by Sarina Bowen
Sophie would have loved to invite me over, but her father gave her so much grief about me that I always begged off.
So this was nice. Though bringing Sophie with me was probably stupid. Getting her out of the downpour wasn’t wrong. She’d been wet and ornery looking, and now she looked happy and relaxed with the Shipley clan doing its thing, drawing her into their center.
But it was still a dick move, because I know I’d done it to show off. Look at me, I have friends who aren’t druggies. I’m such a winner. But of course it was a goddamned lie. Just because the people in this room hadn’t seen me at my worst didn’t mean that they were really mine.
Christ. I was such a user. Of drugs, and now of people, too.
On this grim thought, I did something weird and reflexive, something only an addict would do. I looked down into the glass I was holding, wondering how come I can’t feel a buzz yet?
Because it was a glass of soda. Right.
Sigh.
Dinner was delicious, as always. I helped wash dishes afterward.
“What can I do?” Sophie asked as I scraped odds and ends off a cutting board into the compost bin.
The kitchen was pretty crowded. “Have another cider. Or ask the twins if they need help setting up dessert? They’re probably making homemade whipped cream. And they’re usually looking for someone to take a turn with the whisk.”
Sophie gave me a curious smile. “Okay. I’m on it.”
I watched her walk away. She was wearing a pretty plum-colored top that was just a little bit see-through. But I didn’t need sheer fabric to picture the smoothness of her skin. I wore the memory of Sophie like an imprint on my soul.
May caught me looking. “It’s good that you and Sophie are patching things up,” she said quietly.
I turned to look her in the eye. Addicts get really fucking good at eye contact. It’s a great cover up. I’m staring you down, so I couldn’t possibly be lying right now. “Not really,” I said. “Tonight is just a fluke.”
She squeezed my wrist and plucked a dishtowel off its hook. “You never know. Maybe you two need each other.”
“Don’t say that,” I muttered. “Nobody needs this.” What Sophie needed was a train ticket to New York. I still hadn’t asked her yet why she wasn’t already there. I was afraid to hear the answer—that somehow I’d fucked that up for her, too.
May snapped the towel at my ass. “That’s my Eeyore. Always looking on the bright side.”
“It’s my specialty.”
“Wash faster,” she said. “They’re going to cut the pies soon.”
We stayed through a single round of Who Am I—the game where someone tapes a little slip of paper to your forehead with a famous person’s name on it, and you have to ask questions of the other partygoers to figure out who you’re supposed to be.
It was just the sort of game that I’d usually begged off from when I’d lived here. But May and Sophie ganged up on me.
“Fine,” I caved. “But I get to pick both of yours.” So I put “Miley Cyrus” on Sophie’s forehead and “President Obama” on May’s.
May wrote mine, but Sophie taped it on. When she leaned over me, I got a whiff of green apple shampoo.
“Am I Eeyore?” I asked immediately.
May rolled her eyes. “Too obvious. Try again.”
“I need another piece of pie to play this game,” I said. “Anyone else?”
They both claimed they couldn’t eat another thing, so I helped myself. Zach stood at the dessert table, a scrap of paper taped to his head. It read: Zac Efron.
“Let me guess. The twins did yours?”
Zach grinned. He was a man of few words.
“At least yours is flattering. Mine is some asshole, right?”
He shrugged. “Don’t ask the former cult member for help with cultural trivia. But I’m pretty sure yours isn’t cool.”
It took me a single lap around the room to figure out that I was supposed to be Donald Trump. And when Sophie figured hers out, she came over and threw the scrap of paper at me. “Miley Cyrus? You made me the worst singer to ever sell a million records? You are such a shit, Jude Nickel.” She slapped my arm.
“Never said I wasn’t.”
At that, May gave me an ornery eye roll. “Coffee before you go?”
I shook my head. “We’d better head out.”
May hugged me. “I’ll find Sophie’s coat. Come back next week. Bring Sophie,” she added quickly.
My answer was noncommittal. “Thanks, Pooh Bear.”
After a fast round of goodbyes, we were headed toward Colebury again. Sophie was quiet in the passenger seat. Rain spattered against the windshield, and I drove slowly again. Once again I was full of food and warmed by company. If I ever described this moment to a treatment counselor, I knew they’d tell me not to forget it. “Even the grimmest lives have moments of beauty,” I’d heard an addict say once. “Don’t miss ’em.”
“That was nice,” Sophie said eventually, echoing my thoughts.
“They’re good people.” I slowed down to exit the highway.
“True.” Another beat of silence went by. “Why does May call you Eeyore?”
I snorted. “I don’t know. It’s just our shtick.”
“Are you guys a thing?”
The question made me sit back in surprise. “No way.”
“How come?”
Because we’re both in love with other people. I couldn’t say that, though. “She’s a good friend.” One of the only ones I had. “She used to drive me to meetings after we worked the farmers’ market together.”
Sophie’s next words were so quiet that I almost didn’t hear them. “I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.”
The streets of Colebury were deserted tonight. I pulled to a stop around the corner from Sophie’s house. There was no way I could be seen dropping her off. I killed the engine. The sudden silence closed around us. There was only the gentle tap of raindrops on the car and the knowledge that we were truly alone together for the first time in years.
Sophie sat very still. Her eyes cut to mine, and my heart gave an unwelcome squeeze. Whether it was wise or not, I was sorry the night was over. “How about you?” I asked softly. “Are you getting what you need?”
With a tiny tilt of her head, she looked out the passenger window. “Sometimes,” she whispered.
“How come you’re still in Vermont?” I asked. “I thought you’d be giving Miley Cyrus a run for her money by now.”
“I…” She sighed. “That’s not a short conversation.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I quickly backtracked.
Sophie turned her chin to me one more time. “Thank you for rescuing me tonight.”
There was so much vulnerability in her sweet face that I found it difficult to form a reply. I cleared my throat. “I know I screwed up badly, Soph. But if you ever needed my help, there’s really nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” Even at a whisper, my voice cracked on the last word.
Sophie’s eyes welled. She put her hand on the door lever. “Goodnight, Jude.”
I didn’t think I could answer her. So I only raised a hand to push a lock of hair out of her face.
That was my fatal mistake. Because everything changed when I touched her. Sophie’s cheek landed in my palm, her skin silky and cool. I shivered at the contact, and Sophie felt it. Her eyes locked onto mine. Pink lips parted, and she bit her bottom lip.
Kissing her wasn’t a decision I made. It was just inevitable, the way a clap of thunder follows lightning. We leaned in at the same time. I closed my eyes so that I didn’t have to see the little spark of shock on her face. But my blindness changed nothing. Sophie. Our lips brushed together on a sigh. And then my mouth melted onto hers. I kissed her so slowly. Once. Then twice. Even in my haze of yearning I knew I should memorize every second.
“Mmm,” she whispered. Gentle fingers wove into my hair.
I knew this wasn’t allowed, but that only made
it sweeter. I touched my tongue to the seam of her lips, asking permission, and she opened for me on a sigh. When our tongues slid together, it only confirmed what I already knew—she tasted like the sweetest gift I’d ever been given.
The first time I ever kissed Sophie was in a car in the rain. That kiss had made my blood surge with lust and hope. But this one made me ache with impossible longing.
Sophie pressed even closer, and I felt my pulse kick up a notch. But this wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. We weren’t supposed to happen.
It killed me, but I gentled the kiss. I wasn’t ready to pull away just yet, so we ended up forehead to forehead, our sorrowful gazes mirroring each other. “Goodnight, sweet girl,” I whispered. “Be well.”
She only blinked at me for a second before slowly straightening up. Without another word, Sophie opened the car door and got out.
The sound of the door closing again reminded me of a jail cell slamming shut.
Chapter Ten
Sophie
Internal DJ tuned to: “Pompeii” by Bastille
I ran through the rain, welcoming the drops that fell on my face. I needed the shock of their chill to slow down my thumping heart. My mind was a dance tune, loud and pulsing with energy. But when I ran up the walk toward our house, its brooding silence began to choke me before I even reached the door.
The porch light glowed the same warm yellow as the neighbors’. Appearances lie, though. There was nothing warm and cozy at our house. Just three people swimming through their own pain. When I closed the door behind me, I flicked off the porch light. I hung up my rain-spattered coat and kicked off my shoes.
I ran through the darkened kitchen and upstairs. In my room, I got ready for bed. Wearing an old T-shirt and flannel shorts, I climbed into my bed in the dark. The T-shirt I’d grabbed was Jude’s, of course. I’d stolen his Phish shirt a long time ago when we were still in high school. But it still reminded me of him. Everything reminded me of him. I lay there, heart thumping, the taste of him still fresh in my memory.
It was just like high school. I used to come home from our dates all stirred up, my panties damp with unfulfilled desire.
Kissing Jude had been a terrible idea. It was bad enough that I missed having him in my life. I already had the guilt of pining for the guy who killed my brother. But now I found myself thinking about the feel of his rough hand around mine, and the scrape of his stubble against my chin while we kissed.
I rolled over, dropping my face into the pillow. The mattress was firm beneath my hips, and I wished it were Jude underneath me instead of foam and fabric.
Sophie is 17, Jude is 18
Sophie’s junior year of high school is all about kissing. They kiss in his car, as punk rock blares from Jude’s speakers. They make out until she’s gasping with need, her thighs clenching, her fingers stretching out his T-shirt as she clings to him.
This is the year when she realizes how sick she is of being a good girl. She would do anything Jude asks. The only thing that prevents her from stripping him down and fucking him is her own inexperience. She isn’t afraid of sex, but she’s afraid of doing it wrong.
It’s really a miracle that anyone survives her teenage years.
After a frustrating winter of making out in the car, spring arrives. They relocate their make-out sessions to the top of Tapps Hill. A gravel road winds to the top, where a “scenic area” is marked by a sign and a lonely picnic table. On the other side of the road is a clearing secluded by an unruly row of lilac bushes. Jude keeps a picnic blanket in his trunk, and now their make-out sessions go horizontal.
It’s glorious.
Sophie loves the press of his hips on hers when he rolls on top of her. She can feel the hard length of his erection through his jeans, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying.
They stay there for hours, kissing until their lips are bruised, listening to the peeper frogs singing their chorus in the vernal pools.
Still, things stay pretty civilized until the night she happens to wear a skirt instead of jeans. The costume change isn’t premeditated, but if she’d known that Jude would finally put his hands on her, she would have started dressing like the cheerleading team weeks earlier.
His hand starts on her knee, then winds slowly up her thigh as they kiss. It seems to take a lifetime until his fingers slip beneath her panties and cup her bottom, rubbing softly.
Sophie whimpers in encouragement. His fingers circle and tease. Then—praise Jesus—they dip between her ass cheeks and slide forward into the slickness that’s waiting there. She’s ridiculously, embarrassingly wet for him, and Jude makes a sound she’s never heard before—a moan so deep and low that her whole body shivers in tune with it.
Jude growls, pulling her body closer to his, rearranging his grip so he can touch her more easily. She’s trembling in his arms as his fingers begin to explore all her softest places. She grips his shoulders and pants into his mouth, too turned on to be embarrassed.
His fingertip circles lower and she thrusts her tongue into his mouth to show him how much she likes it. Her entire existence is reduced to bottomless kisses and his questing hand. It’s exquisite. With shaking hands she reaches for the button on his jeans and pops it open. Mr. Restraint seems to lose his tight grip on the situation for a moment. His kisses grow wild and clumsy as she lowers his zipper and slides her fingers down the hard length in his underwear.
The wildness of the moment makes her feel crazy. She whimpers into his mouth then breaks their kiss, bringing her lips to Jude’s ear and whispering, because some things are easier to say quietly. “Just do it,” she begs. “I want to feel you inside me.”
Jude groans, biting his lip until she’s sure he tastes blood. “We can’t yet. You know I want to.”
“Nobody has to know.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he rasps. “The chief already assumes the worst. I need to be able to look that fucker in the eye and know I didn’t have sex with his baby girl before she turned eighteen.” He pushes her hands away from his erection and sighs.
Sophie is disappointed, and more than a little embarrassed to be turned down. She’s never asked for it before, not in words, anyway. “I’m counting the days until my birthday,” she grumbles.
“I know.” He kisses her then sweeps his thumb between her legs in a slow, torturous circle. She forgets to be embarrassed. “I’m giving you my dick for a present. Gonna tie a bow around it.”
She’s too turned on to laugh. “Tell me what else you’re going to do.”
Thinking it over, he rubs his lips over hers until she stops him with a nip to his lower lip. “I’m gonna start by laying you out in the moonlight and kissing you everywhere.”
She gasps because she’s imagined this very thing too many times to count.
The naughty whisper continues. “I’m going to get you all heated up with my tongue. Then I’m going to slide slowly inside…” Now he pushes a fingertip right where she wants him. “Then I’m going to tell you over and over again how much I love you until you come.” Jude’s mouth crashes down over hers, and she moans into his mouth.
His kisses are wild and hungry, and his fingers are shameless. She loses herself in his touch, moving her hips in time with his heartbeat until she’s shuddering and sobbing his name.
Chapter Eleven
Sophie
Internal DJ stuck on: “Helpless” from Hamilton
After tossing and turning for hours, I finally fell asleep and stayed that way until almost eleven.
When I went downstairs, I was dismayed to find that nobody had put away any of the food. So the day began with me throwing away a dried-out turkey and all the fixings. Fun times for someone who ran a community dinner once a week where every resource was precious.
It took me hours to clean the kitchen after that. I could hear my mother’s TV shows in the other room, but I was too angry to go in and make nice with her. As I scrubbed hardened mashed potatoes off the serving bowl, I felt as hopeless as I�
�d been since the first ugly days after Gavin’s death.
Three years later, and my family was still a disaster. No—three and a half. Jude’s sudden reappearance had made me stop and calculate just how bad things really were.
With the kitchen cleaned, I went into the dining room to consider the gravy splatters on the wall and the rug and the broken crockery by the baseboard. My blood boiled as I knelt on the carpet, picking greasy shards of my mother’s gravy boat out of the muck. I threw them away in the kitchen trash.
Then I rested on my knees, wondering how to get gravy out of the rug and off the painted wall. When a voice behind me fired off a question, I was so startled that I jumped.
“Where were you last night?” my father demanded.
“Jesus.” I whirled on him. He was leaning against the doorframe, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. My father almost never drank. But now he looked trashed. His eyes were unfocused, and his shoulders swayed.
“Asked you a question,” he slurred. “Where were you?”
“Out. With a friend.”
“Who?”
I got to my feet, wary. “My friend Denny,” I lied.
“You seeing him?”
“None of your business.” One lie, one truth. That was fifty percent more honesty than I used to give my father. I was so tired of ducking his wrath. My father’s rage seemed really pathetic all of a sudden. Broken dishes and whiskey. “Why don’t you clean this up?” I heard myself ask. Both my mother and I avoided making demands of him. Right at this second, I couldn’t remember why.
His face screwed itself into an ugly expression. “Don’t change the fucking subject.”
“This is the fucking subject,” I snapped. “I’m not some junior deputy you can order around. And I’m not Cinderella. You want to throw a temper tantrum in your dining room? Fine. But don’t expect me to get the stains out.”