Watch Over Me

by Mila Gray

  “Whatever you like,” I tell her. “The burgers are really good, I hear.”

  Zoey leans her head on my stomach, and I put my arm around her, feeling sleepy as Kate takes over and starts ordering the food, including three burgers with all the trimmings, a milkshake for her, onion rings, fries, a Caesar salad, and a fruit platter. When she’s done, she hangs up and rolls off the bed. She opens up a cabinet, revealing a flat-screen television.

  “What shall we watch?” she asks, jumping onto the bed beside us. “Oh my God, look: there’s every channel under the sun. Okay, maybe not that one,” she says, scrolling past an adult channel. “No romance, that’s for sure. How about The Hangover? There’s a tiger in it. Romeo will like that.”

  Zoey shakes her head.

  We settle on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off because Zoey and I both feel like Kate’s ’80s movie education is severely lacking, and also it will appeal to her, given she’s skipped school, just like the main character.

  Kate pulls Romeo into her lap like a toddler hugging an American Girl doll, only one that’s possessed by Satan. Romeo slashes his way out of her arms, then positions himself on a throne of pillows.

  As we settle down to watch the movie, I stretch out on the bed and sigh, feeling relaxed for the first time in a while, understanding that it’s in large part to do with the insanely comfortable four-hundred-thread-count sheets and feather pillow at my head, but also because for tonight I don’t need to worry about Zoey’s dad.

  ZOEY

  The room-service trays are scattered around Kate’s room like a bomb has exploded. Kate lies at the epicenter of the blast, arms flung out, legs splayed, clutching her stomach and groaning. “I’m so full I think I might throw up.” She sighs.

  Tristan finishes the last morsel of burger on his plate, then piles his plate on top of the other empty ones on the closest tray. I check the time. It’s only seven in the evening, but not having slept for what feels like days, I’m so spaced.

  “Okay,” says Kate, rolling herself off the bed in the manner of a beached whale trying to throw itself back into the surf. “I’m going to take a bath, and then I’m going to pass out.” She staggers to the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to look back at Tristan and me, still lounging on the bed. She smiles at us. “You two are welcome to snuggle up with me, but just in case you forgot”—she gestures at the door—“we are staying in a palace one hundred floors high, and right next door is your very own California King.”

  “Hint taken,” I say, getting up. I turn toward Tristan, but he’s already on his feet, holding out his hand. He needs no encouragement, and I smile. I know exactly what’s on his mind.

  In the next second, he’s pulling me out the door and into our room—the master suite. The view from the window is just as impressive as it was down in the living room, but neither of us is interested in looking at it. Tristan kicks the door shut, and I lock it. When I turn back, Tristan pulls me toward him. He holds me by the top of the arms and looks down at me, and my heart gives a wildly violent kick. I’m holding my breath in anticipation, as though I’m about to get my very first kiss. I’m so nervous I have butterflies, a riot of them, spinning and dancing in my stomach. I lift my hand and run it over his jaw, which is stubble dark, with two days’ worth of beard. “I like it,” I say.

  He squints at me, unsure if I’m being serious, but I am. He looks unkempt, sleepy, shadows under his eyes, his T-shirt rumpled like he just got out of bed.

  “You want to take a shower?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He grins and pulls me into the bathroom. I brush my teeth as Tristan tries to figure out the many taps and switches that turn on the shower. He succeeds, and I watch in the mirror as he strips off his shirt.

  Toothpaste drool falls out of my mouth to the marble floor. I’ve seen Tristan with his shirt off before, but that’s as far as I’ve seen. As he starts to undo his jeans, he catches my eye in the mirror and gives me a one-sided smile that almost makes me fall over. I have to balance myself against the basin. Now I really can’t stop staring. As his fingers reach the final button of his jeans, I realize I’ve been holding my breath for so long I’m about to pass out and that I still have a mouth full of toothpaste froth.

  I spit it out in a hurry and rinse.

  When I turn around, though, I find Tristan’s jeans and boxers on the floor and the door to the shower open, the glass already steamed up.

  I strip out of my own clothes in record time, feeling no embarrassment because he’s seen me naked a hundred times already. Even a month ago, I was so embarrassed to be naked in front of him I’d close my eyes and cringe, but now it’s another story.

  When I walk into the shower, he has his back to me and is leaning with his hands on the wall, letting the hot water pummel the hard, knotted muscles in his back. I walk up behind him and run my hands over his back and around to his chest. He takes my hand and presses it over his heart, and I kiss his shoulder blade as the hot water sluices over us both.

  Tristan turns then and takes my face in his hands, tilting it up and bending down to kiss me on the lips. I press up against him as the water cascades over us and between us like we’re standing under a waterfall.

  He groans, and my hands start to wander. It’s the first time he’s let me, and I can’t help myself. I want to trace every inch of him, and I’m so hungry for him I can’t slow down. He grips my shoulders and then nudges my head aside so he can kiss my neck, drawing my slick hair out of the way. One hand cups my neck and the other slides between my legs, making me gasp even louder. He kisses me hard, and I wrap my leg around his waist and pull him nearer so he’s pressed against me and groaning.

  What was a dull ache has become a burning sensation in my core, spreading down my limbs. I don’t want to wait a single second longer for this, and I can tell that he doesn’t either. His breathing is ragged, his kisses hungry. He bites my neck, grips my arms and holds them above my head, then kisses my breasts and shoulders. I arch my back and try to reach for him, but he holds me fast and shakes his head.

  He kisses me some more, until my legs dissolve and the only thing keeping me upright is his weight pushed up against me, pressing me to the wall. With the water falling in my eyes and blinding me, and his mouth on mine, I’m dizzy. It feels like drowning and being saved at the same time.

  “Zo,” he whispers in my ear, holding my face in his hands. “You want to go to bed?”

  I shake my head. “Here,” I say, and I realize I can’t wait another second. I’m aching so badly for him.

  He nods and pries himself free of me for one second to reach into his wallet on the bathroom floor and grab a condom.

  He cups my knee in his palm and slides into me. I cry out in surprise and pleasure at how good it feels. My fingers bite into his shoulders as he pushes into me again, gently at first, slowly, as though scared he might hurt me. My name is a sigh on his lips, which are pressed close to my ear. When I run my fingers through his hair and whisper his name, he moves faster, pushing harder, until we’re both groaning. This is what it’s meant to feel like, I realize. Now I get it.

  I open my eyes to find him staring into mine. Neither of us says anything. We just move together in perfect sync, no need any more to ask what the other wants because we both know intuitively, can read each other’s bodies, every sigh, every touch. He knows exactly how to touch me, exactly how to kiss me to make my body arch and my skin burn and every nerve sing, and I can read the map of his body, can sense from the tension in his arms, the shudder down his spine, and the murmur of his breath, exactly what he likes too.

  He waits for me until I’m on the verge of coming, and then he grips me tight and comes too—his eyes fixed on mine—and when we finish, hanging on each other as though keeping ourselves upright, out of breath and shaking, I want to laugh and sing and let my hammering heart explode for happiness, but all I actually do is burst into tears.

  TRISTAN

  Why are you crying?” I ask her.r />
  I turn off the shower and lift her face to mine in a panic. Did I hurt her? Shit.

  She shakes her head and buries her face in my shoulder.

  “Zo, what’s the matter?” I ask, getting even more worried. “I’m sorry.”

  She looks up at that, surprised. “What?”

  “You’re crying,” I say. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shakes her head in astonishment. “No. God, no.” She smiles, takes my face in her hands, and, seeing the worry on my face, kisses me on the lips. When she pulls back, I’m still frowning, not understanding.

  “It’s just … ,” she says with an embarrassed shrug, “I don’t know. It was good, that’s all.”

  “It was?” I ask, still worried but starting to think maybe she’s telling the truth. “It was okay for you?”

  She grins at that, hooking her arms around my neck, and nods. “It was better than okay.”

  “So why are you crying, then?”

  “Because I’m happy, you idiot,” she says. “And freezing. Could I get a towel?”

  I snatch a towel from the rail outside and wrap her up in it, then wrap another around my waist and quickly bundle her out into the bedroom and toward the bed. We burrow under the covers, and within minutes the towels are lost, kicked to the ground, and Zoey’s still-wet body is on top of mine. I hold her in place, not wanting to ever let her out of my arms.

  “Was it okay for you?” she whispers in my ear, and I hear the note of worry in her voice.

  “Are you kidding?” I ask, laughing. She has no idea how good that felt. The thirty-plus days of waiting were worth every second. I honestly didn’t know sex could feel that good.

  “Do you want to go again?” she asks.

  “Do you really need to ask?” I say, kissing her.

  I roll her off me and hover over her, holding my weight on my arms and looking down at her. “I know I say it all the time, but you’re so beautiful,” I tell her.

  She smiles in a way that makes my heart swell to fill my chest, her eyes filling with tears again. I slide my hand between her legs, to the place I know makes her moan. She bites her full bottom lip and reaches for me hungrily, like she doesn’t want to wait. I don’t want to make her sore, but she’s impatient. Her hands grip my forearm, her skin no longer cold but feverish, and she moans. I take that as a sign to keep going. I stroke her, and it’s like watching her unfurl. She opens up—without embarrassment, without self-consciousness—and it’s more of a turn-on than she could ever know.

  She pulls me down on top of her, and this time I go slowly, even as she arches her back to meet me and wraps her legs around my waist. I want to savor the feeling, an intimacy of knowing and belonging that I’ve never experienced before. A whole new connection is forged between us—one I know won’t ever be broken—because this girl belongs to me just as much as I belong to her.

  When Zoey cries out again and buries her head against my shoulder, that’s all the signal I need. It’s as if every cell in my body is receiving five thousand volts. I collapse down on top of her, my arms and legs shaking, and she holds me in place, not letting me move or unglue myself from her until we’re ready to go again.

  ZOEY

  I raise an eyebrow as Tristan lifts the silver dome off his sixth breakfast plate and grins at the sight of a stack of pancakes and bacon drizzled with syrup.

  He and Kate are competing to see who can eat the most. “I need the calories,” Tristan says by way of explanation, giving me a wicked grin. He’s eating with gusto, a starving man tearing into the bacon like it’s his first meal in days.

  My limbs are floaty and a little achy, and I’m so relaxed it’s an effort to lift the spoon and stir my coffee. I watch Tristan eat, though, smiling when he looks up and catches me staring at him. He shoots me a smile, a new smile, one I haven’t seen before—one that seems to reflect this new intimacy between us, like we have a secret no one else knows, something that only we share.

  Butterflies start to jostle in my stomach as I remember the details of last night. They’re pressed indelibly in my mind. I can still feel him: feel the rough stubble burn on the inside of my thighs; the scorched sensation of my skin where his lips traced a path along my collarbone to the hollow at the center of my neck; the sweet, dull ache inside me that makes me long to crawl back into bed with him and press repeat.

  I stifle a sigh with a strawberry.

  “Earth to Zoey.”

  Startling, I look at Kate.

  “You eating that strawberry or trying to seduce it?” she asks me, one eyebrow arched.

  Tristan snorts as I pop the strawberry in my mouth. “Eating it,” I mumble.

  “I was asking you if you slept well,” Kate asks.

  “Huh?” I ask, cheeks flaring as red as the strawberry I just ate. Did she hear us? I tried to keep it down, burying my face in the pillow when I had to, but maybe she did. Kate’s looking at me innocently, but is that the hint of a smirk behind her blank expression?

  “Yeah,” I mumble again, stuffing some cantaloupe in my mouth. “Really well,” I say, thinking of how sleep was easily sacrificed and wondering how many days I could physically keep going without sleeping. I’m willing to try it.

  She cocks her head at me. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink.” She points a finger at me. “And what’s that on your neck?”

  Panicked, I tug at the collar of the bathrobe to see where she’s pointing. Did Tristan leave a mark?

  “Gotcha!” Kate yells. She stands up. “Well, I’m going to find Romeo and feed him this smoked salmon. Then I’m going to take another bath and see how many free toiletries I can sneak in my bag. See you downstairs in an hour?”

  Tristan checks his watch and nods. We have to check out by nine to make it back for his shift at work. I’ve got work too this evening, but I’m already dreaming about afterward and the six hours we’ll have before dawn.

  When I glance at Tristan, I see he’s pushed his half-finished pancakes out the way and is on his feet. I stare at him questioningly.

  “We have an hour,” he says with a grin. And with that, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the stairs.

  * * *

  “Second Helpings.” Tristan announces the name of the store, pulling into the parking lot in front of a large brick building with a rusty old garment railing and a few armchairs sitting outside the door. “I already had those,” he remarks, grinning at me.

  “And fifth and sixth,” Kate remarks. She’s talking about breakfast, but I know Tristan is talking about something else entirely.

  Kate throws open her door and makes a dash for the thrift-store entrance. I smile watching her, happy to see her happy.

  “Thanks for the detour,” I say to Tristan.

  He nods. “Who doesn’t love thrifting?” he asks.

  I follow him, clutching at my sixteen-ounce coffee like it’s the antidote to all my body’s woes. I down the final dregs and toss it into the waste bin by the front door to the store.

  Tristan throws his arm around me, but I shrug it off. He looks at me, wounded. “It’s a competition,” I tell him. “You’re on your own.”

  “Wow,” he says, “I thought you were joking.”

  I give him an arch look. “We don’t joke in our family about this,” I answer, already scouring with one eye the rack of clothes by the door for any likely contenders. The purpose of the competition is to find a gift for everyone, but the gift must be the most hideous and awful item in the store and cost less than five dollars.

  We walk inside and survey the aisles of donated clothing and household detritus. It’s my Mecca. I’m a thrift-store queen, an expert at speed sorting. Give me a thrift store, and I’ll dig out the designer jeans, cellophaned Xbox game, and almost-new hardback copy of a bestselling novel.

  Necessity made me this way after we landed in Vegas, broke and furniture-less and cutlery-less. It’s where I have bought my clothes for the last four years and where we’ve all shopped for birthday presents
. One year before Christmas, I turned it into a game so we could make it more fun for Kate and Cole. I could tell they both felt ashamed that everything they owned was “pre-loved,” as my mom liked to call it. And now the game has become a family tradition.

  “Wait,” says Tristan, pulling me back just as I’m about to take off down the aisle marked MEN’S CLOTHES. I look at him impatiently, aware that Kate is already speeding through aisles ahead of me, with one eye on the prize. I can’t relinquish my title.

  Tristan gives me a funny look. “You really want to win this,” he says, surprised.

  “Hell yeah.” I laugh.

  He stops my mouth with a kiss, then just as abruptly pulls away, leaving me reeling. By the time I recover, he’s already halfway down an aisle, ransacking the hangers. Amateur move.

  I race off down the men’s aisle. My tactic is to head for the rail with the brightest clothing, ignoring the beiges, browns, blacks, and grays. Bingo. I find a selection of ugly Christmas sweaters. These always deliver. And lo and behold, within seconds I’m pulling out a red wool sweater with a white cat knitted on the front, along with the words MEOWY CATMUS.

  Perfect for Kate.

  Next comes Tristan. I skip back toward the men’s clothing aisle and to the shirts, but instinct tells me to ignore the meager offerings there and instead head toward the shelves with the junk. As I scan the shelves I notice the word BACON. I pull the box down. It’s a puzzle, possibly the weirdest puzzle ever created. A five-hundred-piece photo of a man wearing a suit of bacon, lounging on a sofa while a woman in a taffeta ball gown stands over him. I grin and shove it under my arm. Two minutes left, and I decide to spend it finding something for Cole so he doesn’t feel too mad about missing out on a trip.

  I head straight for the shelf of Xbox games. There are dozens, and I wonder why anyone ever buys them new when you can pick them up for a fraction of the price secondhand. I pick up a Lego superhero game, figuring that at least it won’t have any guns or soldiers in it. Carrying all my finds, I decide to spend my spare time browsing. I crouch down in front of a couple of dusty old boxes, one containing vinyl and another containing junk from what looks like a house clearance. There’s a broken music box and some old Life magazines from the ’70s, and beneath those I unearth a tin box, dented and rusty and once used to store tobacco, by the smell of it.