My correspondence with Matthew is still regular, and I never find myself struggling for material to write about. His replies are always engaging and sweet. He has recently changed companies and is now designing kitchens for a builder in Stablesworth, which is an hour commute north on the train each day. He is passionate about designing. He’s also quite an artist, lately sharing his skills in my letters by sketching little butterflies in pencil all around the paper; they fly in and out among the paragraphs. He often says butterflies remind him of me, which always brings a smile to my face, and until the end of time I believe I will think of him when a butterfly flutters past me.
He talks about one day opening his own company and being a successful business owner. He dreams of being able to have the finer things in life that he never had as a child, and he is taking steps toward making those dreams come true. In my replies, I encourage him to follow his passion. I find it amazing that he has that desire inside; I’m envious that he already knows what he wants to do with his life.
As for me, I don’t know what I want to do about anything, especially my future. Deadlines for college applications are approaching rapidly, and I know I have to apply; deep down, I want to apply. If I allow myself to admit it, I have changed; the simple life that Harptree once offered me isn’t enough anymore. California has influenced me and opened up a new world of opportunity. What Diana describes in her letters sounds dreary, and I cannot imagine myself living there again, restricted by the boundaries of a small town. The constant gloomy weather and that constrictive life sound suffocating compared to the sunshine and endless possibilities at my doorstep in Southern California. Going back no longer seems to be an option for me. I have transformed, and I am no longer the simple girl I once was.
Even though I do love Matthew, I don’t think that’s enough to sustain me, not anymore, not after experiencing life here in California. The world is at my fingertips, and even at my young age, I know I would be crazy to let this slip away. With my grades, a partial academic scholarship is a strong possibility, and a bachelor’s degree is only four more years. Maybe then I will know what I want from life.
In spring, I receive my acceptance to Pepperdine University, and as my high school graduation approaches, my mum announces that we are returning home for a holiday in early August, before I start university. Two years have passed since I was last there, and this time I am conflicted about going back. Part of me would rather stay behind. I am thrilled at the chance to see my family, and Diana, of course, but I’m unsure of what it will be like to see Matthew.
Matthew’s letters are wonderful, and I feel solidly connected to him, but I’m insecure about how things will be if we are face to face. Will he still like me? Will I still like him? There is no way of knowing if our physical attraction will still be there. I will be turning eighteen in September, finally an adult, old enough to return to England of my own free will if I wish. Yet he has never mentioned anything about my birthday or about my possible return. Perhaps he doesn’t think of me like that anymore. After all, we corresponded more like best friends or siblings.
I have neglected to tell him about my college acceptance. Somehow, I always manage to avoid the subject of what I plan to do after school finishes—easily done in a letter. It feels like uncharted territory, and I am scared to death to have to face him. Seeing him means telling the truth, owning up to the fact that I don’t want to live in England, at least not right now, and it means making a decision about our future. We can’t continue to write to each other forever; eventually one of us is going to get seriously involved with someone who actually lives in the same country. I need to be honest with myself; this long-distance nonrelationship isn’t working for me, and perhaps it’s time to call it quits.
CHAPTER 11
The Whites
Apparently, time stands still in Harptree, as once again I find myself staying with family friends across the street from our old house. We are down for the weekend and will leave for Los Angeles on Friday. The prior week has been spent at my grandparents’ home, with constant visits from aunts, uncles, and cousins. All of which has been a haze, as my mind has been preoccupied, consumed with how I am going to speak to Matthew.
I am sitting upstairs in the second floor hallway in Sally and Jonnie White’s three-story detached Victorian brick home, surrounded by antique furniture. Long oriental runners hide the glossy varnished wood floors that creak and moan as you walk around the house, while the clean smell of burning sage flows gently as Sally cleanses the energy.
The Whites are old family friends and hippies of a sort. By day, they are normal folks who own a packaging supply shop in town, but at night, they play local gigs in a folk band; Sally sings, and Jonnie plays acoustic guitar. Whenever we are here, there is a lot of homemade wine consumption, incense burning, and laughter, a side of my mother I rarely see.
I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, my back resting against the banister beside the telephone, nervously playing with a folded letter in my hand. Matthew gave me his work and home telephone numbers in his last letter, after I told him I was coming home. I hadn’t known the dates we would be in Harptree, so all he’d said was to phone him as soon as I got here. We have been in England for seven days and I haven’t called. I’ve been in Harptree since ten this morning, and it is now four o’clock in the afternoon, and I still haven’t called him. Diana isn’t aware I am here yet; I’m stalling, and I don’t understand why. Well, I do, but I don’t want to admit it to myself.
Finally mustering the courage, I pick up the receiver; one by one I dial the numbers on the rotary dial, and holding the phone to my ear, I hear the ringing on the other end and feel nauseated. My hand is shaking. I have dialed his home number deliberately, as I doubt he will be home from work yet. My philosophy is this will help me get over my initial jitters and make it easier to make the next call. Suddenly I hear the line pick up, and a deep voice I barely recognize speaks into my ear.
“Hello, Harptree 472958.” The low voice seeps into my head.
“Matthew?” My voice echoes into the phone’s receiver. I can’t believe he actually answered.
“Kate? Is that you? Where are you? Are you here?” His voice is frantic, and in this moment, all my nervousness disappears. His voice calms me, and I smile, trying to imagine what he looks like right now standing in his flat speaking to me. Butterflies take flight.
“Yes, I am. We’re staying with the Whites again, you know, opposite my old house?” I add, “I didn’t expect you to answer. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
His voice is muffled slightly, and I hear rustling on the other end of the telephone. He mumbles something about it being Friday, off at lunchtime, and then, clear as anything, he announces, “I’m on my way,” and the line goes dead.
I find myself bemused, standing in the hallway, phone in my hand. My hair is thrown up in an untidy ponytail, I have no makeup on, and I’m wearing three-day-old sweatpants and an ugly sweatshirt. I roughly calculate that anyone traveling by foot across Harptree can do it within ten or fifteen minutes regardless of which direction they are coming from, so if I’m lucky I may have that much time. I scream with excitement, slamming the phone down, and make a mad dash into the bathroom.
Exactly seventeen minutes later I emerge in clean jeans, Converse tennis shoes, and a cute pink sweatshirt that hangs slightly off my tanned shoulder. I have no idea what the latest fashions are in London, but this all I can manage on such short notice, and it screams California girl. My long, sun-kissed blond hair is still in a ponytail but much neater, my eyelashes have a coat of black mascara, I’m wearing some light eye liner, and my lips shine with a splash of strawberry flavored lip gloss. Personally, I think I look like I’m ready to take a stroll down Huntington Beach Pier, not take a walk around Harptree, but it’s too late to change now. This time, I definitely look like I don’t belong.
The doorbell rings, and I yell loudly that I’ve got it. I bolt down two flights of stairs to arrive at th
e front door before any of the adults in the lounge can make it up from their wine and conversation. I poke my head into the smoke-filled room quickly to announce I am leaving. I find Sally, Jonnie, my mum, and Peter laughing and listening to music, completely immersed in cheeky conversation with two empty wine bottles on the coffee table.
“Grab a spare key on your way out, Katie,” Sally shouts over the music, smiling and waving her half-empty glass at me, as if pointing to where the keys are.
“Will do!” I reply, quickly backing out of the room. “I might be late, so don’t wait up!” I close the door and escape before they can question me.
The doorbell rings again, and as I grab a spare key, I spy Matthew with his back to the door, his silhouette outlined through the glass. He looks like he is wearing jeans and a dark jacket of some kind, and he takes a step away from the porch, unable to keep still. I take advantage of this moment and catch him off guard, quickly opening the front door.
“A little impatient, are we?” I tease with an enormous smile on my face.
Matthew snaps around instantly, and in two strides he is back on the porch, his large body filling the small area. He pushes me up against the door that I have barley pulled shut behind me. His warm hands cup both sides of my face, cradling me like a porcelain doll, and then, bending his knees to lower himself to my height, he fiercely and passionately kisses me. My hands go limp at my sides, and if it weren’t for the support of his hands holding my face and the weight of his body pinning me against the door, I fear I’d collapse. When he steps back, he leaves me breathless, not only from his kiss but from the sight of him. Any reservations I have about physical attraction disappear, and my mind is wiped clear of my rehearsed conversation about moving forward and going our separate ways. I immediately know that I’m in a terrible spot of trouble.
Matthew is now twenty years old, a full-grown man in every way, standing about six foot four and looking fit and lean. He is wearing a pair of well-fitting black jeans, black shoes, and a black leather bomber jacket with a plaid grey and white button-down shirt tucked in underneath. He looks very casual, thank goodness, considering how I am dressed. His dark brown hair is not too short; it falls around his neckline, but it’s cut neatly enough to control the natural curl that he dislikes. Naturally parting in the middle, his hair falls to either side of his face toward his ears; it suits him well, but I think he should let it grow longer. I see a gold stud earring in his left ear, something I didn’t expect, and a gold chain around his neck.
“Come on, let’s go,” he says, reaching out his hand and snapping me out of my visual observation.
“Where are we going?” I inquire as I slip my hand into his, feeling his skin against mine. Our fingers perfectly entwine as we head down the pathway onto the main road.
“I didn’t have much time to change, so I’m not dressed to go out.” I wince, dreading that Matthew may want to head to The Ole Magpie. It is Friday, after all, and Diana and Terry will be there later.
“You look beautiful, Kate,” Matthew replies, “but stop worrying. I thought we could grab a takeout and take it to my place, if that’s all right with you?” He looks over for my approval.
“Sure, I’m starving.” Butterflies leap in my stomach at the thought of spending time alone with Matthew.
“Good.” I see him smile, though he keeps looking straight ahead.
Swiftly, he brings my hand to his lips, kisses the back of it gently, and lowers it again. We continue the rest of the way chatting about my week with relatives, his week at work, and random memories about Harptree, all while walking in sync with each other, our motion fluid as we head toward Hayloft Alley.
CHAPTER 12
Hayloft Alley
Matthew’s flat is a tiny one-bedroom with a lounge-kitchen combo and the smallest bathroom I have ever encountered. Originally, the building was a large detached house, and now it has been split into four flats. The front door, hallway, and stairs are shared by all of the tenants.
Matthew’s unit is downstairs to the right, and his lounge has a large bay window looking out onto the street. Underneath the window, in front of the central heating radiator, is an old teak wood side table with a stereo, a telephone, and various stacks of papers on the top. Along the far wall, opposite the front door, is a boarded-up fireplace that’s sadly no longer used. Below the mantle, his guitar is propped up against the wall, and next to that is a small sofa covered in a cream blanket.
A large glass coffee table sits in the center of the room on a shaggy cream-colored rug, and a pile of wrinkled clothes lies in a basket next to the front door. A few pairs of shoes are scattered around, but for the most part, Matthew's bachelor pad is fairly tidy. The kitchen is tucked neatly in a corner to the left of the fireplace, with a small oven, a sink, and enough counter space to make a sandwich or cup of tea (but not both). A door in the far corner leads to the bedroom and bathroom. It is cozy, and it is Matthew’s, so I have to give him that much credit.
While I unpack our Chinese takeout onto the coffee table, he puts on some music, then brings over some silverware, two glasses, and a bottle of white wine, and we settle down to our first romantic meal together at six o’clock on a bright, sunny, English summer evening.
The Chinese food is amazing—sweet and sour chicken is always my favorite, and prawn crackers are a delicacy that I miss in America. The wine is sweet and crisp, and we share fried bananas, taking turns feeding each other spoonfuls of the sweet, syrupy dessert. Our conversation never falters. There are no awkward silences, and things flow perfectly between the two of us. Matthew stares at me intensely when I speak; sometimes he leans over and kisses me softly on the lips for no reason or plays with my ponytail, tracing his finger around my ear.
The sun finally starts to set and the room begins to dim, casting shadows through the room along with a soft pink glow. Matthew clears the plates, and I watch as he lights some candles by the stereo. He is quite the skilled romantic. I am feeling full from dinner and a little light-headed from the wine, so when he pulls me up from our dining spot to dance, I don’t object or feel embarrassed.
Once again I find myself dancing in Matthew’s arms, a place where I feel so relaxed and comfortable. “Kissing a Fool” by George Michael plays quietly, one of my favorite songs right now. I have it on tape back home, and I play it in my car often. All those times, driving around singing to it in the confines of my car, I never imagined that I would be here, dancing to this song in Matthew’s flat. We sway slowly back and forth, our bodies close, pressing against one another, our toes touching. My fingers twist into his hair at the nape of his neck as I nuzzle my face into his chest, breathing in his scent deeply.
He smells good, very manly, like the men’s cologne counter at the department store. He smells masculine and sexy, and my senses seem to be heightened by the wine. Being close to him is intoxicating. I feel his hands slide down my hips and onto my butt, urging me closer to him. He presses his hips closer, his erection pushing against my belly, and it excites me to know I turn him on. I hear his breathing becoming deeper, his mouth resting against my head. His breath caresses me, blowing against my ear, sounding like waves crashing against the rocks each time he exhales. The sound echoes into my head and vibrates down my body.
I lift my head, and looking into his brown, fathomless eyes, I kiss his lips and raise my hands to the top button on his shirt, undoing it. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, and I move to the next one, exposing his gold chain and flawless skin. With each freed button, I kiss his lips delicately and slowly, taking turns. Kiss, button, kiss, button, kiss, button. I get to the last one, which is tucked into his jeans.
I want to give myself to Matthew. With all my heart, I want him to be my first, and I want it to be now. This moment seems perfect, and I feel as though I am made for him, like I have always been made for him. Brazenly, I pull his shirt from his jeans, unbuttoning the final button. My hands run up along his naked belly to his chest. The scattered
hair across his chest and his taut nipples feel foreign to my fingertips. Again locking eyes with him, I reach up and free my hair from the confines of my ponytail, letting it fall around my shoulders.
He tears his shirt off of his body and throws it to the sofa, his movements now urgent, almost desperate, as his eyes turn darker and his skin glows golden by the candlelight. In one swift movement, his lips are fiercely on mine as he picks me up. My legs straddle his hips, my arms encircle his shoulders as he carries me through the dark hallway into his bedroom.
We fall to the bed, his weight pinning me beneath him. My legs wrap around him and he grinds into me, his hardness pushing against me, causing me to ache deep within. My hands roam over Matthew’s back. His skin is smooth and perfect, his arms muscular as I grab his bicep, attempting to pull myself closer to him. With a simple, skillful motion, he tugs my sweatshirt over my head and tosses it across the room. Finally, flesh on flesh. Yet getting what I crave only makes me crave more.
He rolls over, pulling me on top of him, astride him; an amazing sensation runs though me as I shift my weight and apply pressure against him. Something within me rejoices, and I shudder with delight. Matthew’s hands are expertly unhooking my bra, and the straps slowly slip down my arms while his palms slide up my rib cage to cup my young, firm breasts. He takes each nipple between a thumb and forefinger, gently rolling them, sending shooting exotic pains directly to my aching groin. I catch my breath, and for a moment, he stops kissing me and smiles. We stare at each other, panting, our breath ragged.
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