Grinning, he slid down my body to the foot of the bed, where he took off my shoes and massaged the balls of my feet. I let out a contented sigh. He nibbled on my toes, then enveloped them whole in his warm, wet, sucking mouth. I closed my eyes, floating away on the tide of sensation, tinged with guilt at the selfishness of just lying back and letting him take care of me.
He pulled my legs apart and pressed his enormous erection against my crotch. I reached down and traced the bulge in his pants, giving it a gentle proprietary squeeze. Sam moaned. He drew back to my feet and began slowly kissing his way up my body, starting with my insteps. I tensed as he worked his way past my knees, pushing my dress up as he inched up my inner thighs. He paused for a moment, panting, then returned to start over again at my feet as I moaned in frustration. Sam repeated the process until I was begging.
Finally, while still kissing and licking my toes, Sam reached up and slid my panties down my ankles, yanking them free of my feet. I lay in a puddle of want. He trailed kisses up my body again, giving a small laugh as I grabbed his hair to guide his face between my legs. He hesitated as if contemplating it, then returned to my feet.
I let out a cry of frustration. I could feel his smile against the soles of my feet. In a swift, deceptively casual move, he slipped a finger into my throbbing vagina. I arched my back in shock and let out a shriek of pleasure.
Then Sam was on top of me, his penis sliding into me, tugging at my dress. I lifted my arms so he could pull it free, then unhooked my bra to release my straining breasts. He started thrusting into me so hard my head bounced off the headboard. He lowered his head and bit one of my nipples. It should have been painful, but my answering rush of desire was so intense, I let out another shriek.
Was I fantasizing this encounter? It was unreal. Sex for me was always slightly awkward, vaguely uncomfortable, the pleasure inherent more in the anticipation than the act itself. But now I was screaming in ecstasy as Sam fucked me, not caring that my head was slamming into the wall behind us, or that he was biting my breasts with an animalistic savagery that bordered on disturbing. I was loving every minute.
I screeched as my orgasm hit, shaking with spasm after spasm, rendered helpless from the sensations ripping through my body. Sam grabbed my shoulders and forced me down on his penis, grinding against me, staring into my eyes as I came again, and again, trying to shove him away as the agonizing sensations became too much.
After I relaxed, Sam continued to lie on top of me, his head on my breasts, holding me. I could feel our hearts beating in tandem, first his, then mine. We were both panting, rivers of sweat welding our bodies together. After a few minutes, he slowly rolled off me, as if he needed to disengage gradually. I rose on my elbows, missing the warmth of his weight. He was staring up at the ceiling. He turned his head to look at me.
“Oh man,” he breathed, “that was fantastic. That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“Me too,” I confessed.
He reached out an arm and grabbed my hand, closing his fingers over mine. The gesture was symbolic. “You and I will be great together, Melody Ripple.”
CHAPTER NINE
The morning after first sex is more important than the act itself.
We fell into an exhausted sleep after our lovemaking ended. Six hours later, I woke disoriented, unsure of my surroundings. I didn’t recognize the brown dresser or the dark blue curtains over the windows. Then I remembered, and my heart swelled. I turned on my side to see him. Sam. He was sleeping.
On TV, people always lounge around in bathrobes the morning after, breakfasting on balconies while reading the paper. Real life was different. The last guy I dated asked me to leave as I lay in bed with my eyes still gummed together with sleep. I never heard from him again.
I studied Sam’s sweet face, contemplating waking him up. I had another guy freak out on me for that once, because I woke him up on the one day he could sleep in. I never made that mistake again.
I slid out from beneath the comforter and padded naked to the bathroom. The pitfalls of the first morning after included no sweats to slip on, no established protocol in place, nothing to do but drift around an unfamiliar apartment waiting for your host to wake.
I didn’t get a chance to use the restroom the previous night, but it was as immaculate as the rest of the apartment. The bathroom had black fixtures with gold accents. It looked sophisticated. I couldn’t help comparing it to my bathroom at home with its peeling wallpaper, rickety toilet that rocked if you got up too fast, and ancient yellow tiles coming loose from the floor.
Sam liked everything clean and shiny, not dingy from years of use. I didn’t know how we would reconcile his need for tidiness and new appliances with my rundown house.
Maybe Laurel was right. Maybe it was time to sell the house and let go of the past. Embrace the future.
I was getting way ahead of myself. Sam could wake up in ten minutes and dismiss our encounter as a one-time fling, a pleasant interval before returning to reality. It had happened before. Too many times.
Finished in the bathroom, I tiptoed back to the bedroom and located my dress on the floor beside the bed. I slipped it over my head, but I couldn’t find my panties in the patchy light filtering through the drawn curtains. Shrugging, I went into the living room. I thought about turning on the television, knowing it was almost certainly okay, but the remote control was nowhere to be found.
At a loss, I returned to the bookshelf to study the photographs again. Lucy’s pictures weren’t the only ones. There were grade school photos of John and Sam. John looked goofy as ever, even without the toothbrush mustache made stylish by Adolf Hitler. One could see its beginnings sprouting on his upper lip. He was wearing a Michael Jackson Thriller t-shirt.
Sam’s big blue eyes and wide smile shone with innocence. I reached out and traced his features with the tip of my finger, wishing I could go back in time and wrap my arms around that sweet little boy, protect him from the damage the world would inflict on him.
There were several pictures of Sam and John’s parents. One was taken on their wedding day, which appeared to be in the fifties or early sixties, judging by the hairstyles, clothes, and black and white quality of the photo. A second was a Polaroid taken in the mid-eighties, in a backyard garden. Sam’s mother was wearing a housecoat and yellow tinted glasses. She looked frumpy and much too old to have young children. She was posing with a hoe. Sam’s father, a bald man with a few strands of hair combed over his shiny dome, appeared small and diminutive beside her. One could tell he deferred to her judgment in everything. He was gripping a spade, his expression grim.
I wondered what the occasion was. Back then, before cell phones, taking pictures was a big deal. Most people only took them on special occasions, like birthdays and holidays.
Spring planting? They lived in a part of the state that relied on agriculture. I made a mental note to ask Sam later.
Next to them was a picture of Sam in his fire department uniform, his face serious beneath the brim of his hat. He looked stern, tasked with saving the world. I never much cared for men in uniform, but now I could see the attraction. In another he was receiving some sort of commendation, shaking hands with a white-haired gentleman in full dress uniform. Sam appeared younger, so it was taken about fifteen years ago.
“Ready for breakfast?” Sam asked from behind me, making me jump. He was standing in the doorway to the living room, rubbing his eyes.
I felt like I’d just been caught snooping, which was ridiculous. I was only looking at the photographs he had on display.
“Sure,” I replied, smiling to hide my unease. “Then I guess I’ll take off. I need to get ready for work tomorrow.”
“Work,” he repeated in disgust. “I don’t have to work tomorrow. I work three days on, four days off. I don’t go in again until Thursday. I work until Sunday, then I’m off again until Friday. It’s a sweet schedule.”
“I wish I had a schedule like that,” I said.
Sam s
hrugged. “It’s not bad. So, about breakfast? What are you into? I can whip us up pancakes, French toast, waffles, whatever you like. And I’ve got sausage and bacon. No hash browns, but I got potatoes. I can figure out how to make them.” He looked at me.
“What kind of waffles?” I asked, wondering if he meant the frozen kind. Maybe he had a freezer full.
“Belgian, I guess. I have my own waffle iron. I bought it on sale at Kohl’s. And you can have it with whipped cream, ice cream, strawberry jam…” he scrunched up his face, thinking, as he ticked off choices on his fingers.
I laughed. He was going all out for me! “Butter and syrup,” I said, delighted. “And a side of sausage.”
“Coming right up,” he said.
I took a stool at the bar separating the kitchen from the living room as Sam clattered around, locating pans and ingredients. “My father taught me how to cook breakfast,” he said. “Growing up, we had cold cereal and toast during the week, but we went all out on the weekends. It made Saturdays and Sundays special.”
“My father also taught me how to cook breakfast,” I said, blinking against the sudden searing memory of him in his plaid bathrobe, grayish hair standing up in spikes, showing me how to crack an egg against the side of a bowl.
“Dads are good that way,” Sam said. “I always thought I’d teach my kids to cook breakfast too someday. But that’s looking increasingly unlikely these days.”
“You still have time,” I said.
He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess,” he said, glancing up from mixing ingredients in a blue and white striped bowl.
I shifted my attention to my phone. I had a text from Laurel. Are you coming to get your car? Sent at one am.
Shit. Laurel and I didn’t have the kind of relationship where we discussed sex. At six years older, she was another authority figure in my family, not a friend. It would have been nice to exchange confidences, particularly back when I was starting to date. There were so many unspoken rules. It could have spared me many embarrassing exchanges, like the one where my first boyfriend fumblingly told me I needed to trim my pubic hair. I never forgot the surge of humiliation.
What was I going to tell her? I considered and discarded several excuses. Laurel wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t believe Sam forgot I left my car at Laurel’s and drove me home, an hour out of his way.
“Why you fretting?” Sam asked, yanking the waffle iron apart. He removed a perfectly formed waffle with the tip of a knife, then forked it onto a plate, tilting it towards me to show off his efforts. I applauded.
“It’s nothing, really,” I said. “Laurel’s texting asking about my car and I don’t know what to tell her.”
Sam placed the plate before me in a flourish after garnishing it with two plump sausages. “Your breakfast, milady,” he said, bowing.
“Looks great,” I said.
“Tell her the truth,” he urged, opening a cabinet and withdrawing a plastic bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup. My favorite. When I was a little girl, I thought the bottle could talk just like in the commercial. “You can never go wrong with the truth.”
“I can’t, it’s too weird,” I said. “Laurel and I don’t have that kind of relationship. She was too old to be a friend growing up. She was more like the neighborhood babysitter, way older and kind of mean.” I made a face.
Sam handed me the syrup. “You think she doesn’t have sex? Let me tell you, she does. John’s a braggart.”
I placed my hands over my ears, shuddering. “La la, can’t hear you,” I sang. I dropped my hands. “For real, don’t tell me, I’ll have nightmares.”
Sam grinned. “Look at it this way. She hooked us up. She wants you to get laid.”
“Gross. My older sister pimping my ass out.”
Sam sat down across from me, grinning. He nodded at the plate of waffles. “Did I pass the first date test?”
My mouth was full of waffle. “You bet you did. This is a better breakfast than you’d get at most restaurants.”
He licked his lips. “How about the first sex test?”
I gave him a kick under the table.
CHAPTER TEN
It was the happiest time of my life.
People commented on my appearance. “You’re glowing,” one of my coworker said. “Are you pregnant?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. I’m just happy.”
I wished I was pregnant, but that was impossible. Sam asked me to go on the pill, despite my advanced age. “If you’re still getting your period, you can get pregnant,” he said. “I dated a girl who got knocked up the first month. She ended up having a miscarriage, but it ruined our relationship. This time I’m not taking any chances. You mean too much to me.”
I did everything he asked without question. I knew that was bad, but Sam was the best thing to ever happen to me. I couldn’t risk losing him. I was contemplating suicide when he came along, in my deepest darkest thoughts. He lifted me out of that depression and showed me life wasn’t over, that every day still offered a new chance to make things right. I owed him everything.
I’d been waiting for him my whole life. I couldn’t screw this up.
I wasn’t going to jeopardize living happily ever after over something so silly as going on the pill. Even though the side effects were awful. I was cranky and bloated, my breasts so sore I had to sleep on my back.
“Those side effects pass,” Laurel told me. She’d been calling to chat a lot more, explaining, “We’re all each other has now. We have to get along better.”
it surprised me to hear her acknowledge that we hadn’t gotten along well in the past. My family were masters at denial. We never talked about the things that troubled us the most, ignoring them like we believed they’d go away if we didn’t speak of them. Agnes’s undiagnosed mental illness and my subsequent abuse headed the list of topics the Ripple family avoided.
“I agree,” I said.
“Hooking you up with Sam was just the beginning. Now we can spend more time together, the four of us,” she said.
“Sounds great,” I said, wishing the four of us didn’t include John.
I told Sam about Agnes after one vigorous lovemaking session, as we lay side by side exchanging confidences, our hands linked. “What do you mean, abused you?” Sam asked, turning on his side to peer at me.
He couldn’t see my burning face in the dark. I felt guilty, like I was betraying my best friend. “She was mean to me,” I said. I sounded childish and petty.
Sam hesitated, trying to choose the right words. “In what way was she mean to you?”
I sighed. “In this day and age, she would probably risk losing me,” I admitted. I was hoping to feel some sense of relief with the disclosure, but there was a lump in my throat, burning with years of unshed tears. “I mean, part of it was things were different back then, in the eighties. Corporal punishment was considered good discipline, instead of a loss of control. Kids weren’t coddled like they are today.”
“I understand,” Sam said. “But you mean something more than that, don’t you?”
“I was in college when I first realized what I had undergone could be classified as child abuse,” I said. “I took a class for my sociology major, Family Violence. Before that, I didn’t know what to call it. I always felt like it was my fault. I made her hurt me, by being clumsy and fat and stupid.”
“Don’t.” Sam’s voice was filled with pain. “Don’t say things like that about yourself.”
“I don’t believe them now, not really,” I said. “Well, maybe I do, deep down. She used to say horrible things to me. That I was fat. Worthless. A pig. Stupid. A fucking bitch. I got in trouble in school once for calling a little girl on the playground a fucking bitch. We were seven. My mother told my teacher, and I quote, I don’t know where she got that kind of language from, no one in our household talks like that. It confused me. She talked like that all the time. As I grew older, I realized there were two Agnes’s, and one didn’t seem to know what the other was doing.”
Sam took a deep breath. “Go on. Let it out. Let it all out.”
“She used to hit, too, sometimes. Not a lot. Only sometimes. She would lose control and fly into a rage. It was always me she went after. Never my father or Laurel. They both said it was because I argued with her. I tried not to, but it was impossible. She’d just start with me. I would try to ignore her and just walk away, all the things my father advised me to do, but she’d follow me, and just keep at me until I went back at her. And there’d we both be, screaming at each other, and then her hands would be around my throat.” I slid my hand up to my neck. “Or she’d start pounding me in the head. One time she kicked me in the kidneys. The next day, I’d feel the bruises, and this is how deep the denial was, I wouldn’t remember where they came from. I’d try to figure out what I did that left lumps on my head. One time I had a big swollen pink bruise on my neck from her trying to choke me, and kids at school kept asking who gave me a hickey.”
“My God,” Sam said. “Your mother was fucking crazy. You know that, right, Melody? It wasn’t your fault. You’re lucky she didn’t kill you.”
I dismissed that with a wave of my hand. “It wasn’t so bad as all that,” I assured him. I took a deep breath. “The thing that embarrassed me the most, that still fills me with shame to this very day.” The words caught in my throat. I couldn’t tell him this. The memory of my fifteen-year-old shame welled fresh within me. I could still see my bedroom, the pink walls, the exact quality of the mid-afternoon light filtering through the curtains as she advanced on me.
“Just tell me,” Sam said. “Tell someone. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“One day she burst into my bedroom. I knew as soon as I saw her face she’d morphed into evil Agnes. Her face was hard and mean. She was an attractive woman, but during those times, she looked like a witch out of a fairytale. She was holding a used maxi pad in her hand. She shoved it in my face, tried to rub it on my skin. You disgusting pig, she said. Your poor father was doing the laundry and found this stuck to the crotch of your dirty underpants. You’re a goddamn pig. If you ever do this again, I’m going to take this bloody rag down to your school, and show it to all the boys, and tell them what a disgusting pig you are. How would you like that, huh? Would you like that? The entire time she was trying to rub it on my face, and I could smell it, the rotting blood, so gross…” tears bubbled out of my eyes, dripping down my cheeks.
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