Chapter Six
Julie
We get inside, and my heart is already pounding. I don’t know if he knew what I meant by “coffee.” To be honest, I’m not sure what I meant. I just know I’d like to be around him more. I’ve never felt safer with anyone, and he’s barely more familiar to me than a stranger.
I walk to the kitchen and grab a glass, filling it with water. Have I ever been this nervous? I stop gulping water when the glass is empty. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, and if I had to guess, I’d say he looks a little nervous, too.
“What would you like to drink?” I ask. “I just remembered, I’m fresh out of coffee.”
“I’m good,” he says.
This is half an inch from being awkward, so I set my glass down on the counter, and prepare myself to be spontaneous and impulsive. Now my arms are around him and I’m kissing him. His lips are soft, but his kiss is firm.
My heart is thudding hard against my ribcage. I can barely catch my breath. I slide my hands over his shoulders and onto his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. His arms are around me, and I’m not certain I’m touching the ground.
This is so fast, but it feels right. It’s been so long since I’ve done something that feels right. Usually, I’m just in my head all the time, thinking about what I’m going to do when I get home for the next day’s work, or what kind of couch I want when I turn thirty, or whether Hawking Radiation is actually the remainder of a problem that never added up in the first place, and so just letting go and thinking about what’s happening right now is…
Julie, get out of your head.
He squeezes his arms around me tight and lifts me up, setting me down on the countertop. I slide the leather vest off of his shoulders, and he pulls my shirt over my head. His hands are rough, but his touch is tender.
Russ undoes my bra, and my breath catches in my throat. I’m not going to overthink this. I overthink everything else. All I need to know right now is that I want to do this.
And I do.
He kisses my neck, and I find my hands at the top of his pants, fingers curling around the button, which opens easily. I slide his zipper down, running my hand over the front of his close-fitting boxer briefs. It’s all I can do to hold back my mirth: Apparently bikers wear underwear with what looks like dancing chili peppers adorning every available inch of blank space.
He’s hard.
Before even taking him out, I know Russ is bigger than my sort-of college boyfriend. That thought triggers the memory triggers the fear that maybe it’s just me; that I’m just bad at sex, and this whole affair is going to turn into yet another humiliation I spout to my therapist for $350 an hour. The moment he slides my pants off me and places his hand on my inner thigh, I stop worrying so much.
Worry.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but before we go any further—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says.
I blink a few times. “For what are you sorry?” I ask.
“I think I got the wrong impression,” he says. “I didn’t mean to assume…”
This, I was not expecting. He didn’t misunderstand anything. I’m wondering what good sex is actually like, and I think there’s an outside shot Russ just might know something he might like to share on the subject.
I really have been wrong about him from the start. He’s kind, thoughtful. Apologetic when he thinks he’s crossed a line. When I first met him, and even until just a minute ago, I thought he’d be the hardened biker type who got in bar fights, and broke guys’ noses, and threatened people who did him wrong with unspeakable, though inevitably vague, forms of torture just to watch them squirm.
Pulling my attention back to the outside world and what’s actually happening in front of me, I notice Russ has stopped talking. He’s looking at me, gripping the top of his pants, glancing down in such a way I can almost hear him asking himself if now would be a good time to zip back up.
“You misunderstood,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I thought so. I really didn’t mean to… I should go,” he says and goes to zip up, but I stop him. It’s not exactly the visceral romanticism I’d intended to mark this moment, but it’ll have to do.
“That’s not the part you misunderstood,” I tell him. “What I was going to say was ‘before we go any further, I’m going to grab a condom. Nothing assumed, and nothing personal. I just believe in protection.’”
God, that sounds clinical. If not clinical, then at least detached.
“So,” I say, popping my lips, “yeah.”
“Oh, so you do want to—”
“Yeah.”
“Well…” he scratches the back of his head.
“The moment’s kind of gone now, isn’t it?” I ask.
He laughs, and he smiles at me. “I bet we can get it back.”
The next few minutes are coated with the awkwardness of our misunderstanding, so we leave the kitchen and move to the bedroom. The countertop was probably going to be a bit above my experience level anyway. The bed, though. That’s entry-level, and I’m still not sure I count my one-time flop session as sex: entry-level’s perfect.
I do my best to “twerk,” but find myself in what must look on the outside as a full-body dry heave. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, and I’m tripping over my panties and tumbling face-first into the bed at a surprisingly slow speed.
Yeah, Julie. This is hot. You’re really earning your Tantra merit badge now.
Without looking at me—thank God he’s not looking at me right now—he asks, “You all right?”
Yeah, that’s what one wants to hear.
“Fine,” I tell him as I manage to free my left leg like it’s a seagull and my panties are a six-pack ring someone never cut before throwing in the garbage. I manage to pull myself up onto the bed, and I’m pulling my best Kate Winslet pose. Even now, I’m clinging to hope.
I can turn this around.
Russ, he turns around, and he’s smiling as he crawls over to me, kissing my mouth, my neck. His lips encircle one nipple, and I take a long, jagged breath. A moment later, his hand is moving down my side, between my legs, and I’m biting my bottom lip.
His fingers set tiny, invisible fires that surge hot blood throughout my body. I’m slick when he reaches my clit, and every misstep falls away from me as that warm sensuality creeps into every piece of me.
I’m not sure if minutes feel like hours or seconds: I count time breath by breath. He kisses my chest, my neck. With his free hand, he cradles me, and my hand goes on its own to find him.
Wrapping my fingers around his erection, I gently tug. I may not have a lot of experience with this, but I know it’s best not to pull too hard. Skin is still skin and all.
Feeling him only extends the feeling growing within me, and it feels like falling into synesthesia. Every breath is a different color, every touch tastes so sweet. His lips meet mine again, and I can almost hear the slow pulse of a haunting melody as we kiss. It’s not actual, these esthetic impressions. There’s simply no other way to describe what this moment feels like.
He asks, “Do you have one, or do I need to go and get one?”
My head, formerly pressing back hard into the mattress beneath me, snaps up to look at him. “One what?” I ask.
“A condom,” he says.
“Oh,” I tell him. “Nightstand on the right-hand side of the bed—well, not on the right from how you’re facing, but stage right, assuming my perspective is the stage and you’re the audience.”
He points to the only nightstand I own, asking, “Is it that one?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
Get it together, Jules.
“You seem really nervous,” he says. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah,” I answer way too quickly. “I mean, you know, if you want to.”
Russ leans over the side of the bed and opens the nightstand drawer. He pulls out a condom and has it out of its wrapper in under ten seconds. My best time during dry run-throughs—it’s good to be prepared. Otherwise, I might humiliate myself, and wouldn’t that be dreadful—was just under ninety seconds.
I’m impressed.
He rolls the condom over his large, but hopefully-manageable shaft, and adrenaline grips every muscle in my body. He moves over to me, and I open my legs. He’s running his tip over my wetness, and I could almost swear I remember how to breathe.
For a moment, it’s scary. He’s big enough, I’m worried it’ll hurt, but he moves slowly. A little bit at a time, this time a little bit more. Gradually, he fills me up, and I must’ve remembered how to breathe, because I’m gasping for air, moaning softly. I always thought women did that so men would finish quicker, but apparently being with someone who knows what they’re doing just naturally brings it out of me.
It’s not like the romance novels I’ve been reading three a week since I hit my twenties. I don’t explode into billions of shimmering orbs of starlight and rainbow dust two seconds in and every five seconds afterward. Somehow, it’s better than that.
I am awkward sometimes, and not everything’s perfect. Mostly, it’s just me being self-conscious, but he’s tender, powerful. This is new to me, feeling every inch of my body craving more, but I’m still me, and he’s still him. I’m still awkward sometimes. His penis didn’t magically change that. He’s still him, and I’m still me, but I’m more spread out now, more open, more a part of him and everything else around me.
Pretense drops.
This is me, and for this moment, every second, and tonight, I’m enamored.
My body starts to twitch, and I feel a pull inside myself unlike anything I can quantify. That pull builds and builds, creeping up my spine and up my neck, and when that levee breaks, I am wrapped around him so tight, quivering and sweating, his hot breath tingling my skin as he kisses my shoulder.
After that, the night is slow, magnificent: A dream. I’m not sure when I go to sleep, or if I go to sleep, but eventually, the sun always rises. When it does, he’s slipping out from underneath the covers, and now getting dressed with hardly a sound.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says when he sees my open eyes staring at him. “And I’m sorry I have to go. Things are getting a little complicated with the guys, and—well, there are some things I have to do or else things are going to get a lot worse.”
And I’m awake.
I sit up in bed, asking, “What kind of complicated is it? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“You could call it that,” he says. “Let’s just say it’s not exactly safe being me right now.”
“You should call the police,” I tell him. “Is someone trying to hurt you?”
“It’s…” he starts, but just shakes his head. “It’s complicated. Being a one-percenter always comes with its own risk, but I can’t call the cops. As bad as things are getting, that would just make everything worse, and in ways I’d rather not think about, much less describe, you know what I’m saying?”
I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s enough I’m scared for him.
I want to tell him that. I want to tell him he should run if he needs to run, or give in and go to the police, no matter how that may look to his friends in the club. I want to ask him what’s really going on, but actually, no, I’m not so sure that I do. I’m still trying to figure it all out, and in the end, all I can think to say is, “What’s a one-percenter?”
***
It’s almost lunchtime now, and I’m sitting at my desk. When I think about it, I can almost feel him inside me still, the sheen of sweat making every motion smooth, warm. I close my eyes, and that feeling comes back to me: an echo, but one that fills me.
I’m closing my eyes a lot today.
Christmas is only a couple weeks away, and the office halls are decked, as the song goes, and I can’t stop gritting my teeth. I hate this time of year.
Because I can’t be seen to be without holiday cheer, I’ve got a wreath on the outside of my door, but inside my office is my sanctuary. When I was a kid, Christmas was that cliché magical thing that made me believe in every fairytale my parents whispered to me by the fire.
Now, I see a red nose on a deer, and I want to rip it from the walls. I’m not an antagonistic person. In my job, I know what I want, and I have the tools to get it, but I’m never aggressive just to be aggressive.
As I peek out my door, watching for Santa hats coming my way, it hits me like it does every year. It’s the reason I hate December so much, and Christmas most of all.
It’ll be ten years this Christmas Eve. Ten years since my brother got into his car, and had to get pulled back out of it again after that white truck with the door already dented ran that stoplight, ending my brother’s life. They said he didn’t suffer. That’s something, I guess. I suppose the worst thing that’s ever happened in my world could have been worse, but I can’t imagine it getting any worse than it is right now.
Jonah, he was the only one who ever stuck through all the awkwardness and self-doubt and actually got me to open up. He was my brother, but he was also my best friend. Now he’s gone, and every time someone asks me what my Christmas plans are, I just want to scream in their cheery faces.
I hate feeling like this. I’m not a hateful person.
When Jonah died, I closed back up, tight and permanent. My hopes, my dreams, my fears, my secret plans: Now, they’re my eyes only. I didn’t think I’d even consider letting anyone get close to me like that again, and now I find myself wanting to tell Russ everything about who I am and who I want to be.
So much of me wants to show Russ who I am behind all the planning and the milestones and the intra-office awards sitting on my shelf. I want to show him I can be bold, confident. I want to throw open those rusted doors and tell him he doesn’t have to take his shoes off when he comes inside.
I want to do all that, but I don’t trust that want. This time of year never hits me the same way twice. This is the year of “fuck it.” I rarely even think that word, but now it’s the only thing I want to say when I spot Jenna across the floor with a reindeer beanie and a red ball on the end of her nose.
Jonah, sometimes I wish it wasn’t you that got in that car.
By the time January rolls around, I start coming back to myself. The first of the year is my spring cleaning: It’s when I clean up any damage I did the month before. If I keep moving forward with Russ, though, I can just see myself this time next month trying to cut him loose.
It’s already going to be hard, but it’s not going to get easier. As much as my mind and my body and my emotions are begging me not to cut that line, in the end, it’s the kinder thing for both of us.
We’re different people from different worlds, and one day, one of us is going to realize it anyway. I close my office door, deciding to have something delivered instead of braving all the fake cheer, the hollow smiles.
When I get to my chair, I grab my cellphone, not the office phone. There’s something I have to do before I do anything else.
Before Russ left this morning, I asked him to hand me his phone. I put my number in it and sent myself a text message so I’d have his. Now I’m pulling up that number, and I’m typing, “Can we meet somewhere tonight? I think we should talk.”
After that, I’m not picking up the office phone, asking Riley to order me a sandwich from the deli two buildings over. I’m watching my phone until it buzzes in my hand.
It’s Russ. “Okay. When and where?”
The last hours of the day stretch for miles, and by the time I’m finally off work, my nerves are fried. I don’t want to do this. None of me wants to do this. The thing about me is want never stands up to should, and breaking things off now is definitely what I should do.
I get to the park near my house at precisely five ‘til six. This will be over soon. It’ll sting for a little while, but it’s the only way.
Off in the distance, I hear the roar of a motorcycle. It sounds like Russ’s, but I’m no expert on the subject. After a minute, he comes around the corner, and at first, it looks like he’s wearing a mask. As he pulls up to the curb, what I was seeing becomes clear.
“What happened?” I ask in a voice so quiet, no one could possibly hear me.
He gets off his bike slow, favoring the right side of his body. His face is cut, bruised. He’s got a black eye.
He staggers more than walks toward me, and this time I’m not so quiet when I ask, “What happened to you? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. He manages a smile, but he’s plainly hurting.
“When did this happen?”
“Just did, actually,” he says. “I was going out to my bike, and there were… It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. You said you wanted to talk to me about something?”
This is surreal. Why wouldn’t he go to the police if he was attacked? Why would he show up here, of all places, to talk to me when he’s got to know what I’m going to say? “I think we should talk,” if sitcoms are to be believed, is as good as saying, “We’re breaking up. Prepare yourself.”
Right now, it doesn’t matter why he’s here. He’s hurt, and I’m not going to just leave him like this. I can’t and I won’t.
“Get in the car,” I tell him. “I’m taking you to a hospital.”
It takes some convincing, but I finally get him into my car.
On the way to the hospital, he doesn’t say a word.