Perky

by Julia Kent

  I'm frozen.

  There's a silence that goes so deep that you can't hear it. It's the absence of sound. It's what the world does to you when it doesn't know what else it can do, and as I wait, seconds pass, the peace sinking deeper and deeper. Our eyes lock and we settle in, time an irrelevant annoyance that doesn't deserve to be here, marking and measuring what should be infinite.

  “Come here and make sense, then,” I insist, tugging on his shoulders, pulling harder than I should, until I am kissing him hard, so rough, so needy, because Parker's words have a weight to them, a burden, a feeling that presses like a thick stone around my heart.

  And the only way to lift it is together.

  He's between my legs, my hand sliding down until I guide him in, his pause enough to make me whisper, “I'm on the pill.”

  “It wouldn't matter,” he says.

  I jolt.

  “Because if I'm ever going to have children with someone, Persephone, it's with you.”

  “But... not now,” I say, nipping his arm as he waits, paused between in and not in, stuck in an interminable purgatory that is a physical representation of how I've felt for years.

  “No. Not now. And just so you know, and to be perfectly clear, I'm... well...” He clears his throat, endearingly nervous suddenly.

  “You're–what?”

  “I’m clean. No STDs.”

  “Oh.” I swallow, hard. “Same here.”

  “I haven't–it's been five years since–”

  Oh.

  Oh!

  I move my hips, the ache of having him at the brink of entering me worth what we have to say. “Parker,” I murmur, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Five years? You seriously haven't had sex for five years?” I reach for his hand.

  “Meet my girlfriend,” he says, squeezing.

  I bark out a laugh. “No way.”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  The words hang between us, bridging five years of sorrow, of thwarted passion, of my own stupidity, of his undeterred attempts. If I believe he wasn't lying all those years, then what?

  Then I wasted five years.

  Sounds like he did, too.

  “No. No, Parker. I know you're not lying.” I swallow, hard. “And me, too.”

  “You too... what?”

  “No one else, Parker. I haven't slept with anyone since you–since, uh, the picture incident.”

  A long whooosh of air comes out of him, our chests rising and falling rapidly, the twin revelations changing the chemistry in the room, as if we've swapped elements but kept the same formula, and everything sour is now sweet and everything acidic is now a base, and we don't know exactly what this is, but it's not what we thought we were dealing with.

  That's for sure.

  “Five years?” we gasp in unison.

  “Parker,” I say, reaching for him. “Get the hell in here.”

  He's on top of me before I finish the sentence with, “I can't wait another second.”

  And then, he doesn't.

  Oh, God, how good he feels. Being full like this, my thighs against his ribs, his chest crushing my breasts between us, my calves brushing up against his ass–it's a kind of body meld you can't describe. The way he kisses me is so assured, like we have forever, and as he rocks into me, the sensation sparking a deep orgasm, the friction from his angle against my clit the perfect complement, we make love.

  Slowly, then faster.

  It's all a blur of kisses and whispers, of strokes and touches, a choreography that takes different elements and turns them into a sweaty dance of art.

  “Persephone?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I love you.”

  “Mmm,” I moan, unable to say the words back as I blaze into a bonfire, burning off the pieces of me that don't fit anymore, feeling the contours of his strong arms holding him up over me, resting my fingertips on the crook of his elbow as he moves my leg just so, the angle of him sliding in and out of me so right.

  So us.

  Tensing, he gives the signal he used to send years ago before he came, the slight increase in tempo and the hard thrusts making me soak him in, my own hips urging him on until we're coming together, the only sound our heavy breath and the hushed movement of flesh against flesh, bone against bone, blood pushing in tandem to deliver pleasure.

  He collapses on top of me. I feather his back with my fingertips, feeling his slow muscular release as he gives me his all.

  “Those witches weren't kidding,” I whisper after a few moments, unable to stop myself.

  “Witches?” He props his head up on one hand, elbow making the bed sink slightly. “Did you just say 'witches'?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in Salem? You're into that now?”

  “Not quite. Technically, they're dowsers.”

  He rolls over on his back and rests his palm on his belly, his other arm reaching for me to snuggle. “I don't know if my brain can absorb this topic right now. What do dowsers have to do with the best sex I've had in five years?”

  “Uh–the only sex.”

  He wiggles his hand. “Don't offend my FWB.”

  “Your hand can't be a friend with benefits!”

  “Shhhh.” He pretends to talk to it. “She didn't mean that,” he whispers to his splayed palm.

  “You are so weird, Parker. Congressmen don't act like this.”

  “Don't what? Masturbate?”

  “Can we get back to talking about the dowsers?”

  “You can talk about whatever you want,” he says, grinning like an idiot. “You're a dowser now?”

  “No. Fiona is. And when your best friend is obsessed with something, you go along for the ride, like it or not.”

  “Which is how you got me to skinny dip in the ocean, that night at Hampton Beach. And Walden Pond. And Castle Island. What did we do that time when I came up here for two weeks? Thirteen different bodies of water?”

  “Fourteen if we count my parents' pool.”

  “And how many of them did we have sex in?”

  “Twelve. Castle Island involved that unfortunate encounter with a sea lion. And Walden Pond had some Tesla-owning douchebag guy dressed like Mr. Darcy swimming in the lake the day we tried.”

  “Right.”

  “What does any of that have to do with witches?” I ask him.

  “That's my question!”

  “You're comparing my skinny dipping obsession to Fiona's dowsing weirdness?”

  “I'm comparing the friendships. You said people go along with their best friend's fascinations.” He kisses my forehead. “I'm remembering when you were my bestie.” He frowns. “Did you actually visit a coven?”

  “Only once. Fiona said I was banned afterward. Something about my messed-up energy.”

  “Then how do you know what a bunch of modern witches had to say?”

  “Fiona.”

  “Ah.” Tenderly, he brushes some of the hair away from my forehead. “I'm so glad you have her. And Mallory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren't alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “After you dumped me.”

  “I sure as hell was alone!”

  “You had them. And that makes me feel better about the last five years.”

  “You–you were worried about me being alone?”

  “Sometimes. Weren't you worried about me?”

  Do I tell the truth? That no, I wasn't, because it never occurred to me that Parker might be hurting after he betrayed me?

  After I thought he betrayed me?

  Not once in five years did I ever consider the idea that he would feel loneliness, or, well, anything. I assumed he was a cold bastard who had hidden his true self from me. That I was a sucker. A pawn. A throwaway toy you use up and spit out and replace with a newer toy.

  That his bizarre pursuit of me was just more of the taunting game.

  He takes my hand, kisses the center of my palm, then places it over his heart.

>   "I've missed you. I didn't know that an ache could feel like granite. Like a rock in my chest, pressing down on my heart. It had to beat with extra effort to love you. But it did, Persephone. It did."

  “You missed me.”

  “Terribly.”

  I punch him.

  “And screw you for making the last damned time we made love be right before two dogs started humping above my head before I could even get my panties on. There's something really crass about that, Parker.” I shudder.

  It's clear he's in mid-thought, mid-emotion, the second law of motion (the one Mallory told me about a long time ago but I forget exactly, something about how hard it is to stop once you get started) in full force before my words can sink in. Our brains can only process information at a certain speed.

  Sometimes the heart moves orders of magnitude faster. The second law of emotion.

  “How,” he asks slowly, “was it my fault my mother's dogs decided to get carnal seconds after we did?”

  “You're ruining the moment.”

  “We're having a moment?”

  “We are.”

  “I would have brought flowers, had I known. Or a good bottle of rosé.”

  “That's not how moments work. And they sure don't work when you keep bringing up your mom.”

  “You, Persephone, were the one who brought up the dogs. My mother’s dogs. Therefore, the dogs and my mother are your emotional responsibility.”

  “My what?”

  “You have to take ownership of introducing the dogs as a topic of conversation.”

  “Do not!”

  “Do, too.”

  “I am the aggrieved party here, Parker. I get to choose what I take responsibility for.”

  “You can take full responsibility for my orgasm.”

  “You're a guy. Taking responsibility for giving you an orgasm is like saying a spell then flipping a light switch and claiming it's my own magic.”

  “When I'm inside you and coming, it is magic, Persephone.”

  “It's biology.”

  “It's both. More magic, though.”

  He's telling the truth. All of it. Every bit of it, all authentic and real. As he leans toward me, his face dives between my breasts, gentle lips pressing against my breastbone. Eyes darting up, he captures my gaze and says, “Don't go anywhere.”

  “Where would I go? I'm naked.”

  “Didn't stop you for that second protest in El Paso.”

  “We were making the point that naked sex dolls are not representative of women's real bodies.”

  “I'll take your very real body over a sex doll any day.”

  “Does that mean you've actually slept with a sex doll?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Whew.”

  “Why? Because it's too perverted?”

  “No. Because of the chemical load.”

  His laughter trickles back into the room as he leaves, ass on display, his body disappearing into the bathroom.

  Flopping back against the pillows, I let out a long sigh.

  Beep.

  I sit straight up, searching for the source of the sound. My phone rests on the window sill, sandwiched between a candle and a sage stick so thick, it looks like the world's biggest doobie.

  And it just beeped.

  I climb out of bed, snatch it up, and hit the Home button.

  Why did it beep?

  I realize the recording app is open.

  Oh, my God.

  Did I just accidentally film us having sex?

  Did I just get my real sex tape after all?

  15

  The phone feels like I'm holding a rabid bat in my hands.

  I drop it and bend over to retrieve it, cradling it in my hands. The Photos button beckons, begging me to double check. Maybe I didn't record. Maybe it beeped for some other reason.

  Maybe I'm denying reality.

  Some force inside me, an autonomic response that I can't control, propels me forward, making me click through. Hmm. No new video. But my memory is full.

  Why is the memory on my phone full?

  Hell, the memory in my brain is full, too. Full of five years of anger, frustration, disappointment, regret...

  I push Play, then Stop, as the vision of our lovemaking plays in my head.

  I close my eyes.

  For a full minute, I rewind every second of our foreplay, feeling the brush of cotton sheets against exposed skin as if I'm reliving it. Arousal makes me wet again, my nipples tingling with mirror neurons that watch me imagining sex and therefore think my body is actually having sex, sending me spinning. I'm enraptured by the thought of our naked, hot, open-mouthed sex, of Parker's head moving slowly between my legs, how he kissed my inner thigh in a way that was so complete and yet felt so tantalizing. Remembering the hush of his warm breath against the folds, leading up to his tongue on my clit, evokes all the same bodily reactions as if he were right here, touching me right now.

  I grab the phone and push Play.

  I get nothing.

  I frown. I swipe. I find nearest video and push Play.

  “Oh, God,” my voice says in the audio before I realize that’s my butthole video.

  Parker’s butthole video, technically.

  “What's this?” he asks, suddenly... right here.

  Right now.

  Right next to me.

  “NOTHING!” I shriek, flinging the phone onto the pile of our clothes.

  But it doesn't turn the video off.

  “Parker,” my voice gasps from across the room, a long, slow groan of pleasure making it damn clear what this video is.

  He goes still, not even blinking, staring at me. “You recorded us?”

  “Um, well, it’s complicated, and I–”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Technically, you did.”

  “Me? How did I record us having sex on your phone?”

  “It’s really, really complicated.”

  “You sound really, really unhinged, Persephone.” Something in his tone sets off panic in me.

  “Parker, please, let me explain.”

  “Where have I heard those words before? Oh. Right. Out of my own mouth, a thousand times, for the last five years. All aimed at you.” Anger overflows in him, an emotion I’ve rarely seen directed at me. He’s pumped and pissed and suddenly, remorse fills me, subsumes me, buries me in an avalanche.

  My God. What have I done? What have I done to him all these years as I nursed my broken heart?

  “Why?” he demands, getting in my face, seething. “Why would you even want to record us?”

  “I–” My lips stick together as I open my mouth to try to explain myself, but all I taste is Parker. Licking my lips to make it easier to talk just reinforces how stupid I've been. We just made mad, passionate, sweet, hot, filthy love. His face was just between my legs, he was just inside me, his heat is still encased within me. Intimate heat that seconds ago cocooned and enveloped me now burns, searing my skin, making me feel roasted from the inside out.

  His love burns bright in my cells.

  What if his hate does, too?

  Parker bends down and shoves one foot in his pants leg, both legs in quickly. As he grabs his shirt and buttons it so fast, like a zipper, he looks down, away, and says:

  “If it really means that much to you to ruin my career with a sex tape, Persephone, I can't stop you.”

  “It’s not like that!” I turn the phone toward him, the video playing.

  He watches for a few seconds, face cringing. “Is that a spider?”

  “No. It’s my butthole.”

  “Now you’re just being–”

  “You could rip my phone out of my hand. Smash it.”

  “I could.” The soundtrack of our encounter continues to play until mercifully, it ends. He glares at me. “You probably have cloud backup. If this is what you want, there's nothing I can do.”

  I just stare at him, unable to speak. Five years of pain distill to a pinpoint, the
tip pressing hard into the skin over my heart.

  Or maybe it's poking from the inside out.

  “It’s not what you think, Parker. I didn’t–”

  “You expect me to believe you when I just heard what I heard?” He points to my phone.

  “You swear you never released that photo of us five years ago? Really?” I blurt out.

  “I swear. But I can't keep saying it over and over if you'll never believe me. There's a point where even I have to move on.” A low, sickening chuckle comes out of him, his tongue rolling in a tight jaw that feels so final.

  Cold dread makes my bones feel like frozen swords, sharp and dangerous.

  “Five years, Parker? Really? You–you really carried a torch for me for five goddamned years? And didn't sleep with anyone else?”

  “If that hasn't sunk in yet, then clearly you aren’t really listening to me.” His eyes skitter to the phone. “Do what you want. Do what you believe. Show the world who you are, Persephone.”

  I don’t tell him what, exactly, I’d be showing if I released that “spider” video.

  “You showed way too much of me to the world five years ago!”

  “What if it wasn't me?” he spits, furious, gloves off. “Have you ever, just once, entertained that thought?”

  “Of course I have! Every waking moment of my life!”

  “Then give in to it. Surrender to the truth.”

  “The last time I surrendered, it was to you, Parker. You. And look what happened.”

  “I can't make you believe me. But I can tell you that you can trust me. I didn't do it. I don't know what more to say. ”

  My pulse takes over my existence until I am nothing but a throbbing heartbeat, time unmeasured by anything but the next beat, and the next, and the one after that. All I can count on is that beat, even as I watch Parker storm out of my cottage.

  Out of my life.

  This is the first time he has left me.

  For five years, I've held him at bay.

  I knew I'd weaken if I let him into my life, and I was right.

  The sound of his car tires on the driveway make it clear he's leaving, the sickening crunch of gravel like my body being put through a bone crusher.

  I thought that making a sex tape and getting revenge for what he did to me would make me feel balanced. Even. Whole.