Spill Over

by Jolene Perry

  My hands slide up the back of her shirt, bringing her even closer, if that’s possible. Her skin is exactly how I imagined it would be, soft, smooth. She feels perfect. It’s exactly what I’ve needed since even before our first kiss. I trace the line of her bra across her back to her sides.

  My body’s going crazy with my need for her. And even though I know we won’t go all the way, more of Amber under my hands also feels good. My thumbs trace the bottom of the front of her bra.

  “Wait.” She pulls away, breaking contact with not just our mouths, but our bodies.

  The disappointment is crushing. Maybe I should have kept my hands on her back. “Amber, please. I promise I won’t push things too far.” But I lie still, waiting for her to say something.

  Her hand rests firmly on my chest, forcing me to keep my distance. “I’m stopping us because we are too far.”

  “Sorry, I just—”

  “Because it’s a big deal.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal.” I’ve actually never been with someone who thought it was a big deal. I don’t think.

  “Well, when you realize it’s a big deal, let me know.” Now there’s an edge of irritation to her voice, and she sits up, furthering the divide.

  “How many people have you…”

  “None. Remember?” She scoots away again. I feel more than the loss of warmth next to me.

  “Right.” There’s no way to hide the shock in my voice. It’s like I turn into the old Antony when we’re close enough for me to lose my head a little.

  “You’re the second guy I’ve given a real kiss to. Everything’s new.”

  “But it feels good, right?”

  “Most of the time, but you touching me makes me more scared. I can’t feel good if I’m tense, wondering where your hands are going to be next.” Her voice is clipped, and I know I’ve screwed up.

  I have no idea what to say so we sit in silence. She’s pushing me away in more ways than one, and it feels like I’m grasping at straws being tossed in the air. The pieces of Amber are going to fall away, and there’s nothing I can do to keep her here. Especially because I still don’t know what to say.

  Amber speaks first. “I know you’ve been with…I mean, had sex or whatever…”

  “Three. I know you’re going to ask. Hélèna’s two years older, and thought it would be fun to be my first.”

  Silence thickens the air.

  “Where did you meet her?” Amber asks.

  I’m frustrated that the darkness makes it impossible for me to read her features, just her voice.

  “Mom had a good friend in Paris we used to stay with once in a while, Arnaud. Hélèna’s his niece or something,” I explain. That makes sense, right?

  “Do you…I mean…do you two still talk?” Her voice still sounds okay, I think.

  “Yeah. We talk, and we’ll get together when I’m in town, but it’s not…I mean we’re not a thing or anything.” Now that I’m saying it out loud, it kind of makes me feel bad. Will someone like Amber understand?

  “You get together, together when she’s in town?”

  “Well, I mean. Yeah. We’ve done it before. We like each other, and I just don’t… well, neither of us wants more than that from the other so…” It felt awesome and convenient when her family would end up in New York, or when I’d end up in Paris. Like we’d be a couple for a few days and then not talk for months. I think it worked for both of us. I’d never really thought about an actual relationship with anyone until now. Now that I’m apparently screwing it up from all ends. No pun intended.

  “And what about the other two?” she asks.

  “I don’t. I mean, I don’t think you actually want to know.” Because it’s really the same kind of relationship I have with Hélèna, even though they live in town.

  She scoots further away. Far enough that I sit up, and my stomach turns to a ball of nerves.

  I let out a sigh. “Gem and Savannah are both friends from New York.”

  “When…I mean, when was the last time you were with them?”

  “Not for a while.” Oh. Wait. “You called me at that party, remember?”

  “I remember.” The words come out slow.

  “Gem was there, and…”

  “You slept with her that night?” she asks. Her voice is now tinged with anger. Things are going downhill and I don’t get it, because I’m trying to be honest.

  “No, we didn’t have sex, she just…” but maybe that’s worse. I don’t know. I’m treading totally unfamiliar ground here. I’m terrified I’m losing Amber. She feels further away from me every time I open my mouth. “Let’s just say that yeah, we had sex. But I was out of it. I called you. I wanted you. Even way back then.”

  “But you let her do, whatever, to you anyway?” she asks. This voice I can read. The stack against me is getting higher all the time, and she’s feeling it.

  “Amber, I didn’t get it.” I reach out to touch her, but miss. This is so frustrating. “Okay, it’s too dark in here. I need to see you.” My fingers find the switch and when the light hits I squeeze my eyes tight for a minute before I can see. My chest drops. She’s crying.

  She turns away as soon as our eyes meet.

  “Amber.” I take her hand in mine and lean toward her. “This sucks. Please talk to me or something. I’m going crazy here.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I swear it wasn’t a big deal. None of it was.” She’s the big deal. Amber is. How can she not see this?

  Now she looks at me through narrowed eyes, and part of me wishes she wouldn’t. “No! Don’t you get it? It was all a big deal, or it should have been! Instead you’re playing them off like nothing!”

  “But they knew. I mean, I didn’t have to do anything, they just…all of them.” All of them sort of came onto me. I was just along for the ride. “Look. Most guys just get laid and call it good. I, you know, take my time, make sure they feel good and…” I’m one of the good guys, only even saying it out loud makes me feel a little less like one of the good guys.

  “Oh. So, I should feel honored that someone like you would want me. Is that it?” She scoots so far she’s against the wall.

  “Shit, Amber. Tell me how to fix this. I’m freaking out over here.” My heart’s banging around inside me.

  “It’s just two ways of seeing the world, Antony. And your way and my way don’t really mesh. Not on this.” She slides off my bed and heads for the door.

  My heart drops again. “Amber, wait. Please help me out here. The only person in my whole life I’ve ever been actually honest with is you and my mom. The only ones.” How can she move away knowing this?

  She’s still not looking at me, but her face softens. I haven’t lost her. Not yet. “I just need some thinking time, okay?”

  She walks for the door, and I follow. I’ve never been so jumpy my whole life. “Can I have a hug or something, please? Something to make me feel a little less desperate here?”

  She stops at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the boat, and turns around. Her face is like stone—still and unreadable.

  I need to use everything, everything I know. My fingers reach out and touch hers. I take her hand and give her a small squeeze. She squeezes me back. The air leaves my lungs in relief. We pull together and stand at the bottom of the stairs for a few moments before I dare to let her go.

  “Please call me later on, okay?” I ask. I’m completely pathetic. Just like a girl. Please call me, don’t forget. Bats lashes. And as she steps out into the still night, I start to get it. She knows I think like this. She can see through me, and it scares her. Maybe I’m just an incurable asshole, which really sucks, cause I’ve always thought of myself as one of the nice guys.

  Seventeen

  Dad’s ferociously typing when I stumble out of bed in the morning.r />
  “So, you and Amber?” Dad asks. “You’re still being careful?” His fingers don’t even slow down.

  “I don’t know. I keep fuc…messing it up.” I slump to sitting at the egg-table.

  “Well knock it off.” He stops typing to smile and slugs my arm.

  “Yeah. Trying.”

  I sit and watch him type. I wonder if I get that absorbed. The stack of mail has grown, but Dad hasn’t mentioned anything else about it.

  “What’s up with you and Lynn?”

  “Hmm?” The rhythm of his typing falters as he tries to keep working.

  “You heard me.” I’m kind of getting a kick out of his obvious desire to not talk about this.

  He stops and looks over his laptop. His glasses come off and he rubs his nose a few times. “I love her, but anytime I even slightly mention sharing a boat…”

  I smile at that. “Move in” means sharing a boat.

  “She sort of closes off, and then I don’t see her for a while.”

  “But our week in the San Juan’s.”

  “Yep, and then we get home, and she’ll want some extra space again. I don’t get it.”

  “Well, Amber…I don’t know. I know she likes me, but it’s like every time we talk I come off sounding like some spoiled jerk, and she’s afraid to be around me.”

  “Maybe you’re pushing things too far, too fast.” Dad rests his arms on the table. “I mean, I know you’ve…” He chokes like he can’t find the words.

  “Dad, you’re way late on the sex talk. Yes, I have. No, she has not. And I didn’t think I was pushing anything too far.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter what you think, does it?”

  “What?”

  “It matters what she thinks.”

  It’s so obvious, and it somehow still got lost. “Yeah.”

  “Also, do you want the car to pick up Hélèna? She’s coming in tonight, right?”

  “What?”

  “I got an email that said she’d emailed you tons of times. She found me on my author site, so she dropped me a line saying she was coming to visit. I assumed you knew.” Dad sits back, and I can’t believe he’s holding his tongue on my lack of email checking finally biting me in the ass.

  Dread starts to seep in. How will I explain Hélèna to Amber or Amber to Hélèna? “It’s pronounced Ellen-ah, Dad. She’s French.” It’s all I can say right now.

  “Well, I would’ve said something sooner if I thought you didn’t know.”

  Hélèna. In a Prius. And me without a decent haircut since I got here. Also, I’ve totally let myself go, wearing nothing but t-shirts and jeans. It’s just…in Podunk, Washington, what the hell else am I supposed to do? “You know what her flight info is?” I ask.

  “Check your email, son.” Dad smiles and then continues typing away. Guess that’s my dad’s version of an ‘I told you so.’

  My email’s a mess. I have over a thousand unread messages. I do a search for Hélèna’s address and come up with the letters from her. I don’t look at what she wrote—just scan until I see her flight info. Shit. I have three hours to get ready and make the hour and a half drive to pick her up.

  What about Amber? The thought scrapes around in my head as I shower and shave. Do I tell her? Do I not tell her? Is she speaking to me? I mean, I think she is. It was weird when she left last night, but she said she’d call, and it’s noon, and she hasn’t. What does that mean? Now I’m pulling out clothes and trying to find something worthy of Hélèna. When I start to take off my third pair of jeans I realize I’ve practically lost my balls. No one but girls should spend this much time worrying about relationships and getting ready to go out.

  I grab my wool coat and step into the living room. “I’ll be back… I don’t know, later.”

  “You look good. Back to your New York self.” Dad leans back, still in front of his laptop.

  “Uh… thanks. I thought I’d take her to dinner or something, while we’re still in Seattle.”

  “Sounds good. We’ll see you when we see you. If you’re going to be past midnight, I’d like a call.”

  “Okay.” And this is the cool thing about Dad. He really does treat me like an adult, or an equal, or something. It’s nice. Makes me feel good.

  My phone’s in my pocket in case Hélèna calls, or Amber calls, and I really hate that these two girls keep ending up in the same freaking sentence.

  Amber’s not on the docks, and I drive by the coffee place to see if she’s there. She isn’t. Guess we’ll talk later.

  For the first time since I got here, I kind of hope she doesn’t call. I need some time to get my head on straight so I know what to say.

  - - -

  Hélèna looks like she always does—too cool to talk to, and too beautiful to touch. Her short dark hair is shiny and flawless, even after her long flight. She’s perpetually in heels and the tightest jeans she can fit her tiny ass into.

  “Antony!” Her hand comes up in a small wave. Her Louis Vuitton is bigger than she is, and I have no idea where I’ll put the thing once we’re on the boat.

  “Bonjour.” I lean in to kiss her cheek, but her lips meet mine.

  And Hélèna knows me, knows my body, my mouth. Before I can make a coherent thought to step away our tongues are swirling together in the way she taught me.

  “Merci.” She cocks a brow as she pulls back. Her elfin face and smooth lips looking nothing but smug. “Tu veux parler français?”

  It’ll feel good to speak in French. I’ve used no language but English since arriving. “We can speak French if you like.” My accent’s sloppy, but not terrible.

  “Very nice, I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your touch…in anything.” She winks.

  “I don’t. I mean, I can’t…” But now I’m not sure what words to use, even if we were speaking in English. How do I tell her no kissing? No touching? I have someone else?

  “So, Antony is living on a boat with his estranged father.”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to start answering your emails.” She raises her brows.

  “I know.” And as we walk toward the car, I realize that Hélèna and I really are friends. We’re more than that, or we have been until now, but at the core of our relationship, we’re friends. Funny that I didn’t really see that past all the other stuff we do together. Sometimes the physical feelings sort of take over the rest of it.

  “I’m so sorry about your mother. I know you don’t want to hear that, but I really am. No one had a cooler mom than you.” Her hand pulls my arm more tightly.

  “Thanks.”

  “You feel different.” She pushes her lower lip in a pout.

  “What do you mean?” Even though I sort of do. Normally I’m a shameless flirt around her, knowing how we’ll be finishing off our evening.

  “I mean, usually I can’t keep your lips or hands off me.”

  “Have you ever tried?” I tease. The moment the words are out, I know I shouldn’t have said them. I just don’t know how to be around Hélèna as just friends. It’s not how we are.

  She laughs. The open-mouth carefree laugh that only she can do.

  We stop next to the car. “It’s Dad’s,” I explain.

  “I live in Paris. Everyone has small cars, remember? Or has it been too long since you’ve come to see me?”

  “Too long, chérie.” I kiss her cheek as I open the car door.

  The way she looks at me is questioning. If I didn’t have Amber, I’d probably have pinned her against the car and kissed her until she begged for breath. And I will have to find a way to stop having these thoughts if I don’t want to screw up. Though, I kind of already have. It adds to the constant weight in my chest. I push it down with all the stuff I can’t deal with right now.

  Louis fits in the trunk. Miraculously, and a
fter folding down the backseat. Maybe after she unpacks, Louis can stay out here. My chest sinks. How long will she want to stay?

  “You okay?” she asks as I take the driver’s seat.

  “You’re aware of the accommodations?”

  “A sailboat. An Oyster. They’re nice.” She smiles, resting a hand on the inside of my thigh. Very high. “I’m sure we’ll find room.”

  I’m strung up so tight I almost run into two cars on our way out of the lot, but how do I tell her to move her hand when it’s usually me seeing what I can get away with?

  “You look older, Antony.”

  “I am older.” I allow myself to glance at her. Nearly black hair, incredible jaw line. She knows she’s the perfect stereotype of the hot French girl who lives in Paris. She loves every glance, every look, and has always, always, been older than her actual age. Her mother is single, wealthy from I don’t know what, and seems to always know people in high places.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I do know what she means. She means because of Mom, and I have to stop the thought there, because crying in front of Hélèna is not an option.

  I take her to the restaurant Dad, Lynn, Amber and I all went to. All I can think about is Amber’s legs. Hélèna keeps telling me how sorry she is that she didn’t come sooner, that I look lost. I try to brush it off. My mouth opens to tell her about Amber, but I can’t. It won’t work.

  Hélèna’s twenty-one. She drinks a bottle of four hundred dollar wine with our dinner. She even tries to pick up the check.

  We get curious looks all through dinner. We continue speaking French. It feels great. Hélèna and I always speak French together. Mom didn’t speak well enough to keep up, especially with the amount of odd slang Hélèna’s always used.

  We head for Dad’s car. Again, she stands by the passenger’s door, waiting for me to make a move on her. She slowly lowers to sitting when I don’t.

  “I’m so tired.” She leans the chair back as I climb in.

  “Go to sleep.” I rub her shoulder a few times.

  “You’ll have to carry me when we get there.”