by Lyla Payne
“You know Kennedy hasn’t done that. She still can’t even talk about her family with choking on survivor’s guilt. I read up on PTSD.”
“Again, we cannot discuss the specifics of my opinions on Kennedy. That said, what I told you remains true. If someone experienced the kind of trauma she did as a child, then had very little support in healing and turned to alcohol as a mechanism to regain emotional range, the booze would be intricately tied to the healing process. It helps people like that to be held accountable by a room of non-judgmental others.”
“I don’t judge her.”
“The way you didn’t judge your brother?”
The question, deliberate and somewhat cruel, punched the air out through my spine. I had judged Trent at the beginning, assuming it was easy to stop shooting up, then again at the end, choosing disdain over empathy at the idea he was purposefully choosing the high over our family.
Years of therapy, both with my parents and on my own, had tried to convince me Trent hadn’t been strong enough to take control back—that once people got in as deep as he had, it typically took some major life event to turn things around. An arrest or a stay in the hospital.
According to my father, neither of those things had been the wake-up call Kennedy needed. As far as I knew, my brother had never gotten one.
And I still didn’t know if I believed it wasn’t a choice.
“I’m not judging her. She’s been dealt a shit hand. I just want her to choose me.” I paused before going on, because although I had a question I wanted to ask, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. “Do you think I’m attracted to Kennedy because I see her as a second chance to fix someone? Because I failed with Trent?”
To his credit, he did not remind me again that Trent’s failures did not belong to me. Thank goodness for small favors.
“It’s an interesting question. I have several thoughts.”
“Hit me with them.” My stomach knotted at the idea that he might be about to tell me my feelings for her weren’t genuine. I realized now, that even though it might make things easier, I didn’t want that to be the case. This was my chance to finally have something real. Someone who excited me, who made me want to give them my time.
“My initial thought would be that yes, you might have been attracted to her because you’re seeking ways to atone for the perceived failures of your past. However, I would ask you this—when you met Kennedy, were you aware of the extent of her problems?”
I thought about it before answering, determined to reply honestly. “No. I mean, I knew what everyone said about her—that she liked to party pretty hard. When I met her, she’d spent the night with a real piece-of-work frat brother of mine and had bruises on her neck, but shit, if every girl who got wild in bed now and again was mentally ill then you’d be a lot busier.”
“Go on.”
“I should have realized that day her problem went deeper, though. We had a normal conversation, then she fell asleep for a few minutes and freaked out when she woke up. Didn’t remember ever talking to me or whether she’d come home with me or someone else.”
“She fell asleep?” The words curled up at the end, conveying his surprise.
“Yeah. What the fuck is such a big deal about that, anyway?”
He didn’t answer. I’d known he wouldn’t but his surprise made me even more curious.
“When did you begin to suspect alcoholic as opposed to party girl?”
“Not until the stomach pumping. I mean, I realized she had some hang-ups before then, but didn’t realize the booze was that bad.”
“And your feelings for her started when?”
“The spark was there immediately, but the first real conversation we had intrigued me. I wished the ski lift would have kept going, because I was fascinated with every word that came out of her mouth, the way they sounded, the way her lips moved and how the sun glinted off her hair. I’ve never felt that way about anyone outside of my family. Ever.”
“Tobias, what you’re describing has nothing to do with being invested in Kennedy because of a desire to cure her addiction. Sometimes, quite rarely in my estimation, we meet another person who awakens our soul—or, for a nonbeliever, meshes with our chemical makeup in a unique way. It seems to be an unfortunate irony that the first girl to do this to you also has similar issues to the ones you’ve dealt with in your past.
My heart broke and healed in the same instant. Having my therapist tell me he thought the connection between Kennedy and I could be real, while admitting that she could destroy me simply by not being strong enough to step forward out of her past in the same breath, ripped me in two.
“She’s going to fucking obliterate me, isn’t she?”
I didn’t expect a real answer, and the fact that he opened his mouth to reply surprised me out of my slightly numbed state.
“She might. She’s certainly capable. But even though this relationship might present more complicated challenges than some, you can’t treat it differently than you would any other. I know you’re not experienced with that kind of thing, so here’s my advice: you can’t go into any relationship that you want to last without giving it everything you have. At some point, the foundation will be all you have left, and if you’ve half-assed it, there won’t be anything to rebuild on.”
It made sense. I didn’t think I’d been holding back with Kennedy, but maybe I had. My feelings for her had expanded until they filled every last inch of me, but I hadn’t told her. My justification had been that she wouldn’t be ready for such intensity, but now it sounded like an excuse. Like maybe I was afraid and holding back to save myself, not to make things easier for her.
“I’m sorry if this wasn’t what you wanted to hear,” he apologized, sounding anything but sorry.
I didn’t know what I’d wanted to hear, or expected to hear. Maybe it would have been simpler if he’d said this entire relationship was constructed by my psychoses and not hers. But I’d known in my heart, and my head, and my gut that it wasn’t.
It might be terribly inconvenient, but it was the real deal.
Our time expired and I wound up back in my Jeep without any recollection of leaving the office. A voicemail notification on my phone knocked my head out of Kennedy-land, where I lived now when I wasn’t studying, and too often when I was.
“Hey, Toby! This is Sam. Just wanted to say thank you again for letting me crash spring break in St. Moritz. I had a great time even without skiing. I left you and Quinn four tickets to the tournament in Dothan, Alabama, next weekend and I’ll hope you come—comped a room for you both, too!”
Nice. I loved sports but had never really been into tennis until coming to Whitman. It was more a question of figuring out the rules—once someone explained them to me, I couldn’t get enough, but I’d never been to a pro match. It must be Sam’s first tournament back.
Maybe Kennedy would want to go. A weekend away should be nice before the horrid stretch of finals, before we had to figure out what summer meant.
It could be a good chance to lay my heart out in front of her feet and hope she didn’t stomp on it. I had to find the balls, and a way to be okay if she didn’t want it.
Five Years Ago
The girl sat at the breakfast table, pulling her hair back into a tight braid the way Grandmother demanded. The plaid school uniform was pressed and hung exactly to her knees, and she tied a matching ribbon on the end of her braid. The plain oatmeal steamed on the table in front of her, too hot to eat even though Grandmother was already giving her the evil eye for letting it sit.
She stared at the date on her Grandmother’s newspaper, letting it slip idly through her mind, the way the kids in the neighborhood slid on plastic Slip ’n Slides across the lawn. It meant something, yet it didn’t.
“Eat your breakfast and get out the door before you’re late for the bus, lazy child.”
“It’s my birthday today,” the girl commented idly, picking up her spoon and slurping the gluey concoction from h
er spoon.
Grandmother put the paper down slowly, closing her eyes and mouthing a prayer, as was her habit when the girl spoke without being expressly asked. Then her beady black eyes opened and filled with such disgust the oatmeal curdled in the girl’s stomach.
“No reason to celebrate the day the devil brought you into this world, just like there’s no reason to celebrate the day he decided to save your life but take my George. Your daddy can’t celebrate a birthday, neither should you. Your daddy can’t smile and laugh with his friends, neither should you. Don’t nobody under this big blue sky give a hoot about you or this day. Understood?”
The girl nodded, biting her tongue. Grandmother was crazy—she’d known that since before the accident. But the girl didn’t need to be told that being happy she was alive was the wrong thing to do.
She had figured that out on her own.
Chapter 20
The week flew past and before I knew it, we’d loaded onto Quinn’s private plane for the quick hop to Alabama. I’d wanted to drive, honestly, but he’d offered and it seemed stupid to say no to a lift. The four of us buckled in early on a Saturday morning, and while Quinn and Emilie grabbed glasses of champagne, I got out my accounting textbook and nudged Kennedy.
“Help me study?”
She smiled, looking a little tired, and nodded. “Sure. Even though you’re getting it much easier now, and I suspect you only ask because you want to play grab-ass.”
“I always want to play grab-ass with you, but it’s this or join the mile high club, and with Quinn and Emilie on board it might be a little awkward.”
“I don’t mind awkward.”
“Don’t I know it,” I commented, kissing the tip of her nose. Things had been a little off between us. It no longer felt as though we were moving forward, but instead more like treading water. Like we’d filmed half a movie and run out of money.
I didn’t know why or how to change things, to push us forward, but my gut said that it wasn’t my decision this time. Not being in control nearly broke my skin out in itchy hives, but I reminded myself this was a relationship. Two people. If we had to wait on her to take a few more steps, then we would. She was eighteen. I was twenty. We had time.
“Did you know Sam invited Blair Paddington too? What in the hell happened in Switzerland after I left?” Quinn asked from the seat on the other side of the aisle.
I laughed, recalling how she’d ignored his flirting. “He was after her ass the entire time but she barely looked at him. Apparently he’s not used to getting shut down.”
“That would be an understatement,” Quinn remarked dryly. Emilie grinned and he rolled his eyes, nodding her direction. “Tried to charm the pants off this one too, and I’m terrified to think what would have happened if I hadn’t been standing right there.”
“Whatever! You know I haven’t had eyes for anyone but you since we met. But he is charming. Blair’s fucking nuts.”
“She questioned the intelligence of getting involved with a guy who traveled the world and had girls throwing themselves at him in every country, if I recall,” I supplied.
“Smart,” Kennedy mused. “But I don’t think Sam’s looking for anything serious.”
“I don’t know. Inviting a girl to sit in your box at a match isn’t how you treat a piece of ass. Usually. At the very least, it would lead to media speculation.” Quinn shrugged. “Maybe he likes her.”
“I guess he’s not as attached to his balls as I am,” I mumbled, laughing when Kennedy whacked my arm. “What? I like her, but that girl is a ball crusher. It’s a compliment. Sort of.”
We passed the most of the flight quietly. Quinn and Emilie slept, locked together in a way that made me feel a little like an intruder. Kennedy and I went over my homework and she made a study sheet of what she figured we should address with our final project. At this rate, I was going to ace the class without any trouble, and it would be due in no small part to my involvement with her. She was like some kind of savant with math. Languages, too, though she claimed they worked off the same formulas.
We held a rudimentary conversation in French, which was all my mastery of the language would allow, even with all the time I spent in Switzerland. My German was better, but she wanted to polish up for her oral final in French I.
“You don’t need to do this with me. You were speaking French before you were in school, strawberry.”
“I know, but you’re barely a French I level. It reminds me of the mistakes I should make so they don’t catch on the fact that I’m fluent.” She grinned. “Plus, I like to slip dirty euphemisms into the conversation and see if you notice them.”
“Now I’m really pissed I don’t understand French very well.”
“Ich will dich ficken,” she whispered, switching to German.
I want to fuck you.
A bolt of electricity shot down my spine, landing between my legs and tightening my pants over my crotch. Her eyes followed, sparkling with glee, probably over how easily she could turn me on. The thought that Emilie and Quinn had probably already soiled the plane crossed my mind, and I thought, what the hell.
I checked them again, but they were breathing deeply, neither of their faces turned our way. My hand reached over and unbuckled her seatbelt, then dropped between her thighs and under the hem of her dress, then slid up and beneath the elastic of her underwear.
Hot wetness met my fingers. I ran them the length of her then dipped them inside, dragging slickness higher, pressing down until she bit her lip and shuddered.
“Jesus.”
“I’m not the only one turned on by just thinking about it. Just saying,” I struggled to control the urge to take my pants off and sit her on my lap, leaning over to kiss her roughly instead.
She responded with typical enthusiasm, erasing some of my worries over the change in our dynamic over the past couple of days, dropping a hand to trap mine against her heat. Her tongue stroked mine while our hands worked together to bring her off, and when she came she bit down on my neck to muffle the sound of her cries.
Her arms squeezed my neck so hard I couldn’t breathe, or maybe it was the heady feeling I got from being able to please her combined with my own throbbing boner and racing heart.
Either way, I couldn’t wait until we got off the plane and into a hotel room. I stood and then hauled her against me, my tongue sliding over hers while her legs went around my waist and we moved down the aisle with too much urgency to think about grace.
“Jesus, Wright, I want you inside me. How can I still want it this much?”
The words didn’t sound meant for me, exactly. They were more like thoughts that had been trapped in her mind, knocked loose by her orgasm, but I often wondered the same thing. We’d been to bed together too many times to count at this point, but every time I wanted her more.
The bathroom on the private jet was bigger than a commercial airline, but there still wasn’t space for any kind of fancy maneuvering. I sat her on the counter, kissing her while I tugged her panties past her ankles and her fingers grabbed a condom out of my pocket, undid my pants and dropped them to the floor. She reached under the band of my boxer briefs, closing a firm hand around me and pulling me free, stroking with the kind of enthusiasm that would make this end way too quickly but managing to slide a condom on in the process.
I picked her up, my legs weakened by the service of her soft palm. She let go as I spun us around, pushing her back into a smooth wall and burying myself inside her in one swift moment. The groan she spilled into my mouth drove an unbelievable rush of lust into my blood and I cupped her ass while I pounded into her. Hot breath landed on my neck. It was quiet except for our mingled gasps and the sounds of our bodies moving frantically together, needing to feel each other as deeply as possible.
Her body responded to mine like it was made for me, clenching and sliding, her boobs pressed against my chest, her face level with mine as we fucked standing up, her tongue hot and greedy in my mouth.
; She surprised me by coming a second time, and fast, keeping her lips open against mine so the shudders passed between us. The ecstasy bled out of her and thickened my blood, making me harder than should be possible, and I let go, thrusting deep while my vision went black, holding on tight as the waves of my own orgasm pulled back, leaving nothing but sweaty bodies, shaking legs, and loopy grins between us.
“God, you’re so good at fucking me. It’s like you read a secret manual or something.”
I wanted to sit down, because I couldn’t even really feel my legs, but the sweat sticking her strawberry hair to her forehead, the peach tint to her cheeks, and they way she looked at me with such contentment and wonder made me wish we could stay right there forever.
“I think I’m falling in love with you, strawberry.”
Surprise filled her eyes and she tightened her legs around my waist, and the way it squeezed other things made me jerk and her smile. “You think? Are you sure it’s not just the orgasm talking?”
“I said I think because I’ve never felt the things I’m feeling. Ever. But ever since I met you you’ve been burrowing deeper, and last week, when we had that fight, you hit some kind of well so far inside me I didn’t even know it was there. It spilled all of these damn feelings everywhere. I know for sure that I care about you. More than I thought possible. More than I expected.”
She kissed me the way she had the night we fought, with a deliberate pace. Our mouths and lips and tongues held an unhurried conversation while we braced against the wall in the airplane bathroom, her wrapped around me. I thought again that coming home was the best way to describe it. As though when any part of our bodies met, it was like going somewhere you hadn’t been in years, but immediately feeling as though you belonged.
Eventually I had to put her down or risk dropping her. She slid down to the floor but didn’t let go of me for several moments. I kissed the top of her head, breathing in her fresh strawberry scent, acutely aware that she hadn’t returned my sentiments. Even though I’d been prepared for that—expected it, even—I felt disappointment and maybe a little pride-wounded.