by Lily Jenkins
I want to be here for Adam, I think. I want to be with him while I can.
But I can’t tell my dad that. He’d think it was stupid. Especially if Adam didn’t want me.
Does he really not want me?
“Honey, what’s wrong?” my dad asks. “I thought you’d be excited. I mean, if you’d rather go with Nicole, I’d understand—”
“No!”
I push myself off the bed, the letter and pamphlet falling on the floor.
“I don’t want to go anywhere!”
My dad is stunned. “But, honey, it’ll be good for you to—”
“No!” I say again, my voice firm. “There’s no point. I’m not going to Columbia. I don’t want to go.”
At this, my dad’s face shuts down. Friendly concern is replaced with a wall. “Erica,” he says slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to go,” I repeat. Without thinking, I start looking around my room. I find my shoes and slip them on. “I never wanted to go. I just didn’t want to be here anymore.”
“Erica,” he says, with what I’m sure is patience on his part, “you should think about this.”
I roll my eyes and look back at him. “Don’t you think I have, Dad? Don’t you think I have? I don’t want to go.”
He stares at me a moment, then crosses his arms. “What are your plans, then?”
I see my cell phone on my bedside table behind him. I don’t want to go that way, to put him between me and the door. He won’t hurt me; my family is hands-off about everything. But I want to be able to run. I want to have that head start.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Because if you think you’re just going to live here forever—”
I cut him off. “I don’t.” I look out the window. The rain is beating down on the glass, and I hear thunder in the distance. I realize I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it. I just want to get away.
I take a step to the door. “Erica,” he says, his voice warning me to behave. Like I’m a child. Like I’m a bad child. It’s this effort to control me when he obviously has no idea what’s going on in my life that gives me the nerve to leave.
“I don’t want to be here ever again,” I say, and when I take another step back, I slam the door on him and start to run down the stairs. I see a flash of lightning, sending odd shadows through the front window. I’m glad I have my shoes. My father doesn’t have his on. It’ll slow him down enough, just enough, for me to get out of sight. I open the front door and run down the steps. I can see the shape of my mother in my peripheral vision.
She doesn’t move.
As soon as I’m beyond the porch, the cold rain pelts my skin like tiny knives. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. I run down into the street and take off down the block. As I’m turning the corner, I hear my father shout from back at the house. I was right—having to put his shoes on did slow him down. By the time he’s out the door, I am already out of sight. I duck into an alleyway and double back around to the back side of my block. I know my father will continue to go toward the water, the direction he saw me run, so instead I keep to the higher blocks.
After ten minutes of running, I feel safe enough to slow down. The rain slaps the pavement all around me and soaks through my clothes, through my hair to my scalp. It’s not warm rain, but it’s not as cold as it first felt. It’s summer rain, and I can stand it. My bandages, however, are soaked. I’m forced to peel them off and toss them into a trashcan as I pass. The wounds sting at first, but then the rain washes them clean, and it feels almost better.
I don’t know where I’m going. It just feels good to walk, to do something other than sit in my house and cry. Just the thought of going back makes me cringe.
I walk along, peering at the houses, thinking how foreign my hometown looks in the rain. The thick clouds have made it darker, almost like a gray twilight, so that I can’t really tell what time it is. I just keep walking.
What if I never go back? I’m eighteen. I’m an adult. They can’t order me back. This gives me a sense of satisfaction as I walk, until I realize that if I don’t go back, I don’t have anywhere to go. I didn’t even bring my phone.
I walk back and forth around the same blocks for at least an hour. Whenever I hear a car, I duck down around a low wall or a crop of bushes. I peer out like a criminal, trying to see if it’s my dad’s car. One time, I think it is, but I’m not sure. I wonder if he’s looking for me. I wonder how long he’ll look for me.
I don’t really like thinking about it.
When the empty streets and the rain begin to calm me down, in the quiet space of my mind my thoughts return to Adam.
Forget him? I laugh, and then picture myself as someone might see me: walking alone in the rain and laughing at my own jokes. I must look crazy. But how could he ask me to forget him? It’s like asking me to forget breathing.
He didn’t want me to be his girlfriend. He didn’t want to commit.
But he didn’t say he didn’t want me.
I walk a little slower, trying to decide how I feel about that. Everything seems so worthless at the moment, that even being with him, having him put his arms around me, having him comfort me in whatever context—the idea of it feels better than the idea of returning home. Of going to Columbia. Of living life without whatever time we could have left together.
I realize how much I want him. I want him so much that I don’t even care at this moment if he wants me back. I know that is not healthy. I know I should have more self-respect. But the truth is, I’d rather be with him and hate myself than be alone and… hating myself.
I laugh again, realizing things are so empty in my life right now that even a fling with Adam is better than nothing. Why did I care that I wasn’t his girlfriend so much? Would Nicole care? If she wouldn’t, why should I?
Then my smile falls. I’m being dishonest with myself. I do want to be his girlfriend. Not because of the label, but because I want us to belong to each other. I want to have him in my life.
What about a long-distance relationship? If he can’t move to New York—or he can’t stay here, or whatever the situation is—what about talking over the phone? A bubble of hope forms in my chest, growing warmer. I have to try. I’ll regret it until the day I die if I don’t at least try to be with him, in any way that I can.
I need him. There’s no way around that. I need him. Nothing else matters.
And with that realization, I start walking with a purpose. I start walking toward Adam.
Levi finds me out in the yard. I’m lying in the mud, my body curled into a fetal position with all the motorcycle parts strewn around me. He doesn’t say anything. He helps me up and into the house. I’m thrown into the shower with all my clothes on, and the hot water runs over me. It’s not until I look down at the muddy mess that’s collected in the tub that I start to have enough sense to be ashamed of myself.
“Fuck,” I say. Not just about the tub, but about the bike, and about Erica. Mostly about Erica. “What have I done?”
I strip off my clothes and wash my body. I feel better, but when I’m done, I still feel like too much of an ass to talk to Levi. He’s in the kitchen, and I sneak past him with a towel around my waist on the way to the garage. I keep my eyes forward and shut the door behind me.
Somehow I manage to pull on a shirt and some boxers before collapsing on the mattress. Then I sleep. Only I’m so exhausted it’s more than sleep. It’s like being dead.
I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake up alone in the room, looking around as if expecting to see something. I start to go back to sleep when there’s another knock. I realize someone’s been knocking—that’s what woke me up—and I snap to attention almost instantly.
Because the knocking isn’t from the door that leads into the kitchen. It’s from the door that leads to the outside. Levi wouldn’t knock from there. No one has ever knocked from there. Something feels wrong.
I stand up and consider c
alling to Levi, asking if he’s expecting anyone. The rain is still beating down outside, and I hear its angry pattering on the roof overhead. I lean against the door, not hearing anything except the rain. I wish someone had installed a peephole.
I nearly jump out of my skin when there’s another knock, loud and insistent. Then, figuring I’ve got nothing to lose, I open the door.
Outside, dripping wet in the rain, is Erica. Water streams down from coils of her hair, and she’s wearing the same outfit as earlier today, only now, soaking wet in the darkness, it doesn’t look cheerful at all. She doesn’t look cheerful at all. I barely have time to take in the desperate, pained look in her eyes when she starts to talk.
“I don’t care,” she says. “I don’t care if you’re leaving.”
I open my mouth to speak, and she rushes to finish.
“I just want to be with you,” she says. “In any way I can, while I can. I don’t care about the rest. I—I need you. I need you any way I can have you.”
Then she waits as the rain falls down on her, staring at me, begging with her eyes. A bolt of lightning illuminates the night, outlining her face, the tears mixed with raindrops.
I start to say that I need her too, but the thunder crashes, cutting me off. But I can’t wait. I step forward and kiss her, holding her face and warming her cold lips with mine. She kisses back, and it feels so good, so right, compared to the hell I experienced in these last few hours without her. I can’t stop kissing her, and the rain is falling onto me now too. I don’t care. It’s not cold. It feels clean. It feels like it’s washing away everything wrong with the day. Her body presses into mine, and I put my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I was stupid.”
“You’re the only good thing in my life,” she says, and I squeeze her tighter.
Then I feel her shaking and pull back.
“Inside,” I say, realizing that she must be freezing. It’s a warm night, but she’s soaked. I close the door behind her, and she’s dripping onto the concrete of my converted garage. Her teeth are chattering.
“Jesus, Erica,” I say. I turn to find something to warm her with, and all I can find is the towel I used to dry off earlier. I hung it up near the door, but it’s still damp. But it’ll have to do. No way am I going to leave her alone while I search the house for a dry towel.
I wrap it around her, rubbing her skin through the material. We kiss again, and it has that same intensity as that first night on the pier. It’s as if we’re both drowning, and the only way to survive is to press our mouths together. It’s more than a want; it’s a need. As I’m kissing her, I try to pat the towel but I’m distracted. She takes the towel from me and dries off her hair, quickly, just enough to stop it from dripping. Then she presses her mouth to mine again, and I lean against her, pressing her against the door.
Our bodies are so tight against each other that my dry clothes are soaking up the water from hers. It’s starting to feel humid in the room, and my wet clothes are uncomfortable and binding. With my mouth on hers, I reach down and pull off my shirt. She takes a moment to look at me, and then peels off her own shirt and tosses it to the ground on top of the towel. Her bra is soaked, and I can see her nipples through the fabric. I start kissing them, feeling the drops of water that have collected between her breasts. Her body is responding, straining forward against mine, and I squat down to keep kissing lower, along her slim stomach, to her waistline. Here I waste no time and pull the wet skirt down. She steps out of it, kicking off her shoes in the process. She leans down for a moment to peel off her socks, and then I stand back up. I’m fully hard now, and when I stand, it presses into her. She moans, tilting back her head. Damn, she’s hot. The sound drives me crazy, and my cock jumps with anticipation.
I kiss her neck, once, taking in her scent, and then take a step back toward the bed, her hand in mine. Our eyes are locked. We don’t need words. My eyes show my desire. Her eyes burn as well. She takes a step toward me, and I wrap my arms around her waist, my mouth on hers as we fall onto the mattress.
She’s beneath me, looking up. I prop myself up on my elbows, my body on hers, and look her in the eye.
I want to say so much. I want to tell her that she’s beautiful. That she can do whatever she wants to in life. That she deserves so much better than me. But more than anything, I just want to kiss her, and hold her, and be close to her. Words can come later. Right now, I just want to make her feel good.
That I know how to do.
I’m in his bed. Adam’s body is on top of mine, his hard chest and shoulders pressing down on me as he kisses. Our bodies grind against each other. I can feel him through his boxers, hot and hard. I was cold just a few minutes ago, but now we’ve warmed up the room like a sauna. I feel my muscles relax after being tense with worry and cold. He presses into me, and I lift up and press back into him, our mouths open, his tongue touching mine. First softly, then hard. I hold him tighter. I can’t be close enough to him. Any space between us is too much. Even our bodies are too much to be separate. I want us to become one.
I feel his hands at my back, unlatching my bra. He pulls it off, and my breasts feel exposed, still damp from the bra in the bare air. Then his warm hands cup me, and his mouth is kissing me clean. He’s so hard now I wonder if it’s painful for him. My own need is so intense it’s almost like a hunger. I want this to last forever, and at the same time, I cannot wait for the climax. Perhaps it’s the anticipation of that final moment of pleasure that makes every flick of his tongue on my nipples supercharged with erotic energy. My whole body is tingling already, every nerve and fiber alive.
He kisses me, and then pulls back to look. There’s only one small lamp in this garage, by the side of the bed, a warm light coming from its single bulb. As he looks down at me, his expression is one of worship. It makes me feel so sexy, the time he’s taking to look at me in obvious admiration. He moans slightly, and when he reaches down to touch my breasts again, I feel his hard length throb against my stomach through his thin boxers.
“I want to,” I tell him. I can’t hold back much longer, my body is so charged. “Let’s do it.”
His eyes light up, and his face looks almost pained with eagerness. He nods, his hands sliding down either side of my body, stopping at my hips, his fingers sliding into the hem of my underwear.
“We will,” he says, “but first…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, the promise lingering in the air as he starts to slide my underwear down. I lift up to allow him to pull them all the way off, and he throws them I don’t know where. Then he takes another moment to just look at me, naked and trembling beneath him. And I feel naked, in every way that you can feel naked. I have come to him with nothing, and with no expectations. I have come to him to allow him to be in control. I want him. I want him any way I can have him. And I’ve told him that. It makes me feel especially bare.
He looks down at me, then lifts my hands to his body. He presses my palms into the center of his chest, and I feel his hard pectorals. He feels so solid, yet so warm and smooth. I run my fingers along his chest to his round shoulders, and then down to his arms. As if on cue, he lifts both arms and flexes for me.
Wow. I mean, I had seen him in a t-shirt before, but I guess I didn’t realize how fit he was. I run my fingers over his hard biceps, and then look into his face with a demure awe. He grins at me, obviously proud of his physique. It’s cocky and sexy at the same time, his confidence in himself. I am letting my hands travel down to his stomach, feeling along his solid abs, when he gives me another grin. He starts to lower himself down in the bed, until his face is level with my sex. He lifts my legs into the air and looks down at me, licking his lower lip. Then, in a rush, he lowers his face onto me, and starts to run his tongue along the outside of me, with what seems like insatiable hunger. He seems even more into it now than he did at the Column, and I don’t know if it’s the better angle, the privacy, or the intensity of the night in general, but almost
immediately he seems to find the right places and he makes my whole body squirm and convulse. My thighs press against his head, and I reach a hand down to run it through his hair. He is like a man possessed: he lifts me up by the waist into the air, so that my legs are now resting on his shoulders, and he presses his mouth down against me. The sensation is enough to set me ablaze, but what’s overwhelming is that when I look up, our eyes lock. We can see each other. And every time my body moves, every reaction that I have to him, I can see his excitement in return, his eyes growing more and more intense and almost needy as my pleasure builds. It’s almost too much. I gasp with pleasure and squeeze my eyes shut.
Then, suddenly, his mouth is off me. I open my eyes, and he has a devilish grin. “Not yet,” he says, and lowers me back to the bed. We are sitting up now, facing each other with legs wrapped around each other. He still has his boxers on, and there’s a considerable tent in them now. I reach forward and squeeze him through the fabric. He moans, his head leaning back and his penis throbbing in my grasp.
I’m tired of only seeing it as a bulge, through pants or underwear. I want to see it in the flesh, and I start pulling at the waistband of his boxers. He responds right away, quickly pulling them off himself and tossing them to the floor. He resettles on the bed, his legs spread, arms supporting him as he leans back, letting his hard cock rise before him like a mast.
My experience with guys is rather limited, but even I recognize that I’ve gotten lucky with this one. I wrap two hands around it and grip him. He moans, his balls tightening slightly. I put one hand on them and give them a testing squeeze. He seems to like this. Then I run my hand along his shaft, feeling its girth and warmth. I look up and notice his whole body is tensing, his stomach muscles looking like a calendar model’s and his chest rising and falling rapidly with his breath. A thin sheen of sweat has started on his body and forehead, and I realize that I’m warm too. It’s like I was never cold. Like I’ve never been cold in my life.