Bittersweet

by Domingo, Sareeta

  “YES!”

  I collapse back, panting, exhausted. Holy shit.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  My ears are ringing. I claw at his shoulders, my hands urging him back on top of me. His lips trace their path slowly back up to my mouth and I taste myself on his tongue. His skin is damp with sweat and I feel him through his jeans, straining hard against me. I grind up against him and he moans. I need more. I can’t believe I’m even thinking it after that, but I do. And he definitely does.

  I reach down and undo his belt buckle, the button on his fly. He does the rest, pushing his jeans off his legs impatiently, and then settling gently back on top of me. There’s only his boxers now… He curses and reaches back down to his jeans where they’ve fallen beside the bed, rummaging for something. I ogle his ass for a moment as he does, and realize he’s going for the condom in his wallet. I’m glad he’s prepared at least. I try and bite back any worries about why.

  He returns his attentions to me, placing the condom onto the nightstand, but I push him over onto his back and climb on top of him. He looks up at me, running his hands up my thighs.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and sits up to kiss me. I run my hands around to the back of his neck and start to move against him through his boxers. It feels incredible … but I still need more. I lean down over him, start to kiss his chest, ease his boxers down, but then—

  His phone rings.

  We keep kissing. I keep moving.

  It’s still ringing. Loudly.

  Greg tenses up, and I stop moving.

  “Guess someone else really wants you too…” I say, rolling off him and sighing hard.

  Chapter Ten

  I collapse on the bed while Greg gets up to switch off his phone—or I hope that’s what he’s doing. He better not answer it. At least I get to watch him trot awkwardly across the room in his boxers, with a substantial protrusion preceding him… I bite my lip, half from desire, and half from being embarrassed about the cheesy line I said just before he got up. Who is so desperate to get a hold of him anyway?

  He frowns at the screen like I saw him do before when “B” called, and he makes sure his cell is off before he throws it on top of his duffle. I’m suddenly very aware that all I have on is Maxine’s skirt, bunched up around my waist as I lie on the bed. As Greg makes his way back over, I pull at the bedclothes, trying to free the tightly tucked corners so I can pull them around me a little.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, then tips his head to one side, looking at me quizzically as I attempt to clamber under the covers with minimum grace. “Need a little help?”

  He smiles and I get up, then together we turn down the bed from either side of it, taking in one another’s state of near-nudity. It feels totally sexy and oddly domestic at the same time. Starting to feel self-conscious, I reach over for his T-shirt as it lies scrunched on the floor, slip it over my head, and then push my skirt down my legs and off. His shirt smells so deliciously of him I feel lightheaded—until I realize the real thing is standing opposite me, his eyes dark, staring at me as I ease myself under the bedclothes and look up at him expectantly.

  “Something wrong?” I ask, worried. The mood has definitely changed.

  Greg shakes his head, but he’s still frowning, with a distracted air about him. He pulls back the sheet on his side and climbs in next to me. There’s an awkward column of empty bed between us, but I’m not sure if I should close the gap or not.

  “Who was it?” I ask, because I feel like I should say something.

  “Hmm?”

  “Calling so late. Another booty call?” Damn it. Why the hell did I say that? God, what if it was? I feel myself going pale.

  “No. I told you…”

  “Oh yeah, you’re a virgin,” I say, trying a smile. He returns it, but I can tell he’s still preoccupied. I risk scooting a little closer to him, and touch him lightly on his jaw, where it’s starting to turn a deep shade of purple that almost matches my new hair. He winces, but then nestles into my hand and closes his eyes. I sigh, looking at his beautiful face, but suddenly I’m overwhelmed by tiredness too. I shove the last cushions off the bed and move to lay my head down onto the soft, downy pillow. Greg does the same, and we lay close, staring at each other in the low lamplight.

  “Still scared of me?” I whisper.

  Greg huffs out a quiet laugh, but his eyes won’t leave mine. “Even more now.”

  The way he says it, husky and sort of helpless, makes goosebumps break out on my skin, despite the warmth of the bedclothes.

  “Hmm,” I say, pursing my lips. “Feels more like I should be scared of you. I have a feeling you’re a man with a past.” My tone is jokey, but I really mean it. Something in his eyes still holds a wariness, as well as something softer, and something burning hot—

  “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

  We fall quiet, and after a moment his eyes drift shut.

  “Everyone has a past though,” I murmur.

  He opens his eyes again slowly. “You know when they say someone falls hard?” he asks quietly, and I nod. “I fell. I’m still broken on the rocks from the last time, Cathy.”

  I stare at him. Does he mean he’s afraid he’ll fall for me like that too? Does he mean he’s still heartbroken? I want to ask him everything—about his life, about his family, about who was calling, about the first person he kissed, how many other girls he’s done what he just did to me with. Like a masochist, I want to know it all. I think he can tell, too, from the way he’s looking at me so expectantly. But I just can’t bring myself to probe. Not tonight. It probably shouldn’t be the message I’m taking from what he told me, but the idea that he’s already so affected by me… It feels like the start of something, like the sun just beginning to rise. So I say nothing, and let my own eyes close. I’m vaguely aware of him switching off the lamp, and jostling to get comfortable on the bed. I turn over, away from him, and I wonder if he’d really rather I just left.

  But a few moments later I feel his arm snake around my waist, his body nestle close to mine. I feel him sigh into my hair. My muscles relax. His breathing slows down, and a short while later he’s asleep. As I close my eyes again, I think about what we’d talked about before—about him being unexpected.

  I really had no idea just how true that would be.

  *

  I wake up with a headache that seems to be fighting to break out of the confines of my skull. Each pound of the blood in my temples reminds me of one of the drinks I sank last night. But it begins to ease as I remember more: Greg, this bed, his mouth on me… I turn around under the tangled sheets—but he’s not here.

  He’s not even in the room.

  I sit up, wincing, and see a note lying on his pillow. The fear that had begun to rise in my chest sinks back down. He must have gone for coffee or something. Much as I had convinced myself this was all a one-night-stand, no-big-deal thing, the vulnerability he showed me, and the way he’d held me while we slept, the way he looked at me when we lay here without saying a word… And before that, the way he made me—

  I press my legs together, suddenly very aware that all I have on is his T-shirt. Could this maybe be something? I pick up the folded note with my name on it, written on hotel stationery. His writing is neat and surprisingly legible for a boy.

  I kind of wish it wasn’t.

  Cathy,

  Thank you for last night. It was fun, but I think it’s better if we leave it at that.

  I’m going to be out of town for a couple of days, but I’m sure I’ll see you in the

  restaurant or whatever sometime—the room service here is only so-so. But order whatever you like if you wake up hungry. Charge it to the room.

  Greg

  I stare at it, open-mouthed, for a good few minutes.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter out loud. I scramble out of the bed, and look out the window toward the station, as if I’d somehow be able to see him down there and telepathically tell him
that this is bullshit. “The restaurant or whatever”? “Charge it to the room”? “Out of town”?

  “What the fuck?”

  My mind lurches rapidly between angry and upset. I swallow hard, and settle on angry. I rip off his T-shirt, throw it on the floor, and get dressed quickly, noticing he’s taken his duffle, aside from a few shirts and dirty underwear left in a pile on the floor.

  He really has just left. I can’t believe that asshole just—

  Tears threaten. I swallow them back again, trying to ignore the used, foolish, awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. I grab my jacket from where I left it on the chair last night, which feels like a lifetime ago in the cold light of day, but as I do, I notice the paper scrunched in the wastebasket—several pieces of the hotel stationery. Maybe he tried a few different versions of his kiss-off note? I stare down at the basket for what seems like an hour, trying to decide. Should I read them?

  No. Whatever they say, I don’t want to know. I think the overall message is clear enough. He did try to tell me he was “broken”. And that running away is his thing, just like her.

  I should have listened.

  I slam the door behind me, feeling sick to my stomach again as I see Max’s text messages gleefully congratulating me for not having come home. I could be in a ditch for all she knows, I think grumpily, though I know none of this is her fault. She just wants me to be happy.

  I pass the elevator, but I can’t face getting in it, so I trudge down the stairs, cursing under my breath as I catch Wanda Priddy’s eye and see her smirk at watching me walk out of here alone. Like I needed to feel any smaller. I blink hard to get rid of the tears that begin to well up, and blink again as the harsh morning sunlight hits my face. So much for a “sunrise”.

  I start the short walk home, feeling like the very definition of a fool.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Dinah Washington sang “What a Difference a Day Makes,” she’d obviously not had a bizarrely meaningful one-night stand with a ridiculously gorgeous, frustratingly mysterious guy who then up and left with the most cursory, insulting of goodbyes. I can’t stop reliving it all in my head, and three days have made absolutely no difference at all.

  “Shit,” I hiss as I overfill yet another salt shaker. My dad glances up at me over his glasses as he checks the cash register, but I know there’s only so many times he’ll ask me what’s crawled up my ass before he knows to leave me be. I think he gets flashbacks of me being a pre-menstrual teenager and he’s still battle-scarred.

  “Say, whatever happened to that handsome stranger you sent our way, C?” Jenna asks casually from across the restaurant. My jaw clenches, and it takes every fiber of my being not to bite her head off.

  I take a deep breath and shrug. “Who knows?”

  She comes over, leans against the counter, and sweeps the spilled salt into her hand. “Too bad, I thought his head had turned for you,” she says with a warm smile.

  “Well then, I guess it turned right back,” I say. Jenna raises an eyebrow, and with the salt cupped in one palm she lays a sympathetic hand on my shoulder with the other, but lets the topic drop.

  “All right. Night, hon. Goodnight, Joe,” she calls, heading out and throwing the salt over her shoulder as she steps outside, looking back at me with a wink. I feel horrible for thinking maybe she and Greg had hooked up—I’m glad she wasn’t consigned to that fate. I sigh for the umpteenth time today. I just don’t understand why—

  “I’ll finish up here, sweetheart,” Joe says, interrupting my thoughts and frowning at me as he shuts the register. “You look like you could use some rest.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “I’m almost done, Cath. Go on now.”

  He has his stern face on, but I know he’s just looking out for me. The last thing I want is him to be worrying about me on top of everything else. I force a smile and go over to give him a kiss on the cheek, seeing as nobody else is around.

  “Night, Dad.” He grins at that.

  I pull out my cell from my purse as I walk home through the balmy evening, and then have to remind myself for the millionth time that I never even gave Greg my number. I definitely don’t have his. I walk past the hotel, fighting the urge to go inside, but I don’t want to risk the chance that Wanda’s on the desk again tonight. I sure as hell don’t want to witness her smugness at my desperation. I can’t believe I still want to see him. Some stupid, idiotic, ridiculous part of me thinks that there must be some kind of explanation for why a guy would give me a mind-blowing orgasm, fall asleep holding me close, then decide it’s See ya later, thanks for the memories.

  I get home, and to the shock of my eyeballs—and nostrils—I see Maxine is in the kitchen, dashing from sink to stove, stirring pots and chopping vegetables in a whirlwind. The place looks like Trader Joe’s exploded in here.

  “Holy shit,” I murmur, glancing at the smoke detector. She must have taken the batteries out.

  “Right? I’m cooking!”

  “Uh… OK,” I murmur. Is that what this is?

  “Spaghetti and meatballs, for you! You can bite into them and pretend they’re Greg’s gonads!”

  I grimace but can’t help laughing. “Max, you really shouldn’t have.” Really.

  “Nonsense,” she says, the way she always does. “Fuck that guy. Honestly, I’m sorry I ever suggested you go for that, because you’ve been, like, a walking frown-fest for days, and we need to chomp on some balls and forget about him.”

  “Stop talking about his balls, Maxi.”

  “OK, I know you’re going to miss his balls, but it was one night. And hey, at least the sex was good, right?” She raises an eyebrow at me, with tomato sauce dripping off the spoon she’s suspended not-quite-over the pot. I refused to get into the details before, because of the knot of anger blocking any words on the subject coming out of my mouth. “Right?” she presses.

  “Mmm hmm,” I mutter, and she purses her lips together. “Listen, Max, I don’t want—”

  “Want to talk about it. I know.” She looks at me sympathetically. “I get it.”

  I think she does. If this was just about a roll in the sack, she knows I wouldn’t be this… Whatever I am.

  “Go get changed,” she says. “It’ll be ready in… Well, there are some chips and dip in the meantime.”

  I smile, and head to my room to do as she says. A couple of hours later, we finally sit down to eat, and it’s actually surprisingly good. And Max does a great job of distracting me with talk of her and Todd and The Salon while we swirl our spaghetti.

  “So, Clarissa was in for her mani-pedi today…” she says, playing with a hunk of garlic bread as we sit back, stuffed to the gills.

  “Yeah?”

  “She says the cast have started to arrive in town. They’re going to start rehearsing for the first show, because they start filming pretty darn soon. It’s all really happening!”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.” I sigh.

  “What is it?” Max asks, but then her face falls. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. If the cast is here, then the crew must be, like, doing whatever the crew does to prep…”

  “And you still haven’t seen him.”

  I shake my head and shrug. “I mean, I don’t want to. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Max repeats, nodding.

  “I just… Want the chance to ask, you know, face to face, what the hell all that was.” My voice goes kind of small and shaky, and I wish I’d never brought it up. She lays a hand on mine, but I pull away and start to clear the dishes.

  “This was really good, by the way,” I say quickly. “You should cook more often.” I head to the kitchen and take a breath. “Or … on second thought.”

  We start to clean up, which is quite the operation as Maxine seems to have used every receptacle and utensil we own.

  “So anyway, according to Clarissa, Bethany Keeler has had this, like, dramatic new makeover for the part. She tried to take a photo to sell to TMZ but they�
��ve probably already got the pictures from the airport in LA and whatnot. But she did say that as soon as she got inside her apartment, Keeler demanded that they remove all rugs and ‘floor adornments.’ Can you believe that? Still, I’m, like, totally going to stalk each and every one of them the minute I get a second to…”

  I drift off as Max waxes romantic about “bumping into” Johnny Lincoln at the market, as if he’d ever go to the Piggly Wiggly. And as if Todd would let her, given the rising level of infatuation he seems to have for her—which is really sweet, actually. He’s a keeper. I stifle a sigh and try not to feel envious. Could Greg really be back in town? Should I try calling the hotel, see if he’d— NO, Cathy!

  “… tomorrow?” Maxine finishes, looking at me inquisitively as she hangs up the dishcloth.

  “Huh?”

  “Jeez, Earth to Cath,” she says, but her tone is sympathetic. “Tomorrow, you and me, going for a run, yes?”

  “You’re going to come running with me? Maxi, I appreciate this outreach project, but I’m not going to commit hara-kiri here. I promise.”

  She folds her arms. “What, a girl can’t do a little exercise now and then?”

  I chuckle. “Now and then? You haven’t put on a pair of sneakers since Mrs. Didcot’s gym class.”

  “Exactly. That was then, and this is now. Time for that tri-yearly workout!” she retorts with a grin.

  *

  “Are you serious? Can we slow down, I have a cramp…”

  I look back over my shoulder. “Are you serious? We haven’t even got to the river yet, Maxi. Get that tiny butt up here. You wanted to do this, remember?”

  “I actually think I can babysit you better from the couch. They have that thing where you can track someone’s cell phone, you know?” she pants. “So maybe I could just head back and…”

  She peters out and I roll my eyes, slowing to a fast walk until she catches up to me. We both take a swig out of our water bottles.