Her Hometown Girl

by Lorelie Brown

Her heart is in her eyes. She holds the edge of the cheap dresser and clenches tight. “I think maybe it is.”

  For the first time in a long time, I’m grateful for darkness. The single dim bulb isn’t enough to cast light on the misery of this situation. Tears rise in my eyes, and I don’t try to blink them away. Instead they crest and spill, coursing over my cheeks. “You said you loved me.”

  “I do.” She crosses the vast distance between us and holds the back of my neck. She’s shaking as much as I am. “That’s why I have to let you go.”

  I lift my mouth to hers, and it’s the first time I’ve kissed her instead of the other way around. I don’t want to let her go, not in word or in deed. Everything I have gets poured into our kiss. Tasting her isn’t enough. I wind my grip in the hem of her shirt, my knuckles rubbing her flat stomach.

  I need to see her. She lets me pull her T-shirt over her head. She’s close to passive, and I’m close to starving. I love the expanse of her light-brown skin, the way her tattoos mark her and make her.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper.

  She runs her hand over my hair. “You are too.”

  And I notice that neither of us are talking about forever, not anymore.

  I curl my tongue over the tip of her full breast. Her nipple is a tight bud. I let every taste of her flesh move through me. My hands open over her back, pulling her closer to me. Our bodies curve together. It doesn’t matter whether our shapes fit or not: we’re determined to make them fit.

  I suck her nipple deep and flick the tip of it with my tongue. She likes that, her hold on my hair tightening a little in response. She’s still softer than she’s always been with me.

  Part of me fears her niceness. I want the bite; I want her strong. But I push her back until she falls onto the bed, and suddenly I’m the one standing above her. She’s vulnerable to me.

  There’s something I love about a woman wearing pants but no top. It emphasizes the female parts of her shape, makes her hips a heavier curve and makes her breasts seem even more generous. I stand between Cai’s knees.

  She has a small smile tipping one side of her mouth. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Anything I want,” I answer, but it’s really a cover for the way I’m overwhelmed with possibilities.

  She knows what this is. We’re mourning a relationship that barely got off the ground, and it’s all my fault. Three months is ridiculously soon to invite someone to my hometown—and it’s even more ridiculously soon to regret what could have been. There’s nothing to say that we wouldn’t be sick of each other in three more months. If I’d only waited until Christmas for this trip, maybe it would have been filled with sniping and bitching at each other.

  Instead of the kind of vacation that could have been the beginning of forever.

  I twist the switch, and the lights turn off, plunging us into darkness.

  It’s a surprise to breathe easier. This is the best I’ve felt in the dark in a long, long time. There’s still a little bit of illumination coming through the front window, but it’s only a wide crack of orange light from the parking lot. The way it bathes Cai makes her into someone from the future. Maybe the future I could have had.

  I tackle her jeans, unbuttoning and shoving them down her legs. She helps me by lifting her hips and letting me drag off her boots. It’s all confused. I don’t care. Once she’s naked, I lie down on her. We’re together and yet separated by my clothes.

  I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her from this angle. Thank god for the dark, the way I can’t see the expression in her eyes. I think it might break me. I kiss her and kiss her, letting my elbows find the mattress above her shoulders. My hands stack underneath her head. I stretch my legs out so that they lie along hers. Even then, my toes only go to the top of her feet. I’m smaller than her. Not by a huge amount, but it’s enough for the difference to be remarkable.

  It’s there in the way that I kiss her. My desperation. My wish for things to be different. I pour my emotions into her through the play of our teeth and lips and tongue. She takes it all, but it’s just that. She’s taking. I want to drive her crazy, I want to make her snap and roll me over and fuck me the way she’s done before.

  I need to know she’ll hate it when I leave.

  I kiss my way down her sternum, opening my mouth across the subtle arch of her collarbones. She is tight and strong. I lick her skin. She tastes like salt. We’ve walked the earth together. She’s passed up the chance to take a life, because she’s not that type. I let my hands skate over her waist, the tight turn of her ribs. I attack her with the fire of a hundred years I won’t have. My lips walk the swell of her breasts, then ski down her fullness.

  All this is worship. I wish I could give it to her for longer, but I can’t even wait for her to break. I slide alongside her, holding her body close to mine. Her hip fits into the cradle of my pelvis. I force her arm over my shoulder so that she’s holding me close.

  I open my fingers across her hip, where in the daylight I could see her gun tattoo. She surges up into my touch like a sinuous cat. I pet her and pet her until I’m at the top of her panties, as if it were some big mistake or accident. On some level, I’m still afraid that she’ll pull away and tell me to go.

  It’s because she’s not taking charge. It leaves me adrift. I have to trust the way that I want her and trusting myself isn’t something I’ve done much.

  I scratch my blunt nails across her crisp pubic hair. She’s trimmed short and narrow, but I like that there’s enough that I know she’s a woman. Not some young girl. She’s hot, and when I trace over the seam of her lips, I find her already wet.

  My breath catches at the realization. Though she’s letting me take the lead this time, no part of her is uninterested. When she holds my shoulder and pulls me closer, I know it’s even more true.

  She hooks my chin with a finger and tips my face up toward her. The dark is thick, but the light from the parking lot means I can still see the gleam of her eyes. I know she’s looking at me. “Think you can make me come?”

  She isn’t calling me little one. “Of course,” I say, even as I’m trying to swallow past the stinging lump in my throat.

  I spread her wetness wider and wider, working up and down her plump lips. She shivers under certain touches, and I make sure to do those again. This is like learning her all over again. It’s different to take her kisses rather than to let her take mine. It’s different to push pleasure on her rather than to worship her. And that’s what I’m doing—making her feel.

  I like it, to an extent. I nestle against her side, her breast within reach of my mouth whenever I feel like it, but for the most part I concentrate on centering her pleasure in her pussy. I delve between her lips to rub her clit, but only for a few brief moments. Then I skirt away to circle her opening, to dip inside with only one finger. Enough to tease. Not enough to give her what she needs.

  Enough to give me what I need though. The connection with her. The way she moves and writhes. This moment between us will have to be enough to carry me through long nights alone. I need to grow and be myself, but if I’m honest, my odds of finding a partnership like this in Idaho are going to be slim. Slim to nothing. No one will stack up to Cai. No one has her strength and magnetism.

  I bury my mouth against her breast to hide my grief. This is what I get. Forever won’t be wrapped up in a tidy little bow. Her body echoes the pleasure that I’m giving her. The soft growls she makes turns the air into music as she gets closer to coming.

  I keep up what I’m doing, not varying the pattern, but she must want something more because she grabs my hand and holds me against her. I open my eyes, but it’s still dark. My breathing ratchets faster, and I think it gets even darker. I look up at Cai, but she’s not looking at me. All I see from this angle is the underside of her chin, and she could be anyone.

  My skin flashes cold. I try to stay focused on her. The hard edge of her ribs juts into mine. Her skin is so soft. The wetness
under my fingertips is luscious, but I can’t un-feel the way she’s holding on to me, and my stomach flips again, and then she comes.

  Saying my name. Somewhere a cat plaintively meows.

  I jerk back, scrambling away to the foot of the bed. My breathing is too fast. The darkness spins around me. I want desperately to turn on the lights and prove that it’s her, that she isn’t anyone else. I’m sobbing.

  Oh god, I’m sobbing and I can’t stop.

  Cai

  Tansy is sobbing and she won’t stop. Her shoulders curl all the way to her knees. She’s wrapped into a ball of emotion in more than one way. The wild snarl of her curls hides her face.

  I say her name, but she doesn’t hear me. She can’t through those gut-wrenching cries. They’re hard enough that I see the arch of her spine like lonely islands in a sea of pale skin.

  “Tansy,” I say again, and I take her shoulders.

  She snaps, flailing out at me, smacking me away. She doesn’t know how to hit, doesn’t know how to make a fist, but the smacks hurt nonetheless. Not in a stinging way, but in what they mean.

  “No,” she cries. “No, no, no,” until it becomes a chant that makes my blood run cold.

  I back up, hands held out, then back up farther until I’m barely on the edge of the bed. And then I get off it too, because something tells me that the last place Tansy wants to be is in a bed with anyone else.

  “Tansy. Little one. Sweetheart.” I use every name I can think of, but none of them are getting through to her. She’s lost, and I don’t know how to save her.

  She folds her hands over her face. Her shoulders shake. Even her toes are trying to curl up toward her bottom. She couldn’t possibly get any smaller. I stroke her calf, but that makes her flinch hard, so I pull away again and give her space.

  I walk around the room slowly flipping every possible light on. I even turn the TV on, though I mute it, and turn it to the Animal Channel because it’s the most innocent channel I can think of.

  The box of Kleenex in the bathroom is as rough as sandpaper, but I bring it to the bedside table anyway. I also fold up my softest T-shirt, the Black Flag shirt I’ve had for almost twenty years, and line it up next to the tissues. I take a spare blanket from the closet and cover Tansy as much as I can without coming into direct contact with her skin. She twists the blanket in both hands and uses it to cover her face, but it’s worth it because I think her crying is slowing down.

  With an open bottle of water in hand, I kneel at the side of the bed and wait.

  I say very little, partially because I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, but mostly because this seems like a storm that’s breaking open. I don’t want to get in the way of a hurricane. This is the kind that scrubs the land.

  I’m not sure how long it takes her crying to ease. It kind of doesn’t matter. I would be willing to wait a century as long as I got to comfort her when it’s over. Her great, keening sobs eventually give way to weeping.

  When she swipes at her eyes with the back of a hand, I nudge the Kleenex forward so it brushes her wrist. She takes a handful blindly. Once she wipes her nose, it’s crimson. Her skin is blotchy and her eyes are swollen.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, without ever opening her eyes.

  “There is absolutely no need to apologize.”

  “You must think I’m crazy.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  She shudders. More tears leak from the corner of her eyes and crest her soft cheeks. Her hairline is sticky and damp. She wipes her face as if she could wipe away the traces of her crying, but it’s a part of her now. “I think you know.”

  I don’t want to pretend like I don’t. “Can I touch you?”

  “Oh god.” She rolls flat so that she’s facedown on the bed. Her hands cover the back of her head. “See? I’m crazy. You think I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy.” It’s safe enough, so I ease up onto the edge of the bed. “But I don’t want to scare you or push you.”

  “You can touch me,” she says, and I’m free to cup the back of her neck. She still flinches, but then eases a little bit. Not much. She’s made of barbed wire and knotted twine.

  I start small, little strokes down the back of her neck to the top of her shoulders. It takes a long time, but eventually she scoots closer to me and lays her forehead against my knee. The small contact is enough to make my heart break. She’s so fragile. I could fold her pieces and rip them up in a way that she’d never be able to put back together again.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “‘It.’” She presses her face against my leg as if she’s trying to burrow beneath me. Her word comes out muffled. I reach farther down her back and pet her spine, then the muscles on each side. “‘It.’ As if it were only one time.”

  My heart stutters in fear, but I don’t think I let it show in any movement of my body. It’s probably good that she can’t see my frown, though. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You and me both.” This is a cynical, hard-bitten Tansy that I haven’t seen before. I wish I didn’t have to see it at all, but I’m glad that she feels safe enough to be all sides of herself.

  The C-shape of her spine loosens a fraction, and her knees lower. There’s a little more give in her muscles. “When we were in college, she used wheedling as foreplay. It wasn’t very sexy, but she’d pout if I didn’t give in or if I was busy. Or if I didn’t have an orgasm, because then she felt like I wasn’t ‘invested’ in what we were doing. I faked it. Just once or twice at first, but then more, and she didn’t notice when I did or I didn’t.” She stops to take a breath. Her sigh comes out shaky, like a sob.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry would be too little and far too late, and I feel like I should be saving it for the true gut punch that I know is coming. “You did what you had to do.”

  She looks up, obviously startled. “That … that’s not what I expected to hear.”

  I shrug, and I don’t stop touching her now that she’s given me the chance. “What, did you think I was going to say something shitty about faking comes?”

  “It’s a straight-girl thing.”

  “It’s a sad thing, whether it’s in straight sex or queer.” I push her hair back from her face. Her skin is blazing hot. “No one ever goes to bed with someone else saying, ‘Gee, I hope I don’t come and am able to give a great performance.’”

  She gives a sharp, dry laugh and lowers her head again. This time she only lays her cheek on my leg rather than trying to get under me. Having her head in my lap makes me feel warm and trusted. I like the feeling.

  “Then came the stage where she didn’t really believe in foreplay and just wanted to ‘get to the good stuff’ right away. She said I’d catch up, and she was right. I got wet enough that it didn’t hurt anymore.”

  I can’t help it; I make a growly noise that’s not like anything I’ve made before. “I’ve got some tough friends. Meet a lot of people when you give tattoos. I’m going to fuck her up.”

  Tansy clenches my calf. “Don’t do that. Don’t. I don’t want anyone going near her.”

  It’s only the obvious panic in her voice that makes me mutter an okay. But I tuck the idea away for later. Skylar has a mean right hook. Her girlfriend is kind of scrawny but fights dirty.

  “It wasn’t usually like that anyway,” Tansy says, and she sounds so much like she’s trying to be apologetic that my rage only gets bigger. But I shove it down further. She needs me calm. “Usually she was the one who wanted to get off, and I’d do things for her.”

  My stomach flips and churns. “So that’s what happened now. When I held your hand.”

  Her agreement is only a small nod against my lap. Then she shudders. More tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Her long, thick lashes are matted together and spiky. She clings to me, and I do my best to be her rock.

  It’s not a position I’ve been in before. I’m the one who leaves. Who scatters and runs, fearful of a past that h
aunts my choices. But I don’t have those fears anymore. Tansy might leave me one way or the other, and with this talk of moving home it seems even more likely than might. But that’s okay. She deserves to have someone who’ll hold steady for her.

  I rub her back and cup her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Even if I don’t know how to make that happen.

  Tansy

  It’s somewhere around three in the morning when I wake up. Cai is at the sink outside the toilet, brushing her teeth using the light from her phone. I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees. “I didn’t hear your alarm go off.”

  She stops brushing, and I think tries to look at me in the mirror above the sink, then she turns around with her toothbrush still in her mouth. “I didn’t sleep, so I turned it off a couple minutes before it would have gone off.”

  “Oh.”

  We talked until midnight. Mostly I talked. Cai offered me comfort and held me. Somewhere around nine she’d ordered pizza from the place down the street, and the remains of our dinner are scattered around the floor. My mouth tastes like late-night bad decisions.

  I’m wrecked. My shoulders and my chest hurt in an actual sore-muscle kind of way. I rub my upper arms. The room feels cold.

  Cai flips on the light in the bathroom area, and it’s enough to let me see that she’s already packed. She’s been up and moving around for a little while now.

  Getting ready to leave. That’s what she’s doing. I force myself to think it, to actually run my thoughts over the concept and let it catch at rough edges. “I kept you up too late.”

  “No such thing.” She comes to me and stands next to the bed. She tucks my hair back over my shoulder. “I’d have stayed up all night with you.”

  “You did stay up all night! And I washed out on you.”

  “You can’t have it both ways.” She grins at me. “Did you keep me up too late or did you pass out too early?”

  “Shuddup,” I mutter, pouting at my lap. “It’s early. I’m not supposed to be up at this hour.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to be.”