by Piper Lennox
“No, I’ll give it a chance.” I sit on the loveseat beside his chair, the bowl perched between us on my armrest. Dad makes “hmm, that’s interesting” noises whenever the narrator talks. Mom clanks in the kitchen, singing Manilow. Josh steals some batter straight from the pan on the counter and gets himself a dishtowel snap.
It’s nice, I realize. I’ve missed this, even though all I’ve wanted since I was a teenager was to get out.
When I drive back to Blake’s, high on that home feeling, the contrast as I pull into his complex’s lot is startling. I’m not happy to be here, like I was at my house. I don’t feel unsafe, but I don’t exactly feel welcome, either. Our argument from last night is still fresh in my head.
“Hey,” I call, receiving silence as I shake my key out of the lock and slip it back in my purse. I kick my shoes off. “You here?”
“Yeah. In the bedroom.”
I smell the candles before I open the door: vanilla and lavender, casting a pretty glow around the room. Blake lies on his bed—perfectly made, as usual—with his hands behind his head, nude. A jewelry box is in the exact center of my pillows. The pillows I use when I’m here, anyway.
“What’s the occasion?” I drop my purse, shrug off my cardigan, and cross the floor towards him. He hooks his chin over my shoulder to watch me open it.
Inside is a diamond necklace, glittering in the candlelight. The pendant is cut into a small heart.
“Oh, my God, Blake. Is this real?”
“Half a karat,” he says, lifting the chain from the box and undoing the clasp. I hold my hair up as he puts it around my neck. “Nothing fancy.”
“I’ve never had a real diamond...anything.” I cradle the pendant in my palm. “Seriously, why’d you get me this?”
“Do I need a reason?”
I thought, maybe, it was an apology gift—not that I need anything so big. A simple “I’m sorry” would be more than enough.
Actually, hearing the words would be better.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and find myself thinking, as he takes off my shirt, of the neighbors’ chickens and that sweet, gray cat.
His mouth stamps its way across my skin, from behind my ear to one shoulder, then over my spine to the other. Down one arm and to my hand, all the way to the fingertips, until he’s pulling me backwards and taking off the rest of my clothes, unwrapping me down to nothing but the necklace.
I can’t tell if he’s been drinking. Deciphering him is like picking out the edges of a puzzle that’s always changing, and lately I’m realizing...I’m tired. I’m tired of squinting at it, of tilting my head to make sense of all these strange, jagged pieces.
“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he breathes against my stomach, each of my hipbones cupped in his palms, pinning me down.
“Thought you liked being in charge,” I quip, swallowing the weird lump in my throat.
“I do.” He kisses my navel. “But tonight, I just feel like pampering you...making you feel good. Okay?”
I stare at the ceiling fan. “Okay.”
I don’t want to do anything right now. It feels obligatory, because of the necklace, even though I know that’s my own hangup. Relax, I order myself. He just wants to make you feel good.
He cares about you.
I get on top and hold the headboard. His hands grab my hips and pull me down, hard, against his mouth.
“Blake,” I cry out. My face presses against the wall. Just like that, I’m into it. He’s pulled me under.
Blake
I feel bad for our fight earlier, hence the necklace, the oral. I like to think I would have done those things anyway at some point, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t motivated by this morning.
I’m not going to lose her again. She’s the only good thing in my life right now. I need her.
I can change.
My tongue glides into her and circles back out, over and over in an infinity symbol. I add two fingers, then three. She almost finishes right away, but I stop just in time.
“Lie down,” I tell her, patting her leg until she lifts herself off me. We reposition ourselves while she catches her breath, and she holds it as I push inside.
She relaxes against the pillows. I reach between us and rub her in circles, slow, but forceful.
She bites her lip and whimpers, “Blake, you’re….”
“I’m what, baby?”
“You’re…you’re gonna make me come,” she says, too wrapped up in the pleasure to be stubborn. When I’ve got her this close, feeling this good, she’s usually all too happy to play by my rules.
“Then do it, Mellie,” I order, leaning over her to drive as deeply as possible. I rub her harder. “Scream for me, baby. Scream my name...tell me I’m doing this to you, making you come.”
“God, Blake, yes!”
Twenty-Two
Mel
“Sound byte rules,” he reminds me, as my hand grips and twists a fistful of the bed sheet. I’m flying high on this feeling, waiting near the clouds for the peak to hit and take me even higher, our argument forgotten.
“Blake,” I sputter, “you’re doing this to me…you—you’re gonna make me c-come, and it’s—it’s—”
He pumps faster, gliding in and out like he could go on for hours. Between that and the sound of his breath, so heavy it feels like steam across my face, I lose it.
“...it’s happening,” I moan, as my body writhes and convulses underneath him, the pleasure crashing into me like a train.
“That’s it, Mellie. Come for me...that’s it, baby....”
His words and the relentless force of his thrusts prolong my orgasm; I never want it to end. At least a minute goes by before it winds down.
“Blake,” I whisper, feeling like I might cry, it still feels so good. I want him to feel good, too.
I want things to be like they were, a few months ago. I want us to be okay.
“Finish inside me, Blake,” I beg, the way he loves. I concentrate what little energy I’ve got left to work my muscles around him, in time with his hips. “Fill me up with—”
“Shit,” he sputters, my dirty talk catching him off-guard. He thrusts to the hilt and groans, releasing. His hands grab my hips again and hold me against him until it’s over.
When we’ve relaxed and he’s slipped out of me, I roll towards his chest and burrow in. It’s nice to feel close to him again.
“I knew telling you to finish inside me would set you off,” I smile.
At first, I think I imagine the way he stiffens, his arms like steel around me. “You’d never, uh....” He pauses. I wait. “You’d never lie to me about being on birth control—would you?”
I lift my head. His face, so soft and sweet just a few minutes ago, now looks threatening in this same candlelight. “What?”
“Birth control,” he repeats. “You’re on it. Right?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I told you I was.”
“It’s just that, you know, I’ve never seen you take it.”
“Of course you have! Jesus, you have been drinking. I knew it.” I roll off his bed, somehow still made, and gather my clothes. I’m not sure if I’ll stay or leave yet, but I put on every layer, even my scarf, just in case. It’s nice to be prepared.
“Are you leaving?” he asks, sitting up.
I want to shout yes, just to hurt him, but I stop with my hand on the knob. “I don’t know,” I answer instead, and swing open the door.
He follows me into the living room. “I came in here so I could cool off,” I explain, but he doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t care.
“Can you blame me for asking? Caitlin-Anne lied. She actually admitted she lied. But only because she knew I couldn’t legally do anything. Isn’t that fucked up? That it’s not illegal for a woman to lie about that?”
I watch as, mid-rant, he pours himself a drink from a hidden bottle of vodka, tucked under the cookie sheets in the cabinet. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that
,” I whisper, because the strings in my voice are pulled so tightly, I know one will snap any second now.
“I didn’t accuse,” he says, wincing at the burn. “I asked. And like I said, Caitlin-Anne lied, so I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t falling for the same shit twice.”
“I’m not,” I shout, “Caitlin-fucking-Anne.”
Yep. Snap.
I go on. “If I tell you something, I mean it. God, how could you even think I could do that to you?”
He’s silent as I pace back and forth in front of his pantry, the kitchen island like a moat between us.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
“Oh, my God.” I pivot and beeline to the bedroom, locking myself in. He follows and rattles the handle while I go around blowing out the candles. I think about taking off my pendant, maybe even crawling out his window and going down the fire escape, but something stops me.
It’s the smell of these candles. No—it’s the smoke.
It reminds me of birthday parties, that moment in the dark right when the song ends. When everything goes silent, and you can’t see anyone, but you know you aren’t alone. You’re still surrounded by so many people who love you.
The year I turned twelve, my parents let me have a boy-girl party, something they’d never approved of before. I guess they caved because they felt bad for Blake, never allowed at my “girlfriends-only” parties, relegated to cheek-pinching and weird looks at my family ones, instead.
We passed out my invitations together, all over the neighborhood: the community pool, the strip mall, the ditch near school where kids dared each other to jump the biggest stretch. I convinced my mom to get me a new dress, bright pink with white stripes. It was going to be the biggest deal of my life, because Jack Baker was coming. I still remember those flutters in my stomach and throat whenever I’d think of him.
Instead of finding it fun and exciting, like the parties we saw in movies, I felt overwhelmed. Kids were talking to each other so easily, like they went to boy-girl parties all the time. I caught twenty eye-rolls at once when my mom brought out the piñata, a party staple I hadn’t thought anything of until, like a punch to my chest, I realized they were terribly uncool for kids our age.
“Mellie, calm down,” Mom chided me, as I corralled her into the kitchen and scream-whispered to cancel the piñata. “It’s already up in the tree, it’s filled—your friends will love it.”
Looking back, it was such a small thing. We were twelve. We liked candy, no matter how it arrived.
And why did I care what those kids thought? I barely knew half of them; they were just part of the popular crowd, invited by proximity to Jack. Thank God he hadn’t rolled his eyes. At least, not that I saw.
But I did care. Something was happening to me that summer, even if I couldn’t figure out what, or why: I was painfully embarrassed and insecure, yet chomping at the bit to get out in the world and show myself off. I wanted all eyes on me, yet spent a lot of time wishing I were holed up in a closet, alone and hidden.
I settled on the bathroom. When I’d been gone over ten minutes, Blake knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.” I threw the wad of toilet paper at the mirror. It was stained from my mascara and eye shadow, the darkest possible shade that could go unnoticed by Mom. My nose was cherry-red from crying.
“What’s wrong?” He closed the door behind him and tilted his head.
I looked at his reflection. Until then, I hadn’t even noticed his new dress shirt and pants, the sleek black tie he’d picked. The way his hair was gelled back, which he hated.
“You look nice,” I told him, turning to the real Blake, as though I couldn’t believe it matched the reflection. “Why did you dress up?”
“You dressed up.”
I glanced down at myself, the striped party dress I’d begged Mom for all week. Was it even cool? Did I just look like some dumb preteen baby?
“Um...so, about the piñata—”
“I know. You don’t have to say it. I saw everyone rolling their eyes when it was going up, whispering how we’re too old for this...this shit.” I didn’t curse much yet, but spitting it out then felt right. It was shit, all of this.
“Do you want it gone?” he whispered. He stepped closer, peering into my tear-streaked face.
“Yes.” I took a shaky breath and leaned into him.
“Okay.”
I stayed in the bathroom while he went outside. Mom and Dad were combing the hall closet for birthday candles; it was just kids out in the yard. I peered through the blinds, my fingertips scratching on the screen.
Blake strode towards Jack, who was talking to Ava and Alexi—twins, and two of the most popular girls in school. I didn’t like them. Why had I invited them? Why did I even want a party?
“Hey, Baker,” he said to Jack, and stooped to dig up a big, jagged rock from the yard. “Bet you can’t knock the piñata down.”
Jack looked at the rock in Blake’s hand, a challenge. “I don’t know, man.”
“What, star pitcher can’t hit a piñata out of a tree?”
Kids were hushing each other now, every pocket and mini-clique turning to watch. Blake just shrugged, holding out the rock again.
“Won’t Mel get upset?” Jack took the rock and stared at it.
“She didn’t want it in the first place,” Blake said. He was casual, but loud, and I could tell he was doing it on purpose: making sure all the kids heard. “It was her parents’ idea.”
Jack hefted the weight a few times. Finally, he stepped forward, reared back his arm, and let the rock fly.
At twelve, I didn’t appreciate what Blake had done for me as much as I should have. All I remembered, for a long time, was the sight of Jack Baker’s muscles as he pitched the rock up into the tree, striking the piñata with one blow. His perfect, classically jock face, steeled with concentration, before he broke into laughter when the piñata burst and candy rained down, and all the kids—even the ones who’d rolled their eyes—scattered to collect it.
As I got older, though, I stopped remembering Jack, and started remembering Blake. How, when the piñata broke and chaos bloomed, he turned back to the house, hands in his pockets, and smiled at me.
He didn’t try to be the hero; he left that to Jack, knowing he was the only one who could hit it. And for weeks afterwards, that’s what the story sounded like—that Jack made my lame party fun. Even I fell for it.
Sitting here in the midst of the candle smoke, I think about that day. I felt so alone in that bathroom, crying my eyes out. Maybe it was dramatic of me, but I honestly thought no one understood. No one even noticed, or cared, that I wasn’t at my own party.
Then Blake walked in, and I didn’t feel that anymore. In fact, when he was around, I never felt alone.
I take off my scarf. I’ll stay.
Blake has changed a lot since those days. We both have. But the drinking is probably temporary. The anger is…misplaced grief.
We can get through this. I can help him.
I should help him, the way he always helped me.
“Blake?” I take a breath and step back into the kitchen. I’ve only been gone fifteen minutes, if that, but I notice the vodka bottle on the counter is about half as full as before.
“You haven’t left yet?” he sneers. It makes me jump, even though it’s quiet. He carries the bottle to the couch and grabs the remote, flipping channels.
“Do you want me to leave?” I try to keep my voice in check, thinking of him at twelve—that muddy rock in his palm, outstretched, ready to save me.
“If you’re going to bitch about me drinking or asking simple questions, then, yeah. Go.”
My anger flares, but I manage to bite it back. “I won’t say anything about the drinking tonight, although I do want to discuss it another day. And I was just mad about the question because you were— I mean, it felt like you were calling me a liar, or saying you can’t trust me. It hurt.”
“Well,” he slurs
, “girls lie about shit like that. It’s just a fact. So excuse me for making sure I could trust you.”
Just like that, the good memory—my sympathy—is gone.
“Making sure you could trust me? Are you serious?” I laugh, because I honestly can’t think of what else to do or say.
“Yeah,” he says. “If you can’t deal with it, there’s the door.”
“Blake, look at me.” I step closer to him. “If you care about me at all, you’ll apologize right now for saying that shit. You can’t possibly think I’m like that, otherwise...why are we even together?”
I hate that my voice breaks. I hate the tears in my eyes, showing the sadness but not the anger.
More than anything, though, I hate that for all the ways I care, showing themselves now in my tears and voice—Blake doesn’t seem to care at all. He won’t even look at me.
“I’m, uh...I’m going, then,” I whisper. I gather up my stuff and head for the door.
“That’s it?”
I look back at him, my hand on the doorknob. “Yeah. Guess it is.”
“No,” he says, suddenly sounding angry as he gets to his feet, stumbling. “You said you weren’t going anywhere.”
“What? When?”
“When Caitlin-Anne told me about the.... You promised, you said you were going to stay with me, and...and you can’t leave.”
If he didn’t look and sound so furious—if he was pleading with me to stay, rather than demanding—I would probably set down my purse and sink with him into the sofa. Sober him up, talk this out. But that’s not what’s happening.
“You promised,” he says again.
“That promise,” I say quietly, “was made to a totally different guy. Not you, the way you are now. Because, honestly, Blake?” I take a breath, fighting the new onslaught of tears. “I don’t even feel like I know you.”
He stares at me, then throws his hands up and falls back onto the couch. “Jesus Christ, fine. Leave, Mel. You know, I shouldn’t even be surprised.”
“What does that mean?”