Naked

by Megan Hart

  The collective sigh of relief couldn’t be ignored, but John didn’t seem to notice. He got right back to his constant stream of complaints against society. This time, he added jokes. To be fair, he was an equal-opportunity bigot, a modern-day Archie Bunker tempered with a mutated twist of political correctness. John Kennedy didn’t say “Polack,” he said “Polish guy.” He didn’t say “Chink,” he said “Chinaman.” And he never once, in a whole slew of ethnic jokes, said the word nigger.

  I think we were all waiting for it. I wouldn’t have been shocked to hear him say it. I’m not sure I’d even have been angry—but never having been called a nigger to my face by someone who meant it with derision, I’m not sure how I would have reacted. We all just waited for it. I’d felt out of place before, one dark face in a roomful of pale skin, but I’d never been so on edge about waiting for it to be pointed out.

  In the end, it wasn’t a black joke that got the biggest reaction. We’d all finished dinner and were picking at the apple pie and ice cream. John had already put away a huge slice and was on his second.

  The first gay joke slipped in between a rant about gas prices and cigarette taxes. At the second, I glanced down the table to see Alex’s reaction. He was staring at his plate, at the ice cream melting over his untasted pie. His hair had fallen forward, so I couldn’t see his eyes.

  Nobody had laughed at any of the jokes, but that hadn’t stopped John from continuing. The third faggot joke was about gay marriage. That’s when I looked up from my plate.

  “I don’t think that’s funny.”

  Dead silence except for Mrs. Kennedy’s squeak. I didn’t look to see what Alex was doing. I kept my gaze focused on John’s face.

  He studied me intently, and I wondered for whose benefit all those jokes had been made, anyway. His eyes gleamed with dark and nasty intelligence and justification. He thought he had the right to feel the way he did about the blacks, the queers, the spics and chinks and hymies. He didn’t seem to notice he was as much a stereotype as any one of the groups he was brutalizing with his poor sense of humor.

  “Well, now,” he said with a leering grin. “I guess I don’t find faggots funny, either.”

  And he left it at that.

  In the Kennedy house, women cleaned up after dinner, while the men retired to the basement to watch television. Alex stayed upstairs until one of his sisters chased him off.

  “Get out of the way,” she said without pulling any punches. “We want to get to know your Olivia.”

  “Will you be okay?” he whispered as he kissed me.

  “I will,” I assured him, with a look into the kitchen where the other women were working. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sounded defeated and looked pale. He hadn’t eaten much.

  I touched his cheek. “Baby, there are all sorts of people in the world, and some of them are assholes.”

  He smiled at that and kissed me. “I love you.”

  “I know you do. Go.” I pushed him toward the basement door. “Go…bond.”

  “As if,” he said with a glower, but went.

  Away from her husband, Jolene Kennedy proved to have a much better sense of humor, even though she didn’t tell many jokes. She had a pretty laugh that rang out in the tiny kitchen as she let her daughters push her into a chair to play with her grandchildren instead of hand-washing all the pots and pans. I pitched in, no stranger to kitchen work, and found that Alex’s sisters might have been sluts in high school, but they were pretty decent mothers and daughters for all that.

  And they loved their brother, that was clear. They told me stories about him—how he’d always been there when they needed something. A ride, some money, advice. He’d moved away when they were very young, and still had managed to be a large part of their lives. Maybe more than my own brothers had, and we were closer in age. Their stories fit a piece into the puzzle of the man I loved, and I saw another picture of him.

  I excused myself to use the bathroom, the only one in the house, in the upstairs hallway. When I came out, John was waiting. I stepped aside to let him pass, but he countered with a step in front of me.

  My heart pounded, but I refused to let him see he’d intimidated me. “Excuse me.”

  “So, you’re gonna marry our boy?”

  “I plan to. Yes.”

  “In a church?”

  I stared at Alex’s father, whose gaze dropped to the necklace on the outside of my blouse. “We haven’t decided yet.”

  His gaze roamed all over me. “You know, I can’t say as I’m surprised he picked you, Livvy. You are awful pretty for a black girl. I’ve had a taste or two of black girls myself, though don’t you let on to Jolene.”

  I tasted bile but kept my chin high. “Excuse me.”

  He didn’t move. “You full black?”

  “What?”

  “Are you full black,” he repeated, as though I were stupid, or deaf. “I only ask because you got some white features to you. And you ain’t so dark, you know?”

  Oh, I knew all right. I swallowed the surge of acid and looked him in the eye. “I love your son, and he loves me. It has nothing to do with the color of my skin, you racist asshole. Now let me by before I kick you in your nuts.”

  John blinked, then grinned, but didn’t move. “Sassy, ain’t ya?”

  I moved closer, my mouth twisted in a sneer. “Get out of my way.”

  His fingertip shot out and flicked my necklace. A point of the star stung my throat. “So. You’ll get married in the church? Yes or no?”

  I pushed past him without answering. John followed me down the stairs. I found everyone in the living room. Alex was laughing with Tanya. It was the most relaxed I’d seen him since we arrived. He shot me a smile that faded quickly.

  “Don’t walk away from me,” John said from behind me.

  The room froze. I’m sure all of the people in it had heard his tone before, judging by their reactions. Johanna went visibly pale. Even the teens looked up from their video games and cell phones. Alex took a step forward.

  “Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said clearly. “I think it’s time we left.”

  “Girl, don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you. I asked you a question.”

  “And I gave you an answer,” I said calmly, though my knees were shaking, my guts quaking. “We haven’t discussed it yet. And frankly, it’s for me and Alex to decide. Not for you.”

  “What’s going on?” Alex asked.

  “I asked your girl here if you were getting married in the church, and she won’t answer me. I just want to know,” John said. “I mean, doesn’t an old man have a right to know if his only son’s going to get married the right way or the wrong way? Or should I just be glad he’s getting married at all?”

  It was not the first time Alex’s father had teased with such a comment, but this time, Alex responded. “You mean that I’m not a faggot, right?”

  John laughed heartily, the same false hyuk-hyuk. “No son of mine’s a cocksucker.”

  I found Alex’s gaze with mine and tried to send him strength, but this was not my battle. It probably never had been about me at all. He looked at his dad with an expression so blank it might have been on a doll.

  “We’re leaving now. We’ll let you know about the wedding. But don’t expect it to be in a church.” Alex looked at me. “C’mon, babe, let’s get out of here.”

  I thought John might shout after us, but nobody said a word as we left. Nobody even offered a goodbye. We left in total, utter silence unbroken until we got in the car.

  Then Alex let loose. “Stupid motherfucking shit-heel asshole!”

  He jammed the car in Reverse and we smoked into traffic. He clutched the wheel so tightly his fingers turned white. I said nothing, just let him rant. I didn’t point out that he sounded a lot like his dad.

  He didn’t stop until we got to the hotel parking lot. Then he turned off the car and drew in a deep, hitching breath. He didn’t look at me.
>
  “I’m sorry, Olivia. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I stroked his hair and let my hand rest on the knotted bunch of his shoulders. I squeezed. “Honey, I don’t care about your dad being a prick. Really.”

  He looked at me. “He was baiting me.”

  “Yes. He was.” I hesitated, thinking of the conversation in the upstairs hall, and wondered what might happen if I told Alex the other things his dad had said.

  “I should’ve told him.”

  I worked at the knot in his shoulder. “Told him what?”

  Alex shook his head. “I don’t know. That he was right. I am a cocksucker.”

  “That’s not all you are.”

  I took my hand away and put it in my lap. His heavy breathing filled the air between us, but I had nothing to say. No comfort to give. This was a shaky bridge over a treacherous drop.

  He flashed me a look. “But I love you. I want to marry you. That’s what matters.”

  His words lifted me a little. “Yes, that’s what matters. To me, anyway.”

  He nodded as if we’d come to an agreement. “Good. Right. And fuck him, anyway, that old man. He’s a fucking twat. I fucking hate him.”

  His voice broke. I touched his shoulder again, unsure what to do. Alex shook his head, blew out a breath, swiped at his face. He gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “You kicked his ass, though, didn’t you?”

  My laugh scratched my throat. “I’ve faced assholes before.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Honey,” I said solemnly, “don’t be sorry. If anything, I’m glad we went. I’m glad I met your sisters, and your mom, and your nieces and nephews. You can’t help who your dad is.”

  “Now you know one reason why I never fucking come back here.”

  “No kidding,” I teased, trying to lighten the tension. “With that, do you need any others?”

  He didn’t answer, and I wondered if there were more reasons than his bigoted, homophobic father. Alex kissed me, though, soft and sweet, and I didn’t bother to ask him about anything else.

  Chapter

  20

  Monday morning, Memorial Day, was bright and hot by the time I woke. I heard the rush of water in the bathroom again, but this time Alex emerged with a grin. I burrowed under the pillow. We’d stayed up very late doing all the sorts of things people do in hotel rooms, and some of those things twice.

  “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!” He jumped on the bed and drew back the sheets to expose my warm naked body to the chilly, air-conditioned air.

  “Five more minutes.”

  “C’mon, Olivia. We’re going to miss the party.”

  I pulled the pillow away to look at him. He’d slicked his hair back, but it would fall over his eyes as soon as he dried it. He’d shaved. I smelled cologne. Water still sparkled on his eyelashes.

  “You are way too cheerful for a dude who got only a few hours of sleep.”

  He kissed me, though I kept my lips closed tight to imprison my morning breath. “You, on the other hand—”

  I pinched his nipple and, laughing, he grabbed my wrist. “Watch what you say.”

  “My love, you are an angel of the morning.”

  I grumped a few more seconds, then sat up. “If you loved me, you would bring me Starbucks in bed.”

  Alex raised a brow. “Is that so?”

  “That is so.”

  He leaned close, but didn’t kiss. I saw my reflection in his deep gray eyes. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  I smiled. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Service.”

  Alex laughed again, already pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “Get your ass out of bed, Olivia.”

  I groaned as he left the room, but hauled myself from the too-soft bed and padded into the bathroom. I took my time in the shower, luxuriating in the steady stream of unending hot water. I flossed and brushed and tweezed and shaved, for good measure. With a towel wrapped around me, my face a dark blur in the steam-covered mirror, I could admit to myself I was more nervous about meeting Alex’s friends than I’d been his family.

  By the time I got out of the bathroom, he’d returned with two huge cups of coffee and a couple of scones. He’d also laid my clothes out for me on the bed—panties, bra, a sundress I’d packed but hadn’t expected to wear. Even my sandals had been set out.

  “What’s this?” I took the coffee and sipped.

  “I want you to wear that.”

  I studied the outfit. “It’s a little dressy for a barbecue.”

  “But you’ll look so fucking hot in it.”

  The dress, pale blue with an embroidered design of red and gold flowers, had come from India. Light, filmy fabric, short but full sleeves, a hem that hit me just above the knee. I’d worn it only a few times, but I liked what the color did for my skin and eyes. I liked the sandals, too, flat, with crisscross straps. I’d intended to wear a pair of capris and a camp shirt.

  “Are you sure?” I took off my towel and stood naked in front of the mirror. I cupped my breasts, then ran a hand over the curve of my belly. My ass. “It’s not a fancy party, is it?”

  “I doubt it. But who cares? You’ll look beautiful.”

  I looked at him in the mirror. “You want to show me off?”

  “Of course.” His grin held not even a speck of apology. “Who wouldn’t?”

  I turned to face him. “What are you wearing?”

  “Why? You want to show me off?”

  I laughed and moved to pull on the pair of pale blue panties and bra he’d set out for me. “Matching underwear. How very queer eye of you.”

  I’d meant it lightly; if we were going to spend the rest of our lives together there was no point in pretending I didn’t know about his past. It sounded harder than I’d meant it to, and when I glanced up at him, Alex was frowning.

  “You always pick out panties that match your clothes,” he said.

  I put my arms around his neck. “I do. Thank you.”

  Mollified, he let me kiss him. He let me do a little more than that, too, but I stopped before his cock did more than twitch in response to my stroking. I laughed when he groaned in protest, and went back to the bed to pull the dress over my head. It fell around my thighs like a butterfly kiss. When I turned from side to side, the fabric flowed around me.

  “Gorgeous.” Alex sounded more like he was admiring a painting or a vase than me, and I shot him a careful look he didn’t notice.

  I’d gone to my last high-school reunion with a man I wasn’t dating on my arm. Pure eye candy. Sarah had hooked us up—he was a general contractor she knew from her renovation work. He had muscles on his muscles, abs you could wash clothes on, the chiseled features of a god. I invited him to the reunion for the simple reason that he’d look good on my arm in front of people whose opinions hadn’t even meant that much. I hadn’t ever been eye candy myself.

  “How long’s it been since you’ve seen your friend?” I asked casually, moving to the bathroom to start putting on makeup.

  “Couple of years.” Alex tugged off his T-shirt and rustled in the suitcase for a familiar pink button-down.

  I watched him through the open bathroom door as I pulled out powder and mascara. Alex could take as long to get ready as I could. Longer, sometimes. I watched him run his fingers through his hair and shake it out. Pull on his shirt. Leave it untucked, button up the buttons, then undo a number of them. He pulled a belt from the suitcase and ran it through the loops on his jeans, tugged the buckle shut. Tucked the shirt.

  I thought maybe Alex was more nervous about meeting his friends than he’d been about his family, too.

  I smoothed scented oil into the fine stray hairs at my temples and pulled my locks back in a loose bun, with a few escaping. I glossed my lips and dusted my skin with glittery powder. I was finished and he was still fussing.

  I went into the bedroom and took his shoulders to turn him from the mirror. I looked into his eyes. And I kissed h
im, not because I understood his anxiety, exactly, but because I didn’t have to know his reasons. I only had to know how to ease them.

  He rested his forehead on mine, his eyes closed. We didn’t say anything. When he opened them, he looked better. His arms around me felt good and right and strong, as if nothing could ever go wrong between us.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The Kinneys lived in the smallest house on a long, lake-front road lined with large, expensive-looking homes. Their tiny yard backed right up to the water, though, which must be nice for the summer. I could see the amusement park across the lake, and a large metal spit took up a lot of space in the backyard. The smell of roasting meat hit me the second I got out of the car.

  So did the music and laughter. Party noises. Summer sounds. I felt suddenly shamed I hadn’t brought anything, not even a platter of store-bought cookies we could’ve picked up from the grocery on the way over. Alex assured me it was all right, but that didn’t stop my hands from needing something to hold when he led me along the crushed stone path and into a bright, cheerful kitchen. I’d forgotten my camera, proof of how nervous I was.

  “Jamie, you jumping muthfucka.”

  I’d never heard Alex sound so fond. The man who must’ve been Jamie turned from the kitchen island, where he’d been setting a platter of hamburgers. My first thought was that he was handsome, far better looking than Alex in a pretty sort of way—deep blue eyes, brows darker than his sunbleached hair, with the planes and angles of his face aligned just right. My second was that they might have been brothers, the way their very different faces managed to pull identical expressions.

  And my third?

  That Jamie, Alex’s friend, his good buddy since junior high, hadn’t been expecting me at all.

  It wasn’t the color of my skin but my entire presence that set him back a step, his hearty grin freezing in a grimace so brief it passed before I should’ve seen it. He stepped forward at once as though he’d never recoiled. He held out his arms.

  I was a voyeur watching their embrace, which lingered a little too long, but broke apart just a bit too abruptly. Jamie’s face had flushed when they pulled apart, slapping shoulders and punching biceps like adolescent boys. I couldn’t see Alex’s eyes.