I Made You My First

by Threadgoode, Ciara

  He finally lifted himself up and gave me a wicked little grin. “Don’t you ever leave me, girl,” he said in a soft panting voice.

  I smiled, stretching to meet his lips. A soft romantic light was shining in the room and I felt genuine happiness. “I thought we made an agreement at my aunt’s house?”

  “We did, and after what just happened, what we just did, I am one hundred and ten percent certain that we’re going to make that fifty-year anniversary together, no problem,” and he smiled contentedly.

  I looked at him, staring into those big blues. “Why is doing it with me any different from anyone else?” I asked, slowly moving my finger and gently tracing the outside of his face.

  “I’ve never loved anyone before you came into my life. I’ve liked a few but never loved them. That makes all the difference in the world, Jurnee.” His face was sincere, and I felt as though I were seeing inside the man. He was being honest.

  “I’ve never felt this way about anyone else either,” I admitted. “When I slept with Joe-Lee that first time, it was because I thought I had to. If I didn’t, he’d break up with me. I now know that I was being stupid.”

  Irish stared at me, laying his hand on mine. “Guys can be real jerks, Jurnee,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Believe me, I’m ashamed of things I’ve done in the past. That’s the reason I know I’ll never ruin this relationship. I don’t deserve you. I know that.”

  This man thinks I’m a prize. I never thought of myself that way. Maybe I’m the one who better not mess this up, I thought. He lay his head down now, lying quietly beside me and held my hand.

  “Can I ask you something, Jurnee?” And his voice was so sweet I had to smile.

  “Yes, you can ask me anything, Irish.” He took a minute, maybe struggling with the way he wanted to word his question, so I squeezed his hand, hoping to encourage him to continue. “Would you be okay with letting me do…other stuff to you than what we’ve already done in bed?”

  I was so glad that we weren’t looking at each other because I might’ve laughed, I’m not sure. We were both silent, but I couldn’t stop smiling. “Do you mean oral sex, Irish?” I immediately felt him squeeze my hand as though he was relieved that I’d said it for him.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  I took a deep breath to gain my confidence. This was something I’d never done before, but I had read enough about it that I thought if the time ever came, I could muddle through it. “I think that I’d like to try it sometime with you, Irish, if you don’t mind teaching me?”

  He rolled up on his elbow now, looking directly into my eyes. He was smiling at me with my I-won-the-lottery look. I wasn’t at all sure how it was going to go the first time because I was apprehensive of large objects in my mouth, but I was willing to try.

  Irish seemed pleased and we cuddled my back to his chest and his arm firmly holding my body against his. I’m not sure who fell asleep first, but I thought I heard Irish whisper, “I love you,” and I believed we were a solid couple as Irish had called us, and I drifted off to dreamland.

  When I woke up, I was alone. The curtains had all been closed but I could see one straight beam of light coming in the window farthest from me. Everything was absolutely quiet. I lay still listening for sounds. I could hear the ticking clock on the nightstand and lifted myself up to see that it was five-thirty. That must be late afternoon. How could I have slept so long? Where was Irish? I sat up in bed, my eyes trying to focus. I used the beam of light coming in the room to find my clothes. They were folded neatly at the bottom of the bed. My black lace panties were folded on top of my jeans and shirt. I quickly dressed and made my way to the bathroom. I flicked on the light and saw a note by the sink. I walked over and turned on the faucet, cupping my hands and splashing water on my face. Reaching for the towel hanging over the shower stall, I dried myself. I picked up a bottle of mouthwash, taking a swig and swishing it in my mouth.

  I picked up the note: Jurnee, I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful. I’m still at my parent’s house if you’re reading this note, and I’ll be back soon. I called Judy and told her that you were with me and you were safe. I love you. Call me if you need me - Irish.

  I spit the mouthwash in the sink and sat down to pee. He called Judy? That was sweet, I thought. I washed my hands and headed for the bedroom door, making my way down the stairs, spotting my purse on the sofa. My phone was setting on top. How long had Irish been gone? I sat down on the couch and dug through my purse looking for my brush and a scrunchy to put my hair up out of my face. I was holding my hair with one hand, when the front door flew open and a dark-haired woman stormed into the house. I dropped my hand and jumped to my feet.

  It was clear that she’d been crying and loudly said, “Hi, I’m Paris, Irish’s sister,” and passed me as she headed to the kitchen. She yanked the refrigerator door open for a bottle of water. Slamming the door, she turned and threw herself up against the counter. She stood there, watching the front door. I stood there with what must have been an unattractive, confused expression.

  At that moment Irish came through the open front door and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. I looked at him and then at her. No one said anything for several moments.

  Finally Irish walked over and took my hand, cupping it with both of his. “Jurnee, this is my sister Paris. Paris, this is Jurnee.” He looked at me with an apologetic face. Paris didn’t say a word. I continued to stare at him.

  He released my hand and walked to the kitchen, leaning back on the counter next to his sister. They stood there in silence. I sat down on the couch and tried to give them some privacy. I looked out the front door while still able to see them from the corner of my eye. For the first time in my life I understood the quote: You could cut the tension with a knife, and it actually made sense.

  Irish spoke. “Paris, you know they’re just angry, give them time. A month from now, everyone will have had time to accept things and it’ll all work out. I promise.”

  She flew into his arms so quickly I had to look. I heard the thud of her pushing herself into Irish. His phone chirped. Without releasing her, he dug in his pocket. Gently pushing his sister back from him, he answered it. He looked at me, phone to his ear, listening to the caller. “All right, I’m on my way,” and closed his phone.

  He turned to his sister and said, “I’m going to get some of your things and you’re staying here tonight.”

  She threw her hands over her eyes, “Fine.”

  Irish left her standing in the kitchen and headed for the front door, taking my hand and pulling me with him. When we were outside, he turned me around and moved his body up against mine. With a desperate look, he turned my face to his with his fingers. “Let me deal with this and I promise I’ll get you out of here and back to Judy’s.” Looking in his eyes, I could tell he was frazzled.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He released my face and left me standing while he took a path I didn’t recognize. I went inside to the sofa and sat down. What’s going on? I thought.

  Paris was still standing where Irish had left her, sobbing. Torn, I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Finally I stood up, looking at her and asked, “Is there anything I can get you?” She looked up at me. Her eyes had dark trails of mascara running from them. She has the same blue eyes as Irish, but she doesn’t share the same facial features, I thought.

  “Who are you again?” She asked.

  I stared at her for a moment and suddenly felt uncomfortable. I gulped, “I’m Jurnee Sampson.”

  She turned away from me reaching for a paper towel to wipe her face. With her back to me she said, “What number are you? It’s got to be in the hundreds by now,” and she blew her nose.

  I took a deep breath that caught me off guard. There were so many things I could say to her right now, but I stopped myself and tried to remember. One, I didn’t know her and two, she was obviously upset.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but
I’m pretty sure that I’m number one to Irish.” I could feel the heat flowing into my face.

  She turned to me and I watched her wad the paper towel in her hand. “Sampson? You’re John’s sister?”

  I’d rather be a number in Irish’s book than John’s sister, I thought. “Yes, I’m John’s sister,” I admitted. She looked at me differently now, as if she’d somehow decided that she’d treat me like a person rather than one of her brother’s hook-ups. I stared at her face, waiting to see if I’d have to verbally defend myself.

  “You’re cute,” she said, turning to take her water bottle.

  I refused to respond.

  Before I knew it, she was plopping herself down on the end of the sofa. “Sorry for being such a bitch.” She uncapped the bottle, “I’m not having the best of days.”

  That was an understatement, I thought. I sat back and reached for my purse. I wanted a cigarette but quickly decided to look for a piece of gum instead.

  “Sorry about your aunt,” she said and we looked at each other.

  “Thanks,” I said. She sounded sincere. I went back to looking for my gum.

  “So you’re John’s little sister. That explains why Irish has you here,” and she took a sip from the bottle.

  I had that uncomfortable feeling again. I could feel her eyes on me. I didn’t like it, so I looked at her.

  “Are you hot for my baby brother too?”

  What’s this chick’s problem? I thought. I felt a look of confusion cross my face. I hoped that she didn’t see it as I continued to stare at her.

  “I’m just asking because I make it a habit not to get close to the girls he’s dating. I did that a few times and they were gone within a week.” She wasn’t smiling but waiting for an answer. I looked away and reached for my cigarettes and lighter.

  I stood up, “I’m going outside to smoke a cigarette,” and walked to the door.

  “Can I have one?” I heard her ask.

  I just kept walking. Where in the hell is Irish? I thought. Before I could light a cigarette, Paris was standing next to me. I handed her the lit cigarette and lighted another. We both stood there on the porch looking at the trees.

  Out of nowhere Paris finally blurted, “I’m pregnant,” and I felt myself freeze. I know my eyes grew big but I managed to keep my mouth from falling open. I didn’t want to look at her, but I felt I had to after hearing her words.

  Before I had a chance to move, she continued. “My Dad’s rule, well one of them anyway, is no children out of wedlock. Stupid rule, but he pays the bills.”

  I turned to look at her. “So what’re you going to do?” was all I could say. I was at a loss for anything else to say. The way she’d been acting in the house didn’t warrant gushing buckets of comfort.

  “Well I was going to have an abortion because even if I did know the father, I’m not marriage material, and definitely not mother material.”

  I continued to look at her and listen. My life was sounding more golden with each word from her mouth.

  “My Mom’s looking forward to a huge wedding one day and this unfortunate situation screws up everything. My Dad’s worried about what everyone’s going to think, and if my doctor hadn’t called him, I’d have had an abortion and my life wouldn’t suck like it does now.” She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it, reaching down and picking it up. I stood there trying to process what she’d just said. Without a word, she turned and walked into the house carrying the butt. I took a long drag and my eyes caught a glimpse of movement on the side of the house.

  Irish was carrying a blue-flowered tote bag and smiling at me. I returned the smile. He went straight into the house, and I put my cigarette out and followed him. I closed the door and stood waiting for Irish to let me know what we were doing. I was ready to go. I saw Paris take the bag and give him a hug but couldn’t hear anything they were saying. Irish walked toward me, picked up my purse, and joined me at the door. “You ready?”

  “I was born ready,” I said with a nervous laugh, taking my purse from him. “It was nice meeting you, Paris,” I said as I followed him outside.

  “Me too,” was all I heard.

  When we got to the car, Irish opened the passenger door. I climbed in the car and he looked at me.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  I looked at him, really wanting to kiss him. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, Irish. My brother hit you, remember? Families are sometimes messy,” and I smiled at him. When we were only five minutes into our ride, Irish reached for the radio knob and turned off the music.

  Both hands on the steering wheel and his eyes straight ahead, he said, “Paris is three years older than me. For the last year, she’s been to rehab three separate times for crystal and coke, and maybe other stuff, I really don’t know.” He stopped for a moment, looking over his shoulder while he changed lanes. I waited for him to continue, trying to look sympathetic.

  This couldn’t be easy for him, I thought.

  “Before rehab she worked for my dad’s company and attended classes. She was going to college and doing fine, but right before she was supposed to graduate, she changed her major, meaning she needed more classes. My dad put his foot down about her remaining in college and so she dropped out. She didn’t have the responsibility of school, so she partied. Then she quit coming to work. My dad blew a gasket, and my mom got her into rehab. Paris would do really well for a couple of months and then she’d regress into drugs. Finally my dad set it up that Paris had to take a urine test every week and if she didn’t pass it, he wouldn’t give her money for her bills. She has a house on our property, but she moved in with some friend of hers about a year ago.” He finally looked at me, maybe to gauge my reaction to what he was telling me. I gave him an encouraging smile.

  “Anyway, I guess the doctor called my dad to give him the test results and told him she was pregnant.” Irish stared out the window.

  “Was she at least clean?” I asked.

  “I guess not,” he barely said. We were both looking out the front window, Irish dropping his hand to mine. I squeezed tightly.

  “I’ve done everything there is to do, Jurnee, but when I found out that Paris had to get help and that she couldn’t stop on her own, I quit everything, even smoking cigarettes. I didn’t want to see that look of disappointment in my mother’s eyes.” He squeezed my hand.

  “So that’s what’s going on at my house,” he turned and looked at me.

  I mouthed, I love you, and he smiled back. “I’m starving, are you?” I asked.

  He released my hand and began changing lanes. “Yes. I’m going to take you to one of my favorite places.” He reached for my hand again. It was eight o’clock already as Irish pulled into the parking lot of an unfamiliar restaurant. The sign read Bully’s East.

  After he parked, I reached to the floorboard for my purse. When I sat up, Irish hadn’t moved and was staring at me, waiting for me to look at him. “Before we go in here, I need to tell you something.” I watched his face. After my talk with his sister, I was sure I knew what he was going to say.

  My stomach tightened and I took a deep breath. “Irish, I know you’ve dated women up and down the coast. I know that we’re going to run into them now and again. If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be.” And I reached for my door handle.

  He chuckled. “Jurnee, thanks for being so understanding,” and he gave me a silly grin, “but I was going to say that John’s girlfriend works here, and I dated her before John did. I just wanted you to know before we went in there.”

  Now I did stare at him. That’s something I definitely wanted to know, I thought. Irish came around the car and opened my door. I was still processing that my brother had a girlfriend that was Irish’s ex.

  “Jurnee, you coming?” he said, laughing at me. I took his hand and stepped out of the car. Irish pulled me to him and folded me into his body tightly. “No matter what, please remember that I love you, okay?”

  I looke
d up at his face. “Okay” and we headed for the restaurant.

  When Irish opened the restaurant door, I took a couple of steps inside and had to slow my pace to let my eyes adjust. Irish stepped in front of me now and reached for my hand, gently pulling me to the hostess station. A blonde with oodles of makeup stood in front of us smiling, holding a stack of menus. “Hello, Irish. I haven’t seen you in a while,” she said gushingly.

  “Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy,” he said smiling back at her. “Can we have a booth in the back, please?” and he pulled me in a little closer.

  “Sure, let me check and see what’s open. I’ll be right back.”

  I looked up at Irish, wanting to know if she was the one, and he smiled, nodding. “Her name’s Jennifer,” he said in a whisper.

  “Of course,” rolling my eyes. “At least it’s not Tiffany,” I said under my breath.

  At that moment the hostess returned, “Follow me, Irish,” she said, with a perky little smile. We followed her to the back of the restaurant, and she placed two menus on the table.

  After Irish and I were seated, she held her hands together in front of her and looked at him. “So who’s this?” she asked.

  “Jennifer, I’d like you to meet my wife, Jurnee,” and he held his hand out pointing to me. I stared at his face. I could feel myself growing warm, and I hesitated but finally looked up at her and smiled, lifting my foot under the table and kicking him.

  She smiled back at me now, at a loss for words. “Congratulations, Irish,” she finally said. “Debbie will be your waitress tonight. Enjoy your meal,” and she walked away. Irish smiled at me and reached in his pocket for his phone.

  He looked at it and turned it toward me. “What time is it?” he asked.

  I squinted using the light from the table candle. “It’s eight-seventeen.”

  He smiled devilishly as he set his phone on the table. I looked at him confused.

  “Your wife?” And I rolled my eyes at him.

  Just then Debbie our waitress was standing at our table. “What can I get ya’ll to drink tonight?”