by Lindy Zart
Through the multiple windows, the sun streaks the room with light. It smells like strong black coffee and sweetened carbohydrates in the kitchen, and it all feels so natural, so much like a scene from a nauseatingly sappy movie, that my feet trip over a reality I’ll most likely never experience. This is pretend, and we’re playing. But I like this game.
His shirt is gray, his jeans are low on his narrow hips, and when Blake turns with a plate full of pancakes in one hand, and a spatula in the other, he is the epitome of the perfect man. Sexy, wicked male, offering food. Mmm.
“I could get used to this,” I tell him without thinking.
Blake tilts his head.
“The food. You cooking. Food. Food,” I repeat firmly. “I like food.”
His mouth fights a grin as he walks by and sets the plate on the table. “I have a feeling I know what you like even better than food.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” Sex with him, kissing him, touching him. Smelling him. Lots of things that involve him.
Blake faces me, and I notice his shirt for the first time. “Oh, my God, I love you,” I blurt, staring at the picture of a pony with the words My Little Pony above it, all in purple.
He freezes up, the little color that his skin holds draining from him.
“That is to say…I mean…” I stutter, feeling all the color that left him weaves its way into my flesh. “Your shirt. I love your shirt.” I reach around him, grab a pancake from the plate, and stuff my mouth with it to keep it from producing words. I can taste vanilla, and yes, I prefer my pancakes doused in butter and syrup, but this isn’t bad plain.
“It’s cute,” comes out garbled.
As if suddenly no longer hypnotized by the spell of words that scare some men, Blake steals the remainder of pancake from my hand and takes a large bite. “I wasn’t sure if it was a My Little Pony day, or a Rainbow Brite one.”
“Stop,” I moan, putting a hand to my abdomen. I can feel my irrational girl parts falling in love with him. I love cartoons, especially the ones from my childhood.
When I was six, I stayed with an elderly lady who crocheted and didn’t do much else. I spent the majority of my summer watching old cartoons as I sat beside her on the couch. Almost every day she made me macaroni and cheese and Jell-O. For a six-year-old, it was pretty amazing, but now I sort of wonder why I wasn’t outside on the nice days. Ada wasn’t one for conversation, and the television became my friend. In the fall, after a lady came to talk to me, I was shipped off to another home.
Sometimes, I spent a year or so at a home; other times, it was mere months.
“What are you thinking right now?” Blake asks.
I look up and am hit by the full power of his inquisitive gaze. It makes my knees turn noodle-like. I let my body fall into the closest chair, and I commence to avoid the conversation by taking three pancakes and going about making a proper heart attack breakfast. I spread half a stick of butter on the cakes, and drain a good portion of the syrup from the bottle onto them. And then, I eat.
Blake sits down and takes two pancakes for himself. His motions are slow, and his words are careful when he speaks. “You don’t have to tell me. You just…you looked sad for a minute.”
Peering into the glass near my plate, I see it contains ice cubes and water, and I quickly down it. The coldness turns the inside of my throat into icicles, and I breathe through my nose until it passes.
“I don’t get sad; I get awesome.” I use my fork to sever a piece of pancake from the pack, and then I pop it in my mouth. Syrup drips from the corner of my mouth and I wipe it away with my hand. If I had to choose a reason to want Blake nearby, I could legitimately and guiltlessly keep him around merely for his pancake-making skills. His other skills are an added bonus.
He shakes his head, his eyes on the black mug he raises to his lips. Blake takes a sip, his lips hugging the rim like they hugged mine. “Get any more awesome and your head might get too heavy to hold up.”
“Nonsense.” As I chew, I swing my legs and look out the windows—anywhere but directly at Blake. I can feel him, though, like an imprint in the air. And I can clearly visualize last night, and this morning, and his naked body. Barriers, Opal. Barriers!
I swallow thickly and stare at the shed. “I don’t know a lot about sheds, but aren’t they generally windowless?”
Blake twists in his seat, his gaze following mine. “Yeah.” He turns back to me with a light in his eyes and a hum of excitement in his frame. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”
7
Blake
Opal is a being of constant movement, whether it’s her hands or her feet; some part of her is always in motion. The only time I’ve seen her perfectly still was last night while she slept. She looked peaceful in my arms, calm in a way conscious Opal never is. It felt nice, holding her like that. As I unlock the shed door, she shifts and fidgets with restless energy, bumping into me once.
“Are there zombies locked up in there?”
“What?” I ask.
“I saw a zombie once.” Opal runs a finger down the length of the white metal siding as she continues. “It was this guy at a hospital I worked at for three days.”
I glance at her as I pocket the key. “Why were you only there for three days?”
She shrugs and turns her head to the side. “I decided I didn’t like the area. Anyway. I know he was a zombie because he died, and then he came back to life with red eyes and sores all over his face.”
I want to ask her if she’s ever just stopped moving, just stayed in one place long enough to make it hers. She grew up not having that, and to her, it’s normal to be untethered. I always claim to want the same, but I think, under the right circumstances, I’d want something different. With the right person, I’d want more. Some kind of permanence in a world without much of it.
Opal says, “I asked him his name and he said, ‘Brain.’”
“Are you sure he didn’t say, ‘Brian?’”
“Pretty sure. Do you think there might be some in there?”
I give her a sidelong look. “Not that I am aware of.”
Opal grins, her eyes twinkling. “So there’s a chance?”
“There’s also a chance you’ll stop telling outrageous stories, but I find it unlikely.”
Her husky laughter slides down my back like nails dipped in lust.
I grab hold of the door and pull. It groans, shudders, and finally gives in, swinging open to show darkness and dust. The air is thick and hot from being trapped inside the sturdy walls for too long. I don’t even know the last time I was in here. Every time I was, I saw my grandpa’s unrealized dream. Like the pond out back, this too is a reality he never got to witness in its completion. I finished the pond; I couldn’t bear to do the same for this.
“My grandpa had a lot of ideas,” I explain as I step into the large space. I look behind me, thinking Opal is there, but she isn’t. “No zombies,” I confirm with a touch of exasperation.
She pops inside, immediately going still. And then she’s walking, turning this way and that, drinking up everything she can see. Soaking it up with her animated, imaginative brain.
“Wow.” Awe resonates through that single word.
Moving to the wall, I flip on the lights. They’re fluorescent, and it takes them a minute to heat up from where they rest along the high, vaulted ceiling. They flicker on, one at a time, bringing the interior of the large building into better sight. The walls are done but bare of paint, and the floor is cement. Somehow, it smells fresh to me, like this place was just constructed, even though it hasn’t been new for over a dozen years. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, but I know, like the worn appearance of the circus and its occupants, Opal doesn’t see that. She sees the unfinished kitchen as it should be, bright-colored and functioning, and the partially furnished rec room is alive with activit
ies. She sees the second floor with a wraparound hallway, and she sees them in color, in life.
“This is amazing,” she says.
Through her eyes, looking at the room like she does, I see the possibilities as well. I see what my grandfather intended, and a spark flickers inside me. Opal sees what this space can be, and it makes me want to finish what my grandfather started. I know that’s why he willed the land to me. He saw the direction my life was heading, and he wanted me to know it didn’t have to go that way.
“I could live here! I mean, lots of people could live here. There are so many rooms! What is this place?” Opal calls from across the room.
“My grandpa had a lot of ideas,” I begin again, looking around. I stood by him in this building as it was being worked on. He wanted to know my thoughts, and he listened as I gave them. I blink my eyes against stinging and slowly walk the first floor’s length. My boots echo as I move.
“He, uh, he wanted to help troubled kids. This was supposed to be a kind of retreat, a safe place for kids who were in trouble at home, school, with the law, wherever, to stay. There were supposed to be supervised activities, counseling, games, and personal goals—just about anything you can think of.”
Opal clambers up the wooden stairwell and starts opening and closing doors. “These are all bedrooms?”
“Yeah, and activity areas.”
She grips the railing and peers down at me. “Come up here. Show me what this place was meant to look like. Tell me everything.”
I slowly ascend the stairs, the wood creaking in two spots as I step. I didn’t really think about why I decided I wanted to share this with Opal, but I now know why. Everywhere she goes, she adds her light to the darkness of her surroundings. Just showing her this, seeing her enthusiasm and wonder, it lights me up as well. I needed to see her response to this to get my head on straight.
Opal meets me at the top of the stairs, grinning widely. Her eyes sparkle, and there is a smudge of dust on her cheek. I look at her for a moment, seeing the beauty in her features I couldn’t before, wondering how I could have been blind to them. She practically glows, the meaning of life personified through her. I take a breath, and it catches as I exhale.
“I get it now. I understand why you’re going to school for child psychology. You want to work with kids because you saw what your grandfather hoped to do, and you want to do that for him. It isn’t all for the chicks.”
My nod is slow, and I can’t decide if I want to smile or frown. I do neither. “That’s not the only reason, but yeah, that had a lot to do with it.”
“You could do so much with this place. Are you going to?” Opal tilts her head as she waits for me to answer.
I look around the second floor, knowing what I want to say. Knowing what I should say.
I take too long to reply, and Opal moves on—literally, conversationally. She stops near a door. “By the way, your grandpa sounds like the best person ever.”
My throat tightens as I step into the first room. “He was.”
“I would have loved to have met him,” she says reflectively, moving ahead of me. Opal looks around the room with bare walls and flooring, and walks to the window. The sun locks on her hair, turns it a deep shade of burnished fire.
“He would have liked you.” I step closer, stopping when I’m directly behind her.
“Of course he would have.” Opal turns and aims a smile at me, and I move without thought.
I cup her face and bring my lips to hers, fireworks exploding behind my eyeballs at the feel and taste of her. So sweet, so warm. So eager. I press my lower half to hers, and she moans low in her throat. She did that last night, and it made me crazy. My nerve endings are hardwired to respond to each sound she makes. And she makes a lot—all erotic, all coveted. I move forward, my legs tangled in hers, and she moves back, until she is against the wall and can’t go any farther.
My fingers move down, to the back of her neck, to her throat, to her shoulders. Down her breasts, up her back. I mold my hands to her bottom and bring her even closer to me; the only thing between us is our regrettable clothing. Opal twists her fingers around my hair and tugs, and my legs shake with need. My whole body hurts, all from wanting her.
She tears her mouth away and gasps, “Barriers.”
A rough laugh is the most I can initially produce. “You say the oddest things when you’re turned on.”
“No. You. Me. Barriers.” Opal pulls her shirt back into place and moves away from me. “We can’t, you know, fool around anymore.”
I blink at her, sure I misheard her. We spent the night having sex, and now we’re just supposed to turn that off? Act like it didn’t happen, multiple times? “Did we have an expiration date?”
Opal runs trembling fingers through her hair, mussing it up more. She turns her face to the side. “Yes. I guess. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll never see you again. We shouldn’t make it harder when it’s time to say goodbye by complicating the situation with more sex. I mean, last night was amazing, completely amazing. But it was one night, and even you said it was all you could give me. And that was fine. I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says again, finally looking at me.
My heart jumps, races, and slows at the thought of never seeing her again. It’s almost like I don’t want her to go. What freaked me out more than hearing Opal say she loved me this morning, even if it was in jest, was the fact that hearing her say that didn’t repel me. It stunned me, yeah, but it wasn’t all bad. It was kind of nice to hear, unintentional or not. My grandpa made sure I knew I was loved, but anyone else? Not so much.
I feel giddy when I think of Opal, when I look at her. I don’t get giddy. I don’t even get happy all that often. And right now, I am. I feel like I could spend a lot of nights with Opal, and I wouldn’t mind. Days sound even better. It’s a hazardous way of thinking, and it’s probably best that this is our last day together. Opal, I fear, has the power to change my way of viewing the world. My world is optimal the way it is, flaws and all.
She’s right. It would be smartest to keep our distance. It would make tomorrow easier. Easier is good.
“You’re right. We should keep our distance,” I say conversationally.
“Definitely. It’s the best idea.”
I nod. “Yeah. We don’t need to complicate things.”
“Yeah,” Opal echoes, her eyes down.
“You like kissing me too much. We keep doing that, and that next thing you know, you’ll never want to kiss anyone else ever again. Not that I can blame you,” I continue, resting my back to the wall and crossing my arms as I study her.
“Right. We can’t, um, we can’t have that,” she says with false cheerfulness.
“And everyone knows kissing leads to sex. Generally. We can’t have that either. Right?”
“We should probably just not even be around one another,” she commiserates.
“That would be best. Or…” I drop my arms and straighten from the wall. “We can be around one another. See what happens.”
“You know what will happen.” A hint of accusation rings out from her words.
“Yes.” I take a step closer to her. “And so do you.”
Opal’s eyes shoot to my lips, a blush crawling up her neck. We lock gazes, my chest on fire, my body tight with need, and Opal lunges for me at the same time I go for her. We hit hard enough that our teeth knock together, and I feel a pinch and taste blood. Needing to touch her, to look at her, I grab her shirt and tug it over her head. I efficiently remove her bra, a strap snapping her skin as I do so. She hisses at the sting. I set my mouth on the red mark and gently suck, her head dropping back against my chest as her hands rove up my thighs.
“I just want to have sex with you to hear what you’ll cry out next,” I whisper as I slide my hands up her stomach and mold them to her full breasts. She’s hot, and soft, and for the moment, mine. It ma
kes my head spin.
“That’s it, huh?” Opal whirls around, her eyes burning. “You’re just using me for a laugh?”
“Never,” I swear, brushing sweaty hair from her face. I give her a lopsided smile. “But it is a nice addition.”
Opal laughs, and I shudder, wondering how even that can turn me on. I don’t think about it too much, though, because her fingers are on the button of my jeans, and then the zipper, and all I can think about is feeling her around me. Need it, want it, need it, want it. Her hand slips down, wraps around me, and I jerk, instinctively moving against it. The friction is maddening, the touch blissful.
“Wait. Wait,” I mutter, setting her away from me. I can barely stand. I can barely think. My head is bowed, my forehead resting against hers. Our breaths are loud and fast. “I don’t have any condoms on me.”
Her response is instantaneous, and makes me painfully hard.
“I guess we’ll have to get creative,” she announces, and drops to her knees.
I close my eyes as she tugs down my jeans and boxers, and I fight to not completely lose it before it’s really begun. Then I go to my knees, taking off my shirt in the process. I put it on the hard floor, and I lower Opal’s head to it.
I take off the rest of my clothes.
I take off hers.
I stare at her quivering body, desire pounding through me.
“I get to be creative first,” is all I say before I lower my mouth.
* * *
Opal
“Want to go for a ride?” Blake wiggles his eyebrows.
My body, recently satisfied, is languid and limp, and I am even more attached to the dark-haired man standing beside me. I should be more upset about it than I am, because, really, I’m not upset at all by it. I blink against floating debris and focus on Blake’s deviant expression.
Aside from the monstrous shed, there is another, smaller one a ways behind the house, and inside it, among tools and small machinery, is a red four-wheeler. It’s dark in here, and smells like dust and oil. The air is like the inside of an oven set to broil, making it hard to breathe.
