by Andrea Wolfe
"I could have called a cab. Or demanded that she stay. Was her job really worth her life?" His eyes watered as he spoke.
His parents basically celebrated the event—it freed their son from his only other obligation outside of school, after all—so he angrily dropped out of school and took off to L.A., abandoning their plans for his life.
"They acted like she didn't even exist, like she wasn't even a person. Didn't go to her funeral. They proved that they just didn't give a damn about anyone outside of their family. They knew I loved her, but they claimed it was just my hormones. It only made me love her more."
That was more or less exactly how I had felt about my first boyfriend, the whole hormones-only thing. But it had been almost a decade ago for Jack, a good indicator that he was pretty serious about this. No misinterpreted teenage lust here.
"Have they ever tried to make peace with you about it?"
Jack shrugged. "I guess. They've written me letters and stuff. My brother has told me they regret what they did, that they just wanted the best for me. Everyone always says that when they mess up."
His heart shattered, he made L.A. his new home, drowning himself in drugs and alcohol while he worked shitty jobs and performed at coffee shops. And then one magic evening he ran into—and impressed—one of the top producers in the business, a man that both saved him and made him hate the basic framework of the industry more than anything.
"He took eighty-percent of what I was making for three years," Jack said. "I lost so much money those first years. I fulfilled my contractual obligations and saved the big hits until I was a free agent."
"At least you got to live in L.A.," I said. "I'd love to live there."
"We'll go there," he said suddenly. "Soon. I have some business to take care of." And with that announcement, he was back to his lamentations and rants about his past—and I was as giddy as a schoolgirl, trying hard to hide it and maintain the somber mood.
The catharsis seemed to be working, no doubt. "Girls hate it when I talk about this stuff." He paused and ensured that we weren't making eye contact. "I still love Katy, Effie. I'm always going to feel something toward her. But I think it's because I never got to close the door with her, never got to really say goodbye. It's just something that lingers, a feeling that won't go away."
It made me think about how different things had been with Timothy. We had ended everything officially, signing the figurative paperwork and then physically moving apart. And then Timothy moved here and then attacked me. I guess the two situations couldn't be more different.
From what I could gather, it was the potent cocktail of chaos, uncertainty, and his parents' behavior that made this so difficult for him. He would always wonder what life would be like had Katy lived, and rightfully so. I was fairly certain we wouldn't be sitting here together if that had been the case. I didn't entertain that thought any further, nor did I need to.
"The grief," he said, pausing to sip his wine, "motivated me to write. It motivated me to master my craft. So one way or another, I feel like I owe a lot of my success to her."
He was describing an absolute tragedy, one that definitely tore me up a little too. "It's okay, Jack." All I had in me was that stupid platitude. I really wished that I could say something to change his life instead of the things that everyone says. Oh well. I was honest, even if I was just being predictable.
"I've never told anyone I was dating the whole story. I swear. That was really hard for me." He poured himself some more wine and took a tentative sip. "I wanted to be totally honest with you for some reason. My relationships haven't been that serious since Katy."
I stood up and hugged him, doing my best to comfort him. "Thank you for telling me. It really means a lot, seriously."
Jack raised one eyebrow. "You don't care about what I said? It doesn't bug you?"
Although it would probably made any woman a little jealous to hear that her man had a thing for someone else, this just wasn't anything like that at all. It surprised me that he was so concerned about not hurting my feelings.
"You were honest. It's a rotten situation. You're not a robot or something. You feel." I was just talking, but it sounded like I had really worked on my speech.
"When Timothy lunged at you, I heard that phone call again. I was talking to Katy's parents, listening to them sob on the phone, reliving that horrible moment. I punched a mirror and then cried for over an hour straight. I wouldn't recommend it."
"The crying or the mirror-punching?" I glanced down at his hand, concerned that I hadn't noticed him breaking a mirror this time around. Thankfully, it was free of any fresh marks.
He laughed, lightening up for the first time since our session had begun. "Neither. They're bad for your health. I couldn't play guitar for two months."
"Crying will do that to you." I gave him the most sarcastic smirk I could muster. The alcohol had definitely loosened me up, but not so far that I was wasted.
"I wish the high school counselor would have told me that. Some practical advice would have been nice." Jack was lightening up on his end, but I still wasn't totally done yet. "At least I know not to attack my ex-girlfriends. I did learn that."
Although Timothy was far from redeemable in that moment, I still felt motivated to speak the truth. "He was never violent with me, Jack. I swear. Tim yelled sometimes, but he normally kept his cool much better than I did." My reflections seemed to perplex Jack. Rightfully so given today's events. I wasn't sure why I felt the need to defend Timothy. I guess because I thought it would assuage Jack's fears.
We cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. I wanted to deal with the clean up since he had cooked, but he refused.
"Don't run it yet," he said, my hand on the button ready to start it. "We need to take a shower. And that means we need water."
"Are you sure?" I let out a quiet laugh. "About the water?"
"I've never needed a shower with water more in my life. C'mon."
A shower sounded like heaven, actually.
***
The water washed our troubles away. My hair had been on the floor of a New York City coffee shop, so I figured the cleaning was for the best.
Jack washed my hair and body for me, his efforts so delicate and concise. I gave in, allowing him to take his time on my body. It was just one of those little things that I swore would make me join the water and head straight down the drain. I held together and returned the favor, the difference in our heights making it slightly more of a challenge for me.
There was nothing but silence between us, the only real sound the ebb and flow of the water as the streams struck the bottom and then faced interruption from our bodies as we moved.
Jack had broken down in front of me after coming to my rescue, and I just didn't know how to feel about it. God, I felt like we were moving quickly, no doubt. He had admitted his desire to be honest with me, admitted that he hadn't ever told another date that haunting story from his past.
A full emotional portrait of Jack was painted before me—and I was more smitten than ever before despite my intent to remain guarded.
Why is it that we resist our feelings when they become so clear to us? Giving in made me feel warm and loved, while fighting back only dropped me violently back into reality. It was like falling from a plane to the ground without a parachute, yet it was the so-called "logical" and "rational" thing to do.
I just didn't make any sense to myself.
I hadn't thought about my job in what seemed like years, even though I had been there the previous day. Why didn't I want to give into Jack, to accept all he had to offer? What was I hiding from? I was protecting myself, but from what? Assumptions?
Part of me felt like at least I was moving too fast, especially given the absurd situation with Timothy today. It hadn't been that long since we broke up, so conventional wisdom said take it slow. If that was the case, why did I feel like I was being dragged along at light speed, unable to slow down how I was feeling? What if I didn't want to
take it slow?
That dreaded L-word kept popping up in my head, but I washed it away like the lavender-scented body wash on my body. It was too soon for that, yet I was already feeling something like it far too often. Maybe he was too...
What else was there to say when everything fell into place in the most perfect way possible?
We threw on our robes and headed into his bedroom, quietly enjoying the endless stream of movies that only Netflix could provide on his wall-mounted fifty-two inch television. It was bigger than any TV I had ever owned, and it was in his bedroom. The one in the living room was even bigger.
I fell asleep in his arms, the quiet hum of the television accompanying our dreams.
***
I woke in the middle of the night, the room dark except for the city lights peeking through the shades. My eyes had shot wide open, but aside from that, I hadn't moved.
I laid there in silence for a while, trying hard to fall asleep. Visions of Jack crept into my head, his hands on my body, the face he made when he came. It was super dirty stuff, as if I had stayed up late to watch porn or something.
A scorching wetness formed between my thighs, my clit aching for attention amidst my triple-X mind. Oh God, I quickly realized I wasn't going to get back to sleep until I dealt with this. All of the good feelings surrounding Jack were transforming into vicious, burning lust that only served to make me desperate for him.
I had never felt so sexually overwhelmed and helpless in my life.
"Effie? Are you awake?"
Thank God. "Yes," I murmured quietly.
"I could hear you breathing. Are you all right?"
"I need you." It's all I had. And when I felt his erection pressing against my ass, I knew it had been enough.
Jack tore open a condom and rolled it on in the dark, the sound like music to my ears. He helped me wriggle out of my robe and then slid into spoon position behind me. His hand crept along my thigh until he was gently tickling my very needy clit.
"Oh God, Jack." I was whispering despite the fact that no one else was there. His fingers kept fluttering against me so perfectly, my body giving into his touch. I was pressed so hard against his erection, so intrigued by the tiny pumping motion from his hips.
"I need to be inside you, Effie," he said, his breath tickling against my earlobe. With a slight hint of aggression, he spread my legs apart and upward and pushed himself into me at once, using his fingers as a guide. He parted me, his cock immediately soaking up the moisture inside of me. "You're so perfectly tight." It sounded like it was a complaint as much as it was a compliment, as if that fact would prove to be too much for him.
His hand firmly squeezing my breast, he started to rock his hips back and forth, my back arching to urge him even deeper. Every time he tweaked my nipple, I shivered. All of the nerves in my body were firing together, victims of Jack's masterful efforts.
I moaned as he fucked me, my groans increasing in volume and ignoring the former quiet efforts of polite Effie. Every thrust went all the way to the hilt, his arms holding me tightly and forcing his length into the deepest parts of me.
Something told me that he was starting to lose it, a thought that absolutely killed me. And when his hand moved from my breast to my clit again, I knew I was about to lose it too. Hell, this felt so good it almost hurt.
I lost control and came, my pussy fluttering around him until he matched my own sensations. He was right there with me, twitching and groaning, clenching and crying out. Our bodies contorted together as we found that mutual climax, not wanting any of that beautiful pleasure to escape from between us. It stayed there for a short while longer and then disappeared much slower than it had arrived, an unusual conclusion.
"That was perfect," he whispered. "I really needed it."
"I know. Me too." I couldn't stop thinking about how badly I wanted to feel him come inside of me, feel his release with nothing between us. I wasn't ready for it yet, but I had never done it with anyone else, despite the fact that I was on birth control. It was one of those trust things, I supposed. He had opened up for me, so it seemed like the next logical step. For another day, I thought.
He pulled out and I immediately turned and met his lips with a long, passionate kiss, one that followed me back into a very peaceful sleep.
Chapter 8
I awoke the following morning to a slumbering Jack, his tousled brown hair spilling everywhere over the pillow. He was sleeping like a baby. As quietly as possible, I escaped the bed and lightly closed the bedroom door behind me after grabbing my robe from the floor.
The sunlight spilling in through the windows was absolutely gorgeous, painting the carpet with beams of golden light. It really was a new day; this was one signal that I couldn't misinterpret. I felt both refreshed and fresh, as if I were somehow both well rested and somewhat of a new person altogether.
Finding myself next to Jack's most comfortable chair in the world, I succumbed to temptation and sat in it.
"Holy shit," I said aloud. This was undoubtedly a chair made for sitting in. I turned on my side and still found it just as comfortable as I had sitting upright. Whatever he paid for the damn thing seemed totally justified in that moment.
I sat and thought in absolute comfort, totally at ease with the fact that Jack was still sleeping and not sitting beside me. We both had been through a rough day, but his was certainly a little different from my own. It's not that I didn't think guys could be emotional, because hell, Jack was walking, talking emotion. There was also the whole Timothy thing yesterday, which was unmistakably emotional as well.
So thanks to the last twenty-four hours, I was growing quite intimate with the brand new emotional man phenomenon.
My eyes traced along Jack's walls as I sat blissfully in that beautiful chair. His gold and platinum records weren't even hanging straight on the wall. The crooked angles started to bother me, but I managed to disarm my feelings of OCD, at least for that moment.
There was a light covering of dust on them; the gleaming sunlight brought the particles to the forefront. These poorly maintained relics were of huge significance, at least in my mind. I had no idea what it felt like to sell a half-million or a million-plus records. To me, it felt like the sort of accomplishment that you could die happily after reaching.
But what business did I have trying to say how he should feel about anything? It was his own emotion that made him talented, made him a force to be reckoned with. That's why he had this apartment and his private suite and probably a number of other things on top of that that I'd discover slowly over time.
My mom sent me a text as I sat there, my phone vibrating against the leather of the chair. I snatched it up and read.
Her: Hi, Effie. How is the job going? We really miss you!
I sat there and pondered what to say. Honestly, I liked talking to her as much as I didn't like talking to her. We weren't as close as we had been in the past, and I felt like she was always trying to remedy that with honesty. My decision to move so far from home hadn't helped with that either. Well, at least we were just texting.
Me: It's great here. Having a lot of fun. How are things at home?
Her: We're good. Your father is doing one of his "projects" again, so we can't use the garage right now and everything is a mess. Have you met anyone out there?
That was the other thing she did that bothered me. Even though she said "anyone," it was a thinly veiled attempt at requesting information about my love life. Ever since my first boyfriend, she had always tried to quiz me for information about "boys" and "dates" and everything else I didn't want to discuss with her. She wanted to be a cool mom.
The only problem was, if something was wrong and she could tell, she'd start dispensing information that was so outdated that I swore I had mistakenly gone back in time and been born during the Civil War.
Me: Nothing serious, Mom. Don't worry about it.
After that, she proceeded to send me giant block paragraphs about all the things she was d
oing in her early retirement, the classes she was taking, the messes she was cleaning up. I swore she only asked me about myself just so that she could follow up by talking incessantly about her own activities.
No, even if I tried, I could never reform my mother. She was perfectly happy in the world she had constructed for herself, so I just did my best to cope with it. It didn't matter if I actually responded to what she was saying; saying it was enough for her.
I guess Jack and I were similar with regard to our parents.
My eyes staring at nothing in particular, I thought about my mom and dad, their marriage so traditional and essentially loveless. I always swore that I'd never wind up in a situation like that, one centered around convenience instead of love. I needed to stop thinking so seriously, however, especially about my parents' marriage. I had a lot of my plate already between Jack and my job and this city that could swallow me whole like a monster. They were retired and had all of the time in the world to sort things out.
And maybe I needed to loosen up with regard to my mom. I had closed myself to her years ago, locking the door and throwing away the key. Maybe she was just seeking to rebuild that former connection we had when we were both younger.
I don't know if it was just the stuff with Jack or what, but I was feeling unusually optimistic.
I was getting more and more fixated on new beginnings, I guess because my life had become one giant new beginning. Looking around the lavish, urbane designer apartment, I realized just how true that statement was for me. New York was a totally different city for the privileged than it was for everyone else.