The Prick Next Door

by Rose Queen

  9

  The Good Girl

  Rumors had been flying around for a while. No one knows about Cassius Gunner and I kissing, but after seeing us in the fields talking so often, and after David's confrontation with him that one time, people had begun asking me questions.

  Normally, I doubt people would suspect the friendship between a strict Catholic girl and an outsider to be more serious than a simple romp...if that Catholic girl weren't me.

  Me. The girl who never steps out of line. The girl who had decided not to venture into the modern world. The girl who suddenly changed her tune and began working side-by-side with her manly, bad boy guest.

  Even David's mother approached me, though I'm certain he does not know about it. He prefers to handle his own business. But the scene he and Cassius caused in the field was enough to raise concern, and Hazel Mason is a blunt woman.

  She asked me if her son had anything to worry about. I told her no. I'm not sure if she believed me.

  I'm not sure if I believed me.

  David has been doubling his efforts to get affectionate. It feels unnatural. I'm suffocating.

  Out of doors, he rests his hand against the small of my back. I shake him off. It's nicer when we're just talking about domestic things, friendly things. He's never been the touchy type before. It's not us.

  He's not doing this to satisfy me. He's doing this because of Cassius Gunner. He's being boastful and not acting according to our faith.

  I don't approve of making such an exhibition of our relationship. Especially now, in public, where blue eyes can see.

  I think about marriage a lot more. I think about doing intimate things with David for the rest of my life, and I tuck myself further into a shaded corner of doubt.

  It doesn't feel right, what I picture. I've always known it would happen, but now I can't imagine making love to him once, much less for decades. I cannot comprehend how people do it without love. How do they manage to pretend during such private times? How do they face that person, who doesn't even know the truth, the next morning?

  Am I being a good Catholic girl by marrying him? Or am I committing a worse sin by pledging myself despite the lingering uncertainty? Is it a sin to live a lie? Where does that leave my true feelings?

  I am not uncertain when I remember Cassius Gunner's kiss.

  As I slice potatoes and boil tea, I hear him in the bathroom. He's using our shower.

  We're the only ones in the house. This doesn't happen often. This evening is an exception.

  I remember the day I caught him washing up. I remember the angle of his body and wonder if that's how he's standing now. His pale, solid frame is...

  The kettle shrieks. Steam rockets from the top. I jump and accidentally cut my finger with the paring knife. After shutting off the kettle, I examine the tiny wound. It stings but isn't deep.

  I go back to thinking of him in the shower and what part of his body he might be cleaning...caressing.

  I draw my cut finger into my mouth and suck.

  10

  The Prick Next Door

  Annabelle catches me by the woodpile. I've stopped making sculptures of the logs because it takes patience that I frankly don't have.

  She hands me a pair of gloves so my palms won't blister any more. I could have used these fucking gloves six weeks ago.

  She starts to walk away when I make an offhand comment about Asshole’s wandering fingers.

  She halts with her back to me. "He's Unity. You're not."

  Practical as ever. But I live for the moment. Sometimes, so does she.

  I saunter up behind her, my shirt brushing the fabric of her dress. At this point, I'm done. So done. I gather up everything I've learned about desire and lust and do my best to crush her. I let it all out, no holds barred, because that's who I am. "The truth is," I murmur. "I want you, and you want me."

  She tenses but listens, so I take advantage. "I'm burning for you, and you're burning for me, and that's not going to change. If I'm honest with myself, I've wanted you since I first saw you standing in front of your house. My mouth wanted you. My fingers wanted you. And every inch of my cock burns for you. Every. Single. Night. When you came to my cabin the first night, I wanted to rip your clothes off. I wanted to spread you and cover you and claim you. I still do."

  She gasps as I swipe her braid over her shoulder. "Do you know what it feels like to make love?" I run my ringed index finger down her neck. "Do you know what it feels like to come so hard it feels like your soul escapes for a second? It's fucking beautiful, Annabelle. Just like you. So damn you. Damn you, for doing this to me."

  My heart pumps against her body as I continue. "I want to kneel. I want to roll your stockings down and disappear beneath your skirt. When I'm there, I'll part your thighs, and I'll trace the glistening slit between your folds with the tip of my tongue. I'll lap up every moist drop of you. And then I'll find that delicate pebble at the center of you and graze it, tease it until it's swollen and ready. And then I'll draw that pebble fully into the wet heat of my mouth.

  "I'll listen to you sobbing sweetly above me, and I'll increase the pressure, more and more, and I won't let you go until I've heard you cry my name a dozen times. And while you're still trembling, I'll wrap your legs around me, so tight around me, and I'll move inside you slowly. Until we're both a broken, panting mess. And then..." I bring my lips to her ear and whisper the rest.

  From this angle, I see her gray eyes vanish into the back of her head. She breaks away and marches back to her house, fingers rubbing her temples because I've shaken her whole goddamn world.

  Just like she’s done to me.

  11

  The Good Girl

  In bed, I think of what he said.

  Beneath the quilt, I think of everything he said.

  In the dark, I close my eyes and see everything he said.

  As my fingers drift down my stomach, I arch my back and moan. This time I take off my underwear. This time, I take care of the ache between my legs, and think of Cassius, of the things he said he’d do to me.

  I realize how grateful I am that I don't share a room with my sister.

  David stops walking halfway back to my house. He's been acting strange ever since I set foot in his living room two hours ago to work on a quilt with his mother.

  He wipes his palms on his thighs. He's quiet. It's usually me who doesn't speak much, so I'm on edge. I sense something, or maybe he senses something in me and is purely reacting to it.

  Pragmatic unions abound in our Order. I had no idea that he saw me as more than a dear friend. I want to ask how long this has been going on, but that would be an awful thing to do considering my heart isn't in this space right now.

  A regretful aroma fills the air tonight: overripe pumpkin and something like cough syrup. The leaves that were once rich and colorful a few weeks ago have dried up and fallen to the ground. We stare at the view of my house in the distance. But I can't help remembering a different vista. A vaster one. So sweet in my memory.

  I miss that hill Cassius Gunner took me to. I miss him. I feel horrible and unworthy missing him while I'm in this car. We've barely spoken for over two weeks, except for that moment by the woodpile that still tempts me.

  Other than that, I've caught him a number of times watching me. And he's caught me.

  October has flooded into November and somehow landed on this very night. His last one with us. He's leaving tomorrow.

  David knows what night it is. To my surprise, I don't see relief mirrored in his features.

  My hands are camped in my lap. It's clear that this isn't a romantic interlude. He has something on his mind. I'm not sure I can take it tonight. Besides, I have to get home in time to cook supper.

  He steals one of my hands and cradles it. I sit up straighter.

  "I want to marry you," he begins.

  I force a chuckle. "I think we have that part covered."

  "No. I mean now."

  My laughter dies. My body a
nd everything that comes with it is strung like a bow. The unsavory scent of the landscape thickens. My body becomes stiff and uncomfortable.

  At first, I'm too shocked to respond. What does he mean now?

  "It’s too soon," I blurt out.

  David groans, wipes his palms over his thighs again. "Alright. I didn't mean this minute. I meant, let's not wait. Let's do it sooner. In spring."

  That's in only five months.

  My head begins to pound to the point of pain. I feel the weight of shackles tying me down, strapping me to the reality of my choice. "Why?" I ask.

  "Come on, Annabelle. There's no reason to hold off. We're right together. We're partners."

  Yes, we are. David and I can talk about practical things. But he likes being in charge, he likes being a protector, he likes being dominant. We are both so similar, too similar. We both want to be fire. However, in his universe, in our marriage, only one person will get that privilege. It won't be me.

  "It's okay for us to change our plans."

  "I know—"

  "Our parents won't mind."

  "David, slow down—"

  "So there's nothing stopping us."

  "But why so soon? Why...?" I trail off, cracking the code etched across his desperate face. He thinks I'm going to leave. He thinks I'm going to run off with Cassius Gunner tomorrow. He anticipates that Cassius will make me an offer and that I will say yes.

  David's trying to prevent it. Though he should know I could never leave my family. He should know I wouldn't make that decision rashly, despite how swept up I've been in that man's arms, despite how easily my resolve has collapsed in his presence, despite how often I've yearned for his touch in the dark.

  Yet David's proposition proves he's not sure who I am anymore. Which is my fault.

  The truth about my future becomes devastatingly clear and causes my chest to constrict. I can't string him along and waste his heart. He has a right to be loved back. I'm not the girl for him.

  I question my sanity even as I say the words. "I can't."

  He sighs. "At least think about it. For me."

  I have thought about this. I've prayed in my room and at church. I've meditated on it. I've agonized for weeks. I have thought about it.

  I stare at my hand in his. "I can't marry you."

  My hushed words get caught in the breeze. David makes a wounded but angry but insulted but outraged sound. I wonder how much he's read into my actions these past two months. Maybe he saw things clearer than I did.

  "You're choosing him over us," he accuses.

  "No. I'm choosing me," I respond. Yet from the way he festers, he doesn't understand, so I struggle to explain. "I want to love who I marry."

  "Annabelle," he says, exasperated, "that will come. I'll make it happen."

  "That's not a chance I can take. Or one you should take."

  "Years of friendship are reduced just like that?" He thrusts his hands through his hair and latches onto a different point, gesturing between us. "Everyone expects this."

  That's true. Everyone we know expects us to be together. Indeed, I've always expected it. I've lived by routine and predictability. But if those were the only reasons to promise myself to my friend, it would be wrong. For me, it would be wrong. I don't think of marriage the same way anymore.

  "Annabelle, his world isn't for you. Don't get caught up. You can't ever come back," he protests, his voice sounding like a wrung-out towel.

  "This isn't about him. I'm not leaving my home."

  That makes him feel infinitely better. "Then who better to marry than me? I'm the closest thing to love you'll find here. Aren't I?"

  I can't imagine feeling anything greater than fondness for David, not enough to test the waters by taking a vow for my whole life.

  "Maybe someday," I say. "Until then, I can't promise you. I can't be with you."

  "You're breaking up with me, too," he says, again unsurprised.

  My throat burns. If it would soothe us both, I would wrap him in my arms, but tenderness is not the way to placate David. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

  "You'd rather risk being alone forever? Like Elizabeth?" He detects the answer in my eyes. His shoulders sag, and he shakes his head. "I won't push you. I never have and never will."

  We don't speak. He tugs on his collar and mumbles that I shouldn't be late for supper, snapping the horse to attention. As we drive to my house, I think about what he said. He's right. Elizabeth’s an old maid. I might become one as well if I never find what I need. People will look down on me. People will feel sorry for me.

  But at least I'll be true to myself. At least I won’t be with another man who isn’t Cassius Gunner.

  The flames in the hearth crackle as I enter the house. I hang my coat on the wall peg and note the quiet. No one's downstairs. My father must be washing up, and Elsie must be avoiding having to do anything remotely useful in terms of food preparation.

  With a heavy heart, I amble toward the kitchen, thinking of David's dejected profile as we muttered a cordial goodnight. I've never felt so awful or directionless. I mourn his absence, terrified of losing his friendship, too. I would be lying to myself if I ignored the small part of me that wants to undo the break-up, just to make him happy. Because I do care for him. Because being alone scares me. Because I don't want our families to be disappointed. And because it was nice being with him.

  It's still not enough. I don't know what would be enough, but I have to allow myself to find out. And I hope he will be okay.

  I decide not to say anything to my father tonight. I'll tell him and Elsie in the morning, once I've had rest and time to string together my reasons, because my father will certainly need reasons. Solid ones. Kind and tender as he is, he believes in a steady, consistent mind.

  My eyes narrow when I detect the faint scent of something baking in the kitchen. I wend my way around furniture and head toward the sound of heavy footsteps.

  At the kitchen's threshold, my heels grind to a halt. His toned physique fills the space, which looks infinitely smaller with him in it. First, I take in the dark hair. Then his hips swaying from one end of the counter to the other. When he rotates toward me, our gazes collide. Cassius is in our kitchen.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask, far too aggressively.

  "Your dad invited me," he says noncommittally.

  Of course. It's his last night. I should have anticipated this.

  The sight of him does violent things to my state of mind. Longing and excitement and despair converge, and it's an importune time for any of these feelings, as they compete with the moment of silence I'd hoped to bestow on my break-up.

  My options are to wither beneath his emotionless gaze or melt from the sight of his closed mouth. Not pleased with either option, I hike up my chin.

  He disregards me entirely and turns back to his chore. Physically, he looks out of place here, in head-to-toe black, rings and tattoos and hard jaw and all. Yet his fluid movements suggest he's right at home.

  He's baked a loaf of dark bread with nuts. He tosses a rag over his shoulder and lets it hang there while he saws through the crust with a serrated knife, the tendons under his fair skin straining and his forearms flexing. I will have to endure the sight of him while I cook dinner.

  Until I see that he's already taken care of that, too. A bowl of mashed potatoes and a medley of roasted vegetables—parsnips, carrots, and yams—garnished with golden raisins wait on the counter. I'm taken aback. He did this? He knows how to do this?

  I realize how much more there is to learn about him, and for me to reveal of myself, and it pains me to no end. Time has run out for us.

  I can't seem to do anything right tonight, because instead of complimenting him, I scrutinize the dish. "Did you add pepper?"

  "Do I look like an oaf to you?" he remarks.

  "What about honey?"

  "I'm allergic."

  "Oh," I say.

  His grip on the bread knife tightens as I step further into the r
oom. My skirt brushes his jeans as I pass behind him. I collect plates from a cupboard and stack them on the counter. He leans over, his arm stretching in front of me to grab a breadbasket.

  As we work in silence, I feel cheated out of something I can't name. So I brace my hands on the counter, hoping to express appreciation for him making supper. Unfortunately, I've lost the ability to draw out my gratitude beyond two words. "Thank you."

  Cassius stops cutting. He sets the knife down and flattens his palms on the smooth surface right beside mine. We keep our eyes directed on the counter. Our pinkies almost touch. I feel a hyperawareness of his fingers twitching.

  "Annabelle?" We jerk toward the doorway where Elsie is standing, watching us.

  I offer her the dinner plates to set the table with. Her gaze skips between us before accepting the dishes. For once, she doesn't give me a hard time about a simple chore.

  I keep my head down throughout supper, even though I'm aware it's ungracious, even though my father surely notices and will question my sedate behavior later. He and our guest talk about the past two months, the farm, and the harvest.

  My family compliments the food. Especially the bread, which is warm and dense and delicious. Cassius talks about grain and the techniques his father taught him. He does this all with a detached flair, as if it's no big deal.

  I see through the mask. He's pleased that the bread turned out so good.

  My father issues some parting words, commending our guest's hard work, which causes Cassius to stab at his food. The praise makes him uncomfortable. Apparently, I'm the only one at the table who notices this.

  Cassius sits in the chair adjacent to mine. Every time he shifts, I feel it. If I look up, everyone will see the effect it has on me. I'm afraid I will give myself away. David's broken heart rests on my shoulders, coupled with the lingering spicy scent of the man to my right, spreading a flame through me.

  My lack of participation creates a void that my father attempts to fill. "You must be looking forward to seeing your brothers," he says, wisely omitting the mother from that statement.

  "I'm jazzed," Cassius says.