Love Me Broken

by Lily Jenkins

  Nicole’s eyes go wide. “Erica! Don’t be stupid!”

  “Honestly,” I tell her, “I’m not sure I ever really wanted to go. I just needed—” a way out of here “—something to do.”

  She huffs. “Erica, a full ride to Columbia—mother-fucking Columbia!—is not just some something to do! Do you know how jealous I am of you? Do you know how much I’d give to be in your place? I won’t let you throw this away over some stupid crush.”

  “It’s not a stupid crush!” I snap. “It’s more than that.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Just because you come in a fucking tower, all the sudden you think you’re goddamn Rapunzel. Well, guess what? This ain’t no fairy tale. This is Astoria. It sucks to live here, and it sucks to be stuck living here. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be here forever. This is your only chance, and you’d be a fool to throw it away because you enjoy getting off.”

  I look away. Tears are forming in my eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

  She slams a hand on the table. “But it is! This is just some loser. There are hundreds more where he came from.” She reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. “Listen to me, Erica. I’m your best friend. Leave this guy. Leave now. You have to believe me that no man is worth it.”

  I pull my hands away. “Just because you hate your life and your job and can’t find anyone to be around for more than ten minutes, it doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do.” The words are bitter and cruel, but I don’t care. I’m pissed. I start to collect my purse.

  “You’re making a mistake,” she says, folding her arms and not bothering to stop me from leaving.

  “Fuck you,” I tell her. “Enjoy serving coffee the rest of your life.”

  And with that, I rush out of the store and down to the pier. And when I get there, I find a bench, and I cry. I can’t even think. I just cry.

  I call Adam that night, after I’ve had time to think things over. He picks up on the second ring.

  “I was wondering when you’d call,” he says. I can tell he’s smiling.

  “You know,” I tease, “the phone works both ways.”

  “Noted.”

  “And texts don’t count as calls.”

  He laughs. “Of course not.” Then he’s quiet a moment. “So,” he says, “what are you up to?”

  There’s a hint of sex in his voice that makes my heart race. I’m sitting on my bed at home. It’s dark outside, and I’ve only got one lamp lit on my dresser. It fills my room with warm pink light.

  I hadn’t intended on starting anything with him tonight. This was supposed to be a call to vent, perhaps ask his advice about Nicole. But now that I hear his voice, I suddenly don’t care about Nicole anymore. Suddenly, I’m too distracted by other possibilities.

  I sit up a little and listen for noise in the rest of the house. Nothing.

  “Not much,” I say. “Just hanging out in bed.”

  Another beat of silence. Then, in a low voice, he asks, “What are you wearing?”

  I look down at my pajamas: an old T-shirt and silk shorts. “Hold on,” I whisper. Then, almost shaking with nerves, I get up and lock my door. My parents never come in anymore, but no sense taking chances. I hop back onto my bed. “Just a beat-up old shirt and some shorts.”

  He moans a little. “No underwear?”

  “I don’t wear them to bed.” I try to keep my voice light, but my breath is increasing, and my free hand is already moving down, playing lightly on my stomach before sliding farther. “What about you?”

  “Some jeans,” he says. “No shoes though, or socks.” I can almost hear him grin. “I’m not wearing a shirt either.”

  I picture his chest in my imagination. I haven’t seen him shirtless yet, but I’ve felt his chest and flat stomach through his clothes.

  “Although,” he continues, “thinking of you, I might have to take off my jeans pretty soon. There’s not so much room in them anymore, and it’s starting to get painful.”

  Jesus. I remember his bulge, and instinctively my free hand goes down to touch myself. “You should take them off,” I say, almost shocked at my forwardness.

  “I will if you will,” he says.

  “Okay.” I put the phone down for a second and pull off my shirt. Then I wiggle out of my shorts and toss them to the ground, slipping naked under my cold sheets. “Okay,” I tell him. “They’re off.”

  “Mmm,” he moans. “I wish I was there.”

  “What would you do?” I ask.

  “First,” he says, “I’d start with your neck. That spot right by your earlobe that drives you crazy. I’d lick it, and then bite your earlobe softly, before kissing my way to your mouth. Then we’d kiss, our bodies pressed up against each other.”

  I imagine him doing this, feeling his skin touching mine, his lips and tongue on my mouth. “It feels good,” I tell him.

  “Then I’d work my way down with my tongue. From your mouth, to your neck, to the center of your chest, right down the middle until my face is pressed between your breasts. My hands are on them, holding them. Mmm, they feel wonderful. I can’t decide which one I want to lick first. I start with the right one, running my tongue up from your chest to the nipple. Then stop, just shy of it. I return to the center and run my tongue up the other breast, slower this time, and when I get to the nipple, I stop just shy again. This time though, I run my tongue in a wide circle around it. Again, and again, each time getting closer.”

  I run my fingers around my nipple, imagining Adam there, imagining his eyes meeting mine as his tongue explores my body. My nipples are erect and sensitive. I moan a little into the phone.

  “I bet this is driving you crazy,” he says. His voice is so sexy—it’s liquid and masculine and it feels so close and heavy. “You like that?”

  “Yes,” I answer, my voice shaky. “I like it.”

  “Good. Because now that your nipples are ready, I’m going to suck on them. First licking them so that they’re nice and hard, then putting my whole mouth on them, licking and sucking while holding your breasts with my hands.” I hear him breathing hard on the other side, and I know he’s touching himself. “I want to make you feel good, Erica. I want to make your body melt. So after your nipples are good and sensitive, I start working my way down, starting at the base of your ribcage, in the center, and running my warm tongue down your stomach. I reach your bellybutton, and give you a light kiss.”

  I laugh. “It tickles.”

  He chuckles. “I move down, working my way slowly a few inches. I spread your legs with my hands. I look at you. I want to start right away, but it’s too soon. I skip past, past your thighs and all the way to the base of your feet. I kiss them. I kiss your toes. Then I lick your ankles. Your body tenses because this tickles, but it’s a good tension. You like it, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”

  “I lick past your ankles, along your fucking gorgeous legs. Kissing the back of your knee, smelling you. Fuck, you make me so hard. I feel like I’m going to explode. But I keep going. I am kissing and licking the inside of your thighs. I’m so close the hair of my head is tickling your pussy. You feel the warmth of my face on you, inches away.” He pauses, and I hear him moan a little. I moan back. “I look at you, feeling the heat rising off you. You want it, don’t you? Tell me you want it, Erica.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Do it. I want it.”

  “I know you do. I can’t resist either. I start by touching you, tenderly at first, then adding pressure. First one finger, then two, until I slip inside you. Oh, Erica, you feel so good. You’re so fucking wet. My fingers explore you. They know what to do, they know how to make you feel good.”

  I’m touching myself, imagining that it’s him. “Oh,” I gasp.

  “But touching’s not enough. I have to taste you. I’ve tasted every inch of you except this, and this is the best part. I press my face to you, and caress you with my tongue. My eyes are on you though, watching your face, wat
ching you enjoy every twist and flick of my tongue. You like it, don’t you, Erica? You like having your pussy licked?”

  I can barely talk. “Yes,” I manage. Sweat has formed all over my body. I kick the blankets back, and my midsection rises into the air as I touch myself, imagining him between my legs.

  “But you know what feels better than my tongue? Better than my fingers?”

  “What?” I whisper, even though I already know.

  “My cock. You’re so fucking sexy, Erica, that it’s rock hard and throbbing. I want to be inside you, Erica. I want us both to feel good, together.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, my whole body feeling charged. “I want that too.”

  “Good. I push myself up to kiss you, taste you, while I press against you, grinding into you to tease you before I enter. I still have a hand on your pussy, making you squirm beneath me. I can feel the warmth of your need against my cock. Can you feel it, Erica? My hard cock pressing against the base of your stomach, sliding down, down—”

  I hear the door to my dad’s room shut, and footsteps in the hallway, coming right toward my room.

  “Shit!” I mutter, pulling the sheets over me in a rush. At the same instant, there’s a knock at the door.

  “Erica?” It’s my dad’s voice.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. “Dad?” I ask, trying to make my voice sound like I was asleep.

  “Yeah. Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Adam must hear this exchange on his side, because he’s very silent.

  “I’m asleep,” I yell back to him. Then I see that I’ve left my light on, a sign that I’ve obviously not gone to bed. “Hold on.”

  I jump out and rush to pull on my shirt and shorts, tucking the phone under my pillow. I take a moment to compose myself, trying to make my face look tired instead of guilty. Then I open the door.

  My dad is standing there in his business suit. A small black suitcase is by his feet, packed and ready. His hair is combed and his face freshly shaved.

  “Hi honey, sorry to wake you.”

  I try extra hard to make my face look groggy. “It’s okay.” I look at him, waiting for him to explain.

  “Last-minute meeting with a big client,” he says. “Tomorrow morning in Portland. I have to head out now.”

  “Oh, okay. For how long?”

  “I should be back tomorrow night.”

  Honestly, I’m not sure I would have even noticed his absence, so I’m a bit confused as to why he’s telling me. He must see this in my face.

  “I need you to, uh, take care of Mom while I’m gone.” His eyes dart away from mine, and he rubs the back of his neck, obviously uncomfortable. “I normally make sure she eats something in the mornings before I leave for work.”

  Wow. This is news to me. I just assumed they ignored each other completely.

  “Can you make sure she has something to eat tomorrow? I, uh, usually leave something on the counter. You don’t have to do anything fancy. Lately, all I can get her to eat is Pop-Tarts.”

  I’m both touched and disturbed. I had no idea he was taking care of her, but the way he’s doing it—it’s like how I leave food out for Pete. I try to hide my distaste of this image from him. “Sure,” I say. “I can do that.”

  “Great, honey.” For an instant, he looks like he’s going to lean in to kiss me goodnight on the cheek, like he used to. Then he reconsiders. “Well,” he says, picking up his bag, “see you tomorrow night.”

  “Bye,” I say. He turns and walks down the stairs, and I close the door to my room. I hear the front door close and the car start as I make my way back to bed. I sit down and pull the covers over my legs. Then I retrieve my phone from under the pillow.

  I see on the screen that Adam hasn’t hung up. “Hello?” I ask.

  “Hi,” he says. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I—it’s nothing.”

  He’s quiet a moment, and it’s like I can feel the mood shifting into something more serious. “Erica,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing, really. It was just my dad.” He’s quiet, waiting for me to continue. “He’s going to be gone tomorrow, for business. He just wanted to—to say good-bye.”

  Adam is quiet again, and I swear it’s like I can feel his eyes on me. “Erica,” he says, “you don’t have to hide from me. I’m on your side. What happened?”

  “It’s really not a big deal. He just, just asked me to—this is stupid, nothing, really—he just asked me to make sure my mom had something to eat. Because he won’t be here to feed her.”

  Adam takes this in. Then he asks, “Is that good or bad?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know he was doing anything for her. I didn’t think they were even talking.” Then I consider it. “But I guess they’re not. He’s—he made it sound like he was just leaving food out. Like for an animal.”

  He’s quiet again. He must not know how to handle this. I told him about Conner, but I haven’t told him everything about what it’s like living post-Conner. Is he freaking out? Here we were, having phone sex of all things, and I have to ruin it with this.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “Why are you sorry?” he asks. His voice is almost angry.

  “For ruining our good time.”

  “Bullshit,” he says. “You didn’t ruin anything. I want to be there for you. I want to make you feel good, remember? Well, how about this: If I was there right now, I’d put my arms around you and hold you. I’d pull your hair back from your face, and kiss your tears away.”

  How did he know I was crying? I feel my face, and sure enough there are tears there. I guess the draught is over. Now I seem to be crying about everything.

  “You don’t have to be ashamed about your family,” he tells me. “Or about taking care of your mom. You’re a good daughter, Erica.”

  I shake my head. “Hardly.”

  “You are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be affected by this. You wouldn’t care.”

  I have trouble believing him. “But if it weren’t for me—”

  “Stop it!” he says. “It’s not your fault, Erica. You have to trust me on this. I know you. You didn’t do this on purpose. It’s not your fault.”

  I sniffle. “I know.” Although I don’t.

  “You sound miserable,” he tells me.

  “It’s just been a long day.” I think about the fight with Nicole, and whatever energy I have left drains out of me.

  “You should get to bed.”

  I laugh. “I am in bed.”

  “You should go to sleep then.” His voice is lighter, to my relief. “How about I stay on while you fall asleep?”

  “Okay.”

  “And then tomorrow we can do something fun. I have work again, but I’m free the rest of the day.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you should rest now.”

  I get up to turn off the light. Already my limbs feel heavy. Then I get back into bed, and snuggle down into the covers.

  “You in bed?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Lights off?”

  “Lights off.”

  “Good. Then all that’s left is me holding you as we drift off to sleep.”

  He talks softly, telling me about how he saw the sea lions way out past the pier earlier that day, and how much they stunk. I interrupt him.

  “Adam.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s my job,” he says. “I have to make sure you’re all right. If I can do that, nothing else matters. I won’t be bitter about what I can’t have. I’ll be able to enjoy it.”

  And he stays on the line with me as the world grows dimmer. I don’t remember turning the phone off. But I must have, because it’s off when I wake up the next morning. All I remember is the last thing I said to him, and the last thing he said back.

  But when I wake up, there’s one phrase more than anything else in the entire
conversation that sticks in my head. Bitter about what he can’t have? What does that mean?

  And I’m forced to dwell on it alone, because without Nicole, I don’t have anyone to talk to anymore.

  Nobody but him.

  I spend most of my nights with Erica now, either in person or on the phone. We go on innocent dates. After our phone sex was interrupted, I sort of realized that I can’t fuck this up with sex too early. I didn’t even fucking ask about her day. I just asked what she was wearing. And, as I later found out, she had a goddamn awful day. She basically lost her best friend. And then the thing with her parents.

  No. There’s too much at risk to be distracted by sex the whole time. So I decided when I hung up the phone that night that my first priority would be to make Erica whole again. She’s too fucking broken as it is, without me acting like we’ve got all the time in the world—when it’s the opposite.

  So for the next two weeks, we have more traditional dates. I take her to the movies. We get cheeseburgers and eat them walking along the pier, feeding our fries to the seagulls. I teach her about motorcycles, and almost get her to ride in front for a short ride around the block. Turns out she’s not ready for that yet, but I’m encouraged with the progress.

  We also talk about her family. One time, throwing pebbles into the water, she brings up her brother almost randomly. We had been talking about our favorite desserts (hers is crème brûlée, mine is cotton candy), and then she just says casually, “Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if I didn’t pick up Conner that night. I mean, not that he wouldn’t have died. But that someone else would have been to blame for it. I wonder how that would have changed things.”

  This leads into a whole conversation about her mother and father. About what they were like before. About what they’re like after. And her doubts that they will ever be the same again.

  “The same? Probably not,” I tell her. “But okay? Yeah. I think eventually.”

  “But you don’t know what a parent goes through when they lose their son,” she says.

  I hold my tongue. There’s a lot I want to say about that. But I respond, “At least Conner didn’t suffer. That would have been worse.”

  I’m not sure if she hears me.