Something Special

by S. Massery

  In order to do that, I would need to admit to my mother that we were having sex. I wasn’t ready for that—I didn’t think I’d ever be ready for that conversation. I shook my head at him.

  He pulled out of me, dropping my legs back to the floor. “Is it in your fucking five-year plan to entrap me with a baby?”

  “No—”

  “God,” he growled. “Did that even occur to you?”

  “I’m fif-sixteen—”

  “Sixteen is old enough to buy fucking Plan B at the pharmacy,” he yelled. “And you can’t tell your doctor you want the fucking pill?”

  “I don’t…” I choked out, but I didn’t have a plan for where this conversation was going.

  He grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the dining room, up the stairs, and into his room. He shoved me on the bed, face down, and said, “Shut up, Charlie,” when I made a noise. “This,” he tore open a condom wrapper, “is fucking.” He pulled my hips up, butt in the air, and pushed into me. We both groaned again, because even though part of me was scared, I couldn’t deny that it felt good. “So just shut up and enjoy it.”

  I felt depleted when he finally finished. He fell on top of me, pressing us into the mattress. A tear slid from my eye, down my nose, and onto the blanket. I watched it go and concentrated on Colby’s heartbeat. I could feel it just over mine, pressed into my back. When it finally slowed, he got off of me.

  He pulled his pants back on and went downstairs. I went into his bathroom. My tears had streaked my mascara a little. I dabbed at it, but it seemed futile. Everything seemed futile. His mom probably has mascara, I told myself. I crossed the hall into his parents’ room, and I was shocked at how… different their styles were. While Colby’s room was tones of grey, his parents’ room was a soft mint green, with fluffy throw pillows on an impeccable bed. I was lucky if Colby made his bed at all, even when he knew I was coming over. His room screamed cold; his parents’ room looked lived in, cherished, happy. It made me shudder; I let my eyes unfocus as I ducked into her bathroom.

  I found her makeup stash and fixed my eyes. How long did I have until Colby came looking for me?

  The answer: he didn’t. I stayed upstairs for another few minutes, waiting for the redness in my eyes to fade. When I went back to the dining room, half of the candles had gone out. He sat at one of the seats, already eating.

  “About time,” he muttered. When I sat, he lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles. “Did you like that position?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s called doggy.” He smirked. “We’ll use it when you’re being a bitch.”

  My face flamed red.

  He went back to eating.

  Happy birthday, Charlie.

  Colby dropped me off at home after we ate. Neither of us were in any mood to be nice to each other, and I wasn’t feeling like being a punching bag on my birthday. For once, when I told him I wanted to go home, he agreed.

  My mother was surprised to see me walk in the door—she probably assumed I was staying at Leah’s again—but I made up some excuse about studying for a test. Somehow, my grades had remained steady. I had friends, now, who I sat with at lunch and nodded to in the hallways. I had Colby to make out with against my locker before the bell. But I knew that these friends of mine were really Colby’s friends, and Jared’s old friends.

  Sitting in my room, I had never felt so alone. I had no one to call, no one to talk to… just, no one. Period.

  My eyes drifted toward my closet, where I had thrown the notebook with my letters to Jared. He would hate this version of me. He would hate that I listened to Colby so willingly, that we had unprotected sex, that Colby touched me, that I swallowed whatever pills Colby gave me, that they made me feel like a new person.

  Don’t let him touch you, Jared had told me. Sorry, Jared.

  I crawled over and dug for it; it was under a pile of summer shoes. It was hard to look at the words I had written.

  “Colby looks at me like I’m a piece of meat. It doesn’t matter, whatever you said to him, because he’s gotten worse.”

  I cringed. I flipped to a new page and grabbed a pen.

  Jared,

  I haven’t written in a while. December. I told you that Colby kissed me, and I didn’t love it. Well, I’m fucked now, because I do love him. I think. He makes me cry, and feel all these emotions that I never really considered before. Sometimes I think if I just close my eyes and he can take over, life will be so much easier that way. Giving up control. But then I panic, because I don’t actually want that. I want to steer my own boat.

  Why haven’t you called me? It’s been seven months, Jared.

  It’s my birthday. My ‘sweet’ sixteen. And Colby yelled at me after I botched his romantic gesture. And I have no friends, because apparently I could only land one friend when I was nine, and now he’s gone.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I tried to call Jared. I was more afraid of his rejection than anything else. I couldn’t call and say, Look how far I’ve fallen. He’d hate me.

  I brushed a tear from my eye, sick with myself that I couldn’t stop crying.

  I glanced back down at the paper and wrote one more thing.

  Don’t hate me, Jared.

  21

  “Pop quiz,” Avery says. It’s been about a week and a half since we went out on the boat. A week and a half of crazy, intense courting. But we haven’t done anything else sexual, except for giving each other orgasms with our hands. A shadow crosses his face after he speaks, as if two words can dredge up bad memories. I know how he feels; I keep remembering ghosts of my past more and more.

  I wave my hand, telling him to continue. My mouth is full of food.

  “We’ve been dating for how long?”

  I swallow. “A few weeks.”

  “And have we discussed exclusivity?”

  “No.” Is he about to break up with me? Is he about to tell me he’s been sleeping with other women?

  Avery leans forward. He captivates me: the way his nose flares slightly before he says something important, the way his eyes jump from my eyes to my lips and all the way around my face as if he is trying to ingrain me in his memory. He takes a sip of wine, but doesn’t look away from me.

  “Have you been seeing anyone else?”

  I shake my head. “You’re the only one.”

  Avery exhales tension that I didn’t even know was there. His smile blinds me before he asks, “Charlotte, will you be my girlfriend?”

  I squeal and break out into a huge smile. He circles around the table and leans down, kissing me long and slow. “I love that you didn’t do something romantic,” I mumble against his lips. I picture dying candles around a cold meal and dead flowers in cracked vases.

  We get to his apartment in a tangle of limbs and clothes that we can’t shed fast enough. I pull his shirt off as soon as we are in his apartment, running my hands down his chest. He kisses me as if his soul depends on it, nipping my bottom lip. He turns us, pushing me against the door. He leans over me, demanding with his tongue that my lips part. He claims every inch of my mouth, while his hands roam down my body. I jolt when he squeezes my butt, simultaneously grinding his hips into mine.

  I am not super skinny, and Avery, while fit, is not too muscular. He doesn’t try to sweep me off my feet and carry me to his bedroom. He nibbles on my neck until I am weak in the knees, and then he leads me through his apartment.

  He points to the bed, and I climb onto it. He already took my shirt off, forgotten by the front door, and he unbuttons my jeans while I kick off my shoes. He leaves his shorts on, crawling over me. He starts kissing my throat and works his way down my body. The anticipation makes me shiver. His fingers work their way under the hem of my panties. My body is reacting like I’ve never been touched before. I fall apart in his hand, gasping and gripping the bed sheets. Only then does he shed his shorts and roll on a condom. He hovers above me and bites my breast at the same instant he pushes into me. I have never been loud, in b
ed or out of it. But he makes me gasp and whisper things that make me blush. He finishes with a shout that makes me cringe, burying himself inside of me. His face is tucked against my neck, and has been the whole time. I feel his hot breath on my throat.

  After a minute of stillness, of silence, he pulls out and moves to the edge of the bed.

  “That was good,” I say.

  Avery chuckles darkly. “Thanks.”

  Thanks?

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He doesn’t turn around, though, he just stands up and disappears into the bathroom.

  Somehow, I doubt that he is fine.

  I sit up, scooping my hair up into a bun. By the time Avery reemerges, I’m almost fully dressed. I squeeze past him into the bathroom, fixing the smudges in my makeup and cleaning myself up. Pee so you don’t get a UTI, Georgia tells me in my head. I listen to her, as I always do. Meeting my own eyes in the mirror, I evaluate myself. Still flushed from the sex, eyes slightly dilated, lips pinker than normal. In my wide eyes, I see vulnerability that hasn’t been there in years. I can see every flaw anyone has ever said about me. The mirror holds nothing back: just brutal honesty.

  I don’t really like what I see.

  “Enough,” I tell myself. I straighten my shoulders, schooling my face into something close to indifferent happiness, and march into the bedroom.

  Avery stands when I enter. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  I immediately frown. I can’t seem to control my face around him, and it disappoints me how easily my guard has lowered. It is late, but my expectations were higher than this. My heart plummets, falling down, down, down. “Excuse me?”

  He meets my eyes, but he is expressionless. He’s better at this stupid game than I am. Anger takes over my body. This is a wildfire of rage, all consuming, and in this exact moment, I hate him. If I were a different person, I would let loose this fire. Throw things, scream, cry. But at the end of the day, I am who I am. Controlled. Quiet.

  I inhale through my nose, locking all the emotions away, deep inside of me. My voice barely wavers. “We can’t do this. We can’t be all happy, new boyfriend and girlfriend, and then you turn into an ice box after sex? The first time we have sex? No.” I shake my head and stare at the ceiling for a second. My hands clench into fists. I need to move before I hit him. “You don’t get to treat me like this.”

  He follows me into the living room, where I pull on my shirt and snag my purse.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—”

  I look into his eyes, waiting to see something like regret or remorse. Willing him to show me something. To my surprise, I do see those things; they’re just shuttered behind a wall of misery that I don’t understand. Right now, I don’t want to understand.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Is he someone I would take home to my parents? Is he someone I could trust? Love? Marry? My feelings for Avery spiral out of control.

  As quickly as my anger came, it vanishes as I walk out. Leaving this way reminds me too much of the last time. My lungs are frozen in the absence of my anger, and no amount of air can fix it. Don’t look back, I tell myself. Never look back. I made that mistake once in my life already.

  22

  I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t speak to Avery until he apologizes.

  For three days, I am a mess.

  On night two, I start to go stir crazy. I contemplate calling Georgia, but I know she wouldn’t want to listen to me complain again. She would repeat information that I already know: just get out of the relationship. You don’t deserve that hot/cold treatment again, she would tell me.

  With those thoughts in my head, I go to bed early.

  On the third night, I pace my apartment with a glass of wine in my hand. Does Avery know I keep crying myself to sleep? Probably not. Some boyfriend, I keep repeating.

  My opinion of him wavers, and I wonder if it was worth it. I didn’t move to Boston for him, but the thought that he might be here was certainly a factor, no matter how small of a factor it was at the time. Now, it seems like the only thing I based my decision on was Avery, and I regret every inch of that decision. My hands shake, sloshing wine almost over the rim.

  At eight o’clock, I turn off my phone. Anyone calling beyond then would have to talk to a tipsy Charlie. That would be mortifying. Plus, I need to save myself from calling Avery and giving him a piece of my mind. I don’t want to break my promise to myself.

  I fall into a restless sleep, dreaming of Jared and my childhood. While he wasn’t perfect, he was safe. I dream of him lying beside me, our fingers entwined. He looks at me and says, Char, it’s okay to be upset. But don’t let a dumb jock ruin your life. He kisses my fingers, each one, before setting our hands back down between us. My heart hurts, but it slows down. The pain ebbs away. And then, I sleep.

  My phone rings while I am walking to work.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “How long did it take you to figure that out?” A curt impersonator has taken over for me. Walls that were seamlessly dropped around him have been resurrected and fortified. But after three days of wallowing, last night I decided that was enough: I was my mother’s daughter, and I needed to take her life lessons to heart. With that in mind, I channeled my hurt into annoyance and anger until I couldn’t feel sad anymore.

  Avery sighs through the phone. I have a thought of hanging up on him, but part of me is curious of what he needs to say.

  “I should’ve called you sooner,” he says.

  I wait a minute, letting the silence build up. Sometimes, silences get so heavy that they’re hard to break. They suffocate you. I swing my hammer and crack the ice. “Is that all, Avery?”

  “No—”

  I round a corner, and there he is, standing outside of my office building. I end the call, stashing my phone in my purse. He walks toward me, meeting me halfway. His shoulders are hunched, and his eyes have lost their shine.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”

  I love the way he says my name. No one calls me Charlotte anymore, except my mother when she’s angry, and even then it’s Charlotte Harper. I’ve been Charlie for so long, sometimes it’s hard to imagine myself as the original Charlotte. How might I have ended up if Jared hadn’t come along and nicknamed me Charles? How might I have been if my mother hadn’t been so eager to prove she had the perfect family? How would we have grown had she not forced us into different shapes?

  I breathe, and realize it is completely within my power to not forgive him. I can say, Fuck off, Avery. I also realize that it’s okay if I forgive him. He isn’t anyone from my past. Why should their sins be held against him?

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, Avery, okay. It’s an acknowledgement. It doesn’t mean I forgive you, or that I’ve forgotten, or that it’s okay. What you did isn’t okay. It hurt and it sucked.”

  He rubs at his face, eyeing me like I’m about to explode.

  I clench my abdomen, putting all my tense feelings into those muscles, and let myself wear a smile that says, Everything’s fine. He flinches. I say, “I need to get to work.”

  I move past him, trying not to run to the doors.

  “Are you going to hold your anger against me?” he yells.

  I wheel around. “Shouldn’t I?” I stalk back toward him, stopping close enough to smell him. “Shouldn’t I be angry that you treated me like garbage? Shouldn’t I want better for myself?”

  His face falls. I’m a ball of emotions, and I almost can’t control what’s coming out of my mouth.

  “Do you have an answer, or are you going to stand there gaping at me?” I snap. I have a sense of déjà vu for a split second, flashing back to conversations with Colby. He once accused me of gaping like a fish when I floundered for a response to his anger. This close alignment of speech and personality to him makes me uncomfortable.

  I picture my anger as fire, when in reality it is mud—t
hick toxic sludge—that clings and builds. As hard as I try to scrape it away, there’s still the stink of it.

  “I understand you’re angry,” Avery tells me.

  I shake my head, trying to reign in what I’m feeling. I need to sort through these feelings. I need to get a grip. I need to remember to breathe. “I just need time, Avery,” I say. I’m much quieter now. “Thank you for apologizing, but I need time to accept it.”

  He inclines his head a bit, which I take as acceptance. I stare at him for a beat. Isn’t he going to push the issue? But, no, he doesn’t. He stays silent and unmoving.

  I turn and walk into work, feeling more conflicted than ever before.

  “Charlie, good morning!”

  I manage to smile at Rose, the office manager, as I move through the lobby. She abandons the receptionist and follows me to my office. I flick on the lights, hanging my purse over the back of my chair. Rose sits in the chair opposite my desk.

  “Dude,” she says.

  She is only a year or two older than me, and within a few weeks she has gotten very comfortable around me. She was the receptionist in the office before the merger. During, she was instrumental in assisting Tom. He recommended that she be promoted, and the higher-ups agreed with him. In front of clients, she is nothing but professional. But privately, her vernacular is… interesting.

  “Dude,” she repeats. “You’ve been a zombie all week, and now you look like…”

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

  “I guess you resemble a volcano right now. Smoking. Ready to unleash your lava everywhere. What happened?”

  “What happened is my boyfriend is a dick.” Mentally, I roll my eyes at myself. Her easy way of speaking crudely is easy to fall into. My mother would have a stroke if she heard me.

  Rose chuckles. “I can’t believe you just said dick, Miss Proper. What did he do?” She leans forward, a mischievous look on her face. “Can you call him an asshat next?”