Under The Covers

by Baker, Max Q.

  Amane’s birthday had been before that, in early January. We did throw a party for her, getting most of what was left of the old gang back together for a bittersweet reunion; Amane, Chris, Bo, and myself. Of course, it was a bit somber and serious at first. In addition to the shadow of Mags’ death, Mags and Ryan used to add a lot to the group dynamics and had helped to keep conversations moving with their antics and quips. Chris and Amane had depended on Mags’ personality and behaviors for many of their interactions; condescension’s and criticisms.

  But before the night was out, and probably thanks to the fact that none of us had stopped drinking, a lot of the spirit of the old days began to surface again.

  I finally admitted my theory about Robby, after we had had a few drinks.

  Bo said, “I understand your reasons for suspecting him, but you have no proof. It isn't fair to condemn him when there’s no proof.” That was her mother, the lawyer, talking.

  Amane said, "He was a rude ass but that didn't make him a killer or a rapist." Perhaps she was right, or perhaps the feelings she once had for him were clouding her judgement.

  I explained, “I’m not saying he killed her or raped her. I’m saying he did something that spooked her bad. Made her run. And she died while she was running."

  Chris stared at his drink, thoughtfully. Chris had felt the brunt of Robby’s perpetual insensitivity worse than anyone. "He was making up half his story as he went along. I could tell," he told us in a low ominous voice. In hindsight, I have to say I never knew anything about Chris.

  When we said goodnight, we all agreed we shouldn’t be strangers anymore.

  That was the first step toward healing.

  ***

  The pain itself had not gone away, but life was gradually returning to normal. It was hard to believe it had only been a few months since Mags had died.

  Bo and I had increased the time we emailed, talked, and spent together in person. And whether through guilt or sorrow, we maintained a respectful distance and didn’t talk about the past. Or the future. Or what might have been; or could have become. Much.

  But then one day, Bo was hanging out in my room with the door closed (the ma and pa were not home, and closing the door blocked some of the disgusting odor from their chronic smoking habits.)

  Our hearts were vacant and it felt like nothing was going to keep our love from finally rushing in to fill the void. I looked at the big painting of her, leaning against the wall where she had left it.

  "Remember when you gave me this? We hardly knew each other. It's hard to say who looks more romantic. You, or your Sandhill cranes." I nodded to the smaller painting she had given me.

  "I was stringing you along," she confessed.

  "Yep." At least she finally had admitted it.

  "I wanted to keep you close while I figured out what I wanted."

  "And did you ever?" I asked.

  "Figure out what I wanted? Yes."

  Talking about it made all those months of absence feel as if they had never happened. We were picking up where we left off. Time had been suspended through the tragedies and separations, but now we were fast-forwarding. After the second painting. After the fund raiser. After the duck pond.

  Our eyes found one another. We were not afraid anymore. The guilt did not blind us to the feelings we had suppressed. Not completely.

  I tentatively moved to kiss her lightly on the lips. She let me, but then pulled away, turning her face, preventing a second.

  Exasperated, I wheezed, "Seriously? What in God's name is stopping us now?"

  Fidgeting nervously, she rambled, "It's not that I don't want this. This is exactly what I want. I was never happier than when I was with you; even while I was with Ryan. But you're in a bad place. Because of Mags. And so am I. I don't want this to happen because of that. We still hurt, Waylon. If we're going to be together, I want it to be because of us, not because we're having some complicated rebound or carefully orchestrated denial."

  I was stern. “That very first night we went out, that was my wish in the fountain, to end up with YOU.”

  She put a finger to my lips. “You shouldn’t have told me that.” Wishes don’t come true when you tell them.

  I shrugged, scoffing. “What difference does it make?”

  She pouted, confused. “Now you’re giving up on us?”

  She made my head spin. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She thought for a moment, and grabbed my t-shirt with her hands, pulling me slightly closer. “How about this? Tell me everything you feel. Once and for all. Sell it. Make me believe it.”

  This was it. My three-minute interview.

  "Bo," I told her impassioned, with increasing urgency. "I’ve liked you since the first day we met. Your voice. The words you choose. The way you do things. You filled a hole in my heart I didn’t even know existed.”

  I wanted her to know. I needed her to hear it.

  “All those times you said and did things like you wanted to take it to the next level, maybe I was a little naïve, but I loved you so much, I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship.”

  There was a perfect storm of rage and love inside my heart. I was in a dangerous emotional place, but I couldn’t admit that to Bo.

  “My point is: I never wanted anything bad to happen to Mags. But what I felt for you had always been there and transcended everything. From that very first day. There was never anyone else in my heart or thoughts except for you, Bo Robinson.”

  I could see her eyes beginning to sparkle, her lips parting involuntarily.

  I pleaded, “Didn’t you – yourself – ask me to hang around until it worked? Well, what about now? What about today? What’s our excuse this time?”

  She nodded slightly.

  I was becoming almost angry. “So don't tell me that this is because we're in a bad place because of Mags. I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you. And if you’ve ever felt the same way toward me, then just lay back and let me love you already."

  Bo was breathless, looking at me with longing. "That was quite a speech. How long have you been rehearsing that one?"

  "Completely unrehearsed. Some of my best speeches are spontaneous." Then I admitted, "And so are some of my worst."

  Canaan Smith’s "Love You Like That" slipped onto the radio.

  I leaned toward her face to see if Bo would invite my second gentle kiss. She did.

  It was like a slow dance, starting with a long deep stare. Lost in her eyes, I pulled her into my arms. The light seemed to cling to her face as the room faded away behind us. I could feel the warmth in her breath and chest, as I swallowed her in an embrace. I took her hand in mine, and kissed her fingertips, then slowly worked my way up her arm. I touched her neck, and felt her pulse throbbing in time with her heart, in time with my own.

  She looked away. Her eyes landed on the door. I knew she was thinking she should leave before it was too late, before we did something that could not be undone, but I guided her face back to my own. Our eyes connected as they had once before, an electrical current running between us, joining us, exciting us.

  I opened my mouth, but no words were necessary. I pressed my lips against hers, this time with passion. We melted into one another’s mouths as we pulled our bodies close and tight. My tongue touched hers, and our tongue-tips courted one another. Her breasts felt perfect, pressed full and soft against my chest. I grew hard as she moaned softly in my ear, grabbing my hair, not letting go. Her perfume filled my nostrils and excited me more. Her skin shimmered and buzzed, alive with the passion we had suppressed for so long.

  I leaned into her with my pelvis, rubbing where her legs joined into a magnificent V. She spread them, and let me caress her with the protrusion of my eager cock. She reached down and felt the bulge in my pants, outlining the shape with her fingers. My hands gripped her ass, squeezing, then lifting her in the air.

  I dropped her on my bed and fell on top of her, for a moment pinning her in place, while she waited brea
thlessly. For a second I stared without moving, teasing, making her wonder what I would do. Bo was nervous, afraid to take the leap, but she did not resist. I began to unbutton her shirt, kissing each inch of her fresh bare skin as it was revealed. She gripped my t-shirt and tore it upward, over my head, throwing it across the room. She pressed her hands up against my chest and raked my nipples with her fingernails. In turn, I kissed her bare breasts sweetly, then bit gently with the tips of my teeth. She responded, pushing them deeper into my mouth, wet and red against my dark lips as I sucked hard, while she unfastened my pants, pushing them off my hips. Her body was perfect in every chiseled detail, quivering to my touch.

  I flipped her face-down on the bed and flicked her shoes on the floor, then slid her pants off in one quick motion, like removing the paper lining from a straw. Her ass filled her shimmering white panties and shivered as I touched it. I slipped my finger under the lining and slid it gently inside. Her body throbbed on the bed, moaning, wanting more. I clutched the soft mounds of her ass with my hands, working my thumbs into her muscles, spreading her. She winced, but waited eagerly for the next.

  I kicked my pants off the rest of the way, and then did the same to her panties, leaving her naked and vulnerable beneath me. I needed to be inside her, but this had never been about the sex. I loved Bo and needed to savor every moment. I climbed between the back of her thighs and began to massage her, kneading the tension away till she melted into the blankets.

  My old twin bed faded away until nothing existed but Bo and me.

  Turning to face another once more, our lips pressed delicately together, like feathers brushing lightly, tickling and tingling. We locked in an endless embrace.

  And then we became monuments, alternately towering over one another, glistening in sweat. I toyed with her opening, pushing partway in and pulling out. She thrust herself on me, forcing me inside; and locked my arms in hers as she bucked her legs in the air. I could feel myself deep within, and knew by her face that I was touching her in all the right places. Our bodies merged. Every feeling we had hidden for all those months escaped into our lips, hands, and hearts.

  I said her name softly. “Bo.”

  “I love you,” she whispered back. “I love you so much.”

  “Don’t ever leave me,” I begged. “I need you.”

  “Never,” she moaned. “Hold me tight. Never let me go.”

  We were breathless and sweaty, under the covers, our senses heightened to one another’s every pulse. We were in sync, intuitively knowing the motion that we each needed, responding to one another’s advances and retreats.

  Bit by bit, the floor was covered by the clothes and sheets we had discarded till there was nothing left but raw bodies on a raw bed, hot and fucking like there was no tomorrow. Our excited shouts and moans filled the room; the banging of the bed on the floor and against the wall could probably be heard four houses away.

  We came more than once as we tore my bedroom to shreds, forgetting every dark and horrible moment that had kept us apart for far too long.

  And we knew that sex was not the destination we needed. It was just one small stop along the way. And that’s where we were on that particular day. It was the beginning of something we had postponed for too long. Because we desperately needed to be with someone we trusted and loved, to release in mind and body and get lost in one another’s love.

  We had been hurt and hidden for too long not to let this happen.

  [ Goodbye ]

  After Bo and I had fallen into one another's arms, we continued to date, deeply in love.

  Everything was how I had always imagined it would be. We were two sides of the same heart. We could laugh at anything and find depth in the most random observations. Life itself was a source of mutual amazement and pleasure for us, and sharing it together made it better. Bo, the artist, and me the almost obsessive-compulsive Communications guy with a flawed observation skill.

  The shadow of death and separation never left either one of us, but we tried to make the best of it. We knew the future would still come, despite the sorrow, and therefore we had an obligation to make decisions that would make it better.

  And I thought we were doing that for the three months that followed.

  Until Robby was found dead, his carotid artery sliced clean with a razor blade. He bled out and his body was ditched in an alley of downtown Atlanta. There was no evidence left behind to confirm the identity of the murderer. I had to tell the police about Rayne and their sex games. They briefly investigated her, but found no further reason to believe she had committed or been involved in any way with the murder, intentionally or otherwise. They apparently looked into the Atlanta Vampire Association, or whatever it was called, but all leads were subsequent dead ends.

  Robby’s murder was left unsolved.

  On some level, I was glad. I felt bad for his folks, but it gave me closure.

  And then one morning, almost exactly one year to the day after I had met Bo at the gas station, she came to my house.

  She wouldn't come inside. I noticed her car had bags packed in the back. She seemed sad and distant. "I came to say goodbye," she said.

  This was completely unexpected. She had given no indication she had been considering this. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m leaving.” She offered no explanation.

  "You're breaking up with me?" I was shell-shocked. My soul was flattened.

  There was a dangerous murmur under the surface in my heart linking her unannounced departure with the unexpected death of Mags over half a year before. I couldn’t handle another unexpected loss. I was shaking. I waited to hear that it was a bad joke, or that I was misunderstanding her.

  She didn't confirm we were breaking up, but she said, "I'm going away. Back to Connecticut, to stay with some family for a while."

  I didn't know what to say. "How long have you been planning this? Why didn't you tell me anything until now?" Whether she said this had something to do with me or not, I took it personally. And it hurt. My head felt like it was doomed to explode. And I wished that it would.

  "I need to get away. I need time to think. I can't do that here. There's so much ... complicated confusion and sorrow and guilt here."

  "Don't you love me? You told me you do. And I love you. I love you with all my heart and that will never change. Can’t you stay? Can’t we talk about this? This involves me too."

  She sadly confirmed, "I love you too. I think it was love at first sight with you. I always knew, but everything was so complicated. And then we all started to break down, both one-by-one and as a group.”

  She twisted her lip the way she sometimes did when she was thinking, then she continued. “And on some level, I wondered if I had caused all this sorrow, with Mags and Ryan, and you and Robby, and everyone else, because I wanted so desperately to be with you. And now, as much as I love having you, I hate feeling like I've hurt so many people to reach where we are.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You haven’t hurt anyone!”

  “I hurt Ryan. I hurt Mags.” She hesitated and stopped herself before admitting she had called Mags the day she died. “Now Robby’s dead. And my therapist doesn't think I should be around you while I am going through all of this."

  I reminded her. "You used the same line when you left Ryan."

  "Maybe I did,” she agreed, “But you reached my heart before you even said a word. Ryan never touched my heart at all."

  I was at a loss. "And despite all that, you're leaving." I was pointing out the obvious.

  "I don't think what happened between us was a mistake. I'm glad we finally got to be together. But now, I need to be apart. At least for a little while. I just don’t know how long."

  I sighed. All the old wounds were being stirred and torn open within me. "I am so tired of having a broken heart."

  "I love you Waylon-Willy Billy-Bob Bowden. But now it's my time to go back North."

  "Like the Sandhill Cranes."
I understood her reference.

  "Like the Cranes."

  "But they always come back," I reminded her optimistically. "That's how I know my world is still safe and sound." It was almost a question.

  This wasn’t a cover. It was over. I had no choice but to turn her loose.

  She gave me a gentle kiss without another word, expecting me to understand.

  “We can work through this,” I suggested weakly.

  “No, we can’t.”

  I stared painfully at her, silent and bleeding inside, my heart broken and aching.

  She felt my pain. I could see her struggling. Words were forming. I was hoping she would stay.

  Instead, she suddenly explained in a timid voice, “When I was younger, one day I found my father alone, sitting at his desk. He seemed very sad. And I had never seen him like that before. So I asked what was wrong. I said I loved him, and hugged and kissed him, and told him that that was to make him all better. He said he loved me too, but he couldn’t handle the burden of love and responsibility anymore. He said he was sorry, then lifted a gun he had been holding under his desk, and killed himself, right in front of me.” Tears fell from her eyes. She shrugged, choked up from emotion. ”That’s all,” she managed to say.

  It was enough. I hugged her, and held her tight. There was no reason left to argue. Or beg. Or whine. She was beyond broken. Mags had been right from the beginning. Even in a perfect world, there was never a chance that Bo and I would wind up together for more than a very brief moment.

  I whispered, “Good luck in Connecticut.”

  She walked to her car and drove off, as I stood there, staring dumbly until she was gone. A tear worked its way uncontrollably down the side of my cheek, while I watched the real Sandhill Cranes in their majestic v-formations flying north in the sky. Just like Bo.