One Life

by A. J. Pine

  “Less explaining,” I say. “And more condom fetching.”

  Then I kiss him again for good measure.

  His hand leaves me to find his shorts and pull his wallet from the pocket.

  I smile when he pulls out not one but three condoms. Then I raise a brow.

  He responds with a shrug, and I grab one of the foil packets, tear it open, and proceed to roll it down his length.

  “Don’t care why you have ’em. Just glad you do.”

  His wide eyes take me in, and then I pull him to me, in me, and there’s no going back. Not that I ever would.

  Nothing I could have dreamed up lands anywhere close to the reality of our bodies aligning, uniting—the way we fit as if we were made to do this. Everything I was afraid to feel for him months ago rises to the surface as we move in tandem, bodies and breaths in sync.

  No more platonic sleepovers. No more excuses. No more waiting.

  Just this, for as long as it will last.

  “Yours.”

  “Mine.”

  He rocks into me, burying himself to the hilt, and I remember what it’s like to be drunk. Only this is infinitely better. And when he shudders against me, I know that I will do whatever it takes to get Dee to say yes, to keep him with me for as long as I can.

  * * *

  Once Spock’s asleep, I slide onto the floor, back against the bed. I fish a fresh pair of underwear out of the pile of clothes spilling out of my suitcase and put them on so I’m not sitting bare-assed on the hardwood floor. I just need a few moments of quiet and to check my phone, since I’m sure I heard it buzz at least twice while Spock and I were getting reacquainted. Three missed texts from Jess. One from Zach. And a voice mail from my home number—my dad for sure.

  I text Zach back first, tell him I’m fine, and ask how he’s doing.

  Next is Jess, whose texts have gone from polite check-in to Are you guys “asleep” yet?

  I text back: Spock’s asleep, and I’m not too far behind. I think we’re a “we” now.

  Jess: Duh. I mean, YES. I’m so happy. FINALLY.

  I laugh.

  A small pang of guilt nips at my conscience. When things got rough for Jess, she let me in on all of it. Okay, maybe I had to force my way past her walls, but she thanked me for it afterward. And here I am shutting her out, and she doesn’t even realize it. I hate doing this to her, hypocrite that I am. But I don’t pretend to know how to be the one on the other side, the one who needs fixing instead of the one who fixes everyone else. Jess doesn’t need that burden. No one does. If the performance never ends, then no one needs to worry.

  I look at the clock on my phone. Too late to call Dad back, so I text him a quick Hey, Dad. Move went great. How are you, Mom, and Zach? Love you.

  It’s easier than hearing his voice. Even when it sounds like he’s smiling, I don’t miss the gaping hole in between his words. I can’t be the one to fill it now.

  My dad texts back almost immediately.

  Still up if you want to talk, Zoe Bear.

  My only response is to turn off text notifications and silence my ringer, just in case. My breath catches on the knot in my throat, so I hide the phone in the top drawer of the small dresser Dee left for me in the room.

  I pull the tape off the plastic wrap covering my new tattoo, peeling it back to reveal the feather blazing up my forearm. Wyatt’s laugh echoes in my head, and I don’t shut it out as much as it pains me to hear it. The alternative is worse, forgetting what he sounds like altogether.

  I blow out a shaky breath, and Spock stirs in his sleep. So I crawl in next to him, mold my body into a shape that mirrors his, my back to his chest. He shifts, never saying a word, and drapes an arm over me, his hand on my still-bare chest. Sleepy lips fall against my shoulder with the lightest kiss, but a kiss nonetheless, and my body relaxes against his.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper, “but you’re so totally my type. Have been since I met you.”

  He doesn’t move, and neither do I, other than the smile spreading across my face.

  My smiles aren’t forced around him, and I kind of like that. And the guy wrapped around me—I kind of like him too.

  Chapter Ten

  The disorientation of waking up in a new place multiplies significantly when a naked guy is the first thing I see when I open my eyes. I peek under the covers for good measure. Okay. Nearly naked. But those boxer briefs sure do fit nicely.

  It doesn’t take long for yesterday to replay itself in my head, from Spock hitching a ride into town with a friend, driving with me to the city, our time inside and outside the Old Town School of Folk to our time inside my room. This room.

  Maybe I’m a creeper, but I don’t really care. I prop myself up on an elbow and watch him sleep. Funny thing is, we’ve woken in the same bed before, but there was always the unspoken barrier between us, Spock on his side and me on mine. Not to mention that he’d sleep fully clothed, shorts and a tank for me. Aside from the underwear I pulled on last night, it’s nothing but the sheet for me.

  Spock rolls to his back, humming something like a soft moan as he stretches. Dark stubble peppers his jaw, and I have the sudden urge to lick said jaw from chin to earlobe. Somehow I think waking him like I’m a schnauzer might not have the effect I intend. So I wait and watch, not caring that my goofy grin will be the first thing he sees.

  After several flutters of his eyelids, his eyes seem to adjust to the light¸ enough for them to open and focus on the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.

  “You’re staring,” he says, voice groggy with sleep, eyes still facing skyward.

  “I know.”

  “I kinda like it.”

  “Good. I kinda like staring.”

  He grabs my arm, the one resting on the bed, and tugs. Not enough to move me, though.

  “That, my friend, was a weak effort,” I tease.

  He lets his head fall to the side, blue eyes more gray in the muted sunlight sneaking through the blinds.

  “Cut a guy some slack, huh?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I spent a good portion of yesterday in a car, and then this beautiful blue-haired girl kinda zapped the rest of my energy last night. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I should hope not.”

  I hook my ankle over his. His smile broadens and he manages to raise a tired brow.

  “What time is it?” he asks, and I offer a shrug.

  “Not sure. My phone’s in hiding.”

  He grabs his phone off the nightstand and shows it to me, and I sit up with a start.

  “It’s ten fifteen? Holy shit, Nolan! I need to talk to Dee. We have to discuss your job offer. The signing’s at one, and there’s going to be a line, and we need food . . .”

  I move to get off the bed, but this time he pulls me to him with much more conviction. At first I resist.

  “Hey, Supergirl. Zo. We’ve got over two hours. Breathe for a minute—a second, even—with me.

  My resistance succumbs to the temptation of doing just that, breathing him in. He tilts his head toward mine, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. But he pulls it away.

  “I don’t believe in morning breath,” he says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “It’s a matter of fact, not belief. I have dragon breath right now. You probably do too. What if I singe off your eyebrows? Or worse, what if I ruin that beautiful shaggy mane of yours? Then what will Delores . . .”

  “Dee,” he interrupts.

  “Dee. Whatever. Then what will she call you?”

  But my metaphor is already losing steam. His lips are on mine as soon as I’m quiet, and he shuts me up permanently by sliding his tongue past my lips and into my mouth.

  Good morning indeed.

  I forget my argument, especially since it proves false. Morning breath or not, he tastes like Spock.

  I push up on my hands and let my eyes graze over the length of his body, stopping halfway down. When I look back up at him, he shrugs with a grin.

  “Yo
u only have two condoms left, and my goal is to be out the front door in twenty minutes.”

  He leans up on his elbows, surprises me by kissing my breast, then flicks out his tongue for a quick taste of Captain America’s shield.

  I gasp, and he lets loose a raspy chuckle.

  “Give me ten of those twenty minutes, Supergirl, and I promise to buy you your very own box of protection for whenever you need it.”

  “Whenever I need it?” I ask.

  “We,” he says. “Whenever we need it.”

  He nudges me with his pelvis, and the feel of him against me melts my resolve.

  “You’re already down to nine minutes, Trekkie. Better use them wisely.”

  He pulls me to him, and I yelp with laughter. And those nine minutes? Each one is filled with infinite wisdom.

  * * *

  When we emerge from the room, dressed and ready to go, Delores sits on a stool at the tiny kitchen island, clacking away at a laptop.

  “Morning,” I say, popping my head in but not letting my body follow. “We’re gonna try to find some quick food before we need to be somewhere. Know any place that’s open now and serves quickly?”

  She keeps typing, engrossed in whatever is happening on that screen. I tiptoe into the kitchen and sneak around her, ready to catch her ogling some strange breed of porn or something, which is why I’m disappointed when I find her studying a spreadsheet.

  “Ew. What’s that?” I ask, and her head jerks up.

  “Huh?” she asks, then looks back at the screen. “Oh, right. Accounting. One-woman business means I get to do the fun stuff, like this beauty.” She lifts my arm to marvel at our joint handiwork. “And the shit stuff, like this.” Her eyes drift to Spock leaning in the doorway. “Well . . . good morning to you too, loverboy.”

  I turn to Spock, whose eyes watch me with intent and apparently have been since Delores looked up from her screen. He bites back a grin, and I laugh not only at his look but also at the serious bed head he’s sporting, the I’ve-been-doing-more-than-just-sleeping bed head. Yeah. It’s been a good morning.

  “Did you need something?” Delores asks, her voice hinting at impatience.

  “Food. We need food and kind of quickly. I need to line up for a book signing soon.”

  Delores purses her lips, which, despite the fact that she doesn’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere, look like they are stained with merlot.

  “Does fast and greasy work for you? Because I’m thinking fast and greasy.”

  She hops off her stool and slaps the laptop closed. “Come on,” she says before I answer her. “Let’s go eat some fried shit, and then you can head to your thing. What’s your thing?”

  I step back toward the kitchen’s open entry. Spock hooks a finger in the back of my tank, pulling me to him so my back leans against his chest. He plants a kiss on the top of my head, and Delores rolls her eyes.

  “You two are all cute and shit, but this isn’t going to be going on while we eat, right?”

  My first instinct is to kiss Spock hard on the mouth right here, but I need to sweet-talk this girl I barely know into maybe letting her new roommate invite a third roomie into the mix.

  “Promise,” I say. “Actually, I’m glad you’re coming with us. There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Spill it,” she says, and I swallow hard. I was hoping for a few minutes to prepare my plea, but it looks like I’m winging it.

  “So . . . Old Town, the place I’m working this summer and that has this great art showcase in August where newbie artists like me—and maybe not-so-newbie artists like Spock—can get noticed by people in the industry . . . they offered Spock a fill-in position. Like, on the spot because they know who he is and his band that he just left and omigod shut me the fuck up because I’m rambling.” I pause for a breath, and Dee says nothing, her face a blank canvas other than her pursed ruby lips. “He could stay with a friend in the suburbs, but on this short of notice there’s no way he’s going to find an apartment in the city . . .”

  She crosses her arms and turns to Spock.

  “You got money for rent?” she asks him, and he nods. “You cook?”

  “Best scrambled eggs you ever ate,” he tells her.

  “Then we’ll get another key made today.”

  Delores shakes her head as she walks past us and toward the door, but the ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.

  “I like you, Blue,” she says on her way through the door. “And Shaggy’s not so bad either.”

  “I like you too,” Spock says to me.

  I let out a long breath and try to process what just happened and what the next ten weeks will look like. “Let’s go,” I say. “Greasy food awaits.”

  * * *

  Lincoln Square Lanes. A bowling alley. Not entirely what I was expecting, but when I see the menu, I’m geeked to see my favorite fried food. At the same time I swallow back the hint of homesickness.

  “Fried pickles!” I squeal. “They have fried pickles! My dad makes these at his diner. Please tell me you guys have had fried pickles, because you are eating them now whether you have or haven’t.”

  Delores pats me on the back. “Calm down, lady. I will eat your pickles.” Then she snorts and adds, “That’s what she said.”

  “Yeah,” Spock says. “You two are going to get along just fine.”

  I thwack him on the shoulder with my menu even though I know he’s right. Then I point out all the diner favorites I want to order, including my pickles, like mini corn dogs and poutine.

  “Look!” I point to the words on Spock’s menu. “Poutine has Wisconsin cheese curds!”

  He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. “Because I’m from Madison, it’s just assumed that I have a thing for cheese curds?”

  “YES,” Delores and I declare in unison.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he admits. “But you are perpetuating a stereotype by assuming I love cheese because I’m from Wisconsin.”

  I make a sound, a horrid imitation of a game show buzzer.

  “Sorry. Wrong answer. You are perpetuating a stereotype simply by being from Wisconsin and loving cheese. It’s people like you who turn stereotypes into reality, and frankly, I’m not sure if you should be proud or ashamed.”

  I hold back my laughter long enough for him to respond.

  What I don’t expect is for Spock to climb up on his chair and declare to the entire bowling alley, “I am a proud cheesehead, and I will eat the poutine!”

  Delores and I both slide down in our chairs, laughter uncontained. I backhand Spock on his thigh, willing him down from his perch, and after a smattering of applause from the morning crowd, he hops down and joins us at the table again.

  “Someone misses the spotlight,” I say.

  “Holy shit, Shaggy. You got balls,” Delores adds.

  Spock brushes off his hands. “Nah,” he says. “Not like I was the front man anyway. I’ve just learned it’s better to put yourself out there and let the chips fall where they may.”

  He picks up his menu and feigns reading.

  “You wrote the songs,” I remind him. “You were the band. That’s why I don’t understand why . . .”

  Spock’s exultant smile wavers. “It’s done, Zo. On to new adventures,” he says with enough conviction that I don’t push the issue.

  “Too early for a pitcher of beer?” Delores asks, an attempt to break the tension when in actuality she’s adding to it.

  I look at Spock, and he gives me a slow nod.

  “Guess there’s no time like the present, huh?”

  Delores’s brows pinch together in the middle.

  “I don’t drink,” I say.

  For a few seconds her expression doesn’t change. Then, after what seems like a careful study of my expression, she asks, “Ever?”

  “Ever,” I say.

  “Am I allowed to ask why?”

  I shrug. “Daughter of an alcoholic, whose drinking got out of hand freshman year. I
quit cold turkey before I found out how hereditary addiction really is.”

  She blows out a long breath. “Heavy,” she says.

  I snort.

  “What decade are you from?”

  She shrugs. “All of ’em, baby.” She looks at Spock. “What about you, Shaggy? I get why she passed me up on my offer last night. But you’ve got beer snob written all over you.”

  Spock crosses his arms and leans back on his chair.

  “I got that shit out of my system in high school. Happy to keep it clean with my girl and her Shirley Temples.”

  He nudges my knee with his under the table, and I bite my lip and look down, as if that will hide the hot flash I’m apparently having.

  A server comes to our table, and I’m ready to rattle off our list of food we want battered and fried, when Delores beats me to it.

  “And a pitcher of your best Shirley Temple,” she adds, and my eyes widen as Delores winks at me with a grin.

  “Thank you,” I mouth while Kimber, our decidedly younger server, recites our order to make sure she didn’t miss anything.

  “And a pitcher of Kiddie Cocktail,” Kimber says. “That’s what I called it when I was a kid.”

  She can’t be more than seventeen, still a kid in my eyes. Wyatt was eighteen, and he still had a hell of a lot of growing up to do.

  Dammit, Wyatt. Not today. Please, just give me the day off.

  Something in the universe hears me, because the knot forming in my chest loosens while I absently run my fingers over my fresh ink.

  “How’s it feel?” Delores asks. “You put the ointment on this morning, right?”

  I nod, still brushing my fingertips across the raised skin, focusing on the lingering burn of the unhealed flesh.

  “I have an idea for another one,” I say. “Another tat.”

  At this Spock’s back quickly straightens, and he looks at me, brows pinched together.

  “Another one? Already?” he asks.

  I kick him with the toe of my flip-flop. “Not, like, today,” I tell him. Then something shifts inside me. “But even if it was, why would it matter to you? Why do you have any say with what I do with my body?”

  Spock takes my arm, spins it so the phoenix feather faces the ceiling. Then he brushes his lips across my wrist, right where it meets my hand—where it’s nothing but pale pink flesh.