by Lena Maye
Another puff of smoke rises. The room is cool and quiet, the smell of weed tempered with the smell of pine trees and mountains.
I’ve always been in control—leading guys down hallways and designing their emotions like an elaborately constructed bridge. I create the situation. I control the progress. I decide when the breakup comes. I don’t know how to feel about someone knocking my feet out from under me—figuratively or literally.
He stands, and a just-before-winter breeze bites my skin.
I reach for my dress and clutch it to my chest. Kepler turns and watches me, taking another drag from his joint. Waiting for someone to speak is the opposite of control.
His eyes crawl over me. Holy unnerving gaze. I pull the dress over my head in the fastest movement possible. “Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
His eyes slide halfway shut. Is that disappointment? Relief? “Down the stairs and to the right.”
I scramble up, grabbing my bra and underwear. At the bottom of the stairs, a bathroom door stands open across the hall. I close it behind me and lean my forehead against the door, my fingers tangled in my skimpy thong.
A feeling bubbles in my throat like I’m trying to hold in something that’s clawing up. I take a breath to relieve the tightness in my chest and push off the door. I splash water on my face and tame my hair. I slip on my underwear and make myself look like Jean. By the time I’m done, I almost recognize myself.
The bathroom is tremendous. Ugly brass fixtures and wallpaper. There’s enough room for a shower and a tub and my whole freaking bedroom, but it’s only a toilet and sink. And a lot of mirrors all doing their reflecting job. Mocking me with how much I’m not avoiding crying.
I hate that I’m crying. And I’m not even really sure why. They are the same tears as last night—heating behind my eyes. But now they keep spilling over.
A low knock on the door startles me. “May I come in?”
“No.” I’m not letting him see my morning breakdown.
A pause on the other side of the door.
“Are you going to stay in there all morning?” There’s a light tap again.
“Yes.”
“Then may I join you?”
I blow out my frustration. I don’t know what pisses me off more—when he’s all confusing and frustrating or when he’s being polite. But it’s also the thing that makes me want to open the door and get rid of this constant feeling like he’s too far away from me. “Bo-go-shi-peo-yo.”
“I’ve got no clue what that means.”
I want to see you. I almost say it. But saying the words in English is impossible, and he wouldn’t understand the translation because the connotation is so different in Korean. So I say, “It means I’m hungry,” and wipe the tears off my face before opening the door.
The joint is gone. From the glassiness in his eyes, I’d guess he smoked it down to nothing. His toes stop an inch from where the bathroom tile starts. The threshold stands between us like a fence. He runs a hand over his mouth.
And, crap, in the full light, he’s even more amazing. An elaborate network of muscles and edges—all down to that thick cock that’s partially hard. And seems to be growing the longer we stand here staring at each other.
Well, this is no way to figure out what the hell is going on. So in my usual chainsaw way, I spit out, “Speak or fuck off.”
His shoulders release a little. Not entirely. “I feel like I’m waiting.” He swallows and leans against the door frame.
“Waiting for what?”
“For what comes next.” His fingers play a rhythm against his thigh.
“What the hell does that mean, Kepler?”
“I don’t know.” That hand sails across his neck. “For you to run away. For you to tell me that you can’t accept the greenhouse.”
I sigh. I hate honesty. “In a strange way, the greenhouse makes me feel better.”
He stills. “Why?”
“That you need something.” I’m pretty sure I’ll hate myself later for that bit of honesty. “That you know what it’s like to need something.”
“You think I understand you better.” There’s the familiar clench in his jaw. The place where he usually calls me Lo. “Do you understand how fucked up that is?”
“I’m a fucked-up kind of girl.” That’s exactly what it is—wanting someone to need something. Need has such a tight hand around my neck, and I’m wishing it on someone else. Someone I care about.
He nods. Apparently he’s not going to suggest I’m not that kind of girl. Do I wish he would? Do I wish he saw me as a better person? Or do I want him to see me as I am?
He steps into the room. The bright lights of the vanity erase the shadows on his face. He’s too touchable. The stubble along his jaw, the flop of his hair and the way his collarbone cuts across his shoulders and in towards his neck. All of it calls for me to touch him, for me to run my fingers against the canopy of his skin.
It’s a need as sharp and painful as all the other needs in my life. And need doesn’t care if it’s in conflict—all it does is fight to be satisfied.
I reach for that enticing collarbone and smooth my fingers to his shoulder and down his chest to the muscles of his stomach. I press my hand against the strength there. His chest moves with his breath. It reminds me he’s human. Which is such a stupid thought. Of course he’s human, but there’s something else tucked in my realization.
He’s vulnerable. That in a flash, he could be taken from me. Or maybe it’s me who will push him away.
He picks me up and sets me on the counter next to the sink. I love how he always does that, bringing me up to his height. We look down at the same time, both probably realizing the perfect height of the counter. At least, that’s what I’m thinking, but I force it aside to focus on the things that have to be said. I mean, I’ve had this conversation before. I’ve just never been honest during it.
“I don’t know how to be a girlfriend.” It’s a confession so huge I’m surprised I can tuck it into a sentence. I’ve always believed I could do anything, that I was strong enough to accomplish whatever I wanted. Titan Jean. Strong Jean. Not Jean shriveling down to this girl who’s admitting she might not win the fight.
His hand runs over my chin and lips, and lights sensations all the way down to my toes. My sore spots betray me.
“I’m not exactly quality boyfriend material. But I can do one thing for you. I can be what you need.” His voice is as haunting as his touch. “So go ahead and do it.” His lips press against mine. His hands pull my hips to him. He hardens between my legs as his kiss deepens.
I shove him. “You want me to break up with you?”
“You’re going to. The way you ran out of the room this morning. You couldn't get away fast enough,” he says. “So just get it over with.”
His hands sneak under my dress and tug on the strings of my thong. He pulls it down and deposits it on the floor. I shouldn’t bother putting it on.
He drags me to the edge of the counter. “Then we can move on and do this all over again.”
“Kepler—”
“Do you need me to start?” He leans into me, as if he’s going to kiss me. “What should I say, Lo? Why do you like me?”
I flinch away from the words I’ve repeated so many times with so many different guys.
He presses his lips against the strap of my dress. “Or how about one of your favorites: I wasn’t really feeling it with you?”
“Shut up, Kepler.”
“I’m just helping the inevitable along.” His kisses stretch across the top of my shoulder.
“No.” I push him away.
He stares at me, that jaw working. “It was… awkward. That’s part of the script, right?”
“You’re being an ass.”
His head falls against my shoulder, and his hair tickles my cheek. His shoulders rise and fall.
“I’m not sure how else to be,” he says after a few breaths.”
“I didn’t ask you
to stop.”
“Fuck, Lo.” His next kiss crushes me. A quick tear of foil—I don’t even know where the packet came from—and then he’s inside me.
My back arches, and I grind down on him. He moves, his eyes on mine, his hands pulling me to the edge of the countertop.
Over his shoulder, his image is reflected. The muscles in his ass tense and relax. The motion mesmerizes me. Growing pleasure makes me move with him. I wrap my legs around his hips and force his pace.
But Kepler slows me down. His hands leave my hips and move to my face, cupping my cheeks and tearing my gaze from the image in the mirror.
“Jean,” he says between parted lips, and the sound of my name makes me ache. His look is so warm, so tender. Too fucking tender.
I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this.
I focus on the counter cutting a hard line into my ass. How the light is too bright. The mirrors too reflective.
He sucks in a deep breath, his movement faltering. He kisses me and brings me back to him. His forehead drops to mine, and I listen to the strain in his breath. I let myself meet his eyes, I let myself watch the pleasure there as he fucks—
That’s not the right word for what he’s doing.
“Kepler—” I expect the hand over my mouth from last night, but he doesn’t do that. He keeps his eyes on mine. Low pleasure flutters up my hips and down my thighs. My muffled moans echo and mix with his stronger ones.
I want this too. Not just the fucking—but this tenderness.
But my damn brain never turns off. I never stop fighting for control. I never stop putting myself in the worst situations. I try to hurt myself over and over. Try to hurt other people over and over. I can’t want these things.
I open my eyes to find his forehead lined, even though he’s still buried inside of me. Tears track down my cheeks. I clutch onto him. I’m crying—not in gasps and sobs, but in the slow steady rhythm of someone truly broken.
“Lo.” He starts to pull out, but I trap him with my legs.
“Don’t stop.” I grip his shoulders to keep him locked inside me.
“Are you sure?” He stalls, and I answer by grinding against him. Getting that low growl as I bring up my legs to wrap around his waist, taking him deeper.
He answers by restarting the rhythm. His arms wrap around me. My tears come. I don’t know how to stop them, and I don’t try anymore. I’ve been trying so hard to stop them, but maybe they shouldn’t be stopped. Tears mingling with moans.
“Hang on to me, Lo,” he says, as if I can do anything else. I let him overtake me, let myself slip into that blissful unawareness, awoken only by the change in rhythm when he comes.
His hands cup my face almost before it’s over. “Where did you go?”
I lean away from him. “I told you I don’t know how to be a girlfriend.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I wasn’t.” Except I was.
I don’t know how to stop my crazy needs. It’s not something I can point to—like Kepler’s weed. It’s a thought I’m trying to escape. How do you stop thinking?
“Don’t worry about how a girlfriend is supposed to be.” His thumbs brush over my cheeks. “Just be with me—one hundred percent.”
“What does that mean, Kepler?” I lean away from his too-smoothing thumbs. “You’re looking at me like I should know.”
He sighs, leaning forward so his forehead presses against mine, so close. I’ve never wanted closeness with a guy. Add it to the fucking list. The way I tilt up into his kisses. How comforting it felt when he lifted me out of the car. He’s different. This is different. And if I’m not careful, then I’m going to lose it. Because he is right—part of me wants to run. Despite what I said last night.
He grips my hips and pulls me towards him, just like he always does. Maybe he wants me as close as I want him. “No dating other guys.”
“Okay.” I say it so quietly that I’m not sure if it’s a word or a breath.
“And no going to other guys for a breakup. If you need something, then you come to me.”
I bite my lip and stare up at him. “Okay,” I say again. Louder this time. But it’s still a whisper. Maybe a plea.
He bends down close to me, his lips inches from mine. “I want us to be—”
“Kepler.” A woman’s voice.
I lean away from him. A woman inside the house. And the annoyed tone of his name suggests she’s called it more than once.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
“I know you’re here,” she calls again. She’s closer now—just outside the bathroom. Crap, the door’s open. What the hell should I do? I try to snap my legs together, but Kepler’s between my knees.
She steps into the hallway.
Everything about the woman is drawn in circles—from her round face to her round eyes. Or maybe they just look that way as she stares at us, Kepler naked and me on the counter with my dress up to my hips. I yank my dress down, and Kepler grabs the hand towel from the sink and holds it in front of himself. It doesn’t cover much.
“Jesus.” She takes a step back and stares at the floor.
I freeze. I’ve got no clue what else to do. It’s been almost five years since I’ve seen her, but I recognize the woman.
“Mom,” Kepler says, “you remember Lo.”
And I die of embarrassment.
Sixteen
Before today, I’ve never blushed in my life. But when Kepler introduces “Barbara,” my entire body tortures me with the heat of being trapped inside a volcano that’s about to explode.
“Lilah’s daughter,” Barbara says, like it’s a felony. “I’ll be…” Her gaze darts to her son. “Kepler, you know where I’ll be.”
She swishes down the hall as fast as her pencil skirt will allow, leaving Kepler and me alone with his crotch-covering towel and a whole sack of unsaid things. My plan is to do a hundred-yard dash to the front door.
But Kepler snags my hand as I jump down from the bathroom counter. “Come on.” He tugs me out of the bathroom and past the greenhouse, where Barbara is talking in low tones to a man—oh crap, Kepler’s father.
“What about the marijuana?” I’m not sure why I whip out the formal terminology. Parents make me nervous. Especially parents who have met my parents. And who walk in on me crying after fucking their son.
Kepler leads me to a set of stairs on the far side of the soaring front room.
“She knows about the greenhouse, doesn’t she?” I ask.
“That’s what she came here for.” He pulls me down the hallway. Even that has soaring windows that show evergreens rolling off into the distance.
I yank my hand out of his. Doesn’t he realize he’s leading me away from the front door?
“I should leave,” I angry-whisper.
“Why?”
“Mortal embarrassment?” Another flare of heat courses through me. “Can’t you see me blushing?”
“Is that what the cute pinkness is?” His lips find mine so easily, his hand going to the nape of my neck.
The kiss helps relieve the blush in my face. Not so much in lower parts.
“I don’t want you to leave like this.” His thumb rolls over the back of my neck, pressing lightly against my vertebrae. A reminder of the way it circled over the front of my thong last night. The way he felt slowly easing into me. I don’t want to leave like this either. I want to stay wrapped in him for as long as possible.
But I glance behind us, terrified that woman’s going to suddenly be there again.
Kepler leans down—so close his forehead almost touches mine. “My mother will be down there categorizing my oversights and mistakes. That should take at least forty minutes, Lo. Please just come up to my bedroom.”
He’s taking care of the greenhouse for his mother. The weight of it hits me. Weed might be legal, but it’s still regulated. Having that many plants… it would be a prison sentence. Kepler is risking it for his mother. What�
�s more: he shared the secret with me. A girl whose nosy sister happens to be a police officer.
“Please.” He cups my chin, tilting it up and placing a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Up to my room. Just for a moment.”
He’s so earnest. So fucking sincere. I do the stupid thing and nod, and he takes my hand.
The pale window light illuminates a dark wood hallway that leads to doors and rooms and to the places Kepler really lives—away from antler chandeliers and greenhouses. He pulls me with him into the darkness. My brain ricochets from sexy thoughts to freaked out and back again with each step.
We dive into a room at the end of a carpeted hallway that must be Kepler’s room. Simplicity in grays and browns. His desk is loaded with thick textbooks and a laptop. Post-its and a rainbow of highlighters are stacked carefully. Although there’s a hoodie crumpled on the bed. The room has that toe-curling spicy-sweet Kepler smell.
He tosses the hand towel next to the hoodie. “Come to Sunday brunch with us.” Sunlight streams through stained-glass balcony doors and layers squares of color over his skin. My gaze slides helplessly lower.
Would it be totally wrong to run my palm along him right now?
“Um.” I smooth down my dress. Through a bathroom door, the mirror reflects how short the skirt is. My hair sticks up in the back. My eyes leak black eyeliner. I look like my world’s been rocked. Acceptable for waking up next to the gorgeous guy who did the rocking, not so good for meeting the parents and Sunday brunches.
“You don’t need to impress them.” He retrieves clothes out of a dark wood dresser.
“I don’t meet parents.”
“You’ve already met them.” He pulls a white t-shirt over his head and disappears into a walk-in closet.
“I don’t want to do this.” The current of Kepler rushes around me, grabbing socks and brushing his hair, and I’m the rock stuck in the center. His movement erodes my certainty. One step leads to the next. Seeing his room becomes meeting his parents. Having sex leads to terms like girlfriend.
He emerges from the closet wearing a button-down shirt and a pair of slacks.
“I have something I want to share with you.” He rubs his neck like he isn’t used to the collar. “News.”