The Pact

by Jodi Picoult

  Sometimes she felt like she was rolling around in the back of the Jeep with this incredibly gorgeous, sexy guy. And sometimes she felt like she was wrestling with her own brother. Try as she might, she couldn't untangle one from the other.

  She gently pushed on Chris's chest, trying to get him to sit up. When he lifted his head with a frown on his face, she smiled at him. His lips were still shiny and wet, and she felt a cooling ring around her nipple. She twisted her fingers with his. "Do you feel, you know, close to me?"

  Chris's eyes burned. "God, yeah."

  Emily faltered. "I don't mean it ... like that," she corrected. "I guess, well, it's just that you know me better than my own brother."

  "You don't have a brother."

  "I know," Emily said. "But if I did, you'd be it."

  Chris grinned wickedly. "Well, let's all thank God I'm not," he said, bending his head again.

  She tugged at his hair. "Do you ever think about me like that?" she asked shyly. "Like a sister?"

  "Not right now," he said in a strangled voice, and he touched his lips to hers. "I can promise you that I never," he kissed her again, "ever," and again, "have wanted to do this with Kate." He rolled away of his own volition, the thick ridge beneath his jeans going soft. "God," he said, shuddering. "Now you've got me all freaked out."

  Emily placed a hand on his chest. She loved his chest, with its light dusting of hair and long muscles. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." She moved into Chris's arms and felt them close around her. "Let's not talk," she suggested, and buried her face in the heat of his skin.

  HIS BREATH FALLS into my mouth, the only air I have. His hands start at my ankles and slide up my shins, pulling them apart like a vise, and I know what is coming as his fingers stab into me.

  He won't let me close my legs, he won't let me curl away. There is blood on his hand. He pushes against my shoulders and draws a red line down the middle of my chest. It cracks open and I feel him reaching deep inside me, tight and uncomfortable; then something snakes out like jelly and when I lift my eyes I see Chris's teeth sinking into my heart.

  "NO."

  Emily tugged at the collar of Chris's shirt. "No," she repeated, and when his hands held her tighter, she pinched his neck. "No!" she yelled, rolling him off her with an unholy shove. "I said no," she panted.

  Chris swallowed hard, his erection pink over the edge of his unzipped jeans. "I didn't think you meant it," he said.

  "Jesus, Chris," she said. She rubbed her arms, covered with goosebumps, and turned away. The problem was, in a Jeep, there was not all that far to go.

  She waited for his hands to close over her shoulders, like they always did once they came to this point. It was like a play, coming to the same end of the act, every night. The curtain would come down, and they'd do it all over again tomorrow. But Emily didn't feel Chris coming toward her this time. She heard the rasp of his zipper as he dressed himself, the creak of the Jeep's flatbed as he came to his knees, maneuvering around her. "Move," he ordered tersely, and when she did he snapped the rear seat back up into place.

  It was not until the overhead light went on as Chris opened the front door to slide into the driver's seat that Emily realized he meant to leave. Scrambling over the steering console, she managed to lock herself into her seat belt as Chris roared out of the empty parking lot.

  He was driving fast and frenzied, very unlike Chris's natural caution. When he took a turn in the road on two wheels, Emily put her hand on his arm. "What is the matter with you?"

  He stared at her, his face so tight in the glare of the streetlights that for a moment Em did not recognize him at all. "What's the matter with me?" he parroted. "What's the matter with me?"

  Without warning, he swung the car down a dead-end street off to the right and slammed the stick shift into Park. "You want to know what's the matter with me, Em?" He grabbed her hand and shoved it hard against his groin. "That's what's the matter with me." He released her wrist, letting her hand crawl beneath her thigh in hiding. "It's the only thing I can think of, the only thing that keeps me going. And night after night you say no, and I'm supposed to sit back and deal with it my own way, but the thing is I can't deal with it. Not anymore." Emily's face reddened and she stared at her lap, hearing Chris sigh after a moment. He rubbed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "Do you have any idea," he said, his voice soft, "any idea at all, how much I want you?"

  She bit her lip. "Wanting isn't the same as loving."

  He laughed, startled. "Are you joking? I've loved you for--well, Christ, for my whole life. It's the wanting part that's new to me." He stroked Emily's temple with his thumb. "Wanting isn't the same thing as loving," he agreed. "But they might as well be, at least for me."

  "Why?" Emily managed.

  Chris smiled at her, melting her strongest defenses. "Because wanting you, Em," he said, "has only made me love you that much more."

  EVERYTHING WAS SHARPER. She could smell his black breath, feel the coarse hairs on the back of his hand, see her own face staring back at her. She was wearing something with elastic at the waist; it snapped back against her hips. There were the familiar sensations of his fingernails scratching at her, his palms grinding up against her nipples, the burning between her legs.

  But this time there was more. The droning whirr of--what?--bees? The tang of disinfectant. And the unmistakable scent of a kitchen, of something being fried in grease.

  RATTLED, EMILY WOKE UP, unable to remember what it was that had left her so alert and tense that going back to sleep was an impossibility. Probably, she'd been dreaming of what would happen the next night. The night she and Chris had reserved to have sex for the first time.

  Make love, she reminded herself, as if the euphemism might change it into something easier to accept.

  She squinted in the dark, trying to locate her sneakers. She dragged them out from beneath the desk and slipped her feet inside, leaving them untied. Then she pulled Chris's swimming sweatshirt over her nightgown and tiptoed downstairs and out of the house.

  It was warm for May and the moon was high and swollen, ribboning the path between the Hartes' and the Golds' like a silver stream. Emily hurried, her arms flashing white as the thin limbs of the birches she passed.

  To her surprise, when she reached Chris's house, his bedroom light was still on. At three in the morning? On a Thursday night? She picked up a small stone and whipped it at his window, seeing his face appear almost instantly. The light winked black and suddenly Chris was standing a few feet away, in a T-shirt and boxers, his fingers flexing on the frame of the side door.

  "I couldn't sleep," Emily said.

  "Me neither," Chris admitted, with a smile. "Kept thinking about tomorrow and getting all worked up."

  Emily didn't say anything. Let him think that was what had kept her awake, too.

  He came off the porch, barefoot, wincing at the gravel and twigs that cut into the soles of his feet as he approached Emily. "Come on," he said. "Might as well have insomnia together."

  He pulled her along the edge of the Hartes' lawn, to the point where it ran into forest. The ground there was softer--pine needles still wet with winter, moss that grew in a ratty green fringe. Chris's step grew more sure as they headed into the woods, toward a massive granite slab.

  It had been years since they'd come there to play, with sticks for muskets and small cannonball boulders. Chris climbed onto the high, flat rock and helped Emily up. He curled his arm over her shoulders and looked back toward his house. "You remember when you pushed me off here and I had to get stitches?"

  Emily's hand went blindly to the spot on Chris's jaw. "Seventeen," she said dryly. "You still haven't forgiven me."

  "Oh, I've forgiven you," Chris assured her. "I just haven't forgotten."

  "Okay," she said, spreading her arms. "Push me off, so we'll be even."

  Chris lunged, rolling Em onto her back as she laughed and kicked her heels against his shins. They tickled and squirmed the same way Emil
y remembered them doing as children, like puppies intent on catching each other's tails. And then all of a sudden Chris's hands stilled over her breasts and his mouth hung over hers in the space of a breath. "Say Uncle," he whispered, and gently squeezed.

  "Unc--" Emily said, and then his tongue filled her mouth and his hands swept her from collarbone to hip, a completely different kind of game. She closed her eyes, listening to Chris's breathing and the throaty call of that owl.

  Just as quickly as it had begun, Chris levered himself off her. He hauled Emily to a sitting position and chastely settled his arm around her. "I think," he said, "that's enough of that."

  Emily turned to him, mouth agape. "All of a sudden you can wait?"

  In the dark, his teeth were very bright. "Now that there's a light at the end of the tunnel, I can," he said.

  He slid his arm down to her waist. Emily shivered, and tried to convince herself that it was from the cold.

  THEY LAY ON THE wooden plank floor of the carousel, watching the stars spin through the tangle of carved tails and hooves. They were touching at the shoulders, the elbows, the hips, all spots that seemed to burn. Chris covered her hand with his own, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  He leaned up on an elbow. "What?"

  She shook her head, her throat painfully tight. "I can't just sit here and wait for it to happen," she said. "I want to get it over with."

  Chris's eyes widened. "It's not an execution, you know," he said.

  "Says you," Emily muttered.

  Chris laughed and sat up. "Well," he said. "What if we just talk for a little while, and see what happens?"

  "Talk," Emily snorted, as if the very concept of that leading straight to sex was unthinkable. "What are we supposed to talk about?"

  "I don't know. How about the time we watched the dogs going at it?"

  Emily giggled. "I forgot about that," she said. "Mrs. Morton's poodle and the springer spaniel from Fieldcrest Lane." She felt Chris's fingers slip between her own, and speaking suddenly became a little easier. "I didn't think the poodle would be able to get on top of her."

  Chris smiled. "Looked funny, didn't it?" Then he laughed.

  "What?"

  "I was thinking fair's fair--we should find those dogs," he said, "and let them watch us."

  She thought of the long, stringy penis of the poodle, sliding out of the bigger spaniel and slapping between its prancing legs. Whatever she and Chris were about to do couldn't be any more awkward than that. Chris's arm snaked over her shoulders. "Better?"

  "Yeah," she admitted, turning her face into the hollow beneath his arm. He smelled of sweet deodorant, sweat, and excitement.

  "How about," he said, tipping up her face, "I just kiss you?"

  "Just kiss," she said.

  "For now. Don't think about the other."

  Emily smiled against his lips. "Oh, right."

  Chris's mouth curved with hers. "Humor me." He traced the line of her lips with his tongue, then trailed his kisses down her neck. She felt his hands shake as they came up beneath her shirt, and this made her feel better than anything else: the knowledge that Chris, too, was nervous.

  Then, in that way time has during adolescence of going both far too quickly and entirely too slow, Emily realized her clothes were off, her skin prickled with tiny goosebumps. She watched Chris roll a condom onto himself, and was surprised that she found him beautiful, not strange or ugly. She let Chris come down on top of her, his chest burning against hers, his body neatly set between her legs. "Do you think," she whispered, panicked, "it will hurt?"

  That stopped him. "I don't know," he said. "I think it's supposed to, a little." He rolled to Emily's side and stroked his hand over her hip, preoccupied. "What's the matter?" Emily asked.

  "Nothing," he said, meeting her eyes. "It's just that I forgot that part."

  "I'm sure it's not too bad," Emily said. "I don't think anyone's ever died of it." What am I doing? she thought wildly. Why am I urging him on?

  Chris smiled and brushed the hair off her forehead. "If I could keep it from hurting you, I would," he said. "I wish I was the one who'd feel it."

  Emily touched his forearm. "That's very sweet," she said.

  "It's not sweet," Chris said, "it's selfish. I know that I can stand a little bit of pain. But I don't think I'll be able to watch yours."

  Emily reached between his legs and wrapped her fingers around Chris, making him gasp. He rolled onto her and shifted his weight to his elbows. "If it hurts," he said, "pinch me. So we're in it together."

  She felt him touching her, felt something wet that she realized came from herself, and then he was stretching her and stopping. She had a fleeting vision of the thousand-piece puzzles they'd done as children, how Chris had a tendency to try to jam pieces in where they would never comfortably fit.

  "Em," he said, sweat standing out on his brow. "Do you want to do this?"

  He would stop, she realized, if she shook her head. But she considered that what she wanted and what Chris wanted were inextricably tangled, and knew that he wanted this more than anything.

  At her slight nod, Chris pushed himself gently inside her.

  It hurt for a moment, and she dug her fingernails into his back. Then it wasn't so bad anymore. It felt odd, stretched from the inside out, but not painful. She felt her hips wobble as Chris began to push and moan, faster and faster, scooting her back a few inches on the planks of the carousel floor.

  When he cried out, she was staring wide-eyed at the bare underbelly of a horse, aware for the first time that it had not been painted all over.

  Chris rolled off her, chest heaving. "Oh, God," he said, sprawled on his back. "I think I'm dead." A moment later he gathered her close. "I love you," he whispered, touching his finger to her temples. "But I made you cry."

  She shook her head, only realizing now that tears were still streaming. "You made me ... " Her voice trailed off, and she left it like that.

  IT'S JUST A DARE, she had told herself that day, and she'd pushed open the door of the men's bathroom in McDonald's. To her surprise it was exactly like the ladies' room, except for the two urinals on the wall, and the fact that it was more smelly. There was someone in the other stall; Emily could see his legs. Paralyzed by embarrassment--what if he noticed that her shoes were those of a nine-year-old girl?--she stayed rooted in front of the sink. There was a flush, and then the door to the stall opened. The Creep stood there, his clothes smelling of grease and disinfectant.

  "Well," he said. "What have we here?"

  Emily felt her legs trembling. "I--I must have gone in the wrong one," she stuttered. She whirled, heading for the door, but he grabbed her wrist.

  "Oh, yeah?" he said, his voice curling like smoke about her, pulling her closer. "How do you know it's the wrong one?"

  He pushed her up against the door, barring anyone else's entrance. Holding her hands over her head, he slid his hand up her shirt. "No titties," he said. "Might be a man." Then he slipped his hand under the elastic of her shorts and rubbed his fingers between her clamped legs. "Don't feel no prick either, though," he said. He leaned forward, so close that she could smell his breath. "Gotta make sure," he said, and he jammed his finger inside her.

  Panic was a shroud around her, stiffening her body and filling her mouth so that even though she screamed in her mind, no sound came from her throat. Just as quickly as the man had grabbed her, he let her go. Emily fell to the brown tile floor as he left, feeling the burn of disinfectant from his hands inside her. She was sick on the floor, then stood and rinsed her mouth. She straightened her clothing and walked back to the table, where Chris was waiting for her.

  "SSH," CHRIS SAID, holding her against his chest. "You were screaming."

  She was still naked, and so was Chris, his erection stirring again against her hip. She shoved away from him, huddling into a ball. "I fell asleep," she said, her voice unsteady.

  "Oh," Chris said, smiling softly. "Sorry things got so boring."

&nb
sp; "It's not that," Emily explained.

  "I know. Just come here and sit with me." He held out his hand, unthreatening, and Emily crawled onto his lap, trying to believe it was perfectly okay to do this although neither of them was wearing a stitch of clothing.

  She felt Chris's hands on her, laying her down against the cool wooden planks again. When she tried to roll away, he held her, and she whimpered. "I know you're sore," he said. "I just want to look at you. I was in a hurry before."

  He touched her breasts with his eyes, and then his fingers. He ran circles around her nipples, bit her collarbone. He let his hands pray their way down her belly, her hips, and then he parted her and stroked one finger over the folds. Trembling, she tried to kick him away, but he held her ankles. "No," he said. "Just let me look at you."

  She felt his mouth make a damp mark on her navel, then slip downward. "You're perfect," he pronounced, and she blanched, knowing now that nothing could be farther from the truth. "Don't move," he said, his words vibrating between her legs, and by then she was sobbing.

  He immediately reared up, alarmed. "What's the matter? Did I hurt you?"

  She shook her head, sending tears flying. "I don't want to stay still. I don't want to stay still." She wrapped her arms around Chris, and her legs, and without intending it felt him slip into her again, a tight and startling fit.

  "I love you," Chris mouthed, already past coherence.

  Emily turned her face away. "Don't," she answered.

  NOW

  December 1997

  Gus wondered if Chris missed making decisions.