by S. C. Megale
Cole released me once more. He tossed his head to free some hair from his face and then gripped the rim of the Lexus and swung inside. He slammed closed the door and started the engine. I rolled back a foot. Still trying hard, and failing, to smile.
Cole cruised a few yards away, eating two or three parking spots, but never really hit the accelerator hard. Then his red taillights glowed. The car stopped. It thrummed there for a minute. Chugging out exhaust.
He cut the engine. I blinked.
Cole opened the door just as I rolled up to him. Still sitting in the front seat, he turned outward and rested his feet on the pavement. His hands were crossed loosely in front of him, and he looked up at me.
“What?” I laughed.
“Do you want something else?” said Cole. His eyes glimmered with hesitant mischief.
I shivered into silence.
“Well?” said Cole.
“Yes,” I said.
“You don’t ask, you don’t get.”
“I want you,” I said.
“All right,” said Cole. Then lower. “I want you too.” He looked around. Over his shoulder. Past the car mirrors. Then with expert hands he undid his belt. I swallowed and froze. Heart hammering thrill into my blood.
“Come here,” said Cole.
I did.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve never—” I began.
“I figured.” Cole waved me forward. “Go ahead.”
So I wrapped my small fingers around him. His flesh was hot.
Cole moved forward and kissed my neck with a low grumble. Then my shoulder. His familiar hand ran across me with the backs of his knuckles. I might have made some undignified sound of pleasure and then lost strength; my head fell back and I couldn’t pull myself back up with no headrest. Cole’s large hand slipped behind me and held me up. He shifted to support my weight while we kissed.
He pulled back into the car again.
“We have some unfinished business.”
“Yeah,” I breathed.
“How are we gonna do this?” said Cole.
“I don’t care,” I said. “Let’s do it right here.” I continued to just hold and stare.
“Not out in the open like this.” He laughed.
“I don’t care,” I repeated. Already pleasure tried to pound across me.
“Let go for a second,” he said. I did, reluctantly. He sighed, redid his belt, and stood. He stepped around and did a full radius search of the parking lot with his eyes.
“Your car,” I said. “Carry me into your car.”
“Yeah?” said Cole.
“Yeah,” I said.
Cole used his hand to conduct a circular motion at me. “Park there.”
I parallel parked beside his car. My thumb fumbled to click off my seat belt while he popped open the back door. Then Cole shuffled to my side. He slid one arm beneath my knees and readied the other around my back.
“Tell me when.” He was poised, but would not lift until I consented.
“Now,” I said.
He swung me into his arms. I’d never seen the world from so high; I could touch the black sky over the treetops surrounding the parking lot. Strength and energy buzzed through his muscles; more than Dad ever had, more than Dr. Clayton. I had never let a man so young, my peer, carry me before. I felt safe. He forged us both into the back seat of his sedan.
The world became quiet inside the car, and there was only the smell of leather and the creases of his crisp shirt in my face. He laid me down on my back in the back seat while he pulled a condom out of his wallet. The parking lot outside became shaded over in brown from the window tints.
Cole shut the door and climbed in after. Being such a big man in a small car, he grabbed onto whatever he could find to keep his weight off me.
“How do we do this now?” he said.
“I’m not very flexible,” I warned.
“Okay,” he said, and he tried to negotiate his body between my legs. They didn’t extend far. “Let me know if I’m hurting you.”
He did, a little, but I didn’t say.
In one smooth motion he returned himself to my hand, and I was happy.
“Help me undress,” I said. Still playing with my new toy.
He undid one button, two, until my blouse was falling off my shoulders. And then he did something strange. He burrowed his face into my shoulder, exhaled, and dug his arm under my back. For a long pause, he just held me. I closed my eyes and rubbed his cold ear with my thumb because it was all I could reach. Joy filled me.
Slowly, he pushed down my pants and we managed to find a position. I’d fantasized this moment a million times, but nothing could describe the real thing. My body lit up and loosened under Cole. And I liked it. I closed my eyes and whispered his name.
As my lips moved, they caught a brush of his beard. He’d swooped down and folded his mouth against mine. Fuck. I was kissing him. I didn’t know what the hell to do, so I just moved my lips in a way that I hoped might convince him to continue. He wrestled with breath, shifting his weight. There wasn’t enough room in this car.
I thought he was getting closer, because the grunting got louder as I pulled on him. I pulled on him the way I always pulled on men’s silk ties at weddings because they hung at just my height. I was probably about as good at this as I was at kissing. But it seemed to work for him.
“What do you want?” he gasped. He was there.
“All of you,” I said.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Yes.” Hurry up.
“I don’t know if I can be there always, Maeve,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“But what about everything you want?” said Cole. “What if I can’t?”
I pawed my free hand for his face. “Cole,” I ordered. “I want this.” He shoved himself inside me in one downward stroke, as if his strength broke. He rocked against me the way he rocks on his feet. Pleasure and a little pain throbbed up my body. Cole was building me up, and all I felt, saw, smelled was him.
I don’t know about the future. I don’t know how I will figure out so many things. I don’t know. I’ll be there one day—I’ll jump or sink. All I can know is what I want right now.
That’s okay.
And right now, I just want to fuck Cole Stone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My parents, Larry and Megan, are my everything. Mom, you’re my best friend. Daddy, I’ll always belong to you. I never want to be apart from either of you. When your arms are open to catch me when I’m sick or your hands are pulling my covers up to my ear, I close my eyes, glad that you made me as I am so that I can be your daughter. Thank you both for making me feel like I can stand on my own two feet. Thank you also to Kelley, my older sister and greatest role model, for cheering me on everywhere, and for being my first phone call whenever I succeed. I love you each with everything I am. This accomplishment is for and because of you.
Thank you to my exceptional “Agent 007,” Jessica Sinsheimer, for being the kindest, strongest, and way-smarter-than-me representative I don’t deserve. You are a gift, Jessica, with a keen taste for alfredo. I look forward to a lifetime of knowing you.
Everyone at St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books deserves my profound gratitude for being such a powerful team behind this green-as-grass debut writer. Lauren Jablonski, my editor, is a woman of insight and grace. I am amazed I get to be your author, Lauren. Thank you, Sara Goodman, Kerri Resnick, Meghan Harrington, Eva Diaz, Christa Desir, Melanie Sanders, Karen Masnica, Anna Gorovoy, Brant Janeway, DJ DeSmyter, and everyone whose sheer hard work, spirit, and brilliance is the reason I am here. Your press is a dream come true, and my book—and myself—are better for it.
Additionally I wish to thank the many exemplary professionals who believed in me throughout my writing journey: Matthew Baldacci, Linda Parks, Patrick Kennedy, Joanna Volpe, Rosemary Stimola, Nina Jacobson, Kiffin Steurer, Richard O’Sullivan, Avi Gvili, Bob Solon
, and Tricia Skinner.
Thank you to my dear, dear friends and fellow authors (I cannot believe I can say that now) John Flanagan and Suzanne Collins for your endless mentoring. I love you both with all my heart. Deep thanks also to David Baldacci for your selfless support.
My three writing groups hammered this book into shape before anyone else, and they are: The Hourlings, The Writers of Chantilly, and a mysterious closed group known only as “Varsity.” I love and thank all of you. Of the members, Nick Bruner, John H. Matthews, Denice Jobe, John F. Dwight, Jason Winn, Erica Rue Gravely, David Keener, Liz Hayes, Mary Ellen Gavin, Ruth Hersh Perry, Martin Wilsey, Steve Moriarty, Terry Williams, Pat Kallman, Loretta Phelps de Córdova, and Angela D. Glascock are due particular debt for their help. Nick, does your wife know I have a crush on you yet?
Every young writer and human needs teachers, and Little Shea had the best. I want to thank all my teachers, but especially Caren Williams for being my sixth-grade teacher and first editor, and Catherine Conley for being my second. Thank you to Kelsey Nieves Martinez, Betty Kelly, Regina O’Shaughnessy, Cat Caldwell, and Lizzy Kemp, and the secret agents lying dormant out there (you know who you are) who were my first fans and readers receiving Word attachments in their email inboxes, or spiral-bound printouts. Which reminds me; I want to thank FedEx Office Print & Ship Center and Office Depot for all the copies. Office Depot, I’ve been using a sketchy discount card printed off the Internet for six years now and you are always super cool about it.
There are literally, like, a thousand (okay, twenty-two) cousins in my family, but we are all so badass. Thank you to them and to the family that supports me: my grandparents, Ed and Judy O’Shea and Joe and Pat Megale, and my aunts and uncles.
I almost-finally wish to thank Professor Chris Stallings for teaching me so much about film, and to thank, especially, Room 142. You select few reading this know what that means. No one can be a part of 142 but us. Thanks for all the action, and here’s to a lot more.
So it is clear that many have carried me here—literally and figuratively. I’m sorry to anyone I forgot. This short section thanks my personal guardians: Mercer, God, and C. S. Lewis.
And this last addresses my hero:
Matt. Oh, Matt. I wish you were here to see this. I am forever your little Bird. And this very last sentence of my first ever published novel is for you.
I love you, big brother.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S. C. MEGALE is an author and filmmaker. She’s been profiled in USA Today, The Washington Post, and New York Newsday, and has appeared on NBC’s Today Show and CBS Evening News for her philanthropic and literary work. As a humanitarian, she’s spoken on the USS Intrepid, at the NASDAQ opening bell, and to universities and doctors nationwide. She enjoys making connections all over the world.
Megale was raised in the long grass of the Civil War, hunting for relics and catching fireflies along the banks of Bull Run. A shark tooth, flutes, and a flask are some of the items that hang from her wheelchair, and she had a fear of elevators until realizing this was extremely inconvenient. She lives with her family, which includes her parents, sister and brother, service dog, and definitely-not-service dog.
This Is Not a Love Scene is her first published novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THIS IS NOT A LOVE SCENE. Copyright © 2019 by S. C. Megale. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover photograph of film reel © Brainstorm331/Shutterstock.com; type © Iyeyee / Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Megale, S. C., author.
Title: This is not a love scene / S.C. Megale.
Description: First edition. | New York: Wednesday Books, 2019. | Summary: Eighteen-year-old Maeve, a future filmmaker who has muscular dystrophy, fears she will never find romance until a project for her Video II class introduces her to new possibilities.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019002941 | ISBN 9781250190499 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250190505 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Muscular dystrophy—Fiction. | People with disabilities—Fiction. | Video recordings—Production and direction—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M4677 Thi 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002941
eISBN 9781250190505
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: May 2019