The Other One

by Jiffy Kate

  “Me too. I hardly slept.”

  She giggles, pulling up to kiss my lips. Like out on the street, my hands find her ass, and I pull her up, allowing her to wrap her legs around my waist this time. She groans as I grind my now very erect cock against her. I have an immediate need to consume her in every way possible. Every strip of fabric between us is too much. I need to feel her skin beneath mine, stroke her, bring her pleasure. I want to see her face when she is at the point of complete and utter release.

  “Take me to bed.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  A loud squeal erupts from her as I toss her onto the mattress. She bounces a couple of times before I pounce on her like a predator to his prey. I love seeing her playful like this, and as much as I can see she wants me, I don’t feel pressured to be ready to have sex right now. Somehow, we always seem to know what the other needs. It’s what gives me hope that we’ll make it. Someday, we will be ready. It will be right for both of us, and it might not be perfect, but it’ll be perfect for us.

  The honk of Loren’s car makes me want to vomit. I actually did . . . earlier. I thought I had my panicking over with, but now that she’s here and expects me to get into the car with her, I’m having second thoughts . . . about everything. Well, everything except that I love Loren, and I want to show her how much by doing this—taking a step, pushing myself. It’s been long enough. I know it’s all a mental game, and I’m stronger than the fear.

  I can do this.

  When I finally make it down the steps, I see Loren leaned up against her car, waiting patiently. I also see Ben standing over by the front door of the house, in the wings, just in case. My sister is at work, but she gave me a pep talk before she left. And after a phone call with my mom a few minutes ago, I felt prepared, but now I’m not sure if I am.

  Loren must sense my hesitation. She pushes off of the little red car and walks up to me, pulling the lapels of my jacket, forcing me to lean down closer to her.

  “We don’t have to do this. Ben said he’d drive out to Kenner and pick up the parts for us.”

  I take a deep breath and dig deep for the resolve I had found earlier. “I . . . I want to do this.” These kind of setbacks and holdups are what affect me the most. They’re what keep me from doing the things I want to do. I’m not going to let my past dictate my future. Those are Dr. Abernathy’s words—something about taking back control of my life. She said I’ve been in the back seat since the accident, at the mercy of my injuries and limitations, but it’s time for me to move back to the driver’s seat. And this is the first step.

  Loren’s soft lips touch my cheek and then my mouth. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

  I swallow a lump that appears in my throat. Those words mean everything to me. I want to make her proud. I want to be the best I can be for her. I stare down into her eyes and see the sincerity on her face. “Thank you.”

  I open the car door and practically jump into the passenger seat. Suddenly, I’m taking the band-aid approach and decide that the faster I do it, the less painful it’ll be. Once I’m inside and buckled in, I look over at Loren, who’s wearing the cheesiest grin I’ve ever seen. I try to return it, but I think all I manage is a grimace.

  “Are you ready?”

  I nod, because I don’t trust my voice . . . or opening my mouth. The sick feeling is back, and I’m trying hard to keep that shit down. Throwing up in Loren’s car would not be cool. My heart is beating so fast and hard. I feel it in my temples, kinda like when you smash your finger in the door and it throbs. It’s a lot like that. I need some fucking air.

  Looking down, I see the handle to roll down the window and glance over at Loren for approval.

  “Whatever you need to do.” She’s looking at me with worry but also trying to keep her eyes on the road. It’s weird, though, because it’s not like I think Loren’s going to wreck us or that we’re going to be in a wreck, period. I can’t really explain where the irrational fear is coming from, but it’s real, and I wish beyond anything I could make it stop.

  Once the window is down and the cold air is hitting my face, I feel better. The tightness in my throat lessens, and my heartbeat seems to take on a slower rhythm.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  We drive like this for what seems like hours, though even on a bad day, I know it only takes about forty minutes to get from my house to Kenner. My dad and I used to come up here looking for parts. I’ve traveled this road a thousand times.

  Loren’s hand reaches over the gear shift and latches on to mine. “Wanna hear some music?”

  “Sure.”

  It’s when the soothing sounds of Otis Redding fill the car that I finally begin to relax.

  Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warmth I feel flowing through my body as the girl I love sings about sitting on the dock of the bay. It reminds me of days in the Impala with my dad, and it makes me hopeful for brighter days to come.

  I can do this.

  Tripp

  “MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY,” my mom says, greeting us at the door and enveloping me in her warm embrace. The sweet aromas filling the house and the gifts around the tree make my heart happy, but the beautiful girl beside me is all the gift I need.

  It’s only just begun, but this is already shaping up to be the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time—since my dad passed away. Christmas was always his thing, and after he was gone, it took us a while to get back into the spirit. If it hadn’t been for Emmie and Jack, we probably wouldn’t have even celebrated Christmas that first year. Which shows it’s not about the presents and the commercial hoopla. It’s about the people.

  “Uncle Tripp!” Jack and Emmie yell, running down the stairs.

  “Look!” Emmie squeals, smiling brightly. Her hair’s a mess, and her eyes are sleepy, but her face is glowing with excitement. “Look! Santa came!” She’s pointing toward the tree where the gifts are spilling out and flooding the living room.

  I look over to Loren and see that her smile matches Emmie’s. The way she’s watching them and taking it all in, I can tell it’s something she’s never seen before, but she seems to be handling it pretty well so far.

  “I got a fire truck!” Jack exclaims, sliding to a screeching halt in front of the tree. “A big, real fire truck! It’s red, just like I wanted. And it makes sounds!” He’s lying on his stomach in awe at the gifts he sees.

  I see my sister look over at Ben and let out an exasperated breath. “Those batteries better die fast,” she grits out from behind her smile, trying to keep a good game face on for the kids.

  “Coffee, anyone?” my mom asks.

  “Yes!” all of the adults reply in unison, still trying to wake up.

  For a split second, I allow myself to think about my dad and how he’s loving this. I really feel him on days like today. I see him in my sister and especially in Jack, and I know he’s with us. Sometimes, I swear I hear his laugh, and I can almost picture him sitting in the big chair on the other side of the tree. He’d be so happy, and he’d love Loren.

  I take my spot on the end of the sofa that’s closest to the tree and pull Loren onto my lap. “Merry Christmas,” I whisper into her ear, kissing her neck. She does a full body shiver and turns her head so our lips meet.

  “Merry Christmas, and in case I forget later, thank you for today.”

  We watch as the kids tear through their presents. Emmie is so happy about the princess dress Loren made her. It’s green and pink—her favorite colors. And my sister is going to have a hard time getting the superhero cape off of Jack. Loren even put his initials on the back. “Super Jack,” is the most repeated phrase of the morning.

  I bought Loren a new journal and had her name engraved on the cover. I’m hoping it will be a happy place for her to write, full of good thoughts.

  She gave me a bright, shiny, good-as-new Impala decal for the front fender of my car. It’s one of the last pieces we need to finish up the exterior, once it get
s its new paint job, which Ben and my sister gifted me for Christmas. After a few tweaks under the hood, it’ll be in tip-top shape, and then I don’t know what. I guess like with everything else, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

  As I look around the room and see the genuine happiness on everyone’s faces, I’m eternally grateful. I’m having one of those moments where I realize how different things could’ve turned out, but I’m so thankful for how the pieces of our lives fell together. I wish I could save this moment like a photograph and take it out to look at whenever I’m feeling down.

  Loren’s laugh ringing through my apartment is the best sound ever. Well, maybe second to the sounds she makes when she has an orgasm. Her laughs, though. They make me happy. They make me laugh. They can wipe away fears and bad days. They’re magic.

  The more Loren drinks, the more Loren laughs. And we’ve drunk half a bottle of Southern Comfort tonight.

  It’s New Year’s Eve. Most people our age are out at big parties or on Bourbon Street, but that’s not really our scene, so we decided to stay in and celebrate. Loren’s being the DJ right now, and she’s playing every girl power rock song she has on her iPod. I don’t mind, though. Watching her dance around my apartment in a T-shirt and leg warmers is the best damn way I can think to ring in the New Year.

  Except for one other thing . . . and that’s still on the table.

  As in, we discussed it, and we both feel like we’re ready, but we don’t want to set any sort of timeline. It’ll happen when it happens.

  Loren’s been spending every night with me since Christmas. We came close to having sex last night, but just as we were getting hot and heavy, Ben knocked on the door, asking if we wanted to go to the garage to work on the Impala, to which we said yes.

  By the time we got back up to the apartment, we were both too exhausted and pretty much passed out as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

  The strands of white lights Loren hung around my apartment before Christmas are the only lights on. She insisted that we needed them because it wasn’t Christmas-y without them.

  Have I mentioned that I’d give her anything she asked for?

  Loren switches the playlist to something we both agree on—one we made together that includes Otis and Ray and a few of our other favorites mixed in here and there. If this were the ’80s, this playlist would be our mixtape.

  She picks up the bottle of Southern Comfort and two small glasses off of the counter and plops herself in the middle of my bed.

  “Wanna play a game?”

  “Sure. Whatdya have in mind?” I ask, skimming my hand over her leg warmers and up to her bare knee.

  “I ask you a question, and you answer.”

  The glaze in her eyes is adorable, and the constant smile on her face is contagious. I feel like I’ve already bared my soul to her. I’m not sure what’s left to tell, but I’ll play her game.

  “So, I can ask you questions too?”

  “Of course.” She swats at me lazily, the alcohol in full effect. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m an open book.” The way she looks at me and slides her hands down the inside of her thighs makes her words have a double meaning, and it goes straight to my dick.

  I clear my throat to get myself in check and tell her she can go first.

  “Okay, so the deal is, if you refuse to answer, you have to drink. Or . . .” she pauses, holding up a finger in the air. “You can drink first, if that’ll help you answer.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “So, Tripp?” she starts, crossing her legs in front of her. “How many girls have you slept with?”

  What the hell? Damn. She ain’t messin’ around.

  I take a second and think hard, not wanting to give an incorrect answer, because if we’re doing this, we might as well have the facts.

  “Seven.”

  Loren’s eyes grow two sizes, and she leans forward a little. “Seven? Really?”

  “Yep.” I sit there and try to gauge her reaction.

  “Wow.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “No . . . No, it’s not bad. I don’t know what I expected. I probably wouldn’t like any answer you gave me.” Her smile is small and apologetic.

  She doesn’t ask for an explanation, but I feel like giving her one. “My first was Whitney, of course, and then the other six were pretty much one-night stands when Whitney and I were split up, which was a lot. I know it probably makes me sound like a douchebag, but it is what it is, and I can’t take any of it back.”

  “No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not like I’m a virgin or anything.”

  Of course, she’s not, but just hearing that statement leave her mouth makes me understand where she was coming from. The thought of someone else touching her and being with her like that makes me feel insane with jealousy. “How many guys have you been with?”

  “One.”

  Deep down, I think I already knew that, and now, I kinda wish I hadn’t asked. She looks sad, and I don’t want her to be. This was supposed to be fun. I try to think of some way to lighten the mood back up and take her mind off of wherever it’s gone.

  “Who’s your favorite Ninja Turtle?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.

  She looks up from where she’s picking the label off the Southern Comfort bottle and smiles at me with a goofy grin. Soon the grin turns into a full-on belly laugh, and she tosses her head back, exposing her neck.

  Perfection.

  When she composes herself, her face grows serious again as she contemplates. “I think I like Michelangelo the best. He’s such a party animal.”

  There is nothing sexual about her answer, but God, I want her. I love her so much, and I want to claim her in every way possible.

  “Who’s your favorite?” she asks.

  “Donatello. Hands down. He’s the brains of the operation.”

  “I can see that.” She nods her head in agreement, staring across the bed at me. “You’re really smart too, you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “Next question,” I tell her because I always get uncomfortable when people give me compliments.

  “Okay.” She thinks for a minute, tapping her finger on her chin. “This is kind of a cliché question, but where do you see yourself in five years?” she asks, leaning her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands. She looks so young and beautiful. No makeup, her hair a wild mess from the way she was dancing around the apartment earlier. Just Loren—my Ania.

  “Wherever you are. That’s where I want to be.”

  Her eyes get glassy as her brows draw together. Her face almost looks pained as she says, “God, I want that too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I know they say that when you find the one, you’ll just know, but I always thought that was some kind of myth or legend. I didn’t think it would ever happen to me. And the way we found each other is so crazy . . . I mean, it makes me start to believe in fate and destiny. For the first time in my life, I feel like the universe is on my side. And the scariest part is that I know . . . Like, first hand, I know that everything could be taken away from me in the blink of an eye.” She pauses for a second, clutching her chest. “But I don’t care. I’d rather have you for a little while than not at all. That’s how I know you’re it for me, Tripp Alexander. That’s how I know that you’re the only one.”

  I crawl quickly to the middle of the bed and hover over her, pressing my forehead to hers. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right? You can’t get rid of me.”

  There are tears on my face, and I’m not sure if they’re mine or hers, but I don’t care. I capture her lips with my own, putting action behind my words. Loren wraps herself around me, and I fall back into the bed, allowing her to take over and set the pace . . . allowing this to go wherever she wants it to go.

  I’m ready.

  “I don’t want to wait anymore,” Loren
says, panting as she pulls her shirt forcefully over her head.

  “Me neither. I want you . . . this.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too . . . so much . . .” My words are broken off by her kiss. Her hands make quick work of my T-shirt and then my pants. There’s no awkwardness or question, just raw need and resolve.

  Just us.

  “You know what I’ve never done before?” she asks, leaning up and gripping my hands with hers, her hips rolling over my erection with only her panties between us.

  I shake my head, unsure of where she’s going with the question.

  “I’ve never made love before. Make love to me, Tripp.”

  Flipping her over, she squeals in delight, and I strip the flimsy piece of fabric off of her, laying her completely bare beneath me. With a stroke of my fingers between her folds, I can tell that she’s wet and ready. I don’t think either of us could stand to wait another second, or we might combust.

  Holding her gaze with my own, I push two fingers inside her, eliciting a moan.

  “That feels amazing Tripp, but I want you. Please.”

  Slowly, I line myself up to her entrance and brace myself for what I know is going to be the single most intense experience of my life. I feel it in the air around us . . . It’s different. We’re different. This may not be my first time, but it feels like it.

  Pushing in, I feel how tight she is around me, and I have to pause to keep myself from ruining this moment. Her hips buck up and force me in further. A hiss leaves my lips as euphoria floods my body. Loren cries out beneath me, her head thrown back into the pillow, waves of mahogany hair fanned out on either side of her face, and I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  When I have a second to adjust—to her, to us—I lean back on my thighs and pull Loren up with me, keeping us connected. This position gives me access to the wonderland that is her body—beautiful breasts, curvaceous hips. She is beauty incarnate. And she’s mine. With each thrust of my hips, the speed picks up. The flush of her skin is gorgeous, and I can’t keep my lips from kissing every inch of her.