Lengths

by Liz Reinhardt; Steph Campbell

  I slide the ring box into my pocket. The only other option is to stash it under my bed, but I’m not getting covered in cobwebs before Mom’s big day. And I feel like it may be a good thing to keep close for now. Not right now, but near-future now. Maybe. Or maybe my grandpa’s emotional craziness is scrambling my brain.

  Which is about to get an extra dose of addling, because the minute Grandpa and I arrive in my mom’s little backyard-turned-wedding-jungle, we’re put to work setting up chairs, hanging pollen-filled bouquets from branches, stringing lights, and helping out with the thousand things my mom kept to the last second. Cohen and his parents wave at me from their place of indentured servitude near the catering tables. Mom put everyone to work.

  Soon the place fills up with flowy-haired, goateed hippies in their best brightly patterned paisleys and new Birkenstocks, and I work hard not to gag on the waves of patchouli that are drifting through the air. Rocko shows up, looking scared as hell and nice as a greaser all geared up for his big day, and then Whit rushes out of the house.

  She sucks my breath away. She’s wearing a deep yellow dress that’s tight on top with a flouncy skirt, kind of old fashioned, and totally perfect for her. Her soft, dark hair falls in waves almost to her shoulders, and her lips are so temptingly red, the only thought bumper-carring in my hiccuping brain is that I want to drag her to some dark, quiet corner and kiss all that lipstick off her lips. Before I can take my fantasy firmly out of PG-13 territory, her warm eyes find me in the crowd, and she rushes over.

  “Deo.” She says my name like she’s been waiting for me. Like I’m the only one who can solve what’s wrong in her life. She looks me up and down, takes a breath so deep, it’s like she’s about to go on a dive for pearls, then releases it in a long whoosh. “Wow. You look…you really look god. I mean good! You look good. Not like a god.” Her flustered mortification is beyond awesome. Then she seems to remember something. “Oh, Deo! You have to get in there. Your mom is almost ready.”

  As if on cue, the raggedy bunch of musicians starts playing something that sounds like a Grateful Dead cover of the “Wedding March.” Those ruby-red lips are begging to be kissed, but she’s already nervous enough, so I leave her unkissed.

  For now.

  It’s not easy, though.

  I go inside and find my mother sipping a mimosa from a crystal champagne glass like she’s royalty. Seeing her so damn happy makes me feel good. “Hey, fancy pants. You ready to roll?”

  She’s wearing an electric orange dress with purple flowers in her hair. On anyone else, it would look like a Renaissance Faire nightmare. On my mother, it’s like she’s some kind of exotic flower come to life.

  “I’m a little nervous,” she giggles tipsily, and her gold eyes are mirrors of mine, but half-filled with tears.

  I hold out an elbow and she tucks her arm through it. “You look so damn beautiful,” I tell her. She giggles again, like a teenager, and blushes a little. “Rocko is one lucky guy. I’m really happy for you two.”

  “Oh, Deo.” She kisses my cheek and rubs the lipstick mark off with her thumb. “Well, should we get started?”

  “Let’s do this.”

  The walk down the aisle feels like I’m underwater, and I float through with no focus, only seeing pieces of all different things. Rocko’s tortoiseshell glasses, Cohen’s plaid tie, Grandpa’s gold wedding band, the crazy mystic who’s officiating’s rainbow scarf…nothing is solid and whole.

  Nothing except Whit.

  She’s sitting up front, yellow and dark, spine stiff and straight, one seat next to her empty, and, when I deliver my mom to the makeshift alter and kiss her smooth cheek, I beeline for that damn chair.

  The service is all hokey self-written vows that are sappily sweet but make me squirm a little to hear, like I’m listening in on Mom and Rocko’s pillow talk. Whit stares straight ahead, her big brown eyes unblinking and wide. I thread my fingers through hers, and she looks my way, a ragged smile on her face, and tries to relax.

  When the vows are done and the kiss is kissed, complete with Rocko bending my mother back and all the hippies cheering and the band getting out multiple tambourines, we all throw birdseed, the bride and groom strip out of their fancy duds and into comfortable clothes, and everyone eats from a huge buffet of all kinds of weird but tasty food. My mom knew better than to even attempt to cater anything herself.

  I look over at my mother and Rocko, smiling, kissing, hand-in-hand, and a tension I didn’t even know I was carrying in my chest melts down. I feel warm. I feel happy. This is all good stuff. But I want better.

  I want Whit.

  I shadow her closely. I know she slept pretty well, but she still looks dazed and edgy, and it worries me.

  “Oh no!” Three huge, oily olives stuffed with goat cheese tip off her plate while we’re standing next to the buffet table. I catch two in mid-air. One lands on her skirt, leaving a nasty oil explosion on the silky yellow fabric. “Oh no.” Her voice drops to a breathy whisper and her eyes pool with tears.

  I take her plate from her hand, put an arm around her waist, and lead her inside, through knots of dancing, slightly high and mostly drunk revelers. I pull her into my mother’s bedroom, all batik wall hangings and the sharp and sweet tang of essential oils. Now that we’re away from all the guests, she starts to cry.

  First it’s little tears wobbling out of her eyes. Then it’s big, breathy sniffles and moans. Then it’s hiccuping, air-stopping sobs that sit heavy on her lungs and make every breath a gasp. “My dress! My dress!” she wheezes, and, even though I know this fucking breakdown can’t be about a dress, I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her, grab the zipper and tug down with a long, slow pull. Her spine curves because she’s buckling over, falling onto Mom’s bed. I help her lie down and pull the dress off her legs. She curls into a tiny ball, and I cover her with mom’s blanket.

  I want to get in bed next to her and wrap my arms around her, but she needs space. She needs to cry this out. And I need to show her I learned my lesson and step the hell back, no matter that it’s like a dagger plunged into my heart over and over.

  “Whit, I’m going to get the spot out of this dress, okay? My mom is a huge klutz, so she has all kinds of crap to get stains out of clothes. Don’t worry about anything.” I say the words calmly, like she’s not hyperventilating on my mother’s bed, and I go to the laundry room and sprinkle my mom’s magic laundry stuff on the big blotch and put the dress to the side to sit. I head to the kitchen and put a few soaked rags in the freezer and rifle around the medicine box mom keeps on the tiled counter, collecting what I’ll need to help her when she’s finally ready.

  I hop up on the dryer and listen through the wall to Whit, on the other side, her cries getting louder and less hinged, rolling into muffled screams, sliding back to wet, gasping sobs, and cycling through the whole process again. I ball my hands into tight fists and grit my teeth. I want to burst in there and make it right. I want to fix it. I want to smooth it out so she doesn’t feel all this pain shredding through her.

  But she needs to feel it. And I need to step back and let her.

  It feels like hours before the wails turn into whimpers and the whimpers turn into uneven, half-choked breaths. I finally let myself walk back through the door, armed with all the kooky herbal crap my mom swears by.

  “Hey, killer,” I say. Her face is blotchy, her eyes and lips swollen, body drained and exhausted. I turn her onto her back gently and smooth her hair from her face. Then I put an arm under her shoulders and hold a cup to her mouth. “Bottoms up.”

  “What is it?” Her voice is so scratchy, I barely recognize it.

  “Love potion.” It’s a joke, but she looks so worried, I tell her, “Marigold’s heartbreak remedy. Take it.”

  She drinks slowly, and the lines on her forehead disappear. It’s déjà vu time, the smell of this room, the sun slanting through the window just like it is, the echoes of a long, wrenching sob-fest, a beautiful woman, a ton of pain,
a weird herbal drink; all shades of my mom and her breakdowns. There’s still a part of me that wants to get up and run away from this, but there’s also a huge part of me that realizes that me being the one who did this for my mother after my father left her hollowed out sucked. Me doing this for the girl I love? Well, that’s what it’s all about.

  I push her back on the bed and press the cold cloths on her face. “You good, doll?”

  “Sorry,” she croaks. “How fucking humiliating. I mean, it’s a dress.”

  “Whit, babe, this is so not about a dress,” I object, moving to cradle her head in my lap so I can rub her temples, her forehead, down her nose and under her eyes. She goes liquid-boned under me.

  Her mouth is a tight line for a minute, then it relaxes. “Wakefield…” She stops and I have to force myself to keep rubbing her head, slowly, quietly, to keep her talking. “Wakefield had this girlfriend right before he joined the army. She was okay, you know? A little generic for my brother. And after he signed up for service, he was kind of excited. I think it was getting the uniform, you know? It made him feel bad-ass. Like a GI Joe. And he was so damn handsome in his uniform.” A real laugh breaks through all her bitter words. “I joked that he could get any chick he wanted. But he wanted her. He went to her house in uniform with flowers and she told him it was all over. She just couldn’t commit to someone because it would hurt too much if something happened to him.” I checked her mouth, because I would not have been at all surprised if she had grown fangs that dripped venom. “And I hated her for being such a fucking coward. Then, when we got the news about…when we found out he was dead, I went to her house, and when she opened the door, I went fucking ballistic on her. Her parents had to call mine to come take me home, because I couldn’t stop screaming at her and shoving her…all kinds of crazy.”

  “She sounds like a piece of shit.” I brush her hair back from her forehead and press another cool rag on her face.

  Her mouth twists. “I’m no better.”

  I run my fingers along her tension lines. “Are you kidding? You’re awesome. I’ve never seen anyone bulldoze through their fucking pain like you can.”

  She rolls over and sits up, knocking the covers off her body. I try very hard not to ruin this moment of deeper emotional connection by ogling her hot pink bra and thong, but sleeping by her all night and spending the day at her side is kicking my horn-dog tendencies into heavy overdrive.

  “I bulldoze because I’m too fucking afraid to get my hands dirty and take a pickax to what I’m feeling.” She bites her lip and looks up at me, her voice louder, stronger. “I loved sleeping by you last night. I’ve missed you. So much.”

  It’s everything all at once. My heart and brain have rolled out the kegs, the fireworks, the waterbed with black silk sheets, the side-by-side Jedi/ninja parade, because this girl has finally said that words I’ve been waiting to hear. Well, some of them. There are others, but now I have fact-based hope that the rest of the words will be coming. Soonish, hopefully.

  My honest instinct is to lay her down on the bed, take off the last tiny pieces of lace she’s wearing, and rub my hands and mouth all over her body until she’s hot and wet under me.

  Why did I carry her to my mom’s room so she could have her breakdown? This is a serious mood-blighter.

  I find a gauzy white dress of my mom’s and hand it to Whit before I wind up throwing her back on my mom’s bed and start doing things I can’t stop.

  “I’ve missed you too. Wanna go say our goodbyes?” I’m trying to not sound over-eager, but it’s not working all that well.

  Whit stands up, her body such a few inches from mine, my hands are itching to make the feel of her skin more than just a really awesome memory. She closes the space between us, and her nearly-naked body presses against mine. Being in a suit, I’m wearing more clothes than I usually would be, and now I’m super fucking upset about it.

  I rub my lips on hers, just a quick rub, just to taste her for one single second. She grabs onto my bottom lip with her teeth, then lets go and licks the place she nipped. Her mouth presses harder against mine, and I open against her, my hands on her smooth, soft back. I run my hands in that sweet spot between the bottom of her bra and the top of her thong, up and down, and I pull her closer with each move of my hands. She pushes my jacket off my shoulders in one rushed press, then drops a hand between our bodies and runs her palm down my chest, under my belt buckle, and over my dick.

  Suddenly, I don’t give a fuck where we are or what memories there are in this room for me. My mouth drags over her face, down her jaw and neck. I kiss her shoulders, and the round swell of her boobs, jiggling in the lacy cups of her tiny bra. I pop them out and suck on her nipples, run my hands over their full weight, rub my face over her smooth skin. She walks back until she’s leaned against the door, her fingers working on me hard and fast. I move a hand under the sweet swell of her ass and hike her up so she can wrap her legs around my waist, her back braced on the door.

  My free hand is wild, moving fast over soft skin, eager to touch her everywhere and trying to slow down and savor what I’ve been missing like a madman for weeks. I lock my mouth over hers and move my fingers up her thigh, pushing the scrap of fabric that makes up her thong to the side so my fingers have free access. She’s soaked already and pressing herself hard against my hand.

  I slip a finger into her and she tilts her head towards me, bites my earlobe and tugs at my hair, moaning deep, hungry moans. I work my fingers harder and faster, sliding against her with less skill than I’d like. I want to focus on her, but it’s all a crush of sweet, hot,wet need, and my brain is blurry as hell. My belt comes undone under her quick fingers, and she flicks open the button and slides down the zipper, her hand working under the waistband of my boxers so she can grab my dick and cup it softly, then work with quick, frenzied strokes that are making me see little bursts of silver at the edges of my eyes.

  Her body bucks hard, going stiff and pulsing against my hand. “Now. Now, please, now,” she pleads, her fingers pulling against me more quickly. I wrap my arm around her and move the few inches over to my mom’s nightstand. I realize that my soul is about to flambe in so many levels of hell. Who the fuck steals a condom so he can fuck his girlfriend in his mom’s room on her wedding day?

  I do. Damn straight.

  I move her back against the door, just in case anyone feels like bursting in on us, and rip the wrapper open. Whit grabs the condom and fits it on me in one slightly awkward, eager roll, and I lift her hips higher, then settle her on my dick in one quick, long thrust. She bites her lip and rolls her head back on the door, arching her back, and pressing harder against me, her tits bouncing a few inches away from my mouth.

  “More,” she gasps.

  I pump in and out of her, slowly, trying to draw this out, because she’s twice as hot and tight and wet as I remember, and I’ve needed this for so long, needed her for so long. My mouth dips low and catches first one nipple, then the other, enjoying her moans and the way she yanks my hair. She jerks my head back with a rough pull and looks at me, her lips parted and shiny, her eyes wide and nearly black with total need. She drops her hands down, cupping my face and her eyes close and her mouth makes a small ‘o’ as she strains harder against me.

  “Faster, Deo. I want you now. I want you…more…fast.” She tears through the buttons on my shirt, my tie loose but still on, her fingernails raking down my chest and ribs as her body rocks against mine, with quicker, slicker pulses and total, focused concentration.

  I hold her under her ass with one hand and use my other to pull her face closer. She kisses me, but absentmindedly, and I realize she’s completely locked in her own world, pressing against me to get to the place she needs to be.

  At this point I’m ready to be her whatever, do whatever she needs to get to her release. I rub my hand slowly over her face, down her neck as she tilts her head back. My fingers drag along her collar bone, pinch softly at the soft, sensitive peaks of her nip
ples, before letting them rub against the rough pad of my palm. Her breath hitches and she presses so hard against the door, her hair is flattened and pushed up wildly. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, fisting around them and then digging into the skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.

  She grinds against me, and I press into her, holding steady as her mouth comes open, her breath pants in quick gasps, and she finally yanks at my hair, crushes her forehead to my neck and muffles a scream into my collar. The relief I feel at the hot, wet downpour of her orgasm is knee-weakening. I come hard, and hold her sweaty, limp body against mine for a few minutes.

  When she looks up, her eyes are glazed and her smile is lazy. “Thank you so much. I needed that so badly.” She rubs her nose on my shirt and takes a long, deep breath. “And I feel like a complete whore. We need to go mingle, Deo. This is your mother’s wedding.”

  She unwinds her legs from my waist and stands on the floor, unsteady in the heels she never kicked off. I collapse my weight against the door and take off the condom, straighten myself up and button myself back together. I’m happy. This is good. Right?

  But there’s something a little too fierce, a little too wild about the light in Whit’s eyes as she asks to borrow my mother’s brush and slips on the dress I grabbed for her. She’s kind of chattery, kind of happy, kind of unmoored, and I feel a prickle of fear, because this feels like I just got spit out of a tornado and sucked into the the early surge of a wicked tsunami.

  Her eyes shine like she’s delusional with fever. “Let’s dance, Deo! Let’s drink! Let’s be wild!”

  I take her hand and follow her out the door, wondering why, just when I feel like I got everything I ever asked for, I can’t shake the press of dread that looms over me.

  -Eighteen—

  Whit

  Deo shields my eyes from the sun streaming in through the curtainless window. Because that’s just Deo. Thoughtful. Gorgeous. Protective. All the things I’ve ever wanted someone to be, but wouldn’t let them.