The Lovers

by Eden Bradley

  I spend far too much time dissecting things. And trying to dissect this, whatever it is, will drive me crazy if I let it.

  We swim and splash, diving under the water, coming up salty and sputtering, until I’m shaking, my lips beginning to go numb.

  “Okay, now it’s cold,” Audrey yells over her shoulder as she moves through the water, back onto the beach.

  She sits on the sun-warm sand and wraps her arms around herself, shivering, as she watches me follow after her, the waves dragging at my tired limbs. I collapse on the beach beside her. She lays her arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close to her side.

  “Your turn to keep me warm,” she tells me.

  And just like that, I am on fire again, my body burning with desire.

  “Audrey…”

  “Hmm?”

  She is pushing her wet hair from her face with her free hand, but her eyes are steady on mine. She’s smiling a little, just a quirk at the corner of her full mouth, her dimple sweet and tempting in her cheek.

  I swear I see the same desire in her eyes I feel flooding my system, her features going soft. She leans into me, her smile widening as she tilts her face to mine. And it is one of those magical moments, and I’m sure I’m not imagining things this time. Heat arcs between us, and she is going to kiss me again. But I have to say something this time. I have to ask her. “Audrey—”

  “Hey, girls!” Viviane is shouting from the top of the dunes. “Leo’s here. Come say hello!”

  Audrey jumps to her feet. “We’re coming!”

  I don’t really know what I wanted to say to her, anyway.

  Fuck.

  I grab my cast-off clothes, pulling them on over my sodden underwear and bra, and we trudge back up the beach.

  “You’ll love Leo,” Audrey says to me over her shoulder. “He’s a doll. I’m so excited!”

  Why do I feel as though I suddenly no longer exist for her? That I am merely part of the background? Or am I being overly sensitive? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  We reach the patio and everyone is there, including Leo Hirogata.

  Leo is a few inches taller than I am, slender, with golden skin and pretty, black eyes as dark as his black, spiky hair. He’s good-looking, if a bit androgynous. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the cast of a popular Japanese comic book I recognize as being one my friend Calvin has shown me. Audrey goes straight to him and throws her arms around him, planting a kiss on his mouth. It’s more than a friendly peck; it’s several moments before she pulls back, her dazzling smile directed at Leo. My chest knots up.

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  But I am being ridiculous. I can’t seem to help myself. It’s as though our time on the beach never happened. Or maybe what happened means nothing to her. Maybe it only meant something to me because my perceptions of people are so fucked up. Because I’m so fucked up.

  Eventually everyone has said hello to Leo, and he sees me standing at the edge of the group.

  “Hey, you must be Bettina. We finally meet.”

  “Yes, hi, Leo. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “How’s Calvin doing?”

  “Calvin? Oh, he’s fine. Fine. Just…you know. Doing his comics.”

  Why can’t I speak like a normal person?

  “Awesome. Too bad he isn’t part of this group. Man, he’d love it here. I love it here. So glad to get out of the Seattle gray.”

  Leo turns to grin broadly at Audrey.

  “Well, we’re all glad to have you here, Leo,” she says, taking his arm in both her hands, sort of wrapping herself around him. “Why don’t I take you up to the house and help you get settled. Do you need something to drink?”

  “Yeah, I could use a Coke or something.”

  Audrey smiles at him once more, brilliantly. “I’m really glad you made it, Leo. Come on, I want to see your new comics.”

  I see Leo blush, color staining his cheeks. His black eyes are sparkling. Audrey will do that to a person. I should know.

  “Sure,” he says. “I’ll show you what I’ve been working on the last few weeks.”

  Audrey pulls on his arm and they go into the house. I am left feeling oddly lost, and cold and sticky from my swim. I slip out to go back to my cottage and change.

  Once my clothes are off, though, and I’m in the shower with the hot water pouring down on my bare skin, I am all a confused mass of lust and hurt. Need.

  I need her. I don’t understand. I didn’t want this. And as strange as it seems, even to me, I slip my hand between my thighs, over my soaking-wet slit, my hardened clit. Desire builds, higher and higher. I rub harder. But I can’t keep the images straight in my head: Audrey, her kissing me, the ocean moving around us, cool and fresh. Her kissing Leo.

  Goddamn it!

  I turn the shower off, grab a towel and head to my bed, where I don’t even bother to really dry off before pulling my vibrator from the nightstand and sitting back against the pillows, my knees bent, my thighs wide. I push the vibe right into my pussy; I am so wet I don’t even need any lube. It sinks right in, the buzzing carried through my system, a current of pleasure, hot and electric. I squeeze my eyes shut and see her face, feel her lips.

  Audrey.

  I see her kissing Leo, see the beauty of his mouth. And suddenly, he’s kissing me, too, while Audrey lowers her face between my thighs, her tongue snaking out to lick at my clitoris, to spear into my body.

  I am shivering with need, tensed, waiting.

  More, as Audrey takes my breasts in her hands, and my own hand reaches up as I take my nipple between my fingers and squeeze. A shock of desire, hot and pulsing.

  Audrey.

  And Leo’s mouth on mine, his tongue hot and pressing into my mouth. Her tongue working between my thighs, so damn good, and the vibrator deep inside me, buzzing against my G-spot. And I am coming, crying out, my hips arching. Pleasure is hot and sharp in my body, spearing into me over and over.

  I pull the vibrator from my sex and turn it off. My legs are shaking. I feel empty.

  What is it I want? I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.

  That evening we have dinner at a restaurant in the small town of Goleta. The decor is classic Mexican: gaily painted ladder-back chairs with straw seats, red-and-yellow tablecloths, colored lights hanging all around the high ceiling, making small splotches of blue and red and green against the pale adobe walls. The salsa is hot enough to really burn, but fantastic. We order pitchers of margaritas, and even Patrice drinks too much before the food arrives.

  Audrey sits between Leo and me, and she is subtly flirting with him, and with me. And with the waiter.

  The waiter bothers me the most, for some reason. Maybe because he isn’t one of us. Maybe because he is so incredibly good-looking, with his sleek black hair and flashing brown eyes. He’s tall and slim, but with broad shoulders, and classic Latino good looks: high cheekbones, a chiseled chin with a dimple in the center, beautiful smooth brown skin. I’d be attracted to him if I weren’t so busy resenting him.

  I am being completely ridiculous.

  I know that, and yet I cannot stop.

  The food is some of the best I’ve had, but I am constantly distracted by what Audrey is doing: the way the fork disappears between her red lips, the graceful gestures she makes with her hands when she’s talking. The way her eyes sparkle, the way she pushes her hair behind one ear when she’s flirting with Leo or the waiter. Or with Kenneth, Patrice or Viviane. Or me.

  I keep reflecting back to that kiss in the ocean, asking myself what it meant. If anything. And I have to wonder if all of this self-doubt has as much to do with Audrey as it does with just me.

  Terry has talked to me about taking myself too seriously. I was the one who brought it up, initially, as a sort of half joke, but Terry addressed it as though I was being perfectly serious, and I’ve come to understand that maybe I was.

  God, if Audrey could see the shit going on in my head she would definitely tell me to lighten up. And she’d be r
ight.

  I decide to lighten up.

  I turn back to my nearly empty margarita glass and sip the sweet-bitter liquid through the straw. It’s cold on my tongue, sliding down my throat. I’m more than a little buzzed, but so is everyone at the table, except Viviane, who’s driving. Audrey is laughing at something Leo has said, leaning into him, shoulder to shoulder. I try to tune in to what they’re laughing about, but it’s too late; I’ve missed it. I smile, anyway, as though I get it.

  “Has anyone heard from Jack?” Patrice asks, and I see Audrey stop laughing and turn her head, attentive, eager to hear the answer.

  “Not yet,” Viviane says. “But you know how he is. He lives life at his own pace. He’ll just show up without notice, like he always does.” She pauses to eat a tortilla chip covered in salsa, wipes her mouth carefully with her cloth napkin. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be glad to see him, whenever he arrives.”

  Patrice and Kenneth exchange a glance, but I have no idea what the meaning of it is. Audrey just looks excited, and Leo looks a bit disappointed that she’s no longer paying him any attention. She’s leaning across the table now, toward Viviane.

  “I hope it’s soon,” she says. The light of the candle in the middle of the table is reflected in her black pupils. It makes her look as if her eyes are glowing with some kind of fire. Maybe they are. “It’s been too long.”

  Viviane nods her head and smiles, but there is something vague and distracted in the way she does it. What is going on here? But another pitcher of margaritas arrives, and everyone is drinking and laughing again. Audrey flirts with the waiter while Leo visibly pouts, then she shifts back to him once more, but she keeps an arm around the back of my chair in an almost possessive manner.

  I’m really a little drunk by now and I don’t care about any thing as much: what Audrey is doing, what it might mean. Or the tequila has made it easier to pretend this is true, anyway.

  The drive home is short. We’re all quiet, a bit sleepy from the alcohol. Kenneth’s soft snores accompany the classic rock on the radio. Audrey’s head is resting on my shoulder, and my body is in a warm simmer. A bluesy version of “Ain’t No Sunshine” comes on, and I find myself quietly humming to it, thinking of Audrey. She’s like the sun, bright and shining and dynamic like no one I’ve ever met before, making you feel lighter. And when her brilliant light is turned away, it leaves you feeling empty. I feel it now. And I’ve seen Leo affected in the same way. What is it about her?

  I’m anxious suddenly to get back. To get into my bed in the cozy cottage, to crawl beneath the covers and read. To sleep away this strange anxiety I can’t seem to escape, gnawing at the pit of my stomach. My odd need for Audrey’s attention, her touch, her scent.

  Obsession is a strange thing. I’ve read about it over and over in the novels I have always devoured, as vital to me as food. But I’ve never experienced it myself, until now. I don’t think it’s a healthy thing. It doesn’t feel healthy. It’s excruciating in between those moments when the object of my obsession is focused on me. But in those moments I feel so amazing, as though I am lit up from inside with some powerful force.

  Audrey shifts, her face turning toward mine. She mumbles sleepily, and I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can smell her margarita-scented breath, and it is sweet, tempting. If we were alone I might dare to kiss her, to press my lips to hers. To open her up and taste. But I can’t do it here, wedged in the car with the others. I squeeze my thighs together to ease the ache there, a beating pulse of desire. It doesn’t help.

  Finally we reach Viviane’s house and spill out of the SUV, everyone wandering off to their rooms. Audrey gives my hand a fleeting squeeze, and I hold on a moment when she tries to pull away. She stays there for several seconds, long enough to smile at me, her smoky eyes watching me. I am burning for her, her hand hot in mine. But what can I do about it? I want to send her some mental message: Come with me.

  Her brows draw together, as though she almost hears me. Then she says, “Good night, Bettina.” She squeezes my hand again and pulls away.

  In my cottage I turn on all the lights. My heart is pounding, and I am far more awake than I should be. It’s late, I’m at least halfway drunk, and I should just put myself to bed. But if I do, I know I’ll only lie there and think of Audrey.

  Instead, I plug in my laptop, open the manuscript I’m currently working on. It’s a sad story of abused children. My stories are always sad. I’m okay with that. I think I use my writing to work out some of my own issues, even when the particular issues I write about are different from my own. The feelings are the same. Abandonment. Loss. Fear.

  I manage to do some editing, write a few paragraphs, but I can’t concentrate, and eventually I shut my computer down and get ready for bed. I take a little comfort in my bedtime ritual: brush teeth, floss, wash face, braid hair. I love ritual, love the familiar. It comforts me. I pull on my short cotton nightgown and get under the covers, turning out the light.

  Outside, all other sound is obliterated by the surf crashing on the shore. There could be a stampede of elephants out there and I wouldn’t hear it. It is almost as if the sound of the ocean insulates me from the world. I love this idea. I only wish it could insulate me from the thoughts inside my own head.

  They are all of Audrey.

  I have been in a mild state of arousal all evening, and it’s no different now. I force myself to do some yoga breathing, to calm my beating heart. I don’t want to masturbate tonight. I don’t want to give in. But when I turn over to lie on my stomach, even the mattress pressing into my mound is too much for me, and I can’t help but grind my hips into the bed.

  Audrey…

  Her lips are so damn soft. And tonight she would taste of citrus and tequila as my tongue slides inside…

  With a groan, I give up, flop over and pull my vibrator from the nightstand drawer. I coat it in lube. I want it fast and easy tonight. Lying back, I open my legs wide, slip the vibe into my pussy, gasping. No time for any complicated fantasies tonight, just her face, her mouth, as I thrust my hips, taking the vibrator in, then sliding it out, rubbing it against my G-spot while I pinch my clit between my fingers. And soon I am coming, my body shivering with waves of pleasure. Still trembling, I slip the vibe from my wet slit, my body still tense, needy. I press the vibrator to my swollen clit, harder and harder, desire building once more, cresting, my hips pumping. And I come again, more fiercely this time, crying out, challenging the roar of the ocean with my pleasure.

  It’s not enough. And even though I am panting, breathless, my muscles tense and aching, I do it again, holding the vibrator to my clit, shoving two fingers into my pussy, pumping, deeper and deeper. And once more I’m coming, shaking, my body almost too weak now to ride it out. But I do.

  After, I am exhausted, too tired to come again, even though I want to. I want to work this need out of my system. I want to work Audrey out. But I know damn well that’s not going to happen.

  Finally, sleep claims me, and I dream of Audrey, of being mermaids in the ocean, our hair streaming, our mermaid tails twining as we fuck in some lovely, mysterious, sea-creature way, her arms around me as we float out to sea.

  It’s Sunday, and Patrice and I get up early and go to the small Goleta farmer’s market with Viviane to buy produce for the week. Everything is so beautiful, the colors of the fruits and vegetables laid out in orderly pyramids or piled in enormous tubs. There are flowers everywhere. We’re all quiet as we browse the aisles. I feel as though I can’t quite wake up today. I slept deeply after all those orgasms last night. Maybe the alcohol helped.

  We buy steaming lattes from a vendor and taste peaches and strawberries as we move from booth to booth, and there is a quiet camaraderie between us, even with Patrice. She is enjoying herself, her face more relaxed and open than I’ve ever seen it as she spies a particularly beautiful cluster of tomatoes red on the vine, a ripe honeydew melon, a bunch of purple grapes gleaming in the morning sunlight.

  On t
he way back to the house we stop at the grocery store for supplies, and I wander off to buy a bestselling suspense novel I’ve heard a lot about. One of Jack’s books is there, too, his latest thriller. I always love seeing books on the shelf from authors I know. Except that I don’t really know him yet.

  In the car we talk about unimportant things: movies we’ve loved, movies we’ve hated, the transvestite with a day’s growth of beard we spotted at the farmer’s market, bits and pieces of publishing industry news. It strikes me for a moment that what Viviane has told me about Patrice is true: that her bark is worse than her bite, and I’m glad I’m getting to know her. I think she may have some of the fears that I do, and I wonder if some of the things I feel are more universal than I thought. It makes me feel a little narcissistic, as though all this time I thought my pain was so unique, that I’ve spent too much time focused on me. But there is also a sense of relief, of community with the human race, which is something I don’t feel often.

  Back at the house it’s chore day. The guys have been cleaning off the patio furniture, preparing lunch, and the rest of the afternoon is spent doing laundry, writing on the patio, then everyone in the kitchen making dinner together. The evening is cool and cloudy. Kenneth has built a fire in the double-sided fireplace that opens on both the living and dining rooms, and we eat inside.

  The change in weather seems to have gotten to everyone, and they all retire to their rooms soon after the meal, leaving Audrey and me alone on the big sectional sofa in front of the amber glow of the fire.

  “What should we do now? Are you tired?” she asks me.

  She is sitting only a few feet away, Viviane having just vacated that spot. There is no way I’m going to bed while she’s still here. She is sitting with her legs crossed, her long cotton skirt spread around her. She’s wearing a white thermal top with her bohemian print skirt, but somehow it looks great on her. And she’s not wearing a bra, her full breasts outlined by the soft, clingy fabric, her nipples dimly visible if I look hard enough.