by Molly Ringle
Fitting, really, that the scene ended with the sound effects of war booming around us, and Julie on the ground in tears, and Sinter and I both drenched in blood. Victims of love strewn everywhere. But who loved whom, and what the hell was happening?
I couldn’t ask Julie during Act Five, even if I had been brave enough. She had to be onstage almost the whole time. But I could ask Sinter, if I wished. He and I were both done now, his character being dead and mine simply being absent. Tonight, however, I took my time returning to the dressing room to change back into my clean uniform, and when I arrived he was not around. I didn’t see him until curtain call, when suddenly he appeared in the group, tidied up and looking proper. Then followed the usual chaos of changing into our street clothes, washing off our makeup, and threading through the crowd of people who had come to see the play tonight. I didn’t run into either him or Julie. At one point I saw Sinter up against a wall, surrounded by fawning female theatergoers, but when I got my coat and returned a minute later, he was gone.
Better just to walk to the dorms alone, and work things out there, I decided. I went out the back door of the theatre. Cold damp night air spilled over me, a relief after the stuffiness of the dressing room.
“Daniel.”
I looked back. Julie, in her long overcoat, caught the door and slipped out. It clanged shut. The clamor from the theater went silent, replaced by the buzz of a street lamp and the purr of cars leaving the car park. We stared at each other.
“Can I walk with you?” she asked.
I nodded.
She joined me. We turned toward the dorms.
“Seen Sinter?” I asked.
“Think he left.”
“Ah.” I made it sound very knowing and sarcastic, that little syllable. Kept her quiet for a minute or so.
“So he told you, about intermission?” she asked, in a dark patch where hedge branches bent over the pavement.
“Briefly.”
“Surprised me.” She laughed nervously. “If I had to place bets, I would have said you’d be the one to try something like that, not him.”
“Well, thanks. My reputation precedes me.” I picked up my pace.
She hurried to catch up. “No – I’m sorry. I only said that because you…we…damn it.” She stamped one foot against the concrete.
I stopped. She was half turned away from me, hugging herself. “Okay,” I said. “What?”
“I…” She lifted one hand to push a strand of hair out of her eyes, and tucked her arm back into its clasp across her chest. “I wished it had been you.”
Lamplight on wet dead leaves began to shine in my vision like gold. I forgave Sinter instantly. Poor lad, couldn’t blame a guy for trying. I stepped closer to her. “Then you weren’t just teasing me all this time?”
“Of course not. In fact, I can’t seem to stay away from you.”
I moved still closer, till she was within reach, but kept my hands in the pockets of my coat. “Strangely, that’s quite how I feel about you.”
She smiled cautiously.
“But…Patrick,” I said with a sigh, naming just one of the large problems between us.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.” She shifted her shoulders. “We agreed we could see other people, on the side.”
“Open relationship?” Oh, this was dangerous.
“Yeah.”
“I’m…surprised. Neither of you seem the type. He seems, um, possessive, and you seem…faithful.”
“I have been,” she said. “I’ve never actually used the agreement.”
“So hang on, let’s back up. What did you tell Sinter, when he kissed you?”
“Nothing. I was too surprised. He said he was sorry, and took off.”
“Then, the open relationship…”
“I don’t want to use it with him. I’m saving it for you.” She giggled abruptly. “Oh dear. That sounds really dirty.”
I laughed, out of breath even though I had been standing still. “Lucky me.” Don’t know how, but I was holding her elbow. I pulled her forward and she lifted her face.
Voices erupted down the path. We looked to see some of the cadet-actors and their friends strolling our direction. “Bugger,” I muttered.
“Come on.” She looped her arm into mine and set off at a jog.
We cut across wet courtyard lawns and muddy footpaths, past empty lecture halls and campus museums, until we were climbing the slope into Pioneer Cemetery, the darkest place around. The trees grew a hundred feet or higher, and bushes whipped shut behind us, splattering us with raindrops. Fir needles squelched under our shoes. In the dim expanse of grass ahead, the shapes of tombstones lurked, but we stopped on the gravel path, where the trees arched overhead like a cathedral ceiling.
On the jog there, we hadn’t spoken except to say “This way” and “Careful” and such. Now we stood catching our breath. She turned to face me.
I slid my arms around her.
She put her face to my neck. “I know I can’t ask too much of you, given the circumstances.”
Circumstances being, presumably, that this was going to be an affair on the side, while she was still seeing Patrick. But given the other circumstances I knew about, it was also perhaps the best arrangement I could hope for. “It’s all right,” I said. I pressed my nose above her ear, and inhaled the rich scent of shampoo and fog and sweat. “God, I’ve wanted you.” Drawing out each gesture to savor it, I kissed the side of her head, kissed her again on the cold tip of her ear, and again on her temple.
Her chest lifted and fell against mine. Her hand slid up my back. “I know you’ve had more experience than me…”
“We’ll only do what you want.” With my teeth I pulled her coat collar aside so I could reach her neck, where I planted slow kisses.
She was melting against me; the pockets of space between us shrank. “I’ll try not to be like Miriam.” She caressed my hair. “I won’t ask you to be any more attached than you usually get.”
I touched my forehead to hers. “Ah, but with you, I will be more attached.”
“You say that to all the girls.”
“I do not,” I said, but then she kissed me on the mouth and shut me up. Three or four kisses later, our tongue-tips got involved. While my body descended into the luxuries of erotic pleasure, my mind stepped into television-journalist mode:
Shocking developments this evening. It’s a Friday night in March, and I am standing in Pioneer Cemetery in Eugene, Oregon, indulging in some tonsil hockey with my first cousin, Julie French. Is it disgusting and off-putting as we all rather expected it would be, once put into practice? The surprising verdict, ladies and gentlemen, is “No.” I must report that it feels very natural, very right indeed. Will it result in fantastic trouble? Likely enough. But when, indeed, did male-female relations ever not result in trouble? Daniel Revelstoke, in the highest of spirits, signing off.
Chapter 17: Is It Cheating Yet?
WE FOUND a bench near a family plot of graves – the Durham clan, I deciphered, when the clouds let the moonlight through. In the shadow of a holly tree we whispered and kissed, and when she shivered in the wind I pulled her onto my lap.
“I only made you wait so long because I was afraid of being like the girls you hated,” she said.
“What girls I hated?”
“The ones you got tired of after two weeks.”
“I never hated them. Didn’t understand them, was all.”
“Have there been any more lately?”
“No.” I tickled her waist, under her coat. “Someone else seems to have captured my attention.”
“Even if you do get tired of me after two weeks, I still want the two weeks. Then you can get back to your womanizing.”
“Good luck getting rid of me. Having tantalized me for, what, six or seven months now, I think I’m entitled to at least that many months of favors.”
“And by ‘favors’ you mean…”
“Mm…Surprise me.”
&
nbsp; We also covered some practical considerations.
“By the way,” she murmured, in the middle of a kiss, “this is ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’”
“Sounds kinky. Is that like Truth or Dare?”
She giggled. “No. With Patrick. He doesn’t want to know if I see other people. He won’t ask, I won’t tell.”
“Ah, understood. Won’t hear it from me.”
Sometime after midnight we agreed we were freezing to death and should call it a night. As we walked back to our dorm, she said, “I’m thinking we shouldn’t tell Sinter either. At least not yet.”
“Won’t be easy to keep from him. But I see your point.”
“The performances would be too hard if he knew.”
I hugged her against me, swaying us across the pavement in mid-step. “God, I’ve been jealous, watching you two.”
“What for? I’m sure Sinter would kiss you, too, if you asked him.”
“Hah. Indeed he might, from what I’ve heard.” Instantly I felt like a shit for saying it. His gay high school kiss was probably not something I was allowed to tell – and if I did, oh, the blackmail he had in reserve against me!
Luckily, Julie didn’t seem to think I meant anything by it. “I can’t tell Clare either,” she said. “Since then Sinter would probably find out.”
“Suppose so. Although…”
“Although?”
“What about the first part of tonight? Are you going to tell her that Sinter kissed you?”
“Crap.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m just going to hope she’s asleep, and think about it tomorrow.”
Our dorm was now in sight. Against the brick wall, illuminated by the lamp on the concrete walk, leaned a tall, familiar figure. Her long hair whipped in the wind, and smoke streamed around her. “Speak of the devil,” I said.
We unlatched our arms and stepped apart, so that by the time we entered the range of lamplight, we were walking separately. “Hi, Clare,” Julie said. She sounded timid.
Clare sucked a drag on her cigarette. “Well, if it isn’t the beautiful people.”
“We were out with some of the cast,” I said. The play’s cast was big enough you could get away with lies like that. “Has Sinter come back? We sort of lost him.”
She squinted at each of us, and blew out a puff of smoke. “Not like I lost him, you didn’t.”
Julie and I exchanged glances. “Something happen?” I asked.
“Cut the bullshit,” Clare said, but she didn’t sound angry. “You know what happened. He told me.”
“Clare, I’m so sorry,” Julie said. “I had no idea he was…I mean, I would never…”
“I know.” Clare shook away a damp strand of hair that had looped across her face in the wind. “You’re not the only reason, anyhow.”
“Only reason for what?” I asked.
“We broke up.” She sucked in a lungful of smoke and sent it spiraling upward. “Won’t be spending nights in your room anymore, Revelstoke.”
“I’m sorry, Clare,” I said. “I swear I didn’t know. He never talked about it. Not until tonight.”
Clare nodded. She kicked a tuft of grass that had sprouted between the wall and the pavement. “He came back and we talked, and then he went out again.” Her voice sounded choked. “Probably planning to be all gothic and spend the night outside in the rain or something stupid like that.”
“What about you?” Julie asked. “You should come in, where it’s warmer.”
“I’ll come in, Mom.” She gave Julie a weak smile. “Just give me a while. I’ll have this one totally shitty night, then I’ll be okay.”
“All right,” Julie said, and I echoed the same.
But as I stepped up to open the door, I paused and hauled Clare’s resistant shoulders into a sideways hug. She grumbled, but allowed it. I planted a kiss on her smoky rained-on hair. “I’m sorry we men are such utter bastards.”
“Fuck it.” She smeared a teardrop off her cheek. “Why do you have to be so goddamn charming?”
Julie hugged her too, then we left her alone and went inside.
“I feel terrible,” Julie moaned, as we trudged up the stairs.
“I do too. Though I suppose it’s neither of our faults, really.”
“Easy for you to say. Sinter didn’t kiss you.”
“True. Or at least not since Halloween, which hardly counts.” I rubbed her shoulders, through her coat. “But I wonder if it was my fault at all. He knows how I feel about you. Maybe it was my constant obsessing that made him notice you.”
“I think it was the play.”
“Oh, fine. Be practical.” Having reached the second floor, we paused. Neither of our roommates were in, and it was tempting to choose a room and get cozy. But…
“Guess we don’t know when either of them will be back,” she said, evidently thinking along the same lines. She kissed me. “Plus, it’s late.”
“Yeah. We’ve got tomorrow.”
“And a lot of other days.” She stole one more kiss. The door clanged open, two flights below, and we darted apart with whispered goodnights.
I was apprehensive about what to tell Sinter; uncertain how far, physically, Julie intended our relationship to go; shy about the idea of telling her I loved her rather than merely liking her or wanting her; not entirely pleased with the notion of cheating, even with Patrick’s tacit consent; and terrified for the day when Julie would find out we were cousins, not to mention the day my parents – and hers – discovered what I had done. So would you believe, can you believe, that as I strolled back to my room that night, I was happier than I had ever been?
I changed into the T-shirt and shorts I slept in, and got into bed. I brought my phone, intending to play games with the desk lamp on until Sinter got back, so I could make sure he was all right. But I fell asleep instead, and woke up in confusion when the door opened.
He was soaked. His hair had come loose from the elastic band he often tucked it back with these days, and now it stuck in strands around his neck. I could hear the rain outside. It was still dark – 3:10 a.m., going by my alarm clock. “Hi,” I murmured, and sat up.
“Hi.” He tugged off his leather jacket, which dripped at the cuffs, and crossed the room to drape it over his chair. Moving stiffly in his rain-splotched jeans and long T-shirt, he sat down on the chair and untied his bootlaces.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Walking around. It’s very cold. I don’t recommend it.”
“I heard from Clare what happened,” I added, tentatively. He only nodded, still working on the laces. “It’s crap,” I said.
“Yeah.” He got one boot off, and shoved it toward the radiator to dry. “For the best, though.”
“I feel terrible, for any part I may have played, inadvertently…”
He removed the other boot, and peeled off his wet socks. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Well. You don’t have to talk about it. You’re still the star of a fabulous production. I’ll let you get some rest.”
He took his socks to the hamper in his closet, and got out a towel, with which he dried his bare feet. He stepped behind the closet door for a minute, and when he emerged, he had changed into dry shorts and a T-shirt. “Talk to Julie?” he asked, sounding rather as if he didn’t want to know the answer.
I felt the blush start in my chest, and rise to my lips as I spoke. “Yes.” I fussed with the duvet over my lap. “She’s really sorry, as well. No hard feelings, she promises.”
“And…” He gave me one brief glance, and his eyebrows moved upward in question.
I twisted the hell out of the duvet, between my fists. “She’s still with Patrick. God only knows why.”
“Oh.” He slid under his dark sheets. “Sucks for us all, then.”
“It’s for the best, as you say.”
“Yeah.”
That was all. He closed his eyes, and I switched off the lamp. My happiness, for the time being, was gone. I was now officiall
y keeping secrets from everyone in my life.
SINTER AND I went down to a late breakfast the next morning; lunch really, by the dining hall’s schedule. He spoke little. His hair hung limp into his eyes. The rain, or maybe tears, had washed off whatever eyeliner was left from his stage makeup last night. He crunched Froot Loops and sipped apple juice, and gave two-word answers while I blathered on about the weather (Looks like it stopped raining! Might be sunny yet!), and my homework (Biology’s really difficult! Have to turn in this lab project Monday! Such a bother, don’t you think?). Eventually I ran out of idiotic things to say, and fell to eating my toast.
“You’ll do fine tonight,” I mentioned, after a prolonged silence.
“Hm?” He lifted his face, looking confused.
“The play. You’re a good actor. The scenes with Julie…it’ll be fine.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He frowned at his juice for a moment, as if he hadn’t even thought about the play yet, then shrugged and took a sip. When he caught me watching him, he must have found me looking worried, because he conjured up a weak smile and said, “You don’t have to put me on suicide watch. It’s okay.”
I tried to smile too. “This is the worst of it, you know,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t. The worst might actually come later, when he discovered (if he discovered) Julie and I were now a don’t-ask-don’t-tell item.
“Clare was my first real girlfriend. I’ve never really broken up with anyone before.” He tilted his glass to swish the juice back and forth. “It’s weird.”
“I have, but…I won’t pretend to relate. Mine were never as serious as yours.”
A blonde girl carrying a tray stopped at our table. “Oh my gosh!” she chirped, staring at Sinter. “Were you in Cyrano?”
Sinter nodded.
“He still is,” I said.
“You were awesome! I saw it last night. Oh my God, I cried!”
Sinter haltingly began to thank her. My mobile rang, from my jacket pocket. I apologized to Sinter and the girl, and answered the phone while they went on talking. “Hello?”
“Hi.”
The one friendly syllable – the identity behind it, more precisely – set off fireworks inside me.
