Truth or Dare, page 21
Is this an invitation? I lean closer. I’m thinking, Who is this?
Her lips are bare.
“Damn you.” I shake my head.
“What?”
“You always get me to say these things that I don’t want to say.”
“I thought you were an open book.”
Her eyes are trying to tell me something. And I think I’m agreeing with her. She reminds me of something I can’t quite place. We’re quarrelling, inaudibly, and her hand reaches my thigh and right there, right then, it’s all over for me. It’s over because I can taste the cherry-raspberry on her lips and her breath is thick and sultry and sticky. I’m telling her I want her. I’m saying more than that.
And a palm glides beneath her blouse where she’s warm and taut. I linger there, my heart racing too soon as lace peels effortlessly under and she billows over. I’m not accustomed to nerves like this. So what’s this reluctance?
Still the scent of her skin draws me in. And I’m thinking about the newness of this kiss as our knuckles overlap and she’s crawling over, straddling me, that skirt now hiked above her hips. I sink back into this plush couch. She’s nearly bare against my buckle, and just the thought of that…
It’s clever, I think, how she tries to break and breathe when I can’t. When I’m reaching. When every sense of reason’s abandoned, for me at least. When I want those gravelly whimpers. When something’s this unexpected. When I need her to be insatiable, because I already am with just this.
She must feel my heart heavy. She must, because she’s reaching behind to unzip her skirt as I finger the crevice on each button of her blouse, pushing through fabric slits. It’s painfully drawn out until her blouse parts open and she bends over me again.
I have her breathless and bared, radiant. And she’s curiously torn yet insistent. I fear she’s looking for some sort of promise that I just can’t give her. So I’m telling her, again, as I pull her in, “I want you.”
And that must be good enough because her palm’s slipping between us and I love that. I love what she’s doing. I love her, I think, and then I take that back if only from myself.
“Like that. Don’t stop,” she says.
Like that. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. I’m smashed against skin that’s moist as I push inside and she moans into my mouth as hips push deeper. But I love you, I want to say. I’m mute. Fuck—why am I doing this?
Sunday
Chapter Sixteen: Jessie and Hadley
Jessie
She had the lamp on when I woke to her cross-legged on the empty floor beside my bed. How long had she been there watching me sleep? I asked her to come back to bed. When she did, she crawled over me, braless. I pulled down her T-shirt and slid hands up bare thighs. She kissed me, sat over me, then tucked beside my bare chest until she left. I half listened, not wanting to. She brushed her teeth with cinnamon paste and pulled her plaid skirt up around her waist and zipped it. I bundled the scarf under her chin and around again and again to keep her warm.
We kissed at the door and out the door and against her car and in her car. Then I tucked her coat and shut the door reluctantly with the most exaggerated frown I could muster. She blew a kiss through the icy glass and vanished.
Drive safely. I will. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her to stay here and keep me company. Share coffee. Talk. Call me.
I’m not justified in feeling this much, I’m really not. Why now has every what-if risen to a boil of unease? Like, what if her chase is over?
I stare at the last cold drip of coffee—mud is more like it. Which sits next to my phone. Which is idle. I swallow. As much as I despise the taste, it’ll wake me and I need that right now.
I fold a flannel throw in fourths and put it back on the chair. I straighten pillows on the couch. Where she crossed her legs. Where I uncrossed them. It makes me smile.
What are you up to? Do you even miss me?
Maybe I should just pick up the phone and ring her. What am I doing wishing, expecting, hoping she makes the next move? A conversation that could go—which way? It could go the wrong way, and I would run.
I can’t go there.
I scroll down to her number. I find her name. My hands tremble.
I’m going to call her. Like we’re friends. Like we’ve always been and always will be.
And then the phone bings in my palm.
I read it: hey babe. I laugh, semi-hysterically, breathing like a sigh and all the while thinking how relieved I am that she’s not here to see me like this.
hey kid, I thumb back, instinctively.
meet for coffee?
when and where, I type.
brandons beans in 45?
That’s so close I could walk there. I will.
affirmative.
* * *
I’d rather arrive first so I can settle in and watch her scout me out. Nothing beats that walk, as if she’s tall even though she’s not. When you’re first, it takes the pressure off, unless she’s late, as is the case, which is putting the pressure on.
I thought I’d burn some of this nervous energy walking here. But I didn’t. Along the way, I moseyed into that new florist a block down and came out with roses. Red ones. Cliché, I admit. He wrapped them up in an obvious box tied in a ribbon. I felt good tucking my billfold back in my pocket, like I did the right thing. But I’m moody as heck and that confidence blew off the second the door slammed shut on my heel.
And this iced coffee is only making me jittery. I just watch that hipster at the counter ordering. He’s tucking the latest Adbusters under his arm. It’s a typical Sunday for him, likely. Not typical for me.
And I ponder, did the architects want this to look like an ice cream parlor, a library, or a bar? They have clever drink names and rolling ladders. Free truffles at each table. Two servers break and chat with their hands, both in white aprons. I adjust the flowers in the vase. The box is at my feet out of sight.
That’s when I hear my name. Not a quick hey or hi there. But my name. Nothing more. I get up right away, giving her a hug—a deprived hug, a relieved hug that she’s finally here. She feels good.
How is it that this girl next door can take me someplace else, make me unsteady, by simply speaking, by showing up? I loosen up and let my hands slip low on her back to the zipper on her skirt. We don’t kiss.
Instead, I drag the chair out from under the table.
“I guess you were thirsty,” she teases pointing at my empty glass. Then she hangs her coat across the back of her chair. She has nothing to drink. So I ask if she wants something. She tells me no. She wants to talk. She gets more serious and detached. I don’t know how to take it, so I clam up. I study the brick wall beside us.
“I wanted to tell you, you know, why I took off so early.”
I nod, straight-faced, propping my elbows on the table like armor.
She’s nervous. I can tell. “Well, you know how I used to have a humongous crush on you? I felt like a complete fool. I wasn’t anything to you but, whatever, maybe one day. Maybe—if I stuck around.” She scratches the back of her neck. “And it was okay. It’s nice that you came to me. That I could go to you.”
What does this mean? I have to look away because she doesn’t. It’s mildly uncomfortable. It hits me that maybe we should be holding hands (or I’d like to) across the table, but we’re not. It’s that kind of feeling. But I’m too concerned about rejection.
“Well, this is hard for me,” she continues.
“Don’t stop.”
“All right, let’s see. I think it’s just our history. It can complicate things. Or not.”
That urge gets stronger to get this over with.
“So, you know, I’m getting a little sidetracked. Stop looking at me like that.” We turn to look at the commotion and stomps at the entry.
“You were saying?” I lean in to her. She does this thing where she smiles and then looks away. But I don’t—look away, that is.
“Well, what I was trying to say is this. Every time I fell in love and out, I fell apart. I could come to you and you were there to pick me up and it gave me hope. I don’t know.”
“You’re beautiful, you know that?”
“Oh no. Stop,” she says, blushing. “Well, don’t you think—we’ve been good? This is ridiculous. I don’t even know if I should say this, but I’m going to because I told myself I would. You know a few times I thought I’d never find someone—”
She drops her head.
“You were always, in the back there, that someday girlfriend and all that.” She crosses her arms across her lap, raising a hand to push her bangs aside. It’s adorable.
I finally do find that hand under the table. I don’t let go. She doesn’t either. “And you, too. You with Ella and all that. You know? Well she’s the only person you kept in touch with, right? I guess we just had something different and it was really good. I’d never lose you. I’m just so afraid of that—I’m sorry.”
She drops her head to the side and looks up at me from under those lashes.
“You know when I threw that question out, that stupid truth or dare?” I don’t answer. It’s not actually a question. “How did I know? I didn’t. We had a few drinks, that’s why. I’m having a good time with you. When I took off last night, it dawned on me. We spent this entire weekend together. We don’t do that, right? I was feeling way more comfortable, I guess, than I usually am because there’s no Ella, there’s no Alicia. It’s just the two of us. Well, I didn’t think what happened would actually happen. And when it did, I felt sort of…dazed by it all. I don’t know what to do. All those years, you were the one I could talk to. I can’t talk to anyone now—if I screw everything up. That did freak me out. I mean, whatever comes of this, I’m losing you…at least a side or part, that is.” It’s what I’ve been thinking all morning. But I don’t tell her that. Then she continues, “I don’t even know what to tell you now because, you know. You’re. Just. Hot. And I’m blushing again, right?”
“You are. Don’t stop. I like it.”
“Well, let’s just say, I don’t know, I wasn’t disappointed. That was apparent, right?” She rolls her eyes. Her smile lights up the place. “We’ve always been honest. Let’s stay that way. For me at least, it was just so…so perfect. This.”
It dawns on me that I’m breathing; I’m relieved. I wasn’t sure where she wanted to take me. But I’m all right now.
“Well, now that I’ve said too much and—who knows—maybe I’ve just made a complete ass of myself, I’m handing this over to you.” I catch a glimpse of that hipster as he ducks out the door into a gust, magazine still tucked under a crooked arm.
Then my confessor adds, “You know, one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I left not wanting you to feel obligated in a way. We can be friends, babe, and pretend this didn’t happen. You know, chalk it up to that storm. A rebound, whatever you want. I’m okay with that. That’s why I left. You and your space. I get that. I mean, I need space, too.”
I’m thinking about how easy it is to talk with someone who gets me right from the start. There’s literally no explaining. I’m chastising myself for taking so long to see it. And still, I don’t think I could physically get close enough to her. But I keep a distance.
“There’s something else I need to set straight.” Her expression falls blank once more. “If, by chance, you wanted…Look, I don’t want to be your next ex-girlfriend. You know, it would have to be one hundred percent. That’s just how I am. And I want you to be one hundred percent with me in this. Potentially eventually maybe…that it could be forever. Possibly, you know? One day. Otherwise, I’d rather just stay the way we were. I’m fine with that.”
“Okay,” I say and she pulls her hand away to sit back.
“I’m going to pass this ridiculously messy topic to you.” She slips me an innocent grin.
And sure, I’m still listening at this point. But for the past few minutes, I’ve glazed over it all because, of course, she and I are in the same place. I’m falling in love with this girl. I am in love with her. And I’m amazed she doesn’t see it all over my face. I can’t peel my eyes off her. I can’t get enough. I’m giddy and I don’t get this way, and it doesn’t seem plausible that I could even hide that.
I pull the hand she took away, sliding my fingers into hers until all I see are knuckles. I trace her fingertips. Her stare’s unbroken and curious and a tad painful. “Hadley,” I say, my voice dropping, “I’m one hundred percent in this with you.”
She lights up.
“And I can’t believe I’m saying this—” My voice fails me, so I force the words out. “But I think I might be falling in love with you.” Why can I say it a million times in my head, but vocalizing, that’s excruciating? I’m not regretting it.
She tries to stand, but I yank her down to my lap and she tumbles and our smiles become a kiss that feels familiar but not. Her thighs are heavy on mine. Her body is limp, and I steady her and need her and have since her voice said my name. From the moment she left my apartment. From her dance before dinner. From the night she touched my hand under those covers.
Her kiss isn’t patient. It isn’t shy at all. It’s assertive and effortless until I find myself wanting more than that. Wanting her like I did last night and the night before. And suddenly I just want to get her out of here and alone.
I love how she feels. Then our kiss wanes as if to say good-bye. There’s a lump in my throat. Is this wrong?
“You’re such a tease,” she says.
And it’s not until I slide my foot back that it hits me—the roses.
I’m grinning.
“Hold out, hold out,” I tell her. I lean and nearly drop that box. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on her face when I hand it to her. And she unties the ribbon, like she kisses me, with eagerness and skill and impatience.
* * *
Hadley
It’s a remarkable day, curious and seriously sublime. But I’m tangled in too much of my own drama to find any sort of peace in it. I want to, though. Happy calm is so much better than I’m freaking out. Plus the pavement’s slick, almost slippery in parts, which isn’t helping matters. It keeps me on edge. That and constant dodging of pedestrians. It feels almost too crowded, and everyone’s too busy studying mannequins or display windows or talking on their phone as opposed to watching where they’re going.
It’s not until I reach the coffee shop that I pause. I don’t walk in. I just wait, inhale, again, and then another until my lungs feel wide and tight. Then I let it go. My hands are shaking. When I glance through the glass, there she is at a table for two, waiting. She’s hunched over, head in hands. It’s the way you would sit if you just heard the worst news of your life. But I can only see the back of her. Maybe she’s just exhausted. I don’t know. It’s not her usual posture, reclined or even slouched, boots up on the next chair. My heart sinks. I wonder if maybe she’s nervous. But maybe it’s something else. She could be thinking about…I don’t know, something I don’t want to know, as if my heart wasn’t racing enough. I can’t do this.
I don’t go in. Instead, I step aside to let this man in, and then I pace the sidewalk.
How many times have I watched this without her knowing, her composure, that poise, understanding all there is behind and beneath it? She could laugh, but there was struggle. I always knew her intent, even defended and encouraged it most of the time. Now I’m worried I’m blinded to it. I won’t even care. I’m too partial. But I don’t want a smile on the outside if that’s not what she desires on the inside.
I glance through the door once more. She’s leaning back now, unbuttoning. Her coat’s almost off. And she does this thing where she crosses a leg and then uncrosses. She rests back and up and over again.
So I take another breath. And with fingers trembling, I pull the handle. Here goes nothing.
* * *
Jessie
After lunch, which consists of deli sandwiches (and a bag of kale chips for her), we make a spontaneous loop through the co-op to get water because we’re completely dehydrated from all the salt in the processed meat we ate. It’s boxed water sold in a carton like milk, so I think it’s recyclable. This means less guilt, though I hate to pay money for something that drips free from the tap.
It’s a yellow day. Not gray or even blue but sunny. Out front, we pass a display of new sleds, which gives me an idea. This guy’s clearing snow off and restocking boxed Fatwood, which I always see people buying. A couple of wreaths draped in berries and bows and brown paper price tags are hanging from beams right above, $39.99 apiece. She goes inside ahead of me and we meet up at the juices, most of which cost more than our entire lunch. I roll up with a cart that’s far too small for my sled. Between red and army brown, I choose the latter, a deluxe model. She just looks at me, like, What’s this?
We hit the checkout line with no line and I slide my debit card in—no signature required because it’s less than twenty-five dollars.
Then we hit the road chugging down our boxed water and singing to the radio. Big dudes stand on top of roofs shoveling. Some of these cars are feet under mounds that have already refrozen. Good luck with that, I think.
When we get to the schoolyard, which is tucked against a hillside, I see that a good ten cars have beat us to it. She stops around the corner, so the car is sandwiched between thick trees and brush. We can hear squeals in the distance over the aggressive blow of the car’s heater.
She gets out and into her back seat and starts unzipping her backpack. I lean between these bucket seats just in time to catch a glimpse as tights slip off the last heel. Her skirt’s hiked up to those boy shorts. All I can say is, “Wow.” I’m so ready to get back there with her. But she gets on her back, working up a pair of Levi’s, feet on the black door panel, before stripping that skirt down and stuffing it into the same bag.
