Trade Me

by Courtney Milan

  I don’t want to care. I don’t want to hurt because he hurts. But here I am, caring anyway, and it scares me. It scares me, but still, I squeeze his hand. He glances down, as if realizing for the first time that I’m touching him. That our fingers are intertwined. That the current of electricity is arcing between us uninterrupted.

  And then he lifts his head and truly looks at me. There’s a raw hunger in him, something bigger than what he’s just admitted.

  There’s a lot of truth in what my mother told me. I don’t let myself have fun. I pull away from people who could be my friends. I refuse to let people help me. And right now, I realize that Blake and I have a lot in common—a lot more than either of us can admit.

  “Do you remember when you told me that you’d bought something ridiculously luxurious, and it was a mango?” he asks. “I was so fucking jealous of you. I wished that I could feel what that was like. I wanted to want something like that. I wanted to have that so badly.”

  I don’t have answers to any of his problems. I don’t even have solutions to mine. But this one thing? This, I can handle. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get some mangoes.”

  We pull off the freeway a few miles later and follow the computer’s directions to a little grocery store. Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting in a rest stop, cutting our mangoes to bits.

  “Here,” I tell him. “Trade me. Pretend you’re me. Let me tell you what it was like when I had that mango.”

  He shuts his eyes obligingly.

  “I didn’t have a lot of money,” I tell him. “And that meant one thing and one thing only—fried rice.”

  He smiles despite himself. “Kind of a stereotype, don’t you think?”

  “Whose stereotype? Rice is peasant food for more than half the world. It’s easy. It’s cheap. You can dress it up with a lot of other things. A little bit of onion, a bag of frozen carrots and peas. A carton of eggs. With enough rice, that can last you basically forever. It does for some people.”

  “It actually sounds good.”

  “If you have a decent underlying spice cabinet, you can break up the monotony a little. Fried rice with soy sauce one day. Spicy rice the next. And then curry rice. You can fool your tongue indefinitely. You can’t fool your body. You start craving.”

  He’s sitting on the picnic table, his eyes shut.

  “For me, the thing I start craving first is greens. Lettuce. Pea shoots. Anything that isn’t coming out of a bag of frozen veggies. And fruit. If you have an extra dollar or two, you buy apples and eat them in quarters, dividing them throughout the day.”

  I slide next to him on the table. The sun is warm around us.

  “But you get sick of apples, too, pretty soon. And so that’s where I want you to imagine yourself: sick to death of fried rice. No respite. No letting up. And then suddenly, one day, someone hands you a debit card and says, ‘Hey. Here’s fifteen thousand dollars.’ No, I’m not going to buy a stupid purse. I’m going to buy this.”

  I hold up a piece of mango to his lips. He opens his mouth and the fruit slides in. His lips close on my fingers like a kiss, and I can’t bring myself to draw away. He’s warmer than the sun, and I feel myself getting pulled in, closer and closer.

  “Oh, God.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “That’s so good.”

  I feed him another slice, golden and dripping juice.

  “That’s what it felt like,” I tell him. “Like there’s a deep-seated need, something in my bones, something missing. And then you take a bite and there’s an explosion of flavor, something bigger than just the taste buds screaming, yes, yes, this is what I need.”

  I hand him another piece of mango. He bites it in half, chews, and then takes the other half.

  “That’s what it felt like,” I say. “It felt like I’d been starving myself. Like I…”

  He opens his eyes and looks at me.

  “Like there was something I needed,” I say softly. “Something I’ve needed deep down. Something I’ve been denying myself because I can’t let myself want it.” My voice trails off.

  I’m not describing the taste of mango anymore. My whole body yearns for his. For this thing I’ve been denying myself. For physical affection. For our bodies joined. For his arms around me all night.

  It’s going to hurt when he walks away.

  But you know what?

  It’ll hurt more if he walks away and we leave things like this, desperate and wanting, incomplete.

  My voice drops. “It’s like there’s someone I’ve been denying myself. All this time.”

  “Yes.” His voice is hoarse in response. “That. Always that.” And he slides his arm around me, pulls me close, and kisses me. He tastes sweet like mango. Like he’s bigger than my taste buds, like he’s precisely the luxury I have been craving. I let my eyes shut and tilt my head back, falling into his embrace.

  And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment.

  His tongue is sure against mine, touching me with insistent strokes. His hand clamps around me, holding me in place. And he holds me like I matter, like I’m the entire world.

  “I can’t touch you,” I say. “My hands are sticky.”

  “That,” he says, “is what washing machines are for.” He reaches out and takes hold of my fingers and then, very deliberately, he wipes them on his shirt. The sun is hot against my shoulders; Blake is sweet to the taste and tempting to the touch.

  I’m not sure how long we stay there, kissing in the sun and the wind, stopping only long enough to feed each other bites of fruit. Long enough for me to touch him all over, to feel his body hard and lean through his shirt. Long enough for me to lose all sense of safety.

  The air smells of new beginnings—crisp and clear, untouched by any worries. He touches me like the middle of the story, strong and sure. But despite the mango on his tongue, he tastes almost bittersweet, because the end is coming. It’s coming, but it’s not here. Not yet.

  “Let’s get home,” I tell him. “Let’s go home and find a bed.”

  I won’t be home until tomorrow morning, I text Maria as we turn up the freeway heading back to campus.

  The answer comes back shortly. Something wrong?

  I glance over at Blake. He’s driving. For the first time in…I’m not sure how long, he looks completely calm. As if he’s finally in place.

  And for all the turmoil I feel inside, I sense it too. That hint of calmness, as if in a sea of things that have gone wrong, this one thing is right.

  Nothing, I text back. I just realized you were right.

  <3! She sends back.

  And for now, that’s exactly what this is. A little texted heart, two characters. Fragile and all too breakable.

  16.

  BLAKE

  We don’t talk much on the remainder of the drive back. This thing between us is too new to be pinned down with words. But it’s contained in the feel of her hand on my thigh as we drive. The squeeze of her fingers on mine. It’s the look in her eyes, every time I glance her way—liquid, alight, as if she’s filled with the luminous light of a thousand stars.

  It’s beautiful and unsettling all at once, because I know how she feels about constellations.

  By unspoken consent, I go straight to the converted garage. She gets out when I do and comes to stand by me.

  “Hi, Tina.” Somehow, the moment seems to stretch. I pull her close, let her body fold into mine. She comes, molding against me. She told me once our lives fit together as well as Legos and puzzle pieces, but our bodies have no such problem. We work together.

  I want her. I want this. Her voice is a low, sensual caress, and I’m on fire, burning for her.

  She looks up at me. “Blake…”

  I set a finger on her lips. Not to silence her; to feel them, soft against my skin. To sense the warmth of her breath so that when she says yes, I’ll capture the feel of it on t
he palm of my hands. I imagine, briefly, that I can catch hold of it and keep it. Maybe if I do, I’ll be able to pin it down.

  “Why are we still outside?” she asks.

  “Because.” I take her hand in mine. “Your pulse is racing. Your hands are shaking. I want you to feel safe.”

  “Nothing is safe anymore.” But her hand squeezes mine. “I thought I could avoid getting hurt. I thought I could avoid caring. But I can’t.”

  She sets her other hand on my chest.

  I wish I could lie to her. I wish I could tell her that this is nothing, that she’ll never be hurt. I wish I could say that even though I’m going to take over for my dad in two weeks, we can still be something.

  But I remember Peter’s funeral all too well: the crowds. And yet…not one person from outside work. I don’t even think I’ll be able to hold on to myself when I go back. I can’t promise to hold on to her.

  “How can I make this better for you?” I ask.

  Her hand slides down my chest. “This is going to hurt no matter what we do. It’s never going to be safe. But maybe we can have something. A memory that we can keep safe, no matter what happens.”

  “I don’t want a memory,” I tell her. “I want the whole damned two weeks.”

  I want more than that. I want so much.

  Her hand slips down another inch. Her finger bisects my chest, cleaving a line through my abs. She hooks it in the waistband of my jeans and pulls me closer.

  “If we start now,” she says in a low voice, “it can be two weeks and eight hours.”

  The night seems very dark despite the lamp lighting the street. I can hear the weeds in the empty lot rustle in on a night breeze. All my senses are catching fire. The sensation of her hand, warm against my skin, inches from my groin. I slide my arm around her, pulling her close to me for a hard kiss. Her lips open to mine.

  And then there is no night. There is no lamp. There are no weeds to rustle. There’s just me and her and this shattering kiss. There’s only our hands, wrapping around each other, touching, wanting. Our bodies, closing the distance.

  She doesn’t uncurl her finger from my jeans; instead, she undoes the fastening. She takes hold of the zipper.

  “I’m undoing this on the count of three,” she says. “So if we’re not inside by then…”

  I pick her up. She lets out a little gasp, but leans against me. Her weight is welcome. It’s wanted.

  “One,” she says.

  I take her across the street.

  “Two.”

  At least she’s counting slowly. I struggle with the gate. We pass the clothesline strung in the backyard, laden with shapes that are indecipherable in the dark.

  “Three.”

  True to her word, she’s unzipped my jeans by the time I’ve managed to unlock the door. By the time we’re inside, shutting the door, her hands are on my bare hips, sliding under my boxers.

  “Tina. Wait.”

  I can’t see her face in the dark.

  “Two weeks,” she says. “And eight hours. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for.” And she slips to her knees. She takes down my boxers, and takes me in her mouth.

  I go from semi-erect to sledgehammer hard in the space of a few seconds. Her mouth is fucking hot; her hands slide up my thighs. She teases me with her tongue, tracing the head of my penis, then taking my full length again.

  “Holy fucking shit.” My hands tangle in her hair. “Tina. Jesus.”

  She pulls away briefly. “Don’t tell me to slow down.” Her voice is shaking. “I want to do this.” And then her mouth is on me, hot, sending pleasure shivering up my spine.

  “I want to do things, too,” I growl.

  In answer, her lips press around my length. The pressure intensifies. It’s so good, it takes control of me. My hips flex of their own accord. My hands tangle in her hair. My whole body tightens, tensing. I can’t take much more of this, not without blowing my load. And as much as I want that…

  It takes an act of willpower to set my hands on her shoulders, to step away.

  She looks up at me. She’s on her knees in front of me. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light filtering in through the windows.

  “Tina.” My voice is a growl. “Do I get to touch you back?”

  Her hands clench on my thighs.

  “It’s easier this way. If I don’t have to…”

  “Be vulnerable?”

  I can hear her exhale. “If I don’t have to admit that I am vulnerable.” But she looks up, and then, very slowly, she stands. “But I am.” Her voice is low. “I am, Blake.”

  “Hey.” I touch her lips. “You’re not alone.”

  She reaches out and takes my hands. “Nothing is safe,” she says, and slowly, she stands. She puts my hands on her. She slides them under her shirt, and my fingers find her skin, warm and soft and inviting.

  “Bullshit,” I say softly. “After all this time? You know how I feel. You know what I want. Maybe the rest of the world is dangerous to us. But you? Me?” I run my hands up her ribs. Her bra is soft and silky to my touch. Her nipples make hard dots against the fabric. She shivers, and I can feel her body tense all over. And then she relaxes, melting into my touch. Letting me stroke those hard points, letting that sensual desire coil between us.

  “You know the truth,” I say. “We’re not dangerous, not to each other.”

  She lets out a breath. “Not for the next two weeks and eight hours.”

  And then we’re kissing again, lips melting into each other in the dark, hands fumbling with clothing. I pull her shirt over her head. Her bra follows next. I take one of her nipples in my mouth, nibbling on it, licking. Feeling her whole body flush with warm pleasure. She lets out little gasps.

  She lets me undo her jeans, and then takes my hands in hers and guides them between her legs.

  Touching her, sliding my fingers through her folds in the dark, discovering the slick feel of her desire, is everything. She lets me slip a finger inside her, lets me feel the heat of her clamped around me. Then she takes my other hand and shows me where to touch her—right there, lightly brushing that hard bundle of nerves. She shows me how to make her breath catch, how to make her body writhe, how to make her throw her head back.

  She shows me all the ways she’s vulnerable to me.

  There’s a condom in my wallet. I tilt the face into the moonlight spilling through the windows, long enough to check the date briefly—it’s still good—before handing it over to her.

  She opens the packet and then slowly unrolls it down my length. Her fingers are warm against me, so good.

  “I want you so much,” I say.

  She looks up at me. “Come and have me.”

  I pull her onto the bed with me and kiss her. She’s naked against my skin; her body presses against mine. She undoes the last buttons of my shirt, pulling it off, and then there’s nothing between us at all. Nothing but the heat of her breath—and then, as I take her mouth with mine, nothing at all. We’re skin to skin, our bodies pressed together. She wraps a leg around me, exposing her core.

  She’s wet, so fucking wet. And after all this time, it’s easy, so easy, to adjust myself, to slide into her inch by heated inch. To claim her body as her hands drift to my chest.

  She does something with her muscles, squeezing my cock, and I let out a breath.

  And then I do what she showed me—finding that rhythm of my body, that spot she responded to. I want her to know that everything she gives me, everything we have… I’ll never use it to hurt her.

  I try to take it slow. But when I get it right, the response is electric. There’s this one angle—I hit it, and she lets her breath out. Her body tenses around mine and her hips rise.

  “There,” she says. “That’s it.” And we’re both lost in the slide of flesh, the give and take. The harder I go, the more she responds, until she’s gasping, until I can hardly breathe, either. Until we’re both nothing but flames. Her body clenches hard around mine. She lets out a
little noise and then a longer moan. I let everything go—every worry, every unfulfilled lust, every last desire. I come hard, pumping into her, and she holds me.

  “You have a tattoo,” I say to her.

  Half an hour later, after a little clean up, we’re still naked. We’re still touching each other because I can’t get enough of the feel of her. We’re still kissing, long and slow. We’re just recharging temporarily.

  And she does have a tattoo—a little molecule on her left ankle.

  “I got it a year ago,” she says. “Maria and I have matching tattoos. We got them after we got through Organic together.”

  Funny that there’s still so much I don’t know about her. Funny that I want to know it all, to fit it into one night together. Funny that we’re not talking about the things that matter, even though we are.

  “Is Maria premed too? I didn’t realize that.”

  “Nope. She tapped out after Organic. She said it was too much boring memorization for her. So she decided to be an actuary instead.”

  “Words that have never before been spoken: ‘Organic chemistry is too boring; let’s become actuaries.’”

  Tina touches my shoulder and lets her hand fall down my arm. “So what about yours? When did you get it?”

  “When I was eighteen.” I turn my arm to show her. “If you pop open a first generation Cyclone Tempest and take out the shielding plate, this is what you’ll find. Magnified by about a thousand percent. It was the first product I really worked on.”

  “So you designed this?” Her fingers trace the circuitry.

  “Nope. My input is higher level than circuit design. But I got this to remind myself that wherever I go, whatever I do, Cyclone will always be under my skin.”

  My voice falls. I’m not sure how to go forward from here. I’m not sure how to face what comes after these two weeks. Cyclone is in me—but knowing I have to go back makes me feel restless even now.