Unloved, a love story

by Katy Regnery

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice tight as I stand up abruptly, eliciting an annoyed “mahhh” from Annie.

  Sex.

  Aside from Brynn, it’s all I think about lately.

  When we finally untangle our fully clothed bodies from each other every night, heading to our separate rooms, my body aches for hers so painfully, I’ve had to get myself off outside under a freezing-cold midnight shower. It barely helps though. My entire being is a magnet drawn to hers, and nothing will feed the hunger until I am buried inside her.

  Twice since The Sandlot, I’ve looked at the pictures in my magazines, not to appease my longing or slake my thirst, but because I want to be sure I understand what to do.

  I can’t lie, I’m nervous about my lack of experience, and the bounty of hers. I can’t promise that I’ll be smooth when we finally make love, but damn it, I want to get it as right as possible. For her. And, frankly, for me. So that when she compares me with other men, years and years from now, I will have some small chance of holding my own in her memories.

  It’s wrong, I know.

  But I am desperate that she remember me.

  Sometimes it’s the only thought that gives me strength when contemplating my lonely future—that after the time we’ve spent together, I will always be a part of her.

  “You know,” she says, her voice warm and flirtatious as she leans her elbows on the split rail that separates Annie’s stall from the girls’ coop. “We should have a picnic at the pond today.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods, a smile, possibly a little forced, brightening her beautiful face. “Doesn’t that sound nice? Sunshine? Warm day? Soft blanket? Willing woman?”

  Willing woman.

  She’s going to kill me.

  I put my hands on the rail, on either side of her elbows. “Do you swim, Miz Cadogan?”

  “Swim? Of course!”

  “You been complainin’ about your hair for a few days now,” I say, so close to her that I could drop my lips to hers. “How about you let me wash it?”

  She gasps, her eyes widening. “Cass, I’d give anything.”

  “Anything?” I grind out.

  “Anything, but . . .” Her lips close, but lightly, and she tilts her head. “Don’t you see? Everything’s already yours.”

  Kill me. Dead.

  I reach for her cheeks, cupping her face as I find her lips with mine.

  It’s not that I’m used to the taste and texture of them, but she is familiar to me now, and I sink into the feeling of her, irritated by the fence between us. Instinctively, I want to feel the heat of her body pressed against mine as my tongue tangles with hers. She moans, and the sound shoots straight to my groin, where my pecker swells with a rush of blood, hardening in my jeans. I try to pull her closer but can’t, and finally I break off the kiss out of frustration.

  “The pond,” I pant.

  She nods, her green eyes black.

  “The pond.”

  ***

  As we walk through the meadow, to the pond, holding hands, I think about what I found in the back of my closet while looking for the swim trunks I haven’t used in years.

  It’s a camera—my mother’s old Polaroid—and it has three pictures left inside.

  I put it in the bottom of a bag holding a blanket, two towels, and a bottle of shampoo, and now I’m wondering how smart an idea that was. I mean, of course I want a picture of Brynn, but will that picture drive me to madness once she’s gone? Wouldn’t it be better just to live on faded memories?

  “Your mom was smaller than me.”

  The sun is high in the sky, and the tall grasses sway in a lazy afternoon breeze as Brynn looks up at me.

  “Huh?” I glance down at her, wearing my mother’s old navy blue bathing suit and a pair of denim shorts. The stretchy material strains over her breasts, dipping so low, it barely covers her nipples. It’s a good thing we’re all alone out here, I think, because what’s under that suit is mine, and I wouldn’t want another man ogling her.

  “Up top,” says Brynn, patting her chest with her free palm. “She was smaller than me.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “She was tiny.”

  “Was she sick for a long time?”

  I think back to the way she kept to her bed more and more, always tired, that worried look in her eyes increasing as the months went on. “For about a year. It went fast.”

  “Did you take care of her?”

  “Gramp and I both did.”

  “She never stayed at a hospital?”

  “No. She went to a doctor toward the end, but it was too late to do much for her by then.”

  “Cancer, right?”

  I nod.

  “How did your dad—”

  “Almost there,” I say, cutting her off. “Did I mention I found a camera?”

  “What? A camera? You did?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, squeezing her hand, grateful her attention’s been diverted. “An old Polaroid.”

  “Ha! They’re back in style now, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Teens love them. They’re smaller now and come in all different colors, but yeah, they’re really popular. Everything old becomes new again, doesn’t it?”

  I wouldn’t know. Everything old just . . . is.

  “There’s not much film left in it,” I say.

  “Enough for a selfie?”

  “A . . . selfie?”

  “You know!” she says, grinning up at me. “We put our cheeks together, hold the camera away from our faces, smile, and click. Voilà!”

  “A selfie,” I say, nodding now that I understand. “Yeah. I guess we do. There are three pictures left.”

  “One of Cass, one of Brynn, one selfie,” she says in a singsong voice.

  Brynn has a pretty voice. Once or twice, while I was playing the Beatles on Gramp’s old guitar, she’d hum along, and I tried to sing softer so I could hear her.

  “We could have a campfire tomorrow night,” I suggest. “I’ll get out my guitar.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Will you sing?”

  She nods. “If you play the Beatles, I will.”

  “Then I’ll play the Beatles,” I say as we clear the woods and find ourselves at Harrington Pond. “Why don’t we spread out the blanket on your rock?”

  “My rock?” she says, smiling up at me, squinting her eyes at the sun.

  I kiss her sweet lips, once, twice, three times before kissing the tip of her nose. “Brynn’s Rock.”

  “Brynn’s Cass,” she murmurs, her voice husky, her lips moving against my cheek.

  The two simple words make something inside me clench hard, and it’s almost painful, like a swift kick to the gut.

  Not for long.

  Not for long.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. I drop her hand and walk through the tall grass, over to the large, flat rock. I spread out Mama’s favorite red plaid wool blanket. “Want to have lunch first?”

  She lifts the picnic basket and hands it to me. “No.”

  “Not hungry?”

  “Since you mentioned washing my hair this morning, I can barely think about anything else. Please . . .” She sighs with longing, and my pecker jumps in my swim trunks.

  “Yeah,” I say, turning back to the bag to take out the shampoo. “Let’s wash it.”

  When I turn around, she’s pulling Mama’s shorts down her creamy white legs. She steps out of them and throws them to me. “Last one in is a rotten egg!”

  Giggling, she runs into the pond, jumping in and submerging her head almost immediately, though I know it’s got to be cold. Glacier-made ponds in northern Maine are rarely warm, even in July. When her head bobs up, she’s gasping, but still laughing. I reach behind my neck and tug my T-shirt over my head, then, holding the bottle of shampoo in my hand, I jump from the rock into the pond. It’s cold as heck, but refreshing on such a sunny day, and I rise to the surface laughing, just like Brynn.

  From where we are, s
till relatively close to the shore, we can both stand. I hold up the bottle. “Ready?”

  Droplets of water cling to her lashes as she walks toward me. “Bottom’s squishy.”

  Turning away, she backs up against me, no doubt feeling the push of my erection in her back. I can’t help feeling turned-on. She’s practically naked, and I’m about to touch her.

  “Oh,” she hums, her voice merry as she rubs her bottom against me. “Someone’s not very affected by the cold.”

  I clench my jaw, put one hand on her shoulder to make her stop. “You want your hair washed or not?”

  She giggles again, taking a step forward so I’m no longer fondling her back with my jutting length. “Yes, Cassidy. I want my hair washed.”

  I pour shampoo into my hand, tuck the bottle under my arm, then reach for her scalp, working the soap into a small lather. She leans her head back, moaning softly. I put another handful of soap into my palms and rub it into her hair, taking care to pull it through the strands, gently digging my fingers into her scalp and behind her ears.

  “Casssssss,” she hums, her eyes closed, her face drinking in the sun.

  I pull the bottle from under my arm and toss it onto the shore, then I go back to work gathering her dark hair in my hands and massaging her scalp with my fingers.

  “Mmmm,” she sighs, the soft moan of pleasure competing with a gentle ripple of water and the summer song of the cicadas.

  I lean down close to her ear and murmur, “Time to rinse.”

  She leans back, her neck straining, and I guide her head into the water, running my fingers through the clean hair from her forehead to the tips then back again.

  There’s something incredibly intimate about servicing her like this, knowing that her gasps and moans of pleasure are because of me—that I am bringing that sort of satisfaction to her. Knowing that I can pleasure her makes me feel a little godlike, frankly, because she is my angel, the closest thing to Heaven I have ever encountered.

  The last of the soap floats away, and she leans up slowly, finally standing in front of me, her back to my chest. I watch, holding my breath, as she skims her hands up to her shoulders. She hooks her fingers under the straps of the bathing suit, then slides them down her arms, over her elbows, pulling her hands through the openings, first one, then the other. The suit is peeled down to her waist, hidden under the water, leaving her back naked to me.

  She reaches behind, feeling through the water to find my hands at my sides. Taking them in hers, she steps back, her lower back flush against my throbbing erection. My breath catches as she leans her head on my chest, then raises my hands to her breasts, covering her flesh with my palms. Her nipples are hard, like little pebbles covered in velvet, and I move my hands experimentally, cupping the soft, wet mounds of sweet flesh as she closes her eyes and exhales on a soft moan.

  Her breath is ragged and choppy as she reaches up with one arm to pull my head down to hers, but when she leans up and our lips connect, she steals all my breath to fill her lungs. Turning slowly in my arms until her chest presses against mine, she kisses me hungrily. I slide my hands down her wet skin, over the bunched up fabric of her bathing suit to her backside, lifting her up. As she does on the couch every night, she straddles my waist, locking her feet above my hip bone and cradling my hard length between her thighs. The stiff points of her naked breasts rub against my chest as she winds her arms around my neck and holds on.

  My penis throbs between us, pressure building as she arches against me, moving her hips rhythmically against my arousal, the silken slide of her warm, wet tongue unbelievably erotic against mine. Every nerve ending in my body is firing as this sweet woman moans into my mouth, and suddenly I can’t hold back anymore. I let go.

  My orgasm rocks through my body, making me growl in release as I clasp her against me, as ribbons of my hot release jet from my body in spurts, gathering in my swim trunks. I am shuddering against her even as I hold her, and she nuzzles my face tenderly.

  “Good?” she asks softly.

  “So good,” I answer, the last of my shudders fading. I open my eyes to find her smiling at me.

  “Sleep in my bed tonight?” she asks.

  I shake my head. If anything, what just happened is proof that I have zero control around her. I won’t risk it. I can’t.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She unclasps her feet from my waist and lowers them back to the pond bottom, looking up at me, her green eyes deep and lovely, if a little disappointed.

  “Thank you for washing my hair.”

  “Thank you for . . .”

  My eyes drop to her breasts, and though I peeked at them a couple of weeks ago, now I stare at them hungrily, with permission, without shame. They are full and pert, with pink nipples that beckon to me. I want to taste them, to kiss them like I do her lips. Lowering my head, I cup the right breast, plumping it between my hands, then dip my lips to taste her.

  Her skin is warm from the sun, but cool from the lake, and the already hardened nipple puckers between my lips. I lave it with my tongue, letting instinct take over as she plunges her hands into my hair, drawing me closer with a gasp and groan. Swirling my tongue around the erect bud, I run my thumb back and forth over its twin before skimming my lips across her chest and sucking it into my mouth too.

  “Cass,” she cries softly.

  I experiment with a little more pressure, sucking greedily, and she whimpers sharply, pushing my head away. I rest my forehead in the curve of her neck, opening my eyes, not certain if I’ve done something wrong.

  “No more,” she murmurs, out of breath, her pulse hammering in her throat. She forces my head up and kisses my lips, then speaks against them. “It can be . . . too much.”

  “Bad?” I whisper, frozen, worried that I might have hurt her.

  “No, love. Wonderful,” she says, drawing back to look up at me. Her lips are puffy from kissing, and her eyes are dilated and wide. I don’t know if she’s ever looked so beautiful. “But I want more.”

  Ah. This I understand.

  “Tomorrow?” I say.

  “Tomorrow.” With a nod of her head, she gestures to our blanket on the rock as she pulls up the straps of the bathing suit, covering herself. “Hungry?”

  Always, Brynn. Always.

  As though reading my mind, she shakes her head and grins at me like I’m being naughty. I’ve never experienced this sort of flirting before, and I laugh at her expression because I love it.

  She takes my hand and pulls me back to shore.

  And I follow.

  Brynn

  After yesterday’s hot frolic in the pond, I felt Cassidy’s hungry eyes on me for the rest of the afternoon and today over breakfast too.

  As he drives away on his ATV after his morning chores, headed for the store, my heart grows tendrils unfurling toward him, straining to be with him even as the sound of the motor fades into the distance. Finally I turn around and climb up the steps to sit on one of the three rockers on the front porch.

  Maybe I’ll just rock here until he returns and try to process everything going on between us.

  My mind is spinning.

  We want each other with a longing that’s starting to border on desperation, and for the first time in my life, I’m wondering why there isn’t a female counterpart of blue balls. I love the attention, of course—the way he makes me feel like the most delectable, desirable woman in creation, and I have certainly never wanted a man so much in my entire life as I want Cassidy Porter.

  That said, my poor heart is counting down the days.

  With only ten left, I’m not sure how I can bear it.

  Losing Jem almost broke me, but Jem is gone, and there’s no way he’ll ever be back. He isn’t alive somewhere on the earth, living his life without me. He isn’t an option, and making my life a shrine to him isn’t what he would have wanted.

  It isn’t what I want either.

  I want to live and I want love.

  I want Cassidy.

>   When I leave him in a week and a half, in the back of my mind I’ll know that he’s alive—he’s living and breathing somewhere on the earth without me. Without me. Little by little, day by day, that’s what will break me: knowing he’s out there, alive and well, and I can’t have him.

  And . . . why not?

  Why can’t I have him?

  I push off from the floor, rocking the chair angrily and thinking back to the two times that Cassidy has ever yelled at me.

  The first was when we were reading on the couch and I asked him if he was lonely, if he wanted a girlfriend or a wife. His answer hadn’t been ambiguous, nor did it leave room for interpretation.

  I’m just not much of a people person, I guess, he said. And when I pressed, he snapped at me: I don’t need anyone!

  My mind segues to our conversation in the kitchen, when he removed my stitches.

  Not unlike the other time, he totally shut down when I tried to talk about feelings, yelling at me to stop. Later in the conversation, he made it clear that, although he liked me, he wasn’t interested in changing his life, that he liked his life the way it was—essentially the same sentiment he’d shared before.

  It’s a hot button for sure, Cassidy allowing someone into his life. We can’t even talk about it without him yelling at me and shutting down.

  And that vehemence should convince me he’s telling the truth, right? Except it doesn’t, because I’ve always believed that actions speak louder than words. And Cassidy’s actions speak about him caring for me, enjoying me, maybe even starting to love me a little. He claims to feel one way about his solitary life, but he sinks into my company, seeking out my presence, spending all his time with me, holding me like I’m the most precious person in his world. So I’m confused by the disconnect. He says he doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t want anyone . . . but it seems like—it feels like—he needs and wants, well, me.

  I keep rocking, the movement soothing and good for thinking.

  Why would he say something that wasn’t true?

  Why must I leave when I am well and able? Why can’t we be together for a little longer? Or a lot longer if that’s what we want?

  I can’t help but wonder if his reluctance to be with me, or, indeed, to change his life, has something to do with why he and his mother left the town and moved out here in the first place.