by Piper Lennox
“What do I act like?”
Shepherd sips his soda. “Strong-willed,” he says, around the straw. “Nice, but not a doormat.” When he sets the cup down again, his hand brushes my arm. I’m a little surprised at the flutter I feel in my stomach. “Am I way off?”
“No, I think that’s pretty true.” My hands don’t know what to do now. I flip down the visor and put on lip balm, so he won’t see how fidgety I am. “Donnie, that guy that stopped us, was probably the one exception.”
“Ah. Mind if I ask why?”
I look at myself in the little mirror, eyes blank. “I don’t know. That question’s kind of been plaguing me ever since we broke up.”
“Let me guess: he cheated on you.”
“Yep. As soon as I moved out of our apartment, so I could help my dad when he got sick.”
Shepherd’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Mighty big of him, waiting until you were gone.”
“Right?” I try to laugh. Donnie and I are through, recent hookup aside, but I still get depressed talking about the whole thing.
I steer the topic elsewhere. “So, uh...you don’t like your name? Seemed like you didn’t believe me when I said it suits you.”
“It was a hassle, growing up,” he says. “Which I guess is true of anyone with a weird name, but still.”
“Your name isn’t that weird. I like it.”
“Thanks.” I feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine on the road: I’ve already learned he’s more apt to talk if I don’t make eye contact. “Thing is, my dad’s a pastor, so ‘Shepherd’ is too on the nose. He might as well have named me ‘Christian’ or something.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” he prompts, “like, herd the flock, be a fisher of men, all that.”
“Well, there you go,” I offer. “It could be worse: at least he didn’t name you Fisher.”
Shepherd goes silent.
I try to stifle my laugh, but he catches it. “So your middle name....”
“Fischer, with a ‘C,’” he says, nodding gravely. “It was my mom’s idea.”
“Oof.” I slump in my seat. “Okay, yeah, you got screwed. But it’s not like kids made those connections, right? I mean, they probably made fun of your name because it was different, but not because of that.”
“If I’d gone to public school, you’d be right, but Christian schools are a different ballgame.” He sips his drink again. “The teasing didn’t get to me much, though. The real reason I don’t like my name is because it’s, like, this constant reminder that my dad had my life planned out for me from Day One. He just assumed I’d work in the church. Anything else? Nope, not good enough. I think that’s part of why I started fucking up the way I did. If I was going to disappoint him anyway, why bother trying?” He shakes his cup, rattling the ice. “Not that I blame him for my mistakes.”
“Wow.” I’m as surprised by this information as I am that Shepherd willingly divulged it. “That must be hard. My parents were the complete opposite—over-praising me for any little thing I did.”
“That was probably tough in its own way, though.”
I think he’s just saying it to be nice or make conversation, but I still nod. “It sort of was, actually. It always made me wonder if I was doing my best, because they never pushed me.”
I think of the day Dad died, nurses mistaking me for his granddaughter. “They weren’t like normal parents in a lot of ways, though. They were in their late forties when they had—” I stop and close my eyes. “When I came along.”
He’s quiet. I decide to cut our Q&A short, my make-things-awkward quota apparently fulfilled.
When I reach for the radio, he says, “I don’t get why they didn’t just tell you. Not judging them or anything, but...that’s kind of messed up.”
I feel the knot in my chest unwind itself, relieved to finally hear someone, anyone, acknowledge this. After Betty’s unsatisfying answer of, “Folks just didn’t do that in our day,” in all its forms, and the agency worker forcing a smile while she told me, “Not divulging it until the child is older is pretty common,” it feels incredible to find just a single person who agrees with me.
“I get why you want to find Tillie,” he goes on. “Really. Like...just because I think this idea is crazy, doesn’t mean I don’t understand.”
“You do?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t want to track down their mom or dad, if they found out something like that?”
I smile, keeping it to myself, as we pass a truck and pick up speed, nothing but the road ahead of us.
Shepherd
The last time I told anyone that much about myself—besides Jess, who forgot most things as soon as I shared them—it was Tillie.
“Heard your dad kicked you out.” We were in the break room at work. I knew her, but hadn’t talked to her beyond general chitchat, and was surprised when she set down her bag of chips and took a seat. “I’ve got a spare room, if you need a place.”
I was about to dismiss her charity, the way I did to basically anyone. Back then, I had a habit of taking advantage of people. I burned bridges, bled their kindness dry.
Before I could turn down the offer, though, she said, “Now I’ve got to tell you, this isn’t some charity case: you need a place, I need money. It’s business.” She tore open the chips and ate one, adding, “Five-hundred a month. Four if you do some chores around the place for me.”
She stuck out her hand. I reached for it.
Then, I pulled it back. “How’d you know I got kicked out?” I’d only told one person besides Jess, and that was one of the truck throwers, who was letting me crash on his couch for the weekend.
“This is retail,” Tillie said. “News spreads quick. So? We got a deal?”
“If you knew why I got kicked out,” I said, staring down at my lunch, “you wouldn’t want me renting from you.”
Tillie narrowed her eyes, like she was analyzing my features. As if my face could tell her all she needed to know, with one quick scan.
“I’ll take the chance,” she said. “You look like a good kid. But I’m also not going to twist your arm over it, so hurry up and decide.”
I shook my head. She waggled her fingers at me until, slowly, I reached across the table and accepted.
After I moved in, Tillie gave me plenty of space—but, when we did cross paths, she had a way of drawing information out of me. She was determined to get to know me, no matter how hard I refused, no matter how guarded I was.
Lila, I realize, is a lot like her mother.
We get a motel room. It’s midnight; I’m too tired to keep driving, and she’s yawning even as she offers to take over. I sit with her on the hood of the car after check-in while she smokes a cigarette.
“You don’t have to sit with me,” she says, teeth chattering. “Isn’t that a perk of quitting? You get to stay inside all cozy instead of getting hypothermia.”
“I’m okay.” In the pool of light from the street lamp, she looks like she did that night at the house, with candles everywhere. The night she called me cute. “I actually like cold weather.”
“Not me.”
“Here.” I shrug off my coat and drape it on her shoulders. She thanks me, her smile faint, a little shy.
“Back in Indiana,” she says, “you said that stuff about changing. How you used to be like Donnie.”
“I never said I was like Donnie,” I correct, hating the thought of her associating me, in any way, with that jerk. “You asked if I ever liked someone knowing they were bad for me, and I said yes, and that I’ve been that person, too.”
“Okay, okay. So you were ‘bad’ for someone.” She hesitates, pulling my jacket tighter around herself. “What did you mean, exactly?”
Yep: like mother, like daughter, I think. “I just...wasn’t a good person. For a lot of reasons.”
“Like?”
“I’d rather not say.” My face gets hot. “I’m really ashamed of who I used to be.”
She flicks her c
igarette out into the darkness, where the streetlight can’t reach, and digs a mint out of her purse. The cellophane crinkling is the loudest thing out here. “I won’t judge.”
“I know,” I say, even though I’m not so sure she wouldn’t. How could she not? “I’m just not ready to go over all of it.”
I expect more questions and prodding, but she says, “That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Thanks.” I sigh, my body suddenly aching all over, like the truth is venom I won’t let her extract. Maybe a partial truth is enough, for now. “Anyway, the being bad for someone part...there was this girl. I kind of derailed her life.” A car pulls up a few rows away. We watch a man and what’s probably a prostitute head into the office.
“Then again,” I add, “she dragged me down, too. We were both bad for each other. Just…a lot of dysfunction, really.”
“You’ve changed, though,” she offers. When she rests her head on my shoulder, just like the night we met, I feel my heartbeat spike. “I think you’re a nice guy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You didn’t have to give me Tillie’s car to use, or come with me on this trip, but...you did. Even if it benefits you, too, that was really nice.” I feel her look up at me.
How old was I, the last time I considered myself a good person? Sixteen? Seventeen? I didn’t think I was a bad guy; I don’t even think I’m a bad guy, right now.
That’s the mistake everyone makes, though. They think as long as they aren’t bad, they must be good. They miss the entire gray area in the middle. That’s where most of us really fall.
I’ve been stranded in that gray area for years: refusal to get worse, but doubt that I can get better. And pawning Tillie’s stuff, especially that locket, probably put me back a few points.
But Lila doesn’t think so. Here’s this girl, right in front of me, who says I’m a good guy. No matter how little she knows me, there must be something in me with worth. Some redeeming quality that could pull me higher, right out of the gray space, if I just try to see whatever she sees.
When I turn my head and kiss her, she stops shivering. Even when I touch her face, my fingers ice-cold, she doesn’t flinch.
Lila
Shepherd parts my lips with his tongue and touches my teeth, just a graze. I push my mouth into his and slip my fingers up into his hair. I want more, and I want him to know that.
It’s not revenge on Donnie, proving to myself I’m finally over him, or even just a distraction, like my motivation before. It’s that I like Shepherd, plain and simple. I’m not sure why.
Maybe it’s something I can’t put into words, which my brain would normally refuse to believe: everything can be put into words. Everything can be explained, in clear, concise sentences, bits of information to process and fit into the rest of your life, like little boxes.
When I slide off the car’s hood and he follows me inside, I comb the database in my head for Reasons to Like a Guy. With Donnie, right away, I knew it was because he was dangerous. At the time, I’d found it exciting. I was desperate for something fun.
With Javier, it was the fact he dressed so well and traveled a lot; dating him made me feel worldly. Then there was Finn, who was just so good-looking, like a model, that I couldn’t resist, even if we had nothing in common.
With Shepherd, I just like him. I like how he looks. I like that he doesn’t smoke, but doesn’t judge me for doing it. I like that he knows a little about cars and cares a lot about being a good guy.
And I like the surge I feel in my chest and stomach, all the way to my toes, when he kicks our motel door shut and grabs me, kissing me so hard that I forget to breathe.
Eight
Shepherd
My hands undress her at fever pitch, leaving a trail of clothes from the door to bed. I plant my mouth on her neck and can’t help but moan a little when she rubs me through my jeans.
Her fingers work the belt easily. She unzips me and pulls my jeans down, while I reach around her back and unhook her bra with a snap of my fingers. She laughs, nervous but impressed, and lets the straps slide down her arms.
While I kiss her again, I cup her breasts in my hands, the heat of her skin transferring to mine. Her sigh makes her break the kiss, so her lips rest against my chin.
“I probably shouldn’t ask you this,” she says, breathing hard, “but what changed your mind?”
My fingers hook into the band of her panties. As I tug them down, she follows suit with my boxers.
We’re silent, staring at each other. Her sex is shaved close, exactly how I pictured it during the nights I lay awake and wondered, if I’d just kissed her in the light of all those candles, what might have happened.
I’m not sure what she’s thinking, looking at me, but the shy little smile bodes well.
“Well,” I answer, as I pull her against me, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met.”
Her laugh is much louder, this time. “That’s so corny.”
“Still true.” I slip my hand between her legs.
“I’ve been thinking about you a little,” she admits.
“Yeah? Just a little?” I brush my fingers across her skin, giving the slightest bit of pressure, until she pushes my wrist away and slides off me.
“Maybe a lot.”
The flush that sweeps across her face extinguishes any doubt I’ve got left. I want her, right now, in every way I’ve imagined and more. Tomorrow might be packed with regret—but tonight can be something incredible.
Her breath pours across my erection as she lowers her head. I had hoped, when she stopped me from touching her, that this was the reason: she wanted to do me, first. My fantasies all began just like this. Her perfect pink mouth enveloping me, the whisper of her tongue on my skin….
But suddenly, that isn’t what I want. I don’t see the dead-end, like I usually do, or all the sudden turns and twists where things could go wrong.
There’s an entire night ahead of us, stretching on and on like an open road. I’ll have my chance.
First, I want to give Lila hers.
I touch the sides of her face. She looks up, almost startled, as I rise, my fingers slipping down to her shoulders and pushing her back onto the bed, reversing our roles.
“Oh—I was going to….” Her voice is hoarse; she clears her throat, but doesn’t go on. Instead, she searches my face. I realize she’s looking for sincerity. Maybe no one’s ever done this for her, before—put her needs before theirs.
I hover my fingertips up and down her arms until she shivers. “This will definitely sound corny,” I answer, “but nice guys actually do finish last.”
Lila starts to laugh again, but the sound stretches into a thread, and then a sigh, when I bend down and pull her earlobe into my mouth. The gentle bite makes her entire body stiffen.
“Shepherd,” she whispers. It sends a shockwave right to my brain.
Lila
Shepherd’s hands pull blood to the surface of my skin, like painting a blush everywhere he touches: my breasts, stomach, the tense muscles inside my thighs, melting under his touch. I try to savor the lead-in, but all I want is for those hands to migrate between my legs again. I could kick myself for stopping him before.
His lips kiss their way down my body, a scenic tour: first, my ear and neck, then my collarbone. I expect him to spend a great deal of time on my breasts—a main attraction for men—but he doesn’t. No more so than the rest of me, from my jawline to the bottom of my rib cage, as though every single inch of me is worth exploring.
At last, I feel his breath there, the wet heat of his mouth. I raise my hips from the bed, begging in silence, until his tongue makes contact.
“Yes,” I say gratefully. I sink back into the bed.
His fingers trace my opening, an easy up and down. One pushes inside.
“Another?” he asks. The bass of his voice against my sensitive skin makes me dizzy. I nod. His second finger sl
ips in alongside the other, filling me swiftly. Before I can adjust, he flexes them against my G-spot.
“Yes, Shepherd!” He moves faster when he hears me call his name, spurred on by the sound. I feel his tongue lap harder, circling.
He keeps his rhythm steady, never slowing down or releasing pressure, even when I grab his head and pull him down against my sex, instinct kicking in. The tension inside my core builds and before I can tell him, it erupts.
“Shh,” I groan, trying to say his name again. The electricity surging through my nerves fries that part of my brain; all I can do, until it’s over, is hold his head against me like my life depends on it.
It seems like ages before I stop shaking and release him. He sits up, panting, and wipes his mouth on his undershirt before taking it off. “Good?” he asks, kissing me again.
With a shiver—this one definitely not from the cold—I nod.
“Oh, hold on.” He gets up and digs through his pants on the floor, producing a condom from his wallet. I find it sweet of him to take the initiative. I’m on birth control, since most of the men I’ve slept with couldn’t be bothered with protection. Shepherd, in true good guy fashion, doesn’t even ask. He just puts it on, climbs back onto the bed, and asks if I’m ready.
I pull my hands down his chest. My arms are weak, shaky by the time I reach his navel. “Ready.”
He palms his erection and guides the tip to my entrance, still swollen from his fingers, everything sensitive and tingling as he slowly sinks into me.
“Oh, man,” he sighs, laughing. The muscles in his stomach draw taut. “It’s been a while for me. I forgot how good this feels.”
My laughter echoes through the room. “Yeah, right. Nobody forgets.”
He shrugs, smiling, as he withdraws. “Okay,” he says, “I didn’t forget. But it is even better than I remembered.”
“Maybe it’s me,” I joke.
Shepherd pulls his bottom lip through his teeth and stares at me. I stop laughing and stare back, as he tilts his hips and fills me once more, our breathing deep and synced to the very last second.
