elanie

 

 

 

 

The bedspread on the motel bed is scratchy and probably dirty, but I don’t want to look close enough to find out. I rest my head on the hard, flat pillow and watch Animal Planet, one of the only channels I can get on the small TV. It’s better than C-SPAN or the channel where they’re always doing makeovers on people’s homes. That channel just depresses me.

Mostly, though, I’m worried about what to do next. When I left, I had no idea where I was going. Chicago sounded like a good plan at first, and I hitched a ride—something I’d never done before—with a woman in her fifties. She didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t share any information, so we got along just fine. She said she could only take me part way to Chicago, and left me here in Waterville, about fifty miles from Bells Park.

It’s a small town, but not as broken as mine. And fortunately The Sea Breeze, the motel just on the edge of town, doesn’t require a credit card to reserve a room or for incidentals. The irony of the name, what with the nearest ocean being like a thousand miles away, amuses me. I’ve got a reservation for three nights. After that, I guess I’ll go back home, but I can’t be there now. I need a break. I need to be alone.

My phone lies on the desk across from the bed, and I stare at it, fighting the urge to grab it and see who’s called. I turned it off a few hours ago after leaving a message for my mom to let her know I’m OK. Not that she’d worry. She never does.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts—it must be the pizza I ordered. Here in Waterville there are actually two places that deliver, unheard of in my stupid small town.

My stomach, empty and hollow, growls. It’s a splurge—an entire pizza and two-liter of soda just for me—but I can’t even remember the last time I ate anything. I don’t know what it was. I’m so hungry it seems like I could eat for hours and would never be full.

I pig out on pizza right there on the bed, not worrying about crumbs or grease or anything. Ravenous, I shove food into my mouth until I start to feel full. Then I eat two more pieces. Finally full, I lie back and watch a lion chase antelopes across the TV screen.

Life sucks. It fucking sucks. Or mine does, at least. Here I am, in a seedy motel, eating pizza and watching a shitty television set, and I have nowhere to go after this but back to my crappy hometown. My money will run out quickly, even at a cheap place like The Sea Breeze. Forget about staying in Chicago.

I don’t want to go home ever again, even though I know I have to. I don’t want to see my mom or Stacey.

Or Jake. I squeeze my eyes shut hard; I don’t want to cry about him. He’s not worth it. But I keep seeing him and that woman in the bar, heads close. My stupid, stupid mind insists on bringing up the image of her hand on his thigh.

The worst part is that I trusted him. We were nothing to each other—I get that, I do—but I felt like he was the one person I could really count on. The one person who, even though we really barely knew each other, wouldn’t hurt me. How could I have been so wrong about him? How could my instincts about him have been so off?

Then again, I trusted Stacey, and look how that turned out.

I toss the almost empty pizza box onto the desk next to the unopened two-liter of soda and crawl under the covers, fully clothed and not even bothering to wash up or brush my teeth first.

There’s a painting on the wall—it’s one of those typical neutral sort of ones that you see in hotels and doctor’s offices and places like that. Dark blue water meets lighter blue sky, and a bright red boat floats under puffy white clouds. You can’t quite make out the figure in the boat. It could be a man. It could be a woman. It could be anyone, maybe even me. What would it be like to be on a boat, somewhere out on the water like that, surrounded by water and sky and clouds?

What if I could close my eyes and wish hard enough and send myself, by some impossible and mysterious process, to another place and be on that boat. Or in Chicago. Or with Jake, but a version of him that hadn’t been with someone else.

I feel so stuck. And so alone. I don’t want to see the stupid painting anymore. I don’t want to see anything. I reach out and turn off the lamp on the nightstand. Then I close my eyes and hope to fall asleep quickly.

~~~~

In the morning I feed dollar bills into the vending machine in the outdoor hallway, buying honey buns and pretzels and potato chips, enough to feed me for the entire day. I sit in my bed all day, napping and watching TV and snacking when I get hungry. At night I sleep hard, not waking up till morning, when I do it all over again.

~~~~

Bang, bang, bang.

I sit up straight in bed, torn from sleep by someone at the door to my motel room. It’s my third night in this room, and a quick glance at my phone tells me it’s 3:30 a.m.; who the hell is knocking?

After slipping out from under the covers I walk, barefoot, to the door. “Who is it?” I ask, loudly enough so whoever it is on the other side can hear me.

“Your neighbor? In 214? Could you turn the TV down?” It’s a man’s voice.

“I’m not watching TV. I was sleeping.”

“Huh. Must be someone else then.”

“Yeah.” I lean against the door, wondering if he’s gone or still standing there.

“So, uh, since you’re awake, you wanna hang out? Watch a movie or something? They got some, uh, pay per view shit here.” He sounds like he’s right up against the door.

“Oh. No. My boyfriend and I need to get up early in the morning.” I feel my heartbeat pick up, both from the lie I just told and the fact that he’s still out there, and I don’t know who he is or if he’s sane or not. Probably not, I guess, since he’s fabricated a story about too much noise as an excuse to come over and ask if I’ll hang out. And the fact that he’s staying in this crappy motel in the first place.

“Oh yeah? I didn’t see any guy go into your room, though.”

I tremble, my limbs shaking from cold and fear. Has he been watching me? Does he know I’m alone? My pocket knife is in my backpack, but I don’t know anything about this guy. He could outweigh me and outfight me and I’d be done.

“I’m out here trying not to be insulted that you’re lying to me,” he says when I don’t respond. “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?” His voice is like hideous nails on a chalkboard, making me squirm.

Still, I say nothing.

“Fuck you,” he hisses through the door. “You know what I mean?” He laughs, then I see his shadow through my motel window as he heads down the outdoor hallway. The door next to mine opens and slams shut.

The other door. There’s another door that joins my room with his. I checked it earlier, and it was locked so even I couldn’t open it. There must be some master key the clerk uses if people want to rent both rooms, but the thought that he’s right there terrifies me.

And apparently he’s figured it out too, because now he knocks on that door. “Good night,” he calls out. “Sleep fucking tight, all right?”

I climb up onto the bed and pull my knees to my chest, burying my face in my arms and sobbing. I hate crying, but right now I can’t help it. I want to call the clerk, but I’m worried the guy next door will hear me. I could go down to the front office, but he might follow me. Might grab me and force me into my room. I want to call the police, but then they’ll ask why I’m here alone, and I’m not ready to go home yet.

Just in case, I turn on my cell phone, waiting while the provider name flashes on the screen and the app shortcuts start showing up. I’ve got seven new texts and a few new messages. Part of me wants to read the texts and listen to the messages. Part of me wants to see who, if anyone, has been worried about me. But I’m not ready to do that..

I almost jump when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I’m scared of being alone, and if my neighbor is listening, he might be put off by hearing me speak to someone. He’ll think I’m not as alone as I really am.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Melanie.” It’s only one word—my name—but I recognize Jake instantly. It’s as though the tone and tenor and roughness of his speech have been programmed into my soul; I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“Jake.” I’m angry at him. Maybe I even hate him. But I’m terrified right now, and I don’t know who else can help.

“Where are you?”

“I’m… I’m in a motel, and it’s really gross, and the guy next door is trying to get me to hang out, and I’m scared because he keeps knocking on the door that separates our rooms?”

“Jesus. What motel? Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”

“It’s The Sea Breeze Motel. In Waterville. I’m in Room 212.”

“Dammit! Do you have any idea what kind of reputation that place has? Fuck. Stay there, Melanie, all right? And call me back immediately if that asshole so much as tries to speak to you, do you understand? Do not open the door for him.”

“OK.” I’m weak with relief that someone’s coming to get me, my body shaking from cold and fear. I grab my phone and my pocket knife and slip under the covers, lying as still as I can so I don’t miss a single sound.

Barely half an hour passes when someone pounds on the door, but this time Jake’s voice accompanies the knock. “Melanie? Are you there?”

I spring out of bed and peek out the window, relief pouring over me when I see him standing there in his usual jeans and T-shirt, gun holstered at his side.

When I open the door I can’t help rushing into his arms; for a few minutes I want to enjoy being all right. I know it’s over between us. I’ll never forget the way he looked close-talking to that horrible woman in the bar. But relief overwhelms me and I let him crush me against him, his arms folding around me and holding on like he doesn’t want to let go.

He steps back to look at me, hands on my shoulders as his gaze runs up and down my body. “Are you all right?” His eyes are dark and intense as they stare into mine.

I nod.

“Stay here.”

He takes three huge steps so he’s in front of my neighbor’s door, and he knocks twice loudly.

After a few seconds, the door opens. I kind of think the neighbor thought I’d be standing there, and I imagine the surprise he feels to see Jake instead, a tough guy with a gun waiting for him.

I can’t see the guy—he’s still inside his room—but I watch as Jake puts his hand on the door so the man can’t close it. “Have you been bothering the girl next door?” Jake asks.

“No, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the guy stammers.

“Listen to me, you prick. Right now? I want to pound your fucking face in. I’m not going to, though. But if you ever do something like this again, you better hope to fucking god that I’m not around, or you won’t live to make the same mistake twice. Do you understand me?”

“Dude, sorry.”

“Fuck off.” Jake steps back and the door closes. His face is hard and angry, but when he turns to me it softens, his eyes widening as if asking me, once again, if I’m all right. “Let’s go inside.”

He follows me into the room. “This place is a fucking dump,” he says, glancing at the ugly bedspread, the stained carpet, and the tiny television set.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have many choices.” I sit on the bed. My relief at Jake arriving to help me out is quickly being replaced by awkwardness. He hurt me. And I don’t want to be with him. I only needed him because there was nobody else to help.

“Listen, Melanie…”

I put up my hand to stop him. “No. I don’t want to talk about it… about anything. Just, thanks, OK? I don’t think that guy’ll bother me again.”

“Pack up your stuff.” He picks up my backpack and looks around the room, as if he’s going to get me ready to go on his own.

“Jake, no. I don’t want to go with you. I don’t want to be with you. I just… thanks for helping me, but I’m OK now.”

“Yeah? How are you going to get home?”

“Bus, I guess.”

“Is that how you got here?” His eyes are piercing.

“No. I got a ride.” I’m embarrassed suddenly, because I realize how stupid it sounds, how stupid I was.

“You hitchhiked.” He knows me so well.

“It was dumb. I was lucky not to get hurt.” I’m being sincere. “And it was dumb to run away. It doesn’t make your problems disappear. I was just overwhelmed.” I sigh and stare out the window at the dirty parking lot. “I got in a fight with Stacey. Found out she was the one who notified the scholarship foundation I’d gotten in legal trouble. Then Molly—the cat?—got hurt. She’s probably dead. And then I saw…” I can’t say it.

“Please come with me, Melanie.” I can sense him approaching me from behind.

“No, Jake. Please, just leave me alone.”

“I can’t.”

I turn to face him. “Why? Why can’t you leave me alone?” My voice is lower, all the energy leaving me suddenly.

He runs his hand through his hair, then rubs his strong and stubbly jaw. “I, uh…” His voice trails off, like he’s trying to find the right words, or maybe like he knows the words but is scared to say them. “You’re… I can’t stop thinking about you, Melanie. Not because you’re in that fucking class I teach. Not because I feel like I need to help you. I just…”

My heart pounds, and I take a step closer to him. There’s maybe a foot of space between us, and even in this dim and grimy hotel room, I can see his eyes sparking as they gaze into mine. I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’s going to say.

He shakes his head slightly. “I just need to take you back home,” he finally says.

“No.” I push past him and sit back on the bed, leaning against the flat pillows. “I’m not going with you, Jake. The night I left? I went to look for you at Lucy’s. And I saw you there. With some girl.”

“Fuck. Look. I know you saw me. My partner told me. We were there on a double date; James met this chick who would only go out with him if he set her friend up too. He brought me. It was a favor, and nothing happened.”

“Whatever.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. “No, not whatever. Melanie, I have no reason to lie to you. If I fucked her, I’d tell you. If I was interested in her, I’d say so. Between us? There’s been no commitment or agreement, so I have nothing to hide.”

Somehow I trust him, but it’s not easy; I don’t like to trust people. I don’t like to make myself vulnerable. And the no commitment or agreement part stings.

“It’s fine anyway,” I tell him. “You’re right that there’s nothing between us. So it’s none of my business. But thanks for coming to help me out here anyway.”

“I hate when you say that.” He puts his hands on his thighs, leaning over and looking down.

“Say what?”

“It’s fine. You always say that, even when things are absolutely not fucking fine at all.”

“Why do you care? It’s just words.” I scratch at the soft fabric of my worn jeans.

He sits upright, then shifts his body so he’s facing me, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “Why do I care? I care because it fucking kills me to see you—so gorgeous and smart and wonderful—with so many shitty things happening to you. I care because you deserve so much better than anyone’s given you. I care because somehow, despite your dad being in prison and your mom being an alcoholic, you’ve managed to get into one of the best universities in the entire fucking country, and even if you don’t end up going there, you should be proud of yourself, Melanie.”

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before meeting my gaze, his eyes filled with more emotion than I’ve ever seen.

“And I care, Melanie, because I’m pretty fucking sure I’m in love with you.”

“Some of us are trying to sleep over here!” The guy next door, obviously feeling confident with a locked door and wall between Jake and himself, bangs on the wall twice.

“Asshole,” hisses Jake under his breath. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Part of me wants to keep sitting on the bed, wants to make him repeat himself—because surely I didn’t hear him correctly. But he’s right. We can’t stay in this shitty motel with the stalker neighbor any longer. I throw my few belongings into my backpack and follow Jake out to the car.

~~~~

We’re mostly silent on the drive back to Bells Park. I watch the barren fields blur by as we get closer and closer. I have to fight the urge to ask him to turn the car around, to tell him to just drive me somewhere, anywhere, because I still don’t want to go back.

But the truth is, I have nowhere else to go. If I run, I’m just running to another place, but I can never get rid of my problems. Deep down, I realize that if I don’t stay here and finish high school—there are only a few weeks left—I’ll just make everything worse.

The sun is rising, illuminating the dirty edges of downtown Bells Park: the cracked sidewalks, the patched streets, the rusted-out cars and sagging porches and crumbling bricks. I hate it here, but I guess I have to stay a little while longer.

“Hey. I have a surprise for you. I can’t believe I forgot.” Jake’s voice, excited as a kid, interrupts my thoughts.

“I don’t like surprises.” But my heart feels a spark of joy, the same feeling I remember from Christmases years ago, when I was a kid and there were presents and lights, and I had no idea that my life was crumbling all around me because I was too young to notice.

“Yeah? You liked the last surprise I planned. And I think you’ll like this one.” Jake pulls up in front of his building, and I grab my backpack and follow him to the front door.

It occurs to me suddenly that he didn’t even mention taking me home; I guess he knew I couldn’t or wouldn’t go there right now. It’s like he knows me better than I imagined.

We enter the building and go up the stairs, where he gets out his key and starts to unlock his front door. “You ready?” His brown eyes are tired but sparkling, and I can’t help jumping up and down.

“Yes! Just open the door. I want to see!” I don’t even care that I sound like a fucking kid.

He unlocks the door and pushes it in, and there’s Molly, limping but alive.

“Oh my god, Jake.” I enter the apartment enough so he can close the door and sit on the floor. Molly meows and approaches me, rubbing her side against my knee. She’s unsteady on her legs, and her back leg—the damaged one—is gone, a bandage wrapped around the stump.

I scoop her up as gently as I can and she settles into my lap, purring loudly as her eyes close.

“Jake, what even… How did you know? Where did you find her? Is she going to be OK?”

“It’s a long story.” He sits on the floor next to me. “I found her by the antique shop. I think she was looking for you. I brought her to the vet. They had to amputate the leg, and she stayed there on an IV for the past two nights, but they let me take her home today. She’s medicated and unsteady, but they think she’s going to be OK.” His grin is beautiful. I swear I’ve never seen anything more gorgeous.

“Holy shit, Jake! I think you went a little overboard!” In the corner he’s set up a cat bed, a scratching post—the big kind, with little ledges and caves for the cat to play in—and a big bin literally filled with cat toys. More toys than any cat could seriously ever use.

“Yeah.” He rubs his jaw. “I guess I did.”

“And the surgery and stuff? Did you pay for that?”

“Yup.”

“Jake, how much was it? Wait. Don’t tell me. I’ll pay you back, OK? I still have…” I reach out to grab my backpack, trying not to disturb Molly, who’s still sleeping on my lap. I pull out the wad of money and start to count it.

Jake encloses my hands in his, stopping the flurry of money counting. “No. Melanie, stop. You don’t have to pay me back.”

“I do! It must have been expensive. And you wouldn’t have done this if it was any other cat. You only did it because she was, is, sort of my cat.”

Jake takes the money from my hands and puts it back into the pocket of my backpack, zippering it up. “Stop. I won’t take your money. I wanted to do this. I would do this a million times over if it would make you realize how worth it you are. How wonderful. If it made you see that you deserve people’s help and love.”

I look down, blushing. I don’t deserve this. I know I don’t. I’ve fucked up so many times in my life. I got caught with drugs in my locker, and I’ve skipped school, and I smoke and drink and sometimes even steal.

He tilts my head up, a finger under my chin. “I love you, Melanie. I’m too old for you. And it’s wrong. But I need you to know that it’s true.”

I open my mouth, unsure what to say. I love him. I do. But I’m not sure I can form the words. I’m not sure he loves me enough for me to say it back.

He shakes his head. “Don’t say anything. Here.” He bends down and gently—oh so gently—scoops Molly out of my arms, settling her down into the plush bed in the corner. Then he reaches out his hand and when I take it, he pulls me so I’m standing.

He kisses me. At first it’s gentle, just our lips barely touching and tasting, so lightly it could be a breeze or a butterfly. But our bodies can’t stay apart. We step closer, finding warmth and friction, coming alive and on edge. Then the kiss is harder, filled with need and hope and desire. I touch his chest through his T-shirt, the hardness of his muscles comforting.

His hand covers mine, stopping its exploration, and he pulls back, ending the kiss. I glance up at him, question in my eyes.

“What would a visit to my apartment without you taking a shower be?” he laughs.

“Are you saying I stink? Again?”

“No.” He grins down at me, his lips so perfect, his smile so warm. “But I want to take care of you, Melanie. I want you to feel warm and safe. So go take a shower, and I’ll get some clean clothes ready and some food too—I’m positive you haven’t eaten enough, because you never do. And then we’ll, uh, hang out.”

“Hang out?” I raise an eyebrow and run my hand up under his shirt, my fingers enjoying the hard ridges of his abs.

He growls and kisses my forehead, then grabs my hand and walks me to the bathroom.

“I can do that, you know,” I say as he leans down and turns the water on, testing it until it’s the perfect temperature. He gets a clean towel from the cabinet in the hall and hands it to me.

“I’ll leave some clothes in here in a few minutes. Take your time, Melanie. I’ll be there. OK?”

For some reason, I want to cry, but that’s stupid, so I bite my lip and nod, then turn away before he can see the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes.

I stay in the shower for a long time, turning the water hotter and hotter and letting it wash over me. Jake’s got this men’s body wash, and it smells dark and spicy and I use lots of it, rubbing it all over my body in sudsy swirls. I shampoo my hair twice, just because it feels so good to be in the shower and I want an excuse to stay longer.

When I finally get out, the bathroom’s so steamy I can barely see, and I dry myself off and wrap my hair up in the towel like I’m wearing a turban. Without me even noticing, Jake left a set of sweats, folded up on the tank of the toilet, and I pull on the big pants, tying the drawstring tight, then put on the long-sleeved T, a worn and soft 5K race shirt.

As soon as I open the bathroom door, I swear I almost faint from the kitchen smells. Coffee and bacon, and cinnamon. He’s baking something. Does he actually bake? My stomach growls, and I remove the towel from my head, raking my fingers through my long hair.

In the kitchen, Jake’s pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven, and bacon and eggs wait to be eaten on the stove. The table’s set, and I slip into one of the chairs.

“Did you make those?” I point at the cinnamon rolls that he’s removing from the pan with a spatula and arranging on a plate on the table.

“Define make.” He grins at me as he puts the baking tray away, then cuts open a little plastic pouch and drizzles the contents over the rolls.

“I don’t know. Like, from scratch or something?”

“Nah. Pillsbury. You know, those tubes of cinnamon rolls that you open with a spoon?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’ve never had those before!”

“You’ve never had them? They’re good. I mean, I’m sure cinnamon rolls from scratch would be better, but I wouldn’t, you know…”

“Kick them out of bed?” I interrupt.

“You’re fucking weird, Melanie.” He laughs as he grabs my plate and fills it with scrambled eggs and bacon from the pans on the stove. He hands it to me and gestures at the cinnamon rolls. “Have as many as you want.”

I put one on my plate.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Do you drink coffee?”

“What? You think I’m some kid who probably doesn’t like it? I’m not a fucking child, Jake.”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say you were. But not everyone likes coffee, all right?”

“Fine. And yes. Coffee. Please.”

He hands me a mug, then gets a container of half and half from the fridge and a bowl of sugar and sets them in front of me.

I’m tempted to drink it black, just to prove to him how adult I am. But I hate black coffee. I try to ignore his grin as I shovel in sugar and then pour in cream until my coffee is light and really, really sweet.

He serves himself and sits across from me. “Eat,” he says. “You’re still too skinny.”

“Still?”

He shrugs as he eats a slice of bacon. “Yeah. Still. I hoped you’d start eating more after the last time I told you you were too skinny.”

“Oh, because I’m supposed to do everything you say?” I peel off the outer layer of a cinnamon roll and take a bite. It’s fucking amazing. Or I’m really hungry. Maybe both. I have to resist the urge to shove the entire thing in my mouth all at once.

“Only the things you want to do.” His smile is gone now, and his eyes are steady but filled with desire.

I lick the frosting off my lips, just to fuck with him, and he bites his lip.

“Later,” he says, as if he can read my thoughts. “Eat first.”

“I’m going to need that much energy?” I ask. “What exactly do you have planned?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, black, I notice, and sits back in his chair. “You did recently tell me you don’t like surprises.”

“Well,” I admit, “the last two were pretty freaking incredible.” I’m still blown away by the fact that he saved Molly. Found her. Paid for the surgery. And even though he said I don’t need to pay him back, I swear I’ll find a way.

We finish eating, and I start to clean up, but he stops me, standing behind me at the sink and wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Will you come to bed with me?” he asks, the words a deep whisper against the soft skin of my neck.

“Yes.”

He sweeps me off my feet—literally—and carries me, giggling, into his bedroom where he deposits me on the bed. I lie back, my damp hair on the pillow, and my breath catches in my throat as he pulls his T-shirt off in one quick movement.

I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that chest, muscular and lean, and that firm stomach. His lips curve up in a smile when he sees me staring.

“Like what you see?” he jokes, doing a stupid pose.

“You’re… beautiful.” And he is. I remember saying something similar to him the first night we were together, the night I lied about my age and my name. The night we were here in this same bed, but we didn’t even know each other. And now, so much has happened and changed, but we’re still here. Together.

His smile disappears, and he approaches me on the bed, crawling on top of me and looking down into my eyes. “Nobody is as beautiful as you are, Melanie.” He kisses me gently on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” I’ve never said those words to a guy before. To tell the truth, I can’t remember the last time I said them to anyone. Maybe my mom, years ago when I was still a little kid. I don’t even remember that. Saying the words fills me with panic.

But when Jake kisses me again, I relax. After a few minutes he pulls up the hem of the shirt I’m wearing, and I arch my back so he can take it off.

The times before have been fast, furious, like we couldn’t touch each other or fuck each other fast enough. This time, though, Jake’s taking his time. For a long time we just kiss, his body on top of mine, pressing down. I can feel how hard he is, how badly he wants me, but still he takes it slow.

His lips caress my neck, biting gently, but his hands are still, braced on either side of my shoulders. I shiver as his mouth travels lower, sucking my right nipple until it’s hard and I moan underneath him, squirming against him, trying to find friction for my aching body.

Next he moves to my left nipple, the tip of his tongue moving over the delicate skin, flicking back and forth and leaving me gasping for breath.

“Jake,” I whisper, his name a plea on my lips.

He sucks my nipple, then releases it. “Shhh,” he responds before licking the delicate skin of my stomach.

His tongue moves lower still, tracking an erotic line down my body. Now he finally touches me with his hand, gently moving it between my legs and pushing my thighs apart, and I melt down into the mattress.

His breath is warm between my thighs as he gently—oh so gently—touches me with his fingertips, skimming over my eager clit and traveling lower. One finger dips inside me, swirling in my wetness, then moves back to my clit, which he presses in agonizingly tight circles.

“Oh god,” I whimper when his tongue finally takes the place of his finger. “That feels so good.”

He stops to say, “Melanie, I want to make you feel like you’ve never felt before. I want to make you come harder than you thought possible. And by the way? You taste so fucking good.”

My head falls back onto the pillow and my body relaxes all the way, more than I thought possible, as his tongue works its magic between my legs, his fingers inside my wetness.

I try to hold back. I try to make the moments last, to keep this feeling going as long as I can. But he’s so good, and in only a few minutes I’m moaning hard, my pussy contracting with all the muscles of my thighs as the climax builds, stronger and stronger and higher and higher until I reach the peak and crash down, screaming his name over and over again.

There’s nothing—no drink or drug or anything at all—that could ever be better than this. Nothing. Ever. There’s Jake. And in this second I know I’ll never need anything more.

I’m limp as he moves back up my body, kissing me with my taste on his lips.

“That was so good,” I mumble against his mouth, hardly able to speak. “That was so, so good.”

He responds by reaching down and gently touching me between the legs, lightly tracing over my still throbbing flesh. I jump, so sensitive there, and he smiles.

“That was just the beginning,” he whispers. He’s hard against my thigh, and I lightly rub my leg against him until he groans and whispers, “Fuck.”

I push against him. “Get off.”

He does, laughing. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just gave you the best orgasm of your life, and you’re pushing me away?”

“You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

He’s on his back and I straddle him, smiling down into his grinning face.

“Well, wasn’t it?” He raises an eyebrow and gives me a cocky look.

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it. You almost broke my eardrums with your screaming.” His words are quieter, and his fingers skim over my thighs. “I like to make you feel good, Melanie,” he murmurs.

“I like to make you feel good too.” I slide down his body until my lips are there. The way his thigh muscles tense in anticipation turns me on, spurs me forward, and I lower my head, warming him with my breath.

He breathes out hard as I softly lick the head of his cock, then suck it gently into my mouth and releasing with a pop.

“Do you like that?” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to do it some more?”

“Yes. Please.” He lets out a strangled laugh.

I take him in my mouth again, massaging his balls at the same time. I roll my tongue all over his shaft, then grip the base of his cock with one hand while I take him as far as I can into my throat.

“Jesus.” His eyes shut and his head moves back and forth on the pillow.

Finding a steady rhythm of sucking and moving my hand, I blow him until I feel him tensing under me and hear his breaths turn into moans.

And then I stop. “Am I doing it OK?” I ask, making sure he can hear the teasing in my voice.

He opens his eyes and looks at me, a half laugh, half growl emanating from his throat. “OK? That was fucking perfect.”

“So, should I keep going?” Instead of waiting for a response, I bend down again, tickling the head of his cock with my tongue, licking away the pre-cum that’s gathered there in one shiny drop. “You taste good.”

“You’re fucking killing me, Melanie.”

I laugh, then take him all the way in my mouth again, pleasure coursing through me when I hear his moan of satisfaction. Again, I bring him to the brink, until he’s breathing hard and his muscles are tensed and stop, popping off and grinning at him.

“Am I still doing all right?” I feign ignorance.

“Melanie.”

“I think,” I whisper, moving up his body, “that I want to fuck you instead.”

His cock is hard beneath me, and with one hand I guide him to my entrance, then slowly —really slowly—slide down onto him. We stare into each other’s eyes, the moment intense physically but also emotionally. I’ve never watched someone like this during sex. I never wanted to, and I’d probably have been embarrassed. But with Jake, how we feel about each other is as important as how our bodies interact together.

I rock gently on top of him, and he reaches up to touch my hair delicately, like it’s something beautiful and expensive. Like it’s something he can’t believe is his.

“I love you.” His hands caress my thighs as I continue to ride him.

“I love you too, Jake.” My movements quicken as my clit finds friction on his groin, and he begins to move in time to me, filling me deep and wide over and over again.

When I’m about to come, I close my eyes and throw back my head, falling forward and bracing myself up on my arms. My walls contract around his hardness, over and over again until he trembles and groans, driving up into me, slower but with more force than before.

Both our bodies still, and I climb off, lying next to him on the bed. Immediately his arms are around me, pulling me in close, my cheek against his chest as our breathing calms.

I could stay like this forever. I wish it were possible. I’d never have to worry about school, or my mom, or Stacey, or what I’m going to do next year. The pain of losing my dreams would be erased in this bliss right here.

But bliss is only bliss because it’s temporary. Still, I cling to Jake as hard as I can for these few, wonderful minutes.

“You OK?” he asks after what feels like a long time.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m great.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Me too.”

He shifts his body so he can look into my face. “I need to take you home soon, Melanie. Your mom probably wants to see you.”

Probably not. I sigh. “I know. I let her know I was all right. I texted her every day I was gone.”

“When she told your principal that you’d left the house at like four in the morning, Evans called me and I was fucking scared, Melanie.”

“Why?”

“I thought something had happened to you. I don’t know. And when I found out you’d seen me at the bar, I needed to tell you that you’re the only one I want to be with.”

“I’m sorry I worried you. I’m sorry I ran off. It was immature. I know it was. I was just so overwhelmed with everything.”

Jake clears his throat. “Part of the reason I’m here now, in Bells Park, is because I kind of ran away from home too.”

“What? Tell me about it.”

He takes my face in his hands. “Later. We’ll talk later. Let’s just enjoy the next half hour together, OK? I’ll go clean up and bring us some coffee and cinnamon rolls. Stay here.” He points at me as he leaves, and I watch his naked, gorgeous ass as he heads to the bathroom.

I want to stay in bed. I want a second breakfast, and a second round of sex, but now that I’m thinking of all the things I need to face, it’s impossible to relax. Sighing, I climb out of bed and pull on Jake’s sweats and long-sleeved T.

“Hey,” he says, coming into the room and handing me a fresh cup of coffee, pale and, I see as I taste it, sweet. Just the way I like it. “Where you going?”

“I can’t stay. I need to, you know, face shit. I have to talk to my mom.”

“Smart girl.” He grabs a pair of underwear and pulls them on.

“Don’t patronize me.” I give him a warning look.

He puts up his hands in defense. “I’m not! I mean it. You’re smart. And you’re doing what you need to do. I respect that.”

“I don’t want to.” I sip some more coffee. “I want to stay here all day. With you.” Stepping closer to him, I run one hand over his still-bare stomach.

“I want that too.” He takes the mug from my hand and sets it on the dresser before pulling me to him and kissing me, hard, on the mouth. He tastes like fresh toothpaste, and I taste like milky coffee, and the combination is exhilarating.

“Later. Can I come over tonight?” I look up into his eyes.

He stares back, eyes hot, lips turning up in a grin before he winks at me. “You better.”

~~~~

The front door is unlocked, and I take a deep breath before going inside. As soon as I close the door behind me, I hear Jake’s car pull away, and a desperate sadness overtakes me for a moment. I hate the way it feels when he leaves. And I hate that I hate it. I don’t want to need him. I don’t want to need anyone.

“Hi, honey!” my mom calls out. Like usual, she’s sitting at her computer, but I refuse to look at the screen. I don’t want to see what random cat images she’s working on today.

“Hi, Mom.” I drop my backpack to the floor and wait for her to say something, anything, about me being gone for the past few days.

“Can I show you something?” she asks.

“Sure.” Isn’t she going to ask about where I was? Where I’ve been for the past few days? Why I left in the first place?

“You won’t believe this!”

I force my eyes to her screen, where she’s pulling up YouTube. That horrible video she made starts playing, the “Toot, toot, kitty. Hello! Hello!” one.

“Look.” She points to the screen and I stand right behind her, trying to figure out what she’s showing me. “Over eight hundred thousand views! Can you believe it?”

“Wow.” I’m stunned. “How did you… why…”

“Some rapper, I think he must be famous? He sampled it in a video he made. I think that’s the correct word. Sampled. Anyway, I guess he mentioned me in the comments, and all these people are watching my videos and subscribing. I signed up for ad revenue, and I think I can make some money, honey! Maybe for your college?” She gives me a timid smile.

“Oh, Mom.” I back away from the computer and sit on the couch. “I’m really happy for you. But it still won’t be enough for college. Unless you can make, like, $70,000.”

“Is that how much it is?” She turns her chair so she’s facing me. “What’s that per year, then?”

“Mom, that is the cost per year.”

“And that scholarship was going to pay your whole way?” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry about that, honey. I wish that hadn’t happened to you. I wish I could help.” Her face looks sadder than I’ve ever seen it look.

I shrug. It’s fine, I start to say. But it’s not. Jake’s right. I do always say that, even when it’s not true.

“I wish you could too,” I say instead. “I wish it hadn’t happened. It sucks that I was so close to having something amazing like that and lost it all. For something that wasn’t even my fault.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Mom.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t mean about the scholarship, Melanie. I mean about everything.” She gestures around the dim living room: at the sagging couch, the dirty walls, the snagged carpet, her own computer. “I’m sorry this is how we live. I’m sorry I’m, well, that I drink like this. I’m probably an alcoholic, to tell you the truth.”

“You are.” I cringe as I say those blunt words. But I’m tired of hiding things. I’m tired of lying.

She nods. “I wish I could tell you that I’ll shape up. Join, I don’t know, Alcoholics Anonymous or something and get better. But truthfully?” Her eyes are so filled with sadness I almost have to look away. “I probably won’t. And I’m not going to make any promises I’m pretty sure I can’t keep.”

I don’t know how to respond. She’s being honest. And for that I’m glad. But deep down inside I wish I was enough to make her change.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says.

“Did you wonder where I was? Were you worried? Did you even care?”

“Of course I did! But I knew you were OK. I know you. You’re smart and responsible…”

“I smoke, Mom. Did you know that? I smoke cigarettes. And I drink. I’ve stolen liquor from the Save Lot like a million times! Sometimes I skip school. And I lost my college scholarship because I was caught with drugs in my locker. How is that being responsible?”

“You’re a good kid. You always have been, Melanie.” She’s calm in the face of my outburst. It must be the wine. “And believe me, I know that it’s despite me, not because of me. I could never take credit for who you’ve become. I can only thank God you turned out all right even though I’m a fuck-up.”

“You’re not a fuck-up,” I say quietly. “You… I’m happy about your video, all right? That’s really exciting.” I still feel angry and antsy, but deflated too.

She’ll never be the mom I want her to be, or even need her to be. So I’ll have to learn to accept that and live with it. I can keep fucking up and keep blaming my shitty life. Or I can do the best I can and try to make something good out of everything I’ve been through.

“Thanks!” She perks up at the mention of her YouTube stuff, and turns back to her computer to work or check how many views she’s gotten since a few minutes ago or something. “Oh hey,” she adds. “There’s a letter for you. It’s on the coffee table.”

“OK.” I don’t get a lot of mail, except for college-related stuff, and I don’t really want to see any of that now. Still, I check and find a thin envelope from the University of Chicago. Fuck.

I’m positive it’s a letter about how I haven’t sent any money in to reserve my spot. The scholarship foundation would have taken care of all that. And I never followed up on postponing the start of school for a year; knowing my luck, it’s too late for that too.

It hurts, that it’s about to be final. All I want to do is rip this letter to pieces without even opening it, but I have to face the truth. About everything. It’s time to grow the fuck up.

I grab my backpack and the letter and head to my room, the sound of my mom clacking away on her keyboard erased the second I shut the door. I sit on the edge of my bed and insert my index finger under the sealed flap of the envelope, then run it across the seal, opening it.

Dear Melanie, A payment to our office in the amount of $75,000 for the upcoming school year has been made by the Hart Foundation. As a result, your tuition is paid through the end of your freshman year. After tuition, living expenses, and fees, there is an additional $3,956.18 left over. Please contact our office regarding whether you would prefer a check in your name for this amount or the remainder to be carried over and applied to the following year’s tuition.

I put my hand to my dizzy head. I kind of feel like I’m reading something in a foreign language. How is it possible that the school received that much money for my tuition? And what is the Hart Foundation? Could it have something to do with Mr. and Mrs. Hart from the antique shop? But they don’t have money like that.

I’m sweating but freezing, and my body’s shaking so hard I can’t hold the letter still to read it again.

I double check the envelope, to make sure it’s my name on it. It is, but I still don’t understand.

“Mom?” I walk on weak legs back out into the living room and hold the letter out to her. “Do you know anything about this?”

“What is it, honey?” She takes it and reads it, then looks up at me. “Is this for real? What’s the Hart Foundation?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Do you think it could be Mr. and Mrs. Hart? From the shop?”

“They don’t look like they have this kind of money.” She hands the letter back to me. “But then again, you never know, right? People hide all sorts of things. Did you call the school to find out if this is legitimate? Maybe talk to someone in the, what’s it called, registrar’s office? Or financial department or whatever?”

“It’s Sunday. All those offices will be closed.”

“Then go ask the Harts.”

“Yeah. I’m going now.” In my room I strip off Jake’s clothes, smelling them for a moment to inhale the scent of his detergent, to feel like he’s here with me for a moment, and pull on some clean clothes of my own. Jeans, like usual. My red sneakers. A Station Gray T-shirt. Jake would approve.

Clutching the letter in my hand, I half walk, half jog the mile into town. I’m not sure if the Harts are even back from their trip yet, but I need to know. I need to find out if this is real or not, because I can’t let myself get excited if there’s a chance it’s a joke. A setup. One more way for me to get burned.

The shop’s open in the hopes that nonexistent Sunday shoppers will stop by, and before I enter I see Mrs. Hart at the counter, wiping it with a paper towel.

As I open the door, she sprays lemon-scented wood cleaner on the counter, and it smells fresh despite the dustiness in the shop.

“Hello, Melanie!” She looks up and smiles, then swipes at the counter some more before putting the can of cleaner on a shelf under the register and tossing the used paper towels into the trash. “You know you don’t have to work today, right, dear?”

“Right. I know. I’m just stopping by.” I feel silly suddenly. There’s no way the money came from Mrs. Hart. This old store filled with mostly useless items is a stark reminder of that. But I have to know.

“Oh, that’s nice. It’s always nice to see you. Every night when you come in to work after school, I’m in such a hurry to get upstairs and start supper. I don’t need to rush off this time.”

I approach the counter and, with a shaking hand, slide the letter onto the newly cleaned surface. I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Hart, do you know anything about this? About the Hart Foundation?”

“Oh my, she works fast, our lawyer!” Mrs. Hart reads the letter, her pale pink lips smiling.

“What lawyer? What’s going on, Mrs. Hart?”

She looks up at me. “Give me your hands, Melanie.”

I do, and she grasps them in hers, soft the way only old people’s skin is. Her eyes, blue and deep, meet mine. “It’s a gift,” she says. “For you. There are no strings attached. Nothing you need to do or say. Nothing you owe.”

“I can’t… It’s too much…”

She shakes her head, scowling at me. “Stop. It’s not enough. Your life… maybe you haven’t told me the details, but living in this town we know everything about everyone. Things haven’t been easy for you. And Mr. Hart and I, we love you, Melanie. You are honest. And good. We have no children or grandchildren, and we want to share what we have. With you.”

“I’m not good, Mrs. Hart!” I pull my hands from hers and place them on the counter, the need to show her my ugly side, which I’m positive she knows about but maybe doesn’t, so she can make this decision with all the facts. “I’ve done a lot of things…”

“Stop.” She puts her hands up. “I know. Everyone does things they regret.”

“And it’s too much money anyway.”

“It’s our money, and we’ll decide what’s too much. And what we do with it. We’re old, the two of us. We run this store because it gives us something to do, but we made some very smart investments a long time ago, and then some more smart investments, and now we have money collecting dust. Well, not literally. We’re not that old-fashioned that we’d have a box of cash under our bed!”

“Right.” I’m stunned and dizzy, and I plop down on the armchair near the counter and stare at Mrs. Hart.

“Anyway, dear, we’ve paid for your first year through a foundation we set up specifically to continue giving money to your education. It’s all worked out with a lawyer, and the foundation will pay for your tuition and room and board each year for four years. With a little extra for, you know, random expenses.”

There are no words. I have no idea how to express to her how grateful I am, how life-changing this is. Her eyes tell me she knows, but I’m unable to speak.

“You know,” she says, filling in the space where I should be talking, “when you told me you’d lost your scholarship, my heart broke for you. I knew I couldn’t let that happen. And if I die tomorrow, I’ll die knowing I helped you out.”

“You saved my life,” I exclaim. “I’ll never be able to thank you and your husband for this.”

“Just do well in college, dear. And I have a feeling you will. And maybe send a postcard once in a while.”

“I’ll send a postcard every single day! I’ll send a thousand postcards!” I get up and hug her, my eyes prickling with tears.

Her arms fold around me. She smells floury and sweet, and she whispers into my ear, “I don’t have any children or grandchildren. But I like to think of you as my granddaughter. I hope that’s all right.”

“It’s more than all right.”

The front door bell clangs as a rare customer comes in. “Now I need to work,” says Mrs. Hart. “It’s your day off. Go do something fun.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome.” She smiles at me fondly for a second before turning to the couple that just entered the store. “Hello!” she says. “If you have any questions about anything, please just let me know.”

I fly—I seriously feel like my feet aren’t touching the ground—out of the shop. Main Street is lit up by the sun, and I don’t even care about the ugliness everywhere. Some things are beautiful despite it all. The maple tree on the corner, filling up with spring buds and getting ready to burst into life. The park bench in front of the hardware store that someone recently painted a bright and beautiful shade of shiny blue. A mom pushing a stroller, the kid gripping the string of a big, round pink balloon that hovers above them.