Ed never acted like he hated me after that. In fact, we're still sort of friends. But in his eyes, when I have the courage to look, I see profound disappointment that can never be repaired or forgotten.
I don't need to tell you my parents love Sam. Gorgeous, brilliant, world-class-chess-playing, premed Sam. I'm only eighteen, but they'd be overjoyed if I married him tomorrow. It would relieve some of their financial pressure, I suppose.
You're probably wondering why I told Sam I'm a virgin. The reason is because Gaia is a virgin. I know it for a fact. I don't want Gaia to be able to give Sam something I can't.
Here's a little-known fact about Ed Fargo: He has a personal fortune of twenty-six million dollars. Probably more now because the settlement came over a year and a half ago, and money like that earns a lot of interest. His parents, acting on the advice (and guilt, I guess) of his aunt, sued over the accident, even though Ed begged them not to and he refused to testify.
Ed won't let anybody touch the money. He will never tell anyone he has it. I only know because I read about the windfall in the newspaper -- no names, of course, but I'm one of the few people who know the strange circumstances of the accident. In fact, I first heard about the case because Ed's parents contacted me about testifying.
Here's another fact about Ed. His reproductive organs, to put it clinically, still work perfectly well. Not that it matters to me anymore.
READY. OR NOT.
Heather paused at the door, hesitant for some reason to commit herself to this strange night.
JUST GO
GAIA WAS AS CLOSE TO NERVOUS AS a girl who lacked the physical ability to feel nervous could be. She had taken a long bath and spent hours picking out a bra and underpants that wouldn't be completely embarrassing if revealed. She'd brushed her teeth twice.
She spent several minutes naked in front of the mirror, worrying that she was too fat. After she talked herself out of that, she worried she was too skinny -- bony limbed, underdeveloped, and flat chested.
She couldn't stop herself from making comparisons to Heather. Her body wasn't as feminine as Heather's. Her breasts weren't as big as Heather's. Her feet were definitely much bigger. Her hair wasn't as thick as Heather's.
Gaia had even reverted to the tactics of a seventh grader by calling Sam to make sure he was in his room, then hanging up as soon as he'd answered.
Now, standing in the middle of the floor, wearing the slinky pink dress she'd "borrowed" from Ella and a pair of heels, she felt like a big, oafish fraud. Why was she even putting herself through this? Sam would take one look at her and tell her to get lost. Why did she think he would be attracted to her? Why in the world would he consider going behind Heather's back for her? Even if Gaia was going to be out of the picture by tomorrow.
She glanced at her watch. Arg. Urmph. It was almost eight o'clock. If she didn't leave now, Sam would probably head out for the evening, and she'd go to her grave a virgin.
She took one last look at herself. No, this wasn't going to work. She was no seductress. She wasn't going to fool anybody. She pulled the dress over her head and kicked off the heeled sandals. If she was going to go, she'd go as herself. She'd be honest. She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and dug her bare feet into her running shoes. She thrust the package of condoms into her bag.
As a safety measure she tucked her hair into a wool cap, which she pulled low over her eyes, wrapped a scarf over most of the bottom of her face, and slipped on a pair of glasses with heavy black frames. Not exactly sexy, but neither was a severe head wound.
Thankfully Ella was out, so Gaia could walk down the stairs like a sane human being. She locked the door behind her and struck out into the cool October night, knowing that this was going to be the greatest single night of her life or a complete and total nightmare.
HESITANT
"THE GREEN OR THE BLACK?" HEATHER asked her sister Phoebe.
Phoebe leaned back on her elbows on Heather's unmade bed and sized her up. "The green is prettier; the black is sexier."
"Black it is," Heather said, pulling the close-fitting sweater over her head. "Can I borrow that gauzy dark red skirt?" she asked, scanning the many piles of clothing that covered her floor.
"Big night tonight?" Phoebe asked suggestively.
"I hope so," Heather answered in a way that was mysterious but didn't openly invite further questioning.
On the one hand, it was annoying that Phoebe came home from college almost every weekend. She was a sophomore at SUNY Binghamton and hated it there. She referred to it as Boonie U. and was constantly composing the personal essay for her transfer application. Heather reasoned that if Phoebe spent even half that time on her courses, she could actually make the grades to transfer. Heather didn't mention this to Phoebe, of course. Phoebe's old room had been partitioned off and rented out, so Phoebe stayed in Heather's room, and she was quite the slob. On the other hand, Phoebe had managed to accumulate lots of nice clothes -- who even knew how -- and usually let Heather borrow them.
"Sure," Phoebe said. She got up from the bed and planted herself in a chair at Heather's vanity table. Phoebe leaned close to the mirror and pursed her lips. "Only it's dry-clean only, so don't mess it up."
"Yes, ma'am," Heather said, locating the skirt and pulling it over her hips. Phoebe was taller, but Heather was a little slimmer. "How does it look?"
"Fine," Phoebe said without even giving her a glance. She was rooting through her capacious makeup bag. "Have you seen my brandy wine lip liner? It's Lancôme, and it cost like twenty bucks. I'm sure I had it when I came last weekend."
Heather ignored her. Phoebe was always losing things and subtly blaming other people.
Heather slipped on her black nubuck loafers and checked her hair and makeup one last time. She felt keyed up and a little shaky. She wasn't sure where excitement ended and nervousness began. She checked her purse again to make sure she had the condoms.
"Okay, Phoebe, I'm taking off. See you later."
"See ya," Phoebe said absently, without taking her eyes from her reflection in the mirror.
Heather paused at the door, hesitant for some reason to commit herself to this strange night.
"Wish me luck," she added in a quiet voice, wishing in a way that this were a night from their innocent past in which the two sisters would practice gymnastics in the living room for hours and try to stay up late enough to watch Saturday Night Live.
But Phoebe was already too deeply involved in her cosmetics to respond.
SINCERE
"OUCH. SHIT," SAM MUTTERED, putting his index finger in his mouth. He'd tried lighting the candle, but the wick was buried in the wax, and when he'd dug for it in the hot wax, he'd burned himself.
He lit the wick again. It took this time, but the flame was sputtering and underconfident.
He sniffed at the air. Crap. The candle was advertised to smell like vanilla, which he'd hoped would cover any residue of dirty-room odor, but instead it smelled like floor cleaner.
He was nervous. He couldn't help himself. He glanced again in the mirror. It seemed stupid to take pains with his clothing when the whole point of this evening was to be taking them off as quickly as possible. He'd actually brought his khakis with him into the bathroom and taken an extra-steamy shower in the hope of getting out some of the wrinkles. He'd put on his softest oxford shirt and carefully rolled up the cuffs. It reminded him of Christmas Eve. All those hours he spent wrapping and tying up presents, when it was all torn up and discarded in a matter of moments.
It was already after eight. His suite mates had gone out. The place was eerily quiet.
He was ready for this. He wanted it. He wanted Heather. As he repeated those words in his head, he felt like a quarterback in the locker room, revving himself up for a big game.
He conjured up an image of Heather's lush body and felt his hormones starting to flow. And it wasn't just sex that he wanted, although face it, what guy could turn that down? He cared about Heather. He really did.
When the knock on the door came, the sound seemed to reverberate in his bones. He went to the door slowly, knowing who it was, of course, telling himself he wanted her fervently and yet wishing in a way it were somebody else.
A FAILED EXPERIMENT
AGAINST HIS BETTER JUDGMENT, TOM Moore saw Gaia rounding the corner of West Fourth Street and followed at a safe distance. As a father he needed to see her safely to her destination, wherever that was. Then he would get on a plane back to Lebanon and resume his mission, leaving romantic notions and painful memories behind.
Based on her strange outfit, Tom guessed Gaia knew she was in danger. With her remarkable hair stashed away under her hat and a scarf and glasses obscuring her face, she was almost unrecognizable. Gaia was well adapted to taking care of herself, he told himself as he followed her east toward Fifth Avenue. He'd taught her the skills she'd need, and her miraculous gifts more than outstripped his teaching and his own abilities, in truth.
Tom, too, had been a prodigy. He had an extraordinary IQ, almost perfect powers of reasoning, and an intuitive genius for understanding the motivations of the human mind -- particularly the criminal mind. He had been virtually fearless until he lost Katia. After that he wore fear like a coat of chain mail every day of his life. Tom sometimes imagined that he represented nature's first -- though failed -- experiment at an invincible creature. Gaia represented its subsequent and much more perfect attempt.
Gaia paused for a traffic light, and Tom took the opportunity to pull out his cell phone. He pushed two buttons, connecting instantly with his assistant. "We'll fly from the base at nine-thirty," he told him.
It was with some sense of relief that he watched Gaia approach the door of a large building flanked by stone benches on either side. He could see from the awning that it was an NYU building, a dorm. It seemed a safe and relatively ordinary place for a girl to begin her Saturday night. He chuckled to himself at the pleasure it gave him to think that Gaia had friends and an active social life.
Maybe she would be okay. Maybe she could actually be . . . happy. The thought suffused him with unexpected joy.
Suddenly he was glad he had come. He was reassured. He could imagine his Gaia thriving here in New York. That knowledge would strengthen him for almost any trial.
He was just backing off when a glint of metal caught his eye from across the street. His thoughts and perceptions went into warp speed. It was a young man standing in the shadow of a tree, holding a .44-caliber pistol. The young man brought it up to eye level and trained it directly on Gaia.
Tom was across the street in a fraction of a second, never diverting his gaze from the gun. He was nearing his target, ready to throw his weight into the man, when suddenly the young man withdrew the gun. The young man's gaze was still trained on Gaia, but the hand with the gun hung at his side. Tom pulled up short, backing up against the side of a building to escape the young man's notice. When Tom looked back across the street, he realized that Gaia had already disappeared into the building.
Tom closed his eyes for a moment and caught his breath. Had that gun actually been trained on Gaia? Could he have been imagining the danger to her? With a sense of foreboding, Tom watched the young man conceal the gun under his shirt and stroll across the street, stopping under the well-lit awning. The young man glanced into the building and then took a seat on one of the stone benches. Tom knew he was settling in to wait.
Distress mixed with frustration as Tom took out his phone once again and pushed the same two buttons.
"Make it eleven," he told his assistant in an unhappy voice.
ED
My views on Luck:
Before my accident, I used to think I was the luckiest guy in the world. Then I had my accident, and I sort of believed I deserved it because nobody stays that lucky. I used to think that luck got around to each of us equally. When things went badly, you were sort of saving up for a stretch of good luck. When things went too well . . . You get the idea.
According to this theory, I would be in for some good luck, right? I mean, a guy who's in a wheelchair shouldn't have parents who bicker constantly, for example, or an older sister who's ashamed of him. He shouldn't be abandoned by the girl he believed to be his one true love.
But the theory is wrong. Luck doesn't shine her light on each of us equally. She is arbitrary, irrational, unfair, and sometimes downright cruel. There are people who spend their entire lives basking in her glow, and others never seem to get one goddamned break.
Luck is powerful. Don't mess with her. Accept her for what she is and make the best of it. I can't stand that people are constantly blaming other people when bad stuff happens to them. Somebody trips on a sidewalk, and they sue some innocent bastard for millions of dollars. It's not always somebody else's fault. Sometimes it's just luck. Bad luck.
Luck is unpredictable. She's not your friend. She won't stand by you.
Maybe in heaven it's different. I do hope so.
But here on earth, my friend, those are the breaks.
IT
He couldn't hold back much longer without a really good reason.
THE BIG MOMENT
SAM HAD A NEW RESPECT FOR biology. Although his mind floated somewhere near the acoustical tiles on the ceiling, his body did all the things a body needs to do in order to successfully propagate the species.
He gently, efficiently removed Heather's sweater and expertly navigated her tricky front-fastening bra. He gazed at her lovely breasts hungrily, feeling the blood flow to his nether regions quadruple in under two seconds. He pulled her skirt over her perfectly shaped hips, revealed dark purple satin panties equal to his daydreams, and forced himself not to go further yet.
Biology was exerting so much force, Sam had to battle himself not to remove that last bit of Heather's clothing or to pick her right up off the floor, put her on his bed, and hurtle forward into the main event. But he was a gentleman. He'd toughed it out before, and he could do it again. His older brother once told him that if you found you were undressing the girl and yourself, take a break and ask yourself whether you're pushing too hard.
Sam stuck to the advice, although it seemed like hours before Heather got around to removing his shirt. She seemed a bit tentative to him. Not scared, but not entirely sure of herself, either.
"We can stop anytime," he murmured against her ear, although biology was begging her not to take him up on the offer.
"No, I'm good," she whispered back.
She punctuated her point by sliding her hands under the waistband of his khakis. From his perch on the ceiling he heard a moan come from deep in his chest.
Now he saw his pants on the floor and only his blue-and-green-plaid boxers standing in the way of nudity. Soft, delicate lips poured kisses over his chest and stomach.
It was weird. His body was fully aroused and responsive, and his mind was remote. Was there a psychological term for this? Was there a treatment for it? Was this at all what death felt like?
He bitterly wished he could get his mind into the action. He'd picked a fine day for a complete out-of-body experience, he mused ironically.
"Ready?" he whispered, taking her hand and leading her to the bed.
Before taking a step, he studied her expression, waiting for her cue. Her face was flushed and intense, but not exactly the picture of lustful ecstasy. Was she holding back? Was she regretting this?
Or was he projecting his feelings onto her?
He took his eyes from her body so that biology would ease its choke hold for a moment. "Are you sure, Heather? We don't have to do anything you don't want. We've got plenty of time."
In response she sat down on the bed, placed a hand on either side of his waist, and pulled him
down on top of her. She commandeered his mouth with kisses so he couldn't ask any more questions.
"I'm sure. I'm sure I want to do it now," she said against his ear. Why did her tone suggest more grim determination than arousal? Suddenly he felt her hands on the elastic waist of his boxer shorts, pulling them down. Another moan escaped him. He couldn't hold back much longer without a really good reason.
"I love you," she whispered to his chest. He couldn't see her eyes to gauge the depth of her words.
"Mmmm," he said, knowing that wasn't the right answer.
Apparently she didn't need to hear more. She wriggled out of her own panties and pressed the full length of her naked body against his. His body was pounding with pleasure and anticipation. His mind was surprised by her assertiveness and her . . . hurry. It almost seemed like she was in a hurry.
The big moment was upon them, and biology was demanding they surge ahead. Sam felt for the condom on the table by his bed. With her help he put it on. With her guiding, demanding arms he entered her. Again he heard the deep groan thundering from his chest. He heard her breathy sigh. At last his mind was pulled down into the whirlpool. At last the sensations became so fierce and so pervasive, his body and mind joined together. At last he was consumed.
So much so that he didn't notice that a slight breeze from a crack in the door had snuffed the fragile flame of the floor-wax-scented candle.
CRUEL LUCK: 1
THE HALLWAY OF SAM'S DORM looked surprisingly like the one in her dream, but Gaia's feelings were different. She didn't feel sexy and bold. She felt insecure and deeply self-conscious.
First she knocked on the outer door that read B4-7. Sam's room was B5, so it had to be through there. While she waited for an answer, she pulled off her wool cap and shook out her hair. She unwound the scarf and stowed the ugly glasses in her bag. Her eyes caught the package of condoms floating at the surface of her bag, and the eager box threw her confidence even more.
Fearless: No. 2 - Sam (Fearless) Page 9