THREE
Rue
Friday...
Dan's car hasn’t come back all week. He's not just avoiding me this time. He's gone.
The last few stragglers filter into orchestra practice with the bell and awkward notes bounce around the room as violins tune. I stare absently out the window. Naked tree branches shiver against the steel sky. Voices drop to murmurs after the second bell rings and I tug out my sheet music. Pachelbel's Fucking Canon. I'm not sure why I even need sheet music at all. There doesn't exist a more mind-numbing cello part.
I start us off by playing eight quarter notes. The other instruments join in one by one, adding layers to the harmony. Then they take off, diverging into their own lovely melodies. Everyone gets a solo but me. I’m just there, underneath them.
For six minutes, I bow that same progression over and over again. Eight notes repeated fifty four times. I know because I counted. It’s not like I had anything else to do.
Hannah drags me to the mall after practice to meet up with Kayla and Davina. We’d all been in the same Gifted and Talented program in middle school. Once we got to St. Anthony’s, their interests shifted toward shoplifting makeup from Sephora. By the end of freshman year, they’d stopped calling me entirely—another memo Hannah missed in Missouri.
With my cello strapped to my back, there’s a good foot of hard-shell case sticking up above my head. Shoppers wander through the gleaming marble lobby, distractedly swinging bags from their wrists. Children dart in front of me and I have to lurch to a stop. I start to sweat under my parka.
When we get to the overpriced smoothie stand, I fish a few crumpled bills out of my pocket for a Spazzy Razzy Berry Blaster. At a nearby table, Kayla stretches her bare legs out onto a chair. Her skirt is rolled up so high I’m not sure why she even bothered wearing one at all. Honey-blonde hair fans over her shoulder as she waves Hannah over.
Beside Kayla sits Davina, thumbs typing feverishly on her phone. When she notices us approaching, she tucks it away into her purse. The burgundy weave fading up from the ends of her box-braids matches her clean-edged lipstick. Unlike Kayla, she doesn’t even feign interest that I tagged along.
Davina still takes AP classes, and she and I are two of the few students who contribute to the “diversity” of the courses. This hasn’t made us allies. I think she considers me competition. We’d been tied for valedictorian until a fateful B+ on her Wuthering Heights term paper last semester.
Kayla, on the other hand, took a “path of least resistance” approach to high school. The fact that she barely scrapes a 3.0 leads me to think she isn’t even trying. With her party-girl reputation, not many people seem to remember how smart she really is.
Voices echo in an even roar while we sit chewing our straws in the food court. The freshest St. A’s gossip revolves around a junior named Crystal, caught on video chugging a bottle of cough syrup in the girls’ bathrooms. No one seems particularly concerned with the fact that she’d gotten wasted at school, but rather, how she’d chosen to get there. The shaky video ended up getting posted by Worst WTs—a cruel but popular blog devoted to leveling “white trash” accusations against St. Anthony’s students. While the site is anonymously updated, I’ve always suspected Davina to be the author.
When the conversation switches to boys, I scratch at raspberry seeds lodged between my teeth.
"You didn't tell me you got a ride from Daniel Cole!" Kayla shouts, play-punching Hannah in the shoulder.
"His eyes," Davina says knowingly. "I always thought he looked like a poet. But you know, a hot poet."
Hannah had been living with her dad when Dan attended St. A’s. This is a fact that seems to irk her, as though she were robbed of some critical opportunity.
Kayla and Davina begin talking over one another as they interrogate Hannah for details:
"Tell us tell us tell us—did you do anything?"
"I mean, you were in his car."
"That's where, like, at least half the girls in his year lost their V-card."
"At least."
"I dunno," Hannah says around the mangled end of her straw.
The sound of desperate slurping erupts, last chunks of fruit waiting obstinately at the bottoms of plastic cups. Rather than say any more, Hannah just blushes.
"Well…like.” Kayla sounds exasperated. “But how far did you get?"
"We just talked.” Hannah says coyly. “That's all."
"Yeah, for seven minutes," I mumble. Exactly the length of time it takes to drive to your house.
"Sorry, Soph!" Kayla slaps a hand over her mouth. "Didn’t mean to gross you out. I know he’s, like, your brother or whatever."
My chair legs screech back from the table. "He's not my brother."
A few disgruntled glares shoot my way as I haphazardly swing my cello case up onto my back. I'm barely through the automatic doors when my phone vibrates. Hannah already. I ignore the call.
Very little snow remains, just melting heaps on grass or hard-packed ice crusting corners, but a frigid wind howls as I thud down at the bus stop. The cold scratches at my face until I feel pink and chapped. Even though the days are getting longer, it feels like all color has fled the world today.
The unrelenting dreariness makes it hard to miss a turquoise Chevrolet turning the corner. It almost looks too bright to be allowed.
“Sophia! Hey!” Stuart Eichler bobs toward me.
Fantastic. When I glance back across the street, Dan’s panel truck is gone.
“Listen.” Stuart adjusts his backpack. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
I want to say, I know. I don’t. Instead I say, “Sorry. I’ve been really busy.”
“It’s just—” He gulps. “Well prom tickets just went on sale and I thought…you know. For old time’s sake, maybe—”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to prom.”
He looks hurt. “You mean you don’t wanna go with me.”
“Oh my god.” I bury my head in my hands. “You do remember that we broke up, right?”
“I know. But that was last year and—”
“Yeah. That was last year. And nothing’s changed.” I stand up. “Goodbye, Stuart.”
My neck jerks as he grabs my sleeve. “Wait! Just—”
“Let go,” I say, annoyed, and try to shake him off.
“Just hear me out.” His grip tightens.
Horns blare and tires screech to a stop. Angry drivers shout. Dan marches through stalled traffic, eyes blazing. In the middle of the street, his truck sits abandoned.
“Hey!” he shouts.
“Dan, it’s fine,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.
He shoves Stuart, hard, and Stuart stumbles back.
“Dan, stop it.”
It only takes one more push to knock Stuart to the ground.
When I try to pull Dan back, I’m stunned by how strong he is. His arms don’t even budge when I tug. On the ground, Stuart’s eyes widen.
“Get out of here,” Dan tells him, voice heavy with danger.
Panicked, Stuart scrambles up and takes several unsteady steps back. His gaze darts between us for the space of a breath before he takes off.
“Come on, Soph.” Dan’s still watching Stuart disappear into the distance.
“No.”
He turns to me, eyes hard. “Just get in the car.”
“No,” I say again, crossing my arms.
We fall into a staring contest and there’s another eruption of honking.
“Aren’t you going to do something about that?” I point to his truck. The door is still hanging open.
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“Yes, you are.” I turn on my heel and start walking away toward the next bus stop.
To Dan’s credit, he doesn’t try to pull me back. At least he isn’t a hypocrite. As a matter of pride, I don’t look back. I take it as a victory when he doesn’t follow me. When the first few drops fall, I assume I imagined them. Spots soon darken the pavement and I start to hear rain thudding onto the hood of my parka. An engine shudders in the street beside me.
“Soph. Come on.” His truck slows to a crawl.
I ignore him.
“Sophie.”
Raindrops ping off his windshield. When I finally look up, his eyes might as well be mirrored sunglasses.
“I’m fine; thanks.”
"Please…" His voice is lower now. "Let me drive you."
This time, I see something flicker but I don't know what it is. Probably garden variety damsel shit. Rainwater seeps into my Converses and my hair is getting damp even through my hood, but it’s not as if I’m going to die. The bus stop is just at the end of the block. Besides, at this point, holding my ground is a personal statement. I won't go hopping into his Chevy just because he asked nicely.
The bus wheezes by and I don’t make it to the stop in time.
“Sophie.” He honks gently a few times. “You can’t walk all the way home.”
“Actually, I think I can.” It would take more than two hours, but I’ve done it before.
“It’s raining.”
“It’s not as cold anymore.”
“It will be. Come on, you don’t have to talk to me, just please let me drive you home.”
I turn around and he lets off the gas.
“I know I don’t have to talk to you,” I say. “In fact, talking to you hasn’t really been an option recently.”
“Shit.” He slides the heels of his palms up his forehead then turns the key in the ignition. The engine grumbles off. Rain lands heavy on the sidewalk, soaking through my coat into my sweater. Windshield wipers squeak as I climb into the passenger’s seat.
“Sophie.” His eyes stay fixed on his knees. “I don’t know what to say. I’m really fucking sorry.”
“Just drive me home.”
When the car starts up again, I twist away to watch raindrops carve trails down the window. My fingers trace a daisy into the frost, then wipe it away. Brake lights glow red through the haze. The only sound comes from the occasional tick of his turn signal. Then from the buzzing of my phone. It’s a text from Stuart. I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you. Then, Can you please call me? Followed by, Or maybe we could meet up without your crazy brother around.
I turn my phone off and the screen goes black.
We pull onto East End and roll to a stop. I leave my cello in the back and slam the door behind me. Instead of turning up to the porch, I cross the yard to the side basement door. Through the windshield I see Dan scrubbing his face with his hands.
The driver’s side door closes with a creak and he crosses the scrappy lawn. He doesn’t even look at me as he jiggles his key in the lock. Without a word, he steps inside, down the stairs, but his door hangs open. When I close it behind me, the room is dark.
It feels like we’re stuck again in a dead heat. There don’t seem to be any winning moves left.
“Are you really sorry about what happened?” I say.
He finally looks at me, brows tightened with regret. “Yes. God.” He runs a hand through his hair, letting it hang on the back of his neck. The gesture hikes up his shirt. Messy block letters spell out Latin text across his abdomen. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”
“You sound like an asshole.” I tear off my parka and descend the last steps.
He looks surprised.
“You’re talking like—” My voice rises with frustration. “Like that was all just you. Like I didn’t have any say in it at all. If I’d wanted you to stop, I would have said so.”
“I didn’t know… I could hear it when I… I hurt you.”
“What hurt,” I say, and my throat is dry, “Was you running away without saying anything. Again.”
The force of my words hits him hard. His teeth pull at his bottom lip, and I’m struck to see him so out of sorts. Dan’s never been short on a come back before.
When he finally speaks, his voice is so low I can barely hear it.
“I didn’t think…” He gulps. “I knew you were on the Pill so I just sort of assumed…”
“I take it for cramps,” I say then shake my head. “That's not the point.”
“If I'd known…”
“Then what?” My back straightens. “What would have been different?”
Something flares behind Dan’s flustered exterior. “Well I wouldn’t have…”
“You wouldn’t have what? Say it.”
His eyes smolder and the distance between us shrinks. “If I'd known—” His voice is quiet but I can almost feel his breath on my cheek. “I wouldn't have fucked you like that.”
I hold his gaze, defiant. “How would you have fucked me?”
Some cousin of a laugh spills softly from him and he presses his forehead into mine. The laugh turns into a yearning groan. “This is so fucked up, Sophia.”
Fingers snake up into my hair, twirling and then tightening. I swallow back a gasp. His eyelids flicker. Then his hand drops and he steps back.
“God.” He wipes a hand over his mouth. “This is so fucked up.”
“Yeah well—” I try for that assertive voice again but my gaze drops to the carpet. “Maybe we're pretty fucked up. We have that in common.”
Silence billows between us. When I gather the courage to look back up at him, the corners of his lips point faintly upward. First he takes one step closer, then two. Each one feels like a dare. I don’t pull away.
“I wanna know something,” he murmurs.
The tips of his fingers graze my sleeve and I try not to inhale too sharply. He continues in a voice so quiet, it's almost like a memory.
“Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?”
My jaw slackens and my lips part. His hand travels up the front of my blouse. It would be easy to say no if I ever have. Sometimes you can’t control what pops into your head—upcoming math tests, the fact that your room needs cleaning, the guy who lives downstairs, who you aren’t supposed to think about that way. But math tests and messy rooms never made my muscles tighten.
The fact that I don't answer right away tells him everything.
"Do you?" I say back.
Dan closes his eyes and breathes me in. “I tried so hard not to.” When he speaks again, his lips brush my cheek: “But every time I look at you, god…” His body sways against me. “I get so hard.”
My skin flushes from the heat of him so near, the feeling of his fingers brushing gently around my waist. No words come to my lips. I know he’s telling the truth, because the front of his jeans feels firm against me.
His whisper tickles my ear. “You should get on the bed.”
A palm on my shoulder lowers me to the sheets, onto my back. My blood pounds in my ears. He kneels, hovering above me, and undoes one of my blouse buttons. Then another. Each breath comes quicker, shallower. When my shirt falls open, my heart thuds so hard I can see it hammering in my chest.
Slowly, carefully, he reaches behind his neck and tugs off his shirt. I watch his torso unfold before me. Actioni contrariam semper et æqualem esse reactionem, reads the inscription beneath the comma of his navel. Black fern leaves spike around his right side. Arrows and acronyms scatter the space in between. Over his ribcage, I spot something that isn’t a tattoo—jagged white scars.
Before I have time to dwell, his lips press the side of my mouth. A hand curls under my thigh as his kisses wander south; my neck, my breasts, the soft skin above my waistband. I take a sharp breath when he rolls my panties down with my leggings.
“You don't have to—” I say, breathless.
“I want to.” He catches my gaze and pulls back my skirt.
His mouth is warm between my legs and I gasp on contact. I feel his satin tongue press against my clit. The sheets bunch under my fingers. Sudden jolts erupt from my center, arching my back and twitching in my stomach. Dan moans against me and I feel it more than I hear it—gentle vibrations radiating out to my edges.
My body begins to ripple, begging for him against me. Inside me. I try to say I want him but my lips can only moan.
One finger slides into me. Then another. The tease of it sharpens me to a point.
My bra peels down and his wet mouth swirls over my nipple. Each pass of his tongue sends a tremor through me. Nerves crackle electric. My thighs tighten.
Lacing his fingers into mine, he slowly guides my hand down his torso, past his belt, onto the bulge at the front of his jeans. I touch him through denim. Then I struggle to unlatch his belt. It’s hard to focus with his fingers circling between my legs. My arms twitch as I pull down his pants.
The term “getting hard” strikes me suddenly profound. He’s stiffer, harder than I ever could have imagined. His rippling edges might have been carved out of marble but he’s warm and impossibly smooth. When I slip my hand down his length, his fingers press me harder. My back curves.
I want… A word floats up from my chest. I never wanted to say it before but now it's the only word I want to say. Cock. Right now, it’s the only word that matters. “I want your cock.”
Dan draws a ragged breath in my ear. “Say it again.”
“I want your cock,” I moan.
He kisses me hard, holding back until my fever feels desperate. Without even looking, he fishes a condom out of his bedside table. Anticipation stretches me tight. Finally, I feel him closing into me.
It isn't like last time. In one push, he drives deep and I cry out. Fast and then slow, he lingers at the apex of every thrust, penetrating me farther. I feel his pulse, his heat, his every breath. We move together in ecstatic rhythm.
His hands are everywhere at once, exploring my hills and valleys. I grasp his back like a drowning person would a life preserver. Rare vulnerability spills from him. I hear his every rapturous groan. Feel how his shoulders quake with pleasure. Face buried in my neck, sweat like dew shivering down his back, his passion is laid bare.
I twist my legs around him and pull him deep. Arms muscled like rope, dusky with tattoos, envelope me tight. His body feels delicious. A wave crests inside me. He fucks me faster, harder, until I have to give voice to it.
“Yes,” I moan, and he echoes me. “Yes,” we pass it back and forth. Yes.
Cold air rushes my lungs as I gasp. My every nerve flashes and sparks at once. I grasp him tight, contracting, and moan into his shoulder. He pushes into my limit and his call comes throaty, like a laugh but better.
I did that!
His smiling lips kiss mine.
We surrender to our shuddering muscles. There's a twitch in my neck even now, a jerk in my leg. Teeth graze my ear in a playful bite and a few leftover chirps escape my swollen lips.
Once more, Dan presses his forehead to mine. Eyes as clear and green and infinite as Great Lakes glow. It's a rare moment when they match the rest of his face. There's no edge of snark or irony in his smile now. It's delicate, transparent.
He gives me one soft kiss like a punctuation mark. A period, or maybe an ellipses. I pull him to me one last time and kiss him deep—an exclamation point.
The room gets darker as the clouds shift but neither of us gets up to turn on a lamp. We spend ages threading our hands together and investigating new corners of each other’s bare skin. Dan tells me the origin stories of his tattoos. Angstier “stick n’ pokes”, such as the skull on his middle finger and the letters FTW inside his forearm, were among his first. Acquisitions from his year in reform school. The sparrow on his hand had been a celebratory marker of finally getting out.
“Before I left high school, I used to just stand in front of the bathroom mirror for hours inking myself.”
“I wondered about that.” I laugh. “I guess I just thought you were jacking off or something.”
“Yeah well…” He chuckles. “Probably a little of that too.”
I’m surprised to learn that the simple X on his ring finger is actually a rune, gebo. Stroking his lower torso, I impress him by working out the correct translation: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton’s third law of motion.
“That’s the reason we can feel things,” he says. “When we touch something, it presses back on us. You can’t hit something without it hitting you back just as hard. Even, like, a wall.”
Seeing my skin so close to his, I'm surprised to see that he's tanner than I am.
“Not fair,” I say. “I'm supposed to be the half Puerto Rican one.”
“Yeah you look like you should be tan and then, just, aren't.”
“That's funny.” I burrow closer into his chest, slipping my fingers in and out of his. “I always thought the same thing about you.”
He doesn't speak for a second and I can tell he's chewing on something.
“Can I ask, by the way? Your dad?"
“Um, basically—” I try to decide how to summarize it. “So when I was seven, there was this factory accident.”
“Shit…” he breathes.
“It didn't kill him.” I shake my head. “Nothing like that. But he ended up on disability and he was taking a lot of painkillers. After that, things just kind of…” I flutter my hand in the universal symbol for “completely fell apart.”
“Is he still around? Like, in town?”
“No. I think his family moved back to San Juan after the GM layoffs.”
After that, we don't say anything for a while and I find myself unconsciously tracing the raised lines on his ribs.
“Broken bottle,” Dan says and I pull back my hand, embarrassed. “Long time ago.” He smiles, but it's a Dan-Smile. The kind he wears like a mask. “Anyway. There’s a reason I know you can tan.”
“Oh yeah?”
His thumb swipes over my nipple and my hips twist—a quiver of renewed wanting.
“They’re dark,” he says. “Not pink.”
“Oh yeah. I guess so.”
Some force of magnetism awakens and I feel our bodies pulling together. His hand slides again between my thighs. My back arches.
Upstairs, a door slams—but it's early, not even eight yet. I check the clock on my phone just to be sure. It buzzes in my hand: MOMSTER.
“Shit.” I sit up, wiping the hair out of my face, and ignore the call. “I think she's home.”
Footsteps creak on the stairs above before I have time to visually locate my far-flung clothes. Panic stretches in my chest.
“Sophia! Sophia, are you down there?”
In one quick move, Dan powers on his XBox. The demo sequence to a fighting game starts to play, filling the room with stilted one-liners and magical sword sound effects. “Door's locked,” he reminds me in an undertone.
“Sophia?” Mom's knuckles beat against the door. “Are you down there?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I shout back. “Just playing XBox.”
“Well. Can you come upstairs?”
I reach over the edge of the futon to find my underwear. Dan pulls me back.
“We're in the middle of a game,” he tells her.
“Yeah sorry!” I say, catching on. “I'll be up as soon as this is finished.”
His mouth finds mine again while my mom continues to pester from the other side of the locked door.
“How long's that gonna take?”
“I dunno.” I temporarily pull away from the kiss. “Just a little bit longer.”
The stairs groan again as she retreats and Dan flips me onto my back. Neither of us can stop laughing but that doesn't stop us.
“Round Two!” the videogame announces.