Wake

by Abria Mattina

  By the time I step out of the shower, my erection has wilted completely. As I towel off I still feel little tremors in my thighs and stomach, the last evidence of arousal. It doesn’t seem right that my knees should shake like that when I didn’t even get off, and I resent the way I have to sit down to put my feet through my underwear without falling over. Inconveniences like this should come with a screaming orgasm, damn it.

  I stand up to get the rest of my clothes, and a sudden pain between my hips brings me to my knees. It’s like being kicked in the balls, the way the pain radiates up my abdomen and makes me want to gag. My thighs tremor under my weight, and when I roll onto my side, holding my sore middle, I notice an unpleasant feeling of wetness.

  My last shred of dignity is killed by the possibility that I might have pissed myself too. I worry that something might be wrong with my kidneys. The pain, this sudden accident…

  I crawl to the bathroom to inspect the damage, not daring to try to stand on shaky legs. My boxers aren’t as wet as I first thought they were, and the wetness isn’t pee. It’s semen, smeared all over my crotch and thigh. I ejaculated—without a hard-on, without stimulation, without pleasure. God damn, it hurt. I can’t decide which is worse: pissing my pants at eighteen, or jizzing in my shorts like a twelve-year-old.

  I use the bathroom counter to pull myself to my feet and grab a washcloth to clean myself. That skinny weirdo stares back at me in the mirror.

  You are such a freak.

  I know.

  Willa: May 29 to 31

  Monday

  Three days of avoiding Paige’s prying questions and my streak goes bust. She corners me in Math during a work period with demands to know everything about Jem and me. When it started, how it started, what if he gets sick again? Is it weird that he is still pretty ill? Is he a good kisser? Have we done anything romantic? We discussed exes and my parental issues—oh so romantic. Paige even asks how we’re going to celebrate our one-week anniversary.

  “Uh, I don’t do milestones.” And our one-week anniversary would fall on a therapy day. We’d spend it with Arthur and the other screwballs. I try to joke about that with Jem when I see him at lunch, and to my horror he takes it seriously.

  “We could do something after.”

  “Did you miss the point of that story? Who the hell celebrates a one-week anniversary?”

  Jem does that really annoying thing where he blatantly ignores me. “We could go to The Circle again.”

  “But—”

  “I bet they have a good lunch menu too.”

  “Jem.”

  “Or it might be nice enough that we could do some kind of picnic at the beach.”

  “Jem—”

  “Or would you rather have dinner together?”

  I take a calming breath. “If I agree to any of the above will you stop listing stuff and get off this idea?”

  Jem grins impishly. “Sure.”

  “I vote lunch at The Circle.”

  “Excellent choice.” He cups my chin and plants a soft kiss on my forehead. I might have underestimated the breadth of his romantic streak.

  When I get to the cafeteria I take one look at the table, at Paige’s eager look and the way she fidgets in her seat, and I know she’s thought of more questions to ask—in the presence of all our other friends who really should mind their own damn business. I buy my food and take it out of the cafeteria, begging an excess of homework that I need to finish. I end up on the picnic table, sitting on the top and resting my feet on the bench, watching the seagulls. Jem eventually ends up with me. He’s a little sore that I didn’t tell him about eating outdoors.

  “Are you trying to avoid me?”

  “Not you—Paige and her Inquisition.” I pat the tabletop beside me but he doesn’t sit there. Jem sits between my knees, resting his elbows over my legs. Within minutes he’s a million miles a way, thinking of music. I watch the fingers on his left hand move unconsciously over invisible strings while his right wrist twitches and his toe keeps time on the pavement. I want to hear what he’s playing. His fingers are so agile, but I can tell by the way he moves his fourth finger that the dry skin and scars around that knuckle make it difficult to move. Regardless, he still plays beautifully.

  My hands move from the slope of his shoulders, down his arms to weave between those long fingers. “I want to hear you play,” I whisper in his ear. Jem smiles.

  “I’m not that good anymore, you know. I’m out of practice and my dexterity is crap.”

  “You play beautifully and you know it.”

  “I’ll show you a recording sometime,” he says. “You can compare before and after.” I don’t know why he imagines I would want to do that. I suppose because he’s constantly mourning the difference, but I have no interest in the before.

  “You shouldn’t hate your body,” I murmur in his ear. Jem looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Wouldn’t you hate this body?”

  “I love this body.” I wrap my arms around his chest. Our fingers are still intertwined, so his arms come with me, hugging himself. It’s a damn shame that he hates his own skin. I reckon he just doesn’t know what to do with it anymore. He’s grown so used to his body being the source of pain and discomfort that he’s forgotten that it can also be the site of pleasure and contentment.

  “Wait till your body betrays you,” he says quietly. “You’ll get old. You’ll break down too.”

  “Come over tonight.”

  Jem nods. He’s got his thinking face on—the one that makes him look like he’s contemplating the fastest way to kill a goldfish with a screwdriver.

  “I’ll make soup.” That gets a smile out of him.

  “What kind?”

  “What kind would you like?”

  “Um…” He licks his lips, considering the possibilities with obvious excitement. “Carrot? No—chickpea. Wait…maybe that one with broccoli…or beans. No—peas.”

  He’s so adorable I can’t help but smile. “You can get back to me on that.”

  “Can I say all of the above?”

  I kiss the back of his head. “Why not?”

  *

  The soup turns out to be a stew of sorts, using some every vegetable in the fridge, chicken stock and a scoop of honey. Jem actually asks me to leave chunks as I set up to run it through the blender. I think someone’s proud of his ability to handle solid foods.

  He takes our bowls into the living room while I move a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, and when I get back to the living room I find that Jem has finished his bowl and started on mine.

  “You’re supposed to eat slowly.”

  “But it’s good,” he answers with his mouth full.

  “If you throw it up I’m not making more.” Jem grudgingly slows down, complaining for form’s sake, and I let him have my portion. A toasted Eggo can be my snack.

  We watch crap TV, lounging on Frank’s couch and saying little. Jem leaves an entire couch cushion between us, and I don’t know what to make of that. Maybe he’s trying to maintain a respectful distance, after what happened the last time Frank came home and found him here. I want to test that hypothesis, so I scoot closer to him. Jem doesn’t look up from the TV, but he puts an arm around me.

  When the timer on the dryer buzzes he almost jumps out of his skin. “Sorry, it’s just the dryer.”

  “Yeah? Do you need help folding?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard a guy sound so eager to do laundry before. But if he wants to help, I’m not going to say no. I bring the clothes into the living room and we start folding on the coffee table. Jem tactfully avoids touching any of the underwear and sticks to folding shirts and pants. I like watching him do these homey, domestic things. I can watch his face and see his thoughts drift, and there is always something undeniably sexy about a guy who does housework without complaining.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I like doing laundry.” Jem presses a hand towel to his face and inhales deeply.
“You use Ultra?”

  “You can tell just by smelling it?”

  Jem’s ears turn pink, but he smirks. “I really like doing laundry. It smells so nice and it’s relaxing.”

  I take one of the bath towels and throw it over his head, blanketing him in the scents of Gain and Ultra. He laughs and leans back on the couch, pressing it tighter around his nose and sighing dramatically. He just lounges there for a few minutes, enjoying the warm towel.

  “Are you going to help fold or what?” I say eventually.

  “I’m not home.”

  “Jem.”

  “Leave a message.”

  I lift up the edge of the towel and find him smirking at me. “Damn it, she found me.” He looks so sweet, wrapped up and warm. So I slide under the towel with him for a kiss. And by a kiss, I mean Jem grabs me in such a way that I couldn’t leave the towel fort if I wanted to. He kisses me slowly. He doesn’t push for depth or tongue, which is a nice change. He does let me nibble at his lip, though. I shift to sit on his lap when we pause for a breather. It’s hot under the towel but he won’t let me push it off.

  “Can I ask you something?” he says between leaving little kisses on my cheeks.

  “What?”

  “Do I smell okay?”

  I sniff his underarm. “Your deodorant’s working.”

  “That’s not what I meant, but thanks.”

  “What did you mean?”

  Jem shrugs like it’s no big deal, but then proceeds to get all embarrassed and fidgety. I lean in so he can whisper it in my ear instead of having to say it to my face.

  “When Emily visited she noticed I smelled…off. It bothered her.”

  I move my face away from his cheek to smell the crook of his neck. He has always smelled the same to me, so I really have nothing to compare to, but he doesn’t smell bad. He smells like clean skin and unperfumed soap and that unique scent that is simply Jem. Mingled with that is a faintly medicinal scent that could be skin cream, but more likely it’s his medications making themselves known.

  “I like the way you smell.”

  Jem finally pushes back the towel and wraps his arms comfortably around me. “You smell nice too. Like lavender and fear.”

  “Oh shut up.” My hands run languidly from his shoulders to his hips, simply feeling him. I know Jem likes attentive touches like these. His ribs aren’t as distinctly felt as when I first met him.

  “How much do you weigh now?”

  Jem blushes. “About one-thirty.” I feel bad that my curiosity has made him self-conscious again. “Thank you for feeding me.”

  “You’re welcome.” I stroke a stretch of his newly filled out waist. “One-thirty, hmm? Soft enough to cushion me if I decide to jump you.”

  Jem smiles. “Yes, there is that.” He gives me a kiss.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He has such a devious little smile when he’s anticipating something he wants. His fingers flex around my sides, holding me tighter.

  “I wonder if you’ll seem pudgy when you’re back to normal weight. I’ve only known you to be very thin.”

  Jem quirks a finely haired eyebrow at me. “Pudgy?”

  “Pudgy.” I pinch his cheek to piss him off. Jem mock-glares at me and says that the term ‘pudgy’ is only to be applied to small children and animals.

  “Does that mean I can still call you pudgy when you act like a brat?”

  Jem growls with frustration. “Will you get off pudgy and jump me already?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right this minute?”

  “Yes!”

  I oblige by diving at him. Jem tips back on the couch with me sitting over him. I like the way he pecks when he kisses. The soft suction feels nice, like he’s trying to pull me into his mouth, while at the same time pressing his tongue into mine. This feels…innocent. That’s new for me. I lower my weight against his front and his arms wrap around my back. “Pudgy, she says,” he mutters against my lips. I can hear Jem rolling his eyes.

  “So what”—kiss—“do I”—kiss—“call you if”—long kiss to shut me up—“you do pudge-up?”

  Jem huffs. “You really want to talk about this right now?”

  “Only because it bothers you.” I poke the tip of his nose. “It doesn’t really matter; I’m only joking. You’re sexy no matter what you weigh.” Jem’s face turns sad. He pets my hair and kisses my cheek softly.

  “If I do gain too much I want you to lie to me exactly like that.”

  I smack his hand away. “I’m not lying.”

  “Can we not talk about this?”

  “Are you always this bad at taking compliments?”

  He pouts. Damn it.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Jem starts with the low whine in the back of his throat that reminds me of injured puppies. I can’t hear that and not want to cuddle his manipulative ass. I drop my head to his shoulder with a groan and Jem winds his arms around me with a smug smile.

  “You’re not allowed to do that ever again.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Jem nudges my cheek with his nose. “Kiss me.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll do it again.”

  “Dick.” He ignores my insult and hums pleasantly against my lips. I express my irritation by skimping on enthusiasm, but Jem seems to enjoy the challenge of slowly but surely getting me to kiss him back, with tongue. His fingers slip under my t-shirt at the small of my back, teasing the skin.

  “You’re so soft,” he murmurs.

  The front door opens, quickly followed by the rug-stomp of work boots. Jem and I both freeze, knowing we’re caught. My brother can see right into the living room from the foyer. Frank just stands in the threshold with his hand on the doorknob, staring at us. I can’t decide which is more worrisome: that the gun cabinet is unlocked and a mere ten seconds away, or that the vein in his temple looks ready to burst.

  “Uh, hi Frank.”

  “You’d better be doing CPR,” he says.

  “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “Right. You tripped and he fell.”

  Let’s hope that vein holds up. “We’re dating.”

  Frank doesn’t say anything. He stares at the two of us for a long time, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  Jem gets up to go. We don’t chance a kiss goodbye, but he squeezes my hand with affection. Jem even apologizes to Frank on his way past.

  The door closes and I try not to think about the fact that I am in such deep trouble. Frank can smell fear. I try to stand up and he tells me to sit down.

  “We’re talking about this.” Frank sits in the easy chair across from the couch, but he’s too restless to stay sitting, so he stands up and paces the room with his hands on his hips.

  “You said you weren’t going to date anymore,” he says. “That was part of your idea of a clean break—no more smoking, no more drugs, no more motorcycles, no more bad influence friends, and no more boys.”

  Should I tell him that I have almost all those things here?

  “You’re digging yourself into a hole, Willa. It’s one thing to get involved with a boy when you’re still…figuring things out. But that boy—”

  “He has a name.”

  Frank sighs. “Harper—”

  “It’s Jem, Frank.”

  The vein twitches at me. “Jem isn’t good for you. It hurt you so bad when Tessa passed away”—when I helped her kill herself—“and even if he stays in remission, you don’t need to be dealing with his problems on top of your own.”

  “And what do I need?”

  “You need to focus on your schoolwork.”

  “I’m getting A’s and B’s in all my classes. I haven’t cut class since I’ve been here.”

  “Why do you feel the need to date? Your life is orderly here without all the…drama of dating.”

  Oh, the reasons...

  “Is it Jem you d
on’t like, or my dating in general?”

  Frank hesitates, a sure sign of a lie. “Like I said, schoolwork—”

  “What about Chris Elwood?”

  “What about him?”

  “Or Luke. Would we be having this conversation if I was dating Luke instead of Jem?”

  “Luke’s a nice kid.” I knew it. “If you wanted to date someone who is good for you, and you had a nice, respectful and slow relationship, I could maybe be okay with it.”

  “So what did Luke tell you when he explained the black eyes?”

  The frown slips from Frank’s face into the calculating expression of a big brother. I’ve as good as told him that I was involved, and he knows I’ve got a history of solving problems with a well-aimed punch.

  “He said some of the boys were wrestling and it got out of hand.”

  “And how does it get out of hand so bad that he ends up with two black eyes and a sprained wrist? Did you see the bruise under his jaw, too? And I can tell you his ribs were probably purple.”

  Frank cuts to the chase. “What did you see, Willa?” Poor Frank. He wants to cling to the idea that I was a witness instead of a participant.

  “I saw him put his hand down my pants and proposition me for unprotected sex.” And the vein goes wild. “He seems to be under the impression that I should be grateful for the attention, since I’m a murderer and nobody wants me, right?” I give Frank a hard smile. “But where would he have heard about that, hmm?”

  My brother has his thinking cap on. I can see it. “No one else was home…”

  “Well then Luke has some sick intuition.” I get off the couch while Frank puzzles over the facts. “Jem doesn’t do that kind of shit to me. Stop looking at him as a problem and notice that he’s good for me.” I head into the kitchen to start dinner. A sense of normalcy might help Frank’s blood pressure. “Oh, and if you decide to report me for assault—”

  The front door slams. Did he leave? I go to the front window in time to see Frank peel out of the driveway. He takes a left, toward the highway and Port Elmsley.