Don't Look Back

by Graham, Nicola

  At first, I honestly try to ignore him, but his persistence works to his advantage, and since I find him physically desirable, my heart starts to beat again. I know I am in trouble when I catch myself walking on the beach in the mornings just to see him riding the waves in his wetsuit. On one of these mornings, we “bump” into each other and end up going for coffee. We have been together ever since.

  Brock is charismatic, cocky, and very popular. His arrogance and sarcasm entertain me, and I find him daring and exciting. He comes from a long line of attorneys and takes his education seriously, but other than that, his life revolves around high and low tide and a cold beer. His surfboard is his most priceless possession, and we spend all of our free time on the sand.

  Brock is a good kisser; his lips are full, and I love how his hair mingles with mine when we make out. He always tastes like the ocean, and his skin is hot from the sun. In the evenings, I join him at his place, a family-owned two-bedroom beach cottage located off campus close to the shore. After dinner and a few beers I usually end up straddling his butt, massaging his back with lotion, moisturizing and hydrating his parched, tanned skin.

  His tan is a dark golden brown except for the white line peeking out beneath his boxer shorts. The muscles of his back and shoulders are firm beneath my fingers, and I work hard coaxing them to relax. On his left shoulder blade, he has a tattoo of a cross with a rose entwined in it, which I find sexy.

  These massages often lead to sex—they’re a form of foreplay. This is how it happened the first time, and pretty much every time since. Sex with Brock is intense, hot, and fierce. Brock is big everywhere, and gathering from some of the positions he tosses me into, he is experienced. Brock and I do not make love. It is raw, physical, and always a good workout, but it does not compare to what I experienced with Matthew.

  In June of 1991, at the end of my junior year, Brock asks me to move into the cottage with him. We have been together for almost two years. He has already graduated with his bachelor’s degree and is preparing to start graduate school in the fall. Deep down I know his parents are putting pressure on him, wanting Brock to think about settling down. The family has high hopes for Brock in California’s political arena, and to be honest, I think they see me as a perfect trophy standing next to their son. My English heritage adds an air of sophistication that they believe can enhance Brock’s career.

  He catches me off guard when he asks me casually one evening after an aerobic sex marathon. Tossing me aside onto the now unmade bed, he slides the used condom from his still protruding erection, tosses it into the trash can, and struts off, unashamed and naked, to the kitchen in search of a cold beer. I lie staring at the ceiling fan; the cool air feels wonderful against my moist skin. My hair is pasted to my face, Brock’s sweat acting like glue, and I peel it off carefully, trying to tame my matted locks as my breathing gradually returns to normal. The sun is setting, and the room’s orange glow fades with each passing moment. I hear the flush of the toilet, and Brock walks back in, beer in one hand, his favorite body part in the other.

  “Hey, baby!” He shakes his semi-hard penis at me. “Want some more of this?” He smiles that arrogant grin and falls onto the bed next to me, slapping my upper thigh playfully.

  I roll over and take his beer, sipping the ice-cold liquid, stalling my reply. If I stay for another round, he will beg for a third, then a fourth. His appetite is insatiable, and I don’t have the energy today to play his game.

  “I have to go back to my dorm tonight, Brock. I have an early final tomorrow, and I still haven’t started packing up the room yet.” School is finishing at the end of the week, and I desperately need to get my room cleaned out, knowing full well I am delaying it because it means going home.

  “Don’t go yet, baby. Stay,” he begs.

  “Brock, I can’t. I’m sorry.” I peck him on the cheek and jump out of bed before he can grab me, and I hastily start pulling on my clothes. I can’t change my mind. I absolutely have to leave.

  He sits watching me, a strange look of submission on his face as he nonchalantly sips his beer, naked in his bed. He already knows arguing with me will be useless; at the end of the day, even Brock understands that finals take precedence over everything and that I have to be out of my dorm in a few days.

  “Don’t go home for the summer, baby. Move in with me,” Brock says unexpectedly as I am about to leave.

  Our relationship is decent, and our physical chemistry is incredible, but our fights are sometimes very heated. I seem to bring out the worst in him, especially if he has been drinking. Brock sometimes loses his temper and becomes so enraged he hits a wall or storms off, not returning for hours. We always end up making up with crazy, passionate sex, and I do feel partially to blame for driving him so insane. Sometimes my moods are up and down. I know I have my own anger issues, and once the yelling starts between us, there’s usually no stopping it.

  Brock has never said he loves me. He says instead that he is crazy about me, and to be honest, I don’t know what I feel for him. I surprise myself when I accept his invitation immediately. In truth, my reasons are selfish. I don’t want to move home for the summer, as relations are still very strained between my mother and me. I convince myself that I practically live with Brock anyway. Worse, I tell myself that Diana and Terry are coming out for the first time in August, and there is no better place for them to experience California than on the beach.

  The summer is truly amazing. Terry and Brock get along great, and most of our days are spent on the beach. Diana and I lay out, rotating our bronzed, youthful bodies every thirty minutes, while Brock teaches Terry how to surf in the great Pacific. We take a couple of day trips into Hollywood and Los Angeles for sightseeing adventures, but for the most part, the four of us spend two glorious weeks in the California sunshine in grand style.

  In the warm evenings, we barbeque on the small courtyard patio, laughing, eating, and enjoying a good bottle of wine or two. As the sun sets, we usually walk to the shore and stack firewood in one of the open pits, wrapping ourselves in blankets as the mist rolls off the ocean like gentle kisses, the smoky air invading our senses, the flames keeping us warm. Brock and I haven’t had one fight; he has been the perfect host and a flawless boyfriend. It has been picture perfect, and saying goodbye to Terry and Diana is going to be yet another heartbreaking experience for me to endure.

  In what seems like a blink of an eye, my senior year begins, and graduation announcements are being discussed as the end of my college career rapidly approaches. Brock has already started Pepperdine Law School, and we have plans to continue to live in the Malibu cottage until he finishes his studies and passes the bar. I am unsure what I want do after graduation, but I am hoping to find a job in business marketing somewhere close by. I am living the American Dream, with a gorgeous blond surfer boyfriend—soon to be a lawyer, descended from a line of rich, successful lawyers—living in Malibu, in a beach house. It isn’t a perfect relationship, but it could be worse. I am sort of happy, and I am a long way from Harptree.

  I receive a letter in January from Diana. It has been some time since I have written, with the exception of a quick Christmas card, and I am filled with guilt when I see her handwriting on the airmail letter. Strolling back from the mailbox, I open it, looking forward to hearing her latest news from Harptree. I unfold the paper and start reading.

  January 2, 1992

  Dearest Katie,

  I am sorry I haven’t written for some time, but things have been extremely hectic. Terry and I finally called it off. We had an enormous blowup right before Christmas, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I can’t help but feel there is more to life than what Harptree can offer me. I am so bored here, and I have been with Terry my whole life.

  Please don’t be worried about me, I am doing fine. A new friend is getting ready to travel for six months on a special program, and they had an opening. I thought it would be a fantastic opportunity for me to get away, clear my head, and see the world.
I have already filed all the necessary paperwork and should have my travel visa in the next week.

  This is something I want to do, something I need to do for me. Tracey is great fun, she is a schoolteacher for infants and already has her first job lined up in Sydney. We are going to share the flat that is provided, and the director assured me that secretarial work would be in high demand. We should be settled by the beginning of February. I will send you my address as soon I get sorted. We hope to come home in August via Hawaii and Los Angeles. Fingers crossed, I will get to see you then.

  Wish me luck, my friend. I will write again soon — Diana x

  Diana and Terry have split. Diana is going to Sydney. Sydney is in Australia. Matthew is in Australia. Diana will be coming here in August. Terry and Diana have broken up. My mind goes round and round, processing what Diana’s letter is saying. I constantly circulate back to Matthew is in Australia. I usually don’t allow myself to think about him, it is still too painful, but somehow, Diana is the invisible thread tying him into my thoughts again.

  Diana comes through on her promise, and a letter arrives in March gushing about Sydney and all the crazy Aussie boys she is meeting. It sounds like she is having a fantastic time. She manages to secure a job straight away, and her wages cover her living expenses and spending money. It sounds like Tracey has an adventurous spirit, and they spend their weekends traveling as much as they can. Diana never imagined how large Australia is, and so far, she is genuinely thrilled with her decision. They have already booked their return flight at the end of August; they’ll stop in Hawaii for four nights and in Los Angeles for one before traveling onward to London. I mark the date on my calendar, planning to meet up with them in LA for the night. The visit will be right between her and my twenty-second birthdays, so I hope to plan some sort of special celebration. It most definitely gives me something to look forward to.

  My parents come for my graduation ceremony in May, and we have reservations for dinner in the evening before they go home. Relations between us have improved a little, but they will never fully recover. I didn’t speak to my mother for three months after we returned home from England that awful summer. Even then, it was limited to necessary conversation while I was at home for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  My first summer back after my freshman year, things improved a little more, and over time, we gradually have moved forward. She adores Brock, and I know she is hoping he will propose soon. All she can see is his perfect exterior and his even more perfect family; my happiness doesn’t come into the equation at all. Nothing was ever spoken about that morning at the Whites’ house, and I have not been back to England since. Matthew never wrote to me. He disappeared to Australia, never to be heard from again. Over time, my wounded heart has found a way to patch the gaping hole that was left and numbly move forward.

  School helps. The ocean helps. Brock helps.

  The twenty-eighth of August finally arrives, and I have reservations in LA for a hotel and a trendy bar within walking distance. Diana’s flight lands at five o’clock, and we meet in the baggage claim area, an enthusiastic greeting of hugs and tears. Tracey is different, not what I expected at all. She is slightly obnoxious for my liking, but I don’t want to be rude, so I make every effort to be friendly. Her pink, pixie-cut hair and the tight shorts on her plump body scream for attention, and when her physical appearance isn’t getting her that attention, her loud voice does.

  I don’t understand how Diana has been traveling and living with this woman for the past six months. Tracey must be close to thirty, twenty-eight at the youngest. How on earth she is a schoolteacher of young children, I cannot understand. She scares the life out of me, so I can’t imagine what she does to little kids. Walking out to the car, I seriously consider changing our plans, as I’m not sure the place I have reservations for is ready for the likes of Tracey.

  I should have gone with my gut feeling, as the night turns out to be a disaster. Tracey and I cannot meet halfway on anything, and Diana seems to be playing referee all night. I can see Di is torn between catching up with me and trying to have fun with Tracey. Every time Diana speaks to me about something from our past, Tracey interrupts with a story from their trip.

  Music plays loudly in the bar, and the place is filled with a variety of people, mostly in their twenties and thirties. Luckily, the Sapphire Lounge doesn’t have a strict dress code, and Tracey is allowed in wearing ripped jeans and Nirvana T-shirt. The bar is round inside, with seating on the outside circumference. The large, circular bar in the center of the building is lit in blue with a giant serpent rotating at the top, descending out of a ceiling decorated in multicolored gems.

  The dance floor, sandwiched between the bar and the seating area, is crowded with people mostly standing around talking. I feel a little overdressed in my black halter-neck shirt and black pants, as Diana has also chosen to wear jeans. Hers, at least, are a decent pair matched with a cute short-sleeve white shirt, and she does wear high heels. Her style has changed a little, I notice, although in her defense, I am sure her wardrobe is limited since she has been traveling for six months. I try not to judge my friend too harshly.

  “Are you nervous about going home?” I ask Diana while we are seated in a corner booth.

  “No,” Diana replies. “I miss my mum and dad.”

  “But she doesn’t miss that arsehole, Terry.” Tracey interrupts yet again. “Do you, Di?” She winks and nudges Diana’s arm. “Plenty of friendly Aussies and Brits out there in Sydney to keep her company, not like this stuck-up place full of Yanks.” Tracey scans the bar with a look of disgust on her face. I roll my eyes again at another comment about the venue I have chosen.

  Diana can see the look on my face, my patience wearing thin, and she reaches over to me to calm me. “This place is lovely, Katie. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” She smiles. “I would have been fine catching up with you anywhere.”

  “Oh, yeah! Speaking of catching up,” Tracey says, butting in again, “does Katie know that Brit you met up with in Sydney for a beer?” Tracey looks at Diana. “What was his stupid name?” Her pierced brow furrows for a second as she is deep in thought, tapping her index finger on her temple as if trying to pull a lost memory from her pink-haired head.

  Diana waves her off. “Oh, no, he was no one special. You have things confused again, Tracey.” Turning back to me, Diana laughs nervously. “She’s drunk half the time and doesn’t know what she’s talking about! That was some bloke I met there.” She puts heavy emphasis on the word “there.”

  I’m confused about the entire conversation, and to be honest, I am completely disgusted with Tracey. I don’t want to be here anymore, and I decide it’s best if I leave.

  “Hey, Tracey, why don’t you go to the bar and grab another drink?” I politely suggest, handing Tracey a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Hell, yeah! Sure thing,” she slurs. She grabs the money and heads to the crowded bar, leaving us alone.

  “She sure is something,” I say.

  “Tracey?” Diana replies. “She isn’t that bad, Katie. I’ve had a lot of fun with her; it’s been one hell of an adventure. I got to let my hair down and live a little.” Diana nervously plays with the straw in her cocktail, looking toward Tracey at the bar.

  “I bet you did,” I reply, unsure of what has happened to my friend. “Look, please don’t be upset, but I’m going to head home. The hotel’s paid for, and there’s a direct shuttle to the airport from the lobby. I don’t want to ruin your only night here in LA with Tracey, so you two have fun.” I grab my purse and reach over to squeeze Diana’s hand. She doesn’t respond to anything I say, and she can’t look at me, but I can see tears welling up in her eyes. I don’t quite know what to make of it.

  “I love you, Diana. Safe journey home, and write to me once you get settled, okay?” I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Happy belated birthday, my friend.”

  I walk out.

  I pull into the driveway of the cotta
ge just after one in the morning, tired and disappointed. I have been looking forward to this evening for months—six months, to be exact—and Tracey has ruined the entire night. I don’t understand what Diana sees in her, how she can be friends with someone like her. What hurts even more is I feel that she prefers Tracey’s friendship to mine. I feel abandoned, alone, and rejected by the one person who has always been there for me.

  As I walk in, the sounds coming from the bedroom are unmistakable. Glancing around, I see several beer bottles on the coffee table and a designer purse that doesn’t belong to me on the couch. The throw pillows are in disarray, and I see discarded clothing on the floor.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter quietly. My shoulders drop in resignation. I am flabbergasted that my night is actually getting worse. Slowly, I walk toward the bedroom.

  Leaning against the door frame, I have a perfect view of the king-size bed. Brock has his back to me; he’s on his knees, pounding full force into some brunette who’s bent over doggie style. His hands dig into her hips and his head is bent backward, his gorgeous face looking at the ceiling, his long, blond hair stretching down his back between his tanned shoulder blades. In the dark, I can see his firm white butt and strong thighs moving powerfully. He looks magnificent, even in this moment. The girl, on the other hand, is a noisy bitch, moaning and groaning, screaming “Oh, baby” and “Oh, fuck me harder.” Not my personal technique, but apparently Brock is enjoying it. I can’t tell who she is or if I know her because her face is smashed against the headboard of my king-size bed. In truth, it doesn’t matter.

  For a few seconds, I debate what I should do. I have had suspicions that Brock has cheated, although I’ve never had any proof, only a feeling—call it female intuition. I suppose I chose to look the other way because I enjoy my lifestyle and Brock is very convenient. For three years, he has diverted my attention from thoughts of Matthew. I do not love Brock. I like him a lot, but I do not love him. I make my way quietly to the spare room, find my suitcases, and start to pack. Fortunately, most of my belongings are here in the spare room due to lack of closet space in the small beach cottage. In the dark, tears falling, I gather my possessions while Brock and the brunette finish their wild session next door.