Tell Me How This Ends

by Victoria De La O

  “Let’s hope there are no snakes,” he says, his eyes darting around.

  “Don’t worry, they’re more afraid of you.”

  Ryan holds his hand out to me, and I join him. There is a moment, when his strong hand is suspended toward me, where I know I would grab it no matter what he was pulling me toward.

  Once we’re both lying on the ground, I ask him why he wants to be a teacher.

  “I l-love to write, and I want to do as much of it as I c-can. But t-teaching people how to read and write would be exciting, too. I did a s-summer job at this private school where I got to work with elementary kids. There was this one kid there named T-Taylor, and he could barely read a word. One time, I took a comic in for him and we discussed the d-drawings and the story. He got so excited that it wasn’t a baby book, but he c-could still understand what was going on. By the end of the s-summer, he was able to write a complete sentence. It was so fun w-watching him discover something new each week. That c-convinced me. I know it’s hard work, but it’s worthwhile.”

  I snuggle closer to him on the blanket because he smells musky and delicious, and his shoulders are too sturdy not to want to lean on. Ryan is on the lanky side, but his height makes up for it. He’s lean rather than muscular—like a swimmer—and I appreciate that he’s not a gym rat, obsessed with his body. I close my eyes and enjoy the sound of his voice. It’s low and throaty and raspy, and it does strange things to me.

  “Listening to you talk is a treat.”

  He goes still, and it occurs to me too late that he thinks I’m humoring or mocking him. But he doesn’t say any of that. He just stops speaking.

  “No one’s told you that you have a deep, sexy voice?”

  “No. And you don’t need to tell me th-that either to m-m-make me feel better.”

  Now I’m upset. I sit up on my elbows as he scoots away, distancing himself physically and emotionally.

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “No. You’re b-being nice.”

  “You just don’t want to take the compliment. If I tell you I find your voice sexy, then I find it sexy.”

  Ryan likes to think and process before he speaks, and I can relate to that. I am quick on my feet verbally, but I always prefer to have time to formulate a thought. Most people just don’t give it to you.

  So I lie back down next to him while he thinks, and soon, he puts an arm around me and pulls me closer.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says.

  “I was going to ask you to read some Shakespeare to me, but now you can forget it.”

  “Actually, I’m r-relieved.”

  I get very close to him, to the point where there is nothing between his body and mine but tiny pockets of unseen space. “What if I told you it would turn me on? Would you do it then? Because it totally would.”

  “You’re really w-weird,” he says, but he’s smiling. I can’t see him in the inky black night, but I can hear it in his voice.

  “You think of yourself one way. I see you in another.”

  “Do you l-like what you see?”

  “Umm, considering I came to you . . .”

  “I didn’t think you’d b-be interested, or I would have been all over that.”

  I like this playful side of him, but I’m too worked up right now to keep talking. He must sense my mood, because he turns sideways so we’re face-to-face. We lie like that for a second. When he speaks I can feel his breath on my lips, and it makes me feel buzzed.

  “W-will you make me a promise?”

  “Maybe.”

  “G-give it to me straight. All the time. No matter w-what. I can take it.”

  “Done. Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes.” I love that he doesn’t put conditions on that.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper, and he does it without hesitation. Our kiss goes on and on, and I start to lose a sense of the time and space around us. Finally, thank God, he runs his hand up my leg and under my skirt. He is hard and ready, and I can’t help but push myself against him. I remind myself that I want to take it slow, but it’s of little use when his hands slide toward my ass.

  “Ryan,” I breathe, and he likes this because he moves his fingers under my panties and uses his grip to pull me in to him. The feel of his big hand on me is powerful, and I grind into him. My hands are under his shirt now, and the tips of my fingers are traveling the slight ridges on his pecs and his abs. He has managed to move the strap of my dress off one shoulder with his mouth, and his lips travel down my shoulder and collarbone, laying waste to my central nervous system.

  He’s about to uncover one of my breasts, and I want to feel his lips there so badly I can’t stand it. I stop him though, because my mind is swirling into a place where, soon, I won’t be able to stop.

  “You feel so good,” he says, and kisses me again.

  I kiss him back, but I move away to regain my sanity. “I want this, but I also want to wait a bit.”

  “You have no idea how difficult that’s going to b-be for me.” He chuckles, so I know he’s not trying to pressure me, he’s just stating a fact.

  “Can we go out after class on Tuesday?”

  “That’s three d-days.”

  He sounds so sad that I can’t help but laugh. “And to think—I had to ask you to be my tutor to even get you to notice me.”

  “I’ve never been so happy to be l-literate in my life.”

  We cuddle for a while, and then he drops me off at my apartment. When he kisses me good-bye at the door, it feels like the beginning of something solid and healthy. I barely even compare his kiss to Jude’s.

  Ryan

  I float through Sunday and Monday texting back and forth with Lizzie, secure in the knowledge that there is a God. There must be, if there’s a girl running around out there who gets turned on by dorks with stutters. And not just any girl.

  It’s not like I don’t have my finer points. Compared to some other guys around campus, I’m practically up for sainthood: I’m not stupid or mean or a player. But I also have some major baggage, the stutter being just one charming part of it. I guess that’s why I haven’t talked about Jude much, or introduced Lizzie to him yet. That side of my life is vast and complicated, and I want to ease her into it.

  Plus, Lizzie is going to change things. Jude has always pretended he and I are an island—two musketeers who don’t need other people. He thinks most people aren’t worth a damn, anyway. But I know it’s time to broaden our circle of trust. Let’s just hope Jude is on board with that plan.

  The problem is, I haven’t laid eyes on him in two days.

  Where have you been? I text him.

  Work & usual shit

  You got home late last night. New girl?

  He woke me up stumbling around the house and muttering to himself because he was shit-faced, which is unusual.

  No, he writes.

  Good talk

  Just busy

  That deserves an eyeroll. Bullshit, but OK.

  As if I don’t know when something’s up. Even though we’re four years apart, Jude and I did everything together as kids. No choice really; Mom was busy working to keep us afloat.

  I never knew if Jude hung out with me because he wanted to or because of a misplaced sense of guilt. We didn’t have a dad, so I think Jude felt like he needed to teach me things. I learned early to keep up with Jude so he’d want me around and be proud of me.

  I remember the many times he took me up to Alum Rock so we could skateboard down impossible hills.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I told him the first time we went up there.

  “Never going to be less scary, so you might as well get on with it,” he said.

  I remember standing at the top, thinking it was suicide to skate down that hill. But Jude was already ahead of me, so I pushed off with my right foot and followed in his wake. A quarter of the way down, I careened out of control and broke my wrist. But we went back there over and over until I was as good as Jude.

>   But we’re not kids anymore, and I’m tired of chasing after my brother.

  You can run but you can’t hide motherfucker, I type.

  Take it down a notch Ry.

  Ouch. Jude’s scolding tone. I hate it when he gets parental on me.

  I know he can’t help himself. Our father cheated on my mom and left us before I was even born. I never met him. But Jude had four years with our dad—just enough time to make his absence a living presence. It was as though Jude noticed everything that wasn’t there—the sounds our dad would have been making, the indent he would have left in a comfy chair. It haunts Jude in a way it doesn’t for me, because I had him to fill the void.

  I never knew how big a void that was until our uncle died.

  A month after we buried Rob, I caught Jude looking at those Web sites that help you locate people. I didn’t say anything, but I watched and waited. Jude moved around the house, answering my questions, smiling in the right places, laughing at stuff on TV, but it was like he was never quite there.

  One Friday, Jude said he couldn’t pick me up from high school. Friday pickup was a ritual for the two of us because it was the only day his schedule allowed it. Jude would drive up to the curb, looking cool in his aviators. When I’d get close to the car, he’d yell out something embarrassing, like “Nice ass,” or “Hey, hottie.” I always wanted to kill him, but he said it was our way of starting the weekend off right. So when Jude said he wouldn’t be there Friday because he had something else to do, I knew he was up to something.

  Friday afternoon, I borrowed my friend Todd’s car and cut class early. I parked down the street from Jude’s work, watched him get into his car, and then followed him to a neighborhood in Willow Glen. It was an upscale street, lined with huge maples and landscaped yards—just fifteen minutes from our house.

  Jude parked across the street from this big ranch-style house, where an older, paunchy guy was fiddling with his car in the driveway. I parked far enough away that Jude couldn’t see me watching him. We sat there for three hours—me watching Jude, Jude watching the house. Paunchy guy came and went. A woman—his wife—came and went, too.

  When it got dark, Jude started his car and left. I waited a few minutes, staring at the space where Jude’s car had been, and then I left, too. When I got home, Jude was there, playing basketball with the outside lights on. I told him I’d been at a friend’s house.

  “You get another ride home from school?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You want to play a game?”

  We went back and forth on the court, sweating and giving each other shit. When I asked him how his day went, he said, “Same old same old.” He threw me a smirk that I’d seen him give other people a million times—the one that says how unconcerned he is, how cool he is. How nothing can touch him. The one that hides pain so deep no one—not even me—can reach it.

  I thought about going back to that well-manicured house that night, with its picket fence and its red door. Creeping in and tiptoeing across the undoubtedly plush carpet, past the sixty-inch TV and the table where they probably eat their well-balanced family meals. Sneaking into the bedroom where my father sleeps with another woman—where he never bothers to dream about the lives he left scattered and broken—and choking the life out of him. But I didn’t.

  I shake off my thoughts as I walk to class—to Lizzie. My heart rate speeds up as I get closer. I want to bring her home tonight to introduce her to Jude, so I shoot him one more text.

  What are you doing tonight?

  Be home late, he replies. And that’s it.

  What time? Want you to meet Lizzie.

  That’s her fucking name?

  WTF? I ask.

  Have something after work. Don’t wait up.

  I’m angry now but also worried. Jude is indifferent to others, but never to me. I head into class and find two seats.

  “Hey,” Lizzie says. She throws her stuff down and sits next to me.

  Stephens puts on a film version of Othello, so I put my arm around her, and she rests her head on my shoulder without missing a beat. It feels so normal and right to have her by me.

  “This stinks when you know how it ends,” she whispers.

  “Yeah. Too bad it doesn’t have your ending.” She chuckles, and the sensation of her breath on my neck makes me tingle.

  She scoots in closer, and her eagerness to be with me fills me with something new and amazing. Pride, maybe.

  She’s wearing a thin cotton dress with a jean jacket over it and flip-flops. I notice her cute toes, which are painted light purple, and I have the almost uncontrollable urge to put them in my mouth. Bet they’d taste like candy—like the rest of her.

  This is possibly the longest class I have ever sat through. When it’s finally over, I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down.

  Lizzie and I grab some food and head to my house. I’m suddenly glad Jude is being a prick, because I have Lizzie—and the house—all to myself.

  “This is nice,” she says when we drive up.

  “Thanks. My uncle took g-good care of it, but we’ve done some updating.” I’ve told Lizzie about my uncle and my living situation.

  As we’re eating, she asks me what my mom was like.

  “Ah, Ella Jane. That’s w-what my brother called her, and it drove her crazy. He could get away with that b-because he was the oldest. She was a normal single mom, I guess—tired all the time but still w-willing to help with homework and spend t-time with us. She liked to dance and sing around the house, but her v-voice was awful. When she got mad, she’d yell the house down, and she got mad a lot because we were hell-raisers. And I knew she l-loved me. Every day.”

  “You were her baby.”

  “Yes. She called me Max because I m-made her read Where the Wild Things Are over and over. She’d always l-let me read the p-part where Max says, ‘I’ll eat you up!’”

  I get up and throw our garbage away, because I’m getting emotional. Lizzie takes my hand, and I lead her in to the family room. Because Jude and I are guys, there’s not a lot in this room besides a leather couch, a coffee table, and a giant TV that takes up a lot of the main wall. But it’s all decent stuff, and it’s spotless because Jude is a neat freak.

  We chat as I hand her the remote to let her pick a movie.

  “You have so many gadgets on your TV, and there’s a million movie choices. How am I supposed to pick?” She gets frustrated as she scans through, and it’s kind of funny. This girl empties bedpans and wants to mop up after bloody patients at hospitals, but she’s stymied by Apple TV.

  I couldn’t give a shit less what she chooses, because I’m focused on how we’re holding hands and the way she takes off her flip-flops and tucks her legs under her on the couch. Shakespeare in Love starts playing.

  “I thought this was fitting,” she laughs. “Have you ever seen it?”

  “N-no. I’ll tough it out for you, though.”

  “I saw it for the first time last year.” She leans against me, and it feels good.

  Partway through the movie, I ask, “How would he not know she’s a woman?”

  “You have to suspend your disbelief,” she says. “The point is, it sucks being a woman sometimes.”

  “It can suck being a m-man too, you know.”

  We argue back and forth until she says, “You want to wrestle to prove who’s right?” The idea of this is so wacky that it makes complete sense she said it.

  “S-see? You know damn well I’ll have to g-go easy on you, so you’re playing the girl card.”

  Before I know it, she has lunged at me and toppled me off the couch. “Holy shit,” I yell as she tries to roll me on my back and pin me. I’m laughing so hard that she almost succeeds. Then I grab her arms and start to push her onto her back. She throws her legs around me and manages to half flip me. The shock of how good a wrestler she is almost gets me pinned again. She twists and maneuvers and she’s working up a sweat. I am still laughing, but I’m also actively trying to pin her
now. After a much longer time than it should have taken, she is under me and I am holding her arms down, my legs securing her bottom half. We’re panting and laughing and I’m totally turned on, and I can tell she is, too.

  “How d-did you learn to wrestle?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Are you kidding? My brother taught me before I could walk. When the others got old enough, we had matches. You’re lucky you didn’t get your hair pulled and a knee to the balls.” Her breasts are pushing into me, and one of her straps has slipped off her shoulder.

  “Th-thanks for that,” I mumble, right before I kiss her.

  Her bare feet feel good as she runs them up the back of my calves. Our arms are around each other, and if we didn’t have clothes on, I’d already be inside her. Instead, I lightly push my cock against her, and she groans because we’re perfectly aligned. My hands slip both of her shoulder straps off at once because I can’t wait any longer, and she’s not wearing a bra. She has the most gorgeous tits I have ever seen, full and pink and firm. My lips and my tongue think so, too, because I’m licking and sucking her before she can come to her senses.

  “Oh,” she moans, her mouth going soft and pliant.

  Her dress has bunched to her waist. Just her panties and my jeans separate us now. She arches her back and sighs, and her long blond hair trails behind her. Her hands are running through my hair, tugging me closer. Seems she’s given up on the idea of waiting.

  The thing is, she’s perfect in such an imperfect way, and she wants me. That feels sort of overwhelming. All I can focus on is how I need to be closer. I want her body, her mind, her kindness. I want to fuck the living daylights out of her and then make love to her slowly. I want to give her whatever she needs to be happy.

  My hand moves up her thigh, and I lift my hips so I can slide under the front of her panties. She is wet and hot already. I slide my fingers over her; God, she feels like silk. She bites her lip and starts to move against my hand, undulating and circling. She opens her eyes to look at me, and we stay connected like that for a minute—breathing heavily—until I can’t take it anymore. I lean down so I can whisper in her ear.

  “I want to give you so much, Lizzie. Let me have you. Please.”