Our lips moved over each other’s, this time with more lingering intensity than at the beach. He splayed a hand on my side, pressing and kneading my hip. The effect was unexpected, a radiating heat shot through my pelvis. I was feeling breathless and needy when he suddenly shifted tightly up against me, his excitement blatantly obvious. I froze, trying my best not to move against him in any way.
Breaking off our kiss, he put his mouth near my ear. “So, how long do you usually wait?” he asked, his voice lilted and husky.
“Wait for what?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t asking what I thought he was asking. Knowing he was.
Pulling back, he looked at me. “Your internet connection,” he said wryly. “Come on, Claude. It doesn’t have to be carved in stone, just an estimate.” He must have mistaken my expression to mean I didn’t understand the question. He rephrased, “Tell me how long you want to wait before we can, you know, get tight.”
Oh, God. How do I answer this? “I don’t know. I never thought about it in terms of time.”
“If it feels right, you just do it?”
He didn’t get it, but I was concentrating on where his thing pushed into me, and trying so hard to be still, my brain was paralyzed. I could barely manage a complete thought, let alone talk. I shook my head.
“No?” he asked. He stopped touching me and tilted his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Our mismatch was rearing its ugly head. It was all so ridiculous—my complete overwhelmed state, his expression, and our bumbling miscommunication.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but find it humorous. I giggled and bit my lip trying to suppress the embarrassment. “I can’t say.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
I took his confusion as opportunity to sit up and shift so I could see his face. I wanted to observe his expression when I clarified my answer.
“As you probably know, I’ve always been very focused on school,” I said, carefully picking through my words. He waited patiently, so I continued. “In high school, dating took a back seat to schoolwork. And now, with my heavy course load of health classes, it’s been even less important to me. So,” I took a breath and willed myself to finish it up, “as you might imagine, I don’t have a lot of experience racked up in my sexual repertoire.”
His eyes did a little whirligig thing, spinning around. “You’re a … virgin?”
He spoke as if we were talking about a mythical entity like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster.
I looked down at my fingers, puckered my lips, and nodded.
“Holy shit!” He pressed his hands atop his head as if I’d told him some earth-shattering news. My face, I’m sure, was crimson.
And then he had the nerve to laugh.
I shoved his arm. “It’s not funny!”
He rubbed his hand over his face and blinked his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t actually think it’s funny, but it never occurred to me that you’d never been with someone. I suppose that’s nice…”
“Nice?” I snapped. “It’s discerning, selective. Moral.”
Toby blew out and slowly sat up next to me, his manner suddenly subdued. “Does that mean you straight-out won’t have sex?”
Letting me consider my answer, he remained quiet. Negotiating sex. Way, way, way out of my comfort zone. I didn’t expect to have to deal with this so soon. Was this the ‘customary talk’ he had with all his girlfriends? Ugh, I was so out of my league.
“So,” he prompted. “What is it?”
I didn’t know. The answer didn’t seem so clear cut. Without responding, I threw my hands up in the air. “This isn’t going to work.”
Humiliated, I stood and pulled out my car keys. The faster I got out of there, the better.
“Hold up.” Toby snagged a belt loop on my jeans, and unfolding himself from the couch, he hauled me against him. I held myself stiffly in his arms. “Hey,” he said, raising my chin so I would look at him. “I didn’t think you’d be someone who gave up so easily.”
“Because you expect me to be different than I am,” I challenged.
His eyes traveled over my face. “I did. But you are way more than I expected. Virginal you—you who laughs at all my jokes, makes me quit smoking, forces me think about college classes, and for the first time, makes me happy to be home. Claudia Chiametti. You. Are. Perfect.”
“Yeah, right. Virginity is a dirty word to you.”
He shook his head. “No, I actually like that no one has ever touched you before. I’m not saying we have to get busy, like, tomorrow or anything. I only want to know you’d consider it.” Lowering his chin, he gave me a hopeful look.
Leaning away, I crossed my arms. “What if I say no?”
“I won’t lie, I’d be disappointed.” He tugged at my arms until I allowed him to place them around his neck. “But, I would try very hard to make you change your mind.”
I glanced up into his eyes. “That kind of relationship would be a big deal to me.”
He lowered his mouth to my ear. “Just say that it’s a possibility, if it feels right.” His whispered words tickled my ear.
Sex was probably something he excelled at. With his slow kisses and practiced touch, I was sure that if I wasn’t careful, I might be persuaded into something I’d regret.
I would need to keep my head.
“A ‘maybe’ will have to suffice,” I said, at last. “But you’d better not push it.”
He rubbed slow circles over my lower back. “When the time comes, I won’t need to.”
“You are so unbelievably sure of yourself.”
“Trust me, with sex,” he murmured, “confidence makes a difference.”
“You sure talk about it a lot.”
“And, you keep listening.”
I flushed. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure why.”
“Because you’re interested, as you’re supposed to be. It’s only natural.” He looked into my eyes, all serious. “Since this is new to you, anytime you feel like grabbing me and experimenting, you go right ahead.”
I snorted. “You offering to be my tutor?”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “I’ll show you everything you need to know. My body can be your learning tool.”
“How charitable of you.” I rolled my eyes for the thousandth time, hardly believing I, of all people, was having a conversation about sex. I laughed at the absurdity of it.
“We’re going to be good together, Claude,” he said. “I make the serious girl laugh, and you make the bad boy behave.”
“Oh, yes, we’re quite the quintessential, complementary couple,” I teased, but then, on a more serious note, I added, “You know, you’ll have to meet my dad. You prepared for that?”
He groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Of course. This girl comes with her own personal security service, and if you want to continue seeing her, such formalities apply.”
“Is that in the virgin girlfriend handbook?”
“Virgin humor, not funny.”
“Okay,” his expression gentled. “How about I work something out with my aunt so I can take you out next Saturday. I’ll pick you up and meet your dad. Do the date thing.”
“That would be terrific,” I said. And I really meant it.
15. Claudia
The next day, I slept later than normal. I was sure Dad had gone to church without me, but when I did finally make it down the stairs to the kitchen, he was sitting with his coffee and the Sunday paper at the kitchen table.
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter. He peered over the edge to the newspaper. We were at ground zero.
“So you were over the Fayes' last night?” he asked.
He already knew the answer, but I nodded anyway.
“Mrs. Faye told me you came over looking for me. I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“I was concerned for you.”
“Dad, I’m one of the most responsible twenty-year-olds you’ll ever know. I don’t go around doing cra
zy things.”
“You don’t? Explain this whole USC debacle to me then.”
I flinched at his choice of adjectives. “I want to go to USC.” I bowed my head. “I mean, it was my hope to go.”
“To be with your mother?” he accused.
“That’s part of it. But mostly I want to go away to school, to live somewhere else.” I found a cuticle on my middle finger and began rubbing at it with my thumb, anxious to bite it off. “Mom and I figured USC was a good choice because it’s so close to her.”
“You know, it was her decision to leave New York. You shouldn’t be so quick to run off and satisfy her need to make up for it,” he said sharply.
And here we go again.
“Dad, this is not a war. No one is against anyone. Mom insisted that I talk to you about this, but …”
“You didn’t,” he finished, with a little more anger in his voice.
“Is it any wonder? You always react like this.”
“That’s no excuse, Claudia,” he said. “If you’re not mature enough to face a difficult conversation with me, how can you think you can manage life on your own?”
That stung, but he was right. Like a baby, tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t even finish the conversation without crying. I wiped furiously at my tears, vowing to work on toughening myself up.
“You have two more years. You’ll graduate from Stony Brook.” From his tone, it was clear I was not to defy him.
I shook my head. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.” I wanted to raise my head and proudly declare that I didn’t care what he said, but the scowl that had so long intimidated me appeared as though on cue.
“One day you’ll be married, and you’ll be free to do as you please. For now, while you’re under my roof, you’ll do as I tell you.”
I stood up shakily, feeling my legs wobble underneath me. “I’ll get financial aid if I have to, but I’m going to keep applying to other colleges.”
“I see. You be sure to let me know how that works out for you,” my father said before turning back to his newspaper.
Don’t you cry! I chastised myself. I turned on heel and flew up to my room.
God, my father was insufferable. How was I supposed to bring Toby into the house to meet him? I considered possible ways around it for a few moments. Finally, I thought, no, I was going to do this right. Even though it might not bring me any closer to proving to my father that I was well-informed and mature enough to make sensible choices, it would prove that I wasn’t afraid. If even just to myself.
I logged onto my computer, pulled up the Internet, and typed gerontology majors into the search field. I would find another college that would fit my needs. One away from here.
Far away.
16. Toby
Oh, fuck! He has my arms pinned to my sides. I kick to get away, but he is too strong. I cannot escape.
“No!” I yell, but the pain explodes through me. It’s so hot. I’m burning up. I grit my teeth. You won’t make me cry. Suddenly, I am free and I am running, running, running. Ripping shards of pain pulse through my shoulder, but still, I run.
I bolted upright. My heart was pumping so hard, like it was going to burst out of my ribcage. Goddammit! It was just a nightmare. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes and groaned. Slowly, I dragged myself out of bed and went into Al’s old room.
It hadn’t changed much since the day he’d last been there or the day I’d dreamt about, many years back. His furniture and most of his clothes were still there.
Back when I was about eleven years old, if anyone had asked me, I would have said, without any hesitation, that I was going to play pro ball one day. Baseball had been everything to me, but I had decided one day that I didn’t want to play anymore. Julia never understood why.
I never told her it was because of what happened when my father had bought me a new mitt that season. It wasn’t my birthday or anything, but he came home and handed it to me. He even came outside and had a catch with me. That one day he was a regular dad, just like everyone else’s.
The folks had me registered in Little League, and, just before practice one day, I couldn’t find the mitt. I was freaking out, tossing my room when Big Al came in. I remember telling him, my voice shaking, that my mitt was gone. I was afraid he was going to punish me, but he just spun around and marched off to my brother’s room. I heard him yelling, and then, a scuffle with some grunts and thuds. Moments later, he came back and tossed the mitt to me.
“Go play,” he ordered.
I passed Al’s room on the way out, daring to look at him. His eyes were so dark with hate, I could still remember them clearly. I knew he was pissed that he’d been beaten for taking the mitt. I remember feeling bad about the way my father had come down on him, but the mitt was mine. He had stolen it. I slunk out and went to play ball.
When I came home later, I found the shoebox I kept my baseball cards in, on my bed. I hadn’t left it out, so I knew immediately something was wrong. I rushed to open the box, fearing the worst.
Eight cards, my most valued ones—the Yankees’ starting lineup—ripped in two. I had traded, bought, and spent all my money to complete that year’s Yankee team, and now the hardest ones to get were destroyed.
I ran to Al’s room with the box. He was sitting on his bed, smoking a cigarette. He laughed in my face, so I threw the box at him as hard as I could. Cards flew everywhere.
He jumped up and grabbed me into a headlock.
“Fucker, let go of me,” I growled. He only exhaled a plume of smoke and lowered his cigarette to my shoulder. It’s hard to forget the feel of my skin melting. I gritted through the pain even as tears came to my eyes. When he was done, he shoved me outside his room.
I ran. From the house, down the block, to the wooded area south of the soccer fields. Lots of derelicts and stews hung out there, including Devlin Van Sloot. I don’t know how it started, but we got into a fistfight. He bloodied my nose. I was aching afterwards, but I felt better, calmer. When I got home, I covered the painful circular welt on my shoulder and told my parents I wanted to quit Little League.
I reached up to touch the scar on my shoulder. The scar itself I had covered with the tattoo. I admired the art in the dresser mirror. The tat artist had done a good job masking it. No one noticed that the one wrinkly bolt in my realistic armor tattoo was a cigarette burn.
On my way out of the room, I saw a picture of Felicia on the dresser. After my talk with Claudia, I’d kept my promise to email Felicia about bringing little Dylan up to meet Julia. I checked my email to see if she replied.
I was psyched to find that Julia was not only up, but she was dressed and insisted on coming down the stairs herself.
In the kitchen I set about making her my famous, ‘garbage pail’ omelet—anything I could find in the refrigerator that could conceivably be mixed with eggs.
When I sat down to eat it with her, she reached up to look at the cut on my forehead.
“It looks better today, but you should be more careful.”
I gently nudged her hand away. Yesterday I’d told her I’d hit my head at work. She believed me. She always did.
Her appetite was decent, another positive sign. She’d finished her chemo and had just one more round of radiation to get through.
“How did your movie night go?” Julia asked.
“It was pretty great. Except for the part where Claudia got on me about Al Junior.”
Julia smiled guiltily. “I’m sorry. She looked so defeated about not going to USC, I decided she needed something else to concentrate on,” she said. “I thought maybe she could talk some sense into that thick head of yours.”
I wanted to tell her it was only thick from all the bashings I’d taken. I’d never told her. I thought I never would.
“Listen,” I said instead, moving past it, “I sent Felicia a message about coming up with Dylan to visit with us. She said yes, and we’re trying to figure out a date.”
“Really? Oh,
honey, that’s wonderful!” Julia clapped her hands like a little girl.
“I’d like to take the credit, but it was Claudia’s idea.”
“I never thought to ask. I didn’t think she’d come,” Julia said. “Maybe she agreed because you asked. You and Felicia always got along well.”
“Whatever the reason, she wants you to meet Dylan. We all do.”
“Thank you. I’m so excited,” Julia said, and grabbed hold of my hand. “Maybe she’ll visit your brother, too.”
“Mom, stop pushing. It might set some people off,” I warned.
“You’re brother made mistakes, but that doesn’t mean he’s not to be forgiven,” she said. “He’s changed. Things are different for him now.”
“Oh, I imagine they are.” Being surrounded by violent psychopaths who literally wanted your ass probably made things very different.
I changed the subject. “Hey, in case you’re interested in knowing, Claudia and I hooked up.”
She took the bait. “What?”
“Yeah, she’s in love with me. She’s all, ‘Oh, Toby, I want you to be my baby daddy,’ but I told her I’m not that kind of guy. I want my kids to be legit. So we’re gonna fly to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator.”
Julia burst out laughing. “Wow, and this all came about last night?”
“What can I say? The girl digs me.”
“Well, I love Elvis, and my schedule is free. When do we leave?”
I laughed. She was feeling better. “Alright, there’s no Elvis… or wedding, but I guess you’re okay if I go out with Claudia?”
“If I had to pick someone for you, well, I think she’s a wonderful girl. She’s sweet, she’s got her act together, and I simply adore her,” Julia gushed.
“You forgot to mention, she’s beautiful and smart.”
Julia sat forward. “Are you going to ask her out?”
“It’s a done deal. We’re going out next Saturday.”
Saving Toby Page 13
