by Leanne Davis
I shrug and let my shoulders slump forward. “I don’t know why. I just feel… alienated from you lately. I don’t get why. It’s like you’re just biding your time with me until you get back to whatever you really want to do.”
He doesn’t react. Finally, he shifts his feet around and turns towards me. He’s glaring down at me. “Is that what you really think? I bide my time with you?”
I lick my lips. “I don’t know. I just feel like you aren’t the Max I used to know. Not since…”
“Since what?”
“Since that day I forced you to hug me. Since the day I needed you. Since… Is there someone else?”
His scowl deepens. “Someone else? Like a girl? And if there was? What would it matter, Christina? How would it change our friendship? Huh? What would that have to do with us, coz?”
“Is there?” I insist. I have no answer for why it would change our friendship.
“No. There’s no one that affects us. There’s me and you, best friends forever, right?”
His thick sarcasm and expression are just rude. He drops his hands to his hips with his elbows poking out.
“What? We’re not best friends anymore? We’ve what? Outgrown each other? I guess you didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t outgrow you. We grew up. We’re not fifteen anymore, Tina. We can’t just be good buds, playing video games, while I try to stutter out a few words to you.”
I have no idea where his attack is coming from. My mouth pops open and I think about laying into him with a nasty retort. But I seal my lips and try to make sense of the Max I see before me and the Max I know still exists inside him. That would be the Max who smiles at me when he comes into my house, or I go into his. The Max who invariably sits next to me at any family dinner or birthday. The Max who teases me about worrying too much about my grades, or not being serious enough about who’s going to win the Super Bowl. We played together in our early teens and then moved on to hanging out in our later years. But whatever we do, we always do it together.
We grew up. What exactly is he getting at? We can’t be friends because we graduated high school? It makes no damn sense in my eyes. When did I join Max’s enemies? Am I another person who doesn’t see or understand Max? That is such crap because most of the time, I really believe I’m the only one who understands him. Including him!
“Then what are we? What are you getting at? I came over to see how you were. You seemed to be thinking pretty hard about something, so for showing my concern, you’re what? Informing me I’m not really anything to you? Not anymore, that is? I get you through high school, but suddenly now, you don’t need me anymore?” Tears quickly fill my eyes. It is no less than humiliating to be almost totally put off by Max.
I start to turn away when he reaches out towards me, by instinct I think, because Lord knows, he wouldn’t dare touch me. He grazes my arm and it’s enough for me to stop dead and glance back at him. Max is staring in horror at his hand before dropping it back to his side as if it were a wayward pet that temporarily escaped his control. I turn back, away from him, but I don’t run.
“I need you,” he says finally to my retreating back. His tone is so low, the river’s gurgle almost drowns him out. “I need you so much. More than anyone. And anything.”
I am frozen. I don’t know what to do. Do I turn back towards him? Or answer his tortured voice? I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound like that. And never has he admitted to needing me. My heart shifts as it drops in my chest. Is it painful for him? Or does he hope? Hope for what? Maybe we’re not really friends? Maybe we’re really more than friends? Is that… could that be what I want?
The twilight is getting much darker until the trees look like big dark ink splatters across the landscape. People are moving up on the beach, further from us, until they are lost to the shadows of twilight. My heartbeat sounds harsh to my ears. I finally turn, slowly spinning on my flip-flops. It’s hard to make out his facial expression. My pulse is erratic. What is that tension between us? A physical, almost embarrassing tension. It’s way different than a friendly conversation. My breath catches in my chest. His head lowers so he’s not looking at me.
I need to touch him. I have never felt such a burning need to touch anyone as much as I do now. I want my hand to grasp his hand, squeeze his arm, and simply touch his face. Anything. It’s a physical pain for me not to, and even worse is the sharp betrayal of knowing he would not want me to anyway.
“Then why were you saying those things? Like we aren’t… us?”
“We’re us. Always have been. I don’t know,” he whispers almost. I have to step closer to hear him. “I don’t know what it is with us anymore. I just hate being your friend, and I can’t stand being called your family.”
“But you act like you can’t stand me anymore.”
“I don’t mean to,” he says. His facial expression turns to weary regret. “I really don’t mean to hurt you. It’s just… yeah, something’s different.”
“Is it because I forced you to hug me? I know I shouldn’t have, but sometimes, I just can’t resist the urge to touch you. It hurts not to just be able to hug you. Hold your hand—”
“Friends don’t run around hugging and holding hands. You don’t do that with anyone. Not even Carly.” Carly is the closest thing I have to a girl best friend. Max has always been my best friend, him above all.
“No. I guess I don’t. But I feel—”
“What?” he says, his tone low and sharp. “What do you feel?”
“Like I need to touch you sometimes. And maybe, you need that too.”
“You want me to touch you?” He closes his eyes and turns his face away from me. But it doesn’t feel like he’s being a jerk again, or pushing me away. I feel like he needs it too. He lets out a long breath. “You understand, of course, that there is only one way I can touch you.”
I stare at him, my cheeks filling with heat. It’s not a blush of embarrassment, but a flush of warmth and understanding. He’s already told me the way he touches others: sex. Max is talking about sex. He’s right, of course, and it should not matter that he can’t touch me, if we were just friends. I see now, in that instant, so clearly, it almost startles me, we are not friends. I don’t want to be touched as a friend. I have lots and lots of friends, both male and female. We hug, we high five, we squeeze shoulders, but I never really think about touching them. I don’t really care if I touch them, or not. If they said I couldn’t touch them ever again, I doubt I’d do more than just shrug and say, Okay, no real loss for me. But I think about not being able to touch Max all the time. It’s the one thing I’m most aware of between us.
Holy shit. I obsess about touching Max. And there is no friend thing to that. No family thing either. I finally shake my head in affirmation. “I get there is only one way you can touch me.”
He holds my gaze. I can see his eyes growing wider in surprise. “And… what? What do you get?”
“You can’t touch me out of affection. You can only touch…” I lose my nerve and drop my face to stare at my feet as I mumble, “You only touch to have sex.”
“So…?” he asks, his tone softer. I can hear his hesitation and confusion.
“So…?” I mimic.
I can see him shuffle his bare feet. I do mine. The tension between us grows thicker. Everything we are and now are going to be seems to have shifted in about thirty seconds of conversation. A strange clarity dawns on me that I think I’d been working my way up to admitting all summer: I want Max. As in: I want to have sex with him. I feel huge things. Big huge, gigantic things inside my chest. They kind of all bloom up, lodging in my throat; and something warm and joyful is traveling through my body. It’s a kind of peace combined with unbridled excitement. My entire body quivers in anticipation. It is Max I want in my life!
I want to dance. I want to sing. I want to just say it out loud.
But then again… it’s Max. Our family. Our friendship. Our future… It is all too overwhelming t
o contemplate changing.
The knowledge makes my head spin and my heart starts to hammer fast. I was confused and searching because of my attraction for the one person I’m afraid to feel it with. But I can’t keep ignoring it. All that’s done to date is make us act weird with each other.
When the thought finally emerges, totally surfacing through all the clutter and random crap in my brain, I jerk my head up and stare at him. Yes, crap. That’s what this weirdness has been all summer. Somehow, things with us shifted. Whether it was sudden or gradual, somehow we got there.
“What are you saying?”
I lick my lips. “I think I’m saying I’d like to figure out how to touch you.”
“Understanding how and when I touch. You want…”
“You. I want you, Max,” I finally confess softly.
He stares at me. His forehead is wrinkled in concentration as if I’ve spoken in an ancient code he’s trying to decipher. I can almost see his brain repeating what I just said. A small smile starts to form, and I press my lips together to keep it from blossoming.
“It won’t be how it could be. With someone else. Someone not so fucked-up.”
I shake my head. I shrug. I don’t know how else to convey how badly I want him. “I don’t want anyone else.” Ever. But I don’t yet add that.
Then he asks simply, “You trust me?”
“Always,” I say with complete ease. I effortlessly invest my complete and utter confidence in him.
He shakes his head. “Lie down.”
“Lie down?” I repeat, surprised.
I glance back and there’s his towel, shirt, keys and wallet, all tossed in the sand. He stares me down and nods again. “Lie down.”
I have no idea who this strange Max is tonight. I can’t figure him out. He’s deep and dark and kind of mean, and then… not. He’s needy, and craves something from me. That is what it feels like. I sit on his towel and lie back so I’m looking up at the darkening sky. The air is still warm on my skin. He sits next to me, but closer than usual. I can feel his body heat. He turns just enough to see me as he stretches his legs out near mine and places his torso next to me. He catches himself with his elbow and stares at me. My breath hitches and I cannot look away from him. My breathing rate starts to increase and something warm shoots through my blood as my entire body reacts to his unfamiliar expression. What is this? This is what was lacking that night with Brad. A feeling of totally being open and surrendering my entire body overcomes me.
He is leaning towards me. Rarely has he willingly come so close to me. I stare up into his eyes, and am held prisoner by his gaze, which is suddenly hot and lusting after me. Me! I never saw anything like that in Max’s eyes before.
His lips touch mine. Shutting my eyes, I shift towards him out of instinct… seeking… longing… wanting. His heat. His body. His touch. His ceaseless denial of it makes me want it more than my next breath. It is shocking and weird and crazy… and breathtaking. His lips touch mine and his tongue laps at my lips before entering my mouth. It isn’t the hesitant, unsure kiss I guess I first expected. It’s the kiss of a man, not a boy. I still sometimes have to convince myself he is not a boy any longer.
Oh. My. God. Max is touching me. My paralyzed brain can barely process it. His lips are wet and warm on mine while my entire body is melting. His tongue is inside my mouth, caressing, probing until mine goes after his. I moan into his mouth and instinctively reach my hands towards his hair. His neck. His chest. Something. I need to have more of him. Having this much only awakens a gnawing hunger for him I didn’t realize I have. But after a bite, it’s turned into a raging, ravenous beast. Oh, dear God, all this time, it’s been lust! The source of all my confusion. All my wondering. All my passion has suddenly been transposed into one thing: lust. I never realized that is what I sought from Max Salazar.
A hand grabs both of my wrists and he somehow manages to pin both my arms over our heads, sticking them in the sand. I struggle against his one-armed restraint. He’s gotten much more powerful and I can’t shake him. I finally acquiesce and let my arms go limp under his intense grip, as my brain just catches on that his hand is touching my wrists. It’s touch. It’s Max touching me. And nothing like I pictured. I thought we’d be holding hands, or hugging, or I’d be leaning into his chest… not being almost pinned down on a beach as his hot mouth, and I mean blistering hot, covers my own. This is what kissing is supposed to be. This is what Brad couldn't manage to mimic even slightly.
I can feel him straining above me. His arm muscles surround my head. I know he’s struggling to touch me. I want to care, but I don’t. I just want him. For once, I have a small sliver of him and I don’t want to lose it. I lift my head up inches off the ground to press my own mouth onto his. Our teeth scrape, and our tongues fill each other’s mouths. It’s not a nice kiss. Or a pleasant one. It’s a desperate, hungry, all-consuming kiss. And like no other kiss I’ve ever shared with anyone. We are practically devouring each other. My neck fatigues and still, I want him, and for him to cease struggling against me. I need him. I need to hold him. Pull him tighter to me. I need all of him.
He rips his mouth off mine and my head falls back. “Jesus, Christina. I didn’t expect…” he says in a whisper, almost angrily.
“Neither did I,” I whisper back. Our faces are inches apart. Our breaths are hot and moist on each other’s skin. I can see the muscles in his throat as he swallows.
He shudders and kind of shivers. “Can I trust you? With your hands?”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s talking about. Trust me? How could he question whether I’m trustworthy? Then, it hits me, he’s asking if he can trust me not to touch him. My heart is screaming into my head, no, no, no. Do not agree to that! Don’t agree to try to do something like that, something we should not do, something that would ruin our friendship and destroy the connection we share. Something that isn’t planned or thought out. Something we have no real reason to indulge in. I stare up into his dark eyes. They are intense and not so friendly. They feel hot on my face. He is in lust with me at this moment. I can see it. For all my naïveté, I am not that inexperienced. I know when a guy likes me. Or at least, I do when it’s not Max. It is huge for me to contemplate this. Whatever this is. But how can I simply stop when my heart is beating so hard and nearly swelling in my chest? How can I stop this when I feel like grinding up against his body? And nothing else feels like it can relieve the pressure I am experiencing. Nothing but Max. And he’s asking me if he can relieve it, or at least, I think he’s offering that much, but without actually touching me.
Can I handle it? No. But I can’t not handle it. I finally nod my grudging agreement.
“Don’t move your arms,” he commands me. He lifts his weight off me a little and lets my arms go. I can see that is hard for him. Pinning me to keep me from touching him is hard enough.
“How can you—” Touch me? How can he let his lips and tongue touch mine, but not his hands in innocent affection? I just don’t understand. It is that weird and odd, and truly, I have never run across anything like it. I’ve looked it up on the internet and there are crazy stories like what Max describes. There’re a couple of official-sounding names for it I can never pronounce or remember. But I do remember the things others describe. That physical contact makes them want to rub their skin off. Or puke. Or run. They experience physical pain, not just a slight discomfort at someone crowding their personal space. It manifests itself with real, physical symptoms, not just fleeting thoughts about avoiding it.
It is incomprehensible to me that Max can like me so much. I know that for sure. There is no debate in my head that Max respects me, values me, and all around, likes me. I mean, we spend that much time together, so of course I know that! But in the mutual comfort we share, down to expressing our feelings by using only our eyes and facial expressions, it causes him physical pain when I merely touch him, or he touches me. It makes no sense to my heart. My heart refuses to believe it. Not to
tally. Yet my head knows it’s real. His affliction is as real as his hair color and his speech impediment used to be.
I don’t fully understand the extent of Max’s problems. I know the bare bones details of what happened to him in his childhood. What no one knows, since he never articulates it to anyone, even me, is how deep the scars run and what their lasting effects are. He came to us with this touching phobia, and never once wavered on it. Even now.
And it fucking tears my heart apart. Yet… here I am, offering myself. Because there is something more I want with him. It is shocking and confusing and unexpected… and yet, something I’ve all along been waiting for.
“Are we…?” I’m so lame. Even now, I can’t articulate what I want.
His gaze travels down my face, and his eyes melt and soften. I can almost feel his need to run his hand along my face in a gentle caress. I close my eyes, pretending. I am pretending so hard, I can almost feel it. “It won’t be like you want.”
It? Meaning, sex? Shit. Crap. Damn. Did he mean we were talking about having sex? My eyes open and widen. I have no idea what to think of that. I mean, one minute, we’re arguing about being friends, and the next… that?
“Do you want to?”
“Do I want to… what?” He looks perplexed.
“To hold me? Touch my face. Let me touch yours?”
A weird shudder travels down his body. “I want to because I know it will make you feel better. I know it will make you feel good. But, I—no. I don’t like to touch. It’s not something I can overcome. I think… I think I have a pretty bad case of it. I just can’t stand it.”
“How do you do this then?”
He shuts his eyes and takes in a sharp breath through his nose. My question even causes him pain. “Do this, as in kiss? Or this, as in having sex?”
“I don’t know,” I answer softly. I don’t know what I can do, or what I will do. I just don’t freaking know if I want that. But then again, physically, I know I do. And isn’t that what I originally wanted? Not to be a virgin. At least, this time, it is someone I care about. Deeply. This is someone I trust just as much. And yet, he’s someone who could truly destroy my life.
