Two Weeks

by Andrea Wolfe

  I wonder how long he'll keep sending me messages.

  When I set my phone back down, I notice a group of rabbits devouring some of my mother's plants in the garden. I have to take preventative action. They're cute, but destructive.

  "Hey, get the hell away from there!" I shout. They freeze. I run through the yard in my bare feet until they disperse into the field.

  I saunter back to the deck and sit down, keeping one eye on the garden at all times.

  My phone buzzes shortly after that and it's Jackson calling. I tell him about my uneventful afternoon and invite him over for dinner.

  I continue reading on the deck, watching for rogue rabbits in my peripheral vision. They start creeping up again, and after losing myself in a particularly exciting chapter, they're back eating my mother's precious garden. I set the book down and prepare to fight back.

  Back into the grass I creep, stopping to turn on the hose. I grab the nozzle and stealthily head toward the feasting rabbits, ready to spray them. They're mindlessly munching on radish greens and I'm going to stop them.

  I'm tensed up, certain that I'm going to hit them with a good shot. I aim the nozzle and prepare to fire when suddenly someone shouts right next to me.

  "Boo!"

  Shocked, I clench the handle, firing a stream of water toward the unexpected sound. And then I fall right on my ass.

  It's Jackson, standing no more than ten feet from me—and now his black t-shirt and shorts are totally soaked. I was so caught up in the rabbit hunt that he got this close without me noticing at all.

  "Jackson!" I whine. I remain, defeated, on the ground.

  "What the hell are you doing out here?" he asks, laughing and pulling at his wet shirt. "Jesus, you're crazy. That's not actually going to stop an attacker, by the way."

  "Rabbits," I say, panting. "They're eating mom's garden." Jackson gives me a hand and I take it, allowing the hose to fall limply into the grass. "Are they gone?"

  "Yeah," he says, continuing to laugh at me.

  "I can always spray you again, if you'd like, you ass." I start to kneel toward the hose, but he stops me.

  "No, that's just about enough. And there's some dirt on your shorts," he says, pointing at the spots.

  "Well, yours are soaked with water."

  I shut off the water and we head inside to clean up. I throw him some towels and work on the dirt spots with a stain bar in the laundry room. After I throw on another pair of shorts, I meet Jackson in the living room.

  "I can't believe I'm here," he says. "Never thought I would ever be in this house again."

  "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I ask. Jackson's looking at Jeff's family photo on the fridge, studying it like it's CliffsNotes and he's underprepared for an exam tomorrow morning.

  "So many memories here. Is the TV still in the basement?"

  "Yeah," I say. "It's a flat-screen now. My dad decided to upgrade it, even though he rarely watches anything down there."

  "This is gonna sound weird," he says, "but the first porn I ever saw was down there with your brother. We used to watch the softcore stuff on Cinemax. We always put something innocent on flashback, like a shopping channel in case somebody came downstairs." Making the vibe even weirder, he takes off his shirt and hangs it over a chair to dry.

  "Seriously?" I ask, giggling. "Did anyone ever come downstairs?"

  "Yeah, but we were always ready. Two pre-teen boys watching QVC at midnight on a Friday night was probably a dead giveaway, but we didn't think it through any further than that. Should have used MTV or something." Jackson pauses and appears to be contemplating something. "Y'know, that was like my first real introduction to sex."

  "That's gross," I say. "You and Jeff watching porn together in this house." I shake my head in disgust.

  "That was it," he says chidingly. "We watched, nothing else. It's like any other movie, except it's full of non-penetrative sex." Jackson starts laughing again. "I guess it is kind of gross, huh?"

  I scoff at him. "Yes, yes it is. So do you have any other fond memories of my brother? Memories that don't involve watching porn, maybe?"

  "Of course I do," he says. "We masterminded the biggest senior prank the school had ever seen."

  "I can't remember it," I say. "Remind me."

  "Oh, it was great," he says. "We found these nudie playing cards at a flea market. Like cases and cases of them for like three dollars apiece. So we got them and dumped them all over the floors and all of the staff were scrambling to pick them up, trying to make sure nobody could see what was on them. It was like X-rated carpeting all down the halls and into the gym."

  "Actually, I do remember hearing about that," I say. "But I think I was at some National Honor Society thing when it happened."

  "It was a good prank. No one got hurt. No animals got hurt either. We spent so many nights trying to plan the damn thing. I can't believe we cared that much." Jackson rubs his forehead as if he's massaging the very memory he just shared.

  "I don't know why people do that anyway," I say. "Just creating a huge mess. And I guess a story to tell."

  Jackson leans up against our center island in the kitchen. "Yeah, I don't know either. I definitely felt bad for Principal Richards. His face flushed bright red after he saw what was on the cards. I actually thought he was going to have a heart attack and die in a pile of dirty playing cards."

  "You're lucky as hell that he didn't," I say sharply. "You might have been charged with complicity to murder."

  "That's a good point," he says.

  "So are all of your memories about sex?" I ask with subtle hostility. "I'm seeing a theme here."

  Jackson smiles and laughs at me. "It was pure chance with the cards, since we randomly found them. And I mean, you're asking me to go back to a time when I was a teenage boy. Sex was a huge deal back then. Wasn't it huge for you when you lost your virginity?"

  I'm mid-gulp when he says this, and the water goes down the wrong pipe. I start coughing and make some unintelligible grunt.

  "Are you all right?" he asks, casually watching me suffer.

  "Yes," I choke out. "One sec." I hold my arms above my head and then slowly breathe. He waits patiently while I recover. "Okay, so what were we talking about?" I hope he got distracted and forgot.

  "About losing our respective virginities." He's laser precise.

  "I think I need to sit down," I say. I walk out into the living room and sit down on the couch. Jackson takes the chair directly across from me. "I don't really want to talk about that. It was awkward."

  "Aww, c'mon." He playfully urges me on, grinning from ear-to-ear. "I'm not going to make fun of you or anything. It's fun to go back and reminisce about these things sometimes."

  "If it's so damn fun, why don't you tell me about your first time?" I stare back at him, waiting for his response.

  "Okay," he says. "I was sixteen. It was with Rachel Connor. Her parents went out of town and we planned this whole big thing—"

  "Rachel Connor?" I ask, cutting him off. "She was your first girlfriend? Really?"

  "Not my first girlfriend, but the first girl I had sex with," he says. "She was really into me for some reason. I mean, I was becoming a football star and all of that. And she basically threw herself at me. Plus, she had a vagina, and that was good enough for me at the time."

  I waggle my eyebrow. "What a great guy," I say sarcastically.

  "Anyway," he says, continuing, "we planned this whole big romantic thing out because her parents were gone until the next day. I struggled to put on the condom for like five minutes and then I finished in less than one. Less than ten total thrusts," he says, feigning pride. "We continued having sex like that until we broke up about two months later. I don't think she got off a single time, yet she always wanted to have sex. I don't get it."

  I start giggling at the thought. I've been having the best sex of my life with Jackson and now he's telling me all about his early sexual inexperience. The contrast is very amusing.

&nb
sp; "Sex isn't only about getting off," I say. "There's more to it than that. Maybe she liked the other stuff."

  "Well, maybe," he says. "I had absolutely no idea what I was doing though. She never asked for anything else, so I figured I was doing a good job. I'm just glad I finally figured it out."

  "Me too," I say, curling my lips into a devilish smile.

  "Your turn." His smile is so sardonic it hurts. My own smile fades in response.

  "You don't waste any time, do you?"

  "Of course I don't," he says.

  I shrug and stare up at the wall. "Why do you care so much about this stuff?"

  "It's just for fun. Humble beginnings. Back stories. You don't have to talk about it. I mean, like if it was traumatic or something, I'm not trying to make light of it. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

  I sit in silence, listening to the clock ticking on the wall. It's a very familiar, very comforting sound, one that is inextricably linked to this room. I'm usually uptight about discussing sex, but something feels very different this time, especially after his honesty.

  "No, it's just boring," I say. "I was nineteen and with my first boyfriend in a couple of years. It was his second time, I think. He wasn't uh, very big and nothing really happened. I don't even think he got off. He just hopped on and we did our thing until we mutually decided that it had gone on for too long. I really didn't feel anything. I had such huge expectations too." My shoulders slump at the conclusion.

  "Ouch," Jackson says. "That's no fun."

  I chuckle. "Well, at least it didn't hurt." Talking about this actually feels good in a self-deprecating kind of way.

  "True. Some guys never graduate from that sort of inexperience, you know? "

  "Yeah, I definitely know. He sure didn't." My tone is bitter as I recall those really pathetic memories.

  Jackson stands up and settles next to me on the couch. "Well, you don't have to worry about that right now." He presses his lips against mine and I kiss back. His weight presses me into the softness of the couch, and his hand finds a place in the small of my back, curling me toward him.

  I send fervent kisses his way, my tongue swimming inside his mouth. My breath starts to come quicker; his does the same. He continues kissing me with the same intensity, and I do my best to match it. I nibble on his lower lip, sucking it into my mouth and rolling it against my tongue and teeth. My hands toy with his hair and dig into his back.

  Jackson's hand settles on my chest and starts to gently fondle my breasts through my shirt and bra, cupping with such delicate intensity. As our bodies shift, my eyes open and catch a glimpse of our family photo on the wall—Jeff, me, my mom and dad out at the lake.

  My sex drive is dead. Totally dead.

  I break the kiss. "I'm sorry," I say. "I can't."

  "Is everything all right?" he asks, sitting up straight and pulling away from me. "I thought you said the house would be empty all weekend."

  "It's not that," I say. "I've just never had sex in this house. Not once. I don't know if I can do it." I can see the outline of his erection through his shorts, and I assume I'm in for a verbal lashing. But this feels too weird for me. In a way, it feels too serious if it happens here.

  It's like the kind of thing a married couple does, not just some people having a short fling.

  Jackson pauses, and I watch him very carefully, trying to gauge his response to my semi-neurotic behavior. "It's dumb," I say, ending the silence. "I'm sorry for being such a weirdo."

  "How about we... " He trails off and smiles. "... order a pizza instead?"

  "Wait, what?" I ask. Jackson catches me completely off guard.

  "Let's order a pizza. I said what I meant to say. I'm fucking starving since I barely ate the last couple days." His stomach growls loudly as if to reinforce what he just said. "And pizza might just be better than sex."

  I laugh. "Maybe it is," I say. "Yeah, that sounds great." I'm really impressed with his response.

  His smile curves into a devious one. "And can I get a rain check for later tonight at my place?"

  I giggle. "Of course."

  "Okay, whew," he says. "I was a little worried."

  We get a huge supreme pizza and two orders of cheesy bread from the local joint in town. It's really good pizza, actually, and I'm kind of ashamed that I forgot about it.

  "I love Marciano's," Jackson says, speaking with a mouthful of pizza. "I always order from there. It's still some of the best pizza I've ever had." He devours it, catching up after days of near-fasting to meet his weigh-in goals.

  "I can't believe I forgot about this. My family used to order from there every Friday night."

  "So we're right on schedule then," Jackson says. He dips his bread stick into the garlic butter and finishes the whole thing in one bite.

  I laugh at the realization that it's Friday night, I'm home, and we're eating Marciano's pizza. The stars of nostalgia have aligned. "You're right."

  It brings back a feeling of youthful warmth, the knowledge that it was Friday and school was merely a distant memory until Monday. Ah, the beautiful weekend. It meant a totally different thing when we were young.

  "How about we head up to the cabin on Sunday? The fight is tomorrow, so we'll go to that, rest, and then take off in the morning. Stay for a couple of days. Or more, maybe."

  I set my half-eaten slice down on my plate and swallow my bite. "Yeah, that sounds great." After pausing, I finally realize how full I am. "God, I'm stuffed."

  "I'll take that then," Jackson says. He snatches the unfinished slice off my plate and polishes it off in two huge bites.

  His behavior prompts me to look down—he's eaten almost all of the pizza. "You're like an eating machine," I say.

  "I need my energy," he says proudly. "For stuff."

  Well, he definitely had energy "for stuff" later that night at his house, because he made me come until I passed out.

  10

  Jackson

  It's the day of the fight and I'm so happy that Ally is here. We eat a relaxing breakfast together; it's nice to have a day off from intense training and watching my weight so carefully.

  She's got a lot of questions, and thankfully I've got a lot of answers. I explain how amateur MMA works, giving her shortened details about everything I know.

  "So is this like really small?" she asks.

  "Not really," I say. "People take it pretty seriously. Crowds of like a thousand or more, usually. It's something fun to do in the middle of nowhere, basically. The promoters make good money, but only if people show up. Otherwise, they can go under fast. I've seen it happen before."

  "I forgot to check out the videos," she says. "Should I watch them now? To get a feel for it?" She points at my closed laptop.

  I sip my coffee. "If you haven't watched them yet, you should probably just wait for the real thing."

  She smiles. "That makes sense. Sorry."

  "They're not easy to find anyhow. They're mostly just for other promoters to watch. For booking purposes."

  "Oh." She nods.

  "Same thing as the rest of the sports world. They look for up and comers and offer them shitty contracts before they know any better."

  "Do you ever get offered contracts?" she asks.

  "Well, yeah," I say.

  "Wow," she says, cutting me off. "You must be really good."

  I smile at her. "It's not that simple," I say. "They've all been terrible. Some of these guys try to take upwards of fifty percent of your earnings. Even more in some cases. They're just looking to take advantage whenever they can."

  Once again, I omit the very critical fact that I've got spinal stenosis and that I might not be able to fulfill the requirements of a contract if I get seriously injured. The truth is, I have been offered some very lucrative contracts, but haven't accepted anything. I don't want to think about it, really.

  "Oh, okay," she says, sipping her coffee. "Is there anymore coffee?"

  "A little." I grab the French press
and top off her cup. I decide I've had enough because I'm going to be overloaded with adrenaline in a few hours. No use making myself jittery before a fight.

  I pack up my gym bag with the usual items. I know I'm facing off against a tough competitor tonight, a guy that's been doing well for a while now, Goliath. I've met him a few times, and he's a genuinely nice guy.

  He's younger than me, and he trains really hard. I don't really care one way or another, because I'm certain I'll win. If I maintain a positive attitude the whole time—phony or not—I always do better than if I allow any negativity to creep in.

  It's clear that Ally doesn't really know what to do. She wanders around the house like she also needs to pack, but I remind her that this is no different than going to a movie or a concert. She's a spectator, not a performer.

  "I'm really excited about going to the cabin," she says. "I've never really been to Carsonville as an adult."

  "It's different for sure," I say. "I mean, having a beer and sitting out in the sun is really nice."

  "Yeah, and getting to do whatever you want. Having your own money. The last time I was there, it was a family trip and I still had to beg my dad for cash since Jeff never wanted to share. I never went back after that."

  "I definitely remember those days," I say.

  ***

  It's about an hour drive to the city, and usually things start around five. Many of the other competitors drive a lot farther than I do, so I guess I'm happy that I live close. I'm supposed to go on at nine, so I've got some time to kill.

  We have a good chat on the way there, and I'm thrilled to have the company, especially when it's not some old buddy from high school like it was last time.

  Yeah, like last time...

  ...in the bathroom.

  I cringe at the thought. I feel like that Jackson is from a million years ago, even though it's only been a week. I don't even remember that guy at all anymore. It's in the back of my mind during much of our conversation.

  We stop at a fast food restaurant and I get a cheeseburger with five patties. Ally watches in amazement as I polish it off.