Stir Me Up

by Sabrina Elkins

  “You’d eat food directly out of a paper grocery bag?”

  “You should see the shit we have to eat in the Marines, Cami.”

  “Fine.” I sweep the rest of the stuff from the counter into the grocery bag. Meanwhile, Julian’s eating it by the handful and watching me, highly amused.

  I throw a piece of popcorn at him. “Missed,” he says.

  I try again.

  “Nope. Too low.”

  The next one he catches in his mouth. “Three points,” he says, chewing.

  I grin and add salt to one of the bowls.

  “What do we do with all the leftovers?” he asks.

  “No idea. Hope you’re hungry.”

  He rolls his eyes and I take the bowl to the table and go back to my homework.

  Julian can eat a lot of popcorn. Just saying.

  I think about his SAT scores, how high they are—were. I’ve never asked Julian about his plans for the future, really. I’m not sure he wants to talk about it. “So you don’t want the Ivy League?” I ask, tentatively.

  “I’m allergic to Ivy.”

  “You want to reenlist?”

  He looks away from me and doesn’t answer.

  “You want a soda?” I ask instead, to let him off the hook.

  He smiles. “Sure.”

  I toss a can to him. He catches it and opens it. “When I was about sixteen, Estella got me a recording of famous speeches. I listened to them all, many times: FDR, John F. Kennedy, Richard Nixon, Carter, Reagan. I decided I wanted to be a political speechwriter.”

  “You still could.”

  “I don’t want to anymore. I mean, there must be more to life than writing rhetoric, even great rhetoric.”

  “Well, what do you care most deeply about?” I ask.

  He looks at me. “You.”

  I blush.

  “Your turn. What do you want to do when you grow up, little girl?” he asks.

  “I used to want to run étoile.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  I shrug. “Dad wants me to go to college now.”

  “You don’t have to go to college.”

  “I know.” I sigh and look over my data. Julian’s right. I don’t have to go to college. But I don’t really want to just stay at étoile forever, either. The question is what do I want to do? Work as a chef somewhere else? It’s the question I can’t let go of—what to do with my life. “I’m swamped with work for this. Charts. Graphs.”

  “Fun.” He touches my shoulder and then leaves so I can get back to it.

  But late that night, I slip into his bed again. He’s there waiting for me, though I didn’t say I was coming. “You know how you asked me if I want to reenlist?” he asks, surprising me.

  “Yeah?”

  “I do. I want to go back and rejoin my unit. But not like I am now—like I was. I mean, the guys need me. I was team leader.” His sentence breaks off. I look at Julian and all I can think of is him going back there and getting himself killed.

  His fingers trail across my cheek; his thumb presses on my bottom lip. “It’s just one option,” he says, watching me. “Wishful thinking.”

  I bite his thumb. He moves it away in favor of his mouth, and the taste of him consumes me. I tug on his shoulders and arms. Wishful thinking? He can’t reenlist with his legs the way they are, right? My breathing turns heavy, my hands grasp onto him, my body can’t work itself in close enough to him. He pushes a pillow down near his half leg, then uses the bed for leverage and shifts me in closer, hitches my leg up over his waist and drives in against me. The pleasure fills me, even like this through the clothes. It’s so intense, it makes me gasp. “Wait.”

  “Okay.” Julian eases his hold on me and strokes my back. It takes awhile for my body to quiet down like this. I’m careful to keep still so as not to get myself all stirred up again. “I can feel your heart pounding away,” he says.

  “Yours is, too.” It is. My head is pressing on his chest.

  “Well, it’s been a long time for me. And you make me lose my mind a little.”

  “What if I really do lose it,” I ask. “Like totally implode or start screaming?”

  “You mean like when you come?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  His fingers run through my hair. “Talking is good,” he says. “We can talk about it.”

  “No.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because it’s embarrassing.”

  “Wait a minute,” he says, pulling me away slightly so he can see my face. “You’re French.”

  “So? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I mean aren’t the French highly evolved when it comes to sex?”

  “How would I know? And I’m only half-French. My mom was from Detroit.”

  He smiles. “Okay. Shy girl.”

  I scowl. “You seem to be quite the expert.”

  “I’m no expert,” he says, tracing his finger across my mouth. “But I’m not a virgin.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  He draws me in closer, so I’m against him.

  “Anyone serious?” I ask. Okay, maybe I do want to hear.

  “No, not really. There was this one I dated before I shipped out. Lots of guys were getting married then. She’d been hinting it was what she wanted. But I decided to break up with her instead.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I didn’t love her enough. She must’ve known it.”

  “So, you went to war without a girl back home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you lonely?”

  “Yes. And just for the record, I don’t think you’ll lose control that much. It’s not like you’ll suddenly be having a seizure or something, or start foaming at the mouth, make people run in and strap you down... ‘Help, call 911... Hello, Emergency? My girlfriend’s having an orgasm and she won’t stop, what should I do?’”

  Of course I’m laughing by this point. I shove him. Even though he just called me his girlfriend. For the first time. “You’re so mean.”

  “You feel that crazed?” he asks, a bit shyly.

  My breath catches. I nod.

  “You make me feel the same way. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I’m more worried than scared.”

  “About what?”

  “Doing the right thing by you,” he says. “Turn your back to me.”

  Um. Okay. I do, not knowing why. Then, once my back is to him, he pulls me up against his chest and wraps his arms around me, cradling me in his hands. I arch my back against him and grip his arm.

  “We’re a good fit,” he whispers in my ear. He pushes against me. My breath falters, and I feel like I’m going slightly insane. He pushes again while kissing my neck, and pleasure washes through me. Then he reaches inside my pajamas and the pleasure heightens and intensifies so much all I can think of is thrashing around and calling 911 and foaming at the mouth and for some reason lemmings hurtling themselves off the edge of a cliff.

  “Ahhh.” I turn and cling to him, burning, desperate and completely freaked out.

  He holds me close for several long moments. “Easy, little missile.”

  I frown and look at him. He’s smiling. “I’m abnormal. I knew it.”

  “No, you’re just very responsive.”

  I bury my head against him.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, holding me. “You can’t help it if you’re on the verge of going nuclear whenever I touch you.” I glance up at him—he’s grinning like he just won the lottery.

  “You seem so bummed about this.”

  “Yeah. Really hurts a guy’s ego.” He turns me back so I’m spooned against him, and he starts kissing me behind my ear. “I may blow the roof off the house myself.”

  I close my eyes and press against him and his hands run over me. He’s careful about it. Gentle. I’m trembling. “Cami?”

  “Hmm...”

  “Are you holding your breath
?”

  “Uhh...”

  “Breathe.”

  I try to.

  He moves his hands up higher on me. I stay very quiet against him, and he kisses and caresses me. “Part of the PTSD they tell me I have...” His voice trails off as he pulls my hair away from my neck, “includes trouble with feelings. Nothing affects me or seems real. It’s like I’m numb. Except for with you. With you, I feel too much almost.”

  “Good. I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s oversensitive around here.”

  He laughs and embraces me, and eventually we both fall asleep. But I’m awakened later by the sound of Julian whimpering. I turn and see he’s sleeping. Am I hurting him, I wonder? Is he in pain? I move slightly away, but for some reason this seems to make it worse. “Coop...” he murmurs.

  “Julian.”

  “Ahh, God...”

  “Julian! Wake up!”

  He stares at me blankly, then holds me in his arms.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “I should go upstairs soon. But if you need me to stay...”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  I stay with him until I feel him relax. Then I whisper good-night, kiss him gently and sneak upstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A few days later, Julian’s doctors switch him from crutches to a cane, which he’ll use for a few months, just until he’s able to walk completely on his own. To say he’s thrilled is an understatement. I’m thinking about this and what I could do to help him celebrate while I make him one of my favorite breakfasts.

  “Estella?”

  “Mmm?”

  “How about a road trip?”

  She turns to me. “You have work, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “It doesn’t have to be today. We can do it during the week. Like on Tuesday when I don’t work and the slopes are less crowded.”

  “You have school. But I suppose I could call you in sick.”

  I smile—now that’s a good stepmom. “Thanks!”

  “Don’t mention it. You deserve a senior skip day.”

  I flip on the oven and take out a small baking dish. I throw half a stick of butter in it and put it in.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asks.

  “Somewhere with snow. Have you eaten yet?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Maybe Julian could go with us,” I suggest, as subtly as I can.

  “Sure. He’d probably love a change of scenery.” Estella peers at the apple slices I have cooking on the stove. “What are you making?”

  “A German apple pancake.”

  She raises a brow. “Fancy.”

  “No, not really.”

  While the apples cook down, I whip up an easy batter and pour it into the dish with the hot melted butter. Estella watches me as I put this in the oven, and add cinnamon and sugar to the apples to caramelize them. By the time they’re done my batter has puffed up insanely high around the sides and the edges have turned a beautiful golden-brown. It’s not really a pancake. It’s more a cross between baked custard and a crepe-gone-wild. I pour the apples into the center of it and take it, on a plate, in to Julian. He’s lounging on the bed reading a book.

  “Hey,” he says as I perch next to him. “What’s that?”

  “Your breakfast.”

  “Wow.” He takes a bite while it’s still on my lap.

  “Good?” I ask.

  “Unreal.” He gives me a disarming smile. “It’s like a big kiss.”

  “It tastes like a kiss?”

  “Lots of your food does—because that’s how you mean it.”

  I look differently at the plate while he eats half the pancake. He feeds some to me and then pulls me against him. “I guess you figured me out,” I say.

  He smiles and steals a slice of apple from what’s left. “I guess I did.”

  “That’s okay. I figured you out too.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says, licking his fingers. “How’s that?”

  “Estella and I are taking you up north, to snow country.”

  “Once I’m well?”

  “No, this Tuesday,” I tell him.

  “Wait, what?”

  “In celebration of your new crutch-free status, we’re canceling your therapy and taking you up to a place where, if you fall, you’re guaranteed to break your neck.”

  “Perfect,” he says, looking amused.

  “Hopefully it will be.”

  He touches my arm. “Do you ski?”

  “Nowhere near as well as Estella and Dad. Did...uhh...do you?”

  His smile fades. Crap. “Yeah.”

  “You will again soon.”

  “Not by Tuesday.”

  “We can do other things.”

  “Sure we can. Just going up there sounds fun.”

  Hmm. I go to work convinced he doesn’t really like the idea at all. I mean, what’s he supposed to do, sit in the lodge all day while Estella and I ski? Walk on ice-covered roads that might make him slip and fall?

  I wonder if he could do Nordic skiing. That’s mostly flat. But there are some hills. The trails near where we live, that run over the local golf course in the winter, are definitely hilly. Probably not going to get a “yes” from Estella or Julian’s doctors on that one.

  I finish my shift, head home and go up to bed. Then around 2:00 a.m., I wake up and have the solution. The perfect activity for him.

  “So, once we get there, I have an idea for what you can do, Julian,” I say on Tuesday morning. We’re just getting ready to go and I’ve been saving my big idea for him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Snowshoes,” I tell him. “Metal snowshoes. Two poles. You can go out on trails.”

  “Maybe,” he says—not enthused.

  Huh. So much for my big idea.

  “We should really call your doctors before you do anything like that,” Estella chimes in.

  “There’s cross-country skiing,” I offer, more uncertainly.

  “Why don’t you and Estella just go ski for the day. I’ll hang out in the lodge,” he says.

  “Because that sounds awful for you?”

  “No, it doesn’t. I’ll watch the skiers.”

  “If you say so,” I reply, unconvinced.

  The whole ride up to Killington, Estella’s favorite ski resort, she makes us listen to talk radio. The drive is a few hours long, but by the time I wake up from my little nap and open my eyes, we’re mostly there. We head into the parking lot and Estella pulls straight up to the lodge. “Why don’t you get out here, Julian,” she offers.

  “No, just go park.”

  “But it’s slippery.”

  “Damn it, Stell.”

  “Fine.” She finds a parking spot and we get our gear and head to the lodge. Julian stays with us while we wait in line for lift tickets.

  “Are you sure you won’t be bored here all day?” Estella asks him.

  “No, I won’t be bored. Go have fun. And don’t keep coming back to check on me. I don’t want to see either of you until at least four.”

  “Okay,” she says, warily.

  “I mean it.”

  “Okay, all right.”

  Estella’s a helmet-wearing black diamond bowl skier. I, on the other hand, am strictly an intermediate level blue run skier. Nevertheless, she agrees to go with me for the first few runs of the day. We head out together to wait in line to do that which I most dislike about skiing—riding the lifts.

  While we’re up there, with my life teetering precariously in midair, skis on my feet weighing me back down to earth, Estella asks if I plan on attending UVM if I’m accepted.

  “I dunno,” I mumble.

  “You’re not going to fall.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Once we’re almost at the top, the safety bar raises and now there’s nothing holding me in the chair whatsoever. A stiff breeze would send me hurtling to the ground. Thankfully, we’re soon able to get off the thing.

 
“Are you all right?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I just don’t like the lifts. I’m fine on the slopes.”

  This is somewhat true. I guess. I actually do know the fundamentals of skiing fairly well. I’m just not overly daring or adventurous. For Estella, who definitely is, this blue trail is about as difficult as a walk to the mailbox, but at least there are nice panoramic views.

  Estella makes one more run with me and then goes off on her own, so now we both have to ski by ourselves, unfortunately. Once she’s gone, I decide to take it easy and do Cruise Control.

  I start off and don’t think of anything as I pick up speed. I just focus on the trail, on my form and the fresh smell of snow, the rush of air and brilliant sun on blinding white, the swish of poles and skis and how everything races by in a blur.

  The afternoon lengthens. I do Cruise Control again, then a few tree-lined trails, then the one I did first with Estella. By four my legs ache so much I decide to stop and head in. The lodge here is typical—greasy food and melted snow and people everywhere. I just hope Julian wasn’t bored to death sitting around all day. I go upstairs and find him in a seat by the windows. A blonde in tight blue snow pants is standing in front of him, talking to him. I see this and force myself not to stomp off. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, spotting me. “How was it?”

  “Fun.” Yes, he just called me sweetheart. I give the girl a death glare. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” she yammers. “I was just saying how I broke both my legs last year.”

  “Wouldn’t want anything like that to happen again,” I comment.

  Julian makes a small noise, like to clear his throat. His mouth twitches.

  “Yes, well...it was nice meeting you both.” She hurries away.

  “Okay yeah, I wanted to get rid of her,” Julian says with a smile. “But you didn’t have to threaten to rebreak her legs.”

  “I didn’t. I just said I hoped she’d never have to go through anything like that again.”

  He grins. “Uh-huh.”

  “What? It’s true.”

  “Are you done for the day?”

  “Yeah. How many snow bunnies have been over here, anyway?”

  His gaze turns warm. “Hundreds. There was a line.”

  “Hmph.”

  He gets to his feet and comes in close to me. “So, are barely functional levels of jealousy normal for you, or...?”