“It’s okay, baby,” he says again.
But it’s not okay. I can’t stop the tears. I can’t stop all the emotions rolling over me.
“Want me to come, too, so you don’t feel all by yourself?” he asks.
What a strange question, but the answer is yes. I nod because my voice isn’t working right now. I’m too overcome by after light.
His thrusts speed up, but not for long. I guess he was on the edge, too, because he releases with a sharp expulsion of air, which I can feel hot against my cheek.
He rolls off me as soon as he’s done and I hear the sound of something dropping into the trash can next to my bed. The condom, I think, and wonder if he’ll go now. I want him to go now. Want him to leave me alone.
But he comes right back. Wraps me in his arms and covers both of my legs with one of his. It’s like the spoon position set to suffocating. I love it. The feel of his skin against mine. But I want him to go.
“You can go now,” I tell him.
“Don’t rush me,” he answers, settling his chin into the crook of my shoulder.
“I don’t do overnights,” I inform him.
“Sssh!” he says like I’m disturbing his sleep.
And I find myself silently cursing because I don’t do overnights, but…I like the feel of him. The hair on his chest and legs. The warm skin against my still hot body. Being able to sleep with a guy without having to worry about losing the wig…
I decide to let him stay. Just for a little while, I assure myself.
But when I wake up the next morning, he’s still there.
And when I’m making us coffee in the kitchen, he asks, “So when are we going on that date?”
Four
The Tender Trap
We spend the entire morning going back and forth about this date I supposedly owe him. My argument, of course, is that the omelet at my place was the date—because it was. But he says it wasn’t because we didn’t order any food, and he didn’t take me anywhere but home.
His voice gets further away from the kitchen doorway as he announces, “I’m taking out my phone to figure this out…all right, got it: Date,” he reads aloud as his voice returns to the kitchen’s open doorway. “A social or romantic appointment or engagement. Last night wasn’t either of those.”
“It was social! We talked,” I insist, placing the cup of coffee I made him on the sliver of tile Naima had the nerve to call counter space when she helped me set up the kitchen.
“Yeah, for like five minutes and then you jumped on top of me—you call that a date? Wasn’t romantic neither.” He takes the coffee from me with a chuff. “I think you can do better than that, Reynolds.”
“What are you talking about? I gave you what you wanted! Now you can cross me off your list.”
I hear the slurp of his first sip of coffee before he asks, “What list?”
“You know, your bang list. Blind girl’s probably worth like 10 or 15 points.”
Silence…then comes the muted clink of ceramic being placed back on the counter. The next thing I know, Jake’s right in front of me, his voice low and quiet as he says, “You’ve either got real low self-esteem or accidentally hooked up with one of those douchebags who has a bang list.”
He gets his answer in my silence. “Ah, hell,” he says. “Was he Italian? Tell me he wasn’t Italian.”
“I don’t date Italians,” I remind him.
“So he wasn’t Italian. Thank fuck. Like I need another thing working against me with you.” He kisses me on the forehead like that’s all settled, and says, “Alright, we can talk about the rest over breakfast.”
“I’m not going to breakfast with you.”
“You wanna make it here? That’s cool. Could go for another one of those omelets…”
“Sorry, I used all my eggs yesterday—you know, for our dinner date.”
“But see, that wasn’t a date.”
We end up arguing about this over breakfast at Tom’s Restaurant, which Talia told me was once an iconic diner because it was the setting for some TV show I’ve never seen and some song I’ve never heard from the 90s. And we keep arguing about whether last night was a date or not as we walk to school.
Then at 8:30 P.M. when I leave my Civil Rights Lawyering in the Modern Era seminar, the first thing I smell is his cologne. He’s there, waiting outside the door.
“So what you wanna do?” he asks me. “Go to your place for dinner or get that date you owe me out of the way?”
In the months that follow, we argue about whether I still owe him a date over several meals—at my place and out and about in the city. During the intermissions of the special TDF Accessibility Broadway show performances which I try to attend at least once or twice a month. While he’s hanging spare suits in my closet, so he doesn’t have to schlep over to his Upper East Side condo to get dressed for class every morning. Sometimes he even brings it up when we’re trying to decide what music to play via Alexa. He likes Sinatra, like all day and every day, while I usually listen to current music made by people who aren’t dead. “We should go to a jazz bar on that date you owe me,” he argues like he’s cashing in a token. “Then you’d learn to have some appreciation for the greats.”
In late April when we make the rounds of end-of-the-school-year parties together, we drag our fellow law students into the argument, asking them to take a side. Only to band together against the one friend who points out, “Um, aren’t you pretty much already dating? What does it matter?”
Okay, it matters. Yeah, maybe we are kind of together. Like, technically. But keep in mind, Talia, my best friend go-to guide, is currently planning the wedding of the decade. So I guess you could sort of call Jake a fill-in. Who I happen to have sex with—lots and lots of hot sex.
And it should be pointed out he’s never kept his promise to let me be in control when we have sex, even though he’d said, “Next time.” According to him, he meant next time after our date. Which I don’t owe him, so cue another argument whenever I try to get on top.
Though the arguments have lessened as the weeks have gone by. I don’t want to say Jake has tamed me. It’s more like I feel a little less prickly every week I spend with him. I mean, he’s all right. He’s always doing stuff he doesn’t have to do for me, like coming over to my place to study, even if it’s for a class we’re not in together. Like, just in case I need anything. He’s great at navigation, and listens to the specially trained describer at the Broadway shows we go to so he can get better at describing things. He says it’s a good skill for a lawyer to have, but still…it warms my heart more than I’m comfortable with, and I can’t say I don’t enjoy spending time with him.
He can be so stubborn and irritating. I almost never laugh at any of his jokes, but it feels like I’m always smiling whenever we talk.
I mean, we’re not officially together. We haven’t had any conversations about it or changed our Facebook statuses or anything like that. It just that we’re always, like, not not together. To the point that when we attend the b-school’s end-of-the-school-year party, one of his classmates asks Jake, “You and your girlfriend have plans for the summer?”
Jake answers. “Haven’t decided yet. I have to start back up with business classes at the end of May, and Amber’s got to start studying for the bar after she’s done with final exams. What’re you and Heather doing?”
“Why didn’t you correct that guy when he called me your girlfriend?” I ask later when we’re walking back to my place on what feels and smells like a beautiful spring New York City evening. Warm flower scented air with cool breezes carrying faint whiffs of concrete pee.
“Because that would’ve been stupid,” Jake answers.
So I guess I’m his girlfriend now? I write to Talia the next afternoon. Jake goes down to New Jersey to spend every Sunday with his parents and their large extended family, so he’s not there to overhear.
Even though it’s late at night on her side of the world, the voiceover on my c
omputer notifies me I have a reply message, like, seconds later.
Of course, you’re his girlfriend! He’s over there all the time. He’s probably over there now!
Yeah, all the time except now. He spends Sundays with his family.
Have you met them yet?
No!
That’s weird.
Not really. Jake and I talk a lot. But not about our families. And not about my past. Which I’m totally fine with. Saves me the trouble of an awkward conversation where I have to claim I don’t talk about my family or my past because I’m still so traumatized about the car accident. Almost the truth, but not quite, and another consequence of inadvertently becoming his girlfriend—I’ve been feeling worse and worse about lying to him.
I don’t know. I guess. I type back to Talia.
Have you been to his place yet?
My place is closer and set up exactly to my specifications, I type back in lieu of a no.
But you like him, right? Even though the Voiceover reads the words in a completely neutral monotone, I can sense Talia trying to put a cheery spin on what looks like a couple of huge red flags.
Do I like him? It’s a question I’ve never had to think about before.
But I answer honestly. I don’t know. It’s like my wall’s still up. But instead of knocking it down, he crawled over it and made himself right at home. Without permission. In my apartment. Just about every night except Sundays.
Sounds like you like him, she types back.
Yeah, it totally does, I admit to myself.
We text our goodbyes. And since Jake’s not here to crow about it, I cave and tell Alexa to put on the Come Fly with Me album by Frank Sinatra. Then Frank takes me on a romantic tour of the world, from “Autumn in New York” to “April in Paris.”
Listening to Sinatra sing his worldly songs, I think of my father…the real one who’s still out there somewhere in the world, not the fake one who died in a car accident.
I will myself not to do it. I’ve resisted doing it for weeks now. Months. Ever since that morning when Jake took me out to breakfast.
But by the time Frank starts singing about the “Isle of Capri,” the computer’s male voiceover informs me that I’ve opened a new Incognito window in Google Chrome. And then that I’m signing into a Yahoo account.
I take a deep breath…and start typing as Frank tells me about the moonlight in Vermont.
The Voiceover literally spells it out as I type, “D-e-a-r SPACE D-a-d-d-y, SPACE I SPACE m-e-t SPACE a SPACE b-o-y.”
Five
Somethin’ Stupid
“Heya, Reynolds,” Jake says when I let him into the apartment the next night. He presses a kiss to my lips, and then I hear the sharp inhale of sniffing. “Smells fucking amazing in here.”
“It’s the oil and garlic for the scallop and scallion stir-fry I’m making.”
“Sounds great,” he says.
“We’ll see,” I answer. Since Jake doesn’t eat Italian or weekday carbs, I’ve been experimenting with a lot of new recipes that go beyond what I grew up cooking with Mom.
As I rush back to the kitchen, I can hear his wingtips clipping against the wood floor as he comes to stand at his usual post, right inside the open kitchen’s arched entrance.
“Alexa, play ‘Frank Sinatra, Best of Vegas,’” he commands the assistant device I keep in the kitchen. A few seconds later, a 60’s-era voice announces Frank Sinatra. And what sounds like a big band starts up the intro for “Luck be a Lady.”
But this recipe doesn’t take too long. I throw scallops, yellow squash, snow peas and red peppers into the wok Jake showed up with one day, and tell Alexa to set the timer for two minutes.
Less than ten minutes and a little plating help from Jake later, we’re seated on the couch with dinner in our laps while Sinatra tells the band to get their horns up for “New York, New York.”
We talk about our days. Jake spent his with his Brand Management Case Study group going over their final presentation, and I got the last of the research in for my Non-Profit Law and Policy paper. We make a plan to spend tonight studying for our Public Health seminar’s final exam.
But first…
When Jake comes back from washing our dinner dishes, instead of fishing his noise-cancelling headphones out of his bag so he can study without my Voiceover interrupting him, he takes the laptop I just opened away.
“Hey!”
“How about we have some fun before studying tonight?”
The next thing I know, I’m in a new position with my back resting against the arm of the couch.
“Is this about me falling asleep the last time we studied together?” I ask as he drags my joggers and underwear down my hips
“It ain’t not about that,” he answers, hooking both my legs over his shoulder. “Plus, I didn’t get to see you last night.”
Because of the family dinner. The one he never invites me to go to with him. Talia’s “That’s weird” barges into my mind like an uninvited guest.
But that intruder gets shown the door when Jake’s mouth presses into my core, tongue diving in deep.
I grab on to his thick waves of hair. It’s longer than when we first met in early February. Also, softer and silkier now that he’s given up styling products. For me. Because I like running my hands through his hair when he does this to me…
I come faster than I want to, but that’s no longer unexpected these days. Jake’s really, really good at this. So good, I’m still panting with the orgasm when he sits up from in-between my legs. I hear the tearing of foil, and then he’s back.
He starts to grab my hand like he always does at this point, but instead I entwine his fingers with mine and say, “That’s okay.”
“You trust me now?” he asks, voice casual, but fingers squeezing mine tight.
I keep my voice casual, but it feels like the most serious moment ever when I say, “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Alright,” he says, covering my chest with his. I feel his grin against my lips as he kisses me. Part one of what I’ve come to know as the deliberately slow tease that is sex with Jake.
But I don’t mind how much time he takes now. In fact, I really like it.
He truly is a good boyfriend, I admit to myself as he presses hot, biting kisses into several of my erogenous zones.
Which is why it’s such a surprise when he ruins everything in the next moment. “You know,” he murmurs. “I was thinking about buying you a place when the school year’s over.”
I stiffen underneath his next neck kiss. “Wait? What?”
“You have to move out of student housing when the school year’s up,” he answers between kisses like it’s no big deal. “Let me buy you a place. Maybe in Morningside Heights.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, voice becoming shriller by the second.
“I dunno.” He keeps on with the sensual kisses. “Good investment. Nice thing to do.”
“Okay, stop. Just stop.” I shove at his shoulders to let him know this isn’t banter. I’m not joking. “Get the fuck off me!”
“What going on, baby?” he says. But he sits back, giving me enough room to stand.
I just move my foot around until I find the pants he tossed on the floor. I don’t want to be naked with him anymore.
“Baby…what’s going on?” Jake demands as I pick up the pants and shake out the underwear so I can put them on.
“Get out,” I say, stepping into the joggers.
“What?”
I scrape a frustrated hand over the hair I’ve been wearing shaved short and unadorned since the night we hooked up.
“You heard me. Get out! Now! Get out! Get out! Get out!” I’m screaming now, and I probably look like a crazy person. But I don’t care. “GET OUT!”
A long beat of silence. Then I hear him moving around and the soft brushing sounds of clothes being picked up. I listen to him put back on the suit he wears to classes with my eyes averted. Which for me is one of the meanest th
ings I can do to a sighted person. Since I wasn’t born blind, I usually try to train my eyes on whoever I’m talking to. But while he gets dressed, I don’t so much as acknowledge he’s in the room.
He must get how serious I am about wanting him out of my apartment. Because in the next moment, I hear the click of my front door opening and then the slam of it closing behind the guy I had almost let myself get used to thinking of as my boyfriend.
Jake is gone. I sit back down on the couch in the aftermath of his departure. Trying to adjust to this new reality, with Frank singing “Witchcraft” in the background.
I’ve got to tell Alexa to stop playing that stupid album, but I just sit there. Listening to that song, and all the ones that come after it until Alexa stops without a command. Because the album has finished. It’s done. Over…
I already miss him, I think before I have the chance to shove the thought down.
Dammit…why did he have to offer me an apartment? Things were going so well...
I decide not to think about it. I don’t have time to think about it. There’s a paper due. And Jake was right about me needing to find a new place to live—I really need to get on that…and get on with the rest of my life, too. But where did Jake put my laptop?
I go over to the desk to pick up my phone, so I can use my Tile app to locate it. The laptop, like all my essential items, has a Tile Slim square adhered to the bottom, so it can make a noise to alert me where it is when I use the app.
But when my fingers brush over my desk to find the phone, they make contact with the bumpy rubber case I keep my laptop in.
Jake put it on my desk for me so I wouldn’t have any problem finding it.
The thoughtfulness of this gesture makes my eyes hot with tears. Ones I try to sniff back. There’s no reason to cry. I did the right thing. The only thing.
But when a knock on my front door suddenly interrupts my rationalization party, I instantly rush across the apartment to answer it. Knowing before I open it who will be on the other side.
Luca - His to Possess: A Ruthless Scion Novella Page 3