That Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Okay,” he said. “So you’ve made other choices.”

  Other choices. She gave an ugly laugh, remembering one of her father’s more pungent sayings: You can’t polish a turd. “I’m a waitress,” she said. “I dropped out of UMass after three semesters. I live in a one-room cottage, rent-free, because someone felt sorry for me. I’m basically a squatter. And when I’m not squatting here, I’m living with my parents and working as a janitor.”

  His voice was mild, but she could hear the rebuke in his tone. “There’s nothing wrong with honest work.”

  Diana felt her face get hot. “I know,” she said. “I know that. I do. It’s just… I was good at school. I got good grades; I won a scholarship. My parents, my teachers… everyone expected more from me.” She sighed. “I expected more from me. For me. But the girl who wanted that big life—I’m not her. Not anymore.” And I’m afraid, she thought, but couldn’t say. I’m still so afraid.

  He settled his hand against her neck and rubbed gently. She pressed her face into his neck and leaned back into his touch, the warmth of his hand, the softness of his skin underneath the prickle of his beard. “I just want to stay here, in my house, with my dog, and work my job, and come home at night, and go to sleep to the sound of the ocean,” she said into his chest. “And not hurt anyone.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad to me at all.” He was holding her close, and before she could lose her nerve she turned, stood on her tiptoes, took his face in her hands, and kissed him on the lips. He tasted like beer and lemons, and his mustache tickled her lips.

  “Fuzzy,” she murmured. She wanted to do something, to replace the darkness inside of her with something light, and she knew what that thing might be. It was time. She took his hand and led him inside, onto the couch, and when he sat down, instead of sitting beside him, she arranged herself on top of him, her legs straddling his thighs.

  “Mmm,” he said, and touched her hair, then her face. He let his hands fall open on the couch as he leaned forward, nuzzling her neck. She shivered as the hairs brushed her skin, then leaned forward and pressed nibbling kisses on his cheek, then his beard, before finally shifting her lips to the soft, yielding warmth of his mouth.

  His breath hitched as she leaned against him, pressing her breasts against his soft flannel shirt. He returned her kisses enthusiastically, his tongue a startling, delicious softness in the bristly tangle of his beard. But he didn’t move his hands any lower than her waist, always letting her be the one to push herself against him, to deepen a kiss, to take the lead in whatever they were doing.

  Michael’s voice was a low rumble against her chest. “Are you okay?”

  “Um, I think so.”

  He lifted one hand to stroke her cheek, then her hair. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want. So you’re going to have to tell me.” He leaned close, whispering in her ear, making her shiver all over. “Tell me everything you want to happen. Everything you want me to do.”

  She kissed him again, feeling shame surge through her; panic trying to grip her. With an effort, she was able to put herself back in the present, in her body, in that moment. She concentrated on the sensations: the warm weight of his hand on her head, the slow brush of his thumb against her cheek, the persistent ache between her legs. Reaching up, she touched his hair, which was surprisingly soft. She combed through it with her fingers, scraping her nails gently against his scalp.

  “Mmm,” he rumbled.

  She put the heels of her hands against his shoulders and looked down at him, gazing up at her. Leaning forward, she slid her palm down the side of his face, from the warmth of his skin to the prickles of his beard to the soft skin of his neck. She hesitated, then continued on, brushing her palm against his shirt, feeling the hard bud of his nipple. She gave it a tweak, heard him inhale, saw his eyes flutter shut. Still, he kept his hands motionless at her waist.

  She began kissing his neck, warm, openmouthed caresses. When she nibbled at a spot just beneath his ear, he gasped, and stiffened, and his voice sounded strangled as he said, “Oh, wow, that’s good.”

  She nibbled at him some more, tasting his salty skin, feeling the curve of his head against her palm. She sat up straight just long enough to pull off her sweatshirt and T-shirt. Michael leaned back and watched her, eyes wide. She smiled, and took one of his big hands, and brought it to her breast, and the plain beige bra she was wearing. He held his hand in place, then began sweeping his thumb in arcs against the skin of her chest. “Okay?” he whispered.

  Instead of answering, Diana reached down and brushed her fingers over the solid mound behind his zipper, smiling at the strangled sound he made.

  “You’re going to kill me,” he said, but he didn’t sound unhappy about it.

  She leaned forward, letting her hair brush his cheeks. “I want it,” she whispered. “I want you.”

  He groaned, then stood up with Diana in his arms and carried her up to her bed. He laid her down as gently as if she was made of spun glass, as if she was some rare treasure. With great care, he undressed her, unlacing her shoes and easing each one off, pulling off her socks, unbuttoning her jeans and drawing them down over her legs. He looked at her for a long, airless moment, like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, and she had to close her eyes against the tenderness of his gaze, before it scorched her.

  He leaned forward, mouth close to her ear. “I want to make this good for you,” he rumbled.

  “Mmm,” she sighed.

  “Anything you don’t want, you tell me,” he said. “If you want to stop, we’ll stop.”

  She nodded. It made her heart ache to hear such consideration, and to know he was treating her with such care because of what had happened. I’m damaged goods, she thought.

  “You’re perfect,” he said, as if he’d heard what she was thinking. Then he bent to her, kissing her ankle, her calf, the back of her knee. She could feel the softness of his hair, the prickles of his beard, the warmth of his lips and his tongue as he moved up, up, up. “Oh,” she sighed, and she felt him kissing, then sucking gently, his beard tickling her thigh.

  “Do you like that?” he whispered. She thought that the way she was squirming on the bed, her hips rising and falling with an unconscious, insistent rhythm, would have given him an answer, but clearly he needed to hear it. She’d almost worked out what to say when she felt his fingers pressing into the soft flesh behind her knee. When she felt his lips there, she arced right off the bed.

  “Ooh!”

  She heard his chuckle, felt his hands on her hips as he urged her onto her belly. Then he repeated the process on her other leg, kissing his way from instep to ankle to calf to, this time, the back of her knee. When she felt his tongue there, she made a noise so loud it would have been embarrassing, if there’d been any part of her that still had the capacity for shame. For once, she’d stopped thinking, her mind abandoning itself to sensation as Michael gripped her thighs, holding them firmly, but not with enough force to keep her in place if she wanted to move. She rolled her hips in the air, desperate for friction, frantic for him to touch her.

  “Oh,” she whispered, “oh, please, please, please…”

  He brushed his thumb right between her legs. She squeaked, and did it even louder when he repeated the gesture with two fingertips.

  “You’re so wet,” he muttered, and hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties. “Okay?”

  “Mmm,” she hummed.

  He drew them down slowly, slipping them over her feet, and his warm hands were gently urging her thighs apart. She had a brief moment to wonder how she looked, how she smelled, an instant to think I should have shaved my bikini line, before he dragged the tip of his index finger along the wet seam between her legs, so delicately he was barely touching her. His fingertip landed on her clitoris and flicked it gently, and she forgot how to think. He brought his face between her legs, and just breathed on her, gently, so gently that she could barely tell he was there. She lifted her hips, tryin
g to spread her legs even wider, moaning, “Please, please, please.”

  He put his tongue against her, working his finger in and out as he licked, then sucked, then just pressed his tongue flat against her and letting her rub herself against it, like a cat arching its back into a waiting hand, and it was too much, and yet, still not enough. Her breath was coming in pants, and she was gripping the back of his head, holding him against her, feeling his beard, his lips, his teeth, his tongue, until her hips arced off the bed and she forgot everything she’d been thinking and everything she’d meant to say, all of it swept away in a torrent of pleasure.

  * * *

  “That has never happened to me,” she whispered a few minutes later. She was smiling, and Michael was lying right against her. She had her arm underneath his neck. His head was on her shoulder, and she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh.

  “With a guy?”

  “It’s never happened with a guy. And it hasn’t happened at all since that summer.”

  “You don’t, ah…”

  “Masturbate? I’ve tried. But nothing works. This was the first time.”

  Tears were slipping out of her closed eyes, running down her cheeks, but, at Michael’s look of alarm, she said, “They’re happy tears. I’m okay. I promise.”

  He rubbed his thumb against her cheek and then, so gently that at first she could barely feel it, he kissed her tears away, which made her cry harder. Sniffling, she asked, “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  He was, she realized, still completely dressed, in jeans and a flannel shirt, everything except his boots, which he’d left by the door. She stroked her hand along his back, then reached for the buttons on his shirt. He took her hand and held it still.

  “We don’t have to.”

  “What if I want to?”

  He looked at her gravely. “Only if you want,” he said.

  “I do. I promise.” He let her roll him onto his back, let her straddle him and unbutton his shirt, unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants. He helped her, sitting up when she told him to, lifting his hips so she could get his pants off. Then, finally, for the first time in her life, she was in bed, naked, with a naked man.

  Michael was looking rueful. “I, ah, did the Atkins thing over the winter.” He patted his substantial belly. “I don’t know how I was supposed to lose weight eating bacon and eggs.”

  “I don’t want you to lose weight,” she said. She couldn’t explain how much she liked his size, like he was solid and substantial enough to shelter her and keep her safe.

  Michael was big all over, and hairy, his chest and belly and legs covered in reddish-gold curls. The curls were densest on his chest, and at his groin, a tangly nest from which his penis rose, red and curved and wet at the tip. She took it in her hand and gave it an experimental squeeze. He sucked in a breath, and his nipples puckered to hard points.

  “Oh, boy.” His eyelids fluttered shut. She kissed each one, then his cheeks, then his lips, kissing him gently at first before his mouth opened to hers and he put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. She breathed him in, smelling herself, and beer and balsamic vinegar and the scent that was his alone. Before she could lose her nerve, she straddled him, gripping his penis and rubbing herself against it, sliding back and forth until she was sure that it was wet, before gripping it, placing its tip at her entrance, and sliding slowly down until he was completely inside her.

  They both groaned. Michael sounded ecstatic. Diana just felt full, unpleasantly full at first. She raised herself up, easing off him to lessen the pressure before she slid down again, letting him fill her. That time it felt good. No. Better than good. When she did it again, it felt amazing. Incredible. She raised herself up again, but he stopped her, gripping her hips.

  “Wait,” he rasped. “Condom.”

  “Oh, shit!” She clambered off him, so fast that there was an embarrassing wet popping noise. Michael reached over her, groping for his pants, removing his wallet from a pocket, opening the packet with his teeth. They rolled the condom over his erection together, his hand warm on hers. He lay back again, but she shook her head, and pressed her naked body against his.

  “Come on,” she whispered.

  “Are you sure?”

  She reached down, gripping his sheathed penis, and pressed her lips against his ear. “I need you to do this right now.”

  He groaned, so loudly that she imagined she could feel the cottage vibrating. She had an instant of doubt, a brief few seconds of fear. Then she reminded herself that this was Michael, Michael who knew her, Michael who’d helped her, Michael who maybe even loved her. She tilted her head and, as he kissed her, he put her hand on him and held still, waiting for her to guide him inside. She moved, tentatively at first, then faster, leaning forward so her hair fell down around him, enclosing their two faces, making a secret world.

  * * *

  “You know I love you,” he said when it was over.

  She’d been half-asleep, dozing against the warmth of his body, thinking it was like having a slow oven in her bed. When he said it, her entire body jolted, like she was a glass in the cupboard, rattled by some unexpected force. “What?”

  “I love you. I’ve been in love with you a long time. Maybe even since the first time I came over, when you were so mean to me.” He nudged her fondly. “Remember that?”

  Diana cleared her throat. It felt like her tongue and her lips and her teeth were all new pieces of equipment, recently installed. “I was mean to you a lot of times.”

  “You sure were, baby,” said Michael, and gave her shoulder a friendly pat. Diana laughed. The bed felt like a boat, small but sturdy, bearing the two of them in the sea of the dark, and she could picture his good-natured smile.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you…” She could barely bring herself to say it. “Why do you love me?”

  “Oh, honey.” He turned on his side and took her in both of his arms, holding her against him. His hand was in her hair, and he was whispering her name. “Because you’re my Diana. My beautiful Diana.”

  “And it’s okay if I’m…” She swallowed in the darkness. “It’s okay if I’m not… completely okay?”

  He propped himself on his elbows so he could look down, right into her eyes. “You’re perfect to me,” he said.

  For the next three days and nights, they barely left Diana’s bed. On Tuesday night, when Diana went to work, Reese looked her over, then smiled. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you had a pleasant weekend.”

  “What?”

  He swatted her bottom with a bar towel. “Don’t ‘what’ me, young lady. I know that look. That look is a look of pure sat-is-fac-tion.” He nodded, pleased with himself, as Diana rolled her eyes. “Seriously, though, dear heart. You look happy. Healthy. Not quite so much the drowned rat I had the good fortune to meet last year.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eyes.

  “I’m happy for you, darlin’,” he said, and walked off, humming a tune it took her a few seconds to recognize as “Sexual Healing.” Diana shook her head, smiling, thinking that she was happy, too.

  * * *

  One night in the springtime, as they lay in the candlelit loft, listening to a thunderstorm roll in over the bay, Michael finally asked the question that had been looming between them since the first time they’d gone to bed. “Will you go back to Boston again this summer?”

  “I don’t know.” She didn’t want to go, but she still couldn’t stand the thought of seeing one of those boys near the place that had started to feel like home.

  Michael stroked her hair as the cottage shook with peals of thunder, and rain rattled against the windowpanes. When he spoke, her head was on his chest, and his voice was a warm rumble in her ear.

  “You could stay.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “You really think those boys would come back?”

  Diana didn’t know
what to say. Or, rather, she didn’t know how to answer him in a way that wouldn’t make her sound crazy. Years had passed since that night on the beach, but the truth was, part of her did think that the boys could come back, and she did think that they would find her, and they’d come for her again.

  Michael’s hand was warm and gentle. “Maybe you need a disguise.”

  Her voice was thick, and her mind stuck in the memories of the bonfire, the feel of that boy on top of her, the sound of her hair, swishing on the sand as she’d fought. She cleared her throat. “What?”

  “Like a disguise. A secret identity. What if you had another name? You know, like how Superman is Clark Kent? And Batman’s Bruce Wayne?”

  At first, she didn’t realize what he was saying. “Like what?”

  “Well, I’ve always liked Carmody.”

  He rolled away to reach underneath the pillow, and when he turned toward her again he had a black velvet box in his hand.

  “Diana Scalzi…”

  She started to cry.

  “Would you do me the great, great honor…”

  She shook her head. “You don’t want me,” she sobbed, crying so hard she could barely speak. “I’m a mess.”

  “Hey,” said Michael. “Look at me.”

  She looked.

  “I love you,” he said. “I love you, and I just want to be with you. No matter what.” He was still holding the box, his face hopeful, his hand trembling, and she wanted nothing more than to open it, to slip the ring on her finger, to tell him yes and see him smile. But she couldn’t do it.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “Okay,” he said, and looked at her, a little anxiously. “Just as long as it isn’t no.”

  She looked away, and then she forced herself to say it. “What if I don’t want to have children?” When Diana had dreamed about her life, both before and after the rape, she’d considered many different versions of the future. Some of them involved traveling, or going back to school; some involved art, or writing, or teaching, but none of them had ever involved motherhood. She liked children—her nieces and her nephew, the kids she’d babysat when she was younger, Sam and Sarah Levy, from way back when—but she’d always been happy, at the end of a day or a night or a weekend, to give them back to their parents. Then the rape had piled another set of fears onto that initial reluctance. She was afraid of the appointments, of how it would feel to have her legs in stirrups and her body so exposed. If she had a girl, she’d be worried that something would happen to her daughter like what had happened to her, and she thought she wouldn’t have any idea about how to raise a boy.