Unloved, a love story

by Katy Regnery

  He wants me as much as I want him.

  Please let it be enough.

  “We could . . .” His voice is gravel, husky and low, and I close my eyes, waiting to hear his suggestion, part of me afraid, though I will do whatever he asks. “. . . watch that movie now . . . if you want.”

  A short laugh escapes my lips. It’s a relieved and joyful sound. As much as I want Cassidy, maybe I’m not ready to jump into bed with him tonight. I need a little wooing, it turns out, regardless of my bold words.

  “Y-yes!” I say, laughing again as he lifts his head, and I peek at him over my shoulder.

  His eyes are dark and he licks his lips, but if I’m not mistaken, there’s a little smile tugging at the corners.

  “The Sandlot, right?”

  I nod. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Sounds good.”

  “How about, um, you make us some popcorn while I get it set up?”

  “Popcorn? Really?”

  “Don’t people still eat popcorn when they watch a movie?”

  “Of course,” I say, realizing that this is something he probably remembers from his short time living in town.

  He gestures to the cabinet over the sink with a flick of his chin. “There’s kernels, oil, and salt in there.”

  “Okay.”

  His eyes linger on my lips for one more second before he stands up, leaning over the table to tidy his first aid supplies and gather the leftover stitches into a pile, which he takes to the garbage.

  Still reeling from our conversation and wondering how our agreement will play out, I take out a pot and cover the bottom with a thin coat of olive oil. I place it on the stove, ignite the burner, and throw two kernels into the bottom of the pot, waiting for them to pop. Behind me, in the living room, Cassidy is sitting on the couch, loading batteries into the VHS player for our movie night.

  For the most part, I’ve let the men in my life do the pursuing, so tonight I’m in uncharted territory. I guess I knew—or sensed—that if I didn’t break open the conversation, it might not happen. And not being physical with Cassidy made me feel so desperate, so hollow, I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life. Over the decades ahead, without him, I’d remember these days with him, and I’d grieve not having lived them to the fullest.

  The kernels pop, and I add two more handfuls of corn to the crackling oil, covering the pot with a lid and listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of the corn.

  “Ready when you are,” calls Cassidy, who is sitting on the couch, hunched over our makeshift cinema.

  “Two more minutes,” I say, feeling a rush of excitement and nerves, which makes my stomach flutter with anticipation as if I were a teenager on her first date.

  And then it occurs to me that for Cassidy, tonight is his first date. As the last of the kernels pop, I marvel at this fact, embracing it, silently promising to make it the best first date that any twenty-seven-year-old guy ever had.

  I pour the popcorn into a bowl, turn off the overhead kitchen light, and head into the living room, taking a seat on the couch beside Cass. I put the bowl between us because, I figure, whether a guy is in his midteens or midtwenties, it’s up to him to make the first move. It’s not dark yet, but the sky behind Katahdin is streaked with lavender and purple, and without any other lights on, the glow from the small TV screen is bright and clear even though the movie is old and there’s a bit of static on the top, no doubt from hundreds of viewings.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, then.”

  He leans forward and presses the Play button on the player, and the 20th Century Fox logo unfreezes as nineties-style synthesizer music accompanies a voice-over about the 1932 World Series and Babe Ruth’s called shot.

  I’ve watched this movie a few times in my life. Along with Rudy and Miracle, it’s one of my father’s all-time favorites, and without a son with whom to watch his beloved sports movies, the job fell to me. Truth told? I loved a rainy afternoon watching movies with my dad, and I relax into Cassidy’s couch as the movie flashes back to the 1960s, showing a neighborhood baseball scene on the small screen.

  I’m so into the movie for the first fifteen or twenty minutes, in fact, taking handfuls of popcorn on autopilot, that when my hand brushes against Cassidy’s in the bowl, I’m jolted back to the reality of where I am . . . and with whom.

  My heart flutters as I yank my hand away. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, and when I glance over at him, his lips are trembling in the bluish glow of the TV, like maybe he’s trying not to laugh.

  “What?”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “A little,” I admit.

  He gives me side eyes. “Which one of us has never been on a date to the movies? You or me?”

  “Don’t overestimate me,” I say. “This all feels pretty new to me right about now.”

  “Good,” he says, picking up the bowl and putting it on his left side so there’s nothing between us anymore. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing.” He slides next to me until our hips are flush. “I’ve seen the yawn-stretch-arm-around-the-shoulder move in other movies, you know. I guess I could give it a try.”

  “Unless you’re actually tired,” I say, grinning up at him, “you can skip the yawn.”

  On one hand, I’m accustomed to him touching me. I mean, Cassidy and I have already been physically intimate to a certain degree. He carried me on his back. He’s undressed me, bathed me, stitched me, and slept beside me . . . but this is different, and we both know it. This is deliberate. Any time we touch each other from now isn’t about caregiving or comfort. It’s about want. It’s about need. It’s about sex.

  So when he raises his arm and settles it around my shoulders? My breath hitches.

  And as the warm, heavy weight of his palm lands on my shoulder, I am so turned-on, suddenly I wish we weren’t at the beginning of the movie. Damn it, but I wish we were at the end. He squeezes just a little, pulling me closer, and I shift left on the nubby brown couch so that I’m leaning against him. I draw my feet up onto the cushion and put my head on his chest, just below his shoulder. When I glance up at him, he’s completely focused on the movie, so I look back at the small screen, forcing myself to calm down and concentrate on the movie.

  And little by little, I do, until my heart’s beating normally, and my attention is focused on the story of a little boy who moves to a new neighborhood and makes friends playing baseball.

  Well, until the pool scene.

  As I realize what’s coming, I’m hyperaware of Cassidy sitting beside me.

  We’re about to watch the scene where one of the boys fakes drowning so that the lifeguard he’s crushing on will give him CPR and he can steal his first kiss.

  “I love this part,” he says, reaching for the popcorn bowl and offering it to me.

  “No, thanks,” I whisper, staring at the TV, my entire body on high alert.

  “Do you remember your first kiss?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “When was it?”

  “I was fourteen. He walked me home after a track meet.”

  “And kissed you.”

  I realize that Cassidy’s staring at me, his gaze searing as I continue to watch the movie.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “They say you never forget your first kiss.”

  “You don’t,” I murmur.

  My skin is flushing everywhere, and I can’t hear the movie anymore. I can’t concentrate on it. I can’t concentrate on anything except for Cassidy beside me and what’s about to happen between us.

  “Brynn,” he says. “Look at me.”

  I do.

  I turn my neck to look up at him, and his eyes are so wide and so dark, they look black in the soft ambient light. They drop to my mouth, holding there for a long moment before sliding back up my face. He searches my eyes, as though giving me a final chance to push him away, then pulls me closer so that the tips of my breasts brush against his chest.

&nbs
p; “I’m calling my shot,” he says.

  I whimper softly, my lips parting in invitation.

  He looks back at my mouth, wetting his lips with his tongue, then leans closer, his nose brushing mine as he bends his head to claim my bottom lip between his. I close my eyes, arching my back to be closer to him as one of his hands reaches up to cup my jaw, his thumb under my ear, holding my face to his. His lips alternate between kissing my top, then bottom, lip, claiming them each individually, sucking, kissing, stealing my breath as the arm around my waist holds me tighter.

  His lips depart, but his forehead rests on mine and his nose nuzzles mine gently. I breathe him in, delirious with his taste and touch, with the smell of him, the almost-unbridled strength of him. For a moment, I think we’re done, but he surprises me by leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine again.

  I moan into his mouth, relieved because I want more. Gently, I swipe my tongue over his lips, and I feel him jolt against me, a low groan rumbling in his throat as his tongue slides against mine. The pressure of his thumb under my ear increases, his fingers curling into the base of my skull as I seal my lips over his, sliding onto his lap and threading my fingers into his hair. My knees dig into the couch on either side of his hips, and behind me I can hear the song “This Magic Moment” playing in the movie, which is the perfect soundtrack for what’s happened between us. Deep inside, something that had almost given up on life knows for sure that it’s completely, vibrantly alive again, and my heart laughs because I barely remember happiness like this, but it’s here, and it’s now, and it’s Cassidy holding me in his arms and kissing me for the first time.

  His tongue dances with mine—touching, sliding, warm and wet—setting off fireworks inside me as I arch my breasts into his chest, and feel his erection between us, hard and throbbing at the apex of my shorts, straining against his jeans.

  We should stop.

  I know we should stop because this is his first experience with a woman, and this kiss has gone much farther than most first kisses go. But we’re not kids walking home from a track meet. He’s a man and I’m a woman, and every cell in my body screams for more of him. So I kiss him some more, swallowing his groans of pleasure, the hairs on my arm at attention when he growls into my mouth, his hands dropping to my ass and pushing my groin flush against his hardness.

  And finally, finally, finally, when we’ve missed twenty minutes of the movie, I wrap my arms around his neck and slide my cheek against his until my forehead rests in the curve of his collarbone.

  His breathing is fierce and choppy in my ear, and I smile as tears well in my eyes. My last kiss for so long was with Jem. Now my last kiss belongs to Cassidy. His arms move to clasp me against him, and he holds me as we catch our breath, our hearts flush and pounding relentlessly.

  “Brynn . . . Brynn . . . Brynn . . .,” he murmurs, his breath kissing my throat.

  I laugh softly, pressing my lips to his neck before leaning up to look into his eyes.

  They are spellbound and tender, aching with something so beautiful, so inexplicable, all I can do is stare back. All I can hope is that he looks at me like this every day for the next two weeks so that when I am back in my lonely home, I remember what it felt like to be loved by Cassidy.

  “Now you’ve had your first kiss,” I say, grinning at his slick, pouty lips.

  “And I’ll never forget it,” he says, but his tone is different from mine—less playful, more like a vow, like he’s promising me something important.

  Suddenly my self-consciousness kicks in as I realize I’m straddling his lap, pressing my breasts against his chest with rock-hard, beaded nipples digging into his abs. I lean to the left and let gravity pull my leg back over, sitting back on the couch and settling into his side where I was watching the movie before we got carried away.

  “Are you sleeping in my bed tonight?” I ask him as I stare at the screen.

  “No.”

  I whip my neck to look up at him, and he glances down at me, gesturing to the prominent bulge under the zipper of his jeans.

  “I’ve got no self-control with you, Brynn. I want everything now.” I’m about to tell him that’s fine with me when he continues speaking. “But I’m not getting you pregnant, and I don’t have . . . protection.”

  Part of me is shocked that he knows about condoms. I don’t know why, because I’m sure his mother or grandfather taught him the basics of sex ed, but still . . . it surprises me that he should be so thoughtful.

  “You could pull out,” I suggest, instantly embarrassed by the words because they sound so desperate in my ears.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head and looking away from me, back at the movie. His jaw is tight and his face drawn, like he’s angry with me or in some serious discomfort. “That’s not an option.”

  I nod, wanting to respect his decision regardless of the ache between my legs. I could feel him pressing against me, thick and hard, when I was straddling him.

  The practical side of my brain reminds me that I haven’t been with anyone since Jem, and what’s waiting for me behind Cassidy’s zipper didn’t feel average-size. Maybe a few days to get better acquainted isn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  Still, I feel a little deprived, and I cross my arms over my chest and huff out a breath as we sit side by side, hot and bothered, pretending to watch the movie.

  “Brynn.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I said I wasn’t going to sleep with you tonight.”

  “I heard you.”

  “But, angel . . .”

  I look up at him because the way he calls me angel makes me want to die a little, it’s so reverent and tender.

  “What?”

  “I plan on kissing you until this movie’s over.”

  My mouth opens to an O, and I stare at him as he slips his hands under my arms and pulls me back onto his lap, cradling me there.

  “Any objections?” he asks, locking his eyes with mine as his lips draw closer.

  “None,” I sigh, letting my Cass have his way with me.

  Cassidy

  Whatever I thought it would be like to kiss a woman, it’s all been blown to bits with two nights of Brynn straddling my lap on the couch while we devour each other’s mouths, our bodies pressed close and our breath mingling.

  She belongs to me in ways now that I couldn’t possibly fathom. She owns a part of me that is already gone—that I can never, ever reclaim again.

  Exploring the sweet, soft recesses of her mouth while her fingers curl into my scalp, I have claimed her and surrendered to her at once.

  Everything is Brynn.

  And I am addicted to everything.

  She is air. And water. Smiles and soft sighs as she falls asleep in my arms. She is heat and warmth. She is promise and hope. She is normalcy and company and my temporary talisman against loneliness. She moves like the air or the dark, surrounding me, inside me, of the world and yet belonging intimately and particularly to me. She is everything I want that I can’t have, more and more necessary for survival, which means it will destroy me when I let her go. I know this. And yet, I cannot slow down or take less.

  I love her.

  I will love her until the sky falls.

  Until the sun and moon fail to rise.

  Until Katahdin crumbles.

  I will love her forever.

  She grins at me over her shoulder as she collects eggs from the girls, and though I am milking Annie, it occurs to me to leap over the stool I’m sitting on and grab her around the waist, hauling her against my body to kiss her until she’s limp and sighing. When she smiles, even I, damned from my very conception, cursed from the cradle, feel my heart soar. That’s how it is with angels, I’m learning. I bet the devil couldn’t stay away if he tried.

  I watch her.

  I memorize her.

  I drink her in—the way her dark hair caresses her cheek until she sweeps it behind her ear . . . the way her eyes sparkle when she peeks up at me and giggles . . .
the way her breasts rise and fall with every breath she takes. Her bare feet crackle softly on the hay that covers the hard wooden floor of the barn, and I am drawn even to them, in love with them, jealous of them, hating them a little because they will take her away from me.

  Except I can’t hate her or anything about her.

  I would die to keep one of those toes safe.

  My broken Brynn, in pieces when I found her, seems to be more and more whole every day, and I fall harder and deeper for this sweet, gentle woman every moment I spend with her.

  “What?”

  “Huh?” I mutter, grinning at her because I am a man in love, foolish with tenderness, unable to help himself.

  “You’re just staring at me like crazy.”

  I tug on Annie’s teat, and a stream of milk spits into my metal bucket.

  “Maybe ’cause I’m crazy about you, angel.”

  She freezes, and her eyes widen as she stares at me. “You are?”

  I give her a look. “You know I am.”

  “Then why can’t we . . .?”

  She is about to ask me why our days together must be finite, but she catches herself before the words leave her mouth.

  Over the past two days, my Brynn has more than once wanted to push our agreed-on boundaries to include a discussion of our feelings for each other or an extension on our time together, but she has stopped herself every time.

  I clench my jaw, telling myself that I shouldn’t lead her on with statements like “I’m crazy about you,” no matter how right they feel falling from my lips. We have agreed to a physical relationship with each other. Nothing else.

  “Are you still . . . going to the store tomorrow?” she asks, her cheeks pinkening as she finds an egg under Stacey and places it gingerly in the wire basket.

  The store.

  The store, where I will buy a box of condoms for the rest of our time together.