by Eli Lang
I swiveled around on the seat and came to sit in front of the couch. Cara’s eyes were still closed.
“Yeah?”
Her smile flickered across her face again when I spoke, my voice so much closer to her now. But she didn’t open her eyes.
“Yeah. I can picture you on stage. With your band.”
I let my eyes wander over her, over her hair, falling across her cheek, catching the lamplight so it wasn’t only that lovely brown, but a thousand shades of honey and dark. Her skin looked soft, delicate, but her body was strong. Her fingers were curled around the edge of the cushion, and I wanted to touch them, loosen that clasp, or make it tighter.
“Is it dark? Are the lights down on stage?” My voice was just a breath. I was afraid to break this spell.
“Mm-hmm.” The sound caught in her throat, and I could see the blood rising to her cheeks, to the sharp angled dip at her collarbone. But she kept talking, and she kept letting me stare. She had to know that was what I was doing. I was close enough that she could probably feel my breath on her, but she didn’t move away, and her eyes stayed closed. “Colored lights. Green and blue and purple. Lighting you up. Making that blond hair shine.” She laughed a little to herself.
“Not a fan of the blond?” I asked, teasing. I gave in to what I wanted and ran a finger, very lightly, down the back of her hand. Her laughter stopped, her breath stuttering out in a tiny gasp. Her fingers fluttered, then closed even tighter on the cushion, like I’d been hoping for. I hesitated, then trailed my finger up to her wrist, around the curve of her bones, along the underside of her arm. I stopped when I got to her elbow, waiting for her to pull away, to tell me to stop. But she didn’t. She was breathing hard, as if I’d touched her in a way far more intimate than dragging a finger along her skin. But I was breathing just as hard. And all my focus belonged to her.
I dragged my finger back down her arm, slowly, tracing the same path.
Her breath shuddered out in something that was almost a laugh, but not. Too shaky. “Oh no,” she said, and her words were equally shaky. “I like the blond.”
“Good.” I was so absorbed in the sight of my fingers on her, moving along the slender bones of her knuckles, over the gentle curves of her fingernails, smooth under the tip of my finger, I almost forgot what we were talking about. “Where are you, while I’m on stage?”
She lifted her hand a fraction, and I slipped my hand into hers. Her fingers closed over mine, her thumb skimming along my palm. “I’m off to the side. The side of the stage, behind the curtain. You can see me if you look up.”
She hadn’t let my hand go, and I didn’t want her to. I lifted my free one, brushed the hair back from her face. Smoothed my thumb over her cheekbone. Ran my fingertips down the side of her face, down her neck. I watched goose bumps rise up everywhere I touched, a tangible wake behind my fingers. It was possibly the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.
“Do I look up?” I thought I’d forgotten to breathe. My voice sounded scraped raw, and the words came out in a breathy rush.
She opened her eyes then, and I looked down into them. She didn’t blink or turn away, and I could feel myself get lost in her. I tried to remember the last time I’d looked at someone like that, looked at them like they mattered. The last time someone had held my gaze for more than a second. Tried to remember the last time I’d touched someone like I was touching Cara, touching her because I thought she was beautiful and I wanted to know what her skin felt like on mine. Because that was all there was, at that moment, to the need I had. I wanted to touch her, and I wanted her to touch me, and I wanted her to look at me with those clear eyes and see me.
She twisted her hand a little more, so our fingers were intertwined.
“You look up,” she said, her eyes still on me. “You see me.”
I forgot where we were, forgot everything else that had happened in the last few days, everything that would happen. Cara was all I could see and I wanted to keep it that way. “Then what?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head, the tiniest movement against the cushion of the couch.
“What do you want to happen?” I asked her instead.
She tightened her fingers on mine, so hard it almost hurt, and I wanted more of it. “I want you to kiss me.”
I leaned forward—I didn’t even have to get up on my knees—and touched my lips to hers. Soft at first, and gentle like it had been when we’d kissed the night before. The start of something. But her free hand came up, her palm slipping around the back of my neck, her fingers burying themselves in my hair. She tugged and I moaned, my mouth opening against hers. There wasn’t a single thing I could do about it, and I didn’t want to do anything, anyway. I just wanted to keep kissing her.
Cara untangled our fingers and wrapped her other arm around me, sliding her hand up my back. Her palm was hot, even through the cotton of my T-shirt, and she pressed hard, urging me toward her, pulling me closer. I did kneel then, so I was hovering above her. She scooted over on the couch, her hands never quite leaving me, and I followed, until I was stretched out beside her. The couch wasn’t made for lying side by side, and our bodies were squished together, but I was grateful for it. I wanted the feel of her all along me. Her knees pressed into my shins, her hip bones sharp against mine, her arm tucked between us, mine all tangled up with it so that if either of us moved, I suspected we’d probably injure each other. I didn’t care how uncomfortable it could be, and apparently she didn’t either, because she was kissing me again, harder than before, her tongue slipping between my lips so I could taste her. She tasted sweet, like sugar. Sugar and coffee and salt.
She slid her hand up my body, over my hip and up my waist, rucking up my shirt, her fingers finding skin. She moved her hand around my back, under my shirt, and tucked her fingers under the back of my bra. She didn’t unhook it, didn’t let her fingers wander, but when the bra tightened, that tiny bit, when she made room for herself there, my breath caught so hard I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get it back. I thought of all the times I hadn’t bothered to take my bra off at all, when my hookup’s idea of touch was to push me back against the nearest wall and make enough room for them between my legs. Or the times when I’d unhooked it myself, shoved it over my shoulders so I could get a little touch, even if it was rough, or uncaring. And I’d wanted it, both of those ways—I’d always wanted it, and I hadn’t regretted it. But this was different. This was intimate. It felt like Cara was touching me for the same reason I was touching her—because I wanted to know her. I wanted to know what she felt like when I held her against me. When she was happy.
And something about how good it was, that simple touch, something about how much it undid me, made me think we should stop. This wasn’t right. She knew I was leaving soon. But she didn’t know about Tuck. And it was ridiculous to dwell on that, when Tuck wasn’t here and Cara probably wasn’t planning on getting attached to me anyway, but I couldn’t help it. I was getting attached. I could feel how easy it would be. And I felt like I was doing something wrong, even while I wanted to reach for her and hold her closer, press myself against her until I dissolved into her.
She must have felt me tense up or hesitate, because she pulled back, as far as my arms and the back of the couch would let her, and gazed at me. “Are you okay?”
I stared back at her. Her hands had slipped out of my shirt and come around, so she was holding my shoulders. Not pushing me away or pulling me closer, but holding me. So I couldn’t run away maybe, or wouldn’t. She was smiling, that tiny, private smile someone gives when they’re happy and nervous and excited all at the same time. And she felt so solid and real, and she looked so hopeful.
I pulled in a breath, let it run through me.
“We don’t . . . We can take it slower.” She circled her hands over my shoulders, down my arms a little way. Soothing. I leaned in to her touch.
“It’s not . . .” I laughed, even though this wasn’t funny, and the sound that came
out of me was hard and harsh and not really a laugh at all. I thought of all the times when things had been so much faster than this. So rushed that sometimes I didn’t even really remember what happened, and I had to piece it together from little fragments after it was over. If I even bothered to do that. This wasn’t about that at all.
I wanted to tell her something that would make sense. I didn’t even know how to explain it to myself, though. She was looking less confused and more hurt with each second that I didn’t say anything, and I knew I had to open my mouth and at least try to explain, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t find any words.
I didn’t want her to look like that. I didn’t want to put that expression on her face. And I didn’t want to feel like that inside, either. We had been fine. Cara knew what the score was. She knew I was leaving, and that was enough.
My phone buzzed from where I’d left it on the floor. It made the same sound for everyone who texted me, but I knew, without having to check, that it was Tuck. And instead of the warm rush I usually got when he texted or called, a flicker of hot anger rose up in me. Why couldn’t I just want what I wanted? Why did what I felt for him always have to be a ghost over everything?
I leaned forward and kissed Cara again. It took her a surprised second to decide whether she wanted to push me away or not. But she didn’t. She melted back into it, and then we were kissing harder and deeper than before, that tiny flame of guilt and anger making me press closer instead of pulling back.
I couldn’t get out of the trap I’d made for myself by falling for Tuck. I couldn’t tell him, had never been able to tell him, because it might hurt the band. And I couldn’t get myself away enough to deal with it, because he and Escaping Indigo were my life, and I wanted it that way. It ate me up inside, but I’d chosen it.
But what I could do was kiss Cara like that didn’t matter, could pretend all of that wasn’t going on in my head, could throw myself into her and hope I could forget for a while.
Cara went with it, matched my aggressiveness with her own. When I reached for the hem of her shirt, she caught my hands and reached down to pull it up and off herself, and then she reached for mine, so we were finally skin to skin. I’d forgotten how that felt. How the simple warmth of being touched fed a huge hunger that never quite abated.
Our hands tangled together, reaching for the same places on each other, the proximity the couch was forcing on us meaning we had to sneak fingers down stomachs, across chests, curve them around waists, so each touch felt desperate and lovely and intimate and stolen.
“Fast.” Her voice was only a whisper in my ear. “This is fast. I’m sorry.”
I almost laughed, because comparatively, this was as slow as it got for me. Those times before had been so different. They’d never had much tenderness. Too little caring, not enough sweetness. And this . . . this was fast, but it had so much of that it seemed almost overwhelming in how good it was, how lucky it made me feel.
And I almost apologized, because I was the one who’d pushed for fast, and I was the one who was still wondering if we should even be doing this now. But instead I shook my head, and she reached for me again, and we were unhooking bras, our hands getting all caught up in the straps, then reaching down for jean buttons and zippers.
I hesitated before I reached down any farther. My hand was cupped around her breast, her nipple a tight pebble against the palm of my hand, and that itself felt far more intimate than any quick and dirty thing I’d done in the past. But I wanted to be sure.
“Is this okay?” My voice was so breathy I wasn’t sure she’d be able to make out the words.
She bit at her lip, leaving little crescent marks in the red. Then she smiled, shy but not unsure. “I want you.” She gave a little shrug, a sharp roll of her shoulders that should have been ungraceful, but her body wouldn’t move like that. Everything she did was fluid.
She kissed me again, then drew away enough that she could kiss down my neck, across my collarbone, into the hollow of my throat. It was incredible, her tongue so soft and light against my skin, the nearness of her a strange kind of intoxicating. She moved back up, and I took a second to stare at her. She was all smooth, tight muscles under sleek skin. Flat stomach, a gentle dip at her bellybutton. Plain black bra still hanging onto her shoulders, making her skin appear even paler. She looked strong and fragile at the same time, her shoulders slightly tense, thrown back, the lines of her collarbones and ribs divided by shadows. She didn’t try to cover herself, or stop me looking, and I thought that was so brave.
I wasn’t ashamed of my body. I was in shape from drumming, and the running I did when I was at home. But I wasn’t particularly gorgeous, either. Not like Cara was. But when she pulled my bra aside, and undid my own jeans, I tried to lie still like she had. Tried not to hunch my shoulders or look down, or away. It was hard, though. My body worked for me. Moved in ways, with a precision, that few other bodies could. My mind made patterns and music, and my body turned it into sound and motion. But in front of Cara I was self-conscious. Ungainly, almost. She was taller, but she was so graceful, like light on water, lovely and slender and perfect. Everything about her—her small breasts, her long toes, the fine bones of her wrist—accentuated that. And I was just me. Not quite pretty. A little bit boring. Too short and too rough around the edges.
But Cara wasn’t looking at me as if she saw me like that. She was looking at me like she couldn’t take her eyes off me, like she wanted to take all of me in and didn’t know where to start. She smoothed her hands over my chest, her fingers gentle and teasing, until I was panting and I forgot what my own hands were doing. She brushed her fingers over my waist, then up, along the undersides of my arms, making me shiver, over my shoulders, past my neck, burying them in my hair when she kissed me.
I dragged my hands down her chest, down across all the smooth skin, until I hit her jeans again. I’d gotten them undone, but now I tugged them down far enough over her hips that I could get a hand into her underwear. She was slick and hot, and I pressed against her, maybe a little too hard because I was so stupidly eager. But she gasped and arched against me, and my ego ratcheted up about ten notches.
She was scrabbling at my jeans, trying to yank them down, and I realized they were the skinny ones and probably too tight for rolling-around-on-the-couch-sex fun. I shimmied my hips and we spent a frantic few moments trying to get them off without my having to move the hand I had on her. Then her own fingers were pressing against me, stroking that perfect spot, and any laughter in me evaporated into moans. She was good at this. Her touch was just right, and she wrapped her other hand around the back of my neck, so as we arched and ground against each other, our foreheads bumped and our breaths came in hot puffs, and we kissed when we could get enough coordination to get our mouths together.
She came first, lifting her hips up, pressing hard against my palm, and I tried to keep it moving, to make it last for her. But then she was sneaking her own fingers down, a tiny bit at first, as if to see if I’d stop her, if I didn’t want that. I spread my legs, and she slipped two fingers into me and pressed forward, firm, stroking, looking for the places that felt good, and I came so hard I thought my vision would go black.
When I drifted back to myself, we were a sticky, sweaty mess on the couch, but I didn’t want to move. We were still pressed up against each other, her skin so hot on mine, and I wanted to stay that way. She’d moved her hand away, and she was resting it on my hip, her fingers drawing a little pattern there.
I smoothed my own hand down her waist. I felt amazing. Loose and languid and as if she’d completely taken me apart. But as the euphoria faded, the rest of the world started to crash back down, a piece at a time, like it was happening in slow motion.
Cara must have felt me . . . tense or pull away from her, even though I didn’t actually move. She cleared her throat and tugged at her bra, covering herself again, and I sat up. The motion made it feel like a wall had come up between us. A minute before, I’d been more connec
ted to her than I could remember being to anyone in . . . so long. And now I couldn’t have reached for her if I tried.
We put our clothes back on, tugged up our jeans. I found a towel, and we wiped our hands on it. Cara brushed her hair back and put it up into a short ponytail, which started losing pieces almost immediately. And then we stood there, awkwardly, in the middle of the basement. I realized, with belated horror, that we hadn’t locked the door, that we hadn’t tried to be quiet. That my parents could have come down anytime, or that they might have heard us. The thought made me flush.
Cara saw it, and I didn’t know what she thought it meant, but she ducked her head and looked embarrassed. It was the last thing I wanted her to feel. But I didn’t know what to say. While I was struggling with it, my phone buzzed again. Tuck. It seemed like such a sign. He was between us and Cara didn’t even know it. Would never know it. But it wasn’t fair to her, either way. What we’d just done had been so . . . amazing and huge and weirdly important, even though it had been, truly, casual sex, like any other casual sex I’d ever had. Except it hadn’t been.
“I should probably go to bed,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to make my voice sound easy, or whether I was giving her a clear sign to leave, and it came off somewhere in between. It wasn’t the sweet goodbye I’d been hoping for a few minutes earlier, though, when I’d still been sky high, and by the way Cara’s face fell, I knew it wasn’t what she wanted either. But she only nodded. She grabbed her bag from the floor, took a step like she’d step toward me, but then shook her head and stopped.
“Call me?” She sounded too hopeful and too hurt.
“Yeah.” It wasn’t a promise, and we both knew it.
She walked to the stairs before I could go with her, and a second later, I heard the door shut behind her. I waited a minute before I followed to lock it.
I slept poorly, tossing and turning, my half-awake mind running over everything that had happened, everything that had been said, over and over. With my parents, with Cara. I’d glanced at my texts from Tuck—they were nothing important, little things to make me laugh, to make me feel like I was still part of him and Bellamy and the band, even though I was far away. Tuck wasn’t the most thoughtful guy on the planet, and I was almost positive that Lissa might have had something to do with reminding him to call me, but he loved me, and I knew it. He cared about me and he wanted me to know he cared, and normally that would have made me feel so lucky. Now, however, it only hurt. Now it felt like a trap.