by Suzie Carr
Since I started in the graduate program, she hasn’t flicked one comment on it my way. I hated that I still felt guilty that I was moving forward and she stopped moving a whole college education ago.
~
After my bath, I tossed in a load of laundry and then ventured to the family room off the far end of the house. I read and reread passages describing the current state of affairs in today’s corporate environment. Usually this kind of stuff would’ve excited me. I would’ve been highlighting the heck out of the paragraphs and scribbling all sorts of interesting notes to refer back to on my tenth revisit through the material. But, I was very distracted.
Reina, Hana, and Hope were cooking raviolis, laughing and carrying on about how Ralph dragged Hope to every single booth that offered free samples. “I’ve got a suitcase filled with energy bars and water bottles.”
They laughed and laughed while I sat by myself trying my hardest to enjoy my studies as much as listening to Hope’s pretty chuckles.
Really, I wanted to drink wine with Hope and giggle until the sun rose.
I sat alone in a family room longing to be part of the fun a few yards away in a kitchen that smelled like Little Italy, trying to charge ahead, trying my hardest to absorb why corporate America will never be the same in terms of team building in a global economy. If it killed me, I would get through the reading and I would stand in front of that class in a few days armed with a brilliant lecture to teach college students that all of this really did matter.
At one point, Reina laughed so hard, I couldn’t stand not being involved another second. I tossed my books aside and joined them in a journey through raviolis and red wine. The whole time, Hope and I played eye tag with each other, and my body twitched on an off like an overexcited circuit breaker.
Much later, once the raviolis were eaten, the wine drank, and the flirts put to rest, I went upstairs and watched two episodes of “Doctor Who.” Then, Adam strolled in from a tough day at work.
He kissed me, then walked over to his desk and told me he had some ideas he needed to get down on screen before they left his brain.
If ever a time existed that Adam needed to be present with me, it was that night. “Just sit with me for a few minutes.” I curled up, seducing him with my catlike pose, desperate to connect with him to make sure I was still Lucy Hastings, the sweet girl who was not as naughty as she suspected.
He swayed back in the chair and exhaled, looking past me at the alarm clock on my dresser. “I can’t believe how late it is.” He massaged his forehead, doubling over in his chair. “The crane at the site stopped working. What a nightmare.”
I patted the bed. “Come here and tell me all about it.”
He met my eye. “It was a headache, but it gave me a great story idea. Just give me a half hour to get this down.” He turned back to his desk and fired up his laptop. His shoulders tensed, and his hand raked through his messy hair while he waited for his laptop to come alive.
I faced this the way I always did. I rolled over and let him write.
Then, I streamed through visions of Hope wearing her tight running shirt, nipples poking through, my fingers circling them. One thought led to another and before long I curled up in a wet mess for the second time that day, bucking silently under the covers with a boyfriend not more than fifteen feet away completely clueless, involved in his own fantasy world of aliens and planet wars, and no doubt cranes flying through the night sky plucking up unsuspecting human beings along the way.
~
I woke up early the next morning to finish folding the clothes I’d left in the dryer. I stood at the folding table in the laundry room, unmade, dressed in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, knowing Hope wouldn’t be up for at least another hour. I ascertained that my fantasies about her the entire day before were normal given the circumstances.
I folded Adam’s shirts and thought hard about what a great guy he was. He focused and tackled things. He was just a guy who was really passionate and understood the importance of doing and not just talking about doing. I admired this. Who was I to stand in the way? His actions were not personal. If I were in his shoes, I’d expect the same common courtesy and space to get this book off the ground.
I planned to wake him up that morning wearing nothing more than the pair of red undies I was holding up between my fingers. I stretched them between my two fingers and admired the beauty of the lace and the sexy string that fastened the front to the back. I bought them at one of those “naughty girl” parties. I wore them under my dress pants from time to time just to feel sexy, alive, like a woman in control. To the students, I was Miss Conservative in black, tailored pants and a button down shirt. To myself, I was an empowered girl with secret red hot undies. This shameless act boasted my confidence. This was a trick I learned back in the days of debate when men in stuffy suits doled out tough questions that would make most students want to crawl under the podium.
Just as I was holding them up, inspecting them like a rare jewel, Hope barged into the room, wearing her running tights and a pink tank top that revealed her perky breasts.
The two of us stared at my red undies as if they were going to explode.
“I was up early and heard you down here,” she said, in a voice not more than a whisper. “I just wanted to see if you were interested in running today?” Her face flushed a light shade of pink.
I stuffed the undies under one of Adam’s dress shirts. “Yeah, hmmm,” I tossed the basket on my hip. “Half an hour?”
“Sure,” she said, the natural tone returning to her face. She dropped her eyes to my basket, to the red blur under the white dress shirt and smiled. “They’re adorable.”
I don’t think my heart beat that fast even after running five miles uphill.
Chapter Seven
Later that day, after I returned home from taking one hell of an exam, I did something totally out of character, completely dishonorable, and absolutely terrible.
I snuck into Hope’s room and did the unthinkable.
Carried by sheer obsession, I drifted right to her dresser. Her journal was no longer there. A decent person would’ve turned on her heel and marched right out of that room thanking God for the gift of intervention. Not me. I hunted for it. I opened her dresser drawers and poked around nighties, undies, bras, socks, until finally I uncovered it from under a pair of running shorts.
I stood staring at it for quite some time, being that no one was due home for hours. I could run around the big, empty house naked if I so desired. I choose instead to sit down with her journal on her unmade bed.
I examined its velvet scuffmarks and its white pages bumped up by a paperclip that I imagined bookmarked her latest entry. I pressed her inner secrets to my chest and argued with myself, debating the obvious with some logic and refuting this with selfish philosophies grounded in dangerous obsession and piqued interest. This debate raged on for a good ten minutes. I sank into the comfort of her musk, surrounded by her sheets, and in this time crafted a deal. I could read that most current entry if, and only if, I agreed not to read any others that she wrote before it. This somehow resonated as justifiable in my euphoric brain.
Disoriented and drunk on temptation, I capsized.
“God forgive me,” I said out loud before I opened to the paperclip, to that exact spot of that morning’s entry.
October 23
Dear Journal,
I love red undies.
I just know I will have only one thing on my mind all day long today while I’m keeping company with my promotional campaigns and invoices – Lucy prancing around in those little red undies, her hair bouncing around her shoulders along for the joy ride.
Damn, I’ll never be able to walk past a Victoria’s Secret store EVER again without thinking of her now. I wonder how many pairs of those lacy racy undies she owns. Adam is so lucky, and I hope he knows it. Damn, what I would give to watch her prance around my bedroom geared up looking all hot in a pair.
She may be stra
ight on the outside, but if my gut is right, which it always is, I’d guess that she is slightly curious.
It’s thoughts like this that get me into trouble, though.
Fantasies. Harmful? Not harmful? I’m still not sure. Regardless, I can’t give them up. She’s just too irresistible.
I’d love to see her with highlights in her hair. Hmmm.
Yeah… This isn’t good.
I’m hoping I can report back at the end of the day that I’ve got my senses back under control because right now, I’m slush.
I’m off to think about a certain beauty in red lace.
Until tomorrow… or whenever my next emotional download takes place.
Hope
I lowered the cover to its rightful spot, covering the private pages of Hope’s most inner secrets.
A girl had two choices to make after learning someone’s secret. She could absorb it, let it marinate for a bit, then dig a hole and bury it or she could poke at it, see how it stirred under her touch, fill it with her breath, manipulate it with her love.
What choice did I have seeing I had stolen this secret?
~
Half an hour later, I stared at a sea of dye in the hair aisle at Rite Aid. The beautiful women gracing the boxes promised shimmery results full of rich, depth-defying hair. I picked up a box of strawberry blonde. The woman with hair only a few shades lighter than my mousy brown, smiled back at me.
I’d bet my life, Hope would love this color.
I carried my box to the register line, excited to experiment. I tossed in a package of breath mints, too.
When it was my turn to cash out, the clerk, a middle-aged woman with caramel colored waves and red-painted finger nails, examined my hair color box. “Careful with these boxed colors, hon. My daughter’s a hairdresser and she says she gets people running into her shop all the time with fried, brassy hair because of them.”
I suddenly felt foolish. “It’s not for me.” I shot my eyes down to my wallet, praying she’d just get on with her end of the job and leave her judgments out of the exchange.
By the time I got back home, the fog cleared out of my brain. Hope would totally know I snooped if I suddenly surprised her with blonde streaks. See, this was what addiction did to a person. It turned her all loopy and dumb.
I tossed the box in the trash.
HOPE
I would always remember when I first fell in love with Lucy Hastings. It was the same day I found her in the laundry room holding up her red undies. She had asked me to join her for a workout in the basement that night.
I met her in the rec room where she had already started in on a Zumba DVD. The rest of the gang, her boyfriend, included, were tucked away oblivious to the tantric beat, the swaying hips, the shaking going on in that basement.
She had dimmed the lights to soft amber. She was shaking a set of Zumba barbells, mamboing in front of the television like a dancer straight out of a Broadway musical. Her timing was impeccable, her rhythm flawless, her sexual energy magnetic.
When she spotted me, she didn’t squander her sensual flow or blush a dozen shades of red, but rather, she bathed me a confident, sweet smile, inviting me to join in to her musical liberation.
Swept up in everything beautiful and affirming, I danced my way over to her.
I shimmied beside her, hypnotized by her tantalizing moves, her gyrating hips, her soft flowing hair, her flushed cheeks, her happy heart. She transported me to the hot islands of the Caribbean and the exotic beaches of South America, displaying a new side, a sensual side that vibrated the air around her with a wildly infectious, unbridled enthusiasm. We danced, we giggled, we shared seductive moves, and at the end of the routine, we collapsed breathless on the mat, her shimmering body within inches of mine.
We didn’t stop there. Because she looked over at me, her lips glistening, and said, “Let’s have a drink.”
We rose to our feet, ventured to the other side of the basement, and she poured us a tall beer on tap and a shot of Sambuca.
Holding up her shot glass, she said, “Here’s to more Zumba.” We clanked shot glasses and shot the Sambuca back. Sweet and sugary as licorice, it warmed me instantly and drove away the nagging irks of reason and reticence.
“Where’s Adam?”
She chugged her beer. “Out with his work friends. He people-watches for character ideas.” She chugged some more, then plowed through the cabinet and dug out a bag of pretzels. She crunched down on a few before saying, “He’s very diligent about his writing career.”
“Of course.” I dug in to the bag myself, and she did, too. Our hands brushed as our fingers grabbed the pretzels. A sizzle shot through me.
Her eyes flickered. Then she poured us another shot. I didn’t argue. I shot it back just as quickly as I did the first one, warmed to its flavor, to its buzz, and to the way it erased everything but the moment.
“You’re a really good dancer,” I said.
“We can keep going if you want.” Her eyes teased, her lips pouted ever so slightly, her right hip arched forward serving as a perfect support for her hand.
I sipped more beer, enticed by her invite. My logic evaporating by the second, replaced by the sudden need to hold her, caress her, kiss her. “I’m not arguing.”
She reached for the Sambuca again, and before I could blink we chased down our third shot with the rest of our beer. Then, she reached for my hand and led me back to our mat. My hand puttied in hers, while the rest of me trembled to a vibe all its own.
Instead of the DVD, she headed straight for the Latin music channel and began swaying her lovely hips again, taunting me with her prowess. I moved to her beat, melted to the sight of her wrapped up in her own musical world. Eyes lowered, hands grazing her hips, she blended into the song like it was composed for her moves.
Completely swept into her space, I circled around her and traced her bumps, her grinds, her whirring. She sealed the gap, taking my hands and pressing them on her hips. We rocked in sync, her body pressed against mine, her hair blanketing my face in everything sultry. I breathed in her delicate scent, and she softened in my arms, flexible to my lead, responsive to my beat, comfortable in my arms.
She tipped back and settled on me for a flash, seducing me, tempting me, urging me to pull her even closer. My heart rushed along with the urgency of the Salsa beat, sealing my breaths, and holding me captive to everything Lucy.
And then, as we circled, the needle of righteousness scratched across our music and stopped us cold, mid grind. Standing at the bottom of the steps was Hana. She caught us. She caught us dancing like two women free to be dancing as one.
“Oh gosh,” she said.
Lucy pounced away from me.
Instantly my head cleared, drained of the Sambuca’s numbing spell.
Hana covered her mouth with her hands as usual, her eyes wide like silver dollars. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I wanted to yell at her and tell her to wipe the stupid expression off her face and grow up to the fact that there’s a whole world out there that she should be enjoying instead of viewing it through her scrawny hands.
Lucy ran over to her. “We were just dancing. Hope was showing me how to dance the Salsa.”
“It’s okay.” She nodded her head up and down like a bobble head. “You don’t have to explain. You were dancing. I just saw you dancing.”
“Want to try?” Lucy spoke like she was talking to a child instead of a grown woman.
Hana shook her head violently. “No, I don’t dance.” She pulled her bottom lip in tight closing in on herself, closing up the shutters to life. She stood at the foot of our sensual boudoir and robbed us of pleasure and stunk up the room with her boring, virginal shit. I wanted her to disappear.
“You should have a drink with us. Do you want a drink?” Lucy’s words slurred slightly.
“No,” she rushed her hands up to her face again.
She annoyed the crap out of me. “Did you need something down here?”<
br />
“I was looking for Lucy.” Her face stretched, her eyes bounced around me as if afraid to land. She turned back to Lucy, “Your car is blocking mine, and I need to leave really early in the morning. I didn’t want to disturb you that early.”
“I’ll go out and move it now.” Lucy harped on this excuse to flee like someone offered her the one and only flight off an air-born diseased island. She turned back to me. “Let’s take tomorrow off from running.”
“Sure, no problem.”
The two of them shot up the stairs, and I walked back to the bar and poured myself another shot.
~
After I went for my own morning run I arrived in the kitchen, and Lucy was cooking a couple of eggs at the stove. She looked down at them, then looked up at me, then looked back at the eggs. When she made another round and looked back up at me I started to speak, but she interrupted me with a flag of the spatula and forged on first. “How about some eggs?”
“That’d be great.” I eased onto the stool.
She scooped up the eggs with one coordinated twist of the spatula, lifted a plate from the drying rack, and plopped them onto it. “Here you go.” She slid the plate in front of me with a smile that mirrored the sunny-side-up eggs.
She doused the skillet with more spray oil and cracked open a couple more eggs. “How was your run?”
“Tough,” I said mid chew. Then, taking the opportunity to slide into nonchalant conversation about the night before, “I should’ve chugged some water before heading out. I was a bit dehydrated to say the least.”
