“Hey.” She answers her door in sweats and a cut-off t-shirt, her dark hair piled on top of her head and her full lips glistening with a fresh coat of chapstick.
On the phone earlier, I told her I needed to go back to sleep for a few hours, and that I’d be fine with staying in tonight. With her. She volunteered her place and I promised I’d be there no later than seven.
“I’m so sorry about earlier,” she says, apologizing yet again.
“I told you it’s fine.” I close her door behind me, glancing at the TV screen in her living room, which is paused on the opening credits of Stranger Things.
I want to kiss her. I want to press her against the wall, peel her clothes off of that taut body, and devour every inch of her.
“Melrose is gone tonight,” she says, biting back a smile that can only mean one thing.
“And your point?” I tease, feigning ignorance. I can beat around the bush with the best of them.
She shrugs. “I’m not trying to make a point, Corporal. Just stating a fact.”
“If you want me, just say so.” My cock strains in my jeans. I wasn’t expecting to walk into this straightaway tonight. I thought maybe it’d take a little flirting, a little liquid courage.
“All I want is to have a little fun.” She winks before slipping her hand into mine and leads me to the sofa, pulling me down beside her. A second later, she’s reaching for a bottle of red wine and two stemless wine glasses.
“I don’t know if you drink wine,” she says. “But you’re drinking it tonight.”
She hands me a glass before clinking hers against mine and taking a sip.
Twenty-four hours from now, I’m going to be halfway across the world. Forty-eight hours from now I’ll be a world away from this … from her. But I try not to think about those things. Nothing good can come on fixating on shit you can’t control, and I’m actually looking forward to getting out of the States for a while.
I kind of like being a world away sometimes. I wouldn’t have reenlisted if I didn’t.
“I had fun this week,” she says, head tilted as her pretty eyes rest on mine.
“Same.” I take a sip of the wine, which is sweet and goes down with a smooth, easy finish.
“Do you ever write letters when you’re gone?” she asks. “Like letters back home? To friends or family?”
I shake my head. “Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Not much of a letter writer,” I say. “Some of the guys sign up for these pen pal services, but that’s not something that’s ever appealed to me.”
“Can I send you letters?” she asks. Her question catches me off guard and I need a minute.
“Why would you want to do that?”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t it get lonely over there? Don’t you want to know someone’s thinking about you?”
Laughing, I say, “I’ve served almost ten years now. Haven’t been lonely but maybe once.”
“You act like that’s some badge of honor or something.”
“Where I’m from, it is,” I say. “You see guys who miss funerals or the births of their children. You see guys missing birthdays and holidays and shit like The Super Bowl and things that civilians take for granted. It’s just easier if I keep those things out of mind.”
Her gaze lowers and her lower lip juts forward before she takes a drink. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“It’s nice that you want to do that though.”
“It’s going to be so weird saying goodbye to you.” Her voice is breathy and wistful and she flashes a pained smile.
“Yeah, but this is what we signed up for.”
Maritza nods, drawing her legs onto the couch. “No, I know.”
“Come on.” I reach for her face, cupping her chin and angling her face until our eyes meet again. “Let’s have fun tonight. If you get all sad and mopey it’s going to completely defeat the entire purpose of this week.”
She pulls in a hard breath, lets it go, and softens her expression. “All right. Sad and mopey Maritza is gone in three … two …”
Snapping her fingers, she plasters the most ridiculous grin I’ve ever seen in my life across that pretty face of hers.
I can’t help but laugh at her.
“You’re such a fucking dork,” I say, pulling her into my lap. My palms graze her outer thighs, working their way to her hips as our stares hold steady. She smells like sweet almonds and feels like cashmere and right here, right now is the only place I want to be.
Her hands caress my face, her mouth sinking onto mine. A moment later, her lips part and our tongues meet and her hips grind against the rock-hard throb forming in my jeans.
Grabbing the hem of her shirt, I lift it over her head only to reveal she wasn’t wearing a bra to begin with.
“You came prepared,” I say, breathing her in.
Her lips curl against mine. “You have no idea how badly I wanted this to happen again.”
Pushing her sweats down her hips, I slide them down her long legs, followed by her lacy black thong. The sweet scent of her arousal fills the tight space between us. When I stand, she reaches for my zipper, freeing me.
Her dark eyes are wide as she stares up at me, pumping my hardened length in her hand with a devious smirk. A second later, she takes me into her mouth, her full lips velvet soft against my shaft as her tongue circles the tip.
Groaning, I bury my fist in her dark hair, her messy bun coming undone as she swallows my length over and over.
Yanking my shirt over my head, my heart pounds in my chest. I want her skin on mine. I want her warmth, her heat, her breathless sighs in my ear. I want her biting her lip and screaming my name and riding my cock so hard she won’t be able to walk straight for a week.
But first things first.
Pulling myself away, I guide her to the sofa, positioning myself between her thighs as she leans back against a throw pillow.
Maritza exhales when my tongue drags the length of her seam and she moans when I slip a finger inside. Aided by her arousal, I add another until the tension between us aches with an impatient fervor.
My hands are greedy, my touch generous as I explore every peak and valley of her nubile body as she writhes beneath me, her breath growing quicker the closer she gets to the edge.
I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve waited long enough. I have to have her.
Reaching for my jeans on the floor, I grab my wallet and retrieve a rubber, ripping the foil packet between my teeth before sheathing my girth. Maritza watches, her full tits rising and falling as she waits, and the second I’m ready, I take her hand, pulling her up and telling her to get on her hands and knees.
Her cherry ass beneath my palm is pure fucking gold, and I slide my fingers between her thighs until I reach her swollen pussy. Guiding my cock inside, pushing it as deep as I can go, she releases the softest sigh before gripping the pillow in her tight fists.
My hands steady her hips, pulling them back to meet my every thrust. Her pussy forms to my cock, each plunge tight and slick, charging the two of us with insatiable energy. Bringing her body against mine harder, faster, I squeeze my eyes and lose myself in the distracting euphoria of this moment.
Running my hands down her hips, toward her belly, and then between her breasts, I bring her closer to me, pressing my body against her back as I drive into her. My palm wraps softly around her neck, my fingers just beneath her jaw as I bury my face in her hair.
My focus is her.
Her surrender is mine.
There’s a frenzied race to the finish as her body melds against mine, but I won’t let her go until we’re both spent, collapsed, and barely able to utter a single coherent phrase.
Her left hand lifts, her fingers reaching for my hair as I caress her breasts, pumping my length into her again and again. The rapid, shallow breaths are a sign she’s getting closer and the moment she presses back against me, taking me to the hilt, I fucking lose it.
She rides the w
ave, her body warm and pliant, mine wild and reckless, and when we’re done, I sink back, gathering her in my arms, her back pressed against my chest. We’re a sticky, breathless mess of unrestrained exhaustion, but already I could do this again.
I could do this all fucking night long.
Maritza turns to face me, a smile claiming her full lips, and she cups my face in her hands, saying nothing.
“Let me write you letters,” she asks a moment later. “Let me see you again, when you come home.”
“Maritza …” I need to shut this down.
The idea of having someone to come home to has never appealed to me before, but I could see myself coming home to her.
But I force that away.
This is how it has to be.
It’ll be better this way.
For me.
For her.
“I know what I said a week ago,” she says. “And I meant it. I don’t want a relationship. And the last thing I should be doing is falling for some guy who’s going away for … how long are you going away?”
“Six months this time,” I say. “If I don’t volunteer to stay longer.”
“Let me write to you,” she says, head tilted. Her fingers trace my mouth and she kisses me hard. “I don’t want to fall in love with you over letters. I don’t want some cheesy pen pal arrangement. I’m just not ready to watch you walk out that door when there’s still so much about you I want to know.”
Exhaling, I drag my hand along my jaw. “Listen, I’m a shitty boyfriend. I’m the last person you should be pining away for.”
“Who said anything about pining?” she asks. “I guess … I guess I just want to keep you in my life. One way or another. In whatever capacity you desire. We’re friends, you and me. Right? You’d call me a friend?”
Pulling in a lungful of sex and perfume-scented air, I hold her stare, finding it nearly impossible to say no to her sweet request.
“I’m not trying to fall in love with you, Corporal,” she says. “I’m not trying to be your girlfriend. I just want to be … something … to you. I don’t even know what.”
Pressing my lips together, I mull over my options. “I don’t understand what you want, Maritza.”
“You fascinate me. You’re complicated and quiet and strong and determined and intelligent and—”
“How can you know all those things when you’ve known me a week?”
Her eyes roll and her head tilts back. “I don’t know. I just … I feel them. I can’t explain it. I just know that if you walk out of here tonight and I never hear from you or see you again … I’m not going to like that. And if you don’t feel the same? Fine. I’ll accept that. But I had to put it out there while I had the chance.”
We’re still very much naked and I’m still very much ready to devour her again, but this changes things.
Lifting my hand to her pointed chin, I run my thumb along her lower lip. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
And I don’t want to hurt her.
I respect her too much to do that.
“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” she says, though I don’t entirely believe her. “I told you that. I just want to hear from you, that’s all. And when you come home, if you want to see me, we can make that happen.”
I exhale. It’s so fucking hard to say no to her when she’s looking at me like this—like she thinks I’m some kind of wonderful.
“How about this,” she says, “so that you know I’m not trying to fall in love with you, I’ll write ‘P.S. I hate you’ at the end of each and every letter.”
I make a face. “A little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Come on. Just go with it. It can be our thing,” she says, with a chuckle before booping my nose.
“Who says I want to have a thing with you?” I tease. Kind of.
She gives my chest a playful jab. “This could be fun.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“I wish I could, Corporal.” Her full mouth pulls wide, framing her perfect smile as she tilts her head. “But I don’t think I can.”
HE LEFT BEFORE THE sun came up but those still small hours lying in my bed, our bodies melded, I’ll never forget as long as I live. He kissed the inside of my palm, his touch gentle and his gaze soft. I wasn’t sure if it was a silent apology or a surrender of his ironclad heart.
Whatever our time together meant, I just know I’m never going to forget my week of Saturdays with Corporal Isaiah Torres—and I’d like to think the same for him.
Curled up in an arm chair in the living room sipping a coffee, I clutch the piece of paper with his address in my hands, torn from the same sheet of paper I used to write mine earlier this morning, before I watched him fold it into halves and tuck it in his wallet.
He kissed me goodbye after I walked him to the door—laughing through his nose as he told me not to read into it, that he was kissing me for purely selfish reasons that I’d never understand. I promised him it was not romantic, though in retrospect, it kind of was …
I swear when I closed the front door and watched through the window as he made his way back to his car, there was a cannon-sized hole in the middle of my chest.
He’s not my boyfriend.
And I’d hardly call us good, close friends.
But he’s special.
Our week was special.
I finish my coffee and hit the shower, reluctantly washing him off of me. My body is filled with aches and I trace the parts of me his mouth and tongue caressed mere hours before. By the time I’m finished, the delicious soreness between my thighs is all that remains, a fleeting memento of our final night together.
An hour later, I trek across my grandmother’s back yard and head into her kitchen where she and her best friend, Constance, are eating the breakfast Gram’s chef prepared.
“Morning, sunshine,” Grandma says, pointing her spoon at me.
My stomach rumbles when I spot the layout of exotic fruits and Greek yogurts and artisan bagels, and I help myself to a plate before joining the two of them.
“Morning,” I say. Each minute that passes is a reminder that I’m firmly planted back in reality whether or not I want to be.
As I sit here, spooning cinnamon granola into a dish of vanilla Greek-style yogurt, somewhere Isaiah’s boarding a bus to get to a plane that’s going to take him to a dangerous place for the better part of a year.
“Constance and I have lunch reservations at Mr. Chow,” Grandma says. “One o’clock today. Would you like to join us? Her grandson, Myles, is going to be there.”
The two of them exchange looks and ward off sheepish grins.
They’ve been trying to hook me up with Myles for years, and while I admit he’s cute, he just isn’t my type. He’s one of those film-school types who takes everything entirely too seriously. People like that just can’t sit back and enjoy things. They have to pick them apart until there’s nothing left but a few threads and crumbs, and that’s just not my thing.
“He’s been asking about you,” Constance says. “I’m not supposed to tell you that though.”
She giggles, lifting her finger to her lips.
“Oh, Maritza, you should come!” Grandma says, an oversized smile taking up half of her face. As much as I’d love to keep her happiness afloat, I can’t.
And for several reasons.
The biggest of which is the fact that I’m scheduled to work today.
“Have to be at work in an hour,” I say, taking a spoonful of yogurt. “Thanks for the invite though.”
“It’s fine, sweetheart,” Constance says. “Poor planning on our part. We shouldn’t have sprung it on you last minute. I’ll talk to Myles today and see what his schedule’s like these next few weeks. Maybe the two of you could have another little date?”
Ugh.
Please don’t.
I smile out of politeness. Constance is sweet as pie and cute as a button and she means well, but the first ti
me I got roped into going on a date with Myles, I vowed to myself it would be the last time.
We don’t speak the same language, and by that, I mean he uses words like “cinematic universe” and “framing” and “bridge shot” and “aspect ratio” and “revisionistic” and the only language I speak is plain English.
And don’t even get me started on the fact that he made me see some artistic French movie with subtitles. Longest night of my life.
And then he tried to kiss me after all of that.
I turned and gave him my cheek like a proper girl would do in one of those black and white movies Gram is always watching. He smiled, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose, slightly embarrassed. And then he made a comment about how this felt like an awkward scene in some Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy.
The fact that he’s still interested in me years later blows my mind and proves how out of touch he is with reality. And why wouldn’t he be? He lives and breathes movies and things that simply aren’t real.
I prefer real.
Real is flawed men with complicated personalities who do brave things like fight wars.
War is real.
The newest Darren Aronofsky film? Not real.
Afghanistan? Real as fuck.
Finishing breakfast, I kiss Gram goodbye for now and give Constance a wave before heading back to the guesthouse to grab my keys and apron and hit the road before I get stuck in traffic.
Forty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and hang my permit from my rear-view mirror. Heading inside, I punch in and tie my apron around my hips. The scent of cinnamon pancakes and fried bacon fills my lungs and the sound of dishes clinking and cooks shouting and patrons conversing all blurs into the background.
Everything is gray.
And I feel his absence already.
I feel it in my bones, in the hollow of my chest. The twist of my stomach, the ache in the deepest part of me. The void of his touch on my skin, the nonexistent comfort of his low whispers in my ear.
I miss him.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
“HEY, CORP. LOOK AT this.” One of my guys flags me down, pulling up a picture from his email.
“What’s this?” I ask, hunched over him.
[2018] PS I Hate You Page 12