“I’m thirty-two, and I was born and raised right here in good ol’ Clayton.” I smile as I offer my next fact. “I’ve actually never been west of Cleveland, South of Pittsburgh, or north of Philly.”
“So you’re a lifelong P-A girl, huh?”
I nod. “Yep. Well, I went to college in Baltimore, but that’s still close enough that I came home on the weekends to eat and do laundry, and then moved right back here after college.” And that’s all I’m saying on that particular subject.
“Until my recent transfer, I’d never left the Nashua area, except for a weekend in San Francisco a few years ago, and a road trip to the Pacific Northwest with some friends during college. So I get it. As small as it is, Nashua is a bit bigger than Clayton.”
I laugh. “A postage stamp is bigger than Clayton. We’re a blip on the map, and our town is more than an hour from the nearest major city. If we had a stoplight, we’d turn it off at night, and if we could roll up sidewalks, we’d do it.” I shrug, sighing. “But…it’s home, and I love it.”
“Never thought of leaving?” Jamie asks.
I make a face. “Of course I have! My entire teenage years were spent daydreaming of moving to New York City. And then I went to the University of Maryland, and Baltimore was so huge to me it was overwhelming. I was honestly relieved to be back home.”
Jamie pours us each a third glass of water. “Oh, man. You’ve never been to New York?”
I widen my eyes and shake my head. “God, no! I’d probably have an anxiety attack in the first ten minutes!”
“If Baltimore was overwhelming, I’d say if you ever do visit the Big Apple, go with someone who’s been there before. It’s its own world, let me tell you.”
“Did you live there?” I ask.
He fiddles with the saltshaker, pouring a bit of salt on the table and balancing the shaker on one end. “Heck no! I visited a couple times, but the thought of trying to live there full-time?” He shudders. “I break out in hives just thinking about it.”
“Well, Clayton is as far from the Big Apple as you can get, I’d say, actual distance notwithstanding.” I knock over the saltshaker, and then try to balance it in the salt like he had; I fail repeatedly, and we both laugh.
The pitcher of water is empty, and Jamie nudges it toward me. “You want more?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’ve had so much water at this point that my belly is all sloshy, as Aiden would put it.”
“It’s all water too, I’m sure,” he teases.
“Yeah, well…” I shrug, and then meet his intriguing brown eyes. “I’ve had fun,” I say.
“Me too.”
Silence.
“I’m gonna go potty,” I say, and then groan at myself. “To the bathroom, I mean. Because I am actually an adult.”
Jamie just laughs. “Spend enough time around kids, and you tend to pick up some of their mannerisms.”
When I come out of the bathroom—shaking my hands dry because all Vinnie has in there to dry your hands is an aging air dryer that feels like having a geriatric poodle breathe on your hands—the booth is empty. Odd.
I’m wondering if he left, or if he went to the bathroom when I feel two warm hands clap me on the arms and spin me around.
“Elyse! I’m so proud of you!” Cora is in rare Cora form—meaning, she’s had as much to drink as I have, but less water. “You’re macking on the hottie in the starched chinos!”
“His name is Jamie, and I’m not sure where he went, actually.” I arch an eyebrow at her. “And literally zero people say macking anymore, by the way.”
She wiggles her eyebrow. “He’s in the bathroom. He had to adjust himself.”
I frown. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been spying on you from the bar!” She gyrates her hips. “You guys were dancin, and drinkin’, and talkin’! And the eyes you were making at him? Oooh, baby. Gettin’ spicy up in here!”
“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Cora.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s my last hurrah of the summer, Elyse. Don’t shit on my parade.”
“Rain on your parade, you mean?”
“Whatever. My point is—” she wraps an arm around me. “My point is…he’s in the bathroom, and when he went in, he was adjusting a nice little semi, because he’s, like, the most into you.”
“Cora!”
“What?”
“Have some water.”
She shakes her head. “Nope, nope, nopety, nope, nope. Monty is on call! Monty the Mountie, to my rescue.”
“You didn’t make him any promises, did you?”
She frowns at me. “Aside from cold hard cash in exchange for his professional services? No. What do you take me for?”
“A crazy person who does crazy things when she’s drunk, and you’re drunk.”
“If it was Lewis Calhoun, I’d be telling a different story. But, alas, Lewis Calhoun is a lone wolf, and he’s too cool for bars.” She sighs sadly. “And I’m not drunk enough yet to just show up at his place.”
“Good idea,” I say, drily. “You never know, he might be in the middle of a drug deal.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Oh, let that go, already. He’s from Clayton—he’s not John Gotti.”
I frown at her. “Was John Gotti a drug dealer? I don’t think he was.”
“Oh shut up with your facts. You know what I mean.” She pokes me in the chest. “Let’s get back to the important stuff—namely Jamie, he of the starched and pressed chinos, and how you’re into him, and he’s coming out of the bathroom right now.”
“Cora—”
She backs away, points at me. “Go with it!”
“I’m going home!”
“Yeah, you are…in the morning!” she says, turning and vanishing into the crowd on the dance floor.
“Cora! I’m not—” and then I cut myself off because Jamie is headed this way, shaking his hands.
“Those hand dryers are the single least effective thing on the planet, I think,” he says by way of greeting.
“I know, right? I think Vinnie has a Go-Fund Me to have them replaced with those fancy Dyson air blade things.”
“I’d fund that,” he says. And then, after a long, significant look, he nods at the exit. “Want to get out of here? I could use a walk and some fresh air.”
“Sounds good,” I hear myself say.
Because it does sound good to get out of the close, humid air of the bar, away from the noise and the crowd. It would be nice to spend time with Jamie, and enjoy some quiet conversation.
He heads for the front door, but I catch his hand. “Back door,” I tell him, leading him that way. “No point fighting through the crowd.”
I wave at Matty as we pass him. “See ya later, Matty,” I sing-song.
He just juts his chin at me with half a glance. “See ya, Elyse. You’re walking home, right?”
“Well, I’m not driving anywhere, that’s for sure,” I promise him. “I don’t even have my car here.”
“Good.” Matty is fifteen years younger than Al but just as big; he’s not much friendlier than Al if you don’t know him, but to us locals, he’s a teddy bear with a heart of gold. Matty and I went to school together all our lives, but he never left like I did. He’s always making sure nobody drives home after too many drinks, and has been known to deliver people’s cars to them after they walked home.
“Keep an eye on Cora for me, will you?” I ask.
He snorts. “Yeah, okay. Let me just go right ahead and stop her from doing crazy shit.”
I laugh. “Just don’t let her hurt herself, or do anything too stupid.”
“I got you.” His eyes go to Jamie, and then back to me. “You’re good?” His voice is quiet, and he seems somehow more threatening when he uses his quiet voice; I’d fear for Jamie, if I said no.
I smile at him. “I’m great. Thanks, Matty.”
He just nods, and goes back to the video game on his phone. “See ya ’round.�
��
The alley behind Vinnie’s is bordered by a chain-link fence, beyond which are the backyards of the houses of Oak Junction. The road here is paved in some sections, original cobblestone in others. A single whitish-yellow streetlamp hangs from a power line overhead, casting a broad shadow over the alley beyond the pool of light. The music and chatter from Vinnie’s are loud, even out here, and my ears ring in the relative quiet.
A dog barks in the distance, and another answers.
As if on some unspoken cue, Jamie and I begin walking, turning left onto Carlisle and heading north. We are quiet for a minute, and then he asks me about my favorite music, and that leads to a story from Jamie about seeing Dave Matthews Band’s concert at The Gorge in 2002, days after his twenty-first birthday, which was part of a road trip a few friends had surprised him with. We talk about all sorts of things as we amble slowly up Main Street, leaving downtown behind. His hand is in mine—our fingers are twined together, and it seems like the most right and perfect thing ever.
My head is fuzzy, and I’m a little tipsy still, but I’m lucid enough to absorb every moment of this—Jamie’s low, quiet, smooth, pleasant voice relating a funny story, his hand in mine, the sense of anticipation just from being with him. I watch him as he talks—he uses his left hand to gesture, not letting go of mine with his right. He’s animated, and an amazing storyteller. His features are even, symmetrical, and handsome. His jawline is strong, his hair no longer quite as neatly combed as it was when I first saw him, and he’s all the sexier for it. The shadow of stubble on his jaw makes me weak in the knees, and when his eyes cut to mine, I feel all melty.
“Is there somewhere around here we can get a cup of coffee?” Jamie asks.
I laugh. “At this time of day? Yeah…no.”
He pauses, looks at me. “Um, so then…do you want to…come over? For coffee?”
My heart thuds, pounds, and I swallow hard. It’s just coffee. We’re just going to hang out and talk and have a cup of coffee. That’s all.
“Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”
We’re in the Oak Junction neighborhood now, on North 3rd, the third street north of the county highway. Clayton’s planners, being the creative types that they obviously were, numbered the roads in the same way on the other side of the highway, only there, it’s South 1st and so on. Brilliant, I know. The houses here are old but well-kept, with deep front porches and steep concrete steps, tiny lawns in front, and shared backyard spaces fenced off in some places, but not in others.
North 3rd ends at Washington, which takes you back to the county highway, and we make a left on Washington. We only go a quarter of a mile when Jamie comes to a stop outside a house painted a pale blue with a sea-foam green door, white shutters, and small, neat box shrubs on either side of the front door.
My hands tingle. My chest aches, and my heart is hammering. A little voice deep inside tells me I should rethink this, but that voice is too small and too quiet—there are other, louder voices that drown it out. Voices that remind me how handsome Jamie is, and how much fun I’ve had with him this evening, and how easy he is to be around, and how it’s been such a long, long time since I’ve been so attracted to anyone.
How long it’s been since…well…everything.
I let out a breath and shuffle a little closer to Jamie, so my chest brushes his and I’m staring up into his warm, intense, eager brown eyes; there’s no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere between us, or what he’s suggesting, and what I’m agreeing to when I say:
“Let’s go in.” I find his other hand with mine.
4
I follow Jamie into his home. It’s dark inside, with only a faint silvering of moonlight on the hardwood floors; there are shadows and silhouettes—a sectional couch, an end table, a lamp, a recliner, an ottoman, a low rectangular coffee table, stacks of boxes, a vacuum. A doorway shows the kitchen in shadow—more boxes occupying most of the floor space, the sink and a window over it look onto the backyard. To the left of the living room as you walk in the front door is a staircase leading up to the second floor; at the top of the stairs is another window letting in a shaft of silver moonlight
We stand in the darkness and the silence for a moment, side by side, hand in hand. My heart pounds. Anticipation sings in my blood.
For the first time since I met him, the silence between us is awkward.
“I just moved in,” he says, by way of explaining the obvious. “Haven’t had time to do much unpacking.”
My breath comes short, and my hands tremble. I turn to face him, intending to say something, anything, just to break the ice. Something pithy and stupid about moving, perhaps. I see him in shadow: his hair is a mess, ruffled, wavy, a strand draping over his forehead. I can’t help myself—I brush the tendril aside with a fingertip. His eyes fix on mine again. The silence is no longer awkward but rippling with tension, anticipation.
“Elyse,” Jamie murmurs.
“Jamie?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“Thanks for the warning?” I say, smiling up at him.
His palms cup my cheeks, and he slides a few inches closer and now my breasts brush his chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart slamming against my ribcage. I keep my eyes open, as his are, until the moment his lips touch mine. I swallow my heartbeat desperately, and my fingers lift, trembling like sparrows unsure of a branch, to rest on his shoulders. It’s just a touch of his lips at first, a questing. Testing my reaction, perhaps.
Jamie brushes my cheekbones with his thumbs, and I suck in a deep breath as his lips press harder against mine and I feel the first pulse-shattering tease of his tongue against my teeth. The kiss deepens, and I feel his hair clutched in my hands, his scalp on my fingertips as I pull him closer, angling upward, lifting on my toes to meet his kiss, to delve deeper yet.
I’m breathless and the world is spinning.
His hand drifts through my hair, hesitates on my back just between my shoulder blades, and then dances and trips down. One hand is on my cheek, the other is at the small of my back, hesitating, waiting. I press against him, and I feel his heart hammering as hard and wild as my own. I feel all of him, and I can feel how much he wants this.
The kiss breaks, just for a moment—his eyes open, and our eyes meet, and I know he’s waiting for the refusal, watching for the demurral.
Instead, I lift up on my tiptoes and kiss him. I taste him, then. His tongue finds mine, and his hand continues its descent. My breath leaves me in a rush as he cups my backside and pulls me tighter against his body.
I deepen the kiss, clutch at his shoulder and rake my hand down his spine.
The only light is moonlight, and the only sound is my pulse in my ears and the sound of our kissing.
Jamie breaks the kiss, just enough that his lips can move, and his whisper resonates in my gut: “Upstairs?”
“Please,” I breathe.
He turns, and his hand finds mine and I follow him up the darkened stairs, and we turn the corner at the top and my hand runs along the cool wood of the banister. My pounding pulse ratchets faster yet as we reach the bedroom at the end of the hall. A window lets in silver moonlight—the moon itself is full and framed in the window. There is a bed, a four-poster with a nightstand to one side, a bureau with a round mirror, a closed closet, and more boxes, some opened, and a few large black garbage bags full of clothing. The bed is neatly made, with a throw blanket folded over the foot.
Jamie lets go of my hand as we enter his bedroom, and turns to face me. “Elyse, I…” he trails off, doesn’t finish.
“You what?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his eyes leaving mine and roaming down my body, traveling slowly back up. “God, you’re beautiful.”
My knees don’t want to stay locked. My hands shake. My mouth is dry and my throat is seized, and my stomach is fluttering. His words land like bombs, and their detonation shakes me free of my nervous paralyzation.
I step closer to him, run my hands over
his chest, and then untuck his shirt from his pants. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I feel the alcohol in my system—I know I’m still tipsy, and I know I’m allowing it to circumvent my inhibitions. Sober, I don’t know if I would do this. But I also know I’m sober enough that I’m making this decision with full awareness. And I know he’s in a similar place—an unsteady step here or there, the scent on his breath, the expression in his eyes; but his hands are steady, and his words are clear.
A tense, thick silence.
And then his lips slant across mine and I’m dizzied by the sudden passion of his kiss. This isn’t a tender questing, or a hesitating exploration—this is raw need unleashed. I match it with my own, groaning as his tongue tangles with mine and his hands caress my back, and then cup my bottom and I arch my back and press into his touch in a silent but loud yes, please, more. I seek his skin under his shirt and he’s gathering the hem of my dress in his fingers, and my eyes are closed; I feel the spin of the world around me, but his body steadies me even as his kiss dizzies me further. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the wild passion making me unsteady on my feet.
I pull his shirt off of him, and fumble at his belt while he tugs the stretchy fabric of my dress up over my hips and then his hands clutch and caress at my bare thighs and buttocks, and then his belt is undone and his pants are sagging. The wild kiss becomes desperate, lips missing lips and stuttering here and there—I tilt my head back to offer my throat to him, and he kisses it; he’s fumbling at the zipper of my dress and I’m blindly seeking his skin, trying to remove his pants and underwear without opening my eyes, without losing the press of his lips on my flesh or the scouring thrill of his lips on mine.
I feel a blast of air as he finally lowers the zipper and my dress hits the floor.
The moments then all tangle and braid and slip and twist—it’s all a blur of heart-pounding kisses and his hands on my naked flesh. I feel his desire in my fist and our bodies are pressing and writhing; his breath is hot on my skin and his low male murmur and my high breathless delicate groan mingle in passion. I feel the bed under me and Jamie above me; we move in wordless synchronization, in perfect unison.
Pregnant in Pennyslvania Page 4
