Give, a novel

by Erica Carpenter Witsell

  “Emma,” Katherine whispered against her lips. “Stop.”

  It took all of Emma’s will to stop her fingers, to bring them back to rest on the sides of Katherine’s neck, where she held her gently. “Why?”

  “We can’t. Not here.”

  “Why?” Emma said again. She looked around them. “There’s no one here.” She moved one hand down the side of Katherine’s body, felt her palm graze the outer curve of her breast. She heard Katherine’s sharp intake of breath, and taking it for assent, she began to cup her hand around it.

  Katherine’s hand stopped her, and for a second Emma felt the first dark tendrils of despair. Was it to be over so soon, she thought. It had been impossible to believe, really, that a girl like this would let Emma touch her.

  But Katherine did not let go of her hand, just moved it gently to her waist. She moved in to kiss Emma, her tongue dipping between her lips. “Not here,” she whispered.

  “Where?”

  As soon as Emma’s apartment door closed behind them, Katherine was in her arms, her body pushing against her. Emma’s hands reached for her: her face, her neck, her shoulders. She moved them down the sides of Katherine’s body to her waist and left them there. Emma did not want to be rebuked again; she felt she couldn’t bear it. When, after a moment, Katherine touched her hand, Emma’s stomach fell, but she was not surprised. Katherine’s face against hers, her rapid breaths, the tight curves of her body beneath her hands—it was all the stuff of dreams. If this were to be the end so soon, well, that was the way of dreams.

  But Katherine did not step away. Instead, she moved Emma’s hand with her own until it was pressed against the fullness of her breast. She let out a soft moan, and Emma felt Katherine’s nipple harden beneath her palm. Emma let out her breath.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said softly.

  “Can’t believe what?”

  “You. You’re so . . . beautiful.”

  “Shhh.”

  “You are.”

  “Shhh.”

  Emma smiled and whispered in her ear, but after that neither of them spoke.

  That night, after Katherine had gone, Emma lay awake in bed. She felt electrified. It was all real, it had happened right here, and yet it all felt so incredible, so unlikely. That Katherine—so petite, lithe, feminine, soft—that such a woman should have been here, in Emma’s bed, offering herself to Emma, pushing against her, wanting her . . . Emma had never expected it. Her skin prickled, remembering. It didn’t make sense to her, this desire. Every part of Katherine that she had ached to touch was known to her, and yet nothing had ever felt so forbidden, so unexplored.

  Katherine had let Emma touch her everywhere. She had wanted her to. Emma’s heart beat fast to think of it. When Emma had slipped her finger inside her, Emma had gasped at how wet she was. It was a marvel to her, that Katherine could want her so.

  But then in the middle of things, Emma had had to pee.

  “Don’t move,” she’d said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Katherine had pulled her back down next to her and slid her hand beneath the crotch of Emma’s underwear, moving her fingertips softly against the wetness there.

  “Wait. I just have to—” Emma murmured.

  Katherine smiled. “I know. Just don’t wipe all this away, please.”

  Emma shook her head, remembering. All the adjectives that came to mind—incredible, marvelous, fantastic—seemed suddenly so literal, so apt. That Katherine might delight in Emma’s desire as she delighted in Katherine’s was impossible to believe: a marvel, the stuff of fantasy. Emma switched on the light. She felt giddy with joy and awe. She glanced at the clock, reached for her phone, and dialed her sister’s number. She had to talk to somebody or she would burst.

  CHAPTER 39

  Emma

  Emma thought that Katherine was far better at being a girl than she was. She shaved her legs every other day and washed her hair and blew it dry on the days she didn’t. She kept a bin full of skin creams and hair products below her sink, a good pair of tweezers in her medicine cabinet. Most of her bras were trimmed in lace and she owned several pairs of thongs, which she wore to work when her pants were sheer and she didn’t want the outline of her underwear to show.

  Emma discovered this by surprise one evening when Katherine agreed to meet her in the Mission after work for dinner. Katherine had a job in the city, editing websites for a new dot-com, often not leaving the office until close to six.

  That evening, she had come straight to the Salvadoran restaurant where they had agreed to meet, putting her work bag on the chair beside her and smiling at Emma across the table.

  “Did you order for us already?” she said.

  “Yes. Pupusas. And fried plantains.”

  “Good girl.”

  Back at Katherine’s apartment afterwards, Emma slipped her hand up Katherine’s skirt. She started when she felt the bare skin there.

  “Are you wearing a thong?” Emma asked in surprise.

  “Yeah. Don’t you ever?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “So you don’t have panty lines.”

  “Oh.” Emma had never once given a thought to panty lines. She ran her thumbs over Katherine’s bare skin. “Aren’t they uncomfortable?”

  “You get used to them.”

  Emma pulled Katherine’s skirt up and held her bottom in both hands. Katherine kissed her deeply.

  “You know what else?” Katherine asked, pulling away, her face close.

  “What?”

  “They’re also sexy.”

  Emma smiled. “You’re such a good girl,” she murmured. “But I want to spank you anyway.” And she gave Katherine’s bottom a soft swat with the palm of her hand.

  Please let this never end, she thought.

  Katherine loved lots of girl things, too: poetry and yoga, soy lattes and cashmere sweaters, swing dancing and the ocean. She had a younger sister who lived in San Jose, and one weekend a month Katherine would drive to the South Bay to visit her.

  “What do you two do together?” Emma asked one Sunday evening in March as they sat together on the couch in Emma’s apartment. Katherine had just gotten back from San Jose, and Emma still felt a little stung that she had not been invited to join them. She was used to spending Sundays with Katherine; the day had felt long and empty without her.

  “Nothing much,” Katherine said. “Go to brunch and get pedicures, usually.”

  Emma glanced at Katherine’s perfect toes. She had thought she painted them herself.

  “Can I confess I’ve never had a pedicure?” she said.

  Katherine’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “Wow. Well, what kinds of things do you do with your sister, then?”

  Emma smiled, imagining Jessie’s reaction if she suggested they get pedicures. “A bike ride? A hike? Definitely not a pedicure.”

  The next morning, Emma stayed in bed, watching Katherine get ready. Normally, Emma would be out the door for work before Katherine even rose, but today was a rare teacher workday. She stretched out on the crisp sheets, savoring the leisure of a morning when she didn’t have to be in front of the school for bus duty at quarter till eight.

  She watched as Katherine fingered some sort of product into her hair.

  “Katherine,” she said. “You really are good at being a girl. I still can’t believe you’re a dyke.” She had heard Katherine refer to herself that way countless times, but Emma still stumbled a little over the word.

  Katherine glanced at her in the mirror. “That’s exactly what my mom says.” She laughed wryly. “But you should know better. Dykes are girls. Just girls who like girls.”

  “I know, I know. But you know what I mean. You’re not your typical dyke.”

  “Why? Because I’m fem? You’re fem, too. You just don’t do your hair.”

  “Or get pedicures.”

&n
bsp; Katherine laughed. “I’m sure there are lots of fem dykes who don’t get pedicures. Trust me, you’re fem.”

  Emma shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not as fem as you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Katherine said. “I think you are.”

  “No way. I don’t wear makeup.”

  “I only wear lipstick,” Katherine protested. “And eyeliner.”

  “I don’t wear thongs. And I don’t shave my legs.”

  “You don’t?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t shave your legs? At all?”

  “You haven’t noticed?”

  “Not really . . . You really don’t shave?”

  “Why is that so surprising? I just wax them every once in a while.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I had a friend in high school who was an exchange student from Spain. We ran track together. She told me that none of the girls shaved in Spain, just waxed. I said I wanted to try it, so she showed me.”

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Not once you get used to it.” She grinned at Katherine. “Sort of like thongs, I guess.”

  Katherine shot her a look. “And did anything ever happen between you and . . .”

  “Crisanta? No. It wasn’t like that. I never thought about it.”

  “But she waxed your legs? That’s pretty intimate.”

  “She just helped me, the first time. But it wasn’t like that. Not what you’re thinking.”

  It was true; there had been nothing more than friendship between her and Crisanta. But Emma could clearly remember her friend sitting next to her in her underwear, her long brown legs stretched out in front of her, the muscles of her calves tensing as she ripped off the muslin strips. She could almost hear the little wince of pain she had made and then her voice, “Like this? See? It only hurts one moment. Do you want that I do it?”

  Emma had nodded, watching as Crisanta had carefully spread the hot wax down Emma’s leg with a wooden spatula and then put the strip of muslin in place.

  Crisanta had run her palm up and down the strip several times, pushing the fabric firmly against Emma’s skin.

  “Lista?”

  Emma had nodded again, and Crisanta had gripped the corner with her fingers and quickly torn it away. Immediately, she had clasped her cool palm over the skin where the wax had been.

  Emma had called out with the pain. “Jesus!”

  “It hurts only one moment.”

  Crisanta had kept her hand on Emma’s leg, pressing firmly against the tender skin. “Okay now?”

  Emma had nodded, and as Crisanta took her hand away, she had felt a surge of tenderness for the other girl. It hadn’t been desire. Back then, Emma had not even thought to wonder if it were. But there was something about how unabashedly Crisanta had pulled off her pants in front of her, the easy, automatic way she had reached out to ease Emma’s pain. Katherine was right—it had been intimate. The intimacy of it had thrilled Emma even then, who had felt that she had never been touched in quite that way before.

  Katherine stepped closer to the bed, brushing Emma’s cheek with the back of her hand.

  She smiled. “Where’d you go?”

  Emma looked up at her. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “About Crisanta?” Katherine teased.

  Emma shrugged, grinning. “Not like that, Kat,” she said. She reached up and grasped Katherine’s wrist. “What time do you have to be at work?”

  Katherine showed Emma a new way of existing in the world. Frugality had always come naturally to Emma. When she went out to eat, she invariably chose the cheapest thing on the menu, and she never ordered a drink. She shopped at Goodwill, mostly, and discount stores, occasionally; most of her pleasure in the things she owned came from how little she had paid for them. She almost never shopped for the specific ingredients of meals she planned to make; she bought what was on sale and then invented dishes from the things she found in the fridge.

  But it wasn’t just money that she was frugal about. If she bought a bagel, she scraped off most of the cream cheese; she never put butter on her toast. She did indulge her sweet tooth, but even that she did sparingly: when she ate M&Ms, she bit them in half and ate the pieces one by one. She didn’t scoop ice-cream into a dish; she carved a spoonful directly from the carton and licked it off the spoon, making it last.

  Katherine, on the other hand, knew how to indulge. She had less money than Emma but spent it more easily. She wore a nice pair of black leather boots and drove a newish black Toyota Camry. The first time Emma rode in it, she had marveled at the glossy paint and clean interior and had guessed that Katherine had money. Only later did she learn that, no, she had car payments.

  Emma also learned that other people—even people with limited funds—did not follow the strict rules of deprivation that governed her own life. When she and Katherine met once for coffee at her favorite coffee shop, Katherine ordered a double decaf soy latte. Emma ordered mint tea, which Katherine insisted on paying for.

  “It’s only a dollar, for goodness’ sake,” she said when Emma protested, digging in her wallet for change. “I think I can afford it.” The first time Katherine watched her scrape the cream cheese off her bagel, she added it to her own.

  “You’re crazy,” she said. “That’s the best part.”

  Every Tuesday morning, Katherine stopped for coffee at a small Chinese-owned donut shop on her way to work.

  “It gives me something to look forward to on Monday,” she explained, pulling up to the curb. “Do you want anything?”

  Emma shook her head and waited in the car while Katherine went inside. She came back with a lidded paper cup and a small brown bag.

  “I got you a donut, anyway,” she smiled.

  Emma could not remember the last time she had had a donut. It might have been in junior high, when the cafeteria ladies sold donuts in the morning as a school fund-raiser.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “You have it.”

  “I got myself one, too. And I definitely don’t want to eat both of them. Come on. Just try it. Here,” she said, popping the top off the steaming coffee. “Dip it in here. It’s really good.”

  Obediently, Emma dipped the donut in the coffee and quickly took a bite. It dripped coffee on her jeans, but, oh, was it good.

  “Okay,” she said. “You’re right.”

  Katherine smiled at her. “I told you.” She took her own bite of donut. “You know, Emma, you really ought to let yourself enjoy life a little more.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma asked, indignant. “I enjoy life plenty. I think I enjoy life more than most people do.”

  Katherine considered this for a moment. Finally, she put the last of her donut into her mouth and said, “I guess you’re right. In a lot of ways, you do. But, come on. You liked it, right?”

  Emma smiled. “I liked it.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Emma

  One Wednesday evening, two months after they had first met, Katherine came over to Emma’s apartment for dinner. Later, making out on the bed, Emma moved so that she lay on top of Katherine, then pushed her pelvis hard against her.

  “God,” she muttered, her teeth clenched. “I just want to fuck you.”

  Afterwards, as they lay together, Emma traced circles around Katherine’s bare breasts with one fingertip. Katherine drew in her breath.

  “You can if you want, you know.”

  “Can what?”

  “Fuck me.”

  Emma raised herself up on one elbow.

  “Didn’t you come?”

  Katherine laughed. “Yes. I didn’t mean that.” Then she hesitated. “What you said before . . . ‘I want to fuck you.’ I wasn’t sure what you meant. I just thought maybe you meant . . . you know.”

  “You mean, I could fuck you with—”

  “A dildo? Yeah.”

  Emma sat up in surprise. “Do you have one?”

  Katherine shook her head. “No. But we could get one.�
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  Emma lay back down beside Katherine. “Okay. If you want to.”

  “Do you?”

  Emma grinned. “I think so. I mean, yeah.”

  “Okay then. Let’s.”

  The following Sunday afternoon, they went to Good Vibrations on Shattuck Avenue in south Berkeley.

  “I’ve biked by here before,” Emma said. “I always thought it was a surf shop.”

  Katherine laughed. “You’re funny.”

  Inside, a petite woman with delicately spiked hair and a nose ring greeted them.

  “Hello, ladies. Can I help you find anything?”

  Emma glanced at Katherine and took a small step back.

  “We’re just going to look around, if that’s okay,” Katherine said. She reached for Emma’s hand.

  “Of course. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  Katherine seemed totally unembarrassed. She led Emma past the edible underwear, the feminist porn, and a display of brightly colored vibrators with little white placards that said, “Try me!”

  “They can’t mean—” Emma said.

  “Of course not, silly. They just mean turn them on.”

  “Turn them on?”

  Katherine laughed. “Yes, turn them on. Like you turn on an appliance.”

  They found the dildos along the back wall. There were over a dozen to choose from: big ones, little ones, straight ones, wavy ones, plain ones, colorful ones.

  “Well,” Katherine said at last. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know about this.” Under each dildo was a little description, complete with the material the dildo was made from, and the price. Emma looked closer. Eighty-seven dollars!

  “I don’t know about this,” she said again.

  Katherine turned to face her. “I thought you wanted to.”

  “I did. It’s just . . . I didn’t expect so many choices, I guess.”