by Morgan Kyle
“I’m kind of new to the area, just thought I’d check out the scenery.”
“Ah. Where are you from?”
“Virginia. University of Virginia, actually, in Charlottesville. It’s a lot like Chapel Hill, and I’d visited here before, liked it, decided to come back. I start a new job on Monday.”
I was about to ask him what kind of work he did, but the band started a new song, a loud one, and the entire place was singing along, so my new flirt-friend and I watched the action for a few minutes until it quieted down again.
I don’t know if he asked me out of the blue, or whether he’d seen my eyes moving from table to table, examining the behavior of the couples around us. Whatever the case, he asked, “How many of these people will be together this time next year?”
My head snapped toward his. It was exactly what I was thinking, and I told him so.
“Good,” he said, and when he smiled I liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled up. “At least we’re both equally cynical.”
“It’s not cynical. It’s just the way things are.”
He looked away from me just then, and I watched his face, wondering what kind of pain was behind his comments. I didn’t ask. He’d either tell me or he wouldn’t. I didn’t want to go into my last relationship, spilling my guts about Ryan. This wasn’t the place or time, and I was over it. I really was. So I just looked out over the tables, up to the band, and we sat there without saying anything verbally, but enough had been said to know that we were coming from somewhat similar places.
A moment later I noticed he was staring at me like he had been earlier, this time close-up, though.
“What?” I felt my face blush.
“You’re gorgeous.”
“And you’re trying to get laid.”
He laughed.
“Right?” I said.
“You’re blunt.”
I slid my empty beer bottle to the middle of the table. “I can be.”
“When you have enough alcohol?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not drunk. Not even a little.”
“Good, then I won’t feel guilty about taking advantage of you.” And before I knew it, almost before he finished the last word of his sentence, he had leaned toward me. In the span of what seemed like a half-second, I felt his finger under my chin, turning my head slightly, and his lips were on mine. I kissed him right back, tilting my head even more, opening my mouth, inviting his tongue.
*****
You should know that I was telling the truth when I told him I wasn’t even slightly drunk. I wasn’t a big drinker, but the three beers I’d had all night had almost no effect on me at all. Aside, maybe, from relaxing me a little. But I was aware of everything, aware of my surroundings, aware of everything he said and did, and aware of exactly what I was doing and why.
He couldn’t have taken advantage of me because I was drunk. He couldn’t have taken advantage of me because I was lonely and searching for something or someone to do. He couldn’t have taken advantage of me because…
Because this is really what I wanted to happen. I’ll be honest. I wanted a fling. Something wild. Something the old Brooke wouldn’t have done, not only because she had been with Ryan for the better part of three years, but because the old Brooke was cautious, analytical to a fault, calculating the risk and reward in nearly every decision she made.
Yes, it’s a cliché to talk about “the old Brooke” and “the new Brooke.” I admit that. But there was really no other way to describe what I was feeling and what those feelings were doing to my intentions that night.
*****
His tongue swept through my mouth once, twice, and then he pulled away. I felt like I was looking at him through fog, a heavy, gauzy drape that had somehow fallen over my eyes. Get a hold of yourself, Brooke.
Cole’s hand had somehow made its way to my knee, and during the kiss it slid halfway up my thigh. I hadn’t worn a skirt on purpose tonight, at least not for this purpose, because how could I have known that just seconds later, he would be kissing me again, right there in that dark shadowed corner of the bar, with four of his fingers on my upper thigh and his thumb lightly pressing into my panties, making circles on my clit?
“Let’s get out of here,” he was saying, and I was trying to focus, remember that I was in public, getting almost fingered.
“Where?”
“Your place close by?”
I quickly thought of Miranda and how she probably wasn’t home yet, and then thought, so what if she is?
*****
We didn’t even make it to my bedroom. We’d gotten out of his car, into my apartment, which was completely dark, and as soon as I closed the door, he took my hands and laced his fingers through mine and held them above our heads as he pinned me against the wall right there in the den.
This was going to be quick, lusty, dirty, and I didn’t care. No, it was more than not caring. I wanted it.
His hand made its way down to the hem of my skirt, lifting it. He pulled my panties aside, teasing me again like he’d done in the club.
I lowered one hand and felt the hard ridge of him through his jeans, palming it, loving the way his breathing became more intense and irregular under my touch.
He raised his face to mine, kissing me with a ferocity I didn’t know I’d been longing for. And when his fingers entered me—one, then two—I used both hands to unfasten his belt, lower his zipper, and take him into my hands.
He kissed a nipped at my neck as I stroked him. His mouth made its way to my jawline, to my chin, then to my mouth. Our lips locked, no tongues, just locked together as our hands worked each other.
My eyes were closed but there was somehow a brightness there underneath my eyelids. My skin prickled into goose-bumps, and I felt a bead of sweat forming under my hairline on the back of my head.
I was waiting for him to stop, say something about moving to the bedroom. I imagined taking him by the hand and leading him through the darkness of the apartment, falling onto my back on my bed and feeling him on top of me.
I hoped like hell he had a condom. Of course he did. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? A guy who meets a girl, touches her clit in public, and gets her to bring him home? That kind of guy has a condom. Of course.
But none of that would happen, and we wouldn’t need the condom after all.
I felt the muscles in my abdomen tighten, contracting fiercely, my normally strong thigh muscles losing power, shutting down under me as his fingers moved through the increasing wetness.
And as I came, standing there pinned against the wall, I felt him pulsating in my hand, felt and heard his free hand slap against the wall next to my head, bracing himself. My eyes shot open. I couldn’t see anything. He pulled his lips from mine. Our hot breaths gathered in the small space between our faces, and he came just as I did.
It seemed like we stood there like that for an hour, but it was probably only thirty seconds or maybe a minute, as our breathing returned to normal.
Cole let out a final deep sigh. “Jesus.”
“I know.”
We both laughed, and his forehead touched mine, then one more kiss.
*****
I did get to lead him to my bedroom after all, but only so we could get to the bathroom and clean up. He went and sat on my bed as I changed out of my skirt and panties and into a pair of blue cotton workout shorts that said “UNC SWIMMING” on them.
When I came out, he immediately seemed different. Like his whole demeanor had changed—from someone who was interested, enthralled, excited by me to someone who couldn’t wait to get out of there.
I wasn’t going to let it get to me. I was no little girl, and I knew what this was about. He’d gotten off, mission accomplished, and he was probably ready to go home and eat a frozen pizza and go to bed. Like a lot of guys.
And, sure enough, it wasn’t even three minutes before he was reaching into his pocket for his phone.
He stood. “I really should get goi
ng.”
It wasn’t hard to hide the disappointment on my face. I’d been bracing myself for it for the last couple of minutes as we small-talked about my apartment, the rent, and other worthless topics.
And, honestly, considering what I had been looking for that night, it was just as well that he get going on his way.
And as he did, I had only one thought: Thank God I didn’t fuck you.
Chapter Two
I spent most of the next day getting ready for Monday, the first day of swim practice and classes. Summer break was officially over, and my senior year was officially beginning.
Whenever Cole popped into my mind, I forced the thought away, opting instead for the more mature “whatever” outlook on what happened last night. I had no shame, no regrets. I’d gone out looking for a little excitement, something far removed from what the “old Brooke” would have done, and I did it. Time to move on.
I paged through some of my books, thinking how easy this year would be. A lighter class load meant less stress. It also meant more free time, but I was sure I wouldn’t enjoy that as much as I would have if Izzy had stayed.
She was my best girl friend and roommate from Day One when we both arrived on campus for our freshman year. We clicked immediately. In a short period of time, our dorm room felt more like a home than my real home ever did, back in Indian Trail, North Carolina.
Izzy was originally from Miami, and had come to UNC on a swimming scholarship, just like I had. She had a big family, a functional, normal family, unlike mine. She was pre-med, I was a psych major, and we were like sisters. Her father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April and by the end of May she was back in Miami for good.
So now I was living with Miranda, another swimmer, and while we were friendly and got along fine, we weren’t close at all.
My only real friend on campus at this point was Eric. We had grown up together in Indian Trail, and as far as we could tell we were the only people on campus from that small town. Just as well, as far as I was concerned.
Eric was a journalism major, with hopes of going in sports broadcasting. He’d been a baseball player as far back as I could remember, until our sophomore year of high school when he broke his knee sliding into second base. After three surgeries and lots of rehab, it was determined that he’d never play again.
We were close all through high school, and he got his acceptance letter to UNC the same week I was offered a swimming scholarship. So here we were.
Eric was a little over six feet tall, with a pale complexion, freckles, and reddish hair. I remember as a kid always using his red hair as some kind of beacon if we were ever separated and I was trying to find him, at school, the mall, wherever.
What stood out more than his hair, though, was his voice. Deep, rich, and smooth, it was the perfect voice for radio or TV. He’d had that deep voice since we were twelve. I used to tease him about it, trying to mimic it, but never coming close. He’d do it back to me, trying to raise his voice, but it would crack and squeak, too high a pitch for him to even attempt. Yes, this was the source of much amusement for us as kids.
“What did you end up doing last night?” he said, when he came over later that afternoon.
We were going to get dinner together, and he stopped by to pick me up.
“Went to that party, but left early.” It wasn’t quite a lie, it just wasn’t the whole truth.
Eric laughed. “I told you.”
He had declined to go to the frat party with me, telling me it was going to be as “douchey” as it always was, and that I’d probably end up leaving early.
“I know,” I said, “you were right. Let’s go.”
We went to get pizza at this place where they have all kinds of unique things on the menu. I opted for the more healthy one—spinach, onion, goat cheese on a whole wheat crust—while Eric had pepperoni.
“Of all the interesting things on the menu, you always get a pepperoni pizza. You could get that anywhere.”
He finished chewing his bite and said, “I’m a guy. I like to keep it simple.”
It was a sort of mantra for him—keeping it simple. I first heard him use it in our sophomore year of college, when he slept with three different girls in the first semester. It was such a foreign idea to me. Eric wasn’t like that in high school, and I was never like that. I’d been with Ryan for almost a year at that point, and I knew (well, I thought) we just might be together forever.
I don’t know what it was about Eric. I’m not saying he was a bad looking guy, but he wasn’t what you’d call “hot,” either. I think it was a combination of his charm and, yes, that voice. I’m just guessing. I could see how some girls might like the sound of it, the way he talked to them. I couldn’t see or rather hear it, because I never looked at Eric that way.
Anyway, that’s how Eric rolled; different girls for short periods of time. I don’t even remember their names, which isn’t surprising because Eric hardly talked about them. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Eric didn’t know all of their names. It wouldn’t matter anyway because Eric always liked to keep it simple. Translation: he never let anything get too serious with a girl. Sleep with them, and on to the next.
I’m probably making him sound like a reprehensible pig, and I don’t mean to. I don’t judge him. Eric knew a lot about me, particularly about my life at home, and he had never once judged my family, never looked down on me. We were friends, true friends, and we accepted each other for who we were.
Keeping it simple.
Last year, spring semester, he was dating a cool girl named Kerry, and I thought he would finally set aside his player ways and focus on one girl. They were together for four months—a personal record for Eric—and then, not even two weeks after Ryan and I broke up, Eric told me things with Kerry were over. He never said much about it, and I figured he was just not as ready as I thought he was.
And then I blamed myself, because that was the same time I decided that relationships were a joke, that people were never really honest and devoted to each other. I talked a lot about that, and to this day I feared that I had planted the idea in his head that maybe he should just go back to having his hookups.
So it was just the two of us, then and now, two old friends. There was nothing between us more than that, though some people didn’t believe it, considering how much time we spent together, even when we were in relationships. Eric was as much like a brother to me as Izzy was like a sister.
Eric talked about possibly getting a job with a local radio station, one that might even have him calling lacrosse games. He didn’t look very excited about it.
“It’s lacrosse,” he said flatly.
“Yeah, but it’s a start. Gotta start somewhere.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.”
I balled up my napkin and put it on the empty plate. “What did you expect? That you’d graduate, and at age twenty-one or twenty-two, you’d be doing TV coverage for the NCAA tournament? Get real.” We could talk to each other bluntly like that, one of the perks of being life-long friends who trusted each other.
“I was thinking maybe baseball, at least, but…lacrosse? Come on.” He sighed. “I guess I’ll have to learn all about the…is it even a real sport?”
I laughed. “Or maybe you won’t get the job at all. Then you could use your deep, sexy voice working for a phone sex line.”
“I doubt women call those things.”
“Men do,” I said, and wiggled my eyebrows.
“Lacrosse it is,” he said, and got up to get a refill, taking my cup with him.
I was glad he hadn’t brought up last night again. I thought maybe he’d ask me what I had done. I figured he had stayed at his apartment, but I didn’t ask, didn’t want the subject to come up again. While I could, and did, tell Eric just about everything that was going on in my life, there were certain things I held back. Can you blame me?
Despite my earlier successful efforts at pushing away thoughts of Cole,
the later in the day it got, the more I wondered why he had left so abruptly. Last night, I had written it off as him simply having gotten what he wanted and he was done, out, gone. But there was something itching in the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite identify, a thought that there was some other reason why he had suddenly changed sitting there on my bed.
I considered that maybe it had something to do with the comments in the bar earlier, the ones that revealed his negative view of relationships. He hadn’t let on about the reasons for that view, and maybe he thought I would bring it up and he didn’t want to discuss it. Much as it intrigued me—mainly because I felt the same way after Ryan—I wouldn’t have asked him about it because I wouldn’t have wanted him to ask me about my reasons.
There were a few times, as Eric and I were eating, that I thought I saw Cole. Sometimes when a figure appeared in the doorway to the restaurant, a guy with a similar build. Other times out on the periphery of my vision, and I’d turn my head, only to see that no, it wasn’t him at all.
Now I was thinking about him too much. But was I just curious? Nervous, somehow, that I’d run into him and he’d see me with Eric, and he’d come up to the table and I’d have to explain who he was?
Or was I hoping I would see him?
Deal with that question, Ms. Psychologist.
Chapter Three
Monday morning. First day of school, but before that, first day of swim practice. It started, as always, with a team meeting in the morning. We would have an actual practice in the afternoon.
I woke at 6:15, took a shower, and by the time I got out I heard the front door to our apartment closing. Miranda was leaving for the meeting. It made me think of how in previous years, Izzy and I would have gone together. But Miranda wasn’t Izzy. We were friendly, but not quite friends, the roommate deal was just that, more of a deal, a convenience.
I got to the aquatic center just before seven, and entered the meeting room. It was just like the larger classrooms on campus, stadium seating, a large area down in the front with an enormous white-board and a 72-inch TV mounted on the wall. I don’t know how many seats there were, but with the entire team there, a roster of almost seventy swimmers, the room filled quickly.
