by Sara Wolf
“How is your arm?” Jack asks. I look down at the Band-Aid and shrug.
“I won’t turn into a zombie, so. That’s one good thing.”
“I was worried,” he says tentatively. “Not that I have the right to be worried about you any longer. But I was very concerned and I couldn’t help it. I’m glad to see it’s doing well—that you’re doing well.”
“Am I doing well?” I laugh. “I can’t tell anymore.”
“You look better,” he says. “Something in your face isn’t so sad anymore.”
I look out the window. I burn to tell him what I told Jemma, but it’s not the right time. Telling him what happened would bring Nameless into the Ferris wheel with us, and right now I just want it to be me and him, and no one else.
“If you squint, the carnival kind of looks like a galaxy from up here,” I say. “Minus the cryogeysers.”
Jack smirks. “Oh, I don’t know, the ice cream carts get pretty cold.”
If this were a movie, the Ferris wheel would get stuck or something, or fireworks would go off, but it just pauses at the apex, a short pause, and Jack’s looking at my face again and my stomach feels like it’s shriveling and growing all at once and I should say something, this is the moment I should say something, every movie ever has told me so, but the moment passes, and the Ferris wheel starts going down but I can’t let anything get in my way anymore, especially not a giant LED hamster wheel—
“Isis, you’re talking out—”
“I love you,” I blurt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for saying it, but I love you. And you don’t have to…you don’t have to do anything, or say anything, I mean, I could just drive you home right after this if you never want to talk to me again, I’d understand, because girls saying ‘I love you’ is something you get a lot and you hate it, I bet, but I realized a lot of things lately and the biggest thing is that I probably love you, I’m not sure, but I think so, and it’s not very romantic or confident to not be sure, but I barely even know what love is, I just sort of learned the definition, but I know that what I feel for you fits that, and I want to learn more, and I think you would help me learn, but also I just love you, no weird creepy learning involved, I just love you, you stupid idiot, so if you could just—if you could just love me back, that would be really great, but if you can’t, I mean, I understand, it’s hard, and also I’m hard and not your type and it would be too much work for a broken person, so maybe instead you could just pretend to love me, and not work so hard, and I could be a nice distraction for you, or you could use me for…I don’t know, sex, or keeping your mind off things or getting less broken maybe, and I wouldn’t mind, as long as you pretended—”
Jack leans in and this time, it’s a kiss, and it doesn’t sear my soul or make me woozy like the books say, but I can taste him and smell him and he’s kissing me, me of all girls, and when he pulls away he’s smiling the sort of kind smile I only ever saw him give Sophia, except now it’s on me, all golden and sweet and genuine as he rests his forehead on mine, and that smile is better than fireworks. And maybe I do feel a tiny bit woozy.
“Moron. There would be no pretending,” he says. “Because I love you, too.”
I freeze, trembling, not daring to believe it.
“D-Do…do you mean that?” I whisper. “Do you really, really mean that? Because…because I don’t want to get my hopes up again—I just—I couldn’t take it if they were smashed again, you know? It hurt.”
I laugh, on the verge of tears, and Jack cups my face in his hands, ice eyes locked on mine, clear and bright.
“I love you,” he says. “Ever since that night in the sea room, I’ve wanted to love you. I’ve wanted to take all the hurt away, to hold you and protect you and make you laugh, and smile, and show you what love is. I’ve wanted to show you for so long that you are worthy of being loved for exactly who you are. And I tried to deny that, I tried to convince myself…that I wasn’t good enough, that I would do nothing but hurt you. And I have. And I’m sorry. I was afraid. I was afraid of loving someone as delicate and beautiful and unique as you. I knew I only had one chance, and I was terrified I would make a mess of it, and you’d only become sadder and more convinced you were unlovable. I was afraid of my own shortcomings, and because of that I hurt you.”
I sniff, and Jack thumbs away an escaping tear.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I love you, and I’m so sorry.”
I grip the flannel of his collar and kiss him again and again, and he runs his hands up and down my spine and cups my cheek gently, and I’ve never wanted anything more than for this moment to never stop, but I do want it to stop, because I want more, more than this, I am hungry and empty and I want to be full and the Ferris wheel attendant opens our door when we hit the ground and I pull Jack out and away, laughing, letting the wind dry the happy tears in my eyes as we half run, half stumble back to the car, stopping to kiss against a darts booth and a doughnut stand, the smell of sugar and sweat in our hair, and in the darkness of the parking lot I try to unlock the door as he kisses my neck and I elbow him to stop and he laughs and gets in the passenger side, and the entire ride back to the dorms he tickles the inside of my palm with his fingers.
“This might ruin everything! We might not be able to be friends after this in the conceivable history of forever. There’s still time,” Isis says as we get out of her car and she locks it. I double around and reach for her hand. She squeezes it, blushing brightly. “We can just be friends, still. Or enemies. We can go back to the way things were.”
My chest swells, and before I can stop myself I tangle my fingers in her hair and pull her toward me, kissing her hard. Her shock melts to eagerness, breath sweet and shallow and distinctly her against my mouth, and I pull back.
“I want you, Isis. Not as a friend. Not as an enemy. But as the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
There’s a pause, a suspended thread twisting in the wind. And then she smiles.
She half pulls, half drags me, the both of us laughing when I nearly run into a glass door of her dorm. She fiddles with her keys and the door swings open; her roommate, she says, is sleeping over at someone else’s dorm. The thought of having her all to myself, in a closed room with a soft bed, sends ripples of hot anticipation down my spine. She kisses me again, kicking off her shoes as I kick off mine, pulling me toward the messy paisley-spread bed. She is a fire that burns brighter, scorching every thought from my brain. Her fingers run over my chest, and I shrug off my jacket to give her better access, to feel her more keenly. I bite at her lip, and she bites back, a spark of almost-pain nudging me that much closer to the sweet edge. Her hands are insistent, roaming over my shoulders, my back, sliding lower to my navel—
“Isis—” I grab her hands and look her in the eyes. “Listen to me. I can’t…I can’t give you all of what you want. I’m just starting to rebuild myself. So. This is your last chance. You should find someone who isn’t so broken.”
She frowns and leans into my chest, murmuring.
“That sounds so boring.”
“I’m serious, Isis, you deserve better—”
“And so am I!” She looks up, eyes flaring and bottom lip set stubbornly. “I don’t care about what you can or can’t give me. I just want you. Even if you’re broken. Nobody else. Just Jack.”
The sudden surge of excitement to my heart at her words is nigh painful. I crumble like a dry sand castle against her wave, edging her down onto the bed with hasty force. I freeze and sit up, afraid she’ll be angry, or frightened and shaking, but she laughs and holds her arms out instead.
“C’mon, butthead.”
Her hair’s splayed out against the pillows and her blouse is hiked up, showing a bare wisp of her creamy hip bone. With soft slowness, I lean down and kiss her exposed hip, nudging the blouse higher with my nose and kissing upward. She giggles, but it quickly turns to pleased mewls as I reach the edge of her bra. I pull up and look her in the eyes, tugging at it.
; “This comes off.”
She quirks a brow and sits up, grabbing the hem of my shirt. “So does this. Only fair.”
I pull it off in one swift movement and watch her eyes light up as she takes me in. She rests her lips against my skin, kissing each contour and indent of muscle, and when she reaches the lowest part of me I can’t suppress my audible breath hitch.
“Isis—”
She buries her nose in my skin and sniffs. “You smell good, like honey.”
I growl and push her gently back on the pillows. “And you”—I inhale her wrist, her hair, between her breasts, which earns me a squeal and a bop on the head—“you smell like summer and cinnamon. I could eat you. I will eat you,” I add. Isis flushes.
“I-If I had known you were into cannibalism, I would n-not have agreed to this in the first place.”
“Too late.” I smirk, licking her neck. “You’re mine now. Bon appétit.”
Isis gives a little sigh, tensing her shoulder when she gets too ticklish. We laugh, and I pull her blouse off, slowly, tentatively. She can’t look at me, eyes darting this way and that to avoid my gaze as I take her in.
“May I?” I ask. She nods, lip set stubbornly again. I run my fingers over her stomach, milk-smooth and soft, with paler lines running vertically around her belly button.
“They’re gross,” she says. “Stretch marks. Sorry.”
I lean in and kiss them, each one, kiss up to her wrist burn scars, kiss every scar I can see, and she gives a soft cry, arms suddenly darting out to pull me up and kiss me fiercely, needy and hot and more eager than ever before, and then she’s on top of me, kissing my collarbone and my neck, my arms, my chest, and down to my navel again in a whirlwind of soft lips and warm breath.
“Isis, you—”
“Shhhush up,” she says quickly, unbuttoning my jeans with alarming ferocity and yanking them down to my ankles. She smirks at my black boxers, then looks up at me.
“That is entirely your doing,” I offer. She just hums happily and rubs her hand down me in response. And I dissolve. I’ve imagined this, over and over, but nothing can compare to the real thing, to the real Isis, smirking and flushed and half naked. It’s all my dirty fantasies come to life, all the aching need for her touch culminating in one moment.
But no. This is not how our first time should go. I flip us over, and she squeals, a pout on her lips. I kiss it away between murmurs.
“There will be…plenty of time…for you to tease me,” I say, one long kiss for each pause. “But tonight…this is about you…and what I can do for you.”
“You can lie down and let me figure out what this dick fuss is all about,” she huffs.
“Like I said, there’ll be time for that. But right now I want to make you comfortable. And then make you scream. In that order.”
She squeaks and hides her face behind her hands. “Don’t say stupid shit like that, idiot.”
I smirk and unclasp her bra, inching it aside.
“H-Hey!” she protests, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t look!”
“You got to see mine,” I lament.
“That’s because yours are small and pathetic.”
“It’s true.” I glance my lips across the thin skin above her chest, tracing her veins. “Compared to what you’re hiding under your arms, mine are very underwhelming.”
“And floppy,” she adds, more out of spite than anything. I’m very toned.
“And floppy,” I agree. She relaxes slowly, so slowly, and finally her hard edge evaporates, a blush replacing it as she hastily puts her forearms over her eyes.
“Fine. Look.”
The ordinary person would overlook her considerable assets, because that’s exactly what she wanted them to do. Her clothes were always a little loose, one size too big on purpose. But I’d caught enough glimpses to guess at the truth, and now I confirm it. Soft-looking, round, and perfectly teardrop-shaped, with the right breast barely noticeably larger than the left. They quiver, and it’s then I realize she’s shaking.
“Hey,” I say. “Isis, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “They’re weird.”
“Look at me, Isis.”
She peeks over her arms.
“Can we agree that I’ve seen many breasts in my life?” I ask. She frowns and sighs.
“I know, I get it. They’re really weird compared to the hundreds of other perfect ones you’ve seen—”
“They are beautiful.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.” I lean down and kiss the swell of one. “They are the most adorable I’ve ever seen. And they’re turning me on. Your whole body has me on point. But I’m sure you know that.”
I smirk, and she squirms pointedly, her fingers scrabbling for her jean shorts. I undo the top button for her, and then she stops me.
“Um. Wrap your willy. Um. Before you get silly.”
I chuckle before turning and rummaging through my discarded jacket. I pull a condom from my pocket.
“I always carry one with me,” I say. “Habit.”
She frowns, no doubt displeased at the thought of the others who helped form that habit. I lean in and kiss her neck, moving to her ear and murmuring.
“Oh, don’t give me that face. For months now you’re the only one I’ve thought about using it with. You’re the only one. God, Isis, you’re the only one I’ve wanted for so long—”
She cuts me off and kisses me, her tongue darting out and mine eager to meet it. I pull back, fingers dancing down her tensing and relaxing stomach. She helps me pull off her jean shorts, and when she throws them they land on her computer, and we both laugh. I pause at the hem of her underwear—white with a green ribbon—and look up. She isn’t shaking, which is a positive. She isn’t rigid or tense.
“If you ever feel uncomfortable, let me know.”
“Okay.” She swallows.
“I mean it. If you don’t want to do this anymore, at any time, tell me. And I’ll stop.”
She nods, and I sigh and lean in, putting my forehead against hers.
“Please, Isis. Promise me. Promise me you’ll communicate with me. I can see the visual clues, but I’m not a psychic.”
“I know.” She sighs. “Sorry. Okay. Okay.” She takes a deep breath, hard determination in her eyes. “I promise. Now shut up and kiss me and take off those dumb boxers.”
And he does, but he ignores what comes out of it, preferring to pay attention to me.
“Are you okay?” He looks up, panicked.
“Do that again,” I demand.
And he does, over and over until my arms are coiled around him and my thighs are practically crushing him, and his fingers are different, they’re longer and more slender and can reach all the places I never could, all the places that make me pant and twist and finally, finally, explode soundlessly.
“H-Hey, dumbo.”
He sits up. “What is it?”
“What about you?”
“That’s a very dangerous game you’re playing.”
His hiss spikes. The ice of his eyes is all but spring water now, soft and pleasure-hazed. He throws his head back, and I kiss his exposed throat, and suddenly I’m down on the pillows again, his hands on my shoulders and his bangs shading his eyes. He licks down my neck to my breasts, and I arch. Faintly, I hear the crinkle of plastic and a sudden pressure, and I should be afraid or hurting more, my brain and my past tell me this should hurt and be terrifying, but I feel safe as he slides in easily with slow, careful movements.
I’m full, and a little uncomfortable, but it’s fading and I don’t want to tell him just yet. Not when his expression is as achingly satisfied as that. His groan is hoarse, and he dusts my neck in kisses.
“I-I’m sorry. Are you all right? I should’ve asked, I should have warned you—”
“It’s okay,” I insist. “Really. Didn’t hurt at all.”
He looks doubtful, and I smile.
“I’m tellin
g the truth.”
“Promise?” he asks.
“Promise,” I say. “Just…maybe don’t move all that much. For a while. It’s kind of new territory.”
“‘Virgin territory’ is the term I believe you’re looking for.” He smirks. I punch him with my pinkie. We stay like that, him breathing and me breathing and me getting used to the feeling of someone else. Finally, the pressure lessens.
I feel him, for the first real time, and moan.
“Jack, ah—”
“Say it again.”
“Jack.” I curl around him, my legs moving higher of their own accord, linking around his back.
“Oh hell.” He groans into my shoulder. “I missed you. I missed you, Isis. It feels so fucking good to hear you say my name.”
I say it many, many more times. Loudly and involuntarily.
Chapter Fifteen
0 Years, 0 Weeks, 1 Day
Jack does not especially appreciate me taking all the blankets in the universe.
Or staring at him while he sleeps.
I know this because A) I know Jack, and he doesn’t like being ogled unless he’s being paid for it, and B) every time I pull on the sheets tangled around his legs, he grimaces a little more in his sleep. So I do what any decent human being who respects another person would do and keep pulling.
Jack groans and shields his eyes, the early-morning sun painting his tousled hair gold. It slants down his chest, making shadows on his bare belly, his neck, his throat. I want to nuzzle into the hollow of his shoulder and live there forever. It feels so surreal—like any second an annoying teen-movie alarm clock will start chirping in my ears and I’ll rouse awake into the real world, in my real bed, alone and cold and sad and convinced no one will ever love me.
But he kissed me.
He kissed my stretch marks and my scars.