Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  His face takes on a dreamy expression. “Yes, she would.” He sighs, then laughs.

  I call him a nerd.

  “Noted. But back to the point I was trying to make.” He makes me wait, draining the remains of his coffee and leaning back in his chair. Studying me, he temples his fingers under his chin. “Do I agree with Clint? Not exactly. But, the guy does have a point.”

  My jaw drops, and I’m about to tell Miles where he can shove Clint’s point, because Clint’s point isn’t true, it can’t be true, there’s no way it’s true.

  “Simmer down, simmer down.” He shudders. “Shit, I haven’t seen you this worked up in a long time. Not since that poet dick you were dating back in high school, er, wrote a poem for another girl.” He lifts his brows. “Do we need to throw some eggs at Clint’s car? Will that tone you down?”

  I flip him off. “A, that was high school. And B, thanks for bringing that up.”

  “Well, it worked back then.” He shrugs, I ball up a napkin and throw it at him, and it smacks him just above his name tag, a white patch with red curly script that reads Wright Auto Repair, Miles Wright. He flicks the wad back at me and laughs. “Oh, lighten up. I was only joking. Has living with McTaggart made you lose your sense of humor or something?”

  I just stare at him.

  He sighs. “Come on, Betsy. You always date these guys who end up being assholes. Wait, nope. Let me rephrase that. You always date these guys who start off as assholes, and then you act totally shocked when they do some asshole thing that we all knew they were going to do in the first place because, well, they’re assholes.”

  “Okay,” I concede. “Maybe you have a point. Or you’ve been talking to Adair, who basically told me the same thing the other night.” Miles raises his brows, but I wave him away. “And no, there’s no way I’m getting into that today. But Clint,” I push, redirecting the conversation. “He was out of place for saying that, wasn’t he?”

  Miles grimaces. “Look, I don’t much care for the guy, all right? I think he’s a user and a lazy sonofabitch. But as far as what he said? He’s not wrong.”

  I shake my head and point a finger at him. “He’s wrong, and if you agree with him, then you’re wrong, too.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Hear me out, okay? As I was saying, most friends don’t buy friends gifts like this. Do I think Adair wants to get, as Clint so crudely put it, ‘in your pants’?” He shrugs. “Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind…”

  “Miles,” I warn.

  “Fine, fine. But to answer your question, no. I don’t think that’s why he bought you the camera.”

  I smile, satisfied.

  “But I do think he had an ulterior motive, one I think The Clint was eluding to, in his own twisted way.”

  I cross my arms, lean back in my seat. “Yeah? And what would that be?”

  Miles leans forward in his chair, places his elbows on the table, and gives me a sad smile.

  Goosebumps break out on my arms, along the back of my neck, and suddenly I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say.

  “Adair is in love with you.”

  Fourth of July – 14 Years Old

  The house was a maze, and as I stumbled through it I realized two things.

  One, Taffy was nowhere to be found.

  And two, Josh didn’t even look for her.

  Because when that poor girl’s body that I was temporarily inhabiting finally made it down the long hallway that spilled out into the dark living room and then through the empty kitchen to the sliding glass door leading to the back deck, her eyes—

  not my eyes, remember these are not my eyes

  —saw him sprawled out on a chaise lounge, making out with Suzanne McKenzie.

  Her pants were on.

  Her pants were on.

  Her pants were on.

  Tiny white shorts that were still damp from her yellow bikini bottoms. Even with the dim lighting I could see the outline from where I was standing.

  I felt sick. Again.

  They were whispering and laughing and kissing, and it looked like they’d been there for a while.

  I didn’t want to think about what that meant for me.

  The air conditioning was still set too low; the way the frigid air met with my clammy skin chilled me so badly I couldn’t control the tremors wracking my body. Or maybe it wasn’t the temperature that shook me so much, that made me feel lightheaded and woozy.

  If Josh had been with Suzanne this whole time, then who…

  No. No, no, no.

  I placed a hand on the glass, hung my head and tried to steady the breaths that were coming too quick, too rough. My throat felt raw, like I’d spent the last hour screaming when, in reality, I hadn’t been able to make a sound.

  If you hadn’t had anything to drink, you would have had your wits about you and this never would have happened.

  The voice was a hiss. It was my mother’s, and her mother’s, and maybe even her mother’s mother before that. And it told me everything I already knew.

  I was ruined.

  Clint never called back. He didn’t bother texting or emailing or even sending a facebook message letting me know that no, I was wrong and he really didn’t just get me that necklace so I’d accept him back in my apartment next month, so we could continue living the way we were, with him pretending to look for a job and me pretending that he was. Instead it was radio silence on his part, and I took that as a sign that our relationship was over.

  Not that we ever really had a relationship. At least, not in the traditional sense. There was the living together, the sharing of takeout in front of the television, the nights out with friends at bars filled with too much beer for him and too much water for me before driving us home where we fumbled around in bed, him trying to get off and me trying to convince myself with each bumbling touch that he cared. Our coupling was one of convenience; we were only together because of what the other person had to offer.

  For Clint, it was a free roof over his head and a girlfriend who overlooked his faults so he never had to fix them.

  For me, it was just another man, a faceless man, that I used to remind myself of my place in this world. What I deserved and, most importantly, who I didn’t.

  I spent the rest of the day ignoring the silent phone in my back pocket and instead focused on taking pictures of the brewery: the happy customers clinking glasses, the staff at work, Adair in the back with the equipment.

  I did not spend the rest of the day thinking about what Miles said—that he thinks Adair is in love with me.

  I did not think about that because it’s abso-freaking-ridiculous and impossible and not at all true.

  Still, when Adair pokes his head in my room tonight and asks me if I want Chinese because he can’t possibly stomach any more turkey, I shake my head and plead work.

  “And why the hell are you sitting in the dark?” He slides his hand along the wall, flicking the switch and illuminating the light on the nightstand. The soft glow brightens the room, revealing Adair clad in a white t-shirt and flannel pajama pants covered cheesy pink hearts.

  He looks hot, so I look away.

  “I like editing in the dark. It helps me focus on the image better. And I’m working on the photos I took today for your website, by the way. You should be happy that you have such a dedicated photographer working for you.”

  He takes a step into the room. “Those are from today? Show me.”

  But I turn the laptop away and reposition myself on the bed so he can’t see. “Not until they’re done.”

  “Aw, come on. It’s just me.” His knees hit the edge of my bed, and before I know it he’s crawling up next to me, his back resting against the wall, his shoulder snug against mine. He covers my hand with his, drawing the laptop closer so that it balances on one of his knees and one of mine.

  He doesn’t release my hand while he scrolls through the photos with his other, and holy macanoli it’s hotter than a mutha in here.
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br />   “Bets, these are great. Brilliant! And you haven’t even edited them yet?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s best to, you know, get the image as close to perfect as you can in the camera first. It makes everything that follows way easier. Just some sharpening and filters, maybe a little brightening here and a little contrast there,” I swirl my finger around the image he has pulled up, a smiling staff member serving a smiling customer, and shrug. “Nice and creamy.”

  He laughs at my choice of words, the lines around his eyes sinking deep, and I know without a doubt that Miles is wrong, that there’s no way this man sitting next to me, perfect in the midst of his imperfections—a nose that’s just the tiniest bit crooked, one eye that squints more than the other when he smiles, a rather perverted sense of humor, a proclivity for high maintenance women whose outsides are way more beautiful than their insides—could, or would ever, love me.

  Not in that way. Not in the way Miles implied.

  But I love him. I love him and it hits me, right now, that I always, always will. No matter what happens. No matter the fact that, eventually, he’ll end up with someone else. With a guy like Adair, it’s just inevitable. In a few years, maybe less, he’ll take on a gorgeous wife who will pop out gorgeous children to fill their gorgeous home… And I’ll be pushed right out of his gorgeous life.

  My heart, already a wrecked and shattered mess from a past that will forever define me, cracks even more when I realize that this thing we have going between us—this friendship that only seems to have grown stronger this past year—has an expiration date.

  He’s already broken my heart, and the poor guy hasn’t done a damn thing yet.

  So I do the most self-destructive thing I can think of.

  I kiss him.

  Might as well go out with a bang.

  Fourth of July – 14 Years Old

  While alcohol affected my memory, poking holes in the night and turning my thoughts to mush, waking up after having my virginity ripped away from me without my permission made everything that followed crystal clear.

  The walk across the street to my grandmother’s house happened in snapshots. Flickering images that slowed time, binding me to the present moment whether I wanted to be in it or not. I was so aware, too aware. It was like the world was lit up with a vibrancy I’d never noticed before.

  There was beauty all around me. And it was loud, and it was bright, and it was in my face. The call of the cicadas, normally grating in its intensity, was suddenly calming, a soothing lullaby played out through nature’s surround sound. The moon’s ambient light spilled through the trees, dripping from the leaves and spreading across the sidewalk like billowing lace. Flowers swayed lazily in their beds, the warm breeze ruffling their petals and perfuming the night, the air so sweet it pulled tears from my eyes.

  Maybe I noticed all of this because I felt so separate from it. I was ruined, tainted and marked. All of this beauty, this goodness surrounding me seemed so surreal because it was something I no longer was. And I never would be again. There was no coming back from tonight. The stark contrast of my Before and After was evident with every step, every breath I took.

  Even the weathered handrail leading up the front porch was a reminder of what I’d lost, the chipped green paint evidence of a simpler, more innocent time. It was only a hint of nostalgia, but the longing pricked me like a splinter, burrowing deep and filling me with a desperate panic that left me limp.

  I slumped down on the porch, drew my knees to my chest. The throbbing in my lower abdomen rose and fell, matching the beat of my heart. It was becoming a part of me, the pain, merging into who I was, who I would become. And I let it. I let it take over, fill me up.

  Hours later, when my grandmother found me asleep on her porch and yanked me up by my wrist, I focused on that dull throb. I focused on it while she yelled, while she scolded, her words telling me how awful I was, how abhorrent my actions were. I focused on that throbbing pain while I overheard her on the phone with my mother, how she demanded that my parents rush home from their trip early because she refused to let me spend another night in her house.

  I focused on it when I saw Taffy, in her pajamas and leering around my grandmother’s shoulder, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

  The throb was my anchor when my mother grounded me for the rest of the summer, when her eyes would shoot my way in disgust over meals at the kitchen table, her mouth twisting and her tongue clucking in disappointment.

  I never told her about what happened that night in Josh’s bedroom. The nightmare that took place while I was lying there, passed out in his bed. What I woke up to. What I could and, most importantly, couldn’t remember.

  I was too scared to tell her.

  I’ve never been the one to initiate sex, let alone find it really all that enjoyable. Sure, certain positions can’t help but, um, rub things the right way and induce an orgasm. But none of them have ever been earth-shattering, not in the way you read about in books where the woman’s toes curl and she finds herself reaching not one but multiple peaks of orgasmic bliss. And it’s not that I’m a prude. I once dated a guy who needed to watch porn before we had sex—and often during—and I didn’t even mind because I found it easier to get off myself that way.

  Despite my past, I’m not scared of sex. Of being touched in the most intimate of ways. The physical sensations—the heat, the pressure, the shuddered breaths and the pulling, pushing, clawing—don’t conjure up memories of that night. It’s simply an interaction between two people, each fulfilling an agenda that really has nothing at all to do with the other person.

  Every guy I’ve ever been with wanted one thing: to feel good.

  And as for me? I just wanted to feel numb.

  Isn’t it strange how something that’s supposed to make you feel so much can actually make you feel so little?

  So, no. Sex doesn’t scare me.

  Or so I thought.

  Because right now, with Adair, I’m scared shitless.

  Just feeling his mouth on mine, the tug of his teeth against my bottom lip, is enough to make the world disappear.

  It lasts forever and not long enough—this kiss—and when we finally pull apart to catch our breath, Adair reaches up, cups my cheek in his hand. He smooths his thumb over my skin, and when he whispers my name, my lips catch his breath.

  And then there are no words, no words at all, because I’m ripping at his clothes as fast as he’s tearing at mine. I’m wearing little—thank, god—and after flinging off my t-shirt, his hands touch my skin for the first time and oh my god they’re on fire. They’re on fire and they’re burning and it feels so good and I want more. And more and more and more.

  He mouth is fierce and hungry as it crushes against mine, and we shimmy out of our pants, eager to press the most sensitive parts of ourselves against each other. We’re so close we’re fusing—we have to be, all this heat—and when Adair bends his head to my chest and flicks my nipple with his tongue, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Because we’ve only just started and it can’t be this good already, so much better than every other time already.

  But it is. It is better. And we’re still only rubbing, only grinding, only kissing. Adair’s hands are all over me, greedy, kneading and stroking, and when they find their way between my legs, I open myself wider. His forehead is pressed to mine, and when I offer myself to him, he growls, dipping a finger in and curling it just right. My body quakes, and with each shudder his touch becomes firmer, more insistent.

  And before I know it, I can’t hold back. Before I know it, I have no choice but to pull my lip from my teeth, push my head back into the pillow, and moan.

  “That’s it, Betsy. That’s it. Give it to me, love.” He sweeps his lips over my forehead, a hot brand against my skin marking me, making me his, and the sweetness of that kiss, that tender touch pushes me over the edge. My body arches, my world tilts, and I can’t stop the waves rolling over me, in me, through me, washing away every inh
ibition, every doubt, every fear.

  The bed is a ship at sea, and the motion rocks me to my core. I reach back and grab the bars of the headboard to steady myself, to keep myself from falling over the edge and drowning, drowning, and Adair further anchors me by shifting his weight onto mine. When he finally pushes into me, so hard it hurts so good, the pressure that’s been building inside of me these last few months—these last few years—pops.

  It’s an explosion, and it blooms through every part of my body, every fiber of my Being, and I fall. I fall up into this man above me, the one who is making me feel things no other man ever has. I’m lighter than air. I’m more fluid than water.

  I’m heavier than time.

  I close my eyes and make it stand still.

  This. This is what living in the Now feels like.

  I’ve never had anyone want me so much. It’s raw, this passion. It’s animal and it’s intense and I’m pretty sure neither of us are using our heads right now. We’re drawn together by something else, some other instinct, and our movements are primal, rough. Adair moans my name and it’s a good thing, because for a moment there I’d forgotten it. I’d forgotten who I was and that is such a good thing, such a very good thing. And I want more of it. More of this forgetting.

  No one’s ever made me forget like this.

  So I let go.

  I arch into him more. I’m bold yet submissive, the way I let him pin me down, his hands encircling my wrists and keeping them bound to the headboard. I let my voice lick his ear and tell him everything—what he’s doing to me, the filthy things I want him to do to me. I urge him on, his breath coming faster, falling heavier with each dirty demand I make. And when I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist—

  “Christ, Betsy, for the love…”

  —he squeezes my wrists tighter, pushes into me deeper, harder.

  It’s desperate, we’re desperate, and our rhythm is a rolling tidal wave that pulls back, back, back. When it breaks, it’s swift and furious, and a new pressure builds, expands, and then explodes so quickly, so suddenly, my breath catches. Time shatters and the earth shatters—