Ground Rules: Rewritten

by Roya Carmen

  He pulls his mouth from mine. But my teeth tug at his lips. I don’t want to let go.

  “I can’t wait to make love to you,” he breathes, his gaze locked on mine. It feels very intimate to me and I can’t help but think we’re doing it again, we’re being too intimate. This is supposed to be about sex.

  I need to pull away.

  I close my eyes, willing myself to be stronger than this. I reluctantly pull from his grip. He holds on tight but I manage to turn over on my stomach. “Take me like this,” I beg.

  He plants soft kisses on my bare back. “This is how you want it?”

  “I like it this way.”

  It feels less intimate this way.

  He buries his head in my hair. “I’ve missed your hair, how soft it is. How delicious it smells.”

  I smile, delighting in the sensation of being with him again.

  He strokes my hair softly and pulls it up, sending shivers down my spine. He kisses the back of my neck and trails down to my back, sliding his tongue along the curves of my hips.

  The feel of his stubble on my sensitive skin is amazing as he slides his chin along the curves of my body. He trails kisses dangerously low to the tip of my crack, and I feel myself getting even more aroused.

  “I’ve dreamed about this for months,” his says, his voice soft.

  Me too.

  I feel myself sinking into this…falling into him again. I tell myself to hold tight, to not let myself fall. This is just sex. “What are you waiting for?” I ask. My measured tone buries any emotions I might have. I am his plaything tonight, nothing more. And he is mine.

  I pull away from him, slither across the mattress and reach for one of the condoms he keeps tucked away in his night table. I flash him a sly smile as I hand him the packet and turn my back to him.

  I hear him fiddle with the condom and I let out a moan as he begins to explore, his shaft teasing and driving me wild. My body is eager for him, raring to go, the edges of my nerves lit up. I’m so wet.

  He finally takes me from behind like I asked, and sinks into me. And it feels incredible.

  He starts off so slowly…slow and deep. I love every second, but I want it deeper, harder. More.

  Almost as if he can read my mind, he goes at me harder and faster. I cling to the bed cover and bite my lip hard as the pressure builds. I’m not eager tonight. I never want this to end. I want this to last forever. The man doesn’t know what he does to me.

  As the waves of pleasure hit me, a wonderful heat travels along the hills of my body. I feel his body tense against mine as he reaches his own climax.

  “Mirella,” he cries out quietly.

  Out-of-this-world.

  I make it back home at about ten o’clock. I’ve rushed home. There was no lingering, no pillow talk. I practically sprinted out of there, telling Weston I had to back home to relieve the babysitter.

  The truth is, I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t want to talk, to share. I’ve told myself we’ve had enough of all that ooey-gooey business. That’s how we got in trouble the last time. Now, I’m determined to make it all “Wham-bam-thank-you-sir.”

  This is about sex. Plain and simple.

  Gabe hasn’t returned yet and this is killing me. I wonder what he and Bridget are doing. I feel sick to my stomach at the thought. I sink into my bed and try desperately not to think about them. I fill my head with memories of Weston; his smell, his taste, his touch and the feel of him inside me.

  Chapter Nine

  Tell me all about him…

  I SIT ON THE SLEEK BURGUNDY VINYL BENCH, lost in the ultra-cool wall across me—it’s covered with old vintage twelve-inch LPs.

  This quaint diner is a favorite of mine. It’s a real throwback. It’s not so much up Gwen’s alley, but she loves the milkshakes. She’s late again. She’s always late. I don’t mind though. I’m in a pretty good mood—incredible sex will do that to a person.

  Gwen and I are meeting for our annual Valentine’s Day date. It’s a fun tradition of ours. Every year, we have dinner together on the fourteenth of February—kind of a girl power thing. We are self-empowered and we don’t need our husbands to give us flowers or wine and dine us.

  I smile up at the ceiling, at all the glittery garlands and floating hearts. This place really goes all out.

  Gabe did give me a box of my favorite chocolates and a sweet card this morning. I didn’t expect anything from Weston—it’s strictly against “The Rules.” He’s probably in a really posh restaurant, playing footsies with Bridget, for all I know. I try not to think about it.

  I stand and check out the dessert display…beautiful. It’s filled with colorful creamy confections. There’s a selection of pies; blueberry, cream coconut, lemon meringue. And there are also mouthwatering looking gluten-free cupcakes. I suppose this diner is not truly authentic, I’m pretty sure they didn’t have gluten-free in the fifties.

  Sally scoots by, platter in hand. “Still waiting for Gwen?”

  I sigh. “I’m used to it.”

  She smiles, plonks her platter down on the speckled Formica counter. “Well, hopefully she’ll be here soon.” She digs out a marker from her pink retro style waitress uniform, and makes a correction on the white board. Apparently, they’re out of pecan pie.

  “I hope so. I can hear my stomach growling.”

  “Well, speak of the devil,” she says.

  Gwen walks in, her hands full of bags. “Sorry. Ran late on my errands,” she offers as she gives me a half-hug. “And then I got a parking ticket. And then I forgot my purse at the cleaners. And my heel broke.”

  I slide my rear along the booth and take a seat at the red Formica table.

  Sally leaves us with the funky retro menus. “I’ll be back with water in a second.”

  I set my oversized purse beside me. “My, your life is so chock-full of angst and torment,” I tease. “You should really write a memoir.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha.”

  I shoot her a cheeky smile as I peel off my jacket.

  She sets her bag and dry cleaning delicately beside her on the bench. “No. Actually, I think you should write a memoir, you little tramp.”

  I laugh out loud. Maybe she’s right.

  “Seriously¸” she adds with a playful smile. “You could call it ‘how I got fucked repeatedly by a rich pompous ass…and I liked it.’”

  My face breaks out into a huge grin. “Bitch.”

  She laughs. “You know I’m right.”

  I smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

  This is what we’re like sometimes. It’s funny. Possibly slightly emotionally unhealthy, but we have fun with it.

  Sally comes back with our waters and takes our orders. We always order the same thing; strawberry milkshakes and mac ’n cheese with a side of garden salad. And we have yet to perish from dairy overload. I’m so glad both Gabe and Weston like me a little curvy, because I think I’d be physically unable to diet. Or so I tell myself. And Gwen’s a great partner in crime, she loves to eat just as much as I do.

  She presses the red-striped straw against her bottom lip, looking dead serious. “Seriously, speaking of Mr. Delicious…has he called you again?”

  I wince. “I didn’t tell you.”

  She perks up, all ears. “Have you been holding out on me, Mirella Keates?”

  Damn. She’s going to tear me a new one, I just know it. I really don’t want to tell her. But she knows me too well. She can see right through me. I lean in. “He came to see me, a few weeks back…at school.”

  “He what?”

  I study her for a second. “I’m shocked you didn’t know about it. Sylvia was there. I’m surprised she didn’t announce it on the intercom.”

  Gwen cocks a brow. “You’re right. Our little Sylvia must be off her game.”

  “Anyway, he—”

  “You told him to fuck off, I hope.”

  I force a smile, looking up at the poster of Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn, I muse, would
understand what I’m going through. “Yes. Essentially.”

  “Good girl.”

  I wince. Damn. She’s going to want to kill me. “But I couldn’t stay away,” I confess, full of remorse.

  She doesn’t scream at me. She doesn’t try to knock some sense into me. She doesn’t even preach.

  “Oh, Mirella,” is all she says. There’s no anger in her eyes, just pity.

  I know I’ve disappointed her. Gwen is a confident and strong woman. She’s wild and bold, and says exactly what’s on her mind. But she’s also wise beyond her years. In my opinion, she should have been a therapist. She guides me and supports me when I need it. She’s the mother I never had. The last thing I want to do is let her down. I feel the familiar lump in my throat, my eyes well up.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” I manage to croak out.

  “Mirella…”

  That’s it.

  Full-on weeping.

  I’m so mortified. I hate being so emotional.

  She bites her lip. She looks like she’s going to start bawling too. She slides out of her seat and joins me on mine, holding me tight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry like a baby. I just worry about you.”

  I sink into her. “I…I know.”

  Sally shows up with our orders and from the expression on her face, I get the sense she’d love to go a few seconds back in time and avoid this awkward display of emotions. She winces, her hands holding a large tray of food. “Should I come back?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Gwen tells her. “Just leave it all on the table.”

  Sally moves as fast as humanly possible, setting up all the essentials; milkshakes, plates of food, dressings and ketchup.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as she leaves us.

  The place is filled with couples in love. About a dozen pairs of eyes dart away as soon as I look up. I want to tell them to mind their own business. They probably think I’m crying because I don’t have a man on Valentine’s Day.

  Hell, I have two.

  That’s the problem.

  “This place is so romantic today,” Gwen says to me. “I think you’re ruining the mood.”

  I croak out a laugh. “Shut up.”

  “Listen, let’s forget about him. Let’s drink these delicious milkshakes. And eat this mac ’n cheese and get fat.”

  “Sure,” I say, completely drained.

  But part of me still wants to talk. I want to talk about him.

  I scrape my fork around. The food goes down, but I hardly taste it. Even the milkshake, which I usually love, leaves me indifferent. Gwen goes on about the trip to Mexico she and Greg are planning. I barely hear a word.

  She grabs her milkshake, mid-sentence. “…and then, he was trying to convince me that—”

  “I want to talk about him,” I blurt out, my gaze fixing hers. It’s my right. She’s my best friend. It’s her job to listen, even if she doesn’t like what she hears. “I want to talk about Weston.”

  She jerks back, clearly stunned. “Sure.”

  “And I want to tell you everything,” I add, putting my fork down. “And I don’t want you to bitch about it and make me feel like shit.” Suddenly, my language has taken a steep curve. But I’m so angry at her. How dare she judge me. Who does she think she is?

  She sets her fork down, giving me her full attention. Her mouth is tight and I can tell she’s holding in words. “Go ahead. Tell me all about him, Mirella.”

  I take a breath. I’m so nervous. I’m not sure why. I feel like I’m at the Principal’s office. “He came to see me,” I start, “and he told me he hadn’t gotten over me. Said he couldn’t let me go.”

  She sits upright, nods, but doesn’t say a word. I can tell this is absolutely killing her.

  “I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t, Gwen,” I confide, almost pleading with her to understand. “I just couldn’t stay away.”

  She closes her eyes for a second. “You slept with him again.” Her words are not so much a question as they are a statement.

  I look down, not quite able to face her. “We got together. Just to talk,” I explain. “And then, we found ourselves in the pouring rain…” I trail off, remembering that amazing night. “And then he kissed me. And I was completely done for. I didn’t sleep with him right away. First, we had a meeting with Gabe and Bridget, and we were all on board.”

  I bite my lip and look up at her.

  She smiles, just a hint of a smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a wench.”

  “I know it’s stupid, Gwen. Don’t think I don’t know that,” I tell her, relieved to be finally saying it aloud. “But he has a pull on me, always has.”

  She smiles. “Maybe you need help, Mirella,” she says, her voice soft. “Maybe, therapy.”

  I have never thought about it. Could therapy help? “I’m just afraid I might be completely hopeless.”

  “C’mon, Mirella,” she says with an eye roll, “I’m sure he’s not all that. You’re romanticizing him.”

  “Maybe…”

  My cell chirps. I pick it up and drink a sip of my milkshake.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, Mirella. ;)

  It’s from Weston. I smile. I really wasn’t expecting this. He’s breaking the rules again. It’s just a text, but still.

  Gwen bounces off her seat. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh…” I stammer. “Uh…no…it was Gabe.”

  She flashes me her megawatt smile. “You lying whore. Give me that.”

  I press the phone to my chest. “No.”

  She lunges at me and rips the phone from my hands. I barely have time to have a thought, let alone stop her.

  As she reads the text, a huge smile stretches across her face. “How sweet. He wishes you a nice Valentine.”

  “Give it,” I snap, my arm stretched out.

  She pulls the phone under the table and starts texting.

  I panic. “Oh no you don’t.”

  She smiles up at me and keeps texting.

  “Give me my phone back!” I yell. I’m fuming when I rip the phone from her hand.

  I hate her.

  I stare down at the screen.

  Leave my friend alone…you asshole.

  I can’t believe her. She’s being completely immature. She’s acting like a teenager. Where is the sensible woman I know? She doesn’t even know him. I type away, my fingers shaking, my message riddled with typos.

  Sorrry…my friebs gwen tore the phone away.

  Shes crazy. Happy vday to u too :)

  I sink back on the bench and glare at her for a good ten seconds. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you did that.”

  The mobile chirps again. I smile as I read the message.

  Your friend seems…how shall I put it?…spirited.

  Gwen perks up, “What did he write?”

  I glare at her again. “I’m not telling you.”

  She bounces up from her seat, eager. “C’mon.”

  I smile. “He says you seem spirited.”

  Her eyes peer at me with laser-focus. “Well, he hasn’t seen anything yet. I’ll show him spirited. That little pompous prick. Where does he live?”

  I suck in a deep breath, trying to relieve my anger. “You’re such a…”

  She smiles. “Such a what?”

  “Maybe you’re just jealous, Gwen. Ever think about that?”

  Her jaw drops. “And why the hell would I be jealous? The jerk is just using you for a cheap lay on the side. Can you not see that?!”

  She’s gone too far. But this time I’m not crying. I’m too livid to cry. “He’s not. He cares about me.”

  She cracks up laughing. “Yeah…riiiiight…”

  I feel my body tense. “Gabe and Weston have more passion in their little fingers than your uptight paper-pushing husband has in his entire pudgy body.”

  Oh God. I didn’t.

  But I did.

  Why?Why?Why?

  She stares at me, slack-jawed. T
he blood seems to drain from her face. It’s horrible. Neither of us move, or say a thing for the longest, most excruciating time.

  Finally, she grabs her stuff and rises to her feet.

  “I’m so sorry, Gwen,” I cry out. “I didn’t mean it.” What would ever possess me to utter such a thing? I’ve never said anything this horrible to anyone. I love Greg. He’s great. And he’s not pudgy. He’s nice and tall, and well, maybe a tad soft.

  “I don’t know why I said that,” I try to explain. I want to kneel and beg for her forgiveness, but there are just too many people around. And I’ve already caused a scene tonight.

  She sinks into her wool jacket without a word, and grabs her bags. “Why don’t you pay the bill this time? For once,” she scoffs, her eyes cold as ice. “My pudgy paper-pushing husband is sick and tired of giving you a free ride.”

  Chapter Ten

  Yes it is, Professor Scarlett.

  TODAY WAS AWKWARD. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe it. I must have seen Gwen five times throughout the day; walking from the parking lot this morning, at the lunch room, walking the halls. And each time, no words were said. And if looks could kill, I would definitely be twenty feet under.

  On the plus side, I didn’t think about Weston at all today. I’ve been too consumed by Gwen and thoughts of how I’ve royally messed up the best friendship I’ve ever had. All over a boy. Seriously, are we still in high school?

  I sit at my desk and decide to write her a letter. It’s the only way I can properly express my feelings for her, how truly sorry I am and how I cherish our friendship. I don’t want to e-mail her, that’s too impersonal.

  I pick my best writing paper, the one with the colorful design and gold accents. I’m really pulling out all the stops here. I write a rough draft on lined note paper, careful to get every single word right. This needs to be perfect.

  After quite a few revisions and lots of scribbles, I finally write the final draft, methodically penning the words in cursive, my penmanship spotless. I realize I’m enjoying the process as I slide the gold Sharpie across the paper. It’s been so long since I’ve written someone an actual letter.

  I read the letter over and over, making sure I’ve got everything right. I carefully fold the letter, slip it in the envelope, and say a little prayer.