind blowing down the side of a mountain she could topple right off into the sky down and down through the air. What is this what is happening. Like hitting the surface of water knifing through it like velvet breathing underwater no difference between what is inside of her and what is beyond her mouth open taking in the ocean letting out a scream, let it out, letting him letting him letting him—
Her body, trembling.
She’s being lifted, somehow he’s picked her up, and he’s carrying her to the bed, again, the second time tonight. She’s in the air wet and naked. What were all those pictures, flying and mountains and water and velvet? Chris’s wet black hair is stuck to his skin, his brown eyes are bare and open and zoomed in on her. Has anyone ever looked at her before like this? He says something, he’s asking her—what, she can’t hear anything but the running water of the shower or is that rain outside? She can’t help it, her hand goes where his mouth was. She’s wet not just with shower water but with what came from inside, her orgasm. I had an orgasm, that’s what that was. And the laugh that welled up before now breaks like a wave, and she can’t stop.
“Why are you—?”
“That felt so—”
He’s pushing her legs open. She reaches out to hold on to him, there’s not much of a butt to grab, skin and bones, a tiny tuft of hair at the top of his tailbone. Up front, pushing forward, is the thick shaft, the pliant head, hovering right there, where he’s licked and licked. Filling her. Wait, is he going in? There’s pressure, a radius of heat, sliding in. “Wait,” she says, “wait, wait, wait, wait,” she says. “Wait, get the rubber,” she says and shoves him off her and slides away. “Don’t just—”
“Sorry. Right. Of course. You’re not on the pill.”
“No—why would I?”
“I know. I’m just used to—” Then he’s gone, fumbling through his clothes. Used to? What is he used to? Having sex with girls on the pill? How many girls has he had sex with? What about the kind of germs the pill can’t stop?…He’s back, he’s fumbling with the foil, which says TROJENZ—she always thought it was TROJANS—wait, it’s TROJAN-ENZ, what does that mean? Maybe this is some new kind. He puts it over his dick, gets it wrong, has to flip it, now it unfolds along the shaft but does not go on easily. “I’m having trouble with this,” he fumbles. “It’s too tight.”
Robin and Ruby Page 20
