Storiesonline.net ------- Broken Up by CWatson Copyright© 2009 by CWatson ------- Description: Danielle Mayer has loved David Glass since they were eight. But all good things come to an end. Codes: MF mf cons rom 1st safe oral slow caution ------- ------- Chapter 1 "Just go slow," she told him, and he did. After, they lay together, his arm under her shoulders, his member limp now and dangling between them. She felt warm and safe and content in his arms. She ran her hand idly over his chest, over the nascent muscles there, the faint tracing of hair. Under them was the blanket he had brought, and under that the roots of the old oak tree that cradled them, and grass, and the good green earth. Above them was endless sky dappled by clouds and untouched by man. Later in life she felt that the field, the tree, the sky was all an endless talisman: potential, sheer possibility, untapped and fecund, merely awaiting the touch of the right hand. Her hand. Hers, and David's. "How do you feel," he asked. How did she feel? Warm. Loved. Good. The delicious ache of muscles well-used, and the new awareness of things that had never before been used. The sun caressed her skin with molten gold, the summer breeze with delicate fingers. She had never been naked outside before, though she had been naked with him more times than she could count. She had felt his spend on her skin before, and even in her mouth, but now it was inside her, warm and wet; and quivering, it seemed to her, as if with the joy of its delivery. She wished it had been longer, because every moment had been heavenly, and she wanted it all. It would take forever to explain it all. "Why do you ask," she said instead. "Well," he said. "For some women, you know, it, it hurts. The. You know. The first time." "It didn't hurt," she said. "My cherry's been gone for ages, you know that. And I loved it. It felt really good." "Oh," he said, with the hesitation she'd always found endearing. "Okay. I'm glad." David had found this place three months ago, biking out with friends. It seemed like a place out of a storybook: a long plain of sweet-smelling grass, as soft as down to the touch; a speckling of trees, rich browns and greens under a pale blue sky. She had loved it from the moment he brought her here; she had known, from the moment he brought her here, that this would be the place she gave herself to him, irrevocably and forever. The grass was waist-high, a curtain of solid light; the trees towered overhead like smiling grandfathers. The one they had chosen, gnarled and steadfast, had doubtless cradled other bodies than theirs, had doubtless witnessed more love than theirs; she could tell, just by lying beneath its boughs. She had been out here many times since the first day, sometimes with David, sometimes alone; sometimes with her camera, sometimes without. It was as if nothing could touch her here. Except him, of course. "Did it feel like you thought it would?" he asked. She took the hand that draped over her shoulder and gave its palm a little kiss. "What is with you and all the questions today?" "Well..." he said. "I'm curious. I want to know how it felt for you ... I want to know if it was okay." "It didn't hurt," she said again, smiling, giving his palm another kiss. "And what it felt like ... Well, I didn't know what it would feel like." His fingers had been inside her a couple times, but that wasn't the same; nor was it anything like the time when she, exploring, had pushed the handle of a hairbrush up inside herself. (If her cherry hadn't been gone by then, it certainly was afterwards.) Those things were nothing like the real thing—nothing like being here, cradled by earth and root, cradled by his arms, his chest pushing against hers, his hips straining against hers, feeling the sweet pain of his thing inside her, bigger than anything else she had experienced; nothing like the look on his face, made helpless by love and lust, or the things he whispered; nothing like the feeling of his heart thundering against hers when he gave his final shudder and lay still. Danielle Mayer had loved David Glass from the time they were six years old, bumbling around the Redwood Heights Elementary School playground together. Someone had stolen his truck, and she had stood up for him, and even though she had cooties he dared to talk to her; soon they were inseparable. They had made fun of Mrs. Galveston's slip together; traded answers on spelling tests without thought of consequence; been buddies on every field trip she could think of. When she wanted to find out what the big deal about kissing was—after all, she was a grown up, eight whole years old, why couldn't she do it?—he was the only one she needed to ask; she showed him hers, he showed her his; when she heard her mommy and daddy using angry words she didn't know, it was David of whom she asked the meaning of the word "divorce." (And "stupid fucking cunt," too, though their fifth-grade teacher wasn't as keen to explain that one.) She said "I love you" to him even before she said it to her grandma, and meant it before she meant it with her grandma either. When people asked him what he wanted to be when they grew up, he always mentioned her, and vice versa. When fifth grade rolled around and they finally learned how babies were made, they laughed about it—what a silly idea, after all, for a boy to stick his thingie in a girl's also-thingie! But time passed, and they began to understand the urges that made a boy and a girl want to do that; and now that summer was here and they finally had time, their occasional explorations had increased in frequency and intensity. And she had known that, if there was ever anyone she would have sex with and have babies with, it was David Glass. And yet, actual lovemaking was the one thing she didn't know she could share. Their backpacks, their schoolbooks, their iPods, their DVDs, even sometimes their clothing passed between them without thought of ownership; her things were his, and vice versa. They had shared their bodies long ago as well; it had been her hands that taught him his thing was good for more than peeing, and his that taught her the same, while he slept over at the age of seven; from then on they had traded their pleasures freely, despite not yet knowing what orgasms were. But this was different. This was baby-making. Danielle's older cousin Charlotte had gotten pregnant too early, and as soon as Danielle was old enough to notice anything about babies besides how cute they were, she had noticed that little Austin was a bundle of trouble. But there was more than that too. For almost ten years David had been at her side, as omnipresent as oxygen ... But would he always be? Sex was something you didn't share with just anyone. She needed to know, for certain, that he wasn't just playing, that when he said they would marry, he meant it. To change the subject, she asked, "Did it feel the way you thought it would?" She felt him shrug. "It wasn't ... I didn't know what to expect either." And then, " ... Did I last long enough for you?" She felt a blush of pleasure over his insecurities. He was so cute that way. "Davey, you're sixteen. It's okay." In past years it had taken her a while to get him to come; but now, as hormones increased, sometimes he spurted the moment she touched him. The first time that had happened, his face had turned bright red and he had spent the next half-hour apologizing. "Besides, we got you off earlier so you'd last longer, remember?" "I know, I know, I just ... I didn't want to disappoint you." The truth was, he had, a little bit; she had loved what they had, and would have loved even more for it to last longer. But the moment she saw his face, the face she'd been reading since she was a child, she'd known she couldn't expect much from him. Even that fact brought a feeling of pleasure: that her body could excite him so. She turned her head to kiss the side of his chest. "You didn't." After a bit of silence she said, "How do you feel?" There was a pause. She imagined him looking up at the sky, barely visible through a sheltering blanket of oak leaves. "Well, I'm ... I'm happy," he said. "Well, I mean. I just did it, and I'm only sixteen, it'd be a little weird if I wasn't ecstatic." A lopsided grin crossed his face for a moment. "Mostly, I'm just ... I dunno. Humbled." "Humbled?" she said. "Well ... Yeah," he said, shrugging. "I mean, how many times in a guy's life does the most beautiful girl in the world give her virginity to him?" She passed a hand over her face, embarrassed. "You keep saying that." Her arm covered her small breasts; her place down below, its light down of hair still damp from their loving, could not be covered, but there was nothing to be done about that. "And I keep meaning it," he said. He lifted her hand from her face, and his green eyes met hers. "Every time." "I'm not that attractive," she said. "Nope," he agreed glibly. "There's people hotter than you. Shelly Baumgarter has bigger boobs, and so does Amy Plisken." She swatted him with one hand. "But that doesn't matter," he said. "Because they're not here with me. They're not the one I'm in love with." His hand curved around to gently cup her breast. "They're not the one who gave it up for me." She swatted it away. "So, if Shelly Baumgarter and her waterballoon boobs were here and she'd just given it up, you'd be totally in love with her instead?" The arm under her shoulders grew tense. " ... Nellie, I think you're reading too much into this." She pushed out of his embrace. He was thin and gangly, with little definition to his muscles; only over the last few months had he finally grown taller than her. He had sandy hair and green eyes she had almost memorized. Right now, she loathed the sight of him. "Don't call me that. You know I hate that name." Now that she was sitting up, she could feel motion down below in that secret place: it was his cum, she realized, starting to drip out of her. Was it supposed to do that? ... It had better! "And another thing, what's with the coming inside me?" "What?" "You agreed we'd use a condom," she said. "Dammit, David, you know I'm not on anything! I could get pregnant." "You're not going to get pregnant," he said, sitting up, his tone clearly meant to be soothing. "What if I do?" she blazed. "What if I do get pregnant?" "Then I'd be there for you. Nellie—" "Don't call me that!" "I've called you that since we first met," he said. "That's what I knew you as when we were young." And that was just it: it made her feel like a kid. Which, to be sure, she wasn't. "I just gave you my virginity. That's not something kids do. I just gave you my virginity, and you can't even call me by the right name." "Well, I'm not gonna call you Dee, that's just stupid," he said. It was the name her girl friends called her, and a subtle dig at them—he didn't think they were good for her. "Maybe that's how I want to be called," she retorted. "Then you're just gonna have to suffer," he said, "because I won't." "You know, this isn't the kind of thanks I want to receive from the man I just gave myself to," she snapped. "You just had my virginity, David." "You just had mine," he protested. "And besides, what's the big deal? It's not like this is the only time we'll get to do it—" His presumption took her breath away. "It is too the only time we'll get to do it, if you keep on like that!" She saw the muley stubborn look start to form on his face. "Nellie, I don't like that name because it's disrespectful of you. It's just the first letter of your name, how much more diminutive can you get? I don't like them because they don't treat you right—" "It takes one to know one," she retorted. Now there was anger in his eyes as well. "Angel, I have been nothing but polite to you—" "And compared me with Shelly Baumgarter! One of my friends! The very person you're saying I shouldn't hang out with is the same person you'd rather be with—" "Rather—" he spluttered. "Rather— Rather be with?" "Why, what were you going to say?" she spat. "Well, maybe I would rather be with her," he exclaimed, "she probably isn't such a bitch about sex!" His face was the angriest she'd ever seen it. But she didn't much notice, because she was the angriest she'd ever been. "Do you know what Scott O'Connor said about Ruth Fischer? Do you know when he said they did it? He said they waited three months." Scott was one of his school friends. "Kenny Cheng said he was doing it with Vicky Lassiter after half a year. Shelly Baumgarter gave it up to Alex Pearson on the third date!" His eyes were alight with fire now. "And where have we been? They've been asking me since freshman year whether we've done it then, and they all give me weird looks when I say we're waiting. Some of them were asking during eighth grade. You made me wait for four years, Danielle! I think you owe me by now!" "Owe you?" she shrieked. "Owe you?!" What was he thinking, that he owned her or something? "All right, you know what? Forget it. Forget it. We're done. We're done, David Glass, I hate you, and I never want to see you again!" She snatched up her pile of clothes in one swift motion and set off through the grass. When she got to her bike, she hopped on, stopping only to don her flip-flops, and began to leave—only to realize that she had better dress first, lest anyone see her cycling naked down the street. Her shorts and tank top were on in an instant; she stuffed her bra and panties in a pocket and did not stop until she got home. Only then did she allow herself to contemplate crying. Barely had the thought occurred to her that tears were rolling down her cheeks. All throughout the ride she had tried to fuel the fire of her rage, her indignation, but it was as if the countryside were conspiring to thwart her; she had passed what felt like a hundred locations freighted with memory. There was the place where she and David had found the dying squirrel. Here was the spot she'd twisted her ankle, and David had helped her limp home. Behind those trees was the first time he'd ever touched her breasts, just two years ago (when she'd finally started having any breasts to touch). There was the spot David had had that catastrophic bike spill and skinned his shin almost to the bone; the blood was long washed away, but the long tire skids were still there. And without underwear, her nether regions were more susceptible to the touch of her shorts, to the touch of the bicycle seat, to its rumbling vibrations as she skidded home—all a reminder of what she had just done, and whom it had been done with. Soon it was a struggle to see clearly. And once she was safely locked in her room, it was over; she wept furiously, if silently, with a cold feeling of loss in her gut that she simply couldn't dispel. She reminded herself that he wasn't perfect, that there were things she was glad to be shut of. He was so indecisive; he was always happy to do whatever she wanted, and she teased him about it mercilessly, knowing that he would one day let someone bend him over backwards. He had promised to get a job this summer, but she'd known he wouldn't, even as she encouraged him to get out of the house and stop being lazy. And so polite, so non-combatant: if Shelly Baumgarter came up to him tomorrow and slandered Danielle to her face, David would just nod and smile. What kind of man is that to build a life around. What kind of man is that to marry. I'm sure I'll be better off without him. She'd always suspected that his hostility to her friends was partially hormones. There was simply no denying that Shelly Baumgarter had the best figure in the school, better than some of the seniors, Missy Renquist's was almost as good, and Liana French was widely recognized the prettiest girl in the school. Danielle's social standing had gone up remarkably once they'd let her be seen in public with them. It didn't surprise her to know that he would rather be with them. It didn't surprise her that he didn't actually think she was pretty. Though it did hurt. But I'll live, she thought. I'll live. I'm better off without him, if he's going to be like that. I gave him everything, and he threw it in my face. I won't let him win. I'll live. So she firmed her lip and set her teeth, and wiped her eyes. And if she cried at night, it was into her pillow, and nobody heard, so that it might as well have never happened. Just like David. Home Next... -Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd) -Your name -Please enter some comments so I can write you back ------- Chapter 2 It was another three weeks before Danielle would talk about David. They were the three slowest weeks of her life. Each morning she would wake up and wonder what to do with herself. Each night she would fall into bed with the same question. In between she sat and stared. She tried to use the computer, to do her summer reading, to catch up on books she'd meant to finish; she tried to keep herself busy. It never worked. Always she found herself sitting aimlessly, blankly, unable to focus. Once she read the same page for an hour. Her period came, and went; there was blood on her panties, but she didn't think to do anything about it. Nothing happened. Obviously, her parents had questions about why her best friend had suddenly stopped coming round—not to mention her younger sister Sonya, little brat that she was—but enough times yelling "I don't wanna talk about it!" at them finally put them off the scent. She was just glad that David himself had not shown up at the front door; he certainly could have, it wasn't like he hadn't spent half his life here. But for whatever reasons of his own, he didn't. For a while she dreaded it; then she merely worried that he might try to phone the house; then she wondered whether he might send a letter or an e-mail. But as weeks turned to months and no contact was forthcoming, she began to think that maybe he had taken it seriously—as he should have!—when she said she was done with him. Her friends were no help; Shelly Baumgarter and the others had made it plain that she should not attempt to contact them over the summer. (They had also made it plain that they would be out of state, possibly out of the country, over the summer, and any attempts she did make at contacting them would necessarily fail, so why not save herself the trouble? Danielle wished her family had that kind of money.) Not that there was much she could say to them anyway. They had all ridiculed her "outdated" attachment to David; they thought she should sow her wild oats while she could. She would get no sympathy from them. And her other friends... "Danielle?" The voice sounded amazed. "Danielle Mayer?" "Do you know any other Danielles, Liz?" Danielle asked. "Well," said Liz, "no, not particularly. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I know this 'Danielle Mayer' person you speak of either. I mean, she hasn't talked to me in a couple of months. Which is pretty crappy for someone who claims I'm her best girl friend." "I am not in the mood, Elizabeth," Danielle snapped, two inches away from hanging up. "Ooh, a first name ultimatum, " said Liz. "Powerful, but not nearly as effective as the full-spectrum triple-name treatment. 'Elizabeth Viola Lewiston!' See? There's a difference." "You want me to use it?" Danielle growled. "No, not particularly. What can I do for you, Nellie? We haven't spoken since school ended, it must be something important." "I ... I..." said Danielle. "Can you just come over?" "Well, I was going to meet Heidi and Vanessa for a movie. Can it wait?" "Umm," said Danielle. She wasn't sure she wanted to say anything out loud—as though, somehow, keeping it quiet would make it all go away. But despite it the words came tumbling out: "I'm not with David anymore." There was a crackling silence from the other end of the phone. Then Liz said, "I'll be right over." And she was. Within the next fifteen minutes after that, Heidi and Vanessa arrived too; Carmen was at summer school and would only be available after five, but Liz assured her that she had been texted and was fully aware of the situation. Danielle, now the center of the maelstrom, was almost too stunned to function. While she had known Liz longer than she had David, their friendship had long become part of the background noise of her life; for years now she had not nearly been as conscious of Liz as she was of David. Would she have dropped everything if some disaster had happened in Liz's life? She wasn't sure. Suddenly she was absurdly grateful she'd never had to find out. "So," said Liz. "When did this happen? What's going on?" "Umm ... Three weeks ago," said Danielle. "And you didn't say anything?!" Liz exclaimed. "Well..." said Danielle. She hadn't wanted to say anything; it was as if she could keep it from being true by not admitting it out loud. These were decisions she had made in the half-light of the night, far into the blue hours of the morning when her eyes swam with fatigue. Now, with the sun out, they seemed stupid. But she had kept to them all the same. "Well, if I had a boyfriend break up with me, I wouldn't want to tell anyone," Heidi announced. "God, I'd be so embarrassed!" Liz passed an eyeroll to Danielle before saying, "We know now, at least. And we can do something about it." What surprised Danielle was not the ostentatious little smirk; what surprised her was that she remembered to look at Liz's face to catch it. She and Liz had been close as sisters, once; maybe some things didn't end. But that thought brought David to mind, and then things were cold in her heart again. Though Heidi and Vanessa pestered her about it, she couldn't bring herself to admit what had happened. Not to them. She could just imagine Vanessa pecking at her for details, or Heidi making faces and being grossed out. Liz seemed to see; after the other two had bugged her for a while, Liz swept in and managed to start a spirited argument about what movie they were going to see. They? "Well, you don't think we're leaving you alone here, are you?" Liz said. But Danielle didn't think she'd mind that. She wasn't sure she wanted to be out in public right now. What she really wanted was for all these well-meaning but stupid people to go away, so that she could tell Liz what had happened—so that she could actually talk about it; now that the subject had been broached, she realized she wanted nothing else but to talk about it, and to wonder how, if she had loved him and he her, this could have happened. But it wasn't to be. So she went to the movie with them, and it wasn't until after dinner that night that Liz could extricate herself and come talk. And even then, it wasn't alone. For reasons surpassing her understanding, Liz's boyfriend Martin came too. She had seen him around school, of course, but never paid much attention to him; he was one of the quiet ones. She'd never understood, for that matter, what it was that Liz saw in him. But she'd rarely had time to ponder, nor any reason to either; there had always been David to wonder about. Her skepticism must have shown on her face, because Liz said, "Look, he's not coming in with us. I'm gonna leave him here in the den and then you and I can go talk in your room." "Why'd you bring him at all?" Danielle demanded. "Because I thought he might have something useful to say," Liz said. "Look, Nellie. He—" "Don't call me that," she said. "It makes me feel like a kid." "Umm. Well. What would you rather be called?" said Liz. "Anything else. Danielle. Dani. Dee. Anything else." Martin spoke up for the first time. "Antonio?" Danielle gave him a glare. "Well," said Liz, "you did say 'anything else.'" So that was what they saw in each other: the same juvenile sense of humor. "Yes," she said, letting sarcasm drip from every word, "Antonio would be fine." "Oh, good," said Martin. He stuck out his hand. "Hi, Antonio, I'm Martin. Pleased to meet you." "And, now that you two have introduced yourselves," said Liz, "it's time for the girl-talk to happen. Martin, you stay here. No. Noooo. Stay. Stay. Yes. Good boy. Good boy." She blew air kisses while Martin sat on the couch at attention, grinning with his tongue out in a caricature of canine obedience. With effort, Danielle controlled an urge to vomit. Public displays of affection were one thing, but that ... And yet mixed in with the irritation was a small kernel of sorrow. Why hadn't she and David ever felt the need to be demonstrative? Why hadn't they ever generated their own in-jokes? Liz shut the door behind them and turned to face her. "Okay, so. Where would you like to begin?" Danielle didn't know where to begin. What had happened? Her best friend, her lover, her husband to be, her good right arm—all of it was gone. She couldn't begin to explain. She didn't actually know what to say. "Danielle Sabrina Mayer, you dragged me up here to tell me the whole story," said Liz, folding her arms across her chest. "Now I'm here, and I want to hear it, damn it. So talk. What's going on." "I ... I don't know where to start," Danielle said. "Start at the beginning," Liz said. "Good place to start, generally." "From the beginning?" Danielle protested. "That's, like, when we were six!" Liz blinked for a moment. Then she said, "Ho-ooo boy, I'm in for a long night, aren't I." "Well, I ... I guess you don't have to go back that far..." said Danielle. "But ... I mean, it's all tangled, you know? I don't know where one thing starts and the other ends." "Well, fine," said Liz, crossing over to the bed and sitting down. "What's the last thing that happened between you two?" "Well, we had a fight—" "Before you had the fight," said Liz, giving her a dirty look. When had she gotten so impatient, anyhow? Perhaps after five or ten years of very loose friendship, someone might change. "Before we had the fight? We, uhh..." Danielle steeled herself with a deep breath. "We had sex." Liz blinked at her. "Okay. And?" Whatever response Danielle had expected from her, this was not it. "Wha, well, aren't you— I mean ... That's it? You're not surprised?" Liz gave her an exasperated smile. "Nellie, I've seen you two together. You two've been in love from the instant you met. You two were in love before you even knew what love meant. Of course you were gonna give it up to each other. When did you start?" "Uhh, well ... The time before we had the fight," Danielle said. " ... Oh," said Liz. "That's ... Well, that's an inopportune time to have a fight. Umm. I was going to ask what the fight was about, but maybe it doesn't matter. I mean, anything going wrong then could make a difference." "What?" said Danielle. "Why?" "Well, you're ... Danielle, think about it for just a minute. You've just had sex for the first time. So has he. Furthermore, you've both just had sex with each other, which is a special occasion even when you aren't both virgins. Both of you have just shared a very special, very intimate part of your bodies and your souls with another person, for the first time ever. Not to mention sharing it with each other for the first time ever. There were a lot of firsts going on, Danielle, of course you're both bound to be ... Stirred up." "How do you know all this stuff anyhow," Danielle asked, "how've you..." Liz just met her gaze. "Oh, no. No," said Danielle. "No way. With ... With who??" "With Martin, who else?" Liz said. "With ... With Martin?" Danielle exclaimed, hearing her voice scale an octave. "I mean ... You ... I didn't..." "I guess this was the sort of reaction you were expecting from me," Liz said in a dry voice. "But ... But you're ... I mean, how old are you?" Danielle said. "Umm ... Sixteen?" said Liz. "Same as you are? Our birthdays are within a week of each other, remember?" "Yeah, but..." said Danielle, helpless. "I didn't ... Remember when I told you I'd kissed David, and you said I was really gross and you wouldn't talk to me all day? Liz, the girl I remember would never..." Elizabeth stood up. "Nellie," she said gently, "the me you remember is nine." Danielle shut her mouth. God, was everyone growing up these days? "So," said Liz, and this time she drew Danielle down to sit on the bed with her. "Tell me, Danielle. What exactly happened out there that would make you break up with him? Not ten minutes after giving him your innocence, and—if I know you, and I might—swearing eternal love to him, and having it sworn in return." Danielle felt a moment of fright: that was exactly what had happened. How could Liz know her so much better than she knew Liz? Did she know anyone that well? ... Besides David? With much coaxing and prodding on Liz's part, Danielle managed to trot out the whole sordid story. When it was done she felt drained. "I just ... I just don't understand. How could I have misunderstood him so badly? I thought..." Now in almost a whisper. "I thought he loved me." "Didn't he?" said Liz. "No," Danielle retorted. "If he loved me, why would he be so boring?" "What do you mean, 'boring'?" "He just ... He never does anything that surprises me anymore," Danielle said. "He hadn't for a long time. Whenever we went out to eat, or to see a movie, or were doing homework, or, or even when we were fooling around, I could ... Like, I could predict everything. And I would always be right." "Well, you did date for, what, eight years?" Liz said. "You get to know a person during that time. Maybe you just knew him really well." "I thought I did. I..." A sigh. "I thought he loved me. But he just wanted to get his rocks off. I mean, god, listen to what what he said!" "What he said was insensitive," said Liz. "That doesn't mean he doesn't love you, or that he was manipulating you. People have been saying thoughtless things ever since they had mouths." "Still," Danielle maintained. "I don't wanna be with someone who thinks those things. I don't wanna be with someone who even says those things. Being the same old boring guy for years, and then saying I owe him?? Complaining about waiting for four years?" The thought still made her indignant. "Yes, about that," said Liz, standing up. "If you'll excuse me." "What?" said Danielle. "I'm going to get Martin." "You're going to— What?" "Hon, do you understand why he said that?" Liz asked her. "Do you understand what happened?" "Why who said it? David? ... No. Not really." "Would you like a guy's opinion on the matter?" said Liz. "Well, yeah, I guess that would be nice, but we don't have a— Oh," said Danielle. "The light is shed," said Liz with a crooked smile. "We'll be right back." While they were gone, Danielle's mind wandered. She didn't know what to think or where to look anymore. All the world seemed different to her now, as though she was seeing it through new eyes. Or maybe it was just her. Everything seemed washed out to her, bleak, devoid of color—like looking at a black-and-white photo. Nothing she looked at seemed interesting anymore. Was this normal? Did she need to see an eye doctor? Liz preceded her boyfriend through the door. "Hey, Antonio," said Martin, holding out his hand again, "I understand you're in need of a male opinion." This time she shook it; it seemed rude not to. "I take it you're our guy." "Well, I sure hope so," said Liz. "If he were our girl, it wouldn't help us much. Sit down, Martin, and tell us what you think." "About what?" said Martin, taking a seat against the wall. Evidently he didn't mind being below eye level. Danielle wondered what that meant. "How long do you think a couple should go out before they have sex?" "What, if it were up to me?" said Martin. "No, silly. Compromise," said Liz, with another ostentatious eye-roll. "We're not all—" "No, hold on," said Danielle. "I want to know. What would you say?" Martin blinked at her. "Jeez, I thought you and David were, like, totally in love or something." She didn't like to think about that. "So what if we were?" "So, wouldn't you have heard about it? When did he start wanting to have sex?" "Well, I, uh ... God, I dunno." Martin blinked. "How can you not know?" "I mean, it was gradual," said Danielle. "At first we were like, 'Wow, that's really weird.' Sex, I mean. But slowly we started to think that maybe it was something to try even though it was weird." "Why don't you just answer the question, then, Mar," said Liz. "When you're going out with a girl, do you want to have sex with them immediately?" "Well, duh," said Martin. "And I see what you mean about not knowing. I guess you two didn't really 'start' dating." "Yeah, it ... It just was, kinda." Danielle grimaced. "I feel like we've always been dating." And weren't anymore. She wondered if she should feel worse about that than she did. "But anyway," said Liz. "So, Mar, if you were dating some new girl, would you want to do it on the first date?" "Well, maybe not the first date," said Martin. "But pretty soon. I mean, what's the statistic they told us in Health class? The average relationship for people our age lasts six weeks. If you're with a girl who expects to wait two months, then you ain't never gonna get any." "And, of course, you want to get any." "Well, duh," said Martin again, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "But ... I mean, you're extra-horny," said Danielle. "Right?" Liz and Martin looked at her with identical expressions of confusion. "I mean ... You're not..." she said. " ... Does everyone feel that way? All guys?" "Pretty much," said Martin. "I mean, every now and then you have someone who wants to wait until marriage, but that doesn't mean they don't want to have sex, it just means they intend to resist the temptation. Maybe they'll even succeed. But maybe they won't. Every guy wants to." "Immediately?" said Danielle, appalled. "Like, right off the bat? With a girl they barely even know?" "Well, not quite that bad," said Martin. "Some guys are smart enough to give it a little time ... But some aren't. Some just wanna get their rocks off. And every guy definitely wants to have sex eventually, and with the girl he's with. Maybe not right this second, maybe not the very first date, but eventually. And sooner rather than later." "What if ... What if you made him wait..." said Danielle. "Four years?" Martin was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Damn, girl. He must have really loved you." She didn't like hearing that. "Or, maybe he was desperate. Maybe he was hanging on 'cuz he didn't think he could get any from anyone else." Martin shrugged. "It could be that too. I think most guys our age would have broken up with you if you'd told him you were gonna wait that long." "It wasn't like that," Danielle said, "it wasn't like I had a, I dunno, a timeline or anything. He knew. I told him we'd do it when I felt ready, and I told him I'd feel ready pretty soon." "Four years is 'pretty soon'?" Martin asked. "It's not a small decision," Danielle said. "It would be to a guy," said Martin. "W ... How?" said Danielle, her thoughts on her nephew Austin. "I mean, if he's not careful, he could get..." "A girl pregnant," Martin finished. "But he wouldn't get pregnant himself." "But if he did, the right thing to do would be to stick around and help that poor girl out," Danielle protested. "I mean, I don't think we're still in the days where a man has to marry a woman he slept with, but..." "Yeah, that'd be the right thing," Martin said. "And how many of our classmates can you think of who would do the right thing?" David would. To steer away from that uncomfortable thought, she said, "And all guys want it?" "What," said Martin, "don't you?" Danielle shrugged. "I..." She didn't mind it, that was for certain; David had learned, from long experience, how to make her feel good, and when they finally did it, well, that was good too. But... "I dunno. I mean, it's nice, but it wouldn't bother me to not have it for a while." "See, that's another difference," said Martin. "Guys really want it." "Seriously," said Liz. "He'd do me every day if he could." "And that's even though you guys do do it?" Danielle said. She would assume that getting some regularly would blunt his appetite. "That's with us doing it," Liz agreed. And then, as though reading into Danielle's thoughts: "And it was worse when we weren't." "That still doesn't explain why he said I owed him sex," Danielle said. "No, it does," said Martin. "Look, Danielle. I assume you guys didn't just go straight to, you know, whatever. Doing it. I assume you worked up to it. Over the course of the, you know, four years." Danielle nodded. Actually, they had been playing with each other for much longer than that. But puberty brought a turning point; sex started to be something David actively sought, not just a casual fun shared with his angel, and their explorations had taken on a completely new edge. His Internet research had added new things to their repertoire: oral sex (she was more willing to do it than he was, especially since he wasn't spurting yet), and nipple play, and having him thrust between her thighs; and, eventually, in only the week before they finally did it, she had dared to rub the outside of her pussy against the length of his shaft, kissing it with her moisture while he groaned underneath her. (The strength of the resulting orgasms, hers and his, had been part of what convinced her to finally go through with it.) It had been a long, slow, four-year build up, but yes, it had happened. "Well, throughout all those four years," Martin said, "he's been wanting it. Not just the things you did in the meantime—blowjobs or whatever—but the whole shebang. Actual, you know, intercourse. Four years, Danielle. That's a pretty long time to 16-year-olds. "And so here he is, wanting it for four years," Martin said. "While his friends and classmates egg him on—it doesn't help that he's one of the oldest people in the year, so they expect him to be further along the curve, especially when he's got, in their opinion, a steady source of pussy close to hand. And remember, Danielle, he probably doesn't have the hang-ups about sex you do." "I don't have hang-ups!" Danielle protested. "Okay, sorry," said Martin, "wrong word. What I was trying to say is that he's a lot less hesitant to go in and do it. Virginity's not as special to a guy, you know. A woman who's not a virgin is kind of stigmatized, right? Well, the same thing happens to a guy who is a virgin." "Which of course raises the bizarre conflict of interest wherein the boyfriend and girlfriend must choose which one of them is going to be the one seen as a loser," Liz remarked, "but that's another matter." Danielle hadn't even thought about that. "I'm going to be seen as a loser?" "Only if you let it get around," said Liz. "Can David keep a secret?" Danielle didn't answer. She knew he could; would he? "So, my point is, he's been wanting it for four years," Martin said, "and he probably feels like you've been holding him back. So when you finally do it, he's not thinking, 'Oh, thank goodness, I'm finally getting some'. He's thinking, 'Jesus, what took her so long?'" "Which is why he said I owe him," Danielle said, making the connection. "Because to him, there was no valid reason to have not done it. It was just me being unreasonable." "Basically," said Martin. That just made her feel worse. They'd had long, in-depth discussions about why they were doing what they were (or weren't doing, in this particular case) and she'd thought she'd made her stance clear. If Martin was right—and she didn't see any reason why he wouldn't be—then David had not understood at all. "That still doesn't mean she owes him, though," said Liz. "I mean, when you get down to it, sex is something you decide to do. It's not like she has to decide to." "No, she doesn't," Martin said. "Danielle, you're right to be annoyed at him for saying that, because you don't owe him. But keep in mind that he's talking out of years of sexual frustration here. He probably didn't mean to say anything at all. But the simple fact is that you withheld something he's wanted for a long time. No matter how good your reasons for doing so, or how patient he tries to be, he's bound to have gotten at least a little annoyed." "And what about that other stuff about ... about wanting Shelly Baumgarter?" Danielle said. She wished she hadn't sounded quite as desperate as she had. Martin shrugged. "That, I can't tell you. Does he have a crush on her?" Before Danielle could answer, Liz interjected: "Yeah right. I mean, I don't know if you know this, Danielle, but Shelly has ... a reputation. Around campus." Danielle knew, or at least had heard about it; but she'd never bothered to verify. What Shelly Baumgarter did with her boyfriends had always seemed much less important than what she got to do with David. "Even if David was in a relationship with you, she probably would've done it with him if he'd asked. And I'm pretty sure David knew that." "And, could have ripped a piece off of that any time he wanted, with you none the wiser," Martin added. "Well, maybe not that," Liz said. "I'm also pretty sure that, if he had, it would've gotten around—and of course I would've told you, Dani. So we'd know. But he would've gotten away with it, at least, if all he wanted was to get his rocks off." "And David isn't like that," said Danielle, before realizing how stupid that statement was. What did she know about what David was like anymore? "But ... But he still said ... He said she had bigger breasts than me!" "So?" said Liz. "She does. That's a fact, Danielle. What difference does it make?" "Well ... Why would he stay with me if he wanted to be with her?" "Who says he wants to be with her?" said Martin. "Just because he's noticed that she has bigger tits than you, that doesn't mean he wants anything to do with her. Or them. I mean, you'd have to be blind not to notice Shelly Baumgarter's hooters." "But, then..." said Danielle, helpless. "Why would he even mention it?" "Maybe to point out that he doesn't care, that he likes you all the same?" said Liz. "Yeah, but, he didn't," said Danielle. "He started going on about how he would rather be with her because she wouldn't make him wait four years." "I gotta tell ya, Danielle," Martin said, "that's pretty normal for just about any guy ... For just about anyone. I mean, seriously: if you could choose between waiting a year or waiting a day for something you wanted, which would you choose?" "And despite the fact that you made him choose the year—four years—he did stick with you," Liz said. "Yes," said Martin, "he did. He could have run to Shelly Baumgarter at any time. But instead he stayed with you. Do you think that counts for anything?" "He's not with me anymore," said Danielle, a little more bitterly than she'd intended. "I guess not," said Liz. "Thanks, honey." She rose from the bed and moved to her boyfriend. "If you could go back outside now, we'll be done in here in a few." Danielle turned away, but she couldn't close her ears to the short wet sound of their kiss. It made a little knot of bitterness in her stomach. "So," said Liz, after the door had pounded shut. "Do you think you understand a little more now?" "Yeah, I think so," said Danielle. "And say thanks to him for me, will you? I didn't think he'd be that helpful." "I will," said Liz. And then, "So...", with such a pregnant pause that Danielle turned to look at her. Liz had a wicked grin on and her eyes were twinkling behind her red-rimmed glasses. "So, how was it?" Danielle didn't want to think about that. "It ... It was pretty good." "Pretty good, huh?" said Liz, still with that evil grin. "Did you like it?" "Yeah," said Danielle, "I really..." "It wasn't uncomfortable or anything?" "No, actually, he ... Well." She felt her face heating. "The thing is, we've actually ... We've been playing with each other for years." "Well, yeah, you said four years." She shook her head. "A lot longer than that. Like, since third or fourth grade." Liz's eyebrows went up. "That long? I mean, he ... Well, was the ... I mean. Did everything ... Work?" "Yeah," said Danielle, confused. "Why wouldn't—? Oh. Because of puberty. No, he wasn't, like ... squirting, or anything." The first time he had, he'd turned five shades of red; it had been Danielle who was most fascinated, she'd never seen anything like it. "But he could still ... you know. Have an orgasm. And so could I." "Really?" said Liz. "I didn't know you could ... I didn't know it would work." "Oh yeah," said Danielle, "everything was working. I mean, babies could never have happened, and I didn't have breasts or anything, but, like ... I mean, I would get ... wet, and he would get hard, and it would feel good when we touched each other. We actually could've done it if we'd wanted to." She felt a grimace pass over her face. Maybe we should've. It might've solved a whole lot of problems. "And if you'd known how," said Liz. "So, your point is... ?" It took a moment for Danielle to catch up to the original question. "So, my point is, there wasn't any of the, you know, discomfort or anything. His fingers have been ... in there ... many times. No cherry to worry about, no questions of whether he'd fit, none of that." "And you knew what you were doing," said Liz. "Well ... yeah," said Danielle. "It wasn't too hard to figure out. And, I mean, he's been doing Internet research for ages, even I've picked up some of it. We had the ... what, the theory ... down pretty good." "You weren't scared?" "Well, I ... I mean, yeah, there were some ... I mean, you know how it's like when you're on a new roller coaster you've never been on? You're, like, 99% sure that it's going to be fine and you aren't going to fly off and die ... But that last one doubt remains? It was like that." "But ninety-nine percent you weren't scared." "No, not at all. I mean, we'd done things before. We've been doing things for so many years..." That should've been, 'We'd been doing things for so many years', shouldn't it? "I knew his body. He knows mine. What was there to be scared of?" "Where was it?" Danielle described the field David had found, and Liz made a sound of longing. "God, my first time was in the attic of Martin's house—we couldn't think of anywhere else where people wouldn't find us. At least it wasn't in a car, though; Vicky Siegel had to do that. And it felt good?" She suppressed a shiver at the memory. "Yeah, it felt... Really good." She had thought she'd known him already, known everything there was to know about his person. But nothing could prepare her for the thrill of his body arched over her, his buttocks contracting, the power in his body as he took her. Nothing could prepare her for the feeling of his thing, impossibly large, opening her, pushing against her inner walls, filling her up—so big, so long, she felt like she was completely hollow, nothing but space for him to fill. She had never realized just how empty she felt; in fact, she had never felt empty—even in the moment that she realized she had felt it, that emptiness had been finally, irrevocably filled. "I wish I could do it again." Liz sighed. "Wish my first time had been anywhere near as nice." Danielle tilted her head. "Oh?" "Yeah, it ... I mean, Martin was very kind. But he was excited, I could tell. There was a lot of ... Fumbling." Liz combed a strand of dark hair behind her ear; to Danielle she looked like a young Sarah Palin. "I wish in retrospect that I hadn't told him beforehand. He was so excited, he couldn't concentrate, and he, umm." Her cheeks colored. "He didn't do a good job with me. I wasn't quite ready when he went to put it in. And so he just went, and ... You know. Squirted. And that was that." She looked up and gave Danielle a wry smile. "The good news was, he was very eager to improve." "So, you got a bad first time but a lot of much better second times," said Danielle, "and I got a really great first time but nothing else." "Sounds like it," said Liz. "God," said Danielle. "I'd totally trade you." "Really?" Liz turned to face her. "I'd rather have what you have." "Yeah, but, just one time?" "Well, I dunno about that. It's a good point. Would I look forward to sex more if the first time had been magical?" "Has it ever been magical?" "Umm ... No, not really." Liz grimaced. "I mean, it's good, and I even come sometimes. But, it's just not ... Romantic." "Well, take him to the field," Danielle said. "Or, like, ask him if he can, you know, glamorize it up a little. I mean, just because it's not romantic now doesn't mean it can't be." Liz gave her a sideways glance. "What just happened? Suddenly you're giving me advice. I thought we were doing it the other way around." Danielle laughed—maybe the first time she had in weeks—and gave her a hug. "Well, what else are friends for?" ------- Chapter 3 "I keep telling you," Liz said. "You should call him. You should say you're sorry and ask him if you guys can talk." "Can we, like, not talk about this anymore?" Danielle said. "Danielle, school starts tomorrow. We're going to be juniors. You'll have to see him, whether you want to or not." Danielle had been trying not to think about that either. The remaining weeks of summer had been different than she'd predicted when her sophomore year ended. She'd thought she'd get a job, maybe, or take some classes; she thought she'd hang out with friends. That last part had certainly been true, and she could be nothing but grateful for the support Liz had shown her; she had even managed to get through to Liana French, one of Shelly's clique, and been informed by the Frenches' housekeeper that Miss Liana had received her message and would call upon her once the school year began. But she'd also expected to be spending time with David—laughing, talking, joking; watching TV, going to the movies, going to the mall, playing video games; leaving silly notes for each other on Facebook, sharing pictures of cute kittens or the latest YouTube folly. Kissing him. Making out with him. Sleeping in his arms. Making love with him, even. Instead all she'd had of him was their traditional fumbling and then a perfunctory first time which had been ruined by an immediate break-up. At least she wasn't pregnant. "Maybe I'll see him," said Danielle, "but that doesn't mean I want to talk to him." "Yes you do, " said Liz. "You do, and you know it." Danielle didn't answer that. Nor did she mention the times when she would jerk out of a sound sleep, cold sweat on her brow, tears in her eyes, the remains of some bloodstained dream in her head. The most recent time, she'd seen him flayed apart by shards of glass; the time before that, he had dissolved into a pool of blood and skin. Always his eyes remained, stricken, with a look of infinite sadness. "But he hasn't talked to me," Danielle said. "I haven't heard a darn thing from him since the last time we spoke." "You did say you never wanted anything more to do with him, " Liz said, "maybe he took you seriously." Even through the phone's tinny buzz, Danielle could hear the reproach. "Yeah, well..." Danielle insisted. "He should still be trying. He should still care." She heard the sigh. "Whatever. Do you wanna drive, or shall I?" That was the other big thing: both she and Liz had their licenses now, and parking permits newly furnished by the school. David, born in January, wouldn't get to test for months. Suddenly she remembered all the plans they'd made about what they'd do together when they could finally be alone in a car. Davey had wanted to try doing it in the back seat, and Danielle—assuming she liked sex, of course—hadn't seen anything wrong with experimenting. Evidently, this was not to be. "Hello? Dani? You still there?" "I don't care," she said. "Umm ... Do you wanna?" There was a silence. Then Liz said, "You were thinking about him, weren't you." "Look, just stop it, okay?" said Danielle, getting angry now. "So we broke up. I'm allowed a little reaction, aren't I?" "You're allowed a lot more than a little reaction, Danielle, but you aren't showing much of one. I've never seen you cry, or heard you be angry, or, or anything. Instead I just see this look of steel on your face, like you aren't going to let him defeat you ... Come to think of it, maybe I should drive. I'm not sure I want to be driven with someone wearing an expression like yours." "Fine, whatever," said Danielle. "Can you come like fifteen minutes early? I wanna see if I can change my class schedules so I'm not in all the same classes as him." After a silence, Liz heaved another sigh. "Okay. I can do that." "See you tomorrow, then." "See you tomorrow, Danielle." The next morning, she took a long shower, and then spent almost fifteen minutes trying to figure out what to wear. Eventually she settled on the tank top David had always liked, the one with the gather on the front to draw attention to her chest, and the jeans which he said made her bottom look good. Her hair she brushed out to perfection until it flowed like a river of gold. The whole thing was marred by the realization that her period should be coming in soon and that she had better stick a pad in just to be safe. But that was life; at least she wasn't pregnant from that little debacle in the field. On her way out, she gave herself one last glance in the mirror ... And wondered who she was kidding. The only person she was guaranteed to attract the attention of was David himself—and that was completely not the point; the whole point was to make herself look attractive to the other boys ... Wasn't it? What did other boys like, anyway? She suddenly wished she'd thought to ask Martin. Changing classes was harder than she'd expected: there was a line queueing up outside the registrar's office, some of them looking as though they'd been there for quite a while already. Liz gave the whole thing one look before clapping her on the shoulder—"See you in class, then"—a response Danielle found somewhat irritating, if completely understandable. Would she want to wait for this if she didn't have to? Liz had been a wonderful friend over the last few weeks, but Danielle guessed they'd found the limits of that friendship. The faces of the other people in line were an interesting study: the older they were, the wearier they seemed, as though the seniors couldn't wait to get out of here. None of them had the open faces she associated with freshmen; presumably, none of those were smart enough to know you could petition to change classes, since it was their first day and (after all) they were freshmen. And amongst the many strangers she glimpsed several people she recognized: Mohinder Ramakandra, who was dating Jenny Slater; Ramona Brown, long-time girlfriend to track superstar Alex Field. And there was Seamus O'Reilly, who had been with Wendy Stern for as long as she could remember. Their grim expressions set a jolt through her: if any of them had broken up, how would she know?—she'd been out of touch for most of the summer. Were they here for the same reason she was? Was this the line where the debris of the summer's broken relationships relationships was finally swept out of sight? It took nearly an hour to advance through the line and get her classes sorted out (Danielle wondered why it was taking so long until she actually got inside the office, where she saw Mrs. Jenkins and two secretaries working full steam to process everyone), and she was late to her first class, English, by a good half-hour. Even more than that, she couldn't rearrange her schedule entirely; AP Environmental Science was only being offered during one period this quarter, so she must either abandon it or face David in it every day. She sat there chewing her lip for a full minute, while the secretary tapped a pen against the table in irritation, before finally deciding that she would have to deal with it. Five minutes later she had to walk up to Mr. Emory and give him her pink excuse slip before the eyes of everyone in the room, before finding the only empty seat in the room (it was right in the middle) and sitting down. There were people she hadn't seen since the end of last year—Aisha Wilson, Maggie Chung, Roger Brown, Manuel Gonzaga, Lettie Halder, and more, and more—who would accost her in the halls, ask her how her summer had been. That was bad enough to start with, but inevitably their next question would be about David. Maybe she should've expected it; after all, weren't they peas in a pod, two of a kind? But right then and there, it hurt. It hurt a lot. By the end of second period she had taken to just blurting out that he was okay, and then excusing herself. What hurt most was that nobody seemed to notice. By break time she understood why the seniors had that look on their face. Liz, who (thank God!) was in the class with her, took one look at her face and then led her away. They ended up under a tree on the edge of the main quad; because Carmen, Heidi and Vanessa showed up shortly thereafter, Danielle assumed it must be their regular meeting place. "Gawd, Danielle, you look, like, rilly beat up," said Vanessa. "You're telling me," said Danielle. "Are you, like, seeing him in all your classes, or something?" said Vanessa. "We got here early so she could get her classes switched around," Liz told her. "How'd it go?" "It worked," said Danielle, "mostly." She explained about AP Enviro Sci, which she had wanted to take ever since she'd heard the class existed. "We were both excited—and even more excited when we both got in. Now..." "I'm sure you'll cope," said Carmen. "It's right before lunch, isn't it? At least you can escape after that." "I know," said Danielle. "I just ... I don't know what it'll be like to see him now." "What was it like when you broke up with your other boyfriends?" Heidi asked. Danielle gave her a cold look. " ... What?" said Heidi. Danielle thought she had never met anyone quite as oblivious. "She's never dated anyone else, stupid," said Carmen. And besides, Danielle thought, this was ... a little more than dating. But when the time came, there was nothing to worry about. She was a wreck all throughout French 3, dreading the upcoming fifth-period class ... But when she got there, David was nowhere to be seen, and his name was not called. Or rather, it kind of was: the teacher, a rather disreputable-looking woman who went by the unlikely name of Moonsnow (not even Mrs. Moonsnow, just Moonsnow) started to say, "David Gla— Oh, that's right, he dropped the class, didn't he." When? Danielle hadn't seen him this morning. She felt a wash of relief. And a little pang of guilt that he had had to bow out of this class. She knew he'd wanted to be here. She had planned to meet Liz and the others back at the quad for lunch, but as she was approaching her locker a shout rang out—"There you are!"—and she found herself accosted. It was Amy Plisken, who was the lowest on Shelly Baumgarter's totem pole after Danielle herself. "Where the heck have you been? We've been looking all over for you." "Wh ... What?" said Danielle. "Yeah, totally!" Amy said. "We couldn't find you. Where the heck have you been?" "I ... Just..." It suddenly occurred to her that Shelly might not like hearing that Danielle had made some other friends. Especially if they'd been looking for her. I didn't tell anybody, but they must've heard somehow. And when I didn't show up ... Wow, they went and tried to find me? She hadn't known they cared that much. "Well, we've found you," said Amy. "Come on." And without another word she dragged Danielle back over to the corner of the Student Center, where Shelly always held court. "Oh, Dee," said Shelly. Her hair was a dazzling red and by far her strongest feature—after, at least, her perfect boobs. They were full and well-shaped, with a lot of cleavage, and Shelly always wore push-up bras and low-cut tops to show them off. She was putting on weight, Danielle could see, but nobody would dare challenge her on it. Besides, she was carrying it well; it filled out her bottom and her breasts (which hardly needed the help, Danielle thought resentfully) and, combined with the artfully-applied makeup and perfect bangle earrings, made her seem older than she was, and glamorous. She gave Danielle a cursory once-over as she arrived. "Good, you're here. We need an opinion." "An ... Opinion?" said Danielle. "Yes, we need you to break a tie. Chloe wants to date Angelo Navarre—you know, the one who cheated on Jessie Stimson last year? Liana and I think it would be a bad idea, but Amy and Missy say there might be hope. We need you to weigh in." Behind her, Chloe Reubens was practically jumping with anxiety. "I ... You need..." said Danielle, who was not being received the way she'd anticipated. " ... But what about Davey?" "What about Davey," said Shelly, with a cross look. She could be remarkably generous when she wanted, but today her dominance was at stake, and it was all cold business eyes and impatience. "We've wasted enough time waiting for you; Chloe promised she'd answer him by now. We've more important issues at hand then your little boyfriend problems." She felt her eyes burning. "Danielle," said Shelly, her voice like a whip-crack. "Pull yourself together. You're a good-looking girl when you take care of yourself, but we don't need friends who'll just go straight to pieces because someone hurts their feelings." "Actually, speaking of David," said Missy Renquist, before Danielle could respond (before Danielle could even begin to think about responding). She had a clear, transcendent beauty, like living ice; her smiles never touched her eyes. "I have to submit a motion too. He asked me out after third period." Danielle stared at her, hearing blood rush in her ears. For a moment the world swayed perilously. Shelly gave Missy a cold, direct look. "Poaching another girl's boyfriend is against the rules, Missy. As is letting yourself be poached. You should know that." "He said it wouldn't be a problem," said Missy. "He said he and Danielle were over." Her eyes cut to Danielle. "Well, if it's over..." said Shelly. She turned to face Danielle. "As you know, you have the right to lodge a formal protest. If you think it's too soon— When did this happen, anyway?" "Just ... Just after July 4th," said Danielle. "Oh," said Shelly. "Well, that's too bad. You were together for a while, weren't you?" "That's outside the time frame of the formal protest," said Liana, who had always been a stickler for rules. "You told us that you can only lodge a protest if the rebound happens within a month. It's been more six weeks." "Very good point," said Shelly, "I guess you're out of luck, Dee. Does anyone else have any more objections?" Nobody did, though Amy Schulz did give her an apologetic look. "All right then," said Shelly. "Missy, you're free to do whatever seems best to you. Maybe you can help shed some light on why he's still a virgin despite his long association with Dee." "Oh, he's not anymore," said Amy suddenly. "Didn't you hear?" Shelly turned to face her. She was the only one seated. "Hear what?" "I heard it from Oscar Wentz, who said he had it from Scott O'Connor." Scott was one of David's oldest friends. "He says David's not a virgin anymore." "Really?" said Shelly, sounding anything other than formal for the first time all day. "But who would he have gotten together with? If he was cheating, we would've heard." "There was a series of shrugs or other gestures from her followers. Then, almost as if they were a single person, five pairs of eyes turned to Danielle. Danielle tried to pretend her eyes weren't still watering. Did they have to dissect it now? "What I want to know is," said Shelly, "how this relates to the break-up. Boys dump girls normally because of a lack of sex, not for getting it." "What I want to know is what sort of shoes I'll have to fill," Missy said. "I mean, he hung on to that girl for years, he must've had some reason. And it might have colored his perceptions of the deed as well. Tell me, Danielle did he seem to enjoy doing it with you? Was there anything he particularly liked?" "Maybe he dumped her because she was a really bad lay," said Chloe with a sharp little titter. It was too much. Danielle turned and ran. Shouts pursued her, and she ran into someone, blinded by tears, but she didn't care. She took her refuge in the girls' bathroom, and if anyone heard her sob, they would just have to deal with it. She huddled in the cold, stale room, burying her face in her hands, trying not to make a noise, listening to the chatter of other girls and the flush of toilets, wishing she was like them, that her biggest problems could be so easy to dispose of. "Danielle." Liana's cold voice rang through the room. "Shelly wants you to come out." But Danielle didn't answer, and after a minute Liana left again. Danielle knew she would probably never hear from any of those girls again. She didn't want to face Liz right now, nor any of the others; Liz was a good friend but not a kind one, and the others were just too stupid to be borne right now. She stayed in the bathroom until the bell rang again. Three times someone rattled on the stall and complained about people taking forever on the toilet. Danielle didn't care. She hoped their bladders would burst and they would die. By the time the final bell rang, she was ready for summer again; she felt as though she had aged a million years since she'd first set foot on campus. She wanted to go home and just fling herself in bed; her bed, she had always believed, was a magic bed, a place of safety where nobody could ever hear her or see her or bother her ... Or hear her cry. Only, she was not a child anymore. She was sixteen, nearly an adult, and there were books to put covers on, syllabii to review, even some short homework assignments to complete. All in all, it was not shaping up to be a great year. She spread her things out in front of her, prepared to get to work, but—it seemed it was always this way nowadays—in a moment she was gone again, dwelling endlessly on what she'd heard over the lunch break. That David would tell his friends he'd finally done it—especially Scott O'Connor, his best guy friend—did not particularly surprise her; it worried her that everyone must know by now. She wondered if his popularity was going to soar. She wondered if hers would dwindle. Then again, she'd basically guaranteed that herself, by defying Shelly Baumgarter. She didn't know how Shelly's revenge would come, but she had no doubt it would; there would be a reckoning, and the price she would pay would be far out of proportion, it always was. She wondered if she would ever be asked out again before college started. And David ... Asking out Missy Renquist? Her Davey? He'd never expressed anything like interest in her before—not even ill-thought-out comments like the one he'd made about Shelly. To her knowledge, she wasn't his type at all; would they even get along? At least Missy had more of a figure. While David had never expressed dissatisfaction at Danielle's slimness, his comments about Shelly's bust (and Amy's) (and Renata Hindenmouth's) suggested a more voluptuous girl would be his preference. Carefully she went over the conversation in her mind (as much of it as she could recall), trying to reconstruct the circumstances, trying to figure out what was going on. Had she heard wrong? Was Missy lying to her, just to mess with her head? But why would she do that? Well, in revenge, possibly, for having held things up at break. Shelly brooked no insubordination within her ranks; if she wanted something done, it would get done, and anyone who hindered her would pay the price. It was within reason that it had all been a lie. Especially since dating Missy would bring him into contact with Danielle. But it was about as reasonable that it might be true. After all, dating Missy right under Danielle's nose ... It was a cold thing to do, but she thought he might have the balls to do it. How on earth would she ever figure out what was correct anymore? Suddenly Danielle found herself wishing David had not dropped Enviro Sci. At least she could talk to him about it then. Her whole world seemed to have gone topsy-turvy, and she had no idea how to stabilize it. David had been how she stabilized it. And now David was out of reach. Maybe she should call him. The idea took fire in her mind, fanned by the winds of hope. Yes, perhaps she could call her, and he would explain. Maybe he was dating Missy to get back to her. Maybe it was to hurt her feelings in revenge, or remind her of what she had lost. Maybe he wanted to talk to her and didn't feel comfortable just picking up the phone anymore (well, why wouldn't he, silly boy?). Maybe if she called, there would be an answer. Maybe, if she called, his oh-so-familiar voice would be on the other end. Maybe, if she called... "Danielle!" someone shouted. Danielle jumped. It was her mother's voice. Hurrying to the door, she called back, "What?" Her mother said something, but Sonya—eleven-year-old brat that she was—overrode her. "Your boyfriend's mother's here!" she shrieked. "She wants to see you! What'd you do, give him coooooties?" Sonya was gloating as Danielle stalked down the hall. "Little girl, I am going to fuck you up the ass with a hot knife," Danielle growled. "I'd like to see you try." Sonya had taken martial arts lessons since she was seven, and she thought she was a boy. She certainly bullied like one: a rustle of sound, a whoosh, and something clipped Danielle's ear, slamming her head against the wall with an audible crash. A picture jolted loose and smashed to the ground, the glass shattering. Before Danielle could shake the stars from her eyes and prove that you didn't need a pink belt (or whatever the hell Sonya had) to kill with your bare hands, her sister had already gone. Sonya, of course, never attacked David: it had been he who introduced her to Taekwondo, and she always showed him the respect of an equal. (Besides, he would probably have won if she'd tried.) "Danielle?" came her mother's voice, preceding her mother's head into the hallway by a moment. "Danielle? Are you all right?" Her mother's eyes alighted upon the smashed frame. "Did you do that?" "You know me, the clumsiest motherfucker in the history of ever," Danielle snarled. Her parents did not believe that Sonya would ever be violent. The little bitch was certainly smart enough not to beat up her sister in public. Danielle had given up on telling the truth. "Her mother crossed the hall in two mighty strides and slapped her across the face. "Danielle Sabrina Mayer, if I ever hear you use that kind of language again—" "Mom, fuck you. I've had a terrible day and you're not making it better. Now either take me to David's mom or get out of my way." She pulled her head up and glared. "No," said Mom, "no." Grabbing Danielle's ear and twisting, Mom hauled her back down the hallway. "You're going to your room, little missy, and you're not coming out until tomorrow morning. And don't think about seeing your friends either until next month. You're grounded. Disrespectful little girls like you shouldn't be seen in public." She slammed the door behind her and locked it. Danielle wished her magical bed had wings. It was some time before anything else happened. There was no way she could do homework, of course, stirred up as she was; she wanted to grab something and smash it against the wall, but there was nothing in the room she wouldn't miss if it were broken (or, in the case of her schoolbooks, be forced to buy again). But finally there was a knock at the door. "Come in, come in," Danielle cried, "the lock's on your side, for God's sake." But it wasn't her mother. It was David's mom. "Danielle," she said. Danielle jumped up off the bed, aware of how stupid she must look. "Umm. Hi, Mrs. Glass. I didn't think my mom would let me see you." "She didn't want to," said Lydia Glass. She had the most understanding eyes of anyone Danielle had ever met. "But after I explained, she relented a little." "Umm ... Explained what?" said Danielle, who still wasn't entirely sure what Mrs. Glass was doing here. Mrs. Glass sighed. "I explained about ... what happened. Between you and Davey." Danielle felt ice in her guts. Did David tell his mom about ... Did his mom tell my mom about... "You explained about... ?" "How you and he broke up," said Mrs. Glass. Danielle felt herself sagging with relief. There were some things her mom could know, just fine. There were others she'd prefer Mom never find out about. For instance, Mom could go on believing that her daughter was a virgin for the whole rest of her life, as far as Danielle was concerned. "That's not the reaction I was expecting," Mrs. Glass remarked. "Evidently there's something else you wouldn't want me to tell your mother. But David didn't mention any— Oh. Oh, well. I guess this explains the package of condoms I found in his sock drawer." Now Danielle's face was aflame. Lydia Glass had the most understanding eyes of anyone Danielle had ever met, but this was not always a good thing. At least she was nicer than Danielle's own mom. "An unopened package, for that matter," said Mrs. Glass, "which, in conjunction with your sudden separation, brings about its own questions." She forestalled Danielle's protest with a hand: "I understand if you don't want to tell me about it. There are things I would never want to talk to my mom about." "But you're not my mom," said Danielle. Though I wish you were. Mrs. Glass was so much easier to talk to than Bonnie Mayer. "All the time I've known you, I've always felt like you were also a friend." Mrs. Glass smiled. "Well, thank you, Danielle, that's quite a compliment. I'm sure Davey wouldn't agree, since I actually am his mom. Though he does says I'm less strict than Bonnie is." In the end, Danielle told her everything. Not everything-everything, of course; not the long build-up, not the excitement, not the last spike of fear as David positioned himself over her. But enough to understand. "I felt like I didn't know him anymore. Like ... Doing it with him ... Had changed things." "Well, sex does change things," said Mrs. Glass. "That's only to be expected, I think. After all, when you've been ... Intimate ... With a person ... Well, there are things about a person you only see when you become their lover." Danielle didn't get it. "Like their ... private parts?" "Yes, like those; but also things about their heart and soul, and I think you know those are more important. But my point is, those things you've seen now start to affect how you think of them. You don't think of them the same way, and you don't relate to them the same way. Yes, I'd say sex changes things." "It changes who the person is?" said Danielle, a little incredulous. "Not quite," said Mrs. Glass. She sat down on the bed next to Danielle. (I should really get another chair or something in here.) "It doesn't change who the person is. But it changes who you see them as; your perception of them. And also, it changes how that person is willing to act around you. Most people will tell you that sex is the ultimate act of intimacy, that there is no more private or personal thing you can do. And, even if they're not right, it's certainly very high up near the top—a lot more intimate than, say, going to the grocery store together, or washing a car together, or even kissing. All the secrets are revealed when you make love. So the person doesn't feel like they have anything to hide from you anymore. They feel more comfortable letting it all hang out. After all, they already have." "So I never really knew David at all," said Danielle. It was a depressing thought. "That might not be true," said Mrs. Glass. "You certainly knew him well, more than any person alive—probably including me. I think you knew most of him. But there was always a little bit you were never going to see. And there was always a little bit he never saw of you." Danielle gave a humorless laugh. "Which is really ironic, because it's not like either of us were shy about our bodies. We'd been playing around a while." "Yes, I thought as much," said Mrs. Glass, "and Bonnie too. Did you know that when you started getting your periods, she wanted to stop the sleepovers?" "She did? No, I never knew." "Well, she did. She was concerned that you two would start having sex—which, as we're all now aware, was an accurate concern. I had the same concern, of course ... But I also felt that our trying to stop you was really futile. We were fully aware that you two were fooling around, you know—we even knew that it wasn't really with, shall we say, 'carnal intent, ' it was just two friends who were closer than most. But we also knew that, eventually, you would start doing sexual things with sexual intent; anyone could see that. And I felt that, no matter what we said or did, you'd find a way to do it. So why antagonize you and drive you away from us, when we could keep you close and maybe control some of the damage?" "And you were right," said Danielle. "When we did do it, it wasn't here. Or at your house either." "I won't ask you where, I suspect you'd like to keep that secret," said Mrs. Glass, smiling. "The point I made—and which your mother agreed with eventually—was that it was inevitable that you and David would consummate your love ... And sooner rather than later. Actually, I'm rather surprised that you waited this long. And, to be honest, I'm much less disturbed by it than by the fact that you're no longer together." Danielle sighed. "Well, like you said. He changed. Or my understanding of him did. Do you ... Do you know what happened?" Do you know what happened in David's heart, she meant, but Mrs. Glass answered more globally. "No, not really. All he said was that you had dumped him. In fact, you've told me more than he did. Though I still have some questions, if you don't mind answering them. I take it this was a response to your consummation?" "Yeah, more or less." "And it happened ... Right after? Or was there a gap?" "It was pretty much on the spot. We had barely..." Driven by some instinct, Danielle looked up. Mrs. Glass was sitting there with an eyebrow arched and an expression of cold, simmering rage. "Ohh, no. No. No, Mrs. Glass, it wasn't like that. You're thinking he, umm, forced me or something, right?" "The thought had crossed my mind," said Mrs. Glass, her voice tight. "I like to think I raised my son better than that, but hormones and frustration are not good combination. And guilt could explain why the two of you were no longer together, especially on such short notice." "No, it wasn't like that," said Danielle. "He wasn't escaping me; I dumped him. Besides, what we did was completely voluntary. I told him. And right before we did, he asked me if I was sure." Wish I'd said no. "Mrs. Glass, your son would never do anything like that." "If you say so," said Mrs. Glass. "And I'm not saying he'd do it deliberately. It's just ... Well, things can get away from you." "No, he wouldn't, not even then," said Danielle. "I mean, if he wanted to—well—force the issue, he's had plenty of chances. Even after he started wanting to, umm, go all the way, and I said we needed to wait, we ... We didn't stop fooling around." She felt her cheeks heat. Now she was blushing?—this conversation, with this person, and she blushed now? "He had ... There were plenty of times when he could have ... When he could have forced the issue. And if he had, I wouldn't've ... I mean, there would be times when we'd be just inches from it, and I'd be like, Boy, I wish he would. I know it's a can of worms but I want to open it anyway. I wanted it too. I just ... Also knew it was a can of worms." David's mother fixed her with a careful glance. "Do you have any regrets?" Danielle squeezed her eyes shut. What a complicated question! "Well, the can of worms is open, so..." "Then let's simplify it," Mrs. Glass said. "From a physical standpoint, do you regret it. Do you wish you hadn't given him your innocence." "Not at all," said Danielle. Her voice sounded hollow. "I always knew that he should be the one. And it was even better than I thought it would be." She felt Mrs. Glass's hand on her shoulder, comforting. "The only thing I do regret is that maybe we should've done it sooner," she said. "Maybe, if we had, then he wouldn't..." "Or maybe he would have," said Mrs. Glass quietly. "It's impossible to know with things like this." After a short time, Danielle said, "So ... Why did you come here, then? To get the whole story? To ... To deliver a message?" "A message," said Mrs. Glass. "Yes. Actually, that's a good way to put it. I'm here on David's behalf." "Why?" Danielle felt a soaring in her heart even as the leaden tone of Mrs. Glass's words sank in her gut. "What does he want?" Mrs. Glass said, "He wants me to come over and get all his stuff back. He says you borrowed a number of his belongings and ... Now that you two are no longer going out, he wants to set all that straight. He's at our house right now dredging up all your things." Danielle felt as though someone had just smashed her with a lead weight. Mrs. Glass stood up. "I told him that if he wanted to say something that cold, he should come do it himself, but he refused. So here I am, on behalf of my cowardly son. And, unfortunately, he mentioned several things he is really going to need, so we don't have any way to weasel out of it. So..." She sighed and pulled a list out of her pocket. "With your blessing, Danielle." She hadn't realized she had quite that much stuff of David's. She hadn't realized he was keeping such good track. There were some she hadn't thought of in ages; one was the T-shirt she slept in, which some unreliable uncle had gotten for him, either too stupid to realize a kid would hardly need an XXL or (if David's description was accurate) having intended to keep it for himself. The shirt had a pastel-shaded image of Mount Rushmore on it; it had lain unattended in his closet for years until Davey showed it to her for laughs, at which point she asked if she could have it; it smelled like him, and she wanted it for that reason. Of course, it didn't anymore; now it was broken in, and faded from repeated washings. But she had always liked having something of his right there with her. And now it was going. It was all going. By the time they were done, she felt like they had turned her room upside down, and Mrs. Glass had so much stuff she joked she'd need a wheelbarrow, even with Danielle's help. But Danielle didn't laugh, and after a moment Mrs. Glass didn't either. "Look, Danielle, I'm really sorry it turned out this way," she said. "I've hinted to him that maybe this is a mistake, but he says he's made up his mind. But just so you know, my door is always open to you—even if my son's is not." "Thank you," said Danielle, and meant it. It was good to know there was one friend she hadn't managed to alienate yet—even if it was a friend she hadn't known she had. "Mrs. Glass, do you think you can ... Talk to him for me?" Mrs. Glass blinked at her. "In what way?" "Could you ... Could you tell him that I..." "Hold on there, bucko," said Mrs. Glass. "I'm willing to assist in property acquisition, which is technically a legal matter. But if you want to talk to him, you do it yourself. That's the same thing I told Davey and I'm not going to tell you any different." But..." said Danielle, helpless, "he—" "Hon, if you want to talk to him, you should be brave enough to seek him out and do it," said Mrs. Glass. "And, if you can't be, then maybe you didn't want to talk to him that much." She gave Danielle a smile as she got into her car. "Chin up, kiddo, okay?" But Danielle didn't feel particularly reassured. Some things weren't quite that simple. She wandered back to her room, which was completely overturned, like the insides of a toy tossed end over end. Her life felt the same way: out of balance, everything out of place, and all the things in it that had once been familiar to her were now alien or even missing. She felt as though her life had been flipped upside down overnight. And now the thing that she had been trying to ignore finally came pouring back down on her in some thundering flood: David was gone. She would no longer hear his voice over the phone, calling her at odd hours to comment on odd things; she would no longer see his smile or the way he turned red when she teased him. She would no longer feel the comfort of his arms around her, the solid reassurance of his flesh. She could not go to him with her problems or fears or frustrations anymore, and know that he would listen. She would never hug him again, never kiss him again, never smell the scent of his hair. And all the dreams they had talked about—the house they were going to buy, the careers they would pursue, whether to have a boy or a girl first and what to name them—all those things would never be. There was no way she could describe what she felt. What would it feel like to be disemboweled, to have all her insides sliding out onto the floor? What would it feel like to have to walk around with all that hollowness inside her? What did it feel like to have a heart attack, to feel the pain under you and realize you were a walking dead man—at least until you passed out and fell down? What was it like to have some demon rip your soul away from you, to leave you glassy-eyed and dead to the world? It was as if all those things had happened at once. David was gone. David—her best friend, her lover, her soul mate, her other half—David was gone. She felt tears burning on her cheeks. She clung to the pain as much as possible. The fire was better than the ice inside her. David was gone. And he was not coming back. Prev Home Next Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd): Your name: Please enter some comments so I can write you back: All content copyright CWatson, 2003-2009 (unless otherwise specified). All rights reserved. ------- Chapter 4 Waking up was a slow process, like trying to swim through maple syrup. Her whole self felt sluggish, and it was a labor just to open her eyes. It was even more a labor to look through them and realize she had no idea where she was. It didn't take long ('long' in a relative sense, of course—it felt like moving her eyes around the room took half an hour) to realize that she was in a hospital. After a little more effort to get a limb raised and the nerves under her skin working, she discovered the scratchy hospital gown she was wearing, which seemed to confirm the hypothesis. The antiseptic smell of the air helped too. She tried to cast back over the recent past, to figure out how she'd got here. But if her limbs were slow, her memory was slower. In the end, she had no idea. And, before she could determine much, she fell asleep again. ------- The dream was the resumption of consciousness. Or maybe it was the beginning of it. In later years she would sometimes look back and wonder if it hadn't secretly been her birth. She was still in some murky netherworld, but at least she could move again. She turned to look around, but there was nothing to see but endless, featureless grey; she knew, in the way you knew in dreams, that she could walk forever and still not see anything. The surroundings were not what was important. He was. She knew it was a he, even though she could not see his face or features; there were broad shoulders, a hint of short hair, a greater height than hers, but other than that he was like a walking shadow, barely distinguishable from the surrounding gloom. She wasn't even sure when he started to be there; it was as if he had simply evolved out of the mist. "Who are you?" she said. "I am your one true love," he said, as if it were self-evident. "You are?" "I am your soul mate. I am your husband. I am the man waiting for you on the other side." "Then how come I ... How come I don't know who you are?" "Well, you don't know who I am, do you? So how could you know my face if you have never met me?" "What if I have met you?" she challenged. "I can see our years will be full of arguments," he said, sighing. "In answer to that, Danielle, perhaps you have. But if you have, you certainly didn't know me for who I was. This is a dream, you know ... But even your subconscious mind doesn't know what I look like yet. I'm like the little red X you get on the Internet when the computer can't find the right picture. I can change my appearance to that if you would like me to." She didn't bother dignifying that with a response. "Why are you here?" "To ask you the same question." "Me?" she said. "I don't even know where here is." "This place?" he said, gesturing to the insusbstantial nothing all around them. "This place is meaningless. I meant, where your body is." "Oh," she said, without enthusiasm. "The hospital." "Yes," he said, "there." His voice was gentle, but it seemed to resonate within her chest; he sounded like Darth Vader. "Danielle, my beloved, what on earth were you thinking?" "Thinking?" "To do that. To hurt yourself like that. To give up." He seized her wrist, turning it face up. The cut was angry red, as if she had only slashed it open just this instant. "To do this." She felt the cut itching, but she didn't pull her arm away. His touch was comforting. "I don't know," she said. "It's just ... I didn't ... It's been so hard, to, to deal. My soul mate has..." Then she realized who she was speaking to, and felt her cheeks flame. "Go on," he said. "David." "You aren't going to ... I mean, I was wrong. He's not my soul mate. You said you are. But I went around living my life as if ... We gave each other our virginities. You're not going to get me all to yourself no matter what." "Well," he said. "Sometimes that's life. Did you know there are people who go their whole lives without even meeting their soul mate?—or meeting them, but missing them, and not getting together in the end?" She felt his finger trace the line of her cheek; a lover's gesture. "At least we won't have to deal with that." "But ... Someone else has had sex with me. I won't ... I won't be your one and only." She sighed. "I'm sorry." "About what?" he said. "About making a judgment that, at the time, seemed good and wise? You loved him; he loved you. Neither of you could have predicted what had happened. Maybe if the two of you hadn't broke up, you wouldn't be here at all, and neither would I. None of us knows the future." "You claim to," she said. "That's true," he said. "But seeing as how it's your dream, I think we can safely blame that on you." Though his face was featureless and shadowed, she had the impression of a smirk. "Shut up," she said, swatting him. It was the same gesture she had applied to David, a hundred thousand million times over the last ten years, and it brought a pang of sorrow. "Why are you here, anyhow?" "To tell you not to give up," he said. "Though things look bleak to you now, Danielle, there is still a future for you, and I think you know that. You have a choice. You can choose to succumb ... Or you can choose to battle on." "Doesn't seem like much of a choice right now," she grumbled. "No, not now," he said. "But think of what you'd miss if you gave up." She scuffed the dirt (there was dirt) with her feet, and gave no answer. There was silence between them for a time; but it was a comfortable one. She and David had once been so close that there wasn't much they actually needed to say anymore; it hurt, to have that kind of silence, but it was hopeful too, that one day she might be able to have it with somebody else. "Why did you come to tell me this," she said finally. She suddenly felt as though he had locked eyes with her, and his hand lifted to stroke a strand of hair from her face. "Because I love you," he said. "You're going to wake up soon, and you'll have to choose for yourself. But that's why I came." He embraced her; she felt the solid warmth of his chest under her arms, the beat of his heart. "To remind you that there's something worth fighting for. To remind you that someone loves you." He kissed her forehead, a feather-light touch of lips; something David had never done. "To remind you that there is always hope." "So you say," she muttered. "You're not the one who just had her whole life turned upside down." She felt rather than saw his sad smile. "That's true enough, my love. But if you kill yourself, how will you ever prove me wrong?" ------- There were people in the room. She could tell by the figures moving around, by the rustling of clothing. One of them said, "Oh my. Quick, run and tell Dr. Herriges that she's awake." A white-clad sentinel slid into her field of view. "Danielle Mayer?" said the same voice. "I'm Rebecca Moss, one of the nurses here. Glad you're back with us." "W..." Danielle croaked. Her mouth felt like a desert. "Where am I back from?" The grey place, she thought, but that had only been a dream. Hadn't it? "Well, you've didn't really go anywhere," said Nurse Moss with a smile. "You've been in this bed for over forty-eight hours. You were brought in very early in the morning on the 24th. It's the 26th today, by the way." "Th ... The 24th?" said Danielle. Her voice was barely a whisper. "That can't be right, school didn't start until the 27th." "The 27th?" said Nurse Moss, confused. "Your parents said Winter Break ended on the 5th." "Wi... Winter Break?" said Danielle. Someone passed Nurse Moss a drink with a straw, and Danielle gulped water from it eagerly. "What ... Month is it?" "January," said Nurse Moss, still with that doubt in her eyes. Suddenly the pieces fell into place. January 24th was nothing in itself; but on January 23rd a certain David Glass had turned seventeen. After that, she had only to raise her arm to see the bandages on the insides of her wrists. "Are you all right?" said Nurse Moss. "Tylenol and alcohol together don't normally cause memory loss, but ... Well, you never know with the human brain. It's a tricky thing." "No, it just..." said Danielle. "The last few months have been ... Kind of a blur for me." The dream hadn't helped. "Well, I'm sure your parents will be able to help you sort through it," said Nurse Moss, not unkindly. "They asked to be alerted the moment you awakened. My guess is they'll be here within the hour. Sooner, if your father drives the way I think he does." "No, he's pretty civil," said Danielle. " ... When something isn't going wrong, at least." She felt the surreality of the situation descend on her: here she was, seventeen years old, single, making casual chitchat with a nurse who held a cup with a straw for her, in the aftermath of her own suicide attempt. If there was a way for life to get weirder, she couldn't think of one. Soon enough her parents arrived, Dad first (she must be at St. Mary's hospital, it was close to where he worked) and Mom not long after. Danielle was expecting anger, scolding, rage, threats to ground her for stupidity ... But Dad rushed straight into the room and pulled her into a hug so fierce she thought her ribs would break, and she was startled to feel dampness in her hair. When he pulled away he gasped, "Don't you ever do that to us again, young lady, or we'll ground you for life," and even though it was weak she had to laugh. When Mom came in, it was much the same. "Oh, Danielle. Danielle. Why didn't you say anything?? Do you have any idea how worried we've been??" "You were ... You were worried?" said Danielle. "Honey, if you think we couldn't see how depressed you were getting ... But we didn't think it would come to this!" "I ... I'm sorry," said Danielle. It was such a lame excuse, but it was all she could think of to say. The truth was, she hadn't noticed they'd noticed. She'd been dead to the world for most of the last five months. She wondered if Liz was still speaking to her. Not long afterwards, the psychologist arrived, introducing himself as Aaron Freitas. Danielle wondered for a second why he had been called in, but then she glanced at her wrists and made the connection. He was an unassuming man, stoop-shouldered and balding, and he spoke in a quiet voice she had to strain to hear. "I'm sorry for interrupting you," he said, "but as part of standard in-patient procedure we do a threat assessment and make sure Danielle isn't going to relapse once she gets out. Also, if you had any questions during this, umm, difficult time, I may be able to answer them." "I'm not going to relapse," said Danielle. "It was stupid and I'm not going to do it again." Aaron Freitas paused halfway into to the chair. "Well, I've heard a lot of responses in my times, but never that one before. Let's see what we can learn about it. "Now, I've read the case file, Mr. and Mrs. Mayer, but if possible I'd like to get the series of events from your own perspective. If that makes you uncomfortable, or you'd rather not talk about it in front of Danielle—" "No, we might as well," said her father. "The sequence of events starting from ... Last night?" said her mother. "Or before then?" "Why, did something happen before then?" asked Aaron Freitas. He was sitting on the far side of the room and it was even harder to hear him. "Well, we've been worried sick for five months that something was going wrong," said Bonnie Mayer in a brittle voice. "She's been marching around like a zombie. But we didn't know what to say, or how to say it." There was a short silence before Aaron Freitas said, "I see." "You think we're fools, don't you," Jim Mayer said. "It's a matter of professionalism not to form opinions of clients, Mr. Mayer," said Aaron Freitas. "Can you tell me what behaviors your daughter was exhibiting that made you worry?" "Well, she just started to ... Withdraw from life," said her father. "Friends would come over and she wouldn't come down to see them. Friends would come over invited and she wouldn't come down to see them. We started getting calls from the school that she wasn't turning in her homework, wasn't paying attention in class. Some of the teachers were angry. Others were concerned. Then we would find out that she hadn't attended at all—my wife would go upstairs and Danielle would still be asleep in bed. And when we tried to talk to her, it was like..." He shook his head, defeated. "In one ear and out the other. We just didn't know what to do." "Her younger sister suggested electroshock," said her mother. "And the scary thing was, we really did consider it for a short time." "I, umm..." said Danielle. "I don't remember any of this." Everyone blinked at her for a moment. "Do you have memories of the time passing?" said Aaron Freitas. "Is it a great blank spot in your mind, or are you aware that things happened, you just can't recall what they were?" "More like the second, I think," said Danielle. "So you were, as they say, checked out." "Yeah." "And this..." He pointed at her wrist. "Was more of the same?" "Yeah, more or less," said Danielle. Aaron Freitas looked over at her parents. "For the record, I don't think you're fools, Mr. and Mrs. Mayer. It can be hard when a child just ... decides not to care. How do you approach them? What do you threaten them with, that they actually still value? And is it something you insist on, or something you let them work out for themselves? Sometimes there are no right answers in parenting, and this is one of those times. "Now, Danielle, I'd like to get your side of the story. Was there a reason you felt the need to, as they say, check out?" She wondered where he got that turn of phrase from. It wasn't as witty as he thought it was. "It was easier than facing reality," she said. "Oh? And what was it about reality that you didn't want to face?" Danielle took a deep breath. "My ... My boyfriend and I broke up." Put that way, it seemed a mean and paltry thing—to try and do herself in just because she wasn't dating anymore—and she felt a flash of shame. "Was he important to you? This boyfriend?" "He was everything to me," she said. This earned her an odd look. She knew who Aaron Freitas thought was a fool now, and it sure wasn't her parents. "How long had you two been dating?" "Well ... I dunno, we didn't really start," she said. "It just happened. I guess, since we were ... What, eight?" That had been the first time she had jokingly described him as her boyfriend ... And, later, after hours, he had said that he wanted to be, and she had said he could be—without either of them really knowing, at the time, what it meant. They learned that later. "I ... See," said Aaron Freitas, still with that skepticism. "No, I don't think you do," said Danielle, feeling her anger smolder under her. "David and I met in first grade, and by the end of that year we were inseparable. I have known since I was ten that I would marry him. We were each other's firsts; we both thought we'd be each other's only's. And I have loved him since the moment I met him." "You mean you had a crush on him," said Aaron Freitas. "No, I mean I loved him," said Danielle. She didn't say love, she noticed. The tense confusions weren't happening anymore. Was it because she had had her dream, and come to know that there was more than this? "Ah, ha-ha," said Aaron Freitas. "Miss Mayer, love is a very complex and complicated emotion. Forgive me, but I can't help but wonder if a, ahh ... A child is truly capable of it." "Is that how you think of me?" said Danielle. "A child?" "Well, you were certainly acting like one when you got yourself here," said Aaron Freitas. "I thought your professional policy was to not form opinions of your clients," her mother snapped. Danielle wasn't listening. "Mr. Freitas," she said. "Do children make decisions like this one? Do children look at their options and realize there are none? Can children see far enough ahead to feel like there is no hope for them? Suicide seems like an adult response to me." "Perhaps it is, when taken with genuine objectivity," said Aaron Freitas, his voice becoming heated for the first time. "But in response to puppy love?" At this point Danielle was so angry that she couldn't frame a meaningful response, and her splutters would be less than useful. Thankfully her parents were available. "Mr. Freitas, anyone who had seen David and Danielle together would not say that it was just puppy love," said her father. "They have been best friends for ten years, more than two-thirds of their life. That kind of long familiarity breeds an intimacy which is hard to mistake. At the very least, I wouldn't blame Danielle for despairing over the loss of that friendship. But they were in love, and—as she says—lovers as well. And anyone who saw them would know it. I would say that they were two halves of the same person, only that they weren't—they were a single person. David's parents felt the same. And I think anyone would feel grief over such a loss." "Assuming there was anything to lose," said Aaron Freitas. "You may not believe Danielle," said her father, his voice getting angry now, "but we were there, and I hope you believe what we saw." "What you saw," said Aaron Freitas, "or what you think you saw?" Danielle saw her father start to turn red and knew that this shrink had pushed him too far. Fortunately, her mother saw it too. "All right, that's enough. That's enough. We're done here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Freitas, but we have no more need of your services. It's clear you don't intend to help us address the actual issues, so why don't you just go on to your next case and we'll ask Dr. Herriges for a competent psychologist." Aaron Freitas stood, his face angry. "You are a patient, Mrs. Mayer. You have no power to dismiss me. You cannot take me off this case." "Watch me," Mom said. The shrink's face twitched for a few moments. Then he left. Her mother and father left too, after a few enjoyable minutes spent roundly abusing the moron psychologist; they promised to return that night, when they had the time. They also made her promise not to tell the replacement shrink anything until they showed up. But the replacement shrink came at about four in the afternoon, before they had arrived. They could not have been different: where Aaron Freitas slipped into the room like a furtive shadow, this man came in with a broad smile behind his wide glasses. He had sandy hair, greying a little at the temples; he was not very tall, but he carried himself with confidence. "Ah," he said, "you must be the 'Miss Mayer' Freit's been making so noise about. On behalf of the whole hospital, let me apologize for him. Dr. Herriges was furious when he heard. There are things Freit's good at, but love?..." He shook his head. "If we'd gotten the whole story Freit would've never had so much as a sniff of your case. But your folks were, well, flustered when you came in—understandably, of course. And obviously we haven't had much time to interview you as well. In any case, it was a mistake, and we're sorry, and we hope to undo the damage." "Umm ... Okay," said Danielle. The new shrink crossed to her bed and shook her hand. "I'm Edward Stanton. Just call me Ned. Do you have any questions before we begin?" "Umm, yes, actually," said Danielle. "How did I get here? —I mean ... How was I discovered?" She'd only tried it after everyone was asleep; she hadn't planned to be found. "Umm..." said Ned Stanton. He sat down in the chair her father had used—close to her, not across the room—put one leg up, pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, and began rifling through her file. "Let's see here. Well, as I understand it, your sister found you." Danielle felt a twitch in her neck. "Sonya?" "It says here that she said she couldn't hear you breathing," said Ned. "She came over to investigate and ... The rest was history." My sister saved my life?? She wondered why Sonya hadn't just walked away and let her die. She'd've gotten my room, and probably all my stuff. Sonya could hear her breathing from across the hall? "So," said Ned. "I've gotten some of the details from Freit, but his recollections were, umm ... Biased, shall we say." He and Danielle laughed together. "So, if it's all right with you, I'd like to start over. Pretend he never came in the room. I'll go outside and walk in again if you want." It was similar to what the dream man had said—her husband—and she felt a pang of longing. She'd had some time to think it over, and the explanation went a little more smoothly now. It still hurt, though, to think about David: the times they'd shared, the hopes they'd built, all the things she'd hoped to do and be with him. When she was done, Ned Stanton was shaking his head again. "Oh, Freit. No wonder he was so angry. Ever since his wife left him ... Well, he has no faith in love anymore, let's just keep it at that. And as for you... "Danielle, I hope you won't take any of this the wrong way, but what I hear from you is much the same as I've heard from many people. But most of them were three or four times your age. In some ways it's just a normal break-up story, but in others what I am hearing is the story of a divorce." She thought about that for a moment. Was that really the right analogy? The end of a ten-year relationship? The end of a future, of all their dreams? The sorting-out of property? ... Okay, maybe it did sound like one. "This stuff about your things and his especially," said Ned Stanton, as though reading her mind. "Thankfully, you didn't have to hire lawyers. Lawyers make their living on stuff like that. They get paid by the hour, so they want the negotiations to drag on as long as possible, and they feed their clients' vindictiveness to make it happen. In the end, the husband gets half, the wife gets half, and the lawyers get two halves each. Fastest way to poverty in this country is to get a divorce." "You sound like you've done it," said Danielle. "Nah," said Ned Stanton, shaking his head. "Thank God. My wife and I are happily married, and (unless something goes drastically wrong) we plan to stay that way. But we've seen it happen to too many of our clients." "Like me," she said. He gave a tilt of his head for an assent. "Is that what you do?" she said. "Divorce stuff?" "No, actually, primarily couples therapy, or marriage & family," he said. "My wife and I opened our practice together, and some couples like it to have someone in the room who can understand them no matter where they're coming from, or what gender they are. And I do this hospital stuff as a second job. But, well, divorce is just where it leads sometimes. You try and you fight for it and you give it your best, but sometimes ... Your best isn't enough." Danielle gave a sigh, and there was a bit of silence for a time. "Anyway," said Ned Stanton. "We're here to work through your issues and try and figure out whether you constitute a repeat threat." "What happens if I am?" she said. "Well, we might choose to keep you here for another week or so," said Ned, "just to keep you under observation. And obviously it's recommended that you seek counseling no matter what. People don't just try to kill themselves for no reason, you know; there's something at work, though what that something is will vary from person to person. That's where we shrinks come in. We help you figure out what the issue is, and what steps you can take to fix it." "You can figure that out?" she said. "About my life?" "As in, how can this stranger claim to know anything about me," he said, smiling to show he wasn't offended. "Well, that's actually the thing, Miss Mayer. We don't figure anything out. You do. You tell us about your life, and we listen, and then together we talk about what it is you just said. It helps to talk things out, doesn't it?" "So, you're saying..." said Danielle, still skeptical. "That I'm going to be paying you untold amounts of money per hour so that you can listen to me." Ned gave a grin. "It's a pretty sweet deal from where I'm sitting." "Why don't I just save my money and talk to a wall?" she said. "Well, that's the question, isn't it," he said. "And believe me, we've had clients who probably could have figured themselves out if given enough time. But ... Others couldn't've." He grinned again. "And the wall doesn't talk back. The wall doesn't answer, and sometimes answers are what you need. Sometimes all you need is to hear yourself, but sometimes you need someone else to. That's what we're here for." "Still seems like a rip-off to me," she said. "And, as I said, that's a completely valid opinion," he said. "For some people, it is unnecessary. But I guess it just comes down to ... I guess it comes down to how much you value your happiness—or, at least, being happier than you are. As we've discovered from the divorce proceedings, people are willing to give up the larger majority of their worldly goods in order to achieve that happiness, or at least what they think of as 'happiness.' You, to achieve it, were ready to give up your life. Ask yourself honestly, Danielle: do you want to go on being that way?" And that was really all that needed to be said. "So ... Would you like to tell me more about your mindset going into your attempt?" he said. Danielle shrugged. "It ... I don't even know. My folks can tell you more, because I was just ... Checked out. They said I wasn't doing my homework, that I was ignoring my friends, that I was missing school, but ... I don't remember a thing. I wasn't paying attention." "Wasn't paying attention?" "You know how, like, when you're bored in class or something, you just kind of ... Zone out?" "Like when my wife lectures me about leaving the toilet seat up," he said. She had to give him a grudging laugh about that. "Well, that's what I did. Except it was since ... Like, the first day of school." "Five months of oblivion," he said. "That's a ... Fair stretch." "It isn't, like, memory loss or anything," she said, remembering what Aaron Freitas had said. "There aren't holes in my memory. I'm aware that things happened during that time, I just don't remember what they were. They didn't seem important to me." Ned nodded. "But ... I think I know what set me off." "Oh?" "Yeah. It ... I got here early in the morning on the 24th, right? I think that's what Nurse Moss said." Ned consulted her chart and confirmed it. "Well ... That probably means I did myself in—or tried to at least—on the night of the 23rd ... Which happens to be David's birthday." Ned was silent for a time. "And..." She sighed, letting her mind drift. There were bits and pieces peeking out of that endless stretch of disorganized grey, like debris floating on a current. "He turned seventeen, and I remember that we ... We had always talked about the things he would do, and what kind of cool party he would have. And so there he would've been ... Having his birthday, having fun, doing all this cool stuff. And there I was, at home. Alone. No friends, no family, no invitation. Not..." She forced back tears with an effort. "Not a part of his life anymore." "Not even a part of your own life anymore," said Ned. At first that seemed outrageous, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. And not just because she had checked out, either. "Yeah. Yeah, because ... Because without him, all my life was gone. He was my life. Everything was ... There wasn't anything he wasn't a part of." Ned was nodding. "Which is, again, where the divorce analogy comes in. When you're married, your lives become intertwined on ... on a level it's hard to imagine if you haven't actually been. All the innocuous stuff—going to the bathroom, making the bed, shopping for groceries—none of it's the same anymore." "And all of it's better," she said. "Because they're there." Ned nodded. "You know, around this time," Danielle said, "that other guy Freitas was starting to have steam coming out of his ears. He thought I was lying." "Lying?" said Ned, sitting up. "Well ... Maybe not lying," said Danielle, "but ... Misguided. He said it was just puppy love. He didn't think I really loved David ... He didn't think someone my age actually can love." "Mmm. I hate to admit it, but may be a certain amount of truth to that," said Ned. "Love is a ... Difficult emotion to handle. It often requires enormous sacrifices—and, I mean, seriously, if someone asked you to do something you thought was really stupid, would you do it? But that's what love is: it's placing another person above yourself, voluntarily; declaring them to be more important than you. And that can be hard, especially for someone your age, who is only just learning to have a self." "I don't disagree with you," she said, "but, wouldn't that be true of anyone, at any age? Wouldn't it be hard to do no matter how old you were?" "Yes, it would," said Ned, "which is why we so often have parents who aren't by any means fit to be parents. Which gets to the other side of it: just because it's unlikely doesn't mean it's impossible. Instead of judging, Freit should have kept an open mind and listened. And besides, love is a result of maturity, not age, and I'm sure you've started to notice already that maturity and age aren't always correlated. I'm sure you know many people who are grown up for their age, and others who just remind you of kids." He laughed. "I mean, come on: you're in high school." "Ain't that the truth," she said. "And also, Danielle: even if you didn't, you know, really truly love David—I think you did, by the way, but just for the sake of the argument, let's say you didn't. Let's say it really was just puppy love. Still ... You lost someone who was ... I mean, what? A friend? A lover? A brother? Closer? A self?" She nodded. "That's a hard loss to get over. Not only did you lose your best friend, and your lover, and your boyfriend, and your husband-to-be, and all the dreams and hopes and futures he represented ... Not only did you lose all those things, but you lost the Danielle his presence allowed you to be. You did lose a self. Two selves, as a matter of fact: him, and the you he made you." Ned shook his head again. "And Freit ... Well, he just doesn't see those things anymore." "How'd he get to be a psychologist anyway?" "Well, he was a good one, once," said Ned, "and he still has his flashes of brilliance. But his wife ... He loved her to distraction, but she had other ideas. Mostly they involved her boss, but sometimes the CEO, sometimes her co-workers ... Sometimes anyone she could get her hands on, it seemed like. Once the fourth-floor janitor, for heaven's sake. And since then he's just lived in constant pain. And I don't think he takes anybody else's pain seriously anymore. He's just so used to it that he forgets how hard it can be to deal with." "Well, fair enough," said Danielle, "but it sure doesn't help me." "Nope," said Ned, and there was another period of silence. After a while she said, "I ... Well, I mean, I know my own opinions are biased. But ... I don't think I would try again." Ned tilted her head. "Yes, they are. But who would know you better than yourself. Why don't you think you'd try to off yourself again?" "I..." It had come while she was in the grey place, a hundred different things crystallizing in one realization. "Because I think I can live without him." Ned said nothing. "It was hard for a while. Maybe it still will be. But not hard enough that I can't handle. And in the meanwhile ... Well, I can move on, can't I? Today I've talked more about him than I have since we broke up, and ... I can talk about him. The old me is dead, and I don't know what new me will come up in her place, but I know there can be a new me. I know I can move on." "Can you?" he said. "Well ... I have moved on. Haven't I? Or how would I be able to talk about him without flinching?" Ned Stanton smiled, and she had a feeling she had passed a test. And yet none of it was lies. She could talk about him and look back on what they had once had without that overwhelming feeling of loss; she could picture a future. It was grey and murky, but it did exist. And, seriously, what would David have wanted? Not this. There isn't much I'm sure of, but that's one of them. "It will be hard," Ned said softly. "It's one of the things you don't learn until you've had a serious break-up, but ... When you love someone—when you really, truly love someone—you don't stop. Ever. Sure, it won't be the same strength as before, and you won't be as willing to do really stupid things for them anymore. But you'll still be more willing to do stupid things for them than for other people. Once that connection is made, it doesn't close." "And he feels the same about me," she said. "I'm sure of it," Ned said. "Why, is he one of your clients or something?" said Danielle. "David Glass. Is he?" "If he was, I actually wouldn't be allowed to tell you due to patient confidentiality standards," Ned said. "But, since he isn't, I'm at perfect liberty to tell you that he isn't." Danielle laughed. "That's backwards, isn't it?" "Hey, I didn't design the rules!" Ned protested. "But, no, he isn't. And not my wife's client either. Though we wouldn't normally accept a single teenage male for a client any case; there's better people than us to deal with him." "So, if they released me, you wouldn't take me on?" Danielle said. "Well..." said Ned. "We do make exceptions occasionally." He smiled. Danielle smiled back. The muscles felt rusty, though they were getting a workout today. "That's ... That's another thing that's changed," she said. "I smile again. I laugh again. I wasn't doing that for ... A long time." "Laughing is good," said Ned, "laughing is progress." When her parents arrived again, he took them out in the hall for a time. And the next morning, Danielle went home. She came back to school on a Friday, to a school shrouded in rain and cloud. Though it might have been easier to wait until the next week, she insisted; "I've spent too much time out of my life already," she told her parents, "I'm not going to waste a moment," and they didn't disagree. And yet when she arrived she felt as though she had never been here before, and yet so many things were familiar to her: the rooms, the buildings, the faces she saw. She saw Amy Plisken and Liana French shooting her surreptitious looks; the principal explained that she had not been seen in school since late November. She had certainly not signed up for this semester's classes—nor, for that matter, passed last semester's—and they had to shoehorn her into whatever slots were available. Her parents were there to vouch for her, and the principal was largely sympathetic, but she could see that he was reserving judgment. Let him. She was who she was; a principal's skepticism would not deter her. By recess, the rumors were already flying that Danielle had had a nervous breakdown and been consigned to the wacko ward of some faraway hospital, and had only been let out now that the lobotomy had been successful. Since Danielle had not told the truth to anyone but the principal, she could only surmise that Shelly Baumgarter must be inventing some stories. Nobody asked Danielle anything, of course. Danielle decided not to let it bother her. She had stared down a dark well and lived to tell about it; things were different to her. Never before had she realized just how immature that crowd was. Once it had been important to her, but today it seemed so ... Childish to worry about whether you were putting people down or being perceived as the coolest person in the school. When she found Liz, her friend's eyes fell open. Liz stood up (cutting Carmen off mid-sentence), strode to Danielle and slapped her mightily across the face. Barely had Danielle had time to rock back from the blow that Liz had yanked her into an enormous hug. A little confused, Danielle put her arms around her. "You," Liz whispered, "are the worst friend ever." It took her the rest of lunch to explain what had happened. She didn't explain about the suicide attempt, and she knew Liz noticed the gap in her story, but she caught her friend's eye and knew Liz knew to call her for the details. The others were easy to fool; she just kept talking, and they ate it up. To them, Danielle was some sort of magical, mystical creature, a refugee from another world: a girl who'd had a boyfriend, a girl who'd actually done it, a girl who could just stop going to school one day and decide to come back on another, and get away with it. No matter how much she tried to tell them that no, it wasn't like that, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounded, they wouldn't listen, and Danielle eventually gave up entirely. Besides, it was nice to be thought of as cool. It wasn't anything she could claim happened to her with any frequency. In between, Liz told her side of the story: watching in concern as Danielle seemed to just ... fade away. "We didn't know what to do at all. I mean, anyone could tell that you had just ... That you just didn't care anymore. It was like you were dead. You were moving and eating and talking, but we'd look at your face and there was nothing behind your eyes." Liz had come to her house, sometimes alone and sometimes with reinforcements, to try doing what she could, but Danielle had never responded. Eventually, sick at heart, she had given up. Danielle didn't blame her, and didn't hold it against her. "You are my best friend," she told her over the phone, later that night. "You are my best friend. You didn't give up on me even after I gave up on myself. You were always my friend forever; now I am forever in your debt." Only Sonya seemed unimpressed by her return from the dead. Only Sonya, who greeted her with an impassive, "Oh, you're home," and disappeared up into her room. Only Sonya, who said nothing about her long absence, but simply went on as though nothing had changed. But Danielle didn't comment. Let Sonya be skeptical; she would not be the only one. Danielle was who she was. Let the others like her or dislike her as they pleased. She had more important things to do. She had a future to build towards. On Tuesday the next week, as she was starting to gouge away at the tremendous amount of catch-up work she'd been assigned, her cellphone began to trill. When she picked it up, it was David's number. After a moment's thought, she hit the Ignore button. Prev Home Next... Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd): Your name: Please enter some comments so I can write you back: All content copyright CWatson, 2003-2009 (unless otherwise specified). All rights reserved. ------- Chapter 5 "I don't care who he is," Carmen chirped, "who is he? He's dreamy!" Liz rolled her eyes. "You have a boyfriend," she said. "If anyone gets dibs on this Weston guy, it's Danielle." "Right," said Danielle, laughing, "assuming he would, you know, look at me twice. He's been at the school for two weeks, I'm pretty sure he's heard about 'Nutty Nellie' by now." "He may have heard," said Liz, "but would he listen?" Danielle didn't bother to get her hopes up. Shelly Baumgarter's campaign of poisoning Danielle's reputation had been largely successful, at least partially because Danielle didn't bother to defend herself: when asked, she told the truth. And that scared the students of Sheldon Oaks Public High School, most of whom weren't yet willing to admit that normal people could have abnormal problems. They were the children of privilege, of upper-middle-class parents who had braved the astronomical local housing prices to get their kids into the prestigious school district here; they had been sheltered all their lives. Danielle knew this for a fact because she was one of them. But one of her preconceptions was gone now: that she was insulated. She no longer believed that tragedy and accident and chaos happened only to 'other people.' She was other people. And other people she had become. Ever since her return to school in January, she had become a social outcast; there were people who were steering clear of Liz and Carmen and Heidi and Amy now, merely because they were associated with her—Vanessa, for instance. Danielle was always last now to be picked in PE, for school projects, for lab work. And, true to her predictions, she had not been asked out once since last summer. The good news was, David hadn't managed to stay with Missy Renquist for any meaningful amount of time; she hadn't heard about it until after she came out of her catatonia, but the two had broken up within a couple of weeks. Whether David had managed to dip his wick with her was a topic in which Danielle had no real interest. Supposedly he was dating Angela Wentworth now; she would run into them in the halls on occasion. Beyond that, she had not had any contact with him whatsoever, and she was fine with that. She wondered if anyone had managed to tell her that David's little liaison with Missy had been so catastrophic. Surely, if Liz had heard, she would've told her, in hopes of jollying her out of her depression; but Danielle still had very little recollection of what had gone on in those five missing months. She remembered occasional bouts of desperation: sitting there wondering if there was anything she could do, any promises she could make, that would bring him back to her. At other times she raged, fumed, felt anger making her blood sing; there were depressions in the wall of her bedroom that seemed to have been made by her fist. Ned and Katrina Stanton assured her that these were some of the main stages of grief. But by and large, she remembered nothing; she had been gone, and that was that. Amy Plisken was talking; Danielle was startled to realize that the conversation had not moved on. "He might listen. I mean, yeah, a lot of people are just ignoring you, Dani, but others aren't. We're here." She certainly was. It had been early February when Amy suddenly appeared at their bench in the quad, asking if she might hang out with them. "I saw what Shelly did to you. God help me, I even helped her with it, a little. But I hated it. And when I saw the way they looked at me, the way they treated me, I realized ... Hey, they'd do the same to me at the drop of a hat. If they thought it'd get them somewhere, they'd slander me too. And I thought, you know, there are lots of people I would really rather spend time with." "Oh?" Liz had asked, somewhat defensive. "Like who?" "Well, I dunno yet, but I hoped a few of 'em might be here," Amy had answered, grinning. Her presence had helped restore some of the luster that had been stripped from Liz's reputation. Not much of it, but some. Carmen and Heidi had gone nuts, of course, at the presence of another outcast from Shelly Baumgarter's circle. And soon she and Liz were trading outrageous teacher stories and laughing. Now Amy's presence seemed as natural as breathing. "That's true," said Danielle, "you are here." She smiled to hide her own thoughts: that Carmen and Heidi would probably just as well be elsewhere, but had nowhere else to go. But there was no way to test it, and in any case Danielle knew she might be being unfair to them. Carmen and Heidi were nice people, for all that they seemed so ... Young. Seriously, how could high school seniors still twitter like birds that way? "He's been looking at you," Amy told her. "Oh?" said Danielle. "Who?" Amy tossed her hands in exasperation. "Our hot new friend from Indiana, that's who! Mr. Whatshisface!" ("Weston," Liz supplied.) "The hot new transfer student every girl in the school has been cooing about!" "He's not that hot," said Danielle, which was the absolute truth; there were boys more handsome than Weston McCullough at Sherman Oaks. He wasn't McDreamy or anything. But Weston had something more than: manners. He had a smile and a kind word for everybody, he could make anyone laugh, and he never (to anyone's knowledge) made rude comments about a girl's behind. The younger boys, especially the single ones, laughed that he must be some sort of pussy; some of the girls did too. But Danielle knew better. Mr. Whatshisface, as Amy had so eloquently named him, had decided long ago to not be a jerk, and his training was beginning to pay off. David had been much the same. "He's hot enough," Amy retorted. "Besides, all men look the same in the dark." She giggled. Danielle rolled her eyes. Amy had it backwards, somehow: while Carmen's and Heidi's boyfriends were pressuring them for sex, and Liz and Martin did it regularly, Amy had somehow ended up with a bespectacled, tie-wearing churchgoer named Connor who wanted to wait until marriage. And he wasn't even taking the 'technical virginity' line: his rule was 'nothing below the neck, ' and he stuck to it. Amy, who had lost her innocence to a vibrator long ago, was starting to get impatient. "Maybe you should jump on him, then," she said. "Get your kicks that way." "Don't tempt me," said Amy, laughing. "Now now," said Liz, overhearing, "let's keep our priorities in order, girls. Dani is single. You're not. That's where we focus." "But what if I wanna be the focus," Amy said, laughing. "Then dump Connor," said Liz with a grin. "Or, for that matter, swap him for Max. That way Connor and Heidi can be virgins together, and you and Max can screw your brains out." "Max?" said Amy. "Max Cheng? God, have you seen his teeth?" They had joked about this many times before, and Danielle recognized with a rush of gratitude Liz's subtle hand once again at work, deflecting attention away from her. The simple fact was, Danielle was single, and she didn't think that would change any time soon. She would just have to live with it. So far, she was doing an okay job. But sometimes it irked her. Rather against her will, it came out during therapy that afternoon. She was sitting in the Stantons' office trying to think of something to talk about, while Ned's wife waited patiently. Finally, before she knew she was going to say it, it blurted out: "All my friends say there's a guy I should be interested in." Katrina Stanton tilted her head, exactly the same way her husband did it; she wondered which of them had started it. Because of the unevenness of their schedules, the Stantons had been forced to trade Danielle between them at times; sometimes it was Ned who saw her, sometimes Katrina, sometimes both at once. Katrina lacked her husband's easiness with laughter; even when she was smiling, there was a melancholy in her eyes. But she was an excellent listener, and there were things she understood about Danielle without having to ask—or, indeed, without Danielle having to even say it. Danielle thought this might be because they were both women; or perhaps that was just the way Katrina Stanton was. "And what do you think about this?" Katrina asked her. "Oh, he's ... Well, he's attractive, no doubt about that," said Danielle. "He just transferred in at the beginning of the week, so nobody really knows him—I mean, I only know his name because we've got a class together. But about half the girls in the school are all a-flutter over him now. Everyone says he's nice and funny and polite, and he's definitely handsome ... Everybody's all asking me for, you know, the inside scoop on him or whatever, but there's not much I can say yet, it's not like I've known him for any longer than they have. What do I know about..." She looked up. "What?" Katrina Stanton was smiling. "I meant, what do you think about your friends saying you should date again. But I think I like this answer more. So, you're attracted to him." "What?" said Danielle. "No I'm not! I didn't say that!" "Not using those words, no," said Katrina, still with that gentle smile, "but you immediately started talking about him. With a level of detail that suggests you've been paying attention to him. You find him attractive." "Well ... Yeah," said Danielle, feeling a little like she was confessing something sinful. "And that's ... Bad?" said Katrina Stanton. "Well ... It isn't ... It's not bad, per se," said Danielle, "but ... I feel like I'm borrowing trouble." "Why?" "Because ... Because it ... Look, I have a reputation," Danielle said finally. "Nutty Nellie and all that. I'm a non-entity as far as the school is concerned; they prefer to just close their eyes and pretend I don't exist. No matter what, he's gonna ... Whatever he hears first about me, it isn't gonna be from my mouth." "Unless you speak to him first," said Katrina. "Which is, I think, the reason why your girl friends think you should be interested in him. You can get your foot in the door long before the rumor mill does. "Yeah right," Danielle grumped, "he's been here two weeks." "And do you really think two weeks is long enough for him to have acclimated and started asking questions about individual people?" said Katrina. "You still have time. And besides, you know you're tired of being single. You bear up well, Danielle, but anyone who knows you well, knows it's been grating on you." "It's not ... I don't..." Danielle sighed. "It's just hard. You know? Everyone else I know is dating somebody." Liz and Martin had been going steady for nearly two years—which was an eternity in high school—and Amy had been with Connor for over a year. Carmen had been asked out by Jeff Rogers for junior prom, and the two had kept dating ever since; and now even Heidi had a boyfriend!—dumpy, stoop-shouldered, pear-shaped Heidi! If those girls could succeed, why couldn't she? What did they have that she didn't? ... Besides a five-month gap in their transcripts, and wrists free of scars. Even though it had been more than a year—well, only somewhat, since that missing five months only counted a little bit; but on the calendar it had been more than a year—she still found herself missing him at odd moments. She would think, Oh, that's something David would want to hear, before remembering that she couldn't tell him. She would catch a trace of the smell of his hair; she would wake up feeling naked and cold, wishing for arms to hold her. She even missed sex; no matter how she had tried to duplicate it in the days since then, it just wasn't the same with only one person in the bed. She'd hadn't even known how masturbate; ever since she and David had shared their secret places together that night so long ago, she'd never needed to touch herself: he was always on hand, always willing. It was galling to realize that he was better at playing with her than she was at playing with herself. "It's hard to be a fifth wheel," Katrina agreed. "Or, in your situation, a ninth wheel. But that being the case, why don't you take your friends' advice? You don't want to be single. They don't want you to be single. Why not take the plunge?" "Well, he's gotta ask me out," said Danielle. "For much of human history, that's been true," Katrina Stanton said, "but we live in a new age now. You can ask him." "But what if he's one of those old-fashioned people who thinks the man should do the asking?" she said. "If you feel like it's too big a risk, then don't ask him," said Katrina. "But Danielle, you don't have to be his girlfriend to have a presence in his life. Offer to be his friend. He probably doesn't have too many people of those right now, so that will recommend you to him. And in the meanwhile, he has plenty of time to figure out whether he wants to ask you out or not." "Well," said Danielle, hesitant. "What do you have to lose?" said Katrina. "Let's say you talk to him, get to know him, maybe even date him a little. Perhaps he decides you're crazy, or undesirable, or just not right for him. In that case, nothing has changed: that's where the two of you stand now. And, if, on the other hand, he dates you and you two hit it off, then now you have a boyfriend, or at least a new friend, and you're no longer quite so frustrated. You've gained something." "It's not just frustration," Danielle said. "I mean, it's not like I was gonna drag him into bed with me first thing, or something." She saw Katrina Stanton blink in surprise. "Well. That's not actually the frustration I was referring to. But yes, that too would be addressed, or at least could be." Danielle felt her face heat. "I, umm. I hope you don't think that ... Well ... I'm not—" "A pervert?" said Katrina, smiling. "I certainly hope not. If having a healthy sex drive makes someone a pervert nowadays, I'm afraid I'd be right there in the camp with you. And most of the people I know. And, probably, most of the people you know too. We're moving in a good direction in terms of sexual mores. It isn't considered quite as abnormal for a woman to have actual interest in sex. And," she added, her eyes twinkling, "it certainly makes you more popular with the boys. Such as this fellow your friends are advocating." "Do I really want that popularity?" said Danielle. "I mean ... God. Some of the boys ... I mean, they proposition me. The really desperate ones." It had started happening not long after her return. "The ones with the huge glasses and the braces and forty gazillion pimples who are scared that if they don't get laid with someone they know is easy, they aren't gonna get laid ever. If I do things with Weston and it gets around, things will just get worse." "Danielle, most people won't approach a girl—especially not with a sexual proposition—if they know she's dating someone," Katrina said reasonably. "Besides, while things may have changed since I was your age—after all, my daughter's graduated college already—I think that, if you ask a boyfriend to keep secrets the right way, he will. For instance, after you do something with him, you could suggest to him that that if he tells anyone, you'll never do that thing with him again." She was smiling. "Besides, the best boys will know it instinctively—that certain things should just be kept private, especially if it concerns a woman's reputation." The question burst from her before she could stop it. "Then why did David tell everybody?" She saw Katrina give her a careful look. "I mean ... David's not like that. He's ... What you said. He knew. He understood. We were doing things for years, but I don't think he ever ... But then, after we broke up, it was all over the school within like five hours, that I did it with him. Why would he... ?" "Well..." said Katrina. "I think, first off, that you need to remember that he wasn't, at that moment, the David you knew. He was probably still a little angry at you, still a little hurt. So he might have told it out of spite. Second, you've mentioned that his friends were pressuring him. He might have told them just to get them off his back. And finally, you had broken up. Your secrets weren't really his concern anymore. If he'd kept them, we'd know something about his integrity, but it would really be going above and beyond. He felt—not unreasonably—that he was no longer obligated to keep them secret anymore." Danielle thought about all the things David knew about her, and vice versa. "God, it's a wonder my reputation isn't worse." "So, he has kept some," said Katrina. "Probably the ones nobody would care about knowing," Danielle grumped. " ... Which, to be fair, is most of them." "And that's a fourth thing," said Katrina. "Well, second-and-a-half, really. For a boy, losing his virginity is a big status thing. It's a ... well, how do I explain this. It plays into his social ranking in a way it just doesn't with women, or at least not as much. So, when a boy loses his virginity, it's in his best interests to shout it out from the rooftops." "Whereas, when a girl loses her virginity, it's in her best interests to keep it dead secret," said Danielle, remembering the conversation with Liz. "Which is all sorts of ass-backwards screwed up. Somebody's getting shafted, no matter what happens." "Unless you actually come across someone who will keep a secret," said Katrina. "And such people do exist." "I guess," Danielle said, "if only I could meet some." But Katrina Stanton was right. There was nothing to lose, really. So the next time she had an opportunity, she actually talked to Weston—engaged him in conversation. Not much of one, of course; something like, "So, how are you feeling now?" " ... What?" said Weston. "I mean, it's your third week," said Danielle, realizing she had probably not made herself clear. "Starting to feel settled in okay?" "Oh," said Weston. "Oh. Umm. Yeah, it's, umm. It's starting to work out. Sorry, I thought you were asking about ... something else." The press of transit swept them away before she could say more; she had classes to get to, as did he. She wondered what it was he'd thought she was asking about, but then fifth-period physics kicked in and she had more important things to worry about, and, except for a few pleasantries, they didn't speak again until the end of the week, when Weston said, "Listen, umm. I'm not doing so hot in this class." "Well, it is pre-calculus," said Danielle. Weston laughed without humor. "That it is. Umm. If you've ... If you've got some spare time this weekend, do you think you could give me a hand with it? You seem to have some sense of what's going on, and..." That was a complete inaccuracy. Danielle only sometimes understood what was going on in this class; with some judicious homework and asking for help from her parents, she could get her head around it, but more often than not she would still only start to understand halfway through the homework, and have to start over from the beginning. She was about to say this when something clicked on in her head. "You know," she said, "I don't have a lot of friends either. I mean. If you just wanna hang out and talk, you can say that." He blinked. "Can I?" "Well, why couldn't you?" "Why couldn't... ? What would you have said?" he said. "I mean, you know what they say about you, right? You're Nutty Nellie. They keep telling me to stay away from you because you don't like anybody and you want everyone to leave you alone." Danielle blinked. "They say that?" "Well, yeah, that's what they say ... I think anyone who thought about it twice would know that it's simply not true, that you don't want everyone to leave you alone. Just most people." "Hence the subterfuge?" she said. "Well, yeah," he said, "because I wasn't sure if you would..." So that was what they were saying about her. She guessed she should've seen it coming. Had it stemmed from Shelly Baumgarter?—or was it straight from her own behavior? She certainly wasn't bothering to waste time on most people anymore; it just wasn't worth it, to her way of thinking. She lived in a different world now, one that the silly teenage concerns of her peers (her former peers) just didn't touch. Why should she... ? She realized suddenly that she had been zoned out this entire time, and that Weston McCullough was now grimacing. "Oh God, I shouldn't've said anything, you're going to snap and kill me now, aren't you." Danielle wondered what her face had looked like, for him to think that. "Nonsense," she said. "First off, all the single girls in the school would kill me if I did. And second, how would I help you with your pre-calc homework?" "Uh ... My ... You're gonna help me?" "Sure," she said. "And it's not just a ploy to lure me somewhere so that you can kill me and hide the body," he said. Danielle burst out laughing, and when she did, he did too. Not much of a laugh, just a few giggles, but it was still something. "What time works for you?" "God, I dunno," said Weston, "how about Saturday night?" She gave him a grin. "You do homework on Saturday nights?" Weston blinked for a moment. Then an embarrassed smile broke over his face. "Well, it's not like I've got anything else to do." "How about ... Saturday afternoon then," she said. "Just in case, you know. Something should come up." She gave him a smile, and he smiled back. And something indeed came up. The pre-calc homework wasn't too hard, and Weston was clearly a smart guy; he grasped the principles quickly, and when he didn't, he asked good questions, ones that she could bounce off of quickly and explain where he'd gone wrong. And when they were done, she asked if he had been to the local pizza place, a pride and joy of the neighborhood, and he said he hadn't, and they talked and laughed their way through the evening. And somewhere in between the sitting and talking and trading pencils and papers and pizza slices and napkins and sitting closer to each other, it had become a date, so that when, at the end, he stood in to kiss her, she wasn't surprised at all. It was impossible to keep things secret, of course; not in a place like Sheldon Oaks, where there were only so many places you could go. Within two weeks it was all over the school. "It probably won't help your reputation," Danielle told him. "You're an outsider because you're new here, and now that you're associating with me..." "It's all right," Weston told her. "There's a few people who are talking to me. And, they ask if you're, you know ... weird. And I tell them the truth: that you're perfectly normal." "And they believe you?" said Danielle, a little more shocked than she'd expected to be. "They believe me," Weston said, smiling. It was so different than her previous relationship. There were butterflies in her tummy now sometimes, and a feeling of tingling thrill whenever he kissed her. She would spend more than an hour grooming, dressing, trying on this, casting off that, trying to look just right. She'd never before had someone she really, really wanted to please. With David, it had been easy: she could wear anything, whatever she felt like, and he wouldn't comment or complain; and if she did want to dress up, she never had to worry, because she knew his tastes so well. Even when he took her to dances, it had never been an issue. And even their love play ... Well, they'd been doing it for years, hadn't they? It wasn't anything particularly outstanding anymore. David had been so comfortable to her—like a security blanket. It was nothing like dating Weston; with Weston, everything was newness. He was clumsier than David, and his hair was coarser, but he was taller as well, and broader about the shoulders. There was a broad innocence to his face, like a puppy dog's, which was doubtlessly part of his appeal. Her parents loved him from the start, gushing over how polite and friendly he was, and her friends were ecstatic (if perhaps a tad jealous) that she had managed to snag the newest and most attractive guy in the school. He wasn't David, that much was sure. Danielle was used to being the loud one, the one with the opinions, the one who usually got her way; but Weston had his opinions too, and wasn't scared to voice them. It was nothing like what she had had with David, where he would simply wait out her anger (if there was any) and then calm her down with logic and reason. At first she worried about this, but the Stantons assured her that every couple needed to find their own ways of making compromises, and as long as no harm was done, what was the trouble in voices being raised? After that she stopped being nervous when he told her how stupid she was being, and in fact started to tell him how stupid he was being. It was good stress relief for both of them. Weston was much more athletic than David, who had never shown much interest in sports. He was fiercely competitive, and loved to win almost as much as he hated to lose. He was often busy with his intramural teams (he expressed no interest in trying out for the school teams, claiming the pressure would be too much), and that put limits on how much time they could spend together. Sometimes he'd show up muddy and sweaty and exultant (or not); sometimes he'd beg off, needing to go home for the relative peace and quiet there for whatever homework he needed to accomplish that day. Scheduling was touch-and-go most of the time, in a way she wasn't quite used to. His physicality just added to his masculinity, it seemed. Touching him, embracing him, kissing him was a wholly different experience than it had been with David. For one, David was not all that much taller than she and weighed almost the same; he was a shrimp next to Weston. And Weston smelled more: of dirt, of grass, of sweat, all the good male smells that she had, actually, never had too much exposure to before, because David just never got that dirty. He was a neat sort of person. Weston seemed to have more important things to focus on. And there was a sensuality in his body, in his presence, that seemed born of his heightened athleticism. She was aware of his body in a way she had never been before. And eventually she found out what it was that had been on his mind that very first day. "In Keterburg, I used to date this girl. Jodie. Jodie Wycroft." He had stared out into the distance for a long time, and Danielle had not said anything, merely snuggled closer into his arms to let him know she was listening. He was not one to talk about his past much. "She was my first," he said finally. The silence went on long enough that she felt like she should speak. "Your first what?" "My first ... Everything," he said. "First girlfriend. First kiss. First date." A beat. "First time." After a pause, she asked, "Was she beautiful?" "I ... I loved her," was all he said, and Danielle understood. "But... ?" For the first time he seemed to notice that she was there. "What do you mean?" "Well, you're here," she said, with a smile to alleviate the solemnity, "and you're not with her. What happened?" "Well..." He sighed. "My dad got transferred. And, I didn't wanna stay with my mom. So ... We talked, and we said we'd try it long distance." "Oh." "But, within a couple of weeks of school starting, we ... I got a call. She said..." "I'm sorry," she said, to cut him off. "That sucks." She knew what Jodie had said. There was no need for him to revisit that pain by repeating it. "Yeah," he said, and there was silence for several minutes. "But ... There was one good thing." "Oh?" she said. "What was that?" He gave her a smile. "I got you." She snuggled closer to him, feeling the warmth of his chest under her cheek. "You did," she said. "And I got you." ------- Chapter 6 Danielle had always figured she'd be happy to go to Senior Ball. "Look, I don't see what the problem is," Weston was saying. "Your parents okay'd it. My dad okay'd it. Liz and Martin have already asked the hotel to put the room next to theirs on hold. But the hotel said they're running out of rooms, and if we don't book soon, we're gonna lose it." "You're right," she said, "you don't see what the problem is." "Well, then, tell me!" Weston exploded. Danielle didn't. "God. My friends are all after me about this." "Well, maybe if you didn't complain to them about—" "Danielle, I complain to them because it frustrates me. I love you. I want to be with you. You've said you wanna be with me. Well, this is our chance." "Weston." She pushed tears out of her voice to face him calmly. "Can you accept that this is just not something you're going to get your way about?" "And can you accept that that makes me annoyed?? God, Danielle, you're my girlfriend. Aren't you supposed to be making my life better?" "I'm trying," she said. "I never had these problems with Jodie," he grumbled. Danielle squeezed her eyes shut. Jodie. Why is it always Jodie? She didn't want to start that. Especially not that. "I need to go home." "We haven't worked this out yet." Weston raised the phone that dangled in his hand. "We haven't decided." "We're not gonna be able to decide like this," Danielle said, "not with you like that and me like this. I'll talk to you tomorrow, 'kay?" Weston sighed. "Fine. Fine, whatever. But I am gonna call you about it, understand? We need to work this out. We need to decide." She didn't answer. At her home, she got on the phone to Liz. "He's still after it," she said without preamble. "You need to tell him the truth, honey, " said Liz. "Ugh," Danielle said. "What's to tell him? That I'm scared to sleep with him because of what happened between me and David? What kind of a lame explanation is that?" "He'll understand. He had the same thing happen with his ex-girlfriend—what's her name? Joanna? Joanie?" "Jodie," said Danielle, "and no, he will not understand. First off, they did it a lot more times than I did with David. Second, he sees her as having betrayed him." "Which she totally did, that skanky ho, running off with a new man just because the old one moved to another state," said Liz, sarcastic to the last. "Ha," said Danielle. "In any case, it's a different situation altogether. He feels hurt and he wants to move on." "By getting it on." "And he doesn't get why I don't feel the same way." "Dani, I don't get why you don't feel the same way. What's the big deal?" Danielle sat back against the wall and tried to think. "I mean, you want it too, don't you? You've been saying this whole time... " "Yeah, I know. But it, it's just ... I dunno. I ... I want it to be ... Special. You know?" "It'll be your first time with him. Isn't that special?" Danielle didn't answer. Liz knew what the silence meant. "Danielle, it's never gonna be as special as your first time. You got really lucky. You got the best first time in, like, all of human history. It won't be like that again. Heck, it might not even feel all that good. But at least you've been letting him play around with you, so he knows something about your body... " Danielle didn't answer. Liz knew what the silence meant. "Good grief, Dani, you guys haven't been doing anything? Jesus. No wonder he's so impatient!" "Well, I..." she said. "It's just ... I mean, we did try stuff. We really did. But whenever we ... I mean, how do you think I know that it makes me nervous? It just feels wrong!" Liz was silent for a moment. "Jeez. Who'd've thought you'd get all religious or whatever right now." "No, it's not that, it's not like I wanna go not-until-marriage or something. I'm not a prude. It's just..." The thought of David having sex with her—his hands on her breasts, his body against hers, even the thought of his organ within her—had never terrified her. But to picture Weston in the same position... "I don't like the idea." "Of doing it?" "No, not that." " ... Of doing it with Weston???" Liz's tone suggested just how ludicrous she found this idea. Danielle sighed. Liz knew what that sigh meant. "Dani, why on earth would—? Okay, never mind, that's not important. Look, hon, if that's how you feel about him ... I mean, it's kind of cruel to be leading him on, don't you think? If you have no intention of taking the relationship as far as it'll go... " "That's not as far as it'll go," Danielle said. "Oh, come on, Dani, it's as far as our relationships go, people at our age. What, were you thinking of marrying him?" Of course not. That was ridiculous. But... "I thought about it with David." "Yeah, and take a look around you, Dani, and tell me how well that turned out!" Danielle said nothing. " ... I'm sorry. That was cruel of me." "It was still true." "That's not an excuse. Not as far as I'm concerned." That particular argument would get them nowhere; it never did. "Look, I just don't feel like ... I think about doing stuff with him, and it feels like it'd be a bad idea." "Then maybe you should break it off with him?" "That feels like a bad idea too," Danielle said. Liz sighed. "Well, you've painted yourself into a nice tight corner then, haven't you." "What else is new." The next day, Danielle found it completely impossible to concentrate, despite the irritation of her teachers; the fact that her homework was entirely in order was her only saving grace. All day the battle raged back and forth in her head: break up with Weston? Stay with him? Sleep with him? Stay with him but not sleep with him? Sleep with him and then break up with him? Something needed to be done, and quickly. The man of sensitivity and politeness had turned out to be a public facade—which was not to say that he wasn't, merely that there was more to him, much more, beneath the surface. Weston was a man of deep passions and deep emotions, and he didn't take kindly to being foiled. He wanted things his way, his way, his way; anything else brought his temper into play. And about this, about sex, it was even worse. To be fair, she'd been pretty unreasonable herself about it; even she could admit that expecting him to sit around for the entire school year with basically no action was pretty cruel. But the simple fact was that he wanted it—he really, really wanted it—and she could bet that, even if she'd given in, they'd still be having problems about it, about frequency or quality or foreplay or whatever. Weston was a man who didn't like it when things didn't go exactly as he'd planned. Not for the first time, she reflected back on David and his attitudes towards the issue. Man, and here I thought his whining was bad. But Weston makes more noise about it in a month than David did over that whole four years. Sure, he and I were doing stuff during that whole time, but David wanted it too. And he could hold his peace about it. Man, if I'd known what I know now... "Danielle?" Danielle looked up. It was lunch time, and her feet had carried her away without her attention. Where she ended up she had no idea; all she knew was whom they'd carried her to. "I..." she said to David. " ... Can we talk?" She was on the porch outside the Wilson building; it was where (or so her friends told her) David went now for his breaks. Evidently they were right. Angela Wentworth was there, and whatever group of friends she was involved in: Roger Gorman, Jose Villegas, Lisa O'Donnell, Morgan Shuley, Annie Pearce, Nick Morgan. And David, of course. David. They shared 5th-period Civics this semester, and saw each other every day, but she was used to just ignoring him by now; today was the first time in nearly two years that she had gone out of her way to speak to him. David turned to Angela. "Do you mind?" Angela shrugged, gestured. "Go for it." Danielle was glad to see him do something smart like that: ask his actual girlfriend for permission before going off to talk to an ex. Danielle was sad to see him do it: it meant his heart had moved on. They sat on the grass ten feet away. Danielle found herself studying his face. Still the same haystack hair; still the same eyes. He looked a bit leaner; he seemed to have gotten taller. It had been nearly two years. "Is it something to do with Weston?" he asked. She blinked. "How did you... ?" "It was all over the school," he said with a smile. "That and all sorts of other insane rumors. Like that you tried to hurt yourself or something. Of course, when people asked me about that, I just laughed. You'd never do something like that. Probably Shelly Baumgarter and all those other people just started some rumors to be mean." She realized he didn't believe them. Hadn't someone told him that she herself wasn't denying it? Perhaps he was even younger than she'd thought. "I, umm. I do hate to say this, Nellie, but—" "You told me so, right, whatever," said Danielle, who had no interest in hearing it, and even less in hearing her old nickname. Not from his mouth. "So," said David. "What can I do for ya?" Despite the seeming complexity of the problem, it was actually pretty simple—at least, when the year's worth of baggage and frustration was stripped off. "It's ... Weston wants to rent a hotel room for after Senior Ball, so that he and I can have our first time in privacy. But I'm not sure I wanna do it with him, and whether I should break up with him now or just, just ride it out, or ... what." "Okay, okay, starting from the beginning," said David. "Your guys' first time. Have you been waiting?" "No, we just..." She grimaced. "Like I said, I'm not sure I wanna do with with him." "That night?" said David. "Or ... Ever?" "I ... I dunno." "Well, why don't you want to? Do it with him, I mean. You guys've been going out for almost this whole year, and anyone can tell he's attractive. And probably more well-endowed than me, I can tell you that." He gave a little laugh. The little touch of humor clawed at her. "Don't say that," she snapped. "You're always ... You're always making fun of yourself. You've got nothing to make fun of." "In that department, I do," he said, laughing now. "David," she said. "Stop it." He stopped laughing, realizing he was serious. "Look, Nellie, it's ... Whatever. I'm not here to argue the relative size of my endowment or anything. Do you think I can say stuff like that to Angela? She's the one complaining about my size. But to you ... I can say anything. I can be honest." She wondered if she should be flattered, or if she should be worried about the state of his friendships. "God, I wish I could be like that with Weston." "Well ... You could. But it might not go over so well." "Yeah." "So ... If it were up to you ... What would you do? If you could just totally dictate the terms of the relationship?" Danielle thought for a minute. "I'd ... I wouldn't. I mean, I don't mind being in the same room with him at night." She missed having someone there in the bed with her. "But sex ... I dunno. I don't know why. But I wouldn't." "But you wouldn't break up with him." "No, I wouldn't—and that's gonna be the problem, isn't it? I mean, he's been after me on this topic for ... Months. Since Thanksgiving. I wanna be in a relationship with him, but only if we're celibate. He's ... That's not gonna fly, I can tell you that already." "Why don't you want to do it with him?" he said. "Was your first time that horrible?" She gave him another glare. "I'm not getting down on myself," he said, "it's a legitimate question. Maybe it was so traumatic that you've sworn off sex." Danielle mopped her face with her hands. "No, it ... My first time was fine." Our first time. "It was good." And that may have been part of the problem. "I don't mind doing it, it's just ... Him." "Why?" "God, don't you think I wish I knew?? God! If I knew that, I wouldn't be having these problems!" He was silent for a moment. " ... I'm sorry," she said, "that was ... God. I'm frustrated. You can tell." She gave a short laugh. "Maybe getting laid would be the best thing for me." "But not with him." "No, maybe even with him." She had another image of his face hovering over hers, his body hovering between her legs, and squirmed with discomfort. "If I can get over it." "Well," said David, regarding her with his unblinking green eyes. "I think that means you have a choice to make. Everything and everyone around you says you should be going for it ... All except your heart, your gut, your instinct, your subconscious—whatever you wanna call it. You can trust that part of you ... Or you can go with your intellect." "Which one's right?" she asked. He shrugged, a gesture that said, Well, that's up to you, isn't it? This was such an unsatisfactory answer that she flung herself to her feet in disgust. "Some help you are. Thanks for nothing, Davey." As she walked away, she wondered if that had been fair either. Why was she so angry? What had he done? ... Besides show her a perfect first time. Besides betray her at the exact moment when her heart had become most fully his. Besides show that he was actually a shallow, horny teenager, the one thing he'd always denied being. Besides leave her scarred and confused, unsure of what she wanted anymore. Why did I come to him anyway? It's all his fault to begin with. When Weston arrived at her house that night, she said, "Do it." "Do what?" he said. "Book the room," she said. "We'll do it." His face lit up with a broad, wide grin. She looked down at his happiness and wished it could please her too. ------- As the days before Senior Ball dwindled, the school began to notch up into a frenzy of activity. Some teachers bowed to the inevitable and began assigning less homework; others, furious at their students' inconstancy, piled on yet more. Scotty Rudin and Jeremy Lopiano got into a fight over which of them was going to ask out Rita Dunworthy, and Jessica Lansing created a scandal when she practically threw herself at Josh Reeder, who (as everyone knew) had been going out with Hilary Kremenski since 9th grade. But of Danielle Mayer and Weston McCullough—of Nutty Nellie and her boy-toy—nothing was said; and that was how Danielle liked it. Not much was mentioned about David Glass and Angela Wentworth either, except that David missed the first two days of school the week of the prom itself. He wasn't the only one; kids were cutting classes, or even taking the whole day to play hooky. It was just life as usual, she supposed. Besides, she had worries of her own. As the days passed, the time she spent with Weston became an exercise in tension. It was clear what was on his mind, and his hands followed his thoughts. She knew she should let him—it was the first time she'd let him touch her breasts—well, her anything—over the course of their relationship—and she tried to bear it with good grace. It was easy to admit that she had missed this: warm breath whispering through her hair, a man's voice next to her's, the rough skin of a masculine palm against the soft skin of her breast. It was easy to remember that once she had had a pretty decent sex drive; now, reawakened, that beast was starving, and Weston was what she needed to satiate it. Nonetheless, she told him that they should save the whole enchilada for the night of the dance, and Weston agreed, with an alacrity that startled her. Why was he satisfied with her telling him they couldn't do it now? Was it because she'd said they'd do it later? When I was with David, I never set down a concrete time; it was always, 'Later, maybe, if things work out.' If I'd said, 'Sure, let's set a date and time, ' would he have been happier? When the day arrived, she was actually more flustered about the sex than about the actual dance. She walked through the afternoon's ablutions as if by rote—bathing, shaving, dressing, doing her hair, putting on perfume and makeup—her mind elsewhere, so that when it was done she stood before the mirror with no idea of how she'd got there. Times like this made her nervous. Ever since her five months of zoning out, this would happen every now and then: going from one time to another, from one activity to another, on complete autopilot, doing everything right without having to pay attention at all. It would have been useful if she could control it; it might make homework less of a drag, for instance. But most of the time, it just happened, and she wished it wouldn't. She had the strangest feeling that her life was slipping away through her fingers without her even noticing. She wished she'd paid attention while she got ready; she wished she'd focused, and savored, and enjoyed every minute of it. Enjoyed every minute of two hours' work? Okay, maybe not. Not for the first time, she wondered if going to the dance was even a good idea. Was she going to enjoy it? Probably not. Dancing was not her thing; she lacked the necessary confidence (or perhaps the non-self-consciousness) to be that sort of exhibitionist. And with what was coming after... She looked down at herself. Red had never been quite her color; it just made her look garish. But Weston said this shade of maroon would be perfect on her, and for all that she preferred to have her own way, she'd decided to go with his suggestion. 'Preferred'? David had always told her she was goat-head stubborn. Thank God he'd been willing to be flexible himself. That was part of the problem with Weston; both of them were used to getting their way, and in this particular relationship, they often wanted different things. This isn't where I thought I'd be. The thought leapt into her mind with startling clarity. When I dreamed for my senior year, when I planned for Senior Ball, this isn't where I thought I'd be. For one, David was going to be here; David, with his beanstalk build, his self-conscious laughter, his self-deprecating humor. David said she looked best in pale powder blue—which was the truth; it went best with her eyes and her complexion. Red was Weston's color, for his ruddy skin and the copper of his hair. But the dress had to match the cummerbund ... And Weston didn't want any of that "sky-blue baby crap" on his tux. The only thing that had carried over from the dream was the velvet texture of the dress; Weston had liked the idea. It had been David's. She wondered suddenly how long this was going to go. Everything that ... Well, everything. It's all intertwined with David, and I can't help it. Everything that I do or say or live ... David was going to be part of it. When is that over? When do I get over that? When do I get over him? Or am I going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life?—my first kiss with every man, the first time I make love with him, when he proposes to me, when I have kids or grandkids ... Don't tell me I won't be able to look past David by then. Just don't. I'd go insane. So, what does it mean that I won't do it with Weston? Is it because I'm uncomfortable with him? ... Or is it because I'm uncomfortable with the fact that he's not David? When Weston arrived and saw her, his eyes lit up, and he said, "Wow. You're ... You're beautiful." David had always told her that—at least once a week, no matter how often she dismissed it. This was, what, the third time Weston had said it?—the fourth? She pushed away melancholy and smiled and came across the room to kiss him. Weston had rented a limo along with Liz, Martin, Amy, Connor and Carmen and her boyfriend Jim; Heidi, who was now single and didn't want to be a fifth wheel (and could not afford the expense anyhow) would meet them at the hotel. They sojourned to the hotel's fine Italian restaurant, Fellaccio's, before hitting the festivity proper. Though she did her best to smile and laugh and even contribute to the conversation, Danielle's mind was elsewhere. She remembered what Ned Stanton had told her right at the very beginning: that, in his opinion, love—true love—never died out, that you never stopped caring about someone whom you had really loved. Today, almost two years after David, Danielle had to agree. The topic had come up again, recently, as she talked with the Stantons about the dance. At the time she had cursed the whole idea: Why can't I get over him, why does it still hurt to see him; things like that. And Katrina (it had been her this time) had just given her a sad smile. "Well, it can be frustrating, yes. I unfortunately can't claim to have been in your shoes; Ned was my first and only. But in some ways it's comforting that the connection can't be broken. When we hear all the fairy tales about the Power of Love, all the love songs on the radio, we never think that they might be true. But what if they are? What if, in fact, they actually are?" But Danielle did not want it to be true. Not on the eve of Senior Ball, at which David would, almost certainly, be. Weston leaned close to murmur to her. "Hey, are you all right? Normally you're talking a lot more than this. Anything bothering you?" Danielle hoisted a smile onto her face. "Sorry, I'll try to make more noise then." He laughed. "And don't forget, we've got some fun to look forward to." "That's true," she said. "We haven't gone to too many dances together." "What?" he said. "—Oh. Oh! Oh, yeah, that too." He grinned. Danielle kept the smile on with difficulty. The dance was less of a riot than she'd expected ... At least, for the first half-hour or so, as people slowly filtered in from whatever dinners they'd been having. Then the band got up on stage, plugged in their instruments, and started wailing. Then the bump-and-grind began. Suddenly Danielle remembered why she and Weston had never gone to very many dances: they were stupid. David and I used to sit with our friends and laugh. I mean, it's basically just a huge public foreplay session. We'd point at people we thought were being really flamboyant and say, "Why don't those two just go get a room?" Of course, we could go get a room, so that probably colored our perceptions. Suddenly her eyes lit on Angela Wentworth, who was sitting across the room. There were several women around her, and no men. She wondered where David was. Had something happened? Had the two of them split up? Then she saw him too, crossing the room, returning from the drinks bar with a couple of sodas in hand. She saw him plunk one down in front of Angela, saw her returning smile, saw him bend his head to kiss her. Then she decided to look away. Weston was tugging at her hand. "Wanna dance?" No, she didn't. Not particularly. But she had to do something. She let him lead her out onto the floor and jostle her into his arms. She didn't know anything about dancing, of course, but judging by her compatriots, neither did they. Besides, would it hurt to try it, this once? David had never been the sort to try new things; he was a creature of habit, and it was always a lot of work to get him to give something a shot. Why was she thinking of him all the time? She had a new man now! One who had his arms around her! One she was going to make love to, tonight! David could go stew in his own juices as far as she was concerned! Though it didn't make the wiggling and the wobbling any more bearable. Danielle felt completely exposed, for all that she was surrounded by a crush of bodies and nobody was looking in her direction at all. She imitated the girls near her as best she could, but she couldn't make herself feel it, or enjoy it. This is not my scene. Never has been. Was it true that white men couldn't dance? She wasn't a man; shouldn't that curse not affect her? In a gap between songs, Weston leaned in, his breath heavy on her face. "God," he whispered, "you are making me so hot. I can't wait until tonight." With my half-hearted flopping? she thought; but one look at his face showed that he wasn't just saying it. He meant it. The feeling of his body pressed against hers—and the eagerness between his legs—made the point even more clear. "Then why wait," she heard herself saying. "Let's go now." " ... Are you serious?" he said. The music kicked up again, and she drew his head down to whisper in his ear. "I'm serious." Now that she thought about it, it seemed the perfect solution. "You checked in this morning, right? We'll just go right now. Everyone's dancing. They won't miss us. When we're done we can come back." "Let's do it." His lips nipped at her ear and he drew her close, arching over her (he was nearly a foot taller than she), pulling her against him. "God, who would have thought you were such a minx." Slipping out was easy. Mrs. Finkelstein had been assigned as a hall monitor, but they told her they were going to the bathroom, which was conveniently near the stairs. Weston took the lead from there, and after a wrong turn or two and a stop near the icemaker, they finally arrived at their room, 206. As they passed 204, the door opened, and Amy Plisken and Connor Crosby came out. "Now, if you'd listened to me months ago, you wouldn't've—" Amy was saying. Both of them came to an astonished halt halfway through the door, facing Danielle and Weston, who had come to a halt halfway down the hall. "Umm," said Weston. "Hi," said Amy, keeping Connor's hand in her own. Connor looked as though he would like to dodge back into the blackness of the room and never return. "Isn't this ... Liz's room?" said Danielle. "Oh, yeah, it is," said Amy in a breezy tone, "but, she let us borrow it. Special occasion, you know." "O ... Of course," said Danielle. "What do you think?" said Weston to Connor, with a broad grin. Connor mumbled something that might have been an affirmation. "Well, if he's still stunned, I think you did a good job," Weston said. "Mmuhh," said Connor. "Anyway," said Amy. "See you back at the dance. I'll tell Liz where you went if she asks." She led her boyfriend back down the hallway while Weston let them into their own room. "That was weird," said Danielle, once the door was closed behind them. "Not really," said Weston, roaming around the room, switching lights on. "I mean, we had the same idea, didn't we?" "No, I mean ... Connor was planning to wait until marriage, right?" Weston gave a guffaw. "Evidently not." "Yeah, but ... What made him change his mind?" "Probably didn't take too much to change it," Weston said. He had now moved to his duffel bag and was pulling things out of it. "I mean, you don't think he was holding to virginity for his health, do you?" "Well, it ... I mean, he must've had some reason." "Doesn't mean he didn't want it anyway. There isn't a man alive who doesn't. Unless he's unhealthy somehow. Even priests and stuff who are sworn to celibacy—doesn't mean they don't want sex, just means they don't intend to have it." Kind of like how I felt. "Yeah, but ... I mean, the person who really wanted it in that relationship was Amy." Amy, who had always gone bubbling on about how frustrated she was. We told her to bug Max Cheng. Heck, we told her to dump Connor and find someone else. She always complained that nobody else would appreciate her because she was overweight—which, unfortunately, might be a valid complaint. "She's been having to coax him into it for ages." A kernel of suspicion lit in her mind. "Maybe ... You don't think she... ?" "How would that work?" Weston asked. The things from his duffel bag had turned out to be a small vase with silk roses, some candles, a tube of KY Jelly, a few condoms; he had arranged them as best he could in the fairly cramped space. Now, with a flourish, he revealed his trump card: a bottle of champagne. "I mean, if he didn't—hit the lights, will you?" She did as he yanked away with a bottle opener. "If he didn't want to, he wouldn't've gotten, you know. Hard. Would he?" The cork gave way with a satisfied pop, and he fished two plastic champagne flutes out of his duffel. They looked a bit dusty, which he did not attend to before beginning to pour. "I mean, girls, well ... That's the whole thing about rape, right? A guy can just drop his pants and go to town on her, even if she isn't willing. But a guy, he isn't vulnerable that way. If he doesn't want to, he just doesn't get hard." Danielle wasn't sure if his logic was correct; but they'd had enough arguments recently, over the silliest of things, to want to start one now. Besides, what would she know about it?, being a woman herself. She accepted the flute and sipped from it to avoid having to answer. "Well," said Weston with a bright smile. "Here we are." His skin glowed in the ruddy light of the candles; he must have brought a dozen. "Yes," said Danielle. She reached out with the champagne glass and tinked it (well, clunked it—it was plastic) against his, because that seemed like the right thing to do. "You know," said Weston, "it used to annoy me that you were being so ... Stingy about it. But now, I kinda don't mind. We get to, you know, have a really special time. And that's pretty cool." She didn't know if he actually meant that, but he was trying hard, and she appreciated that. And when he moved in to kiss her, emboldened by her smile, she relaxed into it, letting herself feel for, maybe, the first time in a long while. She felt the warm planes of his chest, his arms engulfing her; the motion of his tongue against hers. She smelled sweat and hair and aftershave, all the things that meant 'Weston' to her. And, for the first time in a long time, she felt the tingling awakening down below her, the beast waking up to play; the hunger beneath her that could only be answered by one thing. When he broke the kiss, she whispered, "Let's get out of these clothes. If we want to go back down, we can't just throw them everywhere." He grinned. "That's my girl. Always looking out for me." It didn't take her too long to shimmy out of her gown; she had never been one for fancy garb. Seeing him lay his clothes out over the back of a chair, she availed herself of the hanger in the closet. Then she waited. Was a tuxedo really that complicated? Well, it had a lot more buttons down the front than hers did; all she had was a slip and the dress itself, both of which zippered down the back. Counting bra and panties, she was (had been) wearing four garments; he had the shirt, the pants, the undershirt, the jacket, the bowtie, the cummerbund, socks... Boy, and all this time I thought men had it easy in the clothing department! Finally he was done, and turned to face her. It was the first time she had ever seen him naked. He was well-muscled, but for all his activity his belly still had a bit of a paunch. His nipples were dark in the dusky light. There was a smattering of fine hair across his chest, coarser hair down his legs, more of it between them. His manhood must be somewhat erect ... or was it that size when flaccid? She hoped not; it would never fit. An appendicectomy scar slanted across his torso towards his right hip. She could not see his ribs. When his eyes alighted on her, his penis twitched. "My God," he breathed. "You are so beautiful." He crossed the open space to her, drawing her into his arms, and she felt the sizzle of skin on skin. His mouth met hers, insistent, his tongue darting out to caress hers. His warm manhood bumped against her belly. She felt gooseflesh all over her body. Unsure though she might be about Weston, there were definitely things she liked here... She let him lead her to the bed, where he eased her down, still kissing her, before joining her, leaning over on one elbow. She decided to let him take control, and wasn't surprised when he began to explore. His lips began to wander across her face, down her neck—finding the hollows of her throat, around her collar bones—before beginning his ascent towards her nipple. There was no question what was on his mind, though; he went straight to her nipple to suck, and her brief spike of irritation was washed away as his lips began to draw sensations from her, or so it seemed. She felt more gooseprickles, and the warmth of his breath on her skin, and the pulling sensation as he sucked; a pulling sensation that seemed to stretch all the way down to the place between her legs, where the pleasure of his suckling was mirrored by the deepening ache inside her. She closed her eyes. This would be easier to enjoy if she wasn't watching. Presently he switched to her other nipple, leaving the first one wet and tingling; it immediately became stiffer as it cooled. As he switched, his hand began to stroke its way down her body, his palm pleasantly rough on her skin; obligingly, she let her legs fall open to admit him, and soon she felt fingers nestled across her wetness. For a little while he just left his hand there, as he continued to nibble on her nipple, sucking on it, stroking it with his tongue. Then he began to move his hand back and forth, pressing against her whole mound. Each movement sent jolts of pleasure through her, and the heel of his palm was in the right place to put pressure on her clit. She let her head fall back and gave a sigh of pleasure. I should have let him do this a long time ago; he really knows what he's doing. As his hand continued its ministrations, he left her nipple and began to kiss her again. Feeling as though she ought to reciprocate, she fumbled around with one hand until she found his cock—warm, fully erect, ready for attention. It seemed a lot larger in her hand than David's had, but then, his was the only one she'd ever known, and it had become so familiar to her that it wasn't threatening; Weston was a different matter. Besides, she was rather distracted by his hand, now slippery with her moisture, and when she gave off stroking him he didn't comment. "Are you ready?" he breathed. "Yeah," she whispered. "Do it. Do it, baby." All at once he had left her—no more hand, no more arms, no more skin pressed against her own. She had only a moment to open her eyes before he had returned, though, this time with a red-wrapped package in his hand. She accepted it and put the condom on him while his hand returned to its favorite place; and then he positioned himself above her, between her legs, his arms on either side of her. She reached below to guide him in, and then closed her eyes as he penetrated. She had never felt latex inside her before; it was impossibly smooth, but strangely sticky as well, as though it was drying her out. And he felt enormous—larger than David had, but who knew the reality of anything anymore. Slowly he entered her, feeding himself into her inch by inch, until finally he was as far inside her as he could go. "Hey," he said, his voice shaking with effort. "Open your eyes." She opened her eyes, and there was Weston's face—broad, pleasant, a bit sweaty, his breath still smelling of garlic and heavy against her skin. She was struck by the sudden fear that this was all horribly wrong. "Aren't you glad you came?" he said. "What?" "To prom," he said. "You were thinking of not coming, remember? Aren't you glad you changed your mind?" He wanted to talk now? "Well, it's certainly had its benefits." "Yeah, no kidding," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be doing something?" she said. His face was a little red and his arms were trembling with strain. "Well, I wanted to ... I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you," he said. "I mean, you know. I realized." That's just 'cuz you've got your dick in my pussy, she thought. But she needed to keep her charity about her; otherwise, she'd dry up her arousal and they'd never get on with it. "Thank me later," she said. "Right now I want you to fuck me until I scream." A huge grin split his face. "God, you are a minx. Wait 'til the guys hear about this!" He began to move within her; first slowly, and then with increasing speed. She brought her knees up to brace against the bed, matching him thrust for thrust. The springs began to squeak with their movements. The barrier of latex was frustrating—it dulled the sensation, smoothing out the bumps and ridges that were so delightful to her. But even then, each moment was exquisite: his chest above her, his hips pressing against the inside of her legs, his arms against her ribs; the feeling of being below him, being completely at his mercy; and his cock, that wonderful thing, deep inside her, filling her crevices, pressing her open, sliding in and out between her nether lips. It was good to be with a man again. It was good to be the home of a man again. "Oh God," Weston breathed, "oh God, I'm gonna—", and she realized that he was close. So soon? It had seemed like an eternity; it had seemed like an instant. She had barely any time to tear her attention away from her own pleasure; then he was groaning, shivering, pumping into her a few more times. The latex-clad cock within her twitched, jumped, grew marginally warmer. Then, with a last moan, he gave his final shudder and lay still against her. "Oh," he murmured, "oh; oh God." ... Is that it? thought Danielle. After a few moments he rolled off her and stood up to take the semen-filled condom to the bathroom; she was glad, for he was much heavier than David. Then he returned to the bed and gave her a long, lingering kiss; and, when he was done, drew her up to rest against his chest. She sprawled out over him, one arm across his chest; they had done it many times before. But never naked; never after their sex; never with her pussy still warm from her arousal. (Never with his underarm hair right below her face.) For a few minutes they shared a companionable silence, and Danielle allowed herself to hope. She couldn't seem to decide about anything anymore; did she like him?, did she not like him?, was he any good for her? Well, in bed, he had certainly been good for her; she would need to teach him to bring her to orgasm, but that was to be expected. She had needed this. She had really needed this. And Weston had delivered. For that, she must give him credit. "How come you didn't go down on me?" he asked finally. As post-coital conversational openers went, she thought, this one could use some work. "How come you didn't go down on me?" she said. "I don't like doing that," he said. "That's a lot of hair, you know. It gets up my nose and stuff." "Oh," she said. "You could do what Jodie did," he said. "She used to shave—" "I could," she said, in a tone that (she hoped) would make him get the hint. He didn't. "She used to shave herself down there. Made it a lot easier." That seemed like a lot of trouble to her. "Well, I feel the same way." "Oh good," he said. That wasn't what she'd meant. "Would you shave yourself down there? I'll go down on you if you do. But it's a lot of hair, you know. It gets up my nose and stuff." He fidgeted a little. "I ... Well, that's kind of embarrassing." "To shave?" "Dani, people see it. When I'm in the locker room with the guys taking a shower, they see those things." "Oh." "Couldn't you just ... Couldn't you just, you know. Do it anyway?" "What, like Jodie used to?" she said. She'd intended it as bait; she'd intended it as a light-hearted comment—though, of course, one to snag him if he wasn't paying attention. But evidently it came out wrong. "Dani, don't be like that. I just ... I'm used to things a certain way, you know." "Jodie's way." "Well..." "You know, every time this issue comes up, you always refer me back to her. What, would you like me to take lessons from her? Weston, I'm not Jodie. I do things a certain way too, and they're different from hers." "I know, but..." "I don't know if you're going to get over that any time soon. If you want to turn me into Jodie, well, it's not gonna work. I'm not Jodie." "I get it, I get it—" "And if you don't like that, then I don't know what to—" "I don't like it," he said. It was not what she'd expected her to say. He sat up, sending her tumbling from his arms. "I don't like the way you do things, Danielle. You've been really uptight about sex this whole time. Now, you said you did it with David, and from what I've heard around the school, that's not a lie. But from what people told me, you were a lot more comfortable with it than you've suggested. I figured—" She sat up too. Forget Jodie; this was war. "What, so you dated me because I'm the school slut??" She wished she had a sheet to pull around her; she settled for covering her breasts with her arms. "Because I'm a loose woman?" "That's not what I said," he protested. "What I said was, I had hoped that you'd be more open to—" "I missed the part where you told me I'm not a slut," she snapped. He scoffed. "Dani, you know that—" She slapped him. "Dani, " he said. "I was about to say, 'You know that's not true.' You're not a slut. And even if you are—which you're not, by the way, but even if you are—I'm one of the guys who thinks that's a good thing." "'One of'?" She laughed without humor. "It's probably easier to list the guys who don't think that way." "So what?" he said. "Wouldn't you rather date someone who appreciates you for who you are?" "Yes, I would like to date someone who appreciates the fact that I am not Jodie, thank you," she said. Then, seeing his expression: "Or was that not what you meant?" "You know it wasn't," he said stiffly. "So what did you mean? That I'm a slut?" He was looking angry now. "No, not a slut, a—" "Well, you just said I should be glad you appreciate me for 'who I am, ' didn't—" "You're not a slut, but you're definitely a first-class bitch!" he snapped. The word seemed to echo around the room. Danielle felt blood drain from her face. "You're my girlfriend," he said, his voice quiet and dreadfully cold. "You're supposed to be making my life better. Not holding me back from what I want. And as far as I'm concerned, you can either get your act together or I'm done with you." She had had enough. "Well, sucks to be you then," she said, "because I'm done with you." She stood up, marched to the closet, and began to put on her clothes. "Oh, right," he said, mocking. "And where do you think you're going to go now? Home? To just sit and twiddle your thumbs?" "Would've been less a waste of time than coming here," she said. "After all, all you want is your precious Jodie. Why'd you waste time with me if she's all you want? Just run back to her!" "Maybe I will," he said. "I'm going to Whitman State. So's she. Maybe we'll hook up again." She poured scorn into her voice. "So you picked a college on the basis of some old flame who probably doesn't remember your name anymore. Pathetic." "Me pathetic? Where do you think you're gonna find someone who's gonna put up with you? You're a bitch from hell, Danielle. Nobody's gonna stand for that." "You were sure standing for it," she said. "Made you stand up pretty eager, as I recall." "Get out," he growled. She did. Outside, she made it halfway down the hall before lightheadedness swept her against the wall. She felt buoyant, as though her shoulders were suddenly free of an unbearable burden; she felt confused, a growing dread in her stomach that she had just made a terrible mistake. She'd barely eaten at dinner from nervous anticipation. None of this was a good combination. And where was she going to go, and how was she to get there?—she'd come in a limo that, undoubtedly, would not be taking her home again. Then the answer came to her. Liz was sitting with Martin and Amy at a side table when she got back down to the dance itself. She turned when Danielle tapped her on the shoulder, and looked confused as Danielle held her arms out to her. But she stood up obligingly anyway, and Danielle wrapped her best friend in a mammoth hug. "What are you doing here?" she asked. They sat down. "Well, I thought about going to prom with Weston," said Danielle. "And I thought about not going at all. But then I thought, I'd really rather go with the people who really mean the most to me: my friends, who have always been loyal to me no matter what." "Should I leave then?" Martin chuckled. "Well," said Amy, "wherever we are, you are always welcome." Liz put one arm around Danielle's shoulder for a side-arm hug. "Always." Prev Home Next... ------- Chapter 7 "But why is it," Danielle said, "that having sex with someone seems to be the thing that breaks me up with them?" "Maybe you have a cursed vagina," Amy said. "That would be terrifying," said Martin, and Danielle scooped up a piece of popcorn and threw it at Amy. Summer had come and gone, though this one had been longer than usual; while high school started in August, most colleges held off until September. It was, Danielle's mom had told her, the longest summer vacation she would ever have, and Danielle had been doing her best to enjoy it. It was sad to be single; it was wonderful to be free of Weston. "He said I was a bitch," Danielle said. It was a little more plaintive than she'd intended. "Umm, Danielle," Martin chortled, "I hate to tell you this, but..." "Shut up, asshole," Danielle snapped. "I rest my case," Martin said. Liz, leaning against him, gave him a swat on the head. "But how come they only say that after sex," Danielle asked. "Well, does it come out during sex?" Amy asked. "Do you bite? Claw? Talk dirty? Dominate him?" "No," said Danielle, affronted. "Maybe they only feel comfortable saying it after sex," Liz said. "No, David used to say it a lot." Martin gave her a look. "David used to call you a bitch all the time." "Well..." said Danielle. "Not like that. He'd say I was really stubborn. I think he thought it was kinda cute." "That's totally different," Martin said. "It's the flip side of the same coin," Danielle said. "It's politer," Martin said. "Still means the same thing," Danielle said, and Martin conceded that with a tilt of his head. "Well, look," said Liz. "You're going off to college. I mean, you've already gone to orientation and met some people. And when you're there, you'll get to start fresh. No more of this 'Nutty Nellie' business. People don't know you from a hole in the wall." "Except for the ones who come to Richardson University with me," she said. "Well, that's just what you have to deal with," said Liz. "You could've gone to UC San Diego or Towson or somewhere in between if you wanted. You could've gone to Chinchilla College." "Ugh, don't remind me," said Danielle. She had received her share of acceptance letters, and her share of scholarship offers too. One had been from Chinchilla College in southern New Mexico, offering her a full ride if she'd come there. The name was enough to get her to toss the thing out. What, are they that desperate for patronage? Why didn't they just do it via mass e-mail? Then they could have also asked for my bank account number and promised me millions of dollars in Nigerian diamonds or whatever. "The point is, even at Richardson, the vast majority of everybody won't know you," Liz said. "You'll be just another faceless freshman to them. You can be whoever you want to be." "Not a bitch?" Danielle said hopefully. "I wouldn't go that far," Amy said. "Shut up, asshole," Danielle said, throwing another piece of popcorn. All in all, it had been one of the most relaxing summers of her life. Instead of going to summer school or finding a job, she vegged out most of the time, sinking hours of her life into YouTube, into The Sims, into Facebook and MySpace. It was also a chance for her to break out her camera. It had fallen off her radar in the aftermath of her break-up with David—not just because she'd been so lost, but because she'd brought her trusty pink PowerShot to the field with her that day and, in her distraction, forgotten to scoop it up. By the time she realized when it had disappeared—some time around Valentine's Day—and could return, it was gone. So, for her eighteenth birthday, she splurged on a good Nikon, an old D90 she found on eBay. It was still a good $500, but a newer model year had come out at the turn of the decade, and a lot of enthusiasts were trying to unload their old gear. And that led straight back into PhotoShop, which was of double usage to her: creating new textures for objects in The Sims. It was something she'd never done before, but always wanted to try; now, with the summer completely to herself, she had a chance to. It was harder than she thought, in some ways; more often than not she could never get the right image to appear on the right surface of the object, so that the back of a couch would have the picture of its cushions, while its backrest displayed on the spot you sat on. But the texturing and photo alterations ... That was old hat to her. The decision to go to Richardson had not been taken lightly. It had accomplished the miracle of maintaining a strong reputation for liberal arts alongside reasonably good scores in the harder business and sciences; it hosted less than 15,000 students, counting post-graduates, so she would not be overlooked the way she might at a large school (she had been astounded to know that Ohio State University enrolled over 50,000 people). It was also two hours away from everything she had ever known—including Liz, who was going with Martin to the University of San Francisco, and Amy, who had enrolled at Wisconsin-Madison. Despite her fears, Danielle was fairly sure that she wouldn't run into anyone she knew. Would that be a blessing or a curse? She had never gone into anything before without at least one friend—typically, David—at her side. This time, for the first time, she was going to go it alone. The thought was both exciting and terrifying, all at the same time. With so much time on her hands, she'd had plenty of opportunities to look back over the wreckage of her relationship with Weston. Leaving him didn't have the same ring of anarchic emptiness she'd felt when breaking up with David; she had a life now, if not much of one, and she could stand on her own two feet. Losing David had been the end of the world. Next to him, Weston was a gnat. The funny thing was, they'd dated practically from the beginning of school to the end—give or take a few weeks—but had very little time together during vacations, since he was always being shipped off to his mother's place whenever he had time off. She had been looking forward to summer vacation, when they'd have plenty of time to spend together in the same state ... And instead, here she was, the third wheel to Liz and Martin. At least she had Amy, newly single, to commiserate with. What had happened to Connor Amy would not say, except that she had gotten in trouble for their little hotel escapade on Prom night. Danielle wondered if he had gone to his parents with the story of his missing virginity. The main problem with Weston was that he hadn't been over his old girlfriend. Constantly, constantly, Jodie was coming up—Jodie this, Jodie that, why can't you be more like her. Danielle could hardly blame him for that; David was rarely far from her own thoughts. But at least she wasn't stupid enough to say it out loud. Besides, how pointless was it to try and recapture something that was out of reach? She had felt like a stand-in most of the time; she had felt like he wasn't really interested in Danielle Mayer, only in Danielle-Mayer-inasmuch-as-she-replicated-the-Jodie-Wycroft-experience. It didn't make her inclined to be nice to him. But the other problem had been her own: that, in truth, she wasn't over David yet either. Every time she looked up, she couldn't help but feel like he was supposed to be there. It made her unwilling to commit to Weston at the level he wanted; she always felt like she needed to hold something back in case David should, miraculously, show up. It was a disturbing thought, that she still wasn't over him; after all, they'd been split up for more than two years now. Shouldn't she be used to it by now? But, as the Stantons had pointed out, she'd had him in her life for ten years. "And most people barely remember anything before about the age of five or six," Ned had said, "we've known for years that the memory sectors of the human brain reformat themselves around that age, and most of everything that happened before is basically forgotten. Which means that, in some ways, you've actually known him for your entire life. That's like losing a family member." God, am I going to be stuck like this forever? she wondered. Am I going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my freaking life?—wondering where he is? 'cuz that's what it feels like right now. And now I'm about to go to college and away from him—I don't even know where he's going—and have to learn to live ... On my own. These were the thoughts, only somewhat comforting, that echoed through her head as her family drove away, leaving her to wave good-bye at the retreating back end of their station wagon, alone at Richardson College. She spent a few minutes hanging her clothes and unpacking the important things. The room was small and snug, with two desks, two beds and a separate compartment with closets and a sink/mirror combo. How she decided to arrange her desk and bed, and which side of the room she ended up on, would have a big impact on her life for the next year, because there was only so much personalization she could do out here. She had never met her roommate, a stranger named Magdalena Nicole Smith; she didn't appear for another few hours. Danielle's family had arrived early to avoid the rush, which turned out to be a horrible idea: just about every other Richardson College freshman had had it. Clearly, Magdalena Smith knew something Danielle didn't. When she did arrive, she turned out to be a pale waif of a girl whose active, take-charge parents made her seem almost transparent. From the first, Mr. Calvin Smith dominated the room, giving Danielle a beaming greeting "with blessings in the peace of God," and trying to decide (while dodging Danielle's half-unpacked clutter) where to put up the enormous picture of the Virgin Mary. It went downhill from there. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were friendly, that much was certain, and generous; their presence was not of anger or manipulation. Instead, their good cheer simply swelled until it filled every crevice available. But they did control the room; it had clearly never occurred to them that other people might ever have a thought that contradicted one of their own. After the moving was done and the furniture set up, they swept Magdalena (they always used the girl's full name, though Danielle could well imagine her preferring "Maggie" or some other diminutive like "Vladimir" or perhaps "Cassock") out for a tour of the campus—and Danielle too. And after that a comfortable dinner at a nice pasta place downtown—with, again, Danielle included without questioning whether she belonged. Or wanted to. It was certainly nice to have been grafted onto this family that way ... But did she really like it? Finally, after dropping their daughter back off at the dorms at eight o'clock that night, after endless reminders to do her laundry and study hard and pray every night and call home to keep us up to date, you hear, the parents were off. And half an hour later, Danielle heard her roommate's voice for the first time. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," Magdalena was saying. Her voice hitched and rasped a little, as though underused. Well, with parents like those, can you blame her? Danielle was on the verge of just tuning the girl out when she heard a bit of a crackle, and smelled the scent of sulfur. Her roommate had the Virgin Mary poster down off the wall and was burning it. "—and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—" "Hey, ummm," said Danielle. "You might set off the smoke detector." Her roommate looked up. "There are smoke detectors here?" "Didn't they tell you during Freshman Orientation? Every single dorm room has one." "Jesus," said Magdalena. Her resemblance to a deer in headlights was uncanny. "Holy Mary, mother of God. I, uhh ... I had better put this out." "Maybe," said Danielle, trying to deadpan it the way Liz did. Magdalena sighed and took the burning poster into the closet compartment. There was the sound of running water, and then the hiss of a quenched flame. And then a thunk, like something being tossed in a trash can. Magdalena emerged from behind the partition. "That poster has been over my bed for the last eighteen years," she said. Her voice was a pale and insubstantial thing, much like the girl herself. "I could not wait for the chance to get rid of it." "I ... See," said Danielle. "I'm sorry about my parents," said Magdalena. "They're ... Like that." "I noticed." "All my friends always said ... You know, 'How could you dislike parents like those? They're very generous, they take us out to dinner all the time, they're so friendly ... We almost like them better than we like you!'" "Hmm," said Danielle. "That might have something to do with it." "Yes," said Magdalena, "it might." Under the dorm room's fluorescent lights, she looked not so much pale as bleached, like someone who had been kept out of the sun for too long. Or someone who had been continually outshone. "Please don't call me Magdalena, by the way." "Why not?" said Danielle. "It's ... It's what I've been called for all my life," said her roommate, "but ... I want to make a new start. I want to be known as someone else now." "Maggie?" said Danielle, making a guess. "Well, I guess that would work, but I was thinking that, maybe, I would ... Use my middle name. Nicole." "Nicole Smith?" said Danielle. "Well, aside from being associated with a dead slut, it's probably—" "What?" said Magdalena/Maggie/Nicole. "Who?" "Anna Nicole Smith?" said Danielle. "Who?" "Haven't you heard of her?" "Was she an actress?" "Umm..." said Danielle. "She was in Playboy." "Oh," said Magdgiecole, visibly wilting. "Umm. I dunno about that then." "Well, it's still better than Magdalena," said Danielle. "Or 'Maggie Smith, ' for that matter, who is an actress." "Yeah," said her roommate. "And... 'Nicole' seems younger. And ... A little less timid." Well, this girl could stand to be less timid, there was no doubt of that. "I won't tell anyone if you won't," said Danielle, smiling. "About what?" "About who Anna Nicole Smith was. It'll just be our little secret. Nobody else will know." Her roommate Nicole gave her one moment of perplexity before bursting into laughter. "And besides. Umm, don't take this the wrong way, but, I don't think anyone will confuse you with her." Nicole was wearing a perfectly demure ensemble—jeans and a light blouse, with barely any skin showing. Her dark hair was drawn up in a ponytail. Where Anna Nicole Smith had radiated sex appeal, Danielle's roommate was a model of virginal innocence. Which, to be fair, some man would probably find attractive somewhere. But it was still a different appeal. "She was, you know, showing off everything." "Oh," said Nicole. "Yes. Was ... Was she pretty?" "Huh?" said Danielle. "Well, I dunno. I didn't pay much attention. Didn't you see her on TV?" "We don't watch television in our house," said Nicole. "I've never heard of her." " ... Boy," said Danielle. "You're gonna be lost out here." "Is there ... A lot I don't know?" said Nicole. "Umm ... Some, yeah," said Danielle. "Desperate Housewives and Halo and Panic At The Disco and Wikipedia and what a keg stand is..." "Oh, that's a lot," Nicole whispered. "Will you help me?" "Of course," said Danielle. And just like that, she had made her first new friend. What Nicole had done with her name stuck with Danielle that night, as the two of them talked, met their RA Bruce Winston (whom Nicole introduced herself to as Nicole—after a bit of a panicked look; "There are men in this hallway?") and said hello to whichever floormates dropped by. And as she stared at the ceiling that night, she thought it over to herself. I too am starting over here, aren't I? I can be anyone I want. Besides 'not a bitch, ' that is. But even then ... Our names are part of who we are, aren't they? 'Danielle' is a bitch; Danielle's been alive for eighteen years; Danielle has a lot of baggage concerning an ex-boyfriend she just can't get over. So what if ... What if I were to be ... Not Danielle? And when Professor Frinkman asked her what she called herself, during the first college class of her life, she said, "Call me Elle." It took a little while to get used to responding to it; more than a week, actually. She became known somewhat interchangeably as Elle, Danielle, and "You, there", for the people who had trouble remembering her name at all. Or remembering what 'Elle' was short for. (Some people think it was "L," a first initial.) She did not want to use her middle name; as she joked about it to Nicole, "Sabrina is a girly girl. She wears too much pink for me." Nonetheless, being addressed as 'Elle' made her feel ... Different. It was a sleeker name, more capable, more sophisticated—the kind of name she should have been using while trying to ingratiate herself with Shelly Baumgarter and those types. Instead she'd let them shorten her to her first initial. It had been disrespectful. David had been right. There was plenty to get used to in college, besides being referred to as 'Elle, (the name that eventually won). There were thirty new people to meet just on this floor of this wing of the De Auiello dorms alone: Jack, the zany one; Marcy, the nerdy one; Helen, the dorm mom; Bruce Winston, of course, the RA; Parker, who already had a reputation for coming home drunk every night; Leslie, the loose one; Arun, the immigrant; Quist, who liked to go by his last name; Bobby, the guitarist; and a dozen others whom she could barely keep straight. A few of them she saw in her classes, but most of the people there were strangers to her—or rather, even more strangers to her than the barely-known people she shared a hallway with. There were things to remember about living in a dorm: bringing her keys everywhere with her, for instance, and her ID card, which gave access to meal plans, to dorm front doors, to copy machines, to washing machines, to all sorts of different things that she no longer had access to after she lost it on the second day. Because of how quickly it disappeared, they assumed it must have either been snatched up by accident or stolen; they gave her a provisional one and said she would owe them $50 for a replacement unless the real one was returned within a week. Thankfully, it was. There were new teachers to get the measure of—which ones would be kind, and which ones would be hard-asses, and which ones to run away from really fast. And there were boys to look at too: some of them with the gangly limbs of high school, some with the broader frames of adulthood. She could never tell which ones were seniors and which ones were freshmen. Some of the boys were noticing her too. The most aggressive of the bunch was named Tom Gilmore ... Which was not to say that he was particularly boorish about it. He simply made his interest known and didn't give up. She wasn't sure what she could say to him, in any case—besides, of course, "Well, it's only the third day of classes; give me a little bit of time to stabilize, you know?" Even then, she couldn't resist throwing a little bit of a flirt in—a warm smile, a little body language—because the truth was, she thought he was very attractive. He had dark hair, unlike Weston and David, and while he was tall he was not as overbearingly broad of shoulder as Weston, and his smile conveyed genuine warmth. She was reminded of the generous charm of Nicole's parents—he had that quality too, but without the accompanying insanity. He didn't seem upset when she rebuffed his advances; he had probably noticed, actually, that she wasn't really turning him down. That she did, as a matter of fact, like him. But the specter of her failure with Weston still loomed over her. She didn't want to get into that again. With Weston she hadn't felt quite as guilty about being unable to really get into him, because he had clearly never been into her. But this Tom Gilmore seemed like a nice guy. It would be unfair to lead him on. And with that in mind, what would probably be appropriate would be to sit him down and explain that she still had this albatross around her neck, and until she got rid of it ... But then she'd come across as a psycho obsessive-type girlfriend who couldn't get over things, and Tom would probably lose interest in her. The best she could do was to equivocate, to make excuses ... To delay. While she tried to figure out what on earth she was going to do with herself. The answer walked into her on Tuesday morning the second week. She was heading through the Dining Commons, not really looking where she was going—glancing at the prices at the coffee shop, trying to figure out if there was anything worth stopping to get for breakfast—when she collided with someone and was rewarded with a flash of liquid down her shirt. "Ugh! Ah! Jeez! For crying out loud, why don't you look where you're..." She felt blood drain from her face. "David???" "Nellie?" he said. He was a little taller than she remembered, and looked a little uncertain—but by and large, it was still the same face she had seen so often. "David, what the hell are— Are you going here??" "Well, it's got one of the best architecture programs in the country," he said. He had always longed to be an architect, but she'd always thought it was a childhood dream, like wanting to be a firefighter or an astronaut when he grew up; she hadn't realized he actually intended to pursue it. "God, are you okay? At least I decided to get orange juice this morning; think about if it had been hot coffee." She had completely forgotten; she had other things on her mind. But one look at herself told her the worst: a lot of the orange juice had gone down the front of her shirt, which was (or rather had been) white, and there was no way she could wear it to class like that. "Come back to my room with me, we'll keep talking," she said. "Where do you live?" "The Logan dorms." "The one across campus?" "One of them, yeah. You?" "De Auiello." "God, I almost signed up for those." That would have been too creepy to contemplate. "So, you decided you wanted to be an architect?" "Well, I dunno about decided," he said. "But I wanted to investigate it. And so Mom and Dad said, you know, 'Go to Richardson. If you decide to be an Architecture major, you're in one of the best programs there is. And if you don't, you probably still won't regret going there.' And ... They had a point." "Your folks are pretty smart," she said. "What about you? Photography, right?" "Umm ... I don't know, actually. I kinda started playing around more with digital image editing and things. But either way, I went through kind of the same conversation you did. Whatever I want to explore, this is a good place to do it. I probably won't regret it." "Your folks are pretty smart," he said with a smile. "I, umm. I heard through the grapevine that, umm. That you and Weston are over." She felt contrary impulses at that question. It was uncomfortable to discuss, with her ex-boyfriend, romantic exploits she had gone on to after breaking up with him. But at the same time, this was Davey. There was nothing she couldn't tell him. Right? "Yeah, we're over. It, umm. During Prom, actually." His eyebrows jumped in surprise. "Yeah. Yeah, we ... Well, after you and I had our, umm, little conversation. You know, about..." He nodded. She couldn't believe he remembered it. Was that a good sign, or a bad one? "Well, I decided to go through with it. And so we went upstairs during the party—" "I wondered where you'd gone." Had he been paying attention? Or had he just noticed, at random, that he hadn't seen her for a half-hour or so, and idly contemplated if she and Weston were up to something? It didn't bear thinking about. "And, umm. We had our first time. And, it was also ... Our last time." "Hunh," he said. "Hope you aren't starting a pattern." That set a different wash of pain through her gut. "Trying not to." Perhaps he recognized the danger zone, because he said, "What happened, anyhow? Was he that bad in bed?" "What? Oh, no, no, it wasn't that, it was, just ... He had this ex-girlfriend, Jodie. And ... He was not over her. Everything I did, he was always, 'Jodie did it better.' It was ridiculous. I felt like a replacement goldfish or something." "Huh?" "You know, a goldfish." She unlocked the door of her room and led him in, knowing Nicole was out at class. "You can't really tell one goldfish from another, right? So if the goldfish dies, your mom scoops it out and replaces it with a new one, and little eight-year-old you doesn't notice the difference." "Oh. Yeah, I guess." "And ... It just wasn't working out." She pulled open her closet, doffed her shirt and tossed it into the hamper. "Great. I can't just put on another shirt, it got all over my bra ... And all over my me, too. Okay, turn around." David gave a little chuckle, but did as he was bade. It suddenly occurred to her just how absurd this was: her ex-boyfriend, her ex-best-friend, who had seen it all hundreds of times before ... And now she was making him look away because she had to take her bra off. The thought made her a little angry, and she yanked a wad of paper towels off the roll to vent her frustration. "So what about you, then," she asked as she dabbed at herself with the towels. There wasn't much, but she needed to get it all off, and there wasn't time for a shower. "Are you and Angela still together?" "Umm ... No, we've decided to go our, umm. Separate ways." "Oh. Why, what happened?" "Well, she's at Crocker State," he said, "that's part of it. But, I mean, just ... Well, it was nice while it lasted, but we both decided that ... It was time to move on. We were going different directions and we didn't want to feel ... Limited or anything. If nothing comes up, we might get back together in the summer." "Just for the fun of it, eh?" "Yeah, basically," he said. "And in the meanwhile, I ... I dunno, but I think I'm gonna stay single for a while." "Oh?" "Yeah. I mean, I was dating Missy Renquist for, you know, like, two weeks or whatever; but really soon after that, I got together with Angela. And then before Missy Renquist was ... You. It's, umm. It's been a long, long time since I've been single for any length of time. I think it might be healthy for me to get back to that." Danielle, who was rarely single by her own choice, didn't quite understand his viewpoint, but she knew that her own understanding was secondary in this case. "Well, whatever works for you, is what you should do," she said. It took a few more minutes to finish dabbing the orange juice off her front; they chatted together about mundane things: classes, roommates, the people they'd met, the dangers of being 150 minutes' drive away from home. And at the end of it, she'd come to a decision. "Let's keep talking," she said. "It's good to have a familiar face around, and it's not like either of us has so many friends that we never have time." He gave a laugh. "Yeah, totally. Come over to Logan some time, there's a few people on my hall I think you'd get along with." At the cafeteria they headed their separate ways: David to the Markkula building for his Architecture 101 class, and Danielle to English. David was the first to say it. "Look, Danielle, I've really missed this." "Oh?" she said. "Yeah. I mean ... Yeah, there were ... Other things we did, and other things we meant to each other, but at the heart of it ... It all started because we were friends. It all started because we were friends. And that's the one thing I just can't find from anybody else—someone who knows me as well as you do. And ... I miss that." "I've missed it too," she said. "Even with, with Liz and with Amy, and now with Nicole—I mean, they're all great gals, but ... Well, we've known each other since we were six. It's hard to compete with that." "And, if it's okay with you..." he said. "I want it back." "The friendship. The knowing-each-other-since-we-were-six." "Yeah." "The being able to go to you no matter what, and knowing that you'd always be there for me." "Yeah," he said. She gave him a crooked smile. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He laughed. "Sorry, but those days are over now. I'm looking for something more important." "A friend." "Yeah." She gave him her hand. He took it. And just like that, she had made her second new friend. Heading off to class, she wondered just what bizarre tricks of fate were conspiring to place her at the same college with David. But, upon reflection, perhaps she should have expected it. Of course we were going to go to the same college. If I had chosen something else, he would have too. And if he had chosen somewhere else, I would have too. We're just too ... Similar. There are too many ways in which our minds work exactly the same, in which we value the same things. Suddenly she felt a sense of relief that they were no longer together. Surely she would've gotten bored of him by now! What was the appeal in dating someone who was that similar to yourself? It wasn't the first time David had come up, of course. As she learned about Nicole, and told Nicole about herself—well, of course he was mentioned. Nicole even asked about it. "This David person you keep talking about ... Is he your boyfriend?" "What? Oh. No, not at all; we broke up a long time ago." It did feel that way to her; she was a new person now, in new circumstances. "Why?" "Well, because you mention him so often," said Nicole. "I mean, I think that, if I had ever broken up with somebody, I think I would want to put it behind me." "Yeah," said Danielle. "Me too. It's just that we knew each other for a long time, so ... There's a lot to put behind." "Oh," said Nicole. That was the thing about Nicole: she was a sweet girl, and forgiving, but ... So naive. Danielle flinched to think of what would happen if some exploitative frat boy should set his eyes on her. The good news was, she didn't think that would happen any time soon; Nicole was a homebody, going to classes and to church choir and nowhere else, and seemingly content with the very few people she met there. She wasn't nearly as religious as her parents' behavior might imply, but she still prayed every night, and reacted with shock whenever one of the girls down the hall would walk by in a top that didn't leave much to the imagination. But every time, she just shook her head, set her shoulders, and kept going. There was a lot she didn't know, but she was determined to learn. Danielle wondered if she could keep it up. HBO was going to blow her mind ... But at the same time, there was more steel in her than Danielle had expected. And so the first three weeks passed. Danielle called home a couple times, but there wasn't all that much to say; she had more to comment on to Liz, who had arrived safely with Martin and was getting settled in. There were always questions from Nicole to answer, and clubs to look into; there was always homework to do, and the increased pace of studying to get used to: Richardson College moved on a 10-week-quarter system, and some of the people in "real" majors (maths, sciences, business) already had midterms in the fourth week ... Or the third. And there was David to talk to. They spent a whole Thursday just evening getting caught up with what they had missed in the last two years—Mrs. Glass had breast cancer, the poor woman, and had had to have a mastectomy—and Danielle was reminded of how comfortable they were in each other's presence, how easy it was for them to fall back into the old patterns. I mean, jeez, I felt totally comfortable just yanking all my clothes off in his presence. When it comes to feeling like the person's just part of you, it doesn't get much more than that. She had missed this; she had missed having someone who knew her mind, and whose mind she knew. She had missed how easy it was. And one more thing. On Friday of that third week, as they emerged from History class, Tom Gilmore came to walk beside her as she headed for the Dining Commons. "So, Miss Elle Mayer, what excuse will it be this week?" "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, you have been kind of blowing me off," he said, with a broad smile to take the sting out of the comment. "I ask you if you're doing anything and you just sort of make noises and excuses. You never say anything concrete." "Well..." she said. "Yeah." "So, let's get it straightened out already. Am I wasting my time? I think you're a beautiful person and I'd like to get to know you, but it's okay if you're not interested. Won't have been the first time." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Go on, tell me the truth, I can take it." "The truth?" she said. "Preferable to lies, I've always thought," he said. The truth, then. Could she see herself with Tom Gilmore?—on his arm, laughing at his jokes. In his arms, kissing him. The truth was that she could; she had always been able to ... And the truth was that she no longer felt that instinct of utter panic at the thought of spending time with him. She didn't feel like she needed to hold herself back anymore. "The truth is that I had some things to work out," she said, "and I've worked them out. And the truth is that, actually, I don't have anything planned tonight, and was hoping to find someone fun to spend the time with." She couldn't put it more blatantly than that. And thankfully, he caught on. "Six thirty at the Dining Commons, say? I've got a car and I know of some nice places around here." "Six thirty sounds great," she said, smiling. His path was taking him to another classroom. "I'm holding you to that," he called. "I mean, I've worked this long to get an answer out of you; I'm holding you to that. If you don't show up, I'll hunt you down and beat you with a wet noodle." "That sounds terrifying," she said, grinning, "I'd better be there." She waltzed all the way home. ------- Chapter 8 "Elle, you've heard him," Nicole was saying. "He tells you all the time that he thinks you're attractive. It's not something you have to worry about." "Yeah, but I don't just want him to say I'm pretty," Elle gritted. "I want to be pretty." "You are pretty," Nicole said. "Go ask some of the other people down the hall if you have to, but—" A knock on the door interrupted them. For an instant Elle panicked—was Tom here already??—but then she glanced at the little clock Nicole had placed on a shelf next to the mirror, and saw that it wasn't nearly time yet. She went to the door and opened it. It was David. He understood her rather elaborate state of dress in an instant; he had always been quick on the draw. "Wow. Umm. Is this a bad time?" "David, you tell her," Nicole said. "She's got a big date with Tom in ten minutes and she isn't sure she looks nice." Nicole had been just as flabbergasted with David's presence as Elle had been, but he'd been coming by, or Elle swinging by his room, almost daily for the entire year. Now it was Valentine's Day, and Nicole was as accustomed to his presence as Elle was. David gave her a practiced appraisal. "Well, obviously I'm biased, but I think you look lovely. That's the shirt you were talking about from Abercrombie, right? You were right about the color." Nicole giggled. "He has really good fashion sense, you know." "Well, of course," Elle said, a little miffed. "I trained him." As Nicole went back out of the closet compartment to accomplish whatever she was going to accomplish that night, David stepped in close for a low conversation. "You're going back to his place tonight, I assume?" She questioned that statement with a glance. "Well, you said that you thought it was ... time. For you two to become ... Better acquainted. And, if it is time, then you can hardly bring him here. Not with Nicole around." That much was true. "Yeah, but..." She actually hadn't thought it out very far. "The thing is, Tom lives with his parents. I mean, their house is ten minutes away." "Do they like you?" "Yeah, they seem to ... But going there to chat and watch TV is different than going there to, you know, do stuff. In his bedroom. Alone." "So you're not going to his house." "But I'm not going here either. Not with Nicole in the picture." "Have you talked to her about it?" "No, I ... Well, what am I gonna say? She'd..." "Yeah," he agreed. "Heart attack. Umm ... Do you want me to bring her with me?" He and some friends—guys and girls both—were having a "Singles' Appreciation Day" bowling night, on the premise that this way they'd get to fondle somebody's balls. The funny part was, David's roommate and his girlfriend were going, 'in solidarity with their singleton brethren.' "I mean, we're not leaving until like seven-thirty, and we'll probably just hang out in my room afterwards, which should give you some time. At least until 10. And they won't traumatize her; they aren't gonna drink or make a mess or anything. They're not that type." "Would you?" she said. "That would solve all my problems." "Sure," he said. "Really? It wouldn't be a bother?" "Not at all," said David. "She's a nice kid. And besides, I gotta help you have the most memorable night you can." He smiled. "Jeez, I totally owe you," Elle said. "Next time you need your roommate sexiled, I ... Well, what? I'll probably have to seduce him to even the debt." David burst out laughing. "Nellie!" "Well, he is pretty hot," Elle said. "Nellie," David laughed, "your boyfriend is gonna be here in three minutes to take you out on Valentine's Day. Can't you keep your thing in your pants for five minutes?" "Excuse me," she said. "You're the one with a thing in your pants." "Nellie, we both knew that you were the guy in our relationship." There was no arguing with that. The two of them left the closet partition and sat and talked with Nicole. Elle was reminded again of just how easily David had become 'one of the girls.' Most of the time, when men were in the room Nicole was shy—polite, and not withdrawn, but not animated or particularly engaged. It was only when the boys were gone that she really came out of her shell ... Well, any boy except David, at least. Two weeks ago, Elle and Nicole had noticed that their periods had become synchronized—a discovery that involved a lot of questions and some Internet research, since Nicole had no idea that this sort of thing actually happened. They'd discussed the intricacies and confusions of the female body—from synchronized cycles to heavy flow days—while David sat on Elle's bed, occasionally contributing his own perspective, without Nicole asking him to leave the room or, indeed, expressing discomfort at his presence. Was it just because she was used to him? Or was it something about David himself? Elle thought it was some of both. There was a knock on the door, and Tom appeared through the makeshift curtain Nicole had hung across the door to the closet compartment. "Hello? Tom Gilmore here, seeking one Elle Mayer." His eyes alighted on her, and lit up. "Ooh. My dear, you look lovely." She felt her cheeks flush. "Thanks." "Miss Smith, Mister Glass," said Tom. "Please excuse me for depriving you of Miss Elle's company, but I believe we have an appointment." This formal speech pattern was just something he would do for the first five minutes or so; they'd all gotten used to it by now. She slid off the bed, he offered her his arm, and with a wave to her friends, they were off. One of the advantages to dating someone who was native to the area was that they—and by 'they, ' of course she meant Tom—knew all the local hideouts and hangouts. When spending time with friends who were, like her, from other areas (or even other states, like Nicole), nobody could ever decide what to do or where to do it, because they just didn't know the geography. (David and his pals, for instance. Singles' Appreciation Day was all well and good, but, bowling?? Just about the only thing dinkier would've been an Easter Egg hunt.) But Tom knew every good restaurant—and every bad one—for miles around (or could find out, pretty quickly), and that advice was serving her well. She was even getting to be popular in David's circle—his roommate Paul, Paul's girlfriend Stacy; their friend Angus Rocklinson who preferred to be called Rock; Jessie Schaefer, Don Wilson, Karina Mandelskaya—because she had a lot more knowledge about the local hotspots. Tonight Tom was taking her to a celebrated Indian restaurant; she'd never been to one before, but one try couldn't hurt, could it? "So, Elle," said Tom as they drove. "A lot of the time I come by, I see David hanging around with you guys." Elle felt a jab of irritation. Did this have to come up? Again? "Oh?" she said. "I thought you two had broken up," Tom said. "We have. But ... We're still friends." "Oh?" "Yeah. I mean, you know. There was a lot we had together. We decided not to give up on it." She shrugged. In truth, his presence made such a difference in her life. She felt saner, more balanced. Even if everything was going wrong in her life, there was someone she could fall back on—someone who would be sane and stable, who would think clearly, who could help her make sense of her life. And she could contemplate spending time with Tom, being with Tom, even making love to Tom, without that overriding sense of panic. Because David was in her life now; she had her center back. She no longer had to hesitate, to hold back, to wonder what she would have to give up in order to bring everything back into balance—in order to, well, to have David in her life again. Because he was. And now she was free. Every now and then, she caught herself wondering if it was healthy to be this way—to need him so much that she couldn't function properly without him. Then she stopped wondering. Whether it is or not, it's who you are right now. And you have more important things to worry about. "Let me guess," she said. "You feel like he's a bit of a threat." "Well..." said Tom. "I'd have to be superhuman not to wonder. But if you say he isn't, then he isn't." He smiled. It wasn't what she had expected to hear. "Do you mean it?" "I mean it," he said. "I mean, we all have friends. And sometimes we have history with those friends. Some of those histories are just ... more extensive than others. As long as it doesn't cause problems, I don't see what the issue is." "Cause problems?" she said. "To you?" He gave a shrug. " ... To anybody. I mean, what about friends who aren't, actually? Who are just dragging you down?" She thought about Shelly Baumgarter and the manipulation she liked to use. "If there was something like that, you'd be concerned?" "Yeah." "I mean, even if it wasn't bothering you directly? If it wasn't your business?" "Shouldn't I be?" he asked, smiling. The kindness of his heart always amazed her. "I wish there were more people like you in the world." The Indian restaurant was, perhaps predictably, filled with Indians; more of them than she'd realized they there were out here. The food was spicy but flavorful, with an emphasis on sauces and creams. The naan bread was her favorite, especially when Tom said to order it with garlic; he showed her how to dip it in the leftover sauce from her chicken vindaloo. Even better, the restaurant offered a buffet option, so she could try anything. And did. Tom was a complete gentleman throughout, offering to seat her, getting her water, suggesting good food ideas. They had never lacked for anything to talk about; though they didn't share too many interests, he could make anything seem interesting, and could listen to almost anything. Today their conversation wandered the gamut, from Elle's most difficult class (Calculus) to her easiest (intro to Digital Photo Editing, a prerequisite for many of the more advanced and interesting things in the future) to politics and religion (particularly Nicole's, which were convoluted enough to provide endless talking potential even before being put into the context of college) to the general irrelevancies of university life. They had had many such conversations over the last five months, and Elle knew a lot about him now. Tom was an only child, whose father was a mid-level corporate manager; his mother had been the real breadwinner for a while, giving up her job only when Tom came along and when his dad started to get promoted. Tom had grown up lucky: no siblings to compete with, enough money to live comfortably, friends and family everywhere he looked. As a child he had loved soccer, which had only worked to his benefit as girls became more interesting to him. But as he matured, the exertion of sports (and the incompetence of his fellow players) began to lose its appeal. He had felt the need to begin to contribute something, to leave something behind. "I started to realize that soon nobody would remember me. It wasn't that good, I wasn't that talented, I wasn't that skilled. And I wanted to be remembered. It's ... you know. It's the wish of every human being: to leave something behind. To leave something lasting, and eternal, and permanent. It's why people do art, it's why people do architecture or sculpture, it's why people have babies. They want to be ... They want to still be there, after they themselves are gone." The shape his need had taken was paint. He had loved the malleability, the texture, of oil paints from an early age, and played around for fun; but it took until a high-school art class for him to remember just how much he loved it. He began to spend more time practicing, more time experimenting. "I don't claim to have any particular skill," he said. "I just got lucky. All the things they used to tell me about—texture, lighting, perspective—I just happened to understand naturally. So I can do this stuff without having to work on it or think about it; I can just do stuff that other people have to learn. That makes me talented; that makes me lucky. It doesn't make me good." "Well, doesn't it?" she had asked him. "No. 'Good' is a measure of skill. I might not have any skill. Just talent. And talent isn't something you earn or create, it's something you just get given. Or not. Something is only 'good' when you have to sweat over it." She had to disagree. She had seen some of his paintings, and they were good. He did not constrain himself by style; one piece might be in the spare calligraphic lines of Chinese art, the next photorealistic to the extreme, and a third iconic, with bold lines and minimal shading. His best work combined multiple techniques into an idiosyncratic mishmash of dreamy depiction; her favorite of his was a semi-nude woman whose clothes seemed to become either wings or clouds, perhaps both. The woman looked perfectly right, so realistic as to seem like a photo, but with dreamy, pearl-washed lighting that made the transition from mundane (the woman) to fantastic (the clouds/wings) not only believable, but inevitable. He said his favorite artists were Edgar Degas, Salvador Dali and Ian McConville. Tom said he didn't tell most people about his painting, because he wasn't yet sure how it would be received. "It's such a dying art form nowadays. I mean, they're doing all sorts of cool things on the computer, yeah ... But if you can do it on the computer, you can do it on canvas too. And I figure, why not stick to the old methods? That's how I challenge myself. I don't wanna give up just 'cuz it's easier to do it some other way. If it can be done, I wanna do it." Now he was a sophomore, a year older than her, and well on his way to proving that you didn't need a modern computer to make digital-quality art ... Just some paint, some canvas, and a whole lot of patience. It was impossible to overstate how easy he was to get along with. He didn't seem to have a single bit of malice in his body. David had been present at some of their more casual hang-outs before, and not once had Tom made any comment, but simply accepted the other man's presence as the natural state of things. He was consistently positive, preferring to look at the bright side of life; he was amenable, easy to compromise with, deeply empathetic. It was as opposite from Weston as she could imagine. Her whole life felt more comfortable with David in it, so he probably had something to do with how much she felt at ease in Tom's presence. But some of it was doubtlessly Tom himself too. And here she was, chatting with him, riding in his car, ready to sleep with him after only five months. Clearly, Weston could take lessons. And David too. Maybe constantly wheedling her about something was not the right way to go. True to David's word, Nicole was nowhere in sight when Elle and Tom got back. They passed the time with inconsequential banter—mostly observing just how much their clothes smelled like food now—but after a little while Tom began suggesting that perhaps he should leave. "Leave?" she said. "Why? What makes you say that?" "Well..." he said, clearly picking his words with some care. "You're here. And I'm here. And your roommate's not. And ... It's Valentine's Day. And, call me a pig, but ... My mind is going in certain directions." She leaned in to kiss him. "Why do you think my roommate's not here?" She let him take the lead again—let him reach for her, draw her into his arms, kiss her. She wanted to see where he would take this. There were certain things she could predict, of course: he'd play with her breasts, he'd wander down between her legs, eventually he would mount her. But she wanted to see how he did it. And she was surprised: he took his time. David had known exactly what to do with her, of course; knowledge borne of long experience and plenty of experimentation. He could bring her to orgasm more quickly than anyone else (herself included), knew how to play her like an instrument and delay her climax so that, when it came, it was earth-shattering. That was gone from her. Weston hadn't known any of these things; how could he? But, if the one time they'd done it was any indication, he probably wouldn't have bothered to learn. He saw what he wanted, and took it, and his only concession to her pleasure was to make sure she was aroused before he took the plunge. Weston would not have made a good lover. Tom was making a much better showing. He spent time exploring, experimenting, whispering—telling her how beautiful she was, asking her if she liked what he was doing. He didn't just go straight for her nipples; he spent his time kissing his way around her breasts, paying attention to her reactions. She wasn't surprised he found the really sensitive spot, off to the side around her ribcage. His eyes lit up when he saw her shiver. He began to divest her of her pants as they kissed, and once she was completely bare he kissed his way down her body—wandering, in no particular rush, going (evidently) wherever whimsy led him. He paid a lot of attention to her inner thighs. She didn't know whether he was going to go down on her or not; Weston's complaint, that she had a lot of hair down there, was a perfectly valid one, and it hadn't occurred to her to try to tame that mess before tonight. Would he— Was he brave enough to— He was. He laid gentle, delicate kisses all down the length of her slit, before beginning to lick his way up. His tongue felt smaller, less intense, than had David's, but she thought she liked his better—Tom had a delicate, teasing touch. Though, of course, she wasn't sure she quite wanted that now. Though all she could only see him from the nose up now, she could feel. His tongue began to tease its way around her mound—painting little flyspeck kisses on her outer lips, and the her inner lips, and then beginning to separate them. Its little wet point slid into the crevice between her inner and outer lips, stopping to pivot back and forth when he found that one secret place she loved—she saw his eyebrows bob before her eyes rolled back—and then continuing its journey. She felt it leaf through her petals, turning them one way and then the other, before finally descending on her flower itself, and especially the little bud at the top that now longed for attention. But again he surprised her. He began to kiss his way around her vulva again, and then took her inner lip between his own and sucked on it. It was not something that had ever particularly thrilled her, not now and not then, and he soon gave over; but she was glad that he had tried. His next trick was to slide his tongue inside her as far as it would go—which was not very far; one downside to his particular endowment. But he made it up by licking around the inside of her pussy—something completely new to her, since David had never done that (or, really, needed to). And when his lips finally closed around her clit, the relief was so intense it nearly sent her over. He began to suck on her clit, gently, and then with increasing intensity. His tongue went to work as well, gliding over its surface. Her fingers gripped the bedspread; her hips flexed, her body arching; she must be moaning, but she could not hear herself above the rushing of blood in her ears. She had just enough sapience to recognize a master at work—whoever had trained him, or whoever he had taught himself this worship with, had been a very lucky woman. Then, his lips still tight around her clit, he hummed, sending a vibrating signal straight to her core. Then she was gone. She felt her body clenching, felt her release pouring from her, heard her own voice crying out in ecstasy as pleasure rushed over her: her first orgasm from someone who wasn't her, in more than three years. Her chest was heaving, her body dewed with sweat. She forced her fingers to uncurl, her arms to unlock. As he climbed his way back up, she found movement again, and pulled him (blindly, for her eyes were not quite in focus yet) over to kiss him. "You..." she gasped between kisses. "Are ... Amazing." She could feel the curve of his smile when she kissed him. "Thank you, darling." "Has ... Anybody ... Told you that?" "Umm ... Well, I hate to sound like I'm bragging, but ... Yes, they have." The grin—now that she could see it—was positively smug. "Well," she said, for lack of any better response. Was it bragging to acknowledge a true talent? Was it humility to disavow it? "Well, one good turn deserves another, and, as soon as I have stopped being turned to jelly, I'm gonna do the same to you." "Take your time, my dear," he said with a smile, "we have all the time in the world." "Yeah," Elle grumbled, "at least until Nicole gets back at 10..." She turned her attention to the puzzle at hand. She had seen how Tom had to curl up at the foot of the bed, his feet practically hanging over onto her desk, to get at her pussy. Even worse, Tom was taller than her. And, even worse than that... "Why are you still in your clothes?" "Well," said Tom. "I've had more important things to think about." She gave him a roll of the eyes and began to unbutton his shirt. Soon he was bare from the waist up. He wasn't as well muscled as Weston, but nobody could accuse him of being out of shape. A small trail of hair ran up towards his navel from below the belt line; otherwise his torso was bare. One good turn deserved another, and she decided to take her time. Unfortunately, there was only so much to be played with on a male body—something she had bemoaned to David time and time again. Still, she made the most of it: speckling kisses down his ribs, across his collarbone, down the little hollow between his pectorals. But everything seemed to lead south—even that little trail of hair—and eventually she had his pants off and was seeing his cock for the first time. It was a lot thicker than she'd expected. Not quite as long, but definitely thicker. She wondered if she had the circumference to get her mouth all the way around it ... Okay, it wasn't that big. But it sure seemed... When she looked up, Tom was smirking again. "What?" she said. "I thought you said you got lucky—which is not something to be proud of." "True," he said, grinning. "But ... I did get lucky." "Shut up," she said, "or you won't get any luckier." She arched an eyebrow and returned his smirk. "Your wish is my command, Miss Mayer," said Tom, and crossed his arms behind his head and gave a sigh of relaxation. Elle rolled her eyes and got to work. It had been a while since she'd had one of these to play with, and she was scared for a moment that she'd forgotten what to do with it. But even as she put her lips around his head for the first time, it started coming back to her. The ridge on the back of his head; the frenulum underneath; the soft, sliding texture of the skin; the warmth and meatiness under her hand. This had all been natural to her once; and evidently it was again. And it was her chance to show him that he wasn't the only expert in the room. He had a lot more stamina than David had; that much was certain. And many of the tricks she'd tried on him, Tom didn't seem to enjoy; which was not to say that he didn't appreciate her mouth on his cock, her hands, her tongue, simply that they didn't make him jump the way they had David. Every person was different, after all. But she didn't have to find too many tricks; she didn't have that much time, in the end, before his breath was coming heavy and his balls were tight up underneath and she could tell his climax was near. She fastened her lips around his head and began bobbing up and down in shallow strokes; according to what she and David had found on the Internet, most of a man's nerve endings were there in the glans, and her experimentation with David certainly supported the theory. As did Tom now. "Oh my. Oh my. Elle, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum— Ahh!" And as she felt the hammer trip off inside him, she put her tongue to that little tiny ridge on the bottom of his head and began to rub it back and forth, the way she always had on David to give him the strongest orgasm possible. And then semen gushed over her tongue, salty and a little bitter, as his body hitched and flexed below her and his hands tightened against the back of her neck and his pleasure rushed out into her mouth, where she caught it all and swallowed it down. Now it was her turn to crawl her way up, and his to look dazed at her return. "Oh my God," he said. "My God. Danielle Mayer, you are ... You are incredible." She smiled and twined a lock of his hair around her finger. "You never call me Danielle." "Well, I know you as 'Elle'." He shrugged. "It's just ... What's natural to me now. And besides, I did call you Danielle just now." "That's true," she said. "What's the big deal?" he said. "It's just a name, isn't it? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and all that. No matter what you call it, it's still a rose. There's things you can't change about it—what it smells like, what it feels like, what it looks like." That last was extra important to him, she knew, because of his art background. But she wasn't sure she agreed. "I dunno, though. A name isn't just a name. It changes how people treat you. It changes how you treat yourself." "Oh really?" he said with an arch smile. "How so?" "Well, what about you?" she said. "Isn't Thomas different than Tom? And aren't they both different than Tommy? That's a little kid's name. Thomas is very formal, you could never use it." "I could," he said. "I do. I'm formal sometimes, in case you didn't notice." "Well, you probably got laughed at when you used it in grade school," she said. "I mean, 'Thomas'? On a six-year-old? "Yes, but, that's all in your mind," he said. "That's all in the eye of the beholder. Or the mind of the beholder, as the case may be." "And a rose isn't? What if you're allergic to roses? What if you just don't like how they smell?" "Then you're insane," he said primly, "because a rose is not subjective. It is concrete, unchangeable truth." "That roses exist." "And that they smell good." She laughed. "You are so full of shit!" "And people are concrete, unchangeable truth too. No matter what you call me, I'm still me." "And it's the truth that people smell good? 'cuz I've smelled some pretty nasty ones." "Well, a person isn't a rose, is it?" Tom said. Elle laughed again. "This is getting in too deep for little ol' me. I'd better stick to the things I know." She gave him a kiss ... And then another one, this one deeper, full of promise. "And there are things I know. About getting in deep. Or, about getting deep in me." He made a face. "Okay, you only get credit for that segue because it was about sex." She gave him a mock glare. "Shut up and fuck me, mister." They kissed, letting their passion mount, their hands running across each other's bodies. His mouth dipped to her nipple again, and she cradled his head against her breast, moaning at the deep tingles inside her. Then, on a whim, she tried the same to his nipples, and was pleasantly surprised at how much he seemed to enjoy it. His hand was insistent beneath her, her clit nestled perfectly between his fingers, the heel of his hand pressing against her mound. Blindly, not looking away from him, she reached up to her nightstand and found one of the condoms she'd secreted there. In a moment he was clad and ready for action. Pushing her over on her back, he mounted her, positioned himself, and then slid home. The condom made everything feel a little sticky and rubbery, as usual, and it wasn't the same depth she had experienced before with her other lovers. But he was as wide around as three of her fingers, and the pressure against her inner walls made a huge difference. She felt split open, more filled than she ever had before. And she wasn't the only one: Tom gave a noise as he hit bottom. "Ohh, darling ... Has anyone told you how tight you are?" "Well... 's 'cuz you're so big," she gasped. A flash of that grin. "Toldja." "But not ... Not that many things been in there. 's only my third time." "Coulda fooled me, with that performance earlier," he grunted. Still seated in her, he crept up her body a little, and she gasped when his shaft came into more direct contact with her clit. "There we go," he said, and began to move. It was heavenly. The memories of her time with David were starting to fade, and her one moment with Weston had been irrevocably tarnished; there had been nothing to remind her of just how good it was to be here. Her whole world was her lover: his chest above his, his hips pressing down on her, the muscles in his arms, his buttocks squeezing; the crunch of pubic hair, the smell of his sweat, the magnificence of his cock moving within her. She kissed and nibbled at his face, his neck, his ear; she drew her legs up to open herself deeper to him, pasted her arms around his shoulders, and let him plow her. She didn't come, which didn't surprise her; she knew enough about sex to know that she probably wasn't going to. Besides, it made it easier to enjoy it when he came, grunting, stiffening above her, plowing into her one last time before the condom filled with his seed. Once again she cursed it; she promised herself that she was going to get on the Pill as soon as possible. She wanted this. She wanted more. Unfortunately, there wasn't too much time to cuddle and canoodle afterwards, much less to do it again; it was nearly time for Nicole to arrive. And, in fact, she got back a few minutes early, when they had barely got themselves presentable again. Elle went out in the hall to give him a lavish kiss good-bye; and then he was gone again and the magic night was over. She didn't hear from him again until Monday night. It was the longest two days of her life. "Why isn't he calling??" she grunted, burying a fist in her other palm. She had been pacing back and forth for fifteen minutes at this point. "What the hell is he doing?" "Maybe he's busy," David said in pacifying tones. "Still? It's Sunday afternoon! What on earth could he be doing that would keep him from calling the girl he just fucked??" "Oh," said Paul, "is that why Nicole came with us on Friday?" She was in David's room; there was, of course, no way she could've had this conversation in front of Nicole. Paul was tall but fairly heavy, with brassy hair, a ruddy complexion, and a little bit of a husky voice. His girlfriend Stacy balanced on his knees. "It was their first time," David said, "they wanted some privacy." "Okay, if it was just any old time, I could see him not calling," Stacy said; she was also a little heavy, but evidently Paul didn't mind, and it certainly helped keep her figure generous. She had stringy blonde hair and a little of the Valley Girl patterns in her speech. "But, if it was your first? He's gotta call back, or you oughta put him in the dog house." "It's not her first ever," said David, meeting Elle's eyes for a moment. "And trust me, it wasn't his," Elle said. "But it was the first time we were together." "He could be busy," said Paul again. "Dating isn't all we do at college, you know." "So busy he couldn't spare three minutes to phone in," Elle snarled. "You could call him," David said. "Yeah right. It's not the girl's job to call," Elle said. "And since when have you ever been concerned with what a girl is supposed to do or not do," David said, meeting her eyes again. "Maybe he knew you were gonna treat him like this and he didn't wanna deal with that," said Paul, which was so stupid that it actually almost made sense. "What's the big deal anyhow?" said Stacy. "So he hasn't called you after doing you. Has he given any indication that he was gonna break it off or that you were, like, bad in bed or something?" She sounded like a ditz, but clearly she didn't think like one. "Has he given you any reason to worry? Most guys don't break it off after the first time." "No, but she does," David said. She swatted him as she stalked past. "What?" said Paul. "Why? Are they that bad?" "Well, for us, we had—" "Wait, wait," said Paul, "you guys dated?" Elle and David looked at each other. "We've known each other most of our lives," David said. "And, yeah, we dated," Elle said. "But now we're just friends." "And ... You guys did it?" said Paul. Stacy rolled her eyes. "Wow. That's kind of a rude thing to ask." Elle raised her eyebrows in a question. David shrugged. So she said, "Yeah. We did. We were each other's firsts." "And then you dumped him?" said Stacy. "Not five minutes later," said David with a rueful smile. "We had a fight," Elle said. "Must've been a bad one," said Paul. David showed every indication of launching into a recounting of said fight, so Elle intercepted him. "And then right after I slept with the boyfriend I was with after David, we broke it off." David laughed. "Don't try to put a spin on it, Nellie—you dumped him flat on his ass." "Why?" said Stacy. "'Cuz he was a jerk," said Elle indignantly. "And ... You only found that out by sleeping with him?" Stacy said. "No, it ... It just made everything a lot more clear." "Oh?" "Yeah, it was ... I mean, you know? He just climbed on and went to town. And then afterwards it was all like, 'Hey, why didn't you do things the way my ex-girlfriend, whom I'm still not over, used to do them?' Ugh. I'm not gonna put up with that shit if I don't have to." "Fair enough," said Paul. "But now ... You're scared that ... What, there's, like, a curse or something?" Elle felt her lip twitch. "Well ... Yeah. I mean, every other time I've done it with someone ... That's been the end of things." "And you're scared that's gonna happen again," Stacy said. "And I don't want it to. For the first time, I'm doing it with someone I wanna do it with again." She said this without thinking much about it; it was only later that it occurred to her that it might hurt David to hear it. (It was only later that she remembered, for that matter, that it hadn't been true; she had wanted to do it with David long, long before she actually did.) "And so ... Because you want to stay together with him ... You're not calling him ... And griping that he isn't calling you," Stacy said. Put that way, it sounded stupid. "Shut up." David gave a laugh. "Elle, I think it's time for you to go home. You've probably got homework to do too, and some of us have midterms tomorrow. I mean, weren't you saying you have a midterm tomorrow?" "All right, fine, fine, I get it," said Elle. "It's not that we aren't sympathetic," said Stacy. "It's just that ... Well, life goes on." "Yeah," said Elle, a little grumbly. "Yeah." So she went home and did her homework and studied, and even managed to focus a little, and thought she didn't do too badly on her midterm—worse than she would've if she didn't have a delinquent boyfriend ignoring her and driving her to distraction, of course, but not too badly nonetheless. But it was hard to focus, and every sound that could be her cellphone made her jump. Finally her phone rang as she was emerging from her last class. She grabbed it up and felt her heart jump into her throat when the readout displayed the words Tom Gilmore. "Hello?" "Hi." "Tom, where have you been? I've been waiting for you to call all weekend!" "What?" She ducked into a side hall to scold him in more explicit detail. "You fucked me on Friday, and you thought it was okay to just go the whole time without calling me?" "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't think of it that way. Besides, I was painting. I was inspired." She poured scorn into her voice. "What, my throes of ecstasy gave you all sorts of ideas and you painted a portrait of me?" "Actually, yes." She wasn't sure which one took her aback: that he said it, or that he said it with a straight face. "And then after that I had a midterm to study for." "What, all Sunday?" "No, only half of Sunday. I didn't eat or sleep much until the painting was done." That took her aback too. "Anyway, I'm here now, and I wanted to know if you'd like to come see my work." "Fine. Whatever. Tell me where your car is and I'll meet you there." She tried to keep her irritation going, but it was hard to do so when the whole reason had imploded. She'd been convinced that Tom was just going to drop her now that he'd gotten his kicks; the fact that he was here, now, greeting her with a kiss and opening the car door for her, suggested otherwise. Evidently, there was nothing for her to have worried about. Still, she couldn't help sniping at him: "I hope it's a good painting, at least." He gave her a smile. "I think it may be the best I've ever done." Once she saw it, she had to agree. She'd been wondering what she'd see; something vulgar, perhaps, or even pornographic? But no, it was a painting of her—nude, yes, but from behind in three-quarters profile, with a modesty bedsheet to cover everything that needed covering. She had a radiant smile on her face, and the wind made curls and ribbons of her hair and the trailing ends of the sheet. It was a completely modest portrait ... And yet there was a hint here and there—in the expression, in the hooded eyes, in the slightly hip-shot pose—of seduction, that all modesty might go out the window at any moment. And the wind seemed to be tugging the sheet away. "Wow," she said. "Do I ... Do I look like that?" "Painting is about truth," he said. "Objective, real truth. It's about capturing what is. So, yes; you do look like that." She looked up over her shoulder at him. He stood with an expression of intensity on his face, as though straining towards some explanation he could not grasp. There was longing on that face. For truth? Or for her? She might never know. But when she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, he responded quick enough. She had never been in his bedroom before; by agreement, it was the one place they simply didn't go, to placate his parents. Today it was greyish with indirect, overcast light, a misty light that made all things cold. The walls were raw wood siding, weathered and splintery with age, and the floor was much the same, though much smoother and covered with rugs. It was quite a large room, possibly the entire attic structure; some of the windows were diagonal, set into the roof itself. The bed had dizzying geometric designs stitched into it, where it wasn't rumpled from use. She intended to put some more rumples in it now. Soon they were naked, and she kissed her way down his body, finding his staff alert and ready. Though she showered it with kisses, she had barely had a moment to really get going when he tapped her on the shoulder. When she looked up, there was a condom floating in front of her. She understood and had him clad in moments; then she moved back up, straddled him, and sank herself down onto him with a moan of pleasure. They rocked together, body against body; his hands molded her breasts, supporting her, while hers plied the planes of his abdomen. She felt his hips against her inner thighs, and the new places within her that he touched in this position; she felt fuller, yes, but deeper as well than she had last time. Or maybe that was just the position. She let her head fall back and her mouth hang open; she felt his hands reaching further and leaned forward to let him cup her jaw, caress her cheek, stroke her neck. Then his fingers slid down her arms and, understanding, she took his hands, steadying herself on them as she pumped up and down. And always was the feeling of his cock inside her, buried in her, the latex-clad head sliding up and down her inner walls, caressing her from within, opening her lips, filling her need. When she felt his orgasm rising, she whispered, "Look at me. Don't look away." And as his eyebrows went up and his mouth fell open around his steady eyes, she felt the pouring sensation into the condom and his body shudder under her, and knew her own power. And when at last he fell limp under her, she leaned down to kiss him. "Not..." he gasped. "Not. Not bad for your, umm. Fourth time ever." "And don't forget," she whispered. "My first time with the same partner." "Are you serious?" he said. "Three times, three partners?" " ... And a breakup right afterwards," she said, embarrassed now about her insecurities. "Which is why..." His arms fell over her, pulling her near. "Well then, next time," he murmured. "I'll call immediately. And tell you what I'm painting this time. And you can come over, and we can have round two right there." "Fine by me," she said, kissing the stubble on his cheek. "Fine by me." Prev Home Next... ------- Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd): Your name: Please enter some comments so I can write you back: All content copyright CWatson, 2003-2009 (unless otherwise specified). All rights reserved. ------- Chapter 9 Elle wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. She said as much out loud. Nicole's face was bright red. "Please don't make me say it again." "Okay, okay, but ... It just wasn't what I expected to hear," said Danielle. "You want me to tell you ... What sex is like?" "Does that really surprise you?" Nicole said. "You're the one who said that it's totally natural for people to be curious about it. You were the one who said you were worried that I didn't seem to have any curiosity about it." "I was drunk at the time," Elle grumbled, "I probably shouldn't've said that." "Well," said Nicole. "I am curious. It's not like I don't know what you and Tom are doing. I've seen how ... how happy you are afterwards." She colored a little. "I've heard the noises you make." "Yeah, but ... You've never ... Shown any interest in it before," said Elle. "I mean, Tom and I have been going out for more than a year, and you haven't said anything. I just ... I didn't see it coming. I mean ... What about your parents?" "Elle, I don't tell my parents anything," Nicole said, in a slightly less patient voice than before. "If they knew I knew half of what I know ... I mean, I'm not even sure why they let me come here. I can't even get my ears pierced yet, because they'd have a fit." "Wow," said Elle. "Summer must have been excruciating." She had been going out with Tom for 15 months now. She and Nicole were sophomores, now living in the Logan dorms five doors down from David. The crowd here was a little more raucous than they were used to, but most of their classes were on this end of campus; and Nicole didn't seem too discomforted by the increased commotion, or the higher likelihood of some drunken sot knocking on their door at three in the morning. Indeed, she said it added spice to her life. Tom had come to visit, once, over the summer; she had taken him to meet Liz (now, sadly, single) and Amy, but most of their time had been spent screwing each other's brains out at any moment they could. Sex with Tom was almost addictive, and going without had been a lot harder than she had expected. Liz had changed over the year; she was thinking about transferring to another school to be away from Martin, who had taken one look at the college scene and decided he didn't want to be tied down anymore. Last anyone had heard, he was sleeping his way through one girl a week (or more). Liz was taking it hard; there was a gauntness to her now, a pain that reminded Elle of the look she had always seen in Katrina Stanton's eyes. She had given Liz the Stantons' business card, but didn't know if her friend had looked them up. To Amy and Liz, the most surprising news was seeing her being friends with David again. She had told them over the phone, of course, of their unlikely meeting, but they didn't really believe it until they saw it—and Elle supposed she oughtn't blame them. After all, neither of them had been friends with her while she was still with David; they hadn't had a chance to see how the two of them fit together. And it wasn't long before they'd seen their friendship in action, and understood. "God, and I thought I was close with Martin," Liz said. "I mean, we were together for more than four years. But, next to you guys..." And Amy said, "It's not even like you're separate people anymore. He says something and you just immediately know what he means. I wouldn't want to give that up, if I didn't have to ... And if I had it." She was single as well, though more by her own choice than anything else; men were asking her out, and she was going on dates, but she hadn't found anyone who suited her yet. Elle was concerned for her friends, and did what she could for them while the summer lasted; but she was looking forward to school resuming. Not only was Tom there, but Nicole was too. And it was Nicole she felt the real kinship with now; it was Nicole with whom she shared her real secrets. She'd helped her pad her bra, make the wrong boys leave her alone, deal with annoying classmates or (even worse) group-project slackers; and in return, she'd gotten to see something remarkable: a woman in transformation. The process was slow, but the butterfly was emerging from its cocoon, spreading its wings. Gone were the days when her roommate's naiveté had annoyed her; in fact, she was starting to appreciate Nicole's more innocent viewpoint, and call upon it at times. Nicole had a knack for seeing the best in people; Elle, a practiced cynic, liked the balance it provided, and would hate to see it damaged. For instance, by plucking fruit from the tree of temptation. "Okay, I get that you're curious about sex," said Elle, "but ... You're not dating anybody right now. What would be the point?" "Do I have to be?" said Nicole. "Well, no," said Elle. "People do casual sex sometimes. But does that sound like something you want to do?" "What, you mean, sex just because you feel like it?" said Nicole. "Without ... Without the person meaning anything to you, in particular?" Elle nodded. Nicole shook her head. "No, that's not for me. I'm sure those other people enjoy it, but it's not what I want." "So why ... Why be curious?" said Elle. "I mean, I can tell you stuff, but ... I'm not sure it'll help. You know?" "I know, but..." said Nicole, twisting her hands. "I just ... I mean, I asked my parents about it, or tried to. Tried to, you know, work around to it. And ... They just didn't tell me anything useful." She gave a little laugh. "Not that I could really say anything directly, of course. I had to be very ... Vague. They might have thought I was talking about something else entirely. And I'm tired of being confused. I want to understand. My parents say, Don't do it, my friends say, Do it, the church says, Don't do it, the media says, Do it, and I don't even know what 'it' is right now." "Okay, well..." said Elle, feeling a bit uncomfortable. But she knew she could explain the birds and the bees, if it came down to it. (Which it wouldn't. She knew Nicole knew that much, at least.) "What is it you want to know?" "Why do you do it?" Nicole said. Elle tilted her head. "Umm." Were there any questions that were broader? Besides, like, 'Why are we here' and 'Where are we going.' "Give me a minute, that's a big question." "I don't mean, like, to have babies or whatever," said Nicole. "I know that happens. Or doesn't, if you're using contraceptives. I know why it's useful. I mean ... Why do people choose to do it? Or not, if they're like me." No, I think you're less likely to not choose it than you think. Elle gave a little frown of concentration. "Well ... I dunno. The first answer is that it feels good." "How does it feel?" Nicole said. "Well, I can't ... I can't answer that." "Why not? You've done it. You should know what it feels like." "Yes, but it's hard to describe," Elle said, "and also I think it might be different for each person." "Oh." "If you really do want to find out, what you should do is masturbate," said Elle. "Masturbate," said Nicole. "You mean ... Touch myself." "Yeah," said Elle. "Yeah," said Nicole, looking away, "that's what ... Well. Someone suggested that." "Oh?" said Elle, curious. "Who?" Who else had Nicole talked to about this? Nicole looked a little guilty. "Umm..." "You can tell me," said Elle, smiling. "Umm ... David," Nicole said. "Oh," said Elle. Well, of course. Who else would she trust? Heck, I wish he were here—it'd be easier on all of us. "Well, you can trust him, I think," she said. "He gives good advice. And I doubt he'll go blabbing about it to anyone else." "Yeah," said Nicole. "Does ... Does it feel good?" "Does what feel good?" "When you ... Touch yourself." "Well ... Yeah, once you learn how, at least." "You have to learn how? I ... I thought it just came naturally. I thought that when a man and wife..." "Oh, well..." Elle thought about it. "I mean, yeah, to a certain extent. I mean, a lot of it is instinctual. The first time you're with someone ... I mean, he'll get hard, and you'll get wet. If you explore enough." "That's what my pastor said," Nicole said eagerly. "That a husband and wife should feel free to explore each other's bodies, and bless each other with their nakedness." "Umm," said Elle. "Riiiiight. Well, yeah, that's part of it." It was certainly true enough, though that was just about the lamest description of it she'd ever heard. "But there's more to it than that, and you aren't going to figure it out just by fumbling. Or by intercourse either, for that matter." "Why?" said Nicole. "Is it something to do with having a baby?" Well... "Only kind of. Do you know what an orgasm is?" Nicole just blinked. "Okay, I see that you don't. Well. Orgasm is the ... God, how do I describe this. It's the physical goal of sex. It's what sex leads to from a physical standpoint." "I thought that was pregnancy." "Umm, ye-esssss, that's right, I ... Ugh, I wish David were here, he'd know how to explain it. Okay. An orgasm is a physical sensation that is caused by sex. If sex feels good, orgasm feels even better. In men, it causes ejaculation." "You have to cause that? I thought it just ... Happened." "Well, kind of, yes," Elle said, "because men find it a lot easier to have an orgasm than women do. But it's still a discrete event. A woman can have sex without having an orgasm ... And, for that matter, a man can too. It's just ... Not as likely." "Because it's easier for them." "Yeah." "Why?" "God, I dunno. Umm. That's just how it turned out. It's known that women need more stimulation before they come." "'Come'?" "Have an orgasm. But part of it is also ... Well, look. Men are socialized to have sex, right? It's just part of the training they receive from society. Men are supposed to have sex." "Yeah." "And women aren't." "Yeah." "So, you've got a girl and a boy. Both of them decide to ... investigate. To explore." "To touch themselves." "Yeah. And, in doing so, to learn how to achieve orgasm. Well, when the boy's parents find out, they don't say anything." "Whereas the girl, for whom it's harder, is discouraged from..." "Yeah." "Because that's not how girls are supposed to be." "Yeah." "That's ... Kind of backwards." "So, you can do your part in reversing it," Elle said. "Yeah, but..." Nicole made an uncomfortable gesture. "I've been discouraged from it. I was always told it's dirty." "And there you go," Elle said. "The point is, if you want to find out about the physical side of sex, there are things you can do that don't involve, you know, actually having it." "The physical side," Nicole said. She looked up. "There are other sides to it?" Elle rubbed her face with her hands. Why couldn't she learn to leave well enough alone? "Well ... Yes." Nicole didn't even say anything; she just raised her eyebrows. "Well ... There's an emotional side too," said Elle. "It's ... Well. It's hard to explain to someone who's never been in love." "I ... I love my parents," said Nicole. "Thaaaat's a totally different thing," said Elle, squirming. God, that's horrific. "You're not in love with your parents. It's not the same. There's ... Ugh. When you're having sex, it's about ... Really caring for this person, and wanting to share things with them, and ... It's about intimacy." "Intimacy," Nicole said. "Yeah, intimacy," said Elle, knowing she could never explain. She knew, of course; the thrill of having Tom in her, of kissing him, of seeing his face and hearing his moans, of caressing him with her pussy, of knowing that she—she, Danielle Mayer, her body—was bringing him to such heights of pleasure. On top of the thrill of being completely naked with him, of being totally vulnerable to him; on top of the pleasure of his cock drilling into her, his groin against her clit, her nipples tingling and wet in the cold air. But why did she enjoy that? Why did she want to bring him pleasure? Because she loved him, of course; but did Nicole, who had never been on a date in her life, have the emotional context to understand that? "It's ... It's something you do with not too many people ... And something that, probably, your partner hasn't done with too many people either. You're sharing something very private. You get to ... You get to see and know things about them that almost no one else on earth will ever, ever see." Nicole was silent. "Nicky, is ... Is someone ... Trying to push you into something?" Elle was the only person who ever called her that; in some ways, she too was seeing something almost no one would ever see. "Is ... I mean, there are all sorts of good reasons to have sex. But if you, you know, touch yourself, you'll soon realize that the, the physical side, the orgasm ... You don't need another person for that. And the emotional side ... Well, that's only special if you make it special. If you just give that away ... So don't give that away, is what I'm saying. Whoever's asking you to do it with them, don't, unless you're really really sure. Sure that you want to, and that you won't regret it." Nicole looked up. "Would you ... Would you think less of me if ... If someone was? And I said yes?" Elle gave her a hug. "I wouldn't think less of you for anything, honey. I'm your friend. I want you to be happy—however you define that." "Just a friend?" Nicole said. "Oh, Danielle. I wouldn't ask these things of just a friend. I wouldn't ask this of anyone but a sister." And she gave her a smile and a kiss on the cheek. It was flattering, and the memory of the bestowal stayed with Elle long after the moment itself had passed. But so did Nicole's questions, which seemed so obvious on the surface but were actually more complex than that. And so, bathed in May sunlight, her slit still wet with his spend and hers, she turned to Tom and said, "So, how what sex feel like?" Tom blinked. "What?" She decided not to sit up, and just turned her head. His seed still pooled inside her, and it was a feeling she loved; it was warm and heavy in her, like molten silver. Sometimes, if she hadn't come yet, just the feeling of it inside her would push her over the edge. But when she sat up it would slide out; so she liked to spend their post-coital cuddling on her back, her hips tilted up, keeping his precious cum deep inside her for as long as possible. Getting on The Pill had been the smartest decision in her life. Tom's mother had gone back into the workforce one he went to college, so the house was often empty in the afternoons, and they had taken to coming here for their trysts. She loved this attic room—loved everything it said about him, from the raw wood to the half-rusted nails overhead to the structural trusses holding up the roof. Every surface had a poster or a painting on it; every splash of color said something about him. And here they could be naked in the warm sun. She'd never known she had a nudist streak until that day in the field with David, but now she knew just how much she loved to feel sunlight on her skin, to feel herself bathed in molten gold, to be free and uninhibited in the eyes of nature. If Tom could come visit this summer, she'd have to take him to the field. And here, at his house, in their privacy, there was a lot more time for post-coital cuddling than there would be in her room, where Nicole might walk in at any time. Maybe I should talk to Nicole about renting an apartment off-campus next year. It'd make life a lot easier. It was comfortable to be here, in Tom's arms, his shoulder pillowing her. I could see myself with this man for the rest of my life, she realized, not for the first time. I could see myself here—in these arms, under this sunlight; with these lips on mine, giving myself to these hips, these legs, this heart—for the rest of my life. "It just occurred to me to wonder," she said, hedging her bets a little; she wasn't going to tell him whose conversation had sparked the curiosity. "I mean, what does it feel like? What do we compare it to? What does it feel like?" "Well ... It feels good, doesn't it?" he said. "Yeah, but, that goes without saying." "And it's fun." "That's also obvious. Well, okay, let me put it this way: what's your favorite part of sex?" He rolled onto his side to look at her. "I have to pick just one part?" She gave him a grin. "Hmm. Okay, umm ... My favorite part would be ... Besides all of it, of course. My favorite part is ... Making you come. I can feel you getting all tense—your legs come up, and your back arches, and you always push me into your pussy with your hands." He grinned. "And then it happens, and you cry out, and I can feel you squeezing on my fingers, and you just ... Go limp. I wish I could do it with my hands, because then I could see your face." He gave her a gentle kiss. "I would love to see your face when you come." She twined her arms around him and kissed him. "I love you so much, you know." "I know. I love you too." Then he pulled back to grin. "So, what's yours?" ... What, I have to pick just one?? "Well ... Umm. I think..." She laughed. "I mean. There's a lot." "You're telling me," he said with a wry smile. "But ... I think it's ... When you first push into me." "Oh?" "Yeah. I ... I mean, it's different after I've come. I feel really relaxed, and, umm. Kinda loose. Down there. There isn't the, umm. Pressure." He nodded. "I mean, when I haven't come, then it feels all ... Tight, down there, and, like. Red. And ... It feels like there's a hole." "Well, I sure hope there's a hole," he quipped. She swatted him. "I mean, it's like there's ... It's like there's something missing. And when you slide it in, and, I feel your cock pushing me open..." He nodded. "It's never quite the same as the first time. You're always ... Not as tight." "Yeah, and it's good to be filled, but ... The ache, when it's first filled, it's..." She shook her head. "I love the way your pussy just ... strokes me all around," he said. "And it's so warm." "Is that different?" "Well, from my hand, yeah," he said. "It's not as wide as my penis is long, you know. I can't grasp all the way down my own length with my hand. And there isn't that much body temperature difference. And it isn't ... I mean, you know what a pussy feels like." She smiled. "Why, because I have one? Enlighten me." He blinked. "How do I get myself into these things. Well ... When you're just jacking off, I mean, you've got your hand, right? It's not long enough to simulate full penetration, and the temperature isn't different, like I said. And the texture is different too. And it isn't as ... When we're doing it, sometimes you squeeze down. Like, all over me, every inch. I mean, it's soft, but it's muscular at the same time. It's really different from my hand, which is, you know, bumpy with fingers and stuff. And it feels really different. It feels a lot better." She winked. "Glad you enjoy it." "Why, how does it feel to you?" Elle squeezed her eyes closed. "Oh, Christ, uhh ... God. I dunno." He laughed. "I figured it out. I'm sure you can too." "Well, the ... It's different, like you said. I mean, if I'm just ... Attending to my own needs ... Then I have my hand down there, and I'm wiggling it around and stuff, and ... I don't penetrate, normally. It's just not what I do. So having you inside me ... Especially when you're fucking me. I feel my whole body moving, and, my breasts, and pour thrusts making my legs jiggle, and ... It's like you own me. It's vulnerability, in a big way, and that really ... I mean, I like being on top too. But it's a different experience. And when you're inside me you're so big, and I can feel everything." She grinned. "And then I make you come. I love making you come." He smiled. "With your mouth or with your pussy?" "I dunno. Which do you like more?" "Which do I like doing?" he said. "Or having done to me?" She grinned. "Both?" "Well ... They're different. But they're both good. I think, if it's me making you come, I like ... Using my cock better." "That's 'cuz you're in my pussy when you do it that way," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. "And it feels good to you too." "It does, but actually that's kind of a distraction," he said. "I like ... I told you, I like being able to watch. I like being able to, what, to really experience your orgasm. And when we're doing it, I get to watch your face, and feel your whole body. But if I'm going down on you, then it's just, like, my mouth and my chin, and your pussy, and nothing else is involved. It's not the same." "That's true. What about when I make you come?" She gave him a wicked grin. "Where do you like shooting into more, my pussy or my mouth?" "Umm ... Your mouth, I think," he said. "Oh?" she said. "I would've guessed the other." "Well, it's for different reasons," he said. "When you're going down on me, it's ... It's one way. We're both focusing on my orgasm, and ... I mean, you know? We both have more time to concentrate on making me feel good, so it's a ... It's a stronger sensation." That much was true; she could fine-tune his experience when she was sucking him off, which was not something she could do with her pussy. For all his talk about softness, it was much more of a blunt instrument. "Good point." "Now your turn," he said, shifting position; as he did, his hand casually fell across her mound. She was wet down there, still—and, she realized, again, for all this talk was doing things to her body. "Tell me," he said, as his hand began to massage, "how do you like to come, and how do you like me cumming?" "Hmm," she said. He seemed actually interested in her answers; his hand was just fooling around a little, touching here and there. "I think ... When I come, I like something in me. It just ... Feels better when there's something to squeeze down on. And when you come, I ... I like it when you're inside me too. I love riding you, and ... And being able to move you around inside of me, and get you right in the perfect places for everything. And ... You have no idea how much I like feeling your cum inside me." She gave a shudder. "It really, really..." "No, actually, I had noticed a bit," he said, smiling. "And I think," she said, reaching for his cock and unsurprised to find it at half mast, "that all this talk has given me a lot of good ideas as to what I want to do to you before your mother comes home." And that was the end of conversation for a while. Of course, sex, or talking about it, wasn't all she did. At the end of her sophomore year, Elle had to declare a major; no matter how unprepared she felt about it, she needed to choose a direction and follow it. "It's kind of scary," she told Nicole. " ... Actually, I'm not sure which is scarier: having to choose a direction, or not being sure what to choose." "I can imagine," said Nicole. She was one of the lucky ones: she'd been an education major from her first day. David had decided he loved architecture and was pursuing it, but he quoted to her a helpful statistic: "I've heard that the number of people who go into jobs that are actually related to their bachelor's degree is something like 2%. These days, it's okay to have a degree that isn't really practical; they don't care what your degree is in, only that you have it. Now, a master's, on the other hand..." "Oh God," said Elle. "Let's not think about that for two years at least." She was also meeting new people every quarter. Some of them were just people she added to Facebook and didn't think much of; others started being part of her life. One was a girl she met in her general-requirements English course. She was loud and outspoken, and didn't give a fig about the teacher's agenda, which she claimed was evident from the reading list. "I don't know what you're trying to peddle here. The Taming of the Shrew? The Crucible? The Scarlet Letter? The Father by Strindberg?? And this college is 65% women by attendance rate. Who the hell hired you? I'm gonna have a talk with the head of the department about this." Elle, watching this girl, couldn't help but remember Weston and his opinion that she (Elle) herself was a bitch. Good thing he never met this gal. For her part, she immediately spoke up and said, "So, are you gonna drop this class then?" The girl grumped. "Wish I could. But all the other ones were full by the time I got to register. Still." Her eyes took on a wolfish gleam. "Might be fun." Elle chased this girl down after class let out. "Wow, umm. You must have balls of steel." The girl turned to her, folding her arms across her ample bosom. "Balls? Do I look like I have balls to you?" "You sure acted like it in there," Elle said. The girl gave her a moment's cold-eyed consideration before turning away. Her reply echoed up over her shoulder. "Kid, go back home and play with your clothes. I don't belong in your Barbie-Doll clique. I'm the kind of girl your mother warned you about." Elle felt anger buck under her. "You know, I was trying to compliment you. And I doubt you get so many of those that you can just turn one down." The girl looked back, this time with a little hint of respect in her eyes. "Oh, so you do have a backbone." "Just because I don't sass teachers doesn't mean I'm a wimp," said Elle. "Fair enough," said the girl. "But you're still gonna get odd looks consorting with me. Look at me. I'm an obese monster in goth clothing, and you're a runaway runway model." "Wrong," said Elle, "and wrong. You may be overweight, but if you're an ounce above size sixteen, I'm a pecan. And size sixteen's the national average. It's people like me who are the freaks." "You probably still get more dates than me, though," the girl said. "Not really, I've been in a relationship for years," said Elle. "Oh," said the girl. "And you're a... pecan?" Elle felt her face coloring. "Umm. Well, as you can see, my being so slim has also resulted in my brain being tiny." The girl burst out laughing. She had a loud, infectious laugh. "Fair enough." She extended her hand. "I'm Jodie Wycroft." "Jo— Jodie Wycroft??" Instead of taking the girl's hand, Elle jumped about a foot in the air. "Why, what's wrong with that name?" said the girl. "Jodie Wycroft who used to date Weston McCullough?" said Elle. The girl squinted at her. "How in seven hells do you know my ex-boyfriend?" "I ... We went to Sheldon Oaks together," said Elle. "We used to date." Jodie Wycroft planted hands on hips. "That's the most outlandish thing I've ever heard. We have the same ex-boyfriend and we are going to the same college, but we've never met before." "Not as weird as me running into my other ex-boyfriend here," Elle countered. "But how'd you get here? Weston said you were going to Whitman State. That's why he went there." "Ha!" said Jodie. "Weston's stuck at that shithole? Serves him right. As for me, there was a flap. Right as my acceptance letter was landing on their desk, one of their professors—the professor I very specifically wanted to study under, I might add—was convicted on child pornography charges. I had to fight them until the last minute before they'd let me revoke my acceptance, and by then it was too late to be accepted at any other colleges. So I worked for a year and then got here." "God, he used to compare me to you all the time," Elle said. "He said you were way better in bed than I was." Jodie gave a snort. "He would do that. Weston's an asshole. Good in bed, mind, but, once he was gone ... I was like, 'God, why am I wasting time on this loser?'" "He said you cheated on him," said Elle. "He'd say that too," said Jodie. "And, there is a certain amount of truth to it. What happened was that I had decided to call him at the end of the first week and tell him that I didn't want to put myself hold for him. I mean, would you?" Elle gave a noise of derision. "Yeah, exactly. And if I had just kept it to that—I've fallen out of love with you, our lives are going in different directions, blahblahblabbitybloo—it all would've worked out. But I made the mistake of mentioning that there was someone else I was interested in. And he just exaggerated it from there. He likes to make himself seem like the victim." "Did you actually get together with the new guy?" Elle asked. Jodie gave an unladylike snort. "No. We dated a couple times and he got scared off. It's just been me and my vibrator since." There were still students walking around them, both to and from classes. "Would you like to come back to my place?" said Elle. "My roommate should be home, you can meet her too." And so they trudged through the January rain to Elle's apartment. She and Nicole had indeed made the decision to rent off-campus as juniors. They weren't too much farther from their main buildings as they had been at Di Auellio, and the apartment gave them some benefits—like separate bedrooms. They had more space to spread out and decorate, and Elle and Tom had much more privacy now. Mindful of the circumstances, she had bought a pair of heart-shaped magnets, one for her and one for Nicole, which they were to use in case one of them was entertaining a man (in Elle's case) or herself (in Nicole's case). The general policy was, if the heart magnet was out, its owner was not to be disturbed under any circumstances short of imminent death, dismemberment or general calamity. Nicole used her heart a lot more than Elle had expected, even though she didn't (to Elle's knowledge) have a boyfriend. And how would she without me knowing?, she wondered. She'd tell me. She'd be proud. And I'd be proud of her. Despite the relative earliness of the hour—it was not yet four in the afternoon—Nicole had her heart out. David was nowhere to be seen either; he was such a frequent visitor that they had often joked about just making him another key. Tom was off at classes; maybe he'd call. Or maybe he was painting and would be absorbed for hours. Now, after more than two years, Elle was used to his need for solitude. Nicole's probably the same. That's probably what she uses the heart for. She just needs time alone, to ... What was it Tom said? 'Take my soul out, dust it off, and look at how it's changed recently.' "Hmm, looks like my roommate wants her privacy," said Elle. "Well, we can still talk." "I still can't believe you wanna be my friend," said Jodie. "I mean, isn't it weird, talking with your ex's ex?" "Hell no!" Elle exclaimed, "I wanna vent!" Jodie gave a grin. "Girl, I like the way you think." They talked about where they had been. Jodie described her high school life both with and without Weston, and then her last three years as a high-school graduate, member of the workforce, and college student. She had gotten most of the way through it when a gust of noise came from Nicole's room: some shifting and thumping, and some very ... notable moaning. The kind of moaning that only came from one thing. "Hmm, sounds like someone's having fun in there," Jodie said. "Is this normal?" "What?" said Elle. "No, not hardly, she's very ... She's pretty Christian. When I said I could loan her my vibrator if she wanted, she..." Another series of muffled noises issued from within. Jodie tilted her head. "Sounds like someone's in there with her." Elle shook her head. "Couldn't be. She's not seeing anyone. I'd know." "Would you?" "We're close," said Elle. "I mean, I'm the person she comes to for things like this. She's like my kid sister." "I see." " ... Well," said Elle. "And David, I know she goes to David with some of that stuff too." "David?" said Jodie. "My best friend," Elle said. "My other ex-boyfriend." "Hmm," said Jodie with a hooded smile. "There's a story there." So Elle told her what had happened: meeting him at the age of six, kissing him at the age of eight, the long build-up towards their first time, the pain of losing him and the relief of having his friendship back. During this time, Nicole—and whoever else was in there with her, if there was anybody, which Danielle doubted—finished up and fell quiet. Elle was just getting to the present day when the door opened and a babble of voices joined her own. "I don't think that I—" Nicole was saying. And then: "Shh. There's someone there." Jodie arched an eyebrow. Elle felt her jaw drop. "Umm," said Nicole's voice. "Hello?" "Ah—" said Elle. "Ah— Ah—" This was not meant to be reasoned discourse; it was simply the sound of her voice phonating while she tried to regain control of her jaw. "Ah. Hi, Nicole." "Umm. Hi, Elle. Is there ... Is there someone out there with you?" "I've made a new friend," said Elle. "Her name is Jodie. Why don't you come out and say hi to her?" Jodie was much more forthright. "We know there's someone in there with you, honey. It's okay. You can bring him out." A laugh: "Or her. If it's a her." There was a low, whispered conversation—enough to reveal that, yes, there was someone else in there with her; and yes, it was a man. Elle felt like the floor was dropping out from under her: Nicole? Sweet, innocent, virginal Nicole? The idea that she might be making love was not particularly astounding; Elle knew by now that Nicole had the same urges anyone did, and that, if she found the right man, she might well indulge them. But what right man? Who could she possibly be with? Then Nicole said, "Okay. We're, umm. We're coming out." Her voice was profoundly miserable, and she emerged from the hallway with tear-streaked, guilty eyes. Behind her was a man, holding her hand, being led by her and yet at the same time prompting her along. His face emerged into the gray half-light of the rainy January day. Elle felt her mouth drop open again. "David??" Prev Home Next Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd): Your name: Please enter some comments so I can write you back. ------- Chapter 10 For Elle, the thought that her roommate (who was more of a little sister to her) was dating her best friend/ex-boyfriend (who was more of a brother) took a while to get used to. Jodie was pragmatic about it; that was her nature, as Elle had learned. Though not without sympathy, there was a core of cold practicality to her character that made her unlikely to be sentimental. "It's just something you gotta get used to, you know? It's not healthy to dwell in the past, you know that. Surely your experiences with Weston would have told you that." Tom thought it was uproarious; he laughed for five minutes when she told him. He also claimed he'd seen it coming. "I mean, seriously, Elle, who else does Nicole know? She doesn't go out partying, she doesn't socialize that much in classes, I don't even want to think about the dreadful specimens she must meet at church ... And David would rather die than hurt her, so of course she'd trust him. "And besides, I think they're good for each other. David's a really nice guy, so he needs someone who'll appreciate him for who he is. You know as well as I that most girls our age aren't looking for someone like him: they want a guy who'll drink his friends under the table. And Nicole ... Well, I love her as much as you do, but she's so fragile. She needs to be handled with kid gloves. And David'll know how to do that. Really, I can't think of a better match." Elle saw that he was right, and tried to take joy in their happiness. Nicole positively glowed now; she seemed to be made translucent by her joy, and went smiling throughout the day. She had always been beautiful, but now she was lovely; her demure dress and figure were radiant, and Elle knew a bunch of men must be taking notice of her for the first time, and asking her out. All Jodie said was, "Sometimes you just light up after a good fucking." David was in his element too; Elle, who had never needed protecting, had never realized just how much it brought him to life to have someone to protect. He was solicitous, kind, charming, with a grace that put even Tom's courtesies to shame; this was what he lived for. And he was happier too, walking with more of a spring in his step, laughing more, smiling more. And he was getting laid again for the first time in two years, which Elle knew she could not object about. Nicole was pleased on that front as well. Elle, of course, didn't go fishing for details, but she didn't need to; Nicole came to her bedroom that very night and gushed about her first time for five solid minutes. Yes, Nicole was very pleased with her new lover. The two of them were discreet, of course, even in private when it was just the two of them and her, or her and Tom, or her and Jodie, or even all five of them. At first Elle thought that they were trying to spare her feelings, but she soon realized that Nicole was simply a deeply private person. She and David had never felt particularly ashamed at public displays of affection; Nicole would, even amongst those she trusted. Nonetheless, there were moments. They would watch movies, and Elle would glance over and see Nicole nestled into his arms; or someone would be talking, and David would take a moment to bestow a reverent kiss on Nicole's forehead. It was a level of affection she had never seen him give, could not remember experiencing. And every now and then, very rarely, she might see them kiss. It was like watching a sacrament. "Is it just me," Jodie said once, "or do those two have a white wedding together somewhere in their future?" "It's not just you," Elle had answered. It was harder to deal with than she'd expected. Tom was kind, patient, accepting, but she could see it even bothered him a little. It bothered her much more. She should be over this by now. How long had it been since she'd been David's girlfriend? They were friends now, just friends, with the easy familiarity of their long association. There was no reason why seeing him with a girlfriend—seeing him kissing, seeing him happy; occasionally even hearing the sounds of their loving—should upset her. There was no reason she ought to look at Nicole, radiant, joyful, happier than she'd ever been, and think, It should have been me. It should have been me... The end result was that, when Nicole asked her about her housing plans for senior year, and whether she'd like to go on being roommates together, Elle had no answer. "I dunno, let me think about it," she had to say—day after day, while time slid past them. Nicole knew from their experiences last year that, the later they made a move on it, the worse their prospects would be; but she never commented. Perhaps she understood Elle's hesitation. (Or, Elle thought uncharitably, perhaps she's too distracted to notice.) "You're not okay with this, are you," Tom asked her one night. "Okay with what?" she said. At the moment, they were lying on her bed, sated and satisfied; his hand idly twirled through her pubic hair. "Tom, you've played with my pussy a hundred times before, if you really think that—" "That's not what I meant," Tom said. Elle had known what he meant. But she didn't want to start that. "You're not okay with Nicole dating anyone, are you." "Umm..." said Elle. That was not what she felt at all, but she ran with it. "No, I ... I'm not. Umm. Yeah. I mean, she's so young. —Not literally, not, like ... It's not like she's underage or anything. But she's ... Inexperienced." Tom grinned. "I'm pretty sure David will take care of that pretty soon." She gave him a swat. "That's not what I meant. I meant that ... I mean ... If anyone tries to take advantage of her, and..." "Do you really think David would do that?" he said. Isn't he?, was what she wanted to say, but that would be unfair. She didn't think David would manipulate Nicole like that. That wasn't in his person; and even Nicole would notice if he had an ulterior motive. Besides, she didn't think he would've needed to. All he would have needed to do was show her the sort of love and care that he was showing now. Nicole was a sweet, uncomplicated girl, but that didn't mean she didn't want to be loved. The day Nicole lost her virginity was the first time Elle had had any indication that she was seeing anyone, much less David. "How long has this been going on," she asked. Nicole looked anything less than blissful for the first time all day. "Umm. Since September." "You first started asking me that stuff in May," Elle said. "It was David who was making you curious, wasn't it?" "Well ... Yeah," said Nicole. "We started ... He asked me out, and I said I needed to ... To think about it." "Why? ... I mean. What was to think about? You guys seem ... Happy." "I know, and, I really liked him. I really like him. But, just ... You know. I know he's had sex, and I knew he'd want to, and I didn't wanna disappoint him, and..." "And because no one had ever asked you out before." "Yeah, and ... And because he's so... Different." "Different?" said Elle. "From who?" "From ... Me," said Nicole. "I mean, he's very sweet and polite and a nice guy, but he's so ... He's not a Christian." Elle was flabbergasted. "Honey, he may not be a Christian, but I don't think that makes him a bad person—" "No, no, he's not, that's not what I'm saying. It's ... The thing is ... He's not a Christian." "And that's important to you? With you thinking about having pre-marital sex? With you having pre-marital sex?" Nicole's chin came up. "Danielle, pre-marital sex has nothing to do with it. There are places in the Bible where it says not to do that, but David and I talked it out and I feel that I can do it without causing myself any physical and spiritual harm. So I tried it, and you know what? I was right. I may be a Christian, but that doesn't mean I can't think for myself." "I didn't mean—" "But yes, Christianity is important to me. That's part of who I am. It's important to me that, whatever I do, I be able to look my Redeemer in the eye and say, I have no regrets about my life. That's the only standard of behavior I hold myself to, and the only standard that matters." "Well— Umm," said Elle, feeling hopelessly out of her depth. She had never heard Nicole speak with such steel conviction. "O-Okay, and— And. Umm. David. Prevents you from doing that?" "No, it's ... It's not that," said Nicole, all timid concern again. "It's that ... He's not Christian. He doesn't live by those standards." "And you want him to." "Yeah." "Well ... Why don't you ... just ... I dunno. Why don't you just let it play out, and see what happens?" Elle said. "I mean ... Maybe he'll change." "Yeah. I hope so." "And besides, we both know David," Elle said. "He'll understand. He'll listen. If you tell him what you feel and how you think you should act, he'll at least give it some thought before he makes his decision. He may have different standards, but that doesn't mean he'll, like, automatically go and do things you don't like." "Yeah," said Nicole. There was a brief, contemplative silence. Then Elle smiled. "So. How was it?" "Oh my God, it was so good!" said Nicole, suddenly animated again. "I didn't know I could feel that way! David was perfect, just perfect, he knew everything about me, it seemed. He knew exactly what to do to make everything feel good, and every time I thought it couldn't get better, it did! I can't believe he—" She stopped suddenly, her face growing concerned again. "You're ... It doesn't bother you, does it?" "What doesn't bother me?" "Umm ... Us," said Nicole. "Your roommate going out with your best friend and ex-boyfriend." "No, of course not," Elle said. She smiled. "You're my sister. I'm really happy for you. For both of you." And, at the time, she had meant it. Now, it was not so easy to say. "So, what is it," Tom asked her now. "What is it that bothers you so much? Is it jealousy over her?" His smile grew wicked. "Jealousy over him?" "Oh, right," Elle snapped, "because I've been secretly jonesing after a girl who's been my roommate for three years, and yet I haven't done anything about it." "Well, have you?" said Tom, grinning. "You tell me!" She swatted him again. Tom was a saint about it all. He saw—he had to see—how it hurt her; and it had to hurt him to see that, because it meant that her heart was not entirely his. But then, he'd known that from the beginning; must've known, since she'd made it clear to him. A little part of her heart would always be with David; that was simply the way they were wired now. And she didn't think that part of her heart was being disregarded just because he was with some other girl now, did she?—because she didn't. So why the hurt? Why the big deal? It was David himself who came to her next. When she came home from classes, the living room was empty and Nicole's heart was up, so Elle subsided into her bedroom to do some homework. Some time later, there was a knocking on the door. It was David. His presence there in the doorway sent a jolt of regret through her: gone were the days when he could move freely through their apartment. Gone, for that matter, were the days when any of them could. Nicole and David needed their privacy, and no matter how happy they were, or she was for them, that meant walls that could no longer be breached. "How are you doing?" he said. "Fine," she said, "just fine. Just ... You know. Got home from classes, doing some homework. I didn't even know you were here." "Oh," he said. "Umm. Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, the old familiar gesture. "Nicole and I were. Umm. Having some private time." "Oh," she said. He colored. "Not ... Not like that kind of private time ... Okay, yes that kind of private time, but ... That's not all we do. She's a ... She's a very private person. There's a lot of things she wants to keep between us." "Oh?" "Yeah, just things like... 'Oh, ' you know, 'How was school today, ' or, 'Did your project turn out all right, ' or things like that. I think she just likes having a friend all to herself for once. You have to admit, that's not something she's had a lot of." "Yeah." "But..." he said. "Listen, I'm sorry that ... that it's like that. I mean, she's really a homebody, and I don't mind that, but sometimes I have to be, like... 'Hey, remember, we have other friends.' And ... Well, I mean. You're getting third-wheeled. And ... I don't like that." "Oh, well," said Elle, a little surprised. "I'm sure she'll, umm. I'm sure she'll get over it eventually." "I know, but ... In the meantime," said David. "Yeah," she said. "Well, thanks." There was a short silence between them. "So..." she said. "What's it like to be back in a relationship?" "It's ... It's really good, actually. I got really lucky. Nicole is ... Nicole is so wonderful. She's so loving and kind ... It's like there's this whole stockpile of love that she's been storing up over her life to share with someone." "And it must be nice to be getting action again," said Elle. "Yeah, no kidding," said David. "I never ... I never realized until I was single. Because, I mean ... Well, I was with Angela for a while, and we did it. And I was with Missy Renquist, and we actually did it just the once, before we broke up." Elle, to whom that question had once mattered, was surprised to notice that she didn't care now. "And before then there was you, and even though we weren't ... you know ... having actual intercourse, we were still ... Playing around. And the end result was that freshman year was basically the first time in my life that I was doing without. And ... Ugh?" "Must've been pretty hard," Elle said. "All the time," David agreed. " ... Err. I kinda meant 'difficult.'" David laughed. "Wow, Freudian slip there. But yes, it was difficult. And actually, I don't think it was. Umm. Hard. Any more than normal. It was just that, there was nothing I could do about it." "Besides Miss Rosie Palm." "Yeah, and that ... I mean, it's not the same. I mean, it, it seriously wasn't the same. I don't know why, it's not like your fingers are any different than mine, but..." "Yeah. I had to learn to, you know, take care of myself. I mean, I had to learn it. I'm can't even say that I re-learned it because I don't think I ever knew. You knew, and whenever I had an itch, I just had to ask, and..." "God, the same thing happened to me," he said, running his hand through his hair, the old familiar gesture. "I think I may have an extra-strong sex drive, too, because we were ... Because of how often we did stuff. So I was just constantly ... And then it was like, 'Wow, how lame is this, that I don't even know how to, you know, handle myself.' It was pretty lame, let me tell you. There was ... A learning curve." "There must be a learning curve going on right now, too," she said. "I mean ... Well, call me crazy, but ... I really kinda doubt that Nicole has a lot of experience about what to do in bed. Or even very many ideas." "That's true enough," he said. "But ... I mean, you know her. The things that are important to her, she takes very seriously. And ... This is important to her. Even in only the few weeks we've been doing it, there's been ... A lot of improvement. And she doesn't, like, hold back either. Whenever some new idea comes up, she isn't like, 'That's weird, let's not, ' she just ... She goes for it." Elle gave him a wry smile. "Looks like you've got a genuine slut on your hands." "No, actually, it's not like that at all," said David. "She's not ... She's so uncomplicated about it. It's not like, 'Ooh, let's be dirty' or whatever; she just wants to ... Please her lover. And if I come up with something I think I might like, or that she might, she's interested. If I think it'll be fun, she'll go for it. She just ... Gives of herself, completely. It's refreshing." " ... I wanted to," she said. "What?" said David. "You—? Ohh, ohh, no, no. Nellie, that's not what I meant. The reasons you held back ... I understand them a lot more now. And besides, you didn't hold back. There were things you didn't do, but the things you did do, you did wholeheartedly. That's exactly the same as Nicole; I have no doubt we'll come across something where she draws the line. What I mean was ... Well, you know the girls who just ... Who do it, because that's the only way to keep a man interested? Well, that was Angela, and that was definitely Missy Renquist. They were just like, you know, 'Okay, get it over with and then I can get back to my business.' " He gave a short laugh. "I mean, I'd offer to, you know, reciprocate, and they were just like... 'Why would I wanna waste time doing that?'" "You're serious? You offered to go down on them, and they turned you down??" The memories were faded now, but as she recalled, David had been one heck of an expert at oral sex. "Well, just shows how stupid they are." "Yeah, no kidding. It was like ... They were just blow-up dolls, or something. And not because I wanted it that way, because they did. They wanted me to just use them to get off, and then leave them alone. Whereas you ... You did things with me because you wanted to. And after we broke up, it became really clear to me, really quickly, that that was way more important than the fact that you made me wait four years." "And now you get that with Nicole." "Yeah, I ... I mean, I think part of it was high school. They just wanted someone, anyone, around, and if they needed to, you know, lie back and think of England to make it happen ... People are less like that at our age. But whatever the case, I decided that I didn't really want that anymore. I wanted someone who was going to, you know, participate." "In sex." "Not just in sex, it was ... Everything." He gave her a wry smile. "Let's face it, Nellie, you set a pretty high standard." "You still call me that," she said. "Didn't I ask you not to call me that anymore? Like, five or six years ago?" "Sorry," he said. "It's just ... How I think of you. You'll always be 'Nellie' to me." "I'm Elle now," she said. "You're Danielle," he said. "It's who you'll always be." "Which isn't Nellie," she insisted. "I mean, I don't call you 'Davey' anymore." "You could." "No. I couldn't. You're not 'Davey' anymore. I'm not the person who gets to call you 'Davey' anymore." David was silent for a long moment. "Are you okay with this?" he said finally. "With what?" "With ... Me. And Nicole. With us." She snorted. "David, don't tell me you'd end it if I told you to. I know you better than that." "Okay, that much is true, but ... I mean, we could be ... More discreet." "No, I'll be ... I'll be fine. And I couldn't ask you to end it, not in good conscience. You're my best friend, she's my sister. I want you to be happy. I want you both to be happy." "Okay," he said, coming forward to put his hands on her shoulders. "Because we care about you. Both of us do. Heck, you introduced us, we owe you for that if nothing else. But even if not for that. We may have ... Other priorities ... But that doesn't mean we love you any less." "You're sweet," she said, "thanks." And she gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "But I'll be fine." She laughed a little. "Besides, I've got Tom to keep me busy too." "Yeah," he said. "Tom. Nellie, have you..." He trailed off. "Have I what?" she said. There seemed to be a lot of potential endings for that question. "Have we gotten serious? Have we done it? Have we fought? Have I thought about whether it's going anywhere?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Forget I said anything." She laughed. "Davey, you can't just leave me hanging like that! Tell me! What were you going to say?" She laughed; he didn't. "I'm going to leave you hanging like that, Danielle," he said, shaking his head again. "Good afternoon. Forget I ever said anything." And what was she to say to that? Well, obviously, she didn't just forget it; she started wondering what David had been trying to say. But who could she talk about it to? Tom himself was right out, for obvious reasons; she kept her eyes open, wondering if David knew something she herself had missed, but there was nothing in Tom's demeanor to suggest that anything was wrong or untoward. No, he was the same as he always was: polite, charming, optimistic, and fiendishly good in bed. One thing did come to her attention, though: that they almost never talked about the future. Or, perhaps more accurately, about their future. So, she did what any self-respecting girlfriend would do: she brought it up one day. "Honey, where do you see yourself in five years?" Tom dropped his fork with an audible clatter. "This is because I'm graduating, isn't it?" "What?" "Or because I'm still living with my folks. I thought you understood that: it's cheap and it's convenient, and saving money isn't exactly a dumb idea in this economy." "Hold on, hold on!" said Elle. "I'm not trying to grill you or anything, Tom. Jesus! I'm just curious about my man. The way a girlfriend is supposed to be. You never talk about where you see yourself going. Or, for that matter, if you see me still being there." "Well ... Yeah," said Tom. "The ... Well, I dunno. The truth is, I don't know where I'm going." "See?" she said. "That wasn't so hard." "Yeah, but, what girlfriend wants to hear that," he said. "Especially not after three years of dating." "True," she said. "But go on." He looked desperately uncomfortable, but he plowed on. "I just ... I know what I'm good at, you know? And ... There isn't a lot of market for it. Not right now, maybe not ever. I mean, it's not like your job—you're a graphics artist, you can do texturing for movies or video games or just about anything that involves 3D CGI. Me, I put paint on canvas. Very low-tech. So, I'm gonna have to find something more ... Practical. And ... I mean, it's just a job, you know? It pays the bills. I don't really care what it is, so long as it does. But ... I don't know what it's gonna be yet." "Fair enough," she said. "If I hadn't decided to go with graphic arts, I might be in the same boat." "Nonsense, they at least need photographers for weddings and such," he said. "But ... Since you were wondering, that's why I don't bring it up. Because I don't really have any future plans, nothing concrete. And ... I mean, how do I ask you to step into that?" "Well, I might say yes," she said. "Or you might say no." "True, but that depends on me, doesn't it? At least I'm not like some sort of pre-law or pre-med who has no patience with anybody who doesn't have their entire life planned out already." "Ha. Good point." He picked up his fork again. "Okay, let me ask you, then. Do you see this going somewhere? Do you see us still together in five years?" It was her turn to think for a bit. She used her fork to toy with a broccoli floret. "Well ... Actually, what you said is a really good point. It's kind of ... It's kind of hard for me to picture me next to you in five years, because there's nothing concrete to picture. But ... I'd like to be." She reached out and put her hand on his. "I really like you, Tom. I wouldn't still be here if I didn't. And I don't mind just, you know, hanging out and waiting to see what happens." He nodded. "That's kind of how I look at it. It's not like I can tell you, 'Oh, this-and-this has to happen by the time I'm 25, ' so, why try to make plans?" "So, tell you what: whenever you know more about where you're gonna be? Give me a call. Look me up." He gave her a smile. "You might still be right there." She smiled. "The possibility does exist." It was good to know what he was thinking ... But it didn't help explain the mystery of what David had said. David of course wouldn't talk about it; wouldn't even, for that matter, acknowledge that a conversation had happened. Nicole ... Well, what would she know? Nicole had her own concerns, and sordid details about her roommate's boyfriend was not likely to be one of them. And while Elle had made her share of other friends in her years in the dorms, she hadn't kept in touch with most of them; her sphere of interest had contracted when she moved into this apartment. Besides, what was she going to say to them? Hi, it's Elle, your former hall mate, and I was just wondering if you had any juicy gossip about my boyfriend?... Yeah right. Who was left? "Well, it could possibly just be rumors," said Jodie. "We are all, thankfully, past the point where people spread malicious lies around just to be douchebags, but the possibility does exist. Alternately, perhaps David is onto something, but he isn't sure. Or maybe he's jumping at shadows. The long and the short of it is that either Tom does have some secret he's hiding, or he doesn't, and everything else is kind of secondary to that. What you need to do is figure out, one—" She held up a finger. "—whether there is a secret, and two—" The second finger. "—what it could be." "I don't think David would bring up something he didn't consider important," Elle said. "Wrong. He clearly backed down from whatever it was." "Okay, let me rephrase it: umm ... I don't think David would bring something up unless he considered it something actionable. He wouldn't just yank my chain. He thinks there is something at issue, whether or not it's his place to tell me about it." "So you think there is a secret," said Jodie. "I..." Elle shook her head. "I don't know. Tom is ... He's a very genuine person. I don't think he could keep a secret." "All the best liars are like that," said Jodie. "Do you want me to ask around?" "Ugh, no," said Elle. "The last thing I need is to ... To stir up something." Jodie gave her a smile. "You should be more like me. I don't have to deal with this shit. If someone's messing around with me, I just don't sleep with them again." Truthfully, that kind of lifestyle did not sound particularly appealing to Elle. "Well, at least you don't have lots of history to wade through." Jodie laughed. "True that. Hell, I don't even sleep with someone more than three times anyway." "Ugh," said Elle. "Peace and quiet would definitely be nice. I've got classes, I've got tons of homework, I've got this hanging over my head, I have to see David and Nicole being all lovey-dovey in each other's faces all the time..." Jodie gave Elle a sidelong glance. "You know, maybe we could be roommates next year." Elle glanced around at Jodie's apartment. It was a one-bedroom apartment: Jodie preferred not to have roommates, for greater ease of entertaining men. "Here?" "No, silly, we'd get a bigger one," Jodie snorted. "It'd be a nice change of scenery, don't you think? And it'd get you away from the Lovebug Couple." "Let me think about it," said Elle, although she knew she'd probably agree. Maybe. She wasn't sure she wanted to room with Jodie. She missed Nicole. She missed the friend she'd had, before David came and took her away. She missed the friend she'd had in David, before Nicole took him away. ... I'm not likely to get either one of them back, am I? But still, she couldn't help but hold out hope. Maybe something would happen to make it all bearable. Maybe some miracle would occur. Maybe... In this state of high agitation she managed to pass most of a month. Nothing, it seemed, could give her relief. Moments with Tom were tainted, inevitably, by the question of how to proceed (if at all!) with her investigation; she might forget it until the very last minute, when he was dropping her off at her apartment, but then something in his behavior—the inflection of a word, the shift of an eye—would remind her, and ruin everything. Home life was no better, with Nicole increasingly withdrawing to spend time with David. Jodie, though friendly and possessed of a robust humor, was simply not sentimental; to her mind, Elle did not need help, would simply work things out on her own, and if she did need help she'd ask. But Elle did not want to ask. She wanted to be asked. She wanted to be around someone who would notice her mood and take pity on her. Jodie was not that person. Even her sex life was damaged; sex, which had once been to her a joy, a diversion, an escape. She felt trapped. By everything around her, she felt trapped. Finally it was Valentine's Day, the third anniversary of her first time with Tom (though they had done it at least a hundred times since then, and maybe even five hundred). Tom declared that he had planned a surprise, and she was a little dismayed when this surprise ended up just going back to his parents' house. She was a little more understanding when the surprise involved that they were out for the evening, and the two of them would have some fun cooking (or attempting to) a meal for themselves. It was perhaps a little more work than she'd expected, but Tom had become a little more domestic in his plans recently, and she could only assume that he was starting to think more seriously about a future with her. Plus, it probably would be at least a little fun. Elle decided to enjoy the night as much as possible. She had been moody and snappish for most of this quarter (which was more than half over already), like a six-week bout of PMS, and she could tell that her friends' patience was beginning to wear thin. Wouldn't it be nice to put aside her preoccupations and just have fun for once? She resolved to do that as much as possible tonight. What surprised her was how amorous he was tonight. They had become very comfortable around each other over the last few years; he didn't push for sex. —Well, not that he ever had, really; he'd seemed content to let her decide the pace and content of their sex life. And most of the time he was okay with just letting it happen—or not happen, since there would always be tomorrow. (Not that that was very frequent.) But today ... Well, today he was all over her. "Wow," she said between kisses, "what's ... gotten ... into ... you?" "It just occurred to me to remember," he growled, "just how fucking hot you are." He bent her over the counter and then, sinking to his knees, pulled her panties down and immediately delved into her pussy with his tongue. She moaned at the sudden jolt of stimulation. Wow. What was going on here? Was it her clothing? She was wearing a nice dress (she'd thought they were going somewhere), one he said brought out her figure, but he'd seen her in it before and never gone wild like this. Had he taken some Viagra or something? But soon she had other things to worry about: his lips, for instance, and his tongue, licking their way around her mound, insinuating themselves between her lips, laving the entrance to her pussy. Soon she was moaning, and rocking her hips back to meet his tongue. Suddenly his tongue left her, and she had a moment of confusion. But then there was an unzipping noise, and his rampant cock was at her pussy. She shifted her hips as he positioned himself, and he slid in to the hilt in one dizzying thrust. "Oh, my god," she whispered. Sometimes they made love; and that was good. But this was fucking, pure and simple, and she loved it. Every thrust was heaven, every withdrawal a grief. He was deep inside her, deeper than he normally went, touching places inside her she had forgotten she had; she rocked her hips back with every withdrawal, wanting to keep him contained, wanting to feel the impact as he slammed back into her. The slap-slap of their bodies echoed through the room; she felt his balls brushing against her mound with every thrust. She threw her head back and let the animal take over. It didn't take long for him to come—unsurprisingly—but that was good too. He groaned, jerked, shivered; and suddenly she was full of liquid silver, of delicious white light that crept down into her every crevice and tingled there. And Tom groaned and collapsed against her back for a little while, and she felt his breath, the little pokes of his five-o-clock shadow, the whisper touch of his lips and teeth as he kissed and nibbled at her skin. Finally he stood up. "Oh, that was good." She didn't want to stand up; not and lose the delicious feeling of his cum inside her. She smiled up over her shoulder at him. "I needed that." "So did I." He looked at her panties, still in his hand. "And I'm keeping these." Now she did stand up. "Tom, you're going to trickle out of me and run down my leg ... And then onto the floor. Your parents will smell. They'll ask questions." She held out her hand for them. He looked at her for a moment, and then handed them over with a sigh. "You're no fun." "I want to," she said. It might be fun to walk around with no panties on under her skirt. Especially if it leads to what it just did. "But it's not worth the trouble." After that, they began to get to work. Elle was not a particularly experienced cook, and Tom even less—he lived at home, and she still ate at the dining commons more often than not. But Tom had found some beginner recipes that did (in fact) look within the realms of possibility; and he had taken the precaution of finding some numbers for pizza places in the event that all was lost. Plus, it was fun, arguing over how to arrange the chicken chunks, how to best apply the sauces and spices, whether butter, oil or margarine would be best for heating the frozen veggies, and whether the water for the pasta was hot enough. She had never realized that Tom was this competitive before. It was ... Refreshing. And of course, there was the sex. Dinner probably would've only taken about 90 minutes to prepare under normal circumstances, but today Tom was insatiable, she had never seen him so frisky. Not twenty minutes had passed from their initial encounter that he was bending her over the counter again, but this time to do a better job eating her out. She had never come while standing up before. Then, a little later, he encouraged her to kneel before him and suck him off; unexpectedly, when he was done, he pulled back and ejaculated all over her face—another thing he'd never done before. His cum was warm on her face, but slimy; it didn't sing against her skin the way it did in her pussy. "Oooh," said Tom, shivering. "That was good." "Glad you liked it," she said, giving him a smile, which was difficult because she felt positively covered in cum, as if there was so much of it that she could barely move it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to use your bathroom to wash my face a little." "Here," he said. His shirt had come off in the various merry-making; now he stepped out of his pants and boxers and bundled them all up. "Just leave those in there." He grinned. "And you should leave yours too." "Umm," she said. "There are windows in this house." "The counters are tall enough to cover up everything," he said. "Not on me." "Yeah, but, who's gonna be looking? Today, of all days? Besides, it'll be dark soon." "Yeah, but then we'll turn on..." She sighed. "I'll think about it." And so, Valentine's Day became, in her memory, the day on which she discovered that splashing her face with water only spread his semen around. And that the soap just made it worse. She still felt completely coated, even after she'd scrubbed herself with soap three times. If only facials from the salon would stick around like this. She wondered whether it was safe to go out with no clothes on. The truth was, she liked being naked, especially during the warmer months when sunlight was prevalent. But mid-February was not one of those months, and she could see herself getting cold. Plus, whenever she went around naked—which was mostly up here, in Tom's bedroom—they had privacy; there were stairs to provide early warning, and because of the viewing angles, nobody outside should be able to see up into his room through the windows. Going out to the kitchen, on the ground floor and at the front of the house to boot, was completely different. And yet ... It would be fun. And Tom ... Well, it might inspire him to even greater heights of interest. As if he needs further inspiration. She was still debating when Tom's phone rang—the double buzz of an arriving text message. At first she set off to yell down the stairs... ... Until she remembered the dilemma that had been hanging over her head. No, was her first thought. No, no way. That's too far. I wouldn't ... I mean, I have no reason to. There's absolutely nothing to make me suspicious—not in his behavior, not in his love for me, not in ... Anything. Nothing except ten seconds of conversation with David. And yet those ten seconds had stayed with her ... Because they reinforced her own fears. It's too good. He seems perfect for me. I keep looking for the worm in the apple, because there's got to be one. It's been three years and I haven't found one, which probably means that there isn't one ... But ... But I keep suspecting... The phone made its double buzz again. A second one had arrived? From whom? Why? She hadn't realized she had made her decision until his BlackBerry was in her hand. The hand was trembling, which made it difficult to figure out how to work the thing. How had Tom checked his messages over the last three years? ... Was it this button, or... ? Ah, there it was. Okay, so... b/c if u wr MY b/f, id have some problems w that ;D Elle felt the floor shake under her. Or was that just her? Who was this? What was going on? What was the 'that' being referred to? Oh, this wasn't even the first message; it was displayed them from top to bottom. Elle closed this message and opened the first one. r u SURE ur g/fs ok w us sleeping 2gthr? Elle stared. The room shook perilously; below her, Tom let out some sort of exclamation. She fought hard to keep from falling down as the clatter of pots and pans resumed. What was going on here? Who was this person? Was it even a girl or a guy? The message was ascribed only to the person's number, without any biographical information—like a name—stored in Tom's phonebook. Walking in a dream, Elle took the phone across the room to Tom's computer. She fired up Google, and then Facebook, running a search for the text message's source number. It came back with records on a Ramona Davies. Facebook yielded a tall, tan girl with streaky blonde hair and the perfect black dress and pearl smile of a supermodel. Sorority, whispered the part of Elle's mind that was still functioning. There were no helpful messages on Ramona Davies' profile page—no Wall posts, no SuperPokes, no gifts; nothing that might come from Tom. In desperation, she used a Control-F to access the "Find" function and typed in Tom's name ... Only to have the browser find it right at the top of the page. She was logged in as Tom Gilmore. Her hand numb, she clicked on his Inbox. Girls. All the messages were from girls. All the messages were from girls he was sleeping with. How long had this been going on? "Elle? Are you okay? It's been a..." said Tom, arriving at the top of the stairs. " ... Hey. Hey, um. What's going on?" He smiled. "Checking your e-mail?" "Who's Ramona?" said Elle. The smile fell from Tom's face in crooked fragments. "Who's..." Elle looked at his inbox, snagging a name at random. "Who's Lisa? Who's Kathy? Who's Butler?... Butler? Oh wait, that's a last name." "Yeah, if there'd been a girl named Butler, I'd be confused," said Tom. "You're not even denying it?" "What good would that do?" said Tom. He wasn't smiling anymore, but neither had he raised his voice. "I mean, you're sitting right there, Elle." The drama trauma was too much. She pitched forward, nauseous, retching. Fortunately for Tom's rug, it had been a while since she'd last eaten, and there wasn't much to come out. Still, he'd probably have to replace it. And maybe clean the chair off too. She remembered that the chair had been hand-made by his grandfather and passed down through the family, and felt a moment of guilt. And then a clawing sensation of anger. Still, when Tom took her around the shoulders and helped her to the bed, she didn't resist. Once he had her settled in that familiar spot, he went for a cup of water and a cloth to wipe her face. She rinsed, spit it out into the cup. Maybe she should've saved some to drink. "There," he said, reaching for his clothes. "Feeling better?" She didn't answer. To have this betrayer tend to her as if nothing had changed... "Now, are you ready to talk rationally?" he said, standing up to step into his pants. "To talk, and listen, like adults?" "Don't tell me you have a 'rational' explanation for this," she snapped. "As a matter of fact, I do," Tom said. Either he was the best liar she'd ever seen, or he actually meant it. She had a fleeting wish for Jodie to be here. "Fine," she said, "whatever. Give me your magic explanation." "Okay," said Tom. "I shall do so." He was silent for a moment, his chin in one hand, and then stood up to pace. "To put it simply, I approach sex from a different angle that you do," he said. "Yeah," she shot back, "you think it's okay to cheat!" "Would you like to hear my explanation, or are you going to interrupt me all the time," he asked, still in that mild voice. "'cuz it'll go faster if you let me talk." She gave him a glare, but subsided. "I approach sex from a different angle than you do," he said. "To you, it's a very special thing, one that you only share with people who are really important to you. For me, it's more of a ... It's a bonding thing. It's like hugging a friend." "It's a little more than hugging a friend," she retorted. "That's true, maybe that wasn't a good analogy," he said, "but ... To a certain extent, yes it is. I don't feel like it's something I have to reserve for a select class of ... Well, that's not true either. Yes, I do reserve it for a select class of people. But I define that class differently than you do. I don't feel ... I don't feel that I need to be romantically involved with the people I have sex with." "It's casual sex," she said. "Well, maybe that's not the right ... Well, maybe it is the right description. But 'casual sex' implies just doing it with some stranger, someone you've never met before. That's not how I approach it. I don't have sex with strangers. Only with friends. With people I have some emotional connection with. "What, so... I'm just a friend," she said, hurt despite the anger. "I'm just a—" "No no no," Tom cried, rushing to her side. "Of course not. Of course not. Danielle, we've ... What we've shared, the times we've had ... Elle, not a month ago you asked me if I thought this was going somewhere, if we might still be together in five years, and I said yes, and I meant it. I wouldn't say that to any of the other women I'm sleeping with. None of the other women I sleep with would even ask me that. They know it's not going anywhere. They know it's ... Just for fun. They know that there's no love involved." "What," she said, sniffling; her nose had gotten stuffed during her little vomiting spree. "You're going to tell me that you still love me, even after you've been balls deep in all these other—" "Yes," said Tom, his eyes clear upon hers. "I am. "Elle, you're making a mistake a lot of people in closed relationships do. You're confusing sex with love." He stood again and began to pace; it was something he did to help organize his thoughts, but she'd never seen him do it as often as he was tonight. "As you know, it's entirely possible to be in a sexual relationship with someone without loving them." She thought about Weston. "And, as you know, it's entirely possible to love someone, or be in love with them, without having sex with them. Thus, we point out that sex and love are two completely different things. And, furthermore, it can be posited that sex and love are not connected, that one does not flow, naturally and inevitably, from the other. Are you with me so far?" She nodded. "Well, that's where I am. To me, sex and love are two different things. That means that I can engage in fulfilling and enjoyable sexual relations with women I don't love—or men, for that matter, if I happened to swing that way, though I don't. It also means that I can engage in fulfilling and enjoyable loving relationships with women I don't have sex with—which is, I might add, where we were until this day two years ago. I loved you then, as I love you now, but we weren't having sex." "Then what's the point?" she said. "Why even bother doing it with me at all?" "Well, because..." He paused, and his eyes went out of focus, looking beyond whatever what was in front of him. "Because sex and love is the best combination," he said in a soft voice. "Honey, I've had sex without love. And I've had love without sex. But with you, I have both, and it's ... It's the best, most wonderful..." His voice broke, and she was startled to see he was crying. "Danielle, when we are together, I give myself to you fully. In a way that I don't with my other lovers and can't with my other lovers. And, we ... We make magic together." His eyes turned to her, heavy with tears. "We have the best of all of it." She said nothing, not wanting his appeal to work on her. Wishing that it hadn't. "I love you," he said. "That's the important part, and you know it. It's very possible to have sex with people you don't love; people do it all the time, even husbands and wives. They do it with each other sometimes. But when you find love ... That's the sacred part. That's the part you treasure. And I have, and we have. Honey, even you can admit that, no matter how many liaisons I've had outside our relationship, it's never affected our relationship. And that's because I know what's important. Those other things, they're just ... Fun. With you, I have the world. And if you can accept that I have always been loyal to you emotionally—in the way that matters—then we can be on our way. "And I'm not being careless," he said. "I use condoms with everyone but you, I make sure the girls I sleep with are on the Pill, and I have myself tested for STDs every month." He gestured to his desk. "The latest one's right there if you want to see it. It says negative. It always has. Now, I've probably been lucky, but I am not being reckless. I'm not just, you know, sticking my willie wherever. My standards of what constitutes an acceptable sex partner may be different from yours, but that doesn't mean I don't have standards." "Well, I'm glad of that, or else I'd be insulted that I'm one of them." He flinched. She felt a moment of remorse. "So..." he said. "That's ... That's what it comes down to," he said. "I think that ... Huh. Well, I've rehearsed this talk in my head like once a day for the past year, but this still came out a lot better than I expected. I think that I've explained myself about as well as I can. And ... Honey, it's not like you can't explore either. If you see people you want to, you know, experiment with, I won't object. You'd have my permission. I mean, David! If you ... Well, maybe it's too late now, since he's kind of committed to Nicole. But, if you had wanted to..." "That's far enough, thanks," she said, and he fell silent. She took advantage of his silence to look over the situation as she saw it. The fight—if it could even be called that—had not gone anywhere near what she'd expected. When she'd found out about his infidelity, she had braced herself for denials, accusations, anger, throwing things ... But instead she had gotten this discussion, which was almost entirely rational. (And the only irrational parts, she had to admit, had been the ones she'd provided.) He had made his case, plainly and logically, and she had to admit that there was sense in what he said. (Certainly, some of his ideas might have been useful to her—like when Weston had kept pressuring her to do it with him, claiming she didn't love him unless she did.) Tom had been honest with her, she realized. He was right: their relationship had never suffered; in fact, it had gone on for more than three years without his ever giving a sign that his heart lay elsewhere. He claimed it hadn't!—and, for all she knew, he might be right. True, he had never been a particularly affectionate or demonstrative person; he might put his arm around her on occasion, but that was all. Occasionally she had wondered why he didn't like to hug her and kiss her more. Now she realized that, to him, that was what sex was for. As David used an embrace and a tender kiss to show affection to Nicole, so Tom used sex to show it to Elle—this had been going on for their entire relationship, and she'd never noticed. Or perhaps she had; perhaps she'd understood that sex was the way he communicated love physically. After all, though she'd questioned why he didn't express it, she'd never doubted that he felt it. Was sex separate from love? Undoubtedly, it was. But was that something she could live with? Say she did go to David and offer to sleep with him, no strings attached— No, that would never work; he'd never agree, and neither would she. So somebody else. There were hot boys around her; this was college, after all. What if she were to go to one of them and say, "Hey, what if..." Undoubtedly she could. But would she want to? "Tom, I don't know if I can live with this," she said. "It's ... I mean, it's one thing for you to have told me this three years ago, when we first started doing it. I don't know what I would've said then, but ... But that's not the point. It's one thing if you had told me this. But you didn't. You just ... Went on with your..." What was the term he had used? "Your 'open relationship, ' behind my back." "If you're saying I cheated on you—" "Are you saying you didn't?" "I'm saying that my heart is and has always been faithful to you, Danielle. I'm saying that, though I may have shared my body with other people, my heart belongs only to you." "I believe you," she said, and was surprised to realize that it was true. "But that's not what matters. If you had cheated on me, fine, I would understand. We all face temptations, and sometimes we're not strong. But it's not that you cheated on me. It's that you lied to me. You've lied to me for ... How long has this been going on, Tom?" "Well," said Tom, "I think that's kind of besides the point. We really—" Now there's the defensiveness I've been waiting for. She let her voice compress into a whip-crack. "How long, Tom?" "Since ... From the beginning," he said. "Always." She nodded. "That's what I thought. Tom, you've been carrying this off for three and a half years. How can you expect me to trust you after that?" "I..." He licked his lips. "I ... I can't answer that, Elle. I don't know. But ... I mean, trust can be regained ... Can't it?" Can it? "Tom, I think it's time that we ... That we see other people." His face fell. As she saw it, she knew that expression—sorrow and disbelief on a bloodless-pale face—would stay etched on her memory throughout time. "You aren't going to change your ways, are you? No, you wouldn't, even if I asked. And I wouldn't ask. Some things just can't be gotten past. This is who you are, this is who you want to be, and that's wonderful. I'm glad for you. But I can't be with it. That's not who I want to be with." She gave him one last kiss on the lips, to seal the deal. "I love you. I will always love you. But ... We aren't right for each other." "There's ... There's nothing I can do," he said. He was definitely crying now. "I'm sorry," she said. He said nothing. Just watched, and watched, and watched, as she went down the stairs, put on her shoes and stepped out into the bitter night. Even once walls and floors and ceilings were in the way, she could feel his eyes on her skin. Outside, her breath frosted on the air, and she shivered as she rippled through the numbers on her phone. There were two of them in her hand: she still clenched his BlackBerry; she had taken it without even realizing. She put it under the Welcome mat, where his parents would doubtlessly notice the bump when they came in. Then she called Jodie for a ride. David and Nicole were sympathetic and solicitous; David wrapped her in a blanket and Nicole gave her a huge hug. They clucked and chattered over her while she spilled out the whole thing. David looked guilty. "Nellie, I'm so sorry. I didn't ... It was just a rumor, all of his ... companions must have known to be circumspect. I didn't mean to, to cause this. To bring this all down around your head or anything." She shook her head. "It would have come out eventually." "What a crazy idea, anyhow," Nicole said. "I can't believe he'd subscribe to such an outrageous attitude. And thinking you'd let him get away with it!" "Now hold on, Lena," said David. "Just because you disagree with him doesn't mean he's wrong." "Oh, come on, David," said Nicole. Elle had never seen her quite this indignant. "Don't tell me you believe what he says." "No, of course not," said David. "I don't, and neither does Danielle. But he has the right to make his own decisions." "And his own mistakes?" said Nicole, in a tone of voice that made evident they had had this argument more than once before. "Yes, Lena," said David, and this time Elle made the connection between the diminutive and Nicole's full name. "Even his own mistakes." The conversation more or less broke up after that. Though David and Nicole were kind, and their few moments of companionship reminded her of the times they'd all shared long ago, eventually Elle realized that they would prefer their privacy and said she would go to bed. It was David who made the approach after. "Umm ... Nellie, you ... You don't mind if..." "If what?" she said, pulling the covers up around her. "Well ... We thought that you ... That you'd be out with Tom until tomorrow, so ... I was gonna stay over ... It's the first time I've done that." "You don't need my permission," said Elle. "Go ahead. It's Valentine's Day. Someone should enjoy it." She forced a smile. Instead of leaving, he came into the room to hug her. "Nellie, I'm so sorry." She put her arms around him automatically. "This ... This really sucks, and I wish there were something I could do," he said. "Thanks," she said, "but ... I'm okay." He withdrew to look her in the eye. "You're sure." "I'm sure," she said. "It must be sad to think that, every time he said he loved you, he didn't really mean it." "No," she said. "He did. And that's even sadder." And so David disappeared into the door across the hall. And not long after that, the sounds started. It was the first time she'd ever been forced—really forced—to hear them make love; every other time she'd had something else to focus on. Nicole's sex life had had a remarkable beneficial effect on Elle's homework, for instance. And they were quiet most of the time, maybe because she was there, or maybe because that was just in Nicole's nature. But now there was nothing but roaring silence, a few thin walls and a closed door between them—between his dusky murmurs, her whispered endearments; the moans, the gasps, the sighs; the faint noise of the bedsprings; and finally their voices intertwining in crescendo. At the end, Nicole cried out: "Oh, Davey, Davey, Davey—" And then they woke her up at two in the morning doing it again. Elle groaned. She rolled over, picked up her phone, and punched in a brief text message: Jodie, yes I will room with you next year. thx much -D. Then she stuffed her head back under the pillow and wished that next year would come much, much faster. Prev Home Next... Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd): Your name: Please enter some comments so I can write you back. ------- Chapter 11 "Wait," Jodie said. "You had his phone, and you didn't do anything with it? Like, keep it? Or throw it in a puddle of water?" "It's ... His phone," Elle said. "I'm not gonna do something like that." Jodie gave her a sidelong glance. "Aren't you supposed to be some sort of major bitch or something?" "What's that got to do with anything?" "Oh, nothing, nothing," said Jodie. "It's just that, you were awful kind to him. For a major bitch. Dude, if I'd had his phone, I would've sent out individually-hand-crafted text messages to everyone in his contact list, saying, 'I cheated on my girlfriend and I have a tiny dick, ' before I ever let him see it again." "Wish I had," Elle grunted. There wasn't much else to say. Elle had gone over the encounter—in depth—with Nicole and David already; and now she was wrapping up a similar walkthrough with Jodie. In the meanwhile, she had gone with her new roommate-to-be to the rental office and signed a number of forms pertaining to their apartment for next year. It was, by and large, similar to the one Elle shared with Nicole now, with one difference: while, in her current apartment, the two bedrooms faced each other across a narrow hall, this new one Jodie had found had each bedroom on either side of the living room. Elle wished she lived in such a place now. "Now, remember, Elle," Jodie told her as they drove home. "You're single now. You can see that in one of two ways. The first way is to say, 'I'm all alone now, I'm incomplete, nobody loves me, boohoo.' The second is to say, 'I'm free, I can do whatever I want, nobody has any claim on me anymore, woohoo!' So tell me, kid: Which way do you suppose sanity lies?" David had said much the same, and Nicole. "It's hard to face being alone sometimes, but you have to remember that God has a plan for you," was how Nicole had put it. "He has wonderful things in store for you, and that means that even the pain you're going through now will eventually lead you to happiness." "Thank you," said Elle, trying to stay positive, "that means a lot." But when Nicole was gone, Elle rolled her eyes, and David gave a quiet chuckle. "Is she like that all the time?" Elle asked him. "No, actually, not often at all ... Which, really, is about the only thing that makes it bearable. I mean, it's kinda cute..." " ... But kinda not," she finished. "At least ... At least there's one thing I don't have to deal with." "Oh?" "All the stupid little things Tom would do that annoyed me." Unfortunately, there weren't many of them. And, unfortunately, there were a lot of things he had done right that she still missed. "I guess that's my challenge," she said. "The, umm. The thing God wants me to learn, if you wanna use Nicole's language." "What's your challenge?" David asked. "To learn to be single again." "I suppose." "And yours is ... What? To become a Christian?" David gave her a look which expressed clearly his opinion of that idea. "Or," she said, "to learn to stand up for yourself." "I don't see a need to borrow trouble," David said. Elle rolled her eyes. "So instead of telling her the truth—that you don't plan to let her remodel you—you're just going to lead her on?" "It's not like that," he said. "Oh good," she said, "I was under the impression that you were going to lie about your intentions to her. Kind of like you did to me, right after you slept with me." She knew he was offended, but he didn't admit it; that wasn't his way. "Danielle, I'm not hanging around just because I'm lazy. I'm hanging in because I think Lena is worth fighting for. I mean, maybe I'll change. Maybe she will." That was a reasonable-enough possibility, Elle had to admit. "And as to us, neither of us were being particularly rational during those moments. You know that. We broke up for stupid reasons." "What, wanting to make sure that you would do well by me was stupid?" said Elle. "Davey, I wasn't just going to sleep with anybody. For me, that was as binding as marriage. My intention was to only ever have sex with one person ever—you. But I wasn't going to even do that unless I was sure." It was, she realized, the first time they had ever spoken about the circumstances of their break-up. David blinked. "Well, I ... I didn't know any of that, Elle." "I'm pretty sure I told you," she said. "No, not really. I mean, yeah, you mentioned stuff that was similar to it. You talked around it. But you never put it together for me." She grimaced. "Well, what's done is done." "Yeah, but now a lot more things make a lot more sense to me," he said. "Thank you, Nellie." "Glad to have enlightened you," she grumbled. Obviously, some of her life went on as usual. She still had her friends—Nicole, David, Jodie—and she still had classwork to do. As the specter of graduation began to loom ever closer, her homework assignments became ever more complex; but, at the same time, the quality of the art got better and better. They were starting to partner up with 3D modelers sometimes, with the modelers rigging the meshes and the graphic artists applying textures; once they got an assignment that required her to do cel-shading on her art, and it reminded her of Tom's art style. That was the problem: no matter how much life went on as usual, some of it, inevitably, still tugged on the loose ends of what she had lost. She would see something interesting on Facebook or the news and think, Tom would be interested in that, I should ... Oh. She would eat something and remember that she had eaten it before in his company. She would pass by a building where he was having a class and have to look away. Even just putting on a top that he had liked would bring back unwelcome memories. She wanted to be over with this. Not only was it painful, but there was the specter of her last major break-up hanging over her. She was almost a senior in college, the end was in sight; this was not the time to crack up and go catatonic for five months again. It was such a grinding fear that she almost couldn't say it out loud; if she did, after all, it might come true. What had caused her to check out like that? Were the same forces at work in her life now? She wasn't sure; after all, she hardly had any empirical way to test it. And Tom had become pretty well embedded in her life over the last few years. Rarely a day went by that she didn't see him or hear from him. Sometimes he'd come over just to hang out or to get homework done; more often than not, she would go to his house to do the same. Sometimes they would make love; sometimes they wouldn't. His presence had been comfortable, like old broken-in clothes. There wasn't much of her life he didn't touch. And yet, even as she sat in nervous dread, waiting for the moment where she would break down and zone out, it never happened. It never happened, and gradually she began to wonder if, perhaps, it wouldn't. Tom had become a part of her life, sure; but David had not been "part of her life" so much as "all of it." Even after three years, she and Tom had nowhere near the rapport that she and David had once had; still had, in fact. There were things she didn't tell Tom—not many of them, but some. When she had broken up with David, it had been hard to conceive of ... well, life. What did she have without him? But with Tom, there was still a future. She could live without him. And she would. Still: between her newly-diminished social life and the amount of time David spent in Nicole's bedroom, she had a lot more time for homework than she'd ever had before. When she got home for the summer, her parents had all sorts of exclamations rover her report card. "Honey, what on earth happened? Your last quarter's grades were incredibly better than the rest of the year!" Danielle blinked at them. "I didn't realize that going from B's to A's was 'incredibly better.'" "Well, you have to admit it's an improvement, Nellie," her father said. "Grades have never particularly been your concern." That much was true; she knew she could get As if she wanted, but didn't think it was worth the trouble; she'd always been satisfied with those B's. "Well, I hope I haven't set a new precedent with you guys. I still am." "Are you?" said her mother, holding up the report card. "This would seem to suggest differently." "Well, I ... Needed the distraction," said Danielle. "From what?" said her mother. "You never call," her father said, with just a trace of irony. "We hardly know what's happening in your life anymore." So she explained—what choice did she have? She didn't particularly want to; she knew they would freak out, worrying that she would have another collapse and ruin yet another year of school. And thus she was surprised when they expressed no such sentiment. "Have you thought about forgiving him?" her mother asked. "Wha ... Who?" said Danielle. "Tom? Why would I do that?" "Well, from the way you talk about him, you had something pretty special going on," her mother said. "Yeah, but ... How could I ever trust him again?" Danielle said. "I mean, every time a girl called him, every time he mentioned someone, I'd wonder..." "I think that if he'd told the truth from the beginning, he might have a better chance, Bonnie," her father said. "But the way he handled it ... Well, no one could blame Nellie for wanting to end it." "Why, do you think I should get back together with him?" Danielle said. "Not hardly," said her mother. "And I wanted to make sure you didn't either." " ... You could've just asked," said Danielle. Liz and Amy had returned for the summer, of course, and to Dani's surprise Heidi Stimson called her, wanting to get back in touch. David, though, was nowhere to be seen; he had decided to take an internship in Redwood Valley. Though he talked about the work experience, Dani knew it had more to do with being only 15 minutes away from Nicole over the summer, instead of the three hours' transit (one way) he'd have to suffer if he came home. How Nicole's parents would take it, Danielle had no idea. She knew David and Nicole were smart enough to be discreet; she also knew that there were aspects of their relationship that were visible to the naked eye, and that Mr. and Mrs. Smith would probably not appreciate seeing those things. It all depended on them, in the end. Had David even met Nicole's parents? He was taking a pretty big risk, as far as Dani was concerned. Her friends were all properly sympathetic over Dani's break-up; Liz and Amy had met Tom over the course of the last two summers, and appreciated what she had given up. Amy had news as well: a new ring on her finger, courtesy of a man named James she had met early in the school year. She was not as appreciative of Danielle's reaction, though. "Jeez, Dani, don't you think I would have liked to?" "Liked to what?" Dani said. "Tell me? I can't believe you got engaged—" "Promised." "—promised, whatever—and didn't tell me!" Amy gave a sigh. "Dani, when's the last time we talked?" "What, before today?" Dani said. "Umm, it was ... Well, it ... I guess ... At the end of last summer?" "And what about when I called you during the school year?" said Amy. "I ... You didn't... Did you call me during the school year?" "No," Amy said, "I didn't, because I knew you wouldn't answer. You don't pick up the phone—" "I'm busy a lot," Dani said. "—you don't check your messages," Amy said. "Well..." said Danielle. A lot of them were from her parents, whom she didn't necessarily want to talk to. "Anyone who's—" She stopped herself. She had been going to say, Anyone who's important can reach me in person. "I hate talking on the phone." "You never answer my e-mails," said Heidi. "Oh, I never check my e-mail," said Dani. "Or my Facebook messages," said Heidi. "And I know Carmen's posted stuff on your Wall that you never answered." "Let's face it, Danielle," Amy said. "You're a hard person to get in touch with. If they can't get you face-to-face, you just ignore them." "And for all that you hate using the phone, you sure didn't mind calling us to say hi," said Heidi. "Tom's gone, and David's gone," Amy said. "So now you turn to us. But the moment they're back, we're flushed out the window." "Thrown down the toilet," Heidi agreed. Dani looked at their faces: stern, though not angry. She felt an immense wave of guilt. "Then why are ... Then why are you here? I mean, I don't deserve ... Not after the way I've treated you. Why are you wasting time with me?" "Because we're your friends." It was the first time Liz had spoken up all day. "Because we're your friends, whether you like it or not. Whether we like it or not. And that means that, when you call, we answer. Just as we always have." Dani looked at Liz. Once her friend had been vibrant and beautiful, with perfect chestnut hair and a serenity in her eyes. Now she looked like she wasn't getting enough sleep at night; her hair fell in hanks around her face, her skin was clammy and there were bags under her eyes. She looked haunted. By what? And that was another nail of pain. If she were Liz's friend, shouldn't she know already? Something was eminently wrong in Liz's life; what, Dani didn't know, but she could tell it was there. And yet here she was, supporting Dani. "Maybe it's time that I start answering too," she said. "When you call. Maybe it's time that I started answering." "Only you can answer that," Amy said. It was a challenge, and Dani knew it—a challenge issued by her friends. And she'd be damned if she was going to fail them. And so that was how she spent the summer: meeting old friends for the first time. Amy had met James Rockwell through an Art History class. He was not the kind of man she normally looked at: he lacked the effortless good looks, the cocksure confidence, the deadpan snark. But they were assigned to the same discussion group, and the more she learned about him, the more she realized that he simply wasn't flaunting anything. There was a top-notch mind under that unassuming exterior, with wits to match; he had a way of phrasing even the most pointed or incisive of comments that made them completely non-inflammatory. He was kinder than any of her other boyfriends had been; and (Amy proclaimed) the sex was better than she'd ever thought possible from someone so inoffensive. "The two are related," Liz told her. "Sometimes the man's pleasure and the woman's pleasure are mutually exclusive goals. So which would you rather have, a man who puts your pleasure first, or his?" "And you're serious about him?" Heidi asked. "Well, I'd hardly have this if I didn't," said Amy, flashing the ring again. "I know, but, just ... It's fast. This time last year you'd never heard of him, and now you're thinking of spending the rest of your life with him?" "It was fast," Amy agreed. "But I don't think it was unwise. I mean, nothing's official; we both agree on that. And besides ... I do wanna spend the rest of my life with him. He's ... Like..." "He's a keeper," said Liz. "I used to feel that way about Tom," said Dani. "And the thing was, aside from the, you know, disturbingly-convincing-liar part, he really was. Sometimes you just ... Know." "Yeah," said Amy. "Yeah," said Liz. "Oh?" said Heidi. Heidi was, of course, single; she was, in her own way, a lot like Amy's new beau: quiet, unassuming, having no real interest in going out of her way to attract men. As far as she was concerned, if she just kept being herself, she'd be able to weed out the people who weren't right for her, leaving only the eligible bachelors in contention. Dani wasn't sure this was an accurate assumption ... And, ultimately, neither did Heidi. "The thing is ... The only boys who ever ask me out are ... you know. The nerds. The really cave-chested, slack-jawed..." "Huge glasses," said Dani. "No social skills," Amy said. "Acne like crazy," said Liz. "Yeah," said Heidi. "And ... Well, I mean, nothing's wrong with them, but..." "But, something's wrong with them," Dani finished. "You want someone more well-adjusted than that," Liz said. "Well..." said Heidi. "Wouldn't you? But the thing is, they aren't ... None of them come to me. They're all..." "Dating cheerleaders?" said Dani. "That might be a little out of your league," Amy said. "No, not like that," said Heidi, "I know that's impossible. But I want ... I want someone normal. Someone like Tom. Disturbingly-convincing-liar part notwithstanding. Or like your guy, Amy. Someone who's gonna treat me right." "Well ... Those aren't exactly a dime a dozen right now," said Amy. "Most guys just aren't thinking that way at this point in their lives. They just wanna..." "They put their pleasure first," said Liz. "Thinking with their dicks." "And to a certain extent, that's just how men are," said Dani, "no matter how old they are." "Which is why I'm so happy to get my grubby little claws in James," said Amy with an evil grin. "Well, I'm sure he's duly compensated," said Liz. She had not smiled once, to Dani's knowledge. "And that's another thing," said Heidi. "I don't wanna put out. I don't think I should have to buy a man's love with my body." "You don't," said Dani, at the same time that Amy said, "You do." They looked at each other for a moment in amusement. "Okay, bad news first," said Heidi, pointing to Amy. "Hon, boys want you to put out," said Amy. "Whether you like it or not. That's just how they're wired ... Well, hell, it's how we're wired. Sex is coded into our DNA—I mean, it's how the species reproduces." "Well, still," said Heidi, crossing her arms. "I want a boy who doesn't want sex." "Doesn't exist," said Dani. "Stop looking. What you really want, Heidi, is a boy who wants sex, but is okay with not getting what he wants." "I want someone who's like me," Heidi maintained, "in that he doesn't want sex." "You do," Amy said, "you just don't know it yet. Because you've never been with somebody you really loved." God, Nicole was so much easier to handle than this, Dani thought. "Which actually brings us right to my point. You don't buy his love with your body." "Darn right I don't," said Heidi. "You're not buying anything. You're giving him something—a gift—out of your love for him." Heidi gave her a skeptical look. "Like Amy said," Dani said. "You've never ... I mean, you were dating Max Cheng, and since then it's just been others like him, you said." Heidi nodded. "And these are people you're not really ... Excited about. You could take them or leave them." Heidi nodded. "Well, it's different when you're really into someone. You can't wait to spend time with them, you want to talk to them all the time ... You want to make them happy." "And you want to ... Get naked and do the nasty with them," said Heidi, still skeptical. "It doesn't seem nasty when you really want to," said Dani. "No, that's not true," said Amy. "It does seem nasty. And that just makes you want to do it more." "You'll see," said Dani. "When you've met the right man, you'll see." "Well..." said Heidi. "How do I do that? I mean, at this rate I'm not gonna find out one way or the other." God, Nicole was so much easier than this, Dani thought again. Nicole had had an instinctive understanding of all of this: that it wasn't enough to just be yourself, that she would need to present herself well too; that sex could be a positive experience. She wondered if Nicole's parents did it for fun. She wondered if Nicole was aware of them doing it for fun. For all their overbearing Christianism, Mr. and Mrs. Smith had seemed like the kind of people who knew how to take joy in life. Maybe they were more well-adjusted than Dani expected of them. "Okay," Amy was saying. "Heidi, take a look at yourself. What do you see?" Heidi looked down at herself and then gave a shrug. "Umm. I see me. Why?" "Okay, let me rephrase that," said Amy. "Heidi, take a look at yourself. What do you see that you aren't using?" "I thought we'd been over that," said Heidi in an irritated voice. "Heidi, advertising matters," said Dani. "It's not enough to be an interesting person; you also have to seem like one." "Oh, so it's all about looks again," Heidi snorted. "Yes, it is," said Amy. "Not entirely about looks, but at least somewhat. Heidi, tell me truthfully: if you were asked out by someone who was nice, polite, well-read and really, really ugly, would you accept?" Heidi said nothing. Liz took a look at Heidi's face and said, "And I see that this isn't a hypothetical question for you." "Heidi, if you're going to judge people on their looks, you shouldn't be surprised that people will judge you the same way," Amy said. "Well, I'm just screwed then," Heidi grumped, "because I don't have any looks." "Bullshit," Amy said. "And besides, even if you didn't, it wouldn't matter. As the whore told the bashful sailor, 'It's not how much you got, hon; it's all in how you use it.'" "Meaning what?" Heidi said. "Meaning that, even if you don't have much in the way of looks, you can still accent more what you do have," said Dani. "If you stood up straight and stopped being so stoop-shouldered," Amy said, "it'd fix your posture. You'd feel taller, and your boobs would look bigger. You could take better care of your hair, instead of letting it get all dull and split-endy. You could wear different clothes than boring T-shirts and jeans. Something a little more revealing, or at least that would accentuate your curves." "I don't think I'd feel comfortable wearing something like that," Heidi said. "You can learn," Amy said. "Attractiveness is a state of mind." And that was their project for Heidi that summer: teaching her to have more confidence in herself. As Dani could have guessed, it was not an easy task. To Heidi, being attractive and confident was a foreign state, one she should not trespass on. At the mall, she turned down suggestion after suggestion; the first time Amy suggested shorts, Heidi nearly turned and ran. (And, after seeing the unshaved state of Heidi's legs, Dani understood why. Fortunately the situation was salvageable; Heidi had long since surrendered to the fact that eventually she would have to shave her legs.) Though Dani was the one notorious for having been fashionable and well-dressed, it was Amy who took the lead in this project, and Amy whose fashion sense proved decisive. It was Amy who, perhaps even more than Heidi herself, seemed committed to reforming her friend into someone more attractive. Dani was impressed; she had never seen Amy be so ... Nurturing. After all, this was Amy: for all that they needled Dani about her selfishness, Amy was the real epitome; she just hid it better. Perhaps college had mellowed her. Or maybe James. It took a lot of the summer to convince Heidi to try coming out in public in her new clothes, with her new attitude; in fact, it was at the everyone's-going-back-to-school party, organized by Danielle in late August, at which she first managed. "But ... I'll feel weird," she protested, and Amy just nodded. "That's the whole point. These clothes should make you feel different about yourself. Different in a good way; different in a way that lets you be a different person." "I don't wanna be someone I'm not," Heidi said. "And you're not gonna be," Amy promised. "What you are going to be is you." Heidi eyed the clothes laid out on the bed. "I dress like that?" "Do you?" Amy returned. "Well..." said Heidi, clearly reluctant. "I could..." "Exactly," said Amy. "You could. Now, obviously, you haven't before, but that doesn't mean you can't, it just means you haven't. Today, you will. We're not making a new person. We're just taking the old person and looking at her from a different angle." "We-elllll..." said Heidi. " ... Okay." Heidi had been trying the new shampoos and conditioners for a while; the clothes did the rest. They were by no means revealing, but the cut of the blouse wasn't just a hole for her neck anymore, and her new jeans were form-fitting, though not hardly as tight as they could have been. Heidi looked at herself in the mirror and said, " ... Wow." "Exactly, " said Amy. And it worked. Though the party was at her house, Dani had insisted that all four of them were throwing it jointly; as such, the guest list was a conglomeration of friends, acquaintances and strangers. There were old people from high school; older people from junior high or even grade school whom she hadn't seen in a long time; even some new college acquaintances, friends of Amy's or Liz's who happened to live in the area. Some of their faces—Marina Forkish, Randy Hillinger, Andrew Metz—she knew how to read; others were opaque to her. But the fact that Heidi was suddenly worthy of male attention was unmistakable. That was not to say she dominated the whole party or anything; not hardly. But people who had never looked at her twice were suddenly paying attention. And Heidi basked in it. "Wow," said Dani to Amy. "Yep," said Amy, smugly satisfied. "You know, sometimes I even amaze myself." "Can you do me next?" said Dani. " ... Actually, can you do Liz next." "I can do makeovers," said Amy. "I can't do miracles." But Dani knew that the constant pain in Liz's eyes was a worry to both of them. Liz had always been an expert at steering conversations; whenever the talk veered towards some dangerous or painful subject, she could always come up with a way to segue into something else. For many years Dani had been the beneficiary of this talent, as Liz used it to avert talk about David. But now Liz was using it to defend herself; whenever anyone tried to ask her about her life, or even steer conversation in that direction, Liz pushed things away. Dani, once again, failed in the friendship department; she decided that, if Liz wanted to keep those things secret, she should be allowed to keep them secret, and that she (Danielle) would not pry. It never occurred to her that Liz might want to confront her issues in private, much the way Dani herself had always preferred to. So when Liz called her up one night and said, "Listen, can I come over and talk, " Dani was completely blindsided. "Why would you need to do that?" she asked—a little irritated, since she had been trying to get Liz to talk for weeks, but been deflected again and again. Here she had gone to all the trouble of expressing concern for Liz, only to be brushed aside—and now Liz was begging for sympathy? And of course Liz had to spell out for her. At which point Dani covered her face with a hand and said, "Wow, how do I expect to get through college with a brain like this," and agreed that Liz should swing by immediately. "So," Dani said to her, "are we finally going to get to the bottom of all this?" "Well, I've been wanting to tell you for weeks," Liz retorted. "But somebody hasn't been asking the right questions." "Oh yes I have," Dani said. "In public, sure, but asking. Just because you didn't want to tell me, doesn't mean I didn't ask." Liz was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Wow, how do I expect to get through college with a brain like this. I've been beating you up in my head for not being a good friend, when the whole time..." "It doesn't matter," Dani said. "You're my friend. Whether you like it or not. Whether I like it or not. And that means, when you call, I answer." "Yeah, but shouldn't that go both ways?" "It didn't at the beginning of the summer," said Dani. "There, we're even. And it doesn't matter anyway; we're friends. We have more important things to talk about than who owes who. Now, do you wanna keep beating yourself up needlessly, or would you like to talk about some of those important things?" For the first time in a while—maybe all summer—Dani saw Liz smile. "When my friend asks, I answer." And so Liz sat down and told her about life at the University of San Francisco. The school was small, with only about 8,500 students, which to Liz was part of the problem: everywhere she went, Martin was there, or someone who knew him, or someone she'd met through him. Sometimes she felt as though he were following her. Martin, from all that she heard, was doing well. Coming to college had been a brilliant idea for him; or perhaps coming to USF had done the trick. Whatever the case, he had managed to sleep his way through what seemed like half the college before deciding he'd had enough. Thereafter he'd managed to hook up with a girl who was everything Liz was not: supremely popular, a high achiever, perfect GPA, perfect teeth, perfect complexion, perfect chestnut hair, effortlessly voluptuous in a way Liz, a small-breasted size 6, simply could not compete with. (Liz was even thinner than Danielle.) Liz saw them at meals occasionally, or between classes. Her name was Wanda, and she and Martin seemed to be in their own little world together. There were wedding bells and a brood of kids in their future, Liz predicted. The climate didn't help. Liz described San Francisco weather as monotonous, rarely changing throughout the year—low fifties in January, low sixties in June, and only four summer months without rain (during which Liz had come home anyway). "I'm a tropical person; every day I just feel cold." Her roommate, a fairly heavy-set woman who hailed from Seattle, didn't help; Suzanne liked the windows open, the lights off and the air conditioning going full blast. "I came in after Christmas break once and she had the room down to about forty degrees. And of course I was like, 'Girl, we're done with that, ' and she was ... She's such a nice person. I felt really bad." Liz wasn't making friends; maybe she wasn't open-minded or free-spirited enough, but everyone seemed weird to her, too weird to be approachable. "And it's not like there aren't more conservative people around, either," she said, "it's that ... God, I dunno. I mean, it's a Jesuit institution, right? Well, it seems to me like everyone's either religious-weird or liberalist-weird, and nobody's, like ... Normal." Mostly it was liberalist-weird. Liz had assumed she wouldn't be fazed by the sight of two men kissing in public—or two women, one of whom was Suzanne—but she was, and it made her ashamed of herself. Why should it be any different? And why couldn't she get over it? "It, umm..." said Dani. "It sounds like maybe USF isn't the right place for you." "God, you're telling me," Liz said. "Well ... Why not transfer? Why not just, you know, leave? And go somewhere else?" "Well," said Liz. "Here we get into a little issue called 'scholarships.' " One of the main reasons Liz and Martin had chosen USF was that both of them had gotten full rides there. For Martin, that was more of a convenience than anything else; but Mr. Lewiston had been laid off in the cutbacks last Christmas, and now he was working double shifts at a convenience store, the only place that would hire him. Liz's mom was still employed ... Part time, as a substitute teacher. Without a substantial scholarship, there were not a lot of places Liz could go. And whether she was looking in the wrong places or asking the wrong questions or simply making a mistake by admitting that she already one at USF, not a lot of people were offering. She was stuck. "I ... I can make it, I guess," she said. "I mean. It's just one more year." "You can," Dani agreed, "it's not that long." "But sometimes ... I mean, I dunno. I dunno. I'd have my degree, yeah, but ... Look at the economy. Look at the country. America's over, you know? Nothing can save us now, we're just gone down the tubes. I mean ... What's the point? Why should I bother spending this time and wasting this money getting a degree and ... I mean, it's not gonna mean anything. Nobody's gonna hire me. Nobody's hiring anything. I'm a Communications major, for heaven's sake, I have a liberal arts degree. My career path is, 'Do you want want fries with that?'. My only hope is to find someone who'll, you know, marry me, and support me out of college. But..." She gave a bitter gesture. "Fucked that up. Flew the coop. "I dunno, you know? Sometimes I just wanna ... Just crawl into bed and not come out again. There's no point; it's hopeless. What do I have to look forward to? Another year of freezing my butt off because I have a supermodel's figure, only nobody actually wants a supermodel. Don't have any friends, can't make any friends. Nobody asks me out. It's pointless." "Err..." said Dani. "Yes, you have said that." "Well, it keeps being true," said Liz. "God, I dunno. It just feels so ... Hopeless." "Yes, about that," Dani said. "I'm not sure I like hearing that." Liz snorted. "Then just ignore me. God only knows everyone else is. All this shit with Heidi. She's too stupid to see what she's got right in front of her, which is her own body, and yet everyone's spending all their time clucking over her. God, if my problems were that easy." Dani went to Liz's side and put her arm around her. "I'm not ignoring you. I'm listening." Liz turned a scornful look on her. "Ooh, fancy. And what, precisely, do you hear, O Listening One?" "Well..." said Dani. "That's the question, isn't it. And what I hear ... I don't like." Liz snorted again. "Join the club. Like anybody likes what I think." "That's not what I meant," said Dani. "What I mean is ... I don't like that you feel that way." Liz gave her nothing but a styptic blink. "There's someone I want you to talk to," Dani said. "I don't have her card, but I'll give you her number." "Unless it's a bachelor millionaire, I'm not interested," Liz said. "No," said Danielle, "you aren't. You aren't interested in much, are you?" Liz said nothing. "How often do you to go to classes? What are your grades like? The fact that you still have your scholarship is a good sign, but you're finding it harder and harder to care—aren't you? You look at your homework and you just don't care—don't you? And how often do you do your laundry? Or get enough to eat?" Liz said nothing, but there was a shift of doubt behind her eyes. "Liz ... Do you remember when I just ... Disappeared?" Dani said. "When I checked out of my life for five months and just left everything and everyone hanging?" "What about it," said Liz. " ... You are about to do the same," Dani said. Liz said nothing. "The person I want you to talk to is Katrina Stanton, my therapist. She helped me." "Why can't you help me," Liz said. "You've been in the same place I am now." "Doesn't mean I know how to get anyone out again," Dani said. "Katrina does. And maybe she can help you from getting there in the first place. Maybe she can help stop you from waking up in the hospital and having no idea how you got there." Liz shook her head. "I'm not screwed-up. I don't need my head shrunk." "No, you're not screwed up," Dani said. "You never were. You're just ... You're a normal person, facing difficult times." "Normal people don't need shrinks," Liz said. "Normal people get in over their heads," Dani said. "Normal people need advice. Normal people need shoulders to lean on, and ears to listen to them. Normal people need friends." "Like you," Liz said. "You're my friend, Dani. You're listening to me. What can your therapist do that you can't?" "Give you good advice," Danielle said, "and tell you how to get better." "And you can't?" Liz said. "What did you do? What did you do to stop being out of it?" "I don't know," said Dani. "That's the thing. I talked to Katrina's husband and realized that I was done giving up. How I decided that, and why ... I don't know. I can't tell you how to do it." Liz snorted, tugging free of Dani's arm. "You're no help." "Exactly," said Danielle. "How would you like to talk to someone who is?" And so Danielle called the Stantons. Ned was pleasantly surprised to hear from her, and no, he wasn't offended that Danielle would rather speak to his wife, and yes, Katrina did have some open spots this week, would Danielle like to make an appointment? She was startled at how much she liked hearing Ned's voice. She hadn't gone to see them since graduating high school, but now she wondered if perhaps she should have, just to catch up. Ned had called it, the very first time he met her: hired or otherwise, she still thought of the Stantons as friends. Katrina called her back later that night, and they spent a few minutes happily catching up before they got down to the chase. "Your friend's hesitation is, well, pretty normal to us; we get it all the time. So, with your permission, we'd like to try something a little unorthodox. Why don't you both come in—you and your friend Liz—and you and I can have a session with her in the room. That will help her see that there's nothing to be afraid of." "That sounds like a good idea," Danielle said. "The only thing you should probably realize is that it's not quite the same with someone else in the room. There may be things you feel ... Uncomfortable talking about." "Not with Liz," said Danielle. She gave a wry laugh: "Besides, there isn't much we'd talk about that I haven't told her already." And so for their first session in years, there was a silent shadow: Liz. She had done her best to tidy up, but three years of growing neglect were hard to erase. She was wearing a floppy beret over her lank hair and her shirt had a few stains on it. Danielle wondered if she had looked that bad when Katrina first met her. Most of the session was spent just talking and catching up: it had been years since she'd last heard from the Stantons, or they from her. There was plenty to hear about in regards to their daughter Emma—now out of college and in the workforce—and they didn't know Tom Gilmore even existed, much less the love between David and Nicole, or the bizarre advent of Jodie Wycroft in her life. But eventually—probably to keep things from devolving into a reminiscence session—Katrina brought the discussion round to more weighty matters. "Have you had a chance to think about why you broke up with Tom?" she asked. "Well ... I mean, he was cheating on me," said Danielle. "From what I understand, he doesn't think he was, from his perspective," said Katrina. "And lying to me," Danielle said. "That's ... harder to gainsay," said Katrina. "But ... Danielle, you've said yourself that you aren't sure it was the right decision." "To break up with him? Yeah, I ... I dunno. I mean ... I'm lonely. But ... Even more than that, I mean ... All the stuff that he said. You know? About ... About the difference between love and sex." "Yes," said Katrina. "What did you think about that?" "You know ... I'm not sure," said Danielle. "The ... I mean, he's kind of right—you know? People can engage in sex without feeling love." "And do," Katrina said. "But ... I mean ... What if I don't want there to be a difference?" said Danielle. "I don't ... I don't think I really want to be ... What, just. You know. Doing it indiscriminately. —Well, maybe not indiscriminately. But with someone I don't have any particular feelings for. But ... If I feel that way ... I mean, what Tom said..." She fell silent, wrestling with her thoughts. "Yes?" said Katrina. "I ... I mean, that's a true thing. You know? That love and sex are different and completely separate things. And ... I think it's important to accept what is true ... And plus, it's, like ... Progressive, you know?" Katrina nodded. "But ... I don't wanna live that way," said Danielle. "I mean ... I did that, you know? I was with Weston, just the once. And, just ... Just even thinking about ... Being intimate with him. You know. Being naked with him, and having his ... His, umm ... Being under him with his—" "Yes, I think I understand," said Katrina with a dry smile. "You didn't like the idea, I take it." Danielle shook her head. "Not hardly. It skeeved me out." (It still did, a little.) "Does that make me ... A bad person? Like, a... Is there a difference between love and sex?" It came out a little more plaintively than she intended. Katrina was silent for a long moment. "Well..." she said finally. "I can only speak for myself. But, in my experience, yes, there is a difference between love and sex. It's possible to love someone without having sex with them—as you did, with David. And ... It's possible to have sex with someone without loving them ... As happened to me." Danielle felt a spinning sensation under her. "What happened?" Liz spoke up for the first time. "You were raped." Katrina gave Liz a wan smile. "You're very observant, Elizabeth. Yes, while I was in college, I was raped. And, obviously, it's a very different experience than making love, or even casual sex. "Danielle, what I think is that it does not make you a bad person to prefer that love and sex be connected. Obviously I have biased reasons for that, but my experience has been that love makes sex better, and vice versa." She gave a brittle smile. "Of course, my experience has been that love is the only thing that makes sex possible. But that's neither here nor there. "As to whether it makes you a bad person to want to live one way but actually live another ... Well, to be honest, Danielle, that's up to you. From what I hear, you've been exposed to this particular value, and you don't like it. There's nothing wrong with that. But it conflicts with your personal opinion of yourself: you feel that, as an open-minded and sexually-liberated woman, you should embrace this value. Am I right?" Danielle nodded. "That, in the end, is kind of just how life works," said Katrina. "We find out our hypocrisy as time goes on. Sometimes we don't actually want what we thought we did. So now it's up to you. Do you want to continue believing you are that person ... Or do you want to make some alterations?" The answer to that was obvious, of course; being sexually progressive didn't necessarily mean doing something she felt was stupid. But even as she thought about it, she wondered how it might be if she was being asked to give up a belief that was much more important to her. "This could be really hard, couldn't it?" "It could be very difficult," said Katrina. "In fact, some people just can't do it. Not everyone is able to face a hard truth." "Which is what therapy's for," said Danielle. "Which is what therapy is for," Katrina agreed. As they drove home, Liz said, "I'm surprised you felt like you could talk to her about those things." "About what things?" "Well, about ... Everything," said Liz. "I mean, that's what you talked to her about: your classes, your career, where you think it's going; Tom, where you thought that was going. That you wanted to marry him. The stuff about sex. Even the ... Even the stuff about whether you're a good person." Liz grimaced. "I mean, I wouldn't say that to someone I could be sure was my friend." "But I am sure," Danielle said. "That's the thing, Lizzie. I am sure. They've been my friends since junior year. I trust them." "Friends whose friendship you buy," Liz said. "Well, good friends can be thin on the ground sometimes," Danielle said. "You of all people know that, Liz. Are you gonna turn new ones down just because you have to spend money on them?" Liz said nothing. But four days later she called to say that she had set up an appointment with the Stantons. Danielle was pleased, of course; Liz needed the advice, and (even more than that) she needed the friendship. But this was only a temporary solution; come September, she'd be shipping back to San Francisco. And who would she talk to then? Heck, would she even continue to talk to the Stantons now? On that topic Danielle actually wasn't too concerned; Ned's easy humor and Katrina's unwavering sympathy should win Liz over. But there was still the future to think about. And Danielle wanted Liz to have one. But eventually the summer came to an end—as it always did—and Liz was out of her worry zone. Now Danielle's concerns centered around getting her stuff out of storage, moving it in the beat-up little sedan her parents had bought her in high school, and settling back into the daily grind. And getting used to being called 'Elle' again, since that was what everyone knew her as up at Richardson. Her studies were getting ever more complicated. The quality of required work had gone up, but so had the quantity, with major assignments (or so she had once thought of them) now due seemingly every week. And she had decided to experiment this year and play around with three-dimensional modeling. Her education revolved primarily around texturing, around the images that were overlaid on a wireframe to make it look like more than polygons; someone else did the meshes. This created obvious communication issues: even when real-time lighting or mapping was at play (which it sometimes was), her textures needed to depict the natural features and color variances and self-shadowing of a surface, like the wrinkles of a sleeve or the shadows caused by the lines on a face. What if the mesher she was working with decided to make those frown lines half an inch further together than she had?—hers would look like they were drawn on by makeup, instead of matching the actual geometry of the face. By this point, they ought be past these sorts of miscommunications, and sometimes they were. But wouldn't it be easier if she just made her own models? (Or so she figured. Just three classes in and she discovered how hard it was going to be. She was having trouble with just 500 polygons; models from Pixar movies had poly counts in the millions. She kept at it, but she knew it would be a very long time before she was ready to work in the movies.) Life with Jodie was very different than what she was used to. Jodie was loud—and not just in a volume sense. (And not just when she was entertaining men either, though she certainly was that.) Her things got everywhere; she wasn't as neat as Nicole was. She didn't mind leaving the lights on, or the TV, or the fan; she tossed doors open, slammed them closed, clattered around the sink when she washed dishes. It wasn't that she was messy, at least not entirely; it was more that she didn't see any reason to be polite. Jodie Wycroft had nothing to hide. It was refreshing, in its way ... But annoying as well, when she woke up to her roommate's in-the-throes-of-sex moans for the third time in two weeks. Nicole would have been mortified to make that much noise. Jodie seemed to have a new boy every week, and she admitted cheerfully that she wasn't seeing any of them regularly; it was just for fun. "What can I say? I don't want to be tied down, but I've got an itch I want scratched. And you know as well as I that toys and fingers only go so far. I want it scratched; they want to scratch it. Nobody's being hurt, everyone's consenting. Where's the harm?" "So you believe in what Tom said. About ... About love and sex being different." "And you don't?" said Jodie with a laugh. "Elle, you're not that provincial." "No, I mean ... You, umm. You wanna live by it. You want, in your life, love and sex to be separate things." "Well," said Jodie, "I think we all want love eventually. And preferably love with sex in the end. But it's also a question of what you can get right now. Hon, nobody loves me." She said it without sentiment, as if it were just a fact. "That's just the way life is right now. Nobody's gonna love me any time soon; I'm fat, I'm loud, I'm obnoxious, and I don't have any plans to change. But just because I can't get love doesn't mean I can't get sex." She gave a snort of laughter. "Guys want rail-thin models for relationships, but when it comes to fucking, they don't want some skin-and-bones beartrap under them, they want someone like me under them, who has curves and an ass and tits that don't disappear when I lie down. So maybe I can't get anyone to ask me out, but I'm still sexy." "Oh, thanks," said Elle. "What am I, a skeleton?" "Girl, you're a B cup," said Jodie. "Me, I've got D's. But that means we're just two halves of what men think women should look like. They want my tits on your body." Elle looked down at herself, and then at Jodie. "Like that's ever gonna happen. Do they know anything about how women put on weight?" "Not hardly," said Jodie. "They probably think that when they put on weight, their dick gets bigger." "So what you're saying," said Elle, "is that even if I wanted to be sexy and snag a guy's attention with my bod—which I don't—it wouldn't work." Jodie snorted again. "Girl, you have no idea how men's minds work, do you? Well, hanging out with David all the time, no wonder. Elle, all you gotta do is just plant the idea in their minds. Flash a little bit of titty, let 'em know you're interested. Hormones and alcohol will do the rest. Guys'll fuck anything if you push their buttons in the right way." Elle wasn't entirely sure this was true. Surely David had his standards; surely he wouldn't go just indiscriminately sticking his willie into any girl who offered herself! But the same could not be said about Tom, that much she knew for certain; and she had a hunch that Weston would eagerly jump on any woman who offered herself. And David ... Well, David was exceptional. Maybe what Jodie said was true. "So, hon ... You got an itch you want scratched? You can find someone who'll scratch it," said Jodie, "same as me. And what's to feel guilty about? Everyone's just having fun, right?—no harm done. Which doesn't mean you should, you know, be indiscriminate or something; make him use a condom at the very least. That's just common sense. And, preferably, make sure you've both been tested for STDs. But if it's not hurting anybody, it isn't bad. And trust me—" She gave Elle a wolfish grin. "—if you do it right, it's gonna be the opposite of hurt." Elle tried not to think about it. She certainly had enough to think about, with classes, apartment maintenance and (occasionally) running into Jodie's latest fuck buddy. They were a wide variety of the male species: tall, short; pudgy, lean; clean-cut, unkempt; be-freckled, be-spectacled, or not; and every shade of hair, eyes and skin imaginable. Evidently Jodie was not particularly discriminate—with the sole caveat that she rarely seemed to pick the same fellow twice. Only every month or so would she see a face she recognized (or thought she did). One of them was actually in her Comparative Religions class, though it wasn't until his repeat performance that Danielle made the connection. His name was Erik Wilkins and he wasn't much to look at: a haystack of flyaway yellow hair; a craggy, acne-scarred face often dusted with five'o'clock shadow; the sort of scarecrow frame most people grew out of in high school. There was little to recommend him to the eye, and there was a strange deadness about his demeanor; he spoke little, laughed less, and never seemed to blink. But he recognized her: wasn't she Jodie's new roommate, hadn't he seen her around? And once they got to talking he was nice enough. He was quite a bit older than her despite being a junior, a political science major on his second degree, and was thinking about law school after he graduated. For all his creepiness, there was something safe about him, as if the only things that ever made it out into the world past those lizard eyes were the ones he had already decided were harmless. "How did you meet Jodie, anyhow," she asked him. He shrugged. "We shared a class last year. There was a group project. We hung out, and talked, afterwards, and ... Well, off we went." "Wow," said Elle. "She must, umm ... She must have a lot of group projects." "What?" said Erik. "—Oh, you mean with all the men she meets. No, it's not like that at all. She's ... There are ways to meet people. Casually. If that's what you want." "She must've gone through most of the school by now," said Elle. "I'm surprised she doesn't bring more people back twice." "Well ... She's picky. And I'm..." He shrugged. "I'm good in bed." She gave him a brittle smile. "I'm sure you are." "If you'd like to find out first-hand, we can arrange something..." he said. Suddenly she was reminded of how creepy he could be. "Oh, umm, no," she said. "No thank you. I..." "I don't just say that to everyone, you know," he said. His lack of blinking gave him an air of intensity. "Truthfully, you're not really my type. But you're a nice girl, and you're Jodie's friend. Aside from her, I don't have any outlets available, and if you were in the same boat..." "No, I, I appreciate the offer," she said. "And ... I'm flattered. But you're not my type either, and ... That's not my thing." But nevertheless she couldn't keep her mind from him. The idea of having an option—any option—floating just out of reach ... It was hard to deny her hormones. Sure, Jodie made a fair amount of noise, but it seemed to have occurred to her—belatedly—that there was someone else in the apartment, and she was quieter of late; especially as the quarter wound on and people started having less free time. And Jodie was easier to deal with; while Nicole and David had made a lot less sound together, each little bit of it speared to the heart. She knew what each little gasp and cry meant for Nicole—and, for that matter, a lot of what each grunt and moan meant for David. Sometimes she had felt like she was in the room with them, whether she liked to be or not. She rarely saw them nowadays. The apartment she had shared with Nicole—assuming Nicole hadn't found somewhere else to live, which she might have—was way on the other side of campus, and their classes had never been in the same building anyway. Now, instead of walking ten minutes to get to the cafeteria, she was walking two minutes to get to the grocery store; not only was she learning to cook, this kept her from having to run into anybody. She couldn't help wondering how the two of them were doing, though. She wanted them to be happy and wished she could be happy for them, but some wounds were just still too raw. Only now could she admit how betrayed she felt—by Nicole, for going out with him? By David, for asking her out? By Nicole, for agreeing? She didn't know. It wasn't worth thinking about. Still, Jodie was right: fingers, and the rather loud and shoddy vibrator she'd bought for herself when she came to college, were no substitute for the real thing. And that was how, one day in November, she found herself staring at her phone and the person she was about to call. I can't believe I'm doing this, I can't believe... "Hello, Erik?" "Hello Elle." "Hi, umm ... Umm. I know it's late, and, I'm sorry, but..." There was a silence. "Yes?" said Erik. She imagined his unblinking gaze. She imagined that furious concentration between her thighs, lips and tongue there, driving her into ecstasy. "I've ... I've got an itch I need scratched. And I was wondering if..." "Well, I had a paper I needed to get done... " "Oh." She wondered how pathetic it was that she felt disappointment. She shouldn't be doing this in the first place! ... Right? "But ... I'm sure it can wait for an hour or so. Shall I swing by?" "Great," she said. "That would be great." She closed the phone and steeled herself. He's coming. He's coming to ... Well, to make me come. And I'm going to enjoy it. I've dug this pit for myself, the least I can do is enjoy it. The least I can do is enjoy it... ------- Chapter 12 "Danielle Sabrina Mayer!" The name boomed out over the football field. Nobody was clapping by now; they were only a little of the way through the M's, but 1500 people were graduating today with their various bachelor's degrees, and no one had the strength or interest in applauding every single one of them. I think we'd break our fingers if we tried. She shook the president's hand with a smile, accepted the diploma folder—there was only a vague placeholder picture in it; they'd be mailing the actual sheepskin to her at home in a few weeks—took a moment to put the tassel to the other side, and had just begun to open the diploma for the cameraman when the flash snapped off. She wondered how she'd looked. Shocked, probably, or distracted. The flattop hat they'd given her kept threatening to fall off; she felt the tassel swinging with every step, threatening to yank the whole ensemble off her head by force of inertia. She wondered where the last four years had managed to run off to. Last she'd checked, she'd been graduating from high school. Now, a blink of an eye later, she had her Bachelor's of Fine Arts in Computer Graphics. If I blink again, will I find myself at the altar across from some man? Maybe that was why Erik never blinked. I should ask him. 'Hey, Erik, are you scared of blinking because, if you do, you'll find yourself at the altar across from some man?' We talk sometimes, after all. Mostly, 'Hi, ' and, 'Take your clothes off.' But we do talk. It was quite a while longer before the final graduate ("Paul Andrew Zdrojkowski!") passed across the stage; Danielle fidgeted under the beating sun, glad the school had gone for white graduation robes. Imagine doing this in black! Then, after the final salutations and benedictions, the party broke up and the graduating class dispersed for the last time. Danielle knew—roughly—where to find her family, as Sonya had texted her once they got seats on the bleachers. What she hadn't expected was to find Mr. and Mrs. Glass there as well. But perhaps it was to be expected. Their moms were friends, after all, and had been for many years; there was no reason to assume they had stopped being so, especially once she and David resumed their friendship again. Or that they had stopped because David was dating someone else. Hell, I'm fucking someone else. Not that they know that. "Well, that's that!" her father said, grinning. "Now you're all packed up, and we can get in the car and drive home and never come back!" "Unless Sonya decides to come here," said her mother. "Oh God, Sonya's going to college?" Danielle said. "Dude," said Sonya. She had grown to take after their father—stocky, but with a lot more curves than Danielle ever would have. "I'm gonna be a senior. I start turning in my applications in December." "Oh God," said Danielle, "who are you and where did my kid sister go?" "Hey, bitch, just because you weren't paying attention doesn't mean life stopped," Sonya snapped. Danielle saw her mother trade despairing glances with Mrs. Glass. She realized that, with Danielle herself gone to college, Sonya must have been making life a living hell for their mother. She decided it might be nice to try and get Sonya out of the house as much as possible this summer. Jodie and Erik had come as well, and decided to sit with her family. Of course, because of all the packing-up (and, in some cases, handing-down) of possessions going on at the apartment, Jodie knew her parents pretty well by now; and Erik had simply decided to tag along. She described him as a friend, and so far as she could tell her parents had bought it. It's not like it isn't the truth. We are just friends ... Who do stuff. Occasionally. It had only happened a few times each quarter, when the crushing darkness became unbearable and she needed to hear someone else's breathing in the room. She rarely heard it for long, of course; he came, did his thing, and went again. Sometimes after he was gone she felt lonelier than ever. The funny thing was, he would stay and chat if he had been invited as a friend; but if they were doing it, then it was all business. She didn't claim to understand it. She didn't claim to understand what exactly their relationship was either. David came up to them now; his name being further up the alphabet, it had taken him longer to fight his way through the crowds. Had Sonya even thought to contact him?—consideration wasn't her strong point. Did any of his family know how to text him?—technology might not be their strong point. She wondered how he had found them so fast. Mr. and Mrs. Glass engulfed him in massive hugs and congratulations. He didn't have any other siblings or relatives to pile on, but Danielle's parents were there to get in line ... And Sonya. And eventually Danielle herself. They had been friends long enough that she could hug him for graduating. "Is Nicole coming?" said Mrs. Glass. "We've so been hoping to meet her." "Mo-oomm," said David. "You know we broke up last quarter. She's probably with her family out there somewhere." "Maybe we can find them," Mrs. Glass said. David traded a glance with Danielle. She knew what it meant. It would indeed be awkward to find them—not the least because Mr. and Mrs. Smith would probably welcome them with open arms. Danielle didn't think they were the type to let something as minor as a break-up interfere with hospitality. "You guys were dating for, like, years, right?" Sonya said. "Why'd you break up?" "Just..." David looked around uncomfortably. "The religion stuff got overbearing. She's very strongly Christian and..." "Nothing wrong with that," said Mrs. Glass. "No, of course not," said David. "But it figures really strongly into what she wants for me too." "Meaning..." said his father. "She wants David to become a Christian," Danielle said. "God, nothing sucks more than someone who wants to tell you how to live your life," Sonya interjected. "It ... kinda was," David said. "She totally must not have put out, then," Sonya said. "Wow, Sonya," said Danielle, jumping in before Mom could burst a vein, "I don't think you could have been cruder if you'd asked him about the size of his dick." She realized Sonya was about the age where she would start thinking about sex. It was a terrifying thought ... Especially considering Sonya's attitude. "Don't you want to say good-bye to her?" said Mr. Glass. "You might never see her again." "No, that could be ... Uncomfortable," said David. And so they drove to Danielle's apartment and packed up the last of her stuff; and then they drove home. Sonya was assigned to keep Danielle company in her car, a decision she understood but knew was going to be trouble. But Mom said, "You two can catch up. You've barely seen each other for four years!" And Danielle knew what she was really saying was, 'Get her out of our hair for two hours, will ya?' And so she did. By the time they got home, Danielle wanted Sonya out of her hair. The entire ride had been talking, yes ... From Sonya, to Danielle, with very little alteration. Sonya had a million things to say, and all of them were negative, whether it be on the selection of boys at Sheldon Oaks High School or Danielle's taste in clothing (or friends) (or music) (or colleges) or their parents, whose tribulations Danielle now had a new and personal appreciation for. Had Sonya always been this much of a bitch? Had she simply gotten used to it after thirteen years of exposure? At least she hasn't tried to kick me in the head yet. Stepping into her room was a different experience for her. Though she'd come home over the summers, she rarely unpacked all that much; she always known she was leaving again. To come back here—to come back here with the understanding that, this time, she was here to stay—felt foreign to her. Foreign, too, to have this much space; intoxicating, almost. And to have all her possessions: there were clothes she hadn't brought to college, old books, teddy bears. Her old high-school diary was in the same drawer she'd left it in, the most recent entry six years old. It wasn't home to be here, and yet it was; everything was second nature to her here, and she needed only to reach out for a thing to find it exactly where she thought it would be. Bizarre sensation. Within a month, though, Danielle knew it wasn't home, or at least couldn't stay that way. She had changed in college, become more independent; she had outgrown this roof, this room. These rules. These parents. "How many times do we have to tell you!" her mother shrieked. "If you're going to be out past eleven, we expect you to call!" "I'm sorry," Danielle said, "I was at Liz's, we lost track of time. But I'm an adult, I can take care of myself. Sonya's still out, and I bet she hasn't called either. How come she gets to—" "Don't try to change the subject, young lady! If we ask you to call, you better had!" "Mom, if it's that important, you could call me." "It should be important to you! You aren't just out in the wilds anymore, young lady! You have a family who worries sick about you! —And what the hell is that!" said Mom, pointing. Danielle had almost forgotten the can of beer she was holding. "This?" "Since when do you drink alcohol?!" "Umm ... Since I turned 21, Mom, and it became legal." "You mean to tell me you got behind the wheel of a car with alcohol in your bloodstream?!" Danielle was starting to be annoyed now. "I had one beer all night, Mom—one. You're looking at it. There are amounts of alcohol that could hamper my judgment, but this is not one of them." "You're never going to Liz's house again, do you hear me? Never again! I am going to call her mother right now and tell her what—" "Mom, it's a little bit late," Danielle said. "Maybe you should wait until tomorrow." She didn't really want her mom making that phone call. She didn't think Mrs. Lewiston would overreact this way; she seemed sane ... Of course, so had Mom. "Ohh, I see how it is now," Mom said. "You spend a year in a dorm room and you think you know everything, don't you! You think you can tell me what to do!" Danielle wondered if this was supposed to make her angry. In truth, the best she could claim was vague perplexity. She wasn't even slightly buzzed, but maybe the booze was helping her stay laid-back. "Mom, I'm going to bed. We can pick this up in the morning if you like. Good night." "That's it," her mother shrieked as she ascended the stairs, "that's it, I've had enough of your misbehavior. Go to your room, young lady, or I'll— Where do you think you're going! Come back here!" The next morning she was less hysterical. She knocked on Danielle's door just as Danielle was returning from the shower. "Danielle, I ... I think I need to apologize for last night. I overreacted, I ... It was wrong of me." "Mom, don't worry about it," said Danielle. "It was late; we were tired." I don't think Mom's ever apologized to me before. Whatever the case, she knew that acting vindictive over it—or victorious—wouldn't make things better. "Still, it wasn't right for me to take out my frustrations on ... How am I supposed to raise you well if I can't even live by my own standards." "Well..." said Danielle. "My friend Jodie always said that the best lessons she ever learned from her parents were the ones where she learned to not be like them ... There's hope." Her mother laughed without amusement. "There's hope. Yes, I suppose. What if we already tried that, and it didn't work?" Danielle blinked at her mother, aware suddenly that something else was going on beneath the surface of this conversation. "Does this, um ... Does this have anything to do with how Sonya didn't arrive until 3 AM last night?" Her mother raised an eyebrow. "You were still awake at 3 AM?" "You were too?" Danielle returned, with a smile. Mom didn't smile back. "Well, sometimes I don't even ... I'm sure that ... Well, Sonya's always been a little willful." "Yes," said Danielle, "if by, 'a little, ' we mean, 'completely and totally.' And, I've got a hunch that it got worse while I wasn't there to distract her." "Just a little," said Mom. "Danielle, you have no idea of the living hell we've experienced for—" "On the contrary, Mom," Danielle returned. "What you lived for four years, I lived for the twelve years before it. And, as I recall, you didn't believe me when I told you." "We didn't believe it when we lived it," Mom said. "Danielle, you of all people should know by now how your sister operates. She takes refuge in audacity. She does things so ... Ugh! I don't even know how to explain it!" "Well, at the very least, she does the things you were accusing me of," Danielle said. "She stays out late with her friends, and she doesn't call." "And when we ask her to, she has this indignant outrage act," Mom said. "You know, things like, 'How dare you, ' 'I thought you trusted me, ' on and on. One would think it would stop working by now, but ... One would be wrong." Danielle felt a niggling suspicion. " ... Does she drink?" "I have no idea," said her mother in a brittle voice. "And we can't find out. She's too crafty to show it, or to let us smell her breath. One time I ... One time, I decided to sneak into her room while she was asleep, to smell her breath. Well, I found out that she wakes up very, very easily." "And?" said Danielle. "And ... She claims that all her Taekwondo training means she has reflexes she can't control." Her mother's mouth twisted. "So she punched you." Danielle wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "In 'self-defense.'" Her mother heard the sarcasm quotes. "Oh, yes, absolutely, because we all know Sonya would never do that deliberately. But your father..." "Didn't believe." "And still doesn't. I know he likes to think he's being the voice of reason, but the simple fact is..." "Well, enough of our pity party," Danielle said, putting her hand on Mom's arm. "The more important question is, how do we get her to stop." Mom looked at her silently for a moment. Then she said, "Have you ever thought about moving out?" That was either the weirdest non-sequitur of my life, or Mom's playing a deeper game than I'm aware of. "Well, you just got me back," she said, trying for a laugh. "You want to get rid of me already?" Mom didn't laugh. "Oh, Danielle. I'm your mother, and that means I will love you no matter what. Even if you punch me in the face. But ... It's like you said last night. You're grown up now. You're old enough to live your own life in your own way, and being here limits your ability to do that." "Well..." said Danielle. "Yes, the thought had crossed my mind. But housing prices..." "Are about as low as they're going to get," her mother said. "But I don't have a job. And also ... Well, I've been in an empty apartment. I don't want to live alone." "And none of your friends are interested?" "I actually haven't asked," said Danielle, "but ... I dunno. Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't. I've never lived with them, and it's been a while since I've known them. Besides, what does this have to do with getting Sonya to calm down and stop being a bitch?" Mom said nothing. Danielle made the connection. "Mom, if you think that I am going to be roommates with Sonya, then you—" "No, no, that actually ... I was trying to find a way to explain what I'm thinking. It doesn't involve her moving out. That's a horrific idea. We can barely control her now, it'd be even worse if she was under somebody else's roof." "Then what? Besides the obvious, of having somewhere to send her when you can't stand her." "It's ... Well, yes, it's partially that. But it's ... Well, you know that Sonya respects you a great deal." Danielle gave a single snort of laughter. "Right, because punching someone in the face is totally how you express respect." "But that's the thing," said Mom, utterly straight-faced. "With Sonya, it is. I don't know who raised her this way, but when she actually cares about someone's opinion, she goes out of her way to hurt them." "Why?" "I think ... I think she doesn't like to feel vulnerable. The people she loves ... They have power over her. So she hurts them, to prevent them from hurting her." Danielle gave another snort. "God, the first time she has sex, she's either gonna chew his dick off or just have a complete meltdown." Oh my god, did I just say that? To my mother?? But Mom just covered her eyes with a hand. "I've had to contemplate one daughter losing her virginity, don't make me contemplate the other. But that's neither here nor there. The point is ... If we can get you out of the house, and get her out of the house, I think she might feel ... I think she might stop feeling constrained by that power structure. I think she might feel more comfortable relating to you as, not someone who is in a position of power to her, and thus a threat ... But as an equal. As a peer." "As someone she doesn't have to punch," Danielle said. "Yes," said Mom. Danielle had to admit, there was some sense to the theory. "That still doesn't solve the question of who I'm gonna room with. Or where. And what money I'm gonna pay it with." "Well, the job is inevitable," said Mom. "Money is the new oxygen. As to the others, start asking around. Maybe you'll find someone who's interested." And so Danielle started shopping herself out on Craigslist. She did it only half-heartedly; it wasn't even August yet, and she wanted at least a month more of down time before she launched herself into ... Whatever she would end up doing. She had enough graphics experience to work at most regular publications and maybe even some magazines, but heaven only knew what was actually open. All she did know was that, whatever job she started at, it would be the end of her free time until the day she retired. (And unless she got lucky, she might never retire. Politics didn't concern Danielle too much—she figured she had enough problems in her own life without worrying about the country too—but she knew enough about what the Baby Boom had done to Social Security to know that she would never see a cent of it.) The question of a roommate eluded her as well. It took Danielle a little while to realize that she wasn't asking Liz or Carmen on purpose—that, if truth be told, she didn't want to live with them. They were her friends, and she loved them, but her life was in a different place than it had been when their friendships were strong. She just didn't think they were right for her anymore. But, if so, whom? Not David; that would simply be too awkward. She often went out with him and Liz as friends, but if she wasn't in a place where she could room with Liz, she was even further from a place where she could room with David. It was the hardest question; and, ironically, it was the one that was answered without her having to lift a finger. One day as she was clicking listlessly around the Internet, she heard the doorbell ring; on the other side was a moon-pale face, dark hair, large, frightened eyes. "I ... I ... I hope I'm not disturbing anything, but ... Can I stay at your house for a few days?" David came rushing over when she called. By the time he arrived, she'd helped Nicole unload her few trunks and bags from the taxi, sent the driver off with a nice tip, and fixed her a cup of hot chocolate, which was somewhat inappropriate to the season but the only thing Danielle could think of. Mom and Dad were out at work, Sonya doing God-knew-what; there were, for the moment, only three of them. When he arrived, David swept Nicole into a hug only slightly smaller than the one Danielle had given her. Nicole looked like she hadn't slept in several days. "I ... After we broke up," Nicole said, "and after we graduated, my mom and dad came up to help me pack and move home." She was sitting on the couch across from them, looking miserable; David had quite specifically chosen not to sit next to her, and Danielle, after a moment of anxiety, had decided to do the same. "So we packed up, and they ... It wasn't a big apartment, but big enough for two people, and they asked why only I was living there. And I told them the truth—that I had had a roommate, but we'd had a fight, and the roommate had moved out." "Only, you didn't tell them who the roommate was," said David, who had moved onto a friend's couch after the break-up. "Isn't there a Biblical stricture against pre-marital cohabitation?" said Danielle. "Which is why I didn't tell them," said Nicole. "I could've told you it might've ended badly," Danielle said. "I mean, any relationship can still go down the tubes. Moving in with a boyfriend?" "Hindsight is 20/20, Danielle," said David. "Besides, who else could she have lived with?" "She could've lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment," Danielle said. "Like she ended up doing. You're just lucky they didn't make the connection. It was a one-bedroom apartment, after all." "Look, Nicole, what happened?" said David. "I had already moved out by graduation, and I'm pretty sure I took all my stuff with me." Looking at him, Danielle suddenly wondered how painful this must be for him. He and Nicole had only been broken up for about four months. But then, that was David; feeling pain in the course of being a friend had never deterred him. "Well ... You took most of your stuff with you," said Nicole. "But there were something we ... We decided I should keep. Remember?" David covered his face with his hands. "Oh no. They found the boxers?" "Wait, your folks went looking through your stuff?" said Danielle. Nicole said, "I guess they ... I guess they might have noticed that I wasn't saying a lot about my roommate. Or maybe there were ... Other things." "What, that they found?" said David. "That they noticed," said Nicole. "That ... They helped me clean up the apartment, I don't even know what could have fallen behind the couch or under the bed or anything. But ... They had suspicions." "So what happened?" said Danielle. "How does that bring you here?" "Well, they ... They sat me down, and ... Brought out the things they found when they were looking through my stuff." "The boxers," said David. "What's wrong with boxer shorts?" Danielle said. "People wear them." "Yes, but these had ... an ... Interesting image on them," said David. "Why, what did ... Never mind, I think I'd rather not know," said Danielle. "But it wasn't just those," said Nicole. "They also ... They also found the bullet. And the box of condoms." "Jesus," David said, "couldn't you—" "Do not abuse my Savior's name, David!" Nicole flared. "Lena, couldn't you have bothered to hide these things just a little? Leaving them out where anyone can find them—" "I did hide them!" Nicole protested, from angry to tearful in an instant. "I can't even imagine how hard they must have looked, it must've taken the whole day—" "Can we argue about that another time?" said Danielle. "It's not really solving anything. Nicole, what happened when you came home and they had all this evidence of your horrendous wrong-doing? ... Actually, I think I can imagine." "They kicked you out," David said. Nicole nodded. "They said ... They said I had half an hour to pack and, and to find somewhere to go, and ... And that they would, they would start calling all their friends and telling them that I was a sinner, and they should..." Now she was crying in earnest. "They should turn me away if I..." "Well, we're not turning you away," said David, but Danielle had a different answer. She crossed the living room in three steps and gathered her best friend in her arms. Nicole clutched at her with desperate strength, sobbing into her shoulder. Should she say something soothing, like, "It'll be okay"? Danielle had never believed in saying those things. Would it be? Danielle glanced back at David, who was still sitting on the other couch, looking dismal. Clearly he wanted to give his friend a hug too; why hadn't he... ? Oh. Well, that's stupid. She has bigger things to worry about than the fact that you're her ex-boyfriend. "Get over here, stupid," she said, and David stood up and hugged Nicole from the other side, sandwiching her between them. After Nicole was done crying, they sat down again—this time all of them on the same couch. Though most of her emotions had been expended, Nicole was still troubled. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she said. "I barely know my aunts or uncles, and all the people I know..." "Come on, Nicole. You don't have any friends your parents haven't managed to turn against you?" David said. "That doesn't matter," said Danielle. "Because wherever I am, she still has family. As to what you're going to do, Nicole, you're going to do what you thought you would after you graduated: find a job, move out and live your life. And, as it just so happens, I'm planning on doing the same thing, and I need a roommate." Nicole looked at her. "You'd want to live with me? After ... After all that's happened?" "You're my sister, Nicole," Danielle said. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather live with." Of course, around then Mom and Dad started arriving from work; and eventually Sonya filtered in. To say her parents were surprised would be an understatement, but once Danielle had explained to them where this unexpected visitor came from, they were more understanding. Sonya, of course, looked quite ready to do (or say) something horrifically bitchy, but Danielle had a stroke of inspiration: she simply took Sonya quietly aside and said, "If you aren't nice to my friend, I will tell Mom and Dad where you were last night." Of course, Danielle had absolutely no idea where her sister had been last night, or even if it had been something Sonya would want to keep secret; but as a gamble, it paid off, because Sonya's eyes went wide and she was, in fact, polite (or at least silent) to Nicole for the rest of the day. (Danielle wondered where Sonya had gone last night.) It was a few more days before Danielle felt comfortable introducing Nicole to Liz and Heidi—or rather, before Danielle felt Nicole would be comfortable meeting them. Nicole had come to visit during the summers before she and David started dating, so she wasn't a complete stranger to them; but she also knew that Nicole was the type of person who needed a lot of time to adjust to new circumstances. And this wasn't just a visit, where Nicole knew she'd have to meet a lot of people in a hurry, and then could go home and decompress for a week; now, this was Nicole's home (at least as far as Danielle was concerned), and things had to go at the pace she would be comfortable with. Liz and Heidi were solicitous, of course, and went out of their way to be nice to her. Of course, there was a lot to get caught up on with them as well. Liz was doing better; she had struggled through with her degree with the help of the free counseling center at USF. Much as she disliked to admit it, she was trying Paxil to see if it might make a difference. She was very happy to be back home, where her family was—and where she could fall back on the Stantons. "I didn't believe you when you told me, Dani, but you were right. They are my friends. And that's just something I wasn't able to achieve with the other psychologists I tried. Maybe now that I'm home, I can start getting better, faster." Heidi had found herself in a whirlwind of male attention for her senior year. From the sounds of it, she had navigated it pretty well—and was almost irritated at how most of the boys had treated her. "I mean, it was pretty obvious they were only thinking about one thing. I never had to deal with that when I was all frumpy-looking." "That is one advantage of the frump look," Danielle conceded. "But I'm sure you can learn to navigate it. I'm sure you can learn to tell when someone is genuinely interested in you as a person, as opposed to when they just, you know, wanna get in your pants." "I can tell," said Heidi gloomily. "They all do." "Maybe they do," said Liz, "but that doesn't mean that they aren't also interested in you as a person. If you're going to turn down every boy you meet just because he wants to have sex, you will die an old maid." ("Didn't we go over this last year?" Danielle wondered.) Amy, of course, hadn't come home; she had moved in with her boyfriend James, and when they visited for a short time in August it was clear that they were married in all but name. To Danielle, the biggest news was that Weston had managed to get himself hitched and saddled as well: some girl he'd been sleeping with had gotten pregnant, and he'd taken the plunge and married her. Danielle wished him well—if that was how he wanted to live his life, then more power to him—but didn't think it was going to work out. She didn't know this girl at all, but she knew Weston. He wasn't the type to be satisfied with what he actually had. But who knew, in the end?—perhaps fatherhood would change him. When Danielle proposed that she had found her new roommate, Mom and Dad were skeptical; they knew there was history between the two of them. But Danielle assured them that this was water under the bridge, that the problem had only been that her two best friends were dating. Furthermore, Danielle refused point-blank to entertain the idea that Nicole should be given a great deal of time to overcome her loss and get settled. Surprisingly, Liz backed her up on this. "The last thing you want to do, Mrs. Mayer, is give Nicole a long time with nothing to do but sit there and think about what she did wrong. That way lies madness. It would be better if she had things to occupy herself with. It's the time-honored advice for getting over break-ups, and it's what's right for her right now." So, after a week or so, during which Nicole was settled in the guest bedroom and made to feel as welcome as possible, Danielle began the job search and the apartment search in earnest, bringing Nicole with her. Of course, Nicole's degree was in education, and there was only so much she could accomplish without a teaching credential—something she might be hard-pressed to obtain now. But, with help from Danielle's mom, Nicole began to fish with a wide net, applying herself where her talents, not just her degree, might be of use. For Danielle, work was an easier issue; there was always a need for graphic designers, especially since this wasn't the Silicon Valley and computer-savvy people weren't a dime a dozen. But most of it was commissioned work: someone wanted a flyer for this concert or that festival or such-and-such a back-to-school meeting. It was work, yes, but it wasn't particularly steady. Finding an apartment was, ironically, the easiest part, if the most expensive one. Within a week or so, Danielle had a line on a nice two-bedroom in a decent part of the city. Of course, the owners of apartment were (understandably) reticent to rent to two recent graduates with a pile of debt and nary a job between them. But even as Danielle began to worry about the seeming lopsidedness of the situation, things began to fall into place: Danielle was offered work at the school district office, helping create the multitude of flyers they needed. It wasn't really what she had trained for, but PhotoShop was second nature to her now, and most of what they wanted, she could do. Nicole, meanwhile, got work as a teacher at a local music school; Danielle hadn't known her friend had any musical talent, and was surprised to learn that Nicole had a Certificate of Merit at the piano, and a fair singing voice as well from years of churchgoing. Soon she was leading classes of four-year-olds as well as giving individual lessons. And, with this income in hand, they were soon signing the contract on the apartment they had found. Moving into this apartment was, in its own way, very different from what Danielle had experienced before. It wasn't by any means the first time she had ever lived in an apartment, nor was it the first time she'd ever lived with Nicole; but it was certainly different to be in her own place and yet be only a few minutes from home, so that if she needed to get something from Mom or Dad (or, for that matter, if Mom needed to shuffle Sonya off for her sanity), she could do so. She didn't have to pack up absolutely everything she needed, and she realized that, even though she was now (technically) more grown-up than she had been in college, her parents would be a bigger part of her life now than they had then. It was also unusual in the amount of furniture Danielle didn't have. The apartments she had stayed at previously had involved an interesting program in the form of "we provide the furniture, but if you mess it up too much, we charge you extra for them at the end of the year." This complex handled furniture much more conventionally—that is, it didn't handle it at all; she had to bring her own. Danielle didn't have any furniture, and if Nicole did, it was all with her parents, which meant it might as well be on the moon. Mom helped them bargain-hunt, but even getting only the most necessary of things—beds, a couch for the living room, utensils, a refrigerator—involved enough money to make Danielle panic ... Though, after Mom insisted she was paying for it all as a graduation gift, Danielle continued to panic, if for a slightly different reason. Nicole was able to face it without blinking. But then, Nicole had always had a bit of a shell-shocked air to her. David was with them sometimes, and not at others. He had gotten employed at a local development firm and was serving as something between intern, assistant architect, and secretary & general gofer. Like Danielle, he was seeking to move out, with his long-time friend Scott O'Conner; unlike Danielle, he was being somewhat stymied by Scott's reluctance to abandon the last summer of his life and get into the workforce. Eventually Scott found a sporting-goods store that was willing to take him on, and out the two of them went. She could tell, on the occasions when David was with them, that he was still uncomfortable in Nicole's presence. She supposed she didn't blame him; they hadn't been broken up for very long. Nicole, for her part, was unfailingly polite with him, but much of the intimacy was gone; once he had been on the short list of people she felt comfortable around, but now he got the same facade Danielle's parents did, or Liz and Heidi. David seemed to take the hint, and started asking if Nicole was around before bringing up the idea of hanging out. Danielle knew that both of them needed to do whatever they needed to do, but it made her sad to see them at such an impasse. Both of them were family to her, if in different ways, and she wanted to see them comfortable with each other again. Of course, Nicole had changed too over the course of the last sixteen months. In some ways she was more reticent, more hesitant to speak her mind—about housework, about the lights, about having the air conditioning on. But in other matters she was more demanding than before. She wanted to hang a crucifix in the living room, for instance, which Danielle thought was a little confusing in lieu of the burning-of-poster she'd perpetrated four years ago. Plus, she wasn't sure she wanted that in her living room. But Nicole was adamant, and Danielle decided it wasn't a big thing to complain about. Another example came the first time Danielle broke out her vibrator for a little private time. It had been nearly three months since she'd had any sexual activity in her life (Erik), and she was ready for some release. But when she was done, Nicole came knocking at her door. "Can you not make noises when you do that? I ... I mean, I don't want to hear that." There were all sorts of things Danielle could say about how she hadn't wanted to hear Nicole's noises, but she decided to say, "I'm sorry, I hadn't realized you could hear me. I'll try and be quieter next time." In truth, it annoyed her; she liked being able to be vocal when she came. But that was life. Next time I'll have to do it when she's not here. True to Mom's promise, the moment Danielle was moved in, Mom was trying to shunt Sonya out into the apartment. Of course, it wasn't just Mom; Sonya, too, was eager to spread her wings and get out from under parental oppression. What Danielle hadn't counted on was that Sonya was expecting to use Danielle as a co-conspirator. She wanted Danielle's help. Danielle wasn't sure what she wanted to do in this case. When Mom said that it would give her a chance to get closer to Sonya, was this what she'd meant? She mulled over it for an hour before talking to Nicole about it, feeling that Nicole had the right combinations of sympathy and relationships (or lack thereof) for an objective judgment ... And to not rat on Danielle if she chose to help her sister's ne'er-do-welling. "Should you help your sister?" Nicole said. "Yes." Danielle blinked. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear. Sonya wants to go out drinking with friends. She talks about picking up boys. I don't know the details, but it's entirely possible that she's no longer a virgin ... No longer a virgin? Hell! It's entirely possible that she's being completely promiscuous and having casual sex with strangers!" "Which is why you should agree to be her partner-in-crime," Nicole said. "Danielle, you know as well as I do that your sister is going to go do these dangerous things whether you help her to or not. So, when you agree to help her, that means you're a part of the process. Now you can challenge her on her most dangerous ideas. Now, when she tries to do stupid things, you can hold her back." "I don't know if I can, she's always been pig-head stubborn," Danielle grumbled, but she could see the wisdom in Nicole's idea. Sonya's track record of respecting her family was essentially zero. If she could get Sonya to treat her as a friend instead... "It's a good idea." "I learned it from my parents," Nicole said. "Oh? They did this for you?" "They did the opposite," Nicole said, her eyes downcast. "When they found out I was doing things they disapproved of, they ... They just blew their tops. They said they didn't want to have anything to do with me ever again. Didn't ... Didn't try to teach me, or learn why I had done it, just ... Decided I was worthless." Danielle scooped her into her arms. "Maybe they did, but it wasn't all bad. They gave you back to me. Nicole, you have no idea how much I missed you." "I missed you too," said Nicole. "I didn't ... I knew that it hurt you that David and I were together, but I had never ... He was my first. My first everything. I couldn't bear to give him up." "I didn't want you to. I was happy you were happy. I just ... Couldn't be happy myself." "And I ... I did a terrible thing, too." Nicole was crying again. "I would always ... We weren't always ... You know ... Doing things. When my heart was up. Sometimes we were just talking, or even just doing homework, or ... But when it was the three of us, I would see you look at David, or him look at you, and just ... You were always thinking the same things. And it ... I wanted that to be me, I wanted to be the person he would look at and have a conversation with. And it hurt that..." "Shh," said Danielle. "It's okay. Those things are over and we don't have to worry about them now." "I'm sorry," Nicole cried. "I wanted him to myself. I knew that I had to hurt you, and I hated that, but I wanted him to myself." "Well, neither of us have him now," said Danielle. "He'll go and meet some other girl, and he'll fall in love with her, and she'll be jealous of the fact that he's still friends with two of his exes until we go and meet some guys and fall in love with them. And then everyone will be happy. And in the meanwhile, we're friends again, and that's worth everything to me." Nicole gave a bit of a laugh. "Worth being friends with Sonya? Because that's what I just told you to do." Danielle laughed too. "Worth even that." And so Sonya started to come over to hang out on occasion. If Danielle had thought being nice to her would yield any change in her attitude, she was rudely disabused: Sonya was still a bitch, complaining loudly and roundly about everything. The couch they'd gotten was too bumpy; the little TV was too small; Danielle didn't have anything fun to do. And the first thing Sonya wanted help on was a shock: she needed Danielle to buy her a dildo harness, because Mom was watching Sonya's credit card statements like a hawk. Danielle, who knew what a dildo harness was for, wondered what Sonya could want one for. Then she had a brainstorm: by feigning complete ignorance, she could find out. "A ... A dildo? Is that ... Is that some kind of animal?" It was more fun that it should've been, watching Sonya's anger rise and then have to be smothered down. What Sonya needed this for was relatively innocuous—two of her friends were in a lesbian relationship and they wanted to do their ordering by proxy. But Sonya dropped enough cryptic hints during the conversation for Danielle to start getting a picture. Sonya probably was sexually active, possibly with more than one guy and possibly with more than one guy at a time. She seemed contemptuous of her lovers (if they could be called that at all) and, for that matter, contemptuous of most of the people around her, even those people she called friends. They were all stupid or out-of-control or ugly or something. Surely she doesn't act like this around her friends, they'd never put up with her, Danielle thought; but the first time she met Sonya's friends, she discovered that, yes, they did. Each of them was just as bitchy as Sonya—and, even more than that, none of them seemed to take it amiss. Sonya could call them a "roadside gig" or "crack whore," or they her, without anyone (except Danielle) blinking. Danielle wondered at this bizarre form of bonding. Did they actually think these were compliments? Did they actually treat it like it was compliments? Sometimes it would be all four of them—Sonya, David, Nicole and Danielle—in the living room, talking or watching TV. Times like these were the only times Danielle ever saw Sonya being polite. Why? Because David was there? He was practically family to her. If she was willing to snub Mom and Dad, why should she care what he thought of her? Maybe it was Nicole. Maybe Sonya was still taking that one threat seriously. Somehow, Danielle doubted it. Sometimes Danielle went to David's place as well, an apartment in a somewhat more run-down area of the city, though still a safe one; sometimes Scott, a bronzed surfer type who seemed perpetually stoned (if mellow, and quite pleasant company), would be there; sometimes Scott's girlfriend, a black-clad girl who called herself Penumbra Darkholme and was clearly a good five or six years younger than him, would be there as well. David generally preferred to come over to Danielle's place, for which she hardly blamed him. He seemed to have no other friends, or at least no other friends he cared to stay in touch with. At first, Danielle wondered if she needed to get him out more; but then she realized that she was much the same. Who were the people she really cared about in life? Nicole, her beloved sister; and David himself. If Liz moved back to California this minute, Danielle would not be devastated. I guess we're both private people in the end. Spending time with him again—for the first time in more than a year—made her remember how much she had missed him. No wonder I had to settle with hopping into bed with a stranger. I was so lonely I didn't even realize it; it just became a fact of life. Nicole was her sister; she would love her even if, for some reason, she didn't like her all that much (like when she was dating David), and knew that Nicole felt the same way. With David it was much the same, except deeper; she knew David's soul like she did her own. Nicole had identified it: there were so many things David and Danielle just didn't need to say to each other, because they knew it already. That simpatico had been such a big part of her life as she grew up, and it had been difficult in the intervening years to learn to live without it. With that in mind, maybe she shouldn't have been surprised at what David said to her in early September, as summer was beginning to close and the leaves were starting to think about donning their fall colors. The two of them had gotten take-out from the local Chinese place; David had ordered for both of them, effortlessly, knowing exactly what she would like. They argued over the last wonton, laughed about the preponderance of soy-sauce packets, and teased each other about their food choices—he over her love of cilantro, which he abhorred, and she for his complete inability to use the chopsticks. They had done this a hundred of times over the course of their friendship; sometimes it had been stilted, the camaraderie stifled by the memories of their break-up, of the pains that had passed between them. Today, though, it felt like nothing had changed. They might have been sixteen again, blithely innocent, still chatting about how they planned to head out to the field and give themselves to each other. And with that in mind, maybe she shouldn't have been surprised at what David said to her after he put his fork and napkin down. "Danielle, I ... I've really been having fun with you." Maybe she shouldn't've been surprised, but she was; she had no idea what was coming. So she just laughed and made a joke out of it: "Well, I sure hope so. I'd be a pretty bad friend if you weren't having fun." "Doing this just reminds me of ... Of old times," David said. "We had to live without each other's company for a while, but ... Even back then, I always missed your company." "I missed you too," said Danielle, first beginning to get an inkling that this wasn't just any old conversation. "Nicole is a wonderful person, but what we have is ... different." "You and I ... We've shared so much. We've been friends practically our whole lives, we spent our entire educations together without even trying, we ... When we're talking, or hanging out, or, or whatever, I just ... I can't help but feel that this is meant to be. And I don't want to be separated from you anymore." "Okay, um, David," said Danielle, confused now. "Are we talking, just, like, staying friends? Or ... Are you trying to get us back together?" "Well..." said David. " ... Back together. I love you, and I miss you, and I wanna try again." Danielle said nothing. " ... Don't tell me you didn't see this coming," David said, looking a little daunted. "I didn't see this coming," Danielle confessed. "I'm surprised." "Why?" said David. "Don't you ... Don't you miss what we've had? I've been sitting here wishing I could kiss you for the last hour." "Oh, Davey," she said. "Of course I miss what we had. I love you; I always have, I always will." "When you were with that ... That Erik guy ... It just killed me. Knowing that you didn't love him, and that ... And I mean, it was like, 'Hey, I'm right here, how come... '" "Maybe I should have," she said with a twist of her lip, "I didn't much like it either. But ... Davey, we—you and I—we broke up for a reason. There were things that weren't working between us." "I know," he said, "I know. But the thing is ... I've changed." "Well, so have I," she said, "but, that doesn't mean we still fit together. David, I'm a different woman than the girl you dated. I'm more bitchy, I have less patience with people, I..." She thought about her long vacation, about the months of school when she'd just decided to quit her life. Did Davey even know about that time? Yesterday it had been solidly behind her; suddenly it seemed now to loom over her. " ... I've been with men I didn't love," she finished. "If you're expecting things to be all just the same as they were before, they aren't going to be. I'm different. You're different." "I know," he said, "it isn't like ... I'm not saying we're should just go back and pretend like the last six years haven't happened. We are different people. But, Nellie, what I'm saying is ... I think those two people are still good for each other. There are things that have changed, yes, but I don't think that's one of them." Danielle was silent. Thinking about all she had been through in the past six years. Thinking about how catastrophic it had been to lose him. Thinking about how much she'd struggled to stand on her own two feet. Thinking about his spinelessness, his neediness, his laziness. Thinking about how much she'd depended on his presence in her life. "Look, Danielle, I..." He sighed. "I know the road might be bumpy. I'm not saying everything will be perfect. But ... I don't want to live without you. That's all it is. I just don't want to live without you." ... And, in the end, wasn't that the answer she needed? "Look, if it gets uncomfortable..." "We'll stop and re-evaluate," he said. "But you have to realize that it is gonna get uncomfortable at certain points; that's just the nature of the beast. We can't chicken out over that." She saw that he was right. "But let's not rush into things," she said. "You and I ... We have a lot of history, we have a lot of intimacy. We could easily get in too deep, too fast. Let's be careful." After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "We messed it up once," he said, "I don't wanna mess it up again." Fear came rushing over her at once. "I don't either. I just..." She reached out and grabbed his hand. "It scares me. I lost you once. What if ... What if... ?" "We're smarter now," he said. "We know more about ourselves, about what we want. About what we don't want. We can express ourselves better. It doesn't have to end badly this time." "I hope," she said, remembering that long aching time when he had been gone from her. I can't take that again. If it happens again... Without realizing where she was going, she stood up, blundering past the table and the chair. She came around and stood before him. He had always known her heart, inside and out; surely he understood her now. "Danielle," he said, "umm. What... ?" She squeezed her eyes shut before tears came. "Hug me, you fool." He did. His long arms came around her, the solidness of his shoulder in just the right place, his chin tucked over the top of her head. She stood in his arms and shivered. He had always known her, had always understood her; had always been the other half of her self. What if she lost that?—for good? Forever? I was never alive until he came. I was never myself unless he was here. What if... "I'm scared too," he murmured. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah. But ... You've always been my best self, Davey. You're what makes me strongest. If we ... If the two of us can't do it, together, it ... It can't be done." "And we can do it." He kissed the top of her head. "I know we can." ------- Chapter 13 When she got home the day before Thanksgiving, Danielle was unsurprised to find David at her apartment. He often was. Nicole must have let him in; while they'd joked about giving him a key when they were friends, things were different now that they were dating. You didn't just give any old boyfriend the key to your apartment. Even if he was dating. " ... Wouldn't believe how excited they were," Nicole was saying. "I was scared I—oh, hello, Danielle—wouldn't be able to keep control of the class." "I don't blame you," said David. "A bunch of grade schoolers, and the day before a vacation? I'd be nervous about controlling them too." "I'm not sure how I did it," Nicole professed. It was good to see her coming out of her shell. Constant exposure to David was probably helping; but Nicole said that she no longer felt the same pressure now that he was dating somebody else. He would have moved on, and would no longer feel the same interest in Nicole that he once had. Or so she claimed. The way he engaged her in conversation seemed to defy that idea. "Some of them are naturally calm, of course, but others ... Sometimes I think it's a miracle just to make it through the day." "I doubt it," said David, smiling. "I'm sure they respect you a lot more than you think." "Maybe they do, but I don't think respect is quite what a six-year-old decides by," Nicole said. "Maybe if..." "Nellie, where are you going?" said David as she stumped off to her room. "Oh, don't let me interrupt your conversation," Danielle grumped. "Talk on, talk on!" She shut the door behind her and threw herself onto the bed. Perhaps this she should have seen coming too. Hadn't it happened before? That was the whole point of David: he was polite, he was kind, he was the kind of guy you took home to meet your parents. He had been this way since time immemorial. Of course he would be kind to one's roommate, even if that roommate happened to be his ex-girlfriend. The simple fact was, David wasn't territorial. But Danielle was, and while it made her happy to see Nicole getting along with David again, sometimes a girl wanted to feel spoken for. She wondered if flouncing in here had even had any effect. She knew she'd made her dramatic exit (and entrance, for that matter), and that any sane person would assume she wanted to be left alone and, well, leave her alone. But what she really wanted was for David to notice something was wrong, and pursue her in here, and ask her. David called this 'passive-aggressive behavior.' Danielle called passive-aggressive behavior 'a big fancy name for someone claiming to be my soul-mate but actually not knowing me all that well, the bastard.' " Would David cotton on? Would he see her and decide to let her stew in her own juices (the bastard)? Or would he actually take it at face value and decide she really did want to be left alone? With David, you never knew: he was so polite that way. One thing she knew, though: she couldn't leave it hanging like this. David's family was flying east tomorrow morning to spend Thanksgiving with their relatives. At least, she would need to say good-bye. And if he didn't come in to talk to her before then... It was a peevish and anxious half-hour. She checked her e-mail and Facebook profile and the other sites she frequented, but after that there was nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs and wish she could go outside and watch TV, or talk to Nicole, or even talk to David. She was on the verge of giving up when a knock came on her door. "Nellie?" came the muffled voice from the other side. "I have to leave in a bit, I wanted to talk to you at least a little. Is it okay if I come in?" For a few minutes there were just pleasantries: how was work today; anything interesting happen; oh really?, was that the one you said was cheating on her husband?; maybe you'll get a promotion now. Normally Danielle was happy to hear about his day, but right now she was fidgety and on-edge; each banal question grated in her ears like a rusty hinge. Finally David said, "So ... What was all that about earlier? With the rushing in here and barely saying anything?" "Oh," said Danielle, "noticed, did you?" It came out a little more acerbically than she'd intended. "Well ... Yes," said David, "but ... You looked like you really wanted to be left alone." "And that didn't make you concerned?" "It did, but I decided I wasn't going to legitimize your habit of manipulating people instead of saying right-out what you actually want," said David. " ... Well, whatever," said Danielle, deciding not to start that argument. "You're here now; I suppose that's what matters." David gave her an odd look; but evidently he decided not to pursue it, because he said, "So, now that I'm here: what did have you annoyed?" " ... Aren't you supposed to know?" she said. "Without asking? You're the one who's always going on about how well we know each other?" "Look, let's not start that one," David said. "Not now." "What had me annoyed?" Danielle said. "What had me annoyed was how you ignored me. I come in, and what do you keep doing? You keep talking to my roommate. I thought I was your girlfriend. I thought I was your girlfriend." David passed a hand over his face. "Ugh, Nellie, let's not start that one either." "Why not?" she said, "because you'd have to admit you were wrong for once?" It was a nasty thing, and she felt guilty almost immediately ... Somewhat guilty. "I was just being polite," David said. "The other day you said you liked that I'm polite to people. It's kind of hard for me to meet your approval when you keep changing your standards." "Maybe so, but surely even politeness would allow you to interrupt for five seconds to acknowledge my presence." "Look, Danielle, what do you want from me?" said David, impatient for the first time. "I have no idea anymore. So just tell me, straight out. What do you want from me?" I want you to be perfect, was her first thought. Her second was, I want you to stop being perfect. "I ... I wanna feel like your girlfriend." "Despite the fact that, at your insistence, we aren't having sex. Hell, we're barely making out." "I wanna feel like your girlfriend in other stuff too. I want to feel like I'm important. I wanna feel like I mean something to you." "You do." "Oh, right! Yeah! I mean so much to you that when I walk in the room, you keep talking to Nicole!" "Ever thought that I was showing you how much you meant to me with that? You're the one who said you wanted to see us being friends again." "So if I didn't want you to be nice to her, you'd just ignore her." "Of course not. Danielle, you know I'm not like that." "That's my point! You're so tied up in being nice to other people that I get blown off!" "You said you wanted to take it slow!" "Taking it slow does not mean ignoring me!" "Well, it doesn't mean dropping everything when you come in the room either!" "So how about something in the middle, then! How about not ignoring me, and—" "How about just accepting that this is who I am, Nellie? Every time it's always this. 'Why aren't you more this? Why aren't you more that?' I dunno, Nellie, why aren't you okay with the fact that I am what I am?" "And how come it's always my job to change! If you're unhappy with me, I have to fix it, but if I'm unhappy, oh, it's because I'm an idiot and I can't appreciate you!" They glared at each other across the silence. David was the first to drop his gaze. The fierceness dribbled out of him all at once, leaving something ashamed and resentful on his face. "Look, I'll call you when I get back. I'll think while I'm gone. You should too. I don't like the way this is going." She felt a dropping sensation under her. "You're not... ?" "No, I'm not," he said, though there was still iron in his voice. "Jesus Christ, Nellie, why do you always jump to conclusions. I don't want out ... Well, maybe that's not true; I do want out. But so do you. I want out of the relationship where we're always fighting and we can never agree. I want back into the relationship where we get along and we can help each other. And I'm pretty sure you do too. And what I want us to think about, while we're gone from each other, is how to turn this relationship ... into that one. Okay?" "Okay," she said, though the fear remained. "Okay, Davey. I ... I'll think hard." "Good," he said. She could still see the anger in his body, but gruffly he stepped forward anyway and gave her a rough, brief hug. "I'll see you next week. I love you." "I love you too," she said, glad he had said it first. Sometimes his perfectness was a burden, but every now and then... So David left, and Danielle could go outside and spend some time with Nicole. Nicole, unfortunately, wasn't going anywhere. She had hoped that the advent of the holiday season would make her parents re-initiate contact, but so far there was nothing from them. Danielle was surprised at their coldness—they had seemed forgiving and big-hearted on the few occasions she met them—but mentioning this would only make Nicole feel worse, so she kept her mouth shut. All in all it was a nice, relaxing night—more so than usual. Normally they would have to think about getting to bed at some reasonable hour, in order to wake up on time for work in the morning (or at least Danielle would; Nicole never seemed to have problems with being in bed by eleven). Plus, a lot of times David was over, and that could be stressful in its own way. Dating David was, in some ways, exactly what she had needed and wanted for the past six years. He laughed at her jokes, and she at his; he understood why something upset her, sometimes before she did; and every time they kissed she remembered just how good at it he was. But these contretemps between them ... Sometimes it seemed like nothing was going right. The problems she had had with him over the years had not miraculously disappeared. He was still lazy, for instance; the firm he was at offered him very little opportunity for career advancement, and in fact had made it clear that they would need to lay him off eventually. David was completely unconcerned about this, even when she asked him how he planned to keep paying off his student loans—not to mention his rent and food bills. He claimed he'd worry about it when the time came. Danielle wasn't sure if this made him irresponsible or just stupid. "I hope it wasn't me," Nicole said suddenly. "What?" said Danielle, jerking out of her reverie. Something inconsequential was on the television; she had zoned out years ago. "What wasn't you?" "What ... What made you angry when you came in," said Nicole, not meeting her eyes. "I hope that I didn't—" "Silly," said Danielle, smiling. "It wasn't you. He ... Well, you know how he is. He would've been like that if anyone was in the room." Nicole gave a timid smile. "I always liked that about him. I could tell, when my parents met him, that they were impressed, and I know they weren't expecting to be. When I told them I had met a boy in college, I know they were expecting someone ... Scruffier." Danielle was glad her sister felt comfortable talking about her ex-boyfriend; in her experience, that was an important step towards closure. But at the same time, she wished her sister would talk about her ex-boyfriend to somebody else. Of course, Nicole was coming to the Mayers' house for Thanksgiving; Danielle hadn't even thought twice about that. So she was a little concerned when she found herself preparing to leave at two that afternoon, and Nicole still padding around in her sweats. "Magpie, aren't you going to get ready?" "Get ready for what," Nicole asked. It was at this point that Danielle realized she might have forgotten to mention that Nicole was invited. After cursing herself for twelve kinds of idiot, she explained. Then it was another two or three minutes of hugging and sniffles and tearful smiles before Nicole could wipe her eyes and package herself off to the bathroom to take the world's quickest shower. Danielle, meanwhile, called Mom and asked her to guess what Danielle had done this time. Still, they were only out the door about an hour after they'd planned to. The kitchen at Danielle's house was a scene of barely-controlled chaos. The family on her mother's side rotated what family they celebrated Thanksgiving with every year, and this year it was Bonnie Wells Mayer's turn to host. The end result was four families' worth of mothers and daughters bustling around and trying to get everything done, and only a few men—Dad, Uncle Anoop, and Uncle Walter and his son Roland—hanging around watching football. The Wells clan had always had more daughters than they knew what to do with. Mom and Sonya were in the thick of things, of course; and then Nicole found out that some sweet potatoes were available and insisted on breaking out an ancestral Smith family recipe. Of course, nobody knew who she was, but Danielle introduced her as her sister and no one said another word. (The funny thing was, nobody seemed to notice either: they only seemed to care that Nicole had a reason for being there, not what that reason was. Only Aunt Celia gave the appellation any thought: she gave Danielle a long look, and then Nicole, and then nodded to herself and got back to work.) Despite the crowdedness of the facilities and the distinct lack of ovens (five or six would have been necessary for peak efficiency), all the food got on the table more-or-less on time and more-or-less properly cooked; Nicole was formerly introduced, with Danielle giving a longer description, and welcomed without prejudice into the clan; and everyone sat down to eat. Danielle found herself sandwiched between Nicole on one side and Sonya on the other, who alternated between dropping snide comments into Danielle's conversation on her left and Cousin Roland's conversation on the right. From what Danielle could hear, Roland was having relationship troubles of his own; he was talking with Aunt Celia's daughter Heather about the proceedings, while Sonya did what she always did, which was pretend to be helpful but actually just snark her way around. About half the time Danielle couldn't pay much attention, though, as she would constantly be called on to run interference for Nicole, whose sweet potato recipe had turned out to be quite a hit. Nicole, of course, was completely unused to the attention, and turned red more times than Danielle could count. The real miracle was that Nicole felt comfortable getting plunged into a throng of strangers like this at all. The ghostly girl Danielle had met as a freshman would have fled to a bathroom by now. After dinner was over, Roland and Heather were still psychoanalyzing Roland's girlfriend, who sounded like a fair piece of work; Danielle joined them, a little curious and wondering what she herself could learn. She was glad she did: Roland's fiancée, Sharon, was having much the same problems with him that Danielle was with David. She was pressuring Roland—unduly, as he saw it—to be more assertive about his talents and his success; his company, she claimed, was treating him as though he had half his experience, and paying him about that much as well. They were renting an apartment together and Sharon's financial means were limited, so that the larger burden of financial support necessarily came from him; even more than that, they were getting married, and Sharon felt nervous about the life she'd be able to lead (and, for that matter, the babies she'd be able to raise!) under a husband who was so willing to devalue herself. Inevitably, the conversation turned towards Danielle's problems. At first she demurred, not wanting to distract from Roland's issues (it seemed impolite); but after a little prodding, she realized just how much she needed to talk about this. Who could she talk about it to?—Nicole was biased (through no fault of her own), and her other friend was David himself. So to Roland and Heather, whom she saw at most once a year, she spilled her heart out: the early years, the catastrophic break-up, the period of catatonic depression; the years at college, with him dating her best friend; and now her fears and concerns today. It took a little while. She didn't realize Sonya was listening in until the snort of derision came from behind her. "Oh, God, is she going on about this again?" She made her voice a mocking sing-song. "Oh, boo-hoo is me, I had the perfect man and I messed up and now I'm gonna lose him, waaah. Bitch, you gotta stop whining about it and just do something." Danielle let her voice go frosty. "I don't recall inviting you into this conversation." "Yeah, and that's why you got problems," Sonya retorted. "You don't ask the right people for help." "Fine, bitch," Danielle said. "What would you do, in your infinite haven't-even-gone-to-college-yet wisdom." "Are you sleeping with him?" said Sonya. "Oh, is that your advice. Just flash my titties at him and he'll be as meek as a lamb." "It isn't, so answer the question," Sonya snarled. "Are you sleeping with him?" " ... No," said Danielle. "Well, there's your problem," said Roland, without irony. "Danielle, I'm sure you're aware that guys are more docile when they're getting some." "Why aren't you doing it with him?" Sonya said. "You were before, when you dated the first time." Despite herself, Danielle was unnerved. "How did you know?" Had Sonya been spying on them? How had she even known to spy?—she and David had gone out together, to various places, all the time. What had tipped her off that today was the right particular day to follow them to the field? "You were dating for years, you must have been," Sonya said. Danielle felt a wave of relief—followed immediately by a wave of alarm: Is that how Sonya thinks of men? "So, you did it with him before; no reason why you wouldn't be willing to do it again. Except that, you aren't. Why not?" "With the way he's been acting, you think I should?" Danielle said. "He ignores me to talk to my roommate, he doesn't care that he's gonna be an unemployed bum, he barely kisses me, much less acts like he wants to go to bed with me—" "That's just David being David," Sonya said with a dismissive toss of her head. "I bet you said you didn't wanna do it with him until later, right? Well, he's taking that seriously. He's waiting for you to give a sign that he's ready before he decides to do anything with you." "Well, David being David is a prick!" Danielle said. "He does all that stuff, yeah, and I tell him to stop! But whenever I do that, he either complains that I'm not allowed to change my mind, or he tells me I need to just shut up and learn to live with it! Like he's already perfect! He's being a total jerkass, and you're saying I should reward him?" "Do you love him?" Sonya asked. Danielle was blindsided. "What?" "You heard me," Sonya said. Her eyes were narrow slits, her face aggressive. "Do you love him?" "Well ... Yes," said Danielle. "Then no, you shouldn't reward him with sex," said Sonya. "You stupid bitch, you don't reward someone anything when you love them. You give it to them whether you like them or not. You show them that you love them even when they're being a total jerkass, and that you don't care and you're still there for them. And you know what? Then he's mellow, 'cuz you just fucked his brains out. And you know what?—then he's more willing to change for you, 'cuz you love him anyway! He knows you're not judging him, he knows you're not gonna dump him if he doesn't. He doesn't feel any pressure. And then he wants to change. To please you. Because you love him even though he's a bad person, and that's the only thing worth being a better person for." There was a short silence after this, though muffled by the constant clatter of dishes being washed and cutlery being sorted and twenty people crammed into a space meant for ten. "You have a smart sister," Roland said finally. "So when he gets back, stop whining," Sonya said. "Just stop fucking whining and do something. Get his dick in your pussy, blow off some steam, and then talk. Tell him what you want. And don't expect him to deserve love. Love isn't what you buy. Love is what you buy with. And if you're not gonna spend love to buy him, then get the fuck out of the way so I can." Roland laughed at that, as did Danielle. But Heather looked at Sonya and said, "You mean that, don't you. You wish you could be with him." At that point Danielle did an auspicious thing: she performed the first double-take of her life. Because the fierce anger on Sonya's face was starting to dribble off, and in its place was a hopeless longing. And that was all she saw in the moment before Sonya wrenched herself free of the conversation and fled upstairs; but in that moment, Danielle realized that she didn't know her sister at all. Sonya didn't come down for the rest of the evening; indeed, Danielle didn't see her again until Saturday afternoon, when she and some friends swung by to get drunk. Neither of them made any mention of what had passed between them on Thanksgiving night. But when Danielle opened the door for them, she greeted Sonya with a hug, which her younger sister returned; and when Danielle snapped at Sonya's friend Kim, who was continually tracking in dirt and mud, Sonya—for once—took Danielle's side. It was a few weeks before Sonya would admit what had happened. "What I said about ... About David," she said. "I shouldn't've said that." Danielle shook her head. "You should've said it long ago. Now we have something in common." She smiled. "I just ... I mean, he's never looked at me twice," Sonya grumped. "And if ... If I said anything, I figured you'd think I was going to try and steal him away from you—" "Oh, I'm keeping my eye on you," said Danielle, giving her a broad wink. "But I'm not gonna be, like ... What, 'Oh, no, my sister's here, a threat is happening.' I know that when you like someone, you can't necessarily do anything about it. It's beyond your control. It's only about whether you act on it." "And I'm not gonna try and steal him," Sonya said. "I mean, you'd notice, and it wouldn't work. But ... Well, fuck. Even I'm not that big a bitch." "It's okay to be a bitch as long as you have some redeeming features," said Danielle. "For instance, being brave enough to tell your sister the truth about her boyfriend." She hugged Sonya. "Or, for that matter, the truth about herself." In the end, this left only the prickly question of what to do about David—or, perhaps, how to deal with him. Danielle had to mull it over for a while, but eventually she came up with a plan she thought would work. Sonya, she thought with a wry smile, might even approve of it. Just after lunch on Sunday she got the phone call. "Hey. It's me." "Hey," she said, surprised at the ache in her throat. Surprised she had missed him that much. "Umm. Do you still wanna talk?" "Umm ... Yeah." "What time do you get in?" "Well, our flight lands at eight, but... " "That should be fine. Why don't you come over once you're settled in." "That could be, what, nine, ten o'clock." "That's fine." "Nellie, I'll be tired. I'll have just gotten back from flying, and we've both got work in the morning. Maybe this isn't the best time for... " "Davey," she said quietly. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Please. For me." A pause. And then a sigh. "Okay." Then it was waiting. The one thing she'd never been good at. She was fairly sure this was all going to work; she couldn't see it going wrong. Men were pretty simple creatures at heart, after all. Her mistake had been in forgetting that. And in forgetting that she loved him, and shouldn't feel like she needed to withhold things in revenge. There was no revenge in love. It was time to get ahold of that ideal again. Of course, part of the plan was that there was nothing she could do but wait. She paced in her room, checking her e-mail and her Facebook compulsively, certain that something was going to come through and reduce the whole thing to splinters. She even called Nicole to make sure her cellphone was working, leading to a few minutes' amused conversation. But time ticked on, and nothing arrived to suggest that David himself would not arrive at some point tonight. Finally she heard the clacking of the door; she had left a post-it note telling him to come on in. She had asked Nicole to be in her room, so that the apartment would seem deserted ... Save for the handwritten arrow signs on the floor, telling him where to go. It was dark, but she knew he'd see them. Soon the door to her bedroom was opening. "Hi," she said. She was lying under the covers, looking up at him. "Come on in." (She prayed he'd had the brains to lock the front door behind him. The sign had said to, but who ever knew anymore.) "Hi," he said. He sat down on the side of the bed, looking tired. "Long flight?" "Not too long. But ... Aggravating. I think every single squalling six-month-old in America was on that airplane. I couldn't even listen to my iPod." "Well, I'm glad you're back," she said, reaching out to take his hand. "So what's this about, Nellie? It's past ten; what's so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?" "Well ... I..." she said, suddenly self-conscious. She had sort of bludgeoned him into coming here, and if he was tired, that would sort of defeat the purpose of the plan. "I just ... I did some thinking over the weekend. And I realized that ... I realized that we'd been approaching everything all wrong." He tilted his head. "What do you mean?" "Just, in the ... I mean, I'm here, wanting one thing but saying another, expecting you to figure it out. That's just lame, no matter how you look at it. And you're ... Well, to a certain extent you're doing the same thing. You're so patient, and I thank you for that, but, you really should feel like it's okay to say, 'I want the relationship to go a certain way, Danielle, and I think that's a reasonable want. Let's talk and figure out how to get there, or why we can't.' Because it is okay to say that. Don't ... Don't just keep it bottled in. That hurts you, and it hurts me." He nodded. "Yeah. I guess ... I guess you're right. I do want things to go in a certain way, but ... You don't, and, I always figure..." "That maybe I'll come around," she said. "And that's another thing. If we go at it like that, we're fighting each other." He blinked. "I hadn't been aware that keeping silent was a form of conflict." "But it is, baby," she said, stroking his face. "It's what we did wrong our first time, it's what you did wrong with Nicole, it's what's been going wrong now. Even if you don't admit you want something, you still want it. And you begin to feel resentful because you're not getting it. It's how human beings are. But the problem is that it changes the dynamic of the relationship. Instead of me being someone who helps you get what you want, I start being someone who stops you getting what you want. I become the enemy. Now you have to fight me in order to have the relationship your way." "And vice versa." "And vice versa. And that makes us both less willing to compromise. And that doesn't help things." He nodded. "It's a good analysis. Did you talk to your parents or something?" She gave a wry smile. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. But now that we've got this advice, let's use it. Let's not fight each other to get the relationship we want. Let's work together to get it." He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I think ... You're right about ... About me feeling like I had to fight you. I didn't like it, but ... There it was. But I just felt so... Attacked." "I know," she said. "And I'm sorry. It just ... It bugs me. When I see something going wrong, my impulse is to get in there and fix it." He gave a wry smile. "And mine is to back off and figure out what's going wrong. And then do just the right thing to fix it. Again, Archimedes used to say, in the Doric speech of Syracuse: 'Give me a place to stand, and with a lever I will move the whole world.' " "God, that can't be good," Danielle said. " ... Our approaches, I mean. No wonder I feel like you're waffling. It's not that you're avoiding the problem, it's that you're trying to back off and get some distance." "Yeah," he said. "And I feel like you're chasing me." " ... Which I kind of am." "Yeah, but, not because you're, like ... What, you're doing it just to be contrary. It's not personal—at least, I realize now. It's 'cuz that's how you solve problems. You get in and flip switches and press buttons and see what happens." "Yeah. It's probably not the, umm, the smartest of methods, but, it gets things done." "Well, don't worry, sweetie," he said, raising her hand to his lips. "That's what I'm here for: to remind you to hold back a little and think things through." "And that's what I'm here for," she said to him: "to remind you that it's okay to step in sometimes." She leaned up, and their lips met briefly in the moon-streaked dark. She was glad the blanket stayed on her chest. "So," he said. "No more fighting?" "No more fighting," she said. "From now on, we try to remember that we want the same thing, even if we want to accomplish it by different methods." "And instead of being mad that the other person wants to hold us back, we should ask if they might have a good reason," he said. "Yeah." "I'm glad we had this talk, Nellie." He smiled. "I wasn't sure ... I was scared you would have given up." She shook her head. "I could never give up on this. I could never give up on you." "I'm glad." He smiled. After a bit of silence, he said, "Umm. I guess I should show myself out, then, because it looks like you're all settled in bed and don't want to leave. Should I ask Nicole to lock the door, or... ?" She shook her head. "Well. I can't really show you out, no." This was where it all hinged on. She sat up again, this time letting the covers fall away from her breasts. "I don't think it'd be a smart idea to go out in public like this." His eyes were bulging, but he played along. "People might object. I understand there's laws on that sort of thing." "But..." she said. "Why don't I not show you out? I mean, you're here; I'm here; and I'm like this. I'm sure we can think of better things to do than for you to just go home." "Are..." His eyes left her breasts, met her face. "Are you sure?" She felt her courage wilting under her. "Davey, I'm practically throwing myself at you. If that doesn't make it clear..." "I'm just being careful," he said. "Is it ... Is it me?" she said. Unexpectedly she felt tears pricking at her eyes. "You never ... It's like you're not interested in me at all. Not like before, when you were always..." "Dani, you asked me not to do that back then," he said. "And you asked me not to do that this time, either, and—insofar as I am capable of holding back, now that I am older—I'm trying to do so." She sighed, covering her face with her hands. "This is another one of those cases of me asking for one thing and actually wanting something else, isn't it." "Hey." Gently, he pried her hands from her face. "Hey. It's okay to not know what you want. What's not okay is treating me like a doofus because I don't know either." She laughed a little. "So, Nellie, tell me," he said. "Now that you've made up your mind. What do you want?" His face was inches from hers. There was only one way she could answer. For a while they merely kissed, his lips soft against hers. She tilted her head to give him more access, letting his tongue reach for hers. Then, when he was done, she began to kiss her way around his lips, finding the old familiar features: the corners of his mouth, the groove on his upper lip leading down from his nose. There was so much she knew here, and not much had changed in her absence; in fact, it was her memory that was faulty, and she found herself recalling details again and again. With gentle hands she began to divest him of his clothing, until he was as naked as she; then, curling her legs up under her, she drew him up until he lay beside her on the bed. She was glad she had sprung for the double-size, even though her mother had given her some sidelong glances. As she began to kiss her way down his body, he brought her to a halt with his hands. "Last chance to back out," he said. "Or to declare limits on what's not acceptable." "Well, the gal in the other bedroom asks that we keep it down," she told him. "Other than that, I'm yours." "Don't say that unless you mean it," he said, smiling. She kissed him. "I mean it. And, of course, the reverse is true: you're mine too. So, hush, my love. I want to have some fun with this new you I've just been given." She resumed her voyage down his body, each kiss a return to old territory, each kiss a new discovery: the skin between his ribs, the lean planes of his pectorals, the little bumps along the outside rim of his areola, the sparse down of hair all across his chest. All this had been hers once; all hers, until she had lost it through her own stupidity, tossed it away. She had it back now ... But the journey had been long. She spent a little time on his nipples, but not much; she recalled that they had never been particularly sensitive, and his reactions now just confirmed it. He did enjoy tickling kisses around his navel, and even her tongue inside it, which she did, even though it tasted kind of sour in there. Then there was wiry pubic hair teasing her chin, and his cock, already mostly erect and ready for attention. She knew how to roll his eyes back in his head, how to make him cum so fast he could barely protest. But today was her celebration; she wanted to enjoy this. She wanted him to enjoy this. And if so, a slower, more subtle approach was more appropriate. She began by speckling light kisses all up and down his shaft, knowing that wouldn't do particularly much for him. Then she began to kiss her way around his head and its rim, keeping the contact light, teasing him with the promise of more. She placed a line of buttonhole kisses down the underside of his shaft, following that sensitive central ridge, before beginning to pepper adoration on his scrotum, her lips against the smooth, soft skin. Meanwhile his shaft became ever warmer and ever harder against the side of her face; when she breathed on it, it bucked under her, and when she finally slipped his head into her mouth, she could tell—from the tenseness of his body, from the look on his face, from the way his hips bucked under her—that he almost came. Through it all he never made a sound. She repeated the entire process, but this time with her tongue: running it over the surface of his cock, alternately smooth, wrinkled and bumpy; over the spongy surface of his head; down the thin underside ridge; and across the skin of his sack, now wrinkled and tense with the imminence of his orgasm. Slowly she smoothed the skin out with her lips and tongue, stretching the contracted sac, and then—ever so gently—brought one of his testicles into her mouth. She had hurt him doing this before, and she was out of practice—Tom had not enjoyed it, and with the others she had not been inclined to try—but she knew David would love it; and tonight was about him, far more than it was about her. She closed her lips around his testicle and massaged it with her tongue. Through it all he never made a sound; but his hands were there, helping to keep her hair from her face, cupping her chin and jaw, stroking the side of her head; communicating his love just as clearly as his voice could. She returned to the head of his cock, bringing it into her mouth. Forming a solid seal with her lips, she began to massage the underside of his shaft with her tongue. Finally, she added one more touch which she knew would bring him to his full: she began a quiet, almost subliminal hum, letting her lips vibrate around his shaft. When he came it was explosive but silent; she had only the warning of his hands tightening on her head, and the next moment she could feel cum racing up his shaft and she had only a short time to adjust so that he wouldn't spurt straight down her throat. His head seemed to swell in her mouth momentarily; and then his cum burst against her tongue, wet and gooey and warm—salty, but with that vaguely bitter taste she had always associated with him. She kept rubbing his cock with her tongue, drawing a few more squirts from him, feeling his hips buck under her; and then it was over, and she swallowed it all with a smile of delight. She knew girls who hated sucking cock. She wasn't one of them. It must have been a strong orgasm for him; he came gallons, or so it seemed. (When was the last time he jacked off?) But through it all, he never made a sound. She hadn't realized that he was going to take the stricture to silence quite this literally; but, on balance, she decided she kind of liked it. It meant she had to be good enough to read only his reactions. It was a challenge she was equal to. He drew her up to kiss her, his tongue in her mouth regardless of what had been in it previously; she wondered if he could taste himself. Then he began to kiss his way around her face, her neck, her shoulders, working his slow and inevitable way south. Now it was her turn to stretch out on the bed, and his to nestle in the thrown-back covers. She tried to calm herself as his lips began to wander lower. It had been a while since anyone had done this to her, and even longer since anyone had done it well; Erik, for all his boasting, had not been very good with his lips. He did have marvelous hands, but hands weren't the same. So now, in the hands (in the mouth?) of a master, she lay back and reminded herself to enjoy it. His lips were gentle on her skin, seeking out the soft, tender places where barely anything ever went: the hollows around her collarbones, the sides and undersides of her breasts, even the ticklish places of her ribs that made her jump when he touched them. Then he began to kiss up the soft cones of her breasts, circling around her nipples, threatening to touch them but never quite. She knew he was revenging himself for her treatment of his cock, and smiled to herself. Then finally his lips latched onto her nipple and began to suck—gently at first, but then with insistence—and she had to stifle a moan. Nicole needed her beauty sleep, after all, and if David had resisted waking her, she'd be damned if she folded. As he suckled at her breast, her back arched, and he slipped an arm around her waist; she put her arms around him, cradling him to her, drawing him up to her nipple, kissing the top of his head. Then, almost abruptly, he switched to her other breast, and she let her head fall back, her mouth fall open, as pleasure swept through her—the deep pull as he suckled, a pull which seemed to reach all the way down into her body to her pussy where that old familiar ache, that ever-yawning need, was beginning to make itself known. He began to kiss his way down the centerline of her body, past the ticklish places on her stomach and the shallow bowl of her navel. He did not stop to play with her belly button; he must have remembered that it would have been a waste of time. Instead, he went straight for the goal: a line of kisses trailed through her pubic hair, until finally she felt his breath warm on her nether lips. She must be pretty wet to feel it that strongly. He began by kissing his way around her mound, her fleshy outer lips, the plane of flesh between her legs and her pussy, the little stretch down at the very bottom between her pussy and her butt. Then he began to kiss his way up and down her slit, adding to its moisture, causing its petals to open a little more; each kiss seemed to feel progressively deeper inside of her. Then his lips went away, leaving only his tongue, which began to trace its way around her folds, to leaf its way through her petals; she felt it in the little crevices between her outer and inner lips, caressing the hood of her clit, and then—to her surprise—slipping into her pussy itself, to lick her walls from the inside. That was a new technique for him; she wondered for a moment where he'd learned it, before deciding that reaping its benefits was quite enough. Finally his tongue abandoned its deep probing and returned to her clit; he wrapped it around her nubbin and moved it up and down. It was almost impossible to bite back the moan—it was strong, too strong, and she had to push at his head a little before he got the message. If he kept this up she had no idea how she would remain silent. But keep silent she did, and gradually she realized that she was focusing so intensely on the sensations of his tongue and lips that she had no attention to spare for noise. Curiously, the way to keep from being overwhelmed was to dive in head-first. She had time to wonder if that was a good thing to tell David before the end came. Because, of course, her whole body was focused on what was going on below; her back arching, her legs wide, her hands entwined in her hair. Even if she had been inclined to deny herself that orgasm, it would have been beyond her power. His mouth and tongue were hard at work, his lips fastened around her clit and sucking, his tongue flicking over it like the wings of a butterfly; he had always known exactly how to send her over the edge. She felt the pressure mounting inside her, the ecstasy building—and then it was bursting, overflowing, her body shaking, her breath rushing, her pussy clenching in delirious joy as pleasure gushed through her and out of her in torrents of release, flowed out through her pussy and onto his tongue, as he obediently lapped at her cleft until her pussy gave its final gasp. In the aftermath, she might have breathed his name. Her breath was still coming fast as he made his way up her body, resting his head on her breast; she felt his cheek against her beating heart. She kissed the top of his head. "It's been too long," she whispered. "Oh, are we talking again?" he murmured in reply. "I've missed doing that. I love doing it to anybody ... But especially to you." "Should we have been doing this from the start? Was it a mistake to wait?" "I don't think so." He shoveled himself up further to see her eye-to-eye; he drew the covers up, and she turned on her side to let him spoon up to her. His head rested on hers in this position, the way it had since time immemorial. Was it possible that they were exactly as tall as they had been at sixteen? Of course not; she had grown several inches at least, and she knew he had too. Was it possible that they had grown so perfectly together that all the old proportions were still true? Of course not; preposterous. And yet she could not deny that everything still fit. His arm went here, hers there; his throat brushed her ear. It was all perfect, just as it always had been. "I don't think so," he said, "it's not ... Well, I mean, it's not a mistake to be careful before jumping into bed with somebody. Even now I'd say that it might have been too fast. Hon, sex changes things. We of all people should know that." "I know," she said, "I know. It does. But ... Not always in a bad way." "It did us," he said. "I know," she said again. "But wasn't that the whole point of doing this? To not make the mistakes we did last time?" "I know," he said, "I know, I just..." He sighed. "I need you, Danielle. That's just the facts of life. I need you. And, the thought of messing up so badly that I can't have you ever again, that just..." "We won't," she promised him. "We won't. And besides, like I said: sex doesn't just change things in a bad way. Honey, I needed this. So did you. We needed this. Both of us needed to know, needed to know for certain, that we were committed, that we weren't going anywhere, that ... And yeah, there are other ways of showing that, but, this worked pretty well." He laughed a little. "I think that's why, back then, you were so insistent that we do it," she said. "I think I understand it better now. You wanted to feel certain that you were important to me. You wanted to, to just be able to know..." "Yeah." "And, the thing is ... Well, I knew that. I knew that it meant more than just, you know, getting your rocks off ... But I knew it was that too, and I think I felt ... Under-appreciated. You know, here I am going through all the trouble to do a really good job on you with the other things we do, and you don't..." "Yeah. But it was just that, too, to a certain extent. I just wanted to, you know ... Well, I wanted to say that I had been there. That I'd actually done it. This on top of me wanting you to, what, to prove yourself to me. Which wasn't really fair in the first place." "It wasn't, but I shouldn't've been all, you know, 'Well, because it's unfair, I don't have to do it at all.' I should have been looking for ways to prove it to you besides sex. Just because I disagreed with the method, doesn't mean I should disagree with the cause." "Just ... Total insecurities, the whole time," he said. "That's all it was for me, total insecurities." "Not just for you," she said. "For both of us." "God, and you know what's craziest?" he said. "I'd be in bed, and I'd have just jerked off or something. And I'd wish you were there. But it wasn't the sex that I missed. It was having you there. Having someone to talk to, and to share all my thoughts with. Having someone to be next to in the morning. Ask any man on the street what the best part of having a girlfriend stay over is, and I guarantee you, he will not say it's the cuddling." "I missed it too," she said. "On that topic, I hope you don't think you're going home tonight." "Hmm, well," he said, and she heard the teasing quality in his voice. "Perhaps I need something to entice me to stay." She turned her head, looked over her shoulder, saw his smiling face. "Buddy, you're pushing it. I just gave you the blowjob of a lifetime, and still you want more?" "I've got you in my clutches," he said. "That's only happened once before in my life. You expect me to hold back now?" She turned in his arms so that she could face him, run her hands over his chest, kiss his lips. "I can guarantee you that this time, it won't be the last." "Good," he said, unexpectedly deadpan. "Because if I had to labor for six years every time I wanted to get into your pants, I'd drop you in a second." She swatted him—the old familiar gesture—and then leaned up to kiss him. Though their hands roamed each other's bodies, neither of them spent much time detouring; it was obvious what he wanted. And, to be fair, she wanted it too. Her hand dipped between them to stroke him to full erection; his went between her legs until she was wet and wanting. He knew exactly where to stroke, where to press, what to rub; she marveled at it even as her head came back in lust. And when she rolled to her back and pulled him over her, she silenced him with a finger across his lips. "Let's just feel," she told him, and he smiled. Then she reached between them and guided him to her pussy. She saw herself suddenly in that frozen moment, with him hovering above her. She had been here once before, just once; it had been years ago, and hours earlier, and in a different month; out under a bright summer sky, surrounded by fragrant, pillow-soft grasses, in the gnarled embrace of an old oak tree. Many things were different now: she was in her own apartment, in her own bed, and her skin and heart had grown toughened by scar tissue. But one thing was the same: she was here, her legs spread to welcome him home, her arms around him, his face suspended above hers, poised to enter her ... And this was where she was meant to be. Then he began to enter her, inch by inch, and her thoughts were elsewhere. She felt every bump and ridge and vein of his length, felt them with her pussy lips and with her passage itself. She felt the pressure of his cock against her walls, spreading them wide, tunneling into her; felt his head pressing her open. She felt his pubic hair tangle with her own, felt his buttocks squeeze as he flexed into her, felt his balls come to rest against her butt, felt his pelvis come to rest against her clit. She felt him fill her, fill her perfectly, open her every inch and fraction. How had she not noticed, the first time, that he was exactly the right length for her? How had she not realized that he was perfect for her, and she for him? When she looked up, his eyes were open, wide on hers, fragile with impending orgasm. She leaned up to kiss him, drew her down on him; wrapped her legs around his torso, tilted up her hips; and gestured with her hands for him to go on until he came. As he began to move, the room was almost silent. There was the rustle of the sheets around them, and their breathing, but neither was very loud; she thought she could hear the shift of skin on skin as he brushed against her thighs, and the crinkle of their meshing hair, and even the small wet sounds his cock made as it moved in and out of her. She could see his eyes, so wide, so green, and the pleasure in them that her body gave him; and she could feel. She could feel everything: his heart hammering in his chest, the strength in his arms as he held himself suspended above her; the ridge of the head of his cock against her inner walls as he pushed in and out, the bumps and veins rubbing against the top of her pussy; the pressure of his body against her clit every time he thrust. Each movement sent new eddies of pleasure through her, jumps and shivers that ran through her body; she could feel herself getting close, feel her pussy clenching with every particular jolt, and wondered if she might actually cum before he finished. (She didn't, but it was a pretty close thing.) And finally she closed his eyes with her a tip of a finger, and then drew him down to kiss her—eschewing sight entirely, letting only touch and tongue and breath guide them. She knew when it happened: his breathing stilled, and his tongue against hers, and his body against hers as well, and she felt the twinge between her thighs; then he thrust one more time, and she felt him swelling within him, his cock seeming to grow to enormous proportions, before his cum exploded inside her: warmth and wetness and heaviness, like liquid gold. She felt his hips flexing involuntarily, his butt clenching with each squirt, his breath gusting into her mouth, the warm rumble of his almost inaudible moans; her pussy seemed to jump and clench each time she felt a new wave of cum, filling her, trickling into every little crevice, setting her afire with its warm light. And finally it was over, and he gave one last little press and then let his mouth leave hers, his head descending into her hair, his body subsiding down against her, and she sighed her pleasure in his ear, stroking his back and shoulders and head, welcoming him home. After a few minutes, he murmured, "I must be heavy." "I could sleep like this," she answered. "Stay. I don't want you to leave." He stayed; a moment later, his breathing had fallen to the slow rhythms of slumber. And not long after, Danielle Mayer, still intertwined with her lover, fell asleep as well, knowing that he would still be there in the morning. He was. Leave me some feedback! Your email address (req'd): Your name: Please enter some comments so I can write you back: ------- Chapter 14 Danielle had the dream again. She was in her apartment, but everything seemed weirdly skewed—the colors were all wrong, tending to the browns and greens of decay, and everything seemed to be in slightly the wrong place. Everyone she saw, she thought she recognized—Nicole, her mom, Liz, Scott O'Connor, even people she hadn't seen in a while: Tom, Shelly Baumgarter, Emma Stanton—but everyone she saw looked slightly wrong—eyes too far apart, nose in the wrong place, skin the wrong color. As she walked, everything she saw seemed wrong. She walked, it felt, for years. Never stopping, never still, never satisfied. She was looking for someone; she could not rest until she found him. She wasn't content without him, couldn't be still, couldn't be herself. She wasn't whole without him. Until suddenly the moment came when she realized she was retracing her steps, that she had been here before, that she had been everywhere. That she couldn't find him. That he wasn't there to be found. She felt the world drop out from under her, felt vertigo set in. Life was over; there was nothing she could do. She felt as though she was cast free of the earth, reeling through space. And yet she was still here; she knew this because people were walking past her, by her, around her, through her, with no sign that they could see her or that she actually existed. The babble of a million voices filled her ears, the scream of the wind; the raw sunlight seemed to burn on her skin. The knife was in her hands, and the flash of pain as it sliced across her arms was the sweetest thing she'd ever felt. But even then, no blood came. Though she stared and panted and prayed, nothing happened. She had no blood. And with it came the realization that she was doomed to this existence forever, and that she would be trapped here, alone and unfinished, until time and dust were both ancient memories. This was when she lurched upright in bed, screaming. "Danielle!" said David. "Danielle!" He was calm—probably a sign that this had happened a couple times too many over the last few months—but she was in no shape to notice it. "Danielle, I'm here. Was it the dream again?" Yes, it had been the dream again. But for the moment all she had time to do was dive into his arms and huddle there, shivering. By the time she had calmed herself and wiped the tears from her eyes, David had fallen asleep again. She couldn't blame him; it was still dark outside, and both of them had work in a few hours. For herself, though, she could not sleep; the spectre of her nightmare still hung over her. Why should she keep having this dream? It was May; she and David had been together for just over eight months. Once they got their differences worked out and started to realize—finally, finally—how to deal with each other, everything had fallen into place. David was her heart, her soul, her other half; she could ask for nothing more than what he gave her: his support, his love, his presence, his care. In bed he was perfect; he had always been. He knew her body better than she herself did, or sometimes so it seemed; and she knew his wants and needs so well that he rarely had to say anything out loud. Everything about his body was perfect for her: his long frame, the warmth of his eyes, the lightness of his weight above her, even his cock—not too thick, not too short, but just right. She could not conceive of being happier. They still had their fights; she sometimes had trouble remembering that his way of problem-solving was different than hers, and taking it all into account. But he would remind her, in that gentle way of his, that while he might be solving it differently than she did, that didn't mean he wasn't solving it, and she would subside into abashed silence. It made her feel better that, sometimes, she had to remind him of the same thing—not nearly as often, but every now and then. It made her feel less stupid that he wasn't perfect either. And through it all was the sheer joy of having him back. Sometimes when he or she came home they would barely talk at all: just a few words here and there, and the conversations would be over, because they would have said everything they needed to. She could share a thought or an opinion with him and know that it would be understood; when he spoke, she knew that she was not misinterpreting him. So much of her life was simply easier and more sensible with him around. They had begun to speak of the possibility of future again. They talked—casually, most of the time, but now with increasing interest—about where they wanted to live, how many kids they wanted to have, what sort of jobs they would need. Some of his opinions had changed, and so had some of hers; many of them were the same, despite the intervening years. He was spending so much time at her place, or she at his, that they had decided to move in together. Maybe not immediately; "As our one-year anniversary present, maybe," David suggested. She was glad he was willing to be careful, to not just jump into something merely because he wanted it. She was sure they would still be together in September. So why these dreams? Why this fear of losing him? Though their lovemaking had resumed in earnest on Thanksgiving weekend, it wasn't until the new year that they began to spend nights together on a regular basis. Around the same time, the dreams began. She wondered what Katrina Stanton would say on the topic: coincidence? Or more? His presence in her life, his importance, had grown proportionally to the amount of time they spent together; now there was barely anything in her life that he didn't affect, one way or the other. It was just like it had been before ... Right before they broke up. If things went south and she and David had to break up again, could she survive? She couldn't say. Back when they first contemplated getting back together, it had been easy to say, 'Oh, I'm sure I'll be fine.' Now, today, it was harder to say. She had underestimated just how pervasive his presence would become, just how interwoven their lives would be. Perhaps it would have been wise to remember Ned Stanton's analysis, that the break-up had been more like a divorce than anything else. It certainly would be now. But fear of something was meaningless if that thing would never happen. She didn't for a moment think that it was impossible for them to break up; but it sure did seem unlikely. She had no complaints about their relationship, or at least nothing that could not be resolved without too much trouble; and while David might be keeping all manner of things to himself, she thought she'd be able to tell, and she didn't think he was. What was to worry about? Her wrists were itching again. She looked down at them. The scars on the insides of her wrists had faded with time; they looked almost like the normal creases of bent skin. Hands were not something David ever paid any attention to. Good thing she hadn't tried to open her veins the right way—cut down the arm, which was where the veins actually were—or the scars would have been a fair bit less inconspicuous. Just thinking about it made her a little queasy—the idea of David's reaction upon finding them, and the idea of the pain and the blood. Because she had no doubt that David would freak out. He simply wouldn't know how to deal with the fact that Danielle had gone so far astray, that she had been so tortured that she had sought release in death. He was so innocent; to him, those things were a realm that belonged only to unknown, unstated others, to people who were strangers to him. There was no way they could happen to anyone he actually knew. He was so young that way. Maybe, one day, when tragedy finally befell him, she could tell him the awful secret of her five missing months; maybe one day. Until then she would need to keep it secret. And that was the painful part. Whether she liked it or not, that phase of her life was a part of her; it had informed every decision she had made since then. She was a different person because she had once been left broken, half of herself torn away, and succumbed to the hopelessness of the situation. She was a different person because she had succumbed and then risen up again. It was part of who she was. I am Danielle Mayer; David Glass is my other half—heck, it was still part of who she was! David wanted to tap into that, wanted her to be whole with him—which she wanted too, to be certain—but could he handle the costs that came with it? ... Did David feel the same way? Did he feel that she was his other half? He had moved on with startling alacrity, or so it seemed to her. She could only assume that he didn't, and that the burden would terrify him ... Well, maybe it wouldn't; he seemed fully committed, and in a good way. But the thing was, she could never find out. She could never ask him. If she told him, and he freaked out ... Well, that would be the end of her. For her own sake, she would have to keep this silent. The last thing she needed was to lose him again. But could she? How well could she act? How well could she hide it from him? As well hide from him that she had breasts, or eyes, or that she was a bitch; these things weren't going to go away. But how long could she hold him off before he started noticing, and asking questions? Would he mature quickly enough that she could finally confess to him the whole truth? Or would she lose him? It was bad enough having to cross her fingers and wait; the anxiety was killing her already. No wonder I'm having stressful dreams! She didn't know what to do. She just didn't know what to do. She couldn't ask Nicole, of course; even Nicole didn't know about her breakdown, and Danielle was not about to tell her. She couldn't even tell her soul-mate, for heaven's sake!—and besides, Nicole was even more sheltered. It would take her months to get used to the idea—if she ever could at all. She didn't have the money, but she called the Stantons anyway. This was worth spending on. But Katrina failed her for the first time in living memory. "I know it isn't the best of advice, Danielle, but I think you're just going to have to tell him. I'm sure you can come up with some ways to soften the impact, or to build him up to it ... But what I'm hearing is that it's important to you that you be able to share this part of yourself with him. And that's wholly up to you, Danielle. Whether you do, and when you do, is something only you can decide." Danielle couldn't help but feel irritated with Katrina for a little while. How much more useless advice could she get? I want to share this with him. Well, duh! Ned had warned her at the beginning that sometimes a therapist's job simply came down to repeating what the client was saying, but most of the time that was actually a useful exercise: he or Katrina would be able to phrase it in a new way, or connect it to something else that had been said, and shed new light on the subject. But this time... 'Find a way to soften the impact, ' indeed. Now if only she knew how! But perhaps she should take heart and stop focusing on the negative. Yes, she had a tough conversation in her future, but there were good things to celebrate as well. She had never met a problem she couldn't handle—after all, she was still here, wasn't she? She could conquer this too. But it was still a long time before she could fall asleep again. And when she woke up she clung to David for a long time. Both of them were almost late for work that day. They had settled into a daily routine by now. They all had jobs, of course, because there was rent to pay, and bills, and student loans to pay off. But they had friends too, and family. Sometimes they would meet Danielle's family for a meal or some activity, or David's family; more often than not, David would simply come over to Danielle's place, and sometimes Liz or Carmen or Heidi as well, to spend some time with Danielle and Nicole. Nicole was beginning to make some new friends, which delighted Danielle more than she could say. Her coworkers at the music school were supportive and friendly, and Nicole had been invited to a few functions with them and even gone to one of them. She described them as an eclectic mix: some were her parents' age, some her grandparents' age, and others younger still in college or even high school. They came from all walks of life, but Nicole said she felt at home there: all of them were passionate about music. "It's different when you're working with amateurs," she said. "You have to be so ... Delicate. You can't always tell it like it is, because sometimes they don't want to hear the truth. They just want to hear that they're good, even if that's not true ... Which doesn't mean I can be rude or anything, it just means ... I don't have to lie. It's refreshing." She had found a church to go to, after trying out several in the area. She had been raised Catholic and gone to Masses during her college years, but with decreasing frequency as she grew older. "It's not that I stopped believing in God or anything, it was that ... Well, what I was hearing from the pastors, from the other attendees ... I didn't agree with it. I think maybe there was a, I dunno—I mean, it was a college campus, it's pretty liberal, right? So the preachers felt like they had to swing extra-conservative. And ... I just didn't agree with what I was hearing." She had settled into a much more liberal church here; Danielle was surprised to hear that it was Catholic as well. Nicole wasn't. "I used to hear my parents—and a lot of other people—condemn the cafeteria Christians," she said. At Danielle's confused look, she explained, "You know, the ones who pick and choose which parts of the religion they believe in? Cafeteria Christians. There was always this feeling that those people were lazy or not devoted enough. But now ... Well, I mean. What do you do when there are certain things you just don't believe?—because you've seen them played out, and you know that what the priests say about it just isn't true? I can't make myself believe something. Now I understand those cafeteria Christians a lot more ... And I'm glad I've found a church that doesn't turn people away." "I thought the whole point of Jesus was that you don't turn people away," Danielle said. "It is," said Nicole. She gave a wan smile: "But some people don't pick and choose that part at the cafeteria." What Danielle really wanted to know was whether Nicole was meeting men. Danielle had David to occupy her time, but she knew that, if she didn't, she'd be hard-pressed to make any new friends. Being out of college had done a number on her social life. Having said that, there wasn't really anywhere she went; Nicole at least had church. Was she meeting anyone? Danielle would hate to see her while away without anyone to love, or to love her. Everyone needed somebody. When she broached the subject with David, he was not as supportive as she'd expected. "Nellie, sometimes it's nice to be single, you know? You aren't beholden to anybody, you can do whatever you want. There isn't someone telling you what they think you should do—well, that's not true, there's always someone telling you that. But you feel less guilty about ignoring them when you're not dating them. Sure, there are downsides, but it's not all bad being single." "It's not that," said Danielle. "I'm thinking long-term here. Don't you want to see her get married and have children one day? Don't you want to see her happy?" "Well, yes, Nellie, but that is long-term thinking. We're not even twenty-five yet, none of us. We have years. You and I—we have years. We don't think that way, because of the lives we've led, but most people don't settle down until 25. Or maybe even 30. Do you have any idea how unusual we are?—finding someone we want to marry, at our age? That's how the fairy tales work, but most real life is different." What happened was that Liz stepped in. In retrospect, Danielle didn't know why it didn't occur to her earlier. Liz had a biting, sarcastic streak, but that would make her perfect for looking out for Nicole. Besides, Liz was smart enough to know when to tone it down. And maybe Nicole would help soften her. The Liz who had needed to see Katrina Stanton was not that deep under the surface; she was cynical, and she was hopeless. Nicole's gentle cheer would help alleviate that. But the long and the short of it was that Liz needed a wingman, and Nicole needed to get out more. It couldn't have been more perfect. (Aside, of course, from the difficult task of convincing Nicole to agree with it in the first place. She didn't know Liz all that well, and—being who she was—wasn't particularly confident about going out with someone she didn't know. It took a fair bit of chaperoning, all four of them out on the town, before Nicole felt enough trust in Liz to befriend her. But it happened. Eventually.) In the meanwhile, Danielle decided to resume her sessions with the Stantons. That was tricky: David didn't know she was seeing, or had ever seen, a therapist, and Danielle was perfectly happy to keep it that way. But she had only so many spare hours in the day, and they liked to spend them together. Naturally, he wanted to know where this new two-hour-a-week appointment had come from. Coming up with the excuse was harder than finding a weekly time slot. She was lucky enough in that regard: just about the only slot the Stantons had was on Friday right after she got out of work. So she called it a staff meeting. It only somewhat worked, and it was David's suspicions that brought things to a head. It had only been a few weeks since she'd renewed her weekly appointment. Nicole was in her room, and David and Danielle in her's; they had gone out to a nice dinner, and then returned to her bed to watch a movie. Sometimes they actually made it through the movie, depending on what it was, but at others their attention would wander. Tonight was one of those nights. Now the movie itself (Finding Nemo) was coming to a close, and they were watching it—but they hadn't watched most of it. David lay on his back, her arm around her, and she sprawled next to him, her head on his chest, listening to the deep whoosh of his breath, her pussy still full to the brim with his warm quivering seed. It was as good a time as any to share some of the things Ned Stanton had suggested that afternoon, and so she did. "I've been thinking." "Oh?" he said. "While we were doing it?" She gave a snort. "No. It occurred to me that part of the problem is that you feel like getting a career is a really big barrier. Maybe even insurmountable." "Oh?" he said. "What makes you think that?" "Just..." Ned said it, and I think he was right. "Just ... Signs." "Uh-huh," he said, smiling but skeptical. "What I thought," she said, plowing on, "was that ... It might be easier if ... If we sat down together and broke the problem down into smaller goals. That way you'd feel more confident about it—and you'd feel more of an overall sense of achievement. I know it looks monumental, but I'm sure we can make it into more of a ... More of a manageable thing." David turned on his side to face her. "And where did you get this idea?" he said. "Your staff meeting? Was it that boring?" Danielle said nothing. "Nellie, you think I'm stupid?" He kissed her nose. "This week it's about how I can get over my fears. Last week you talked about how you need to learn to give me space, complete with reminders on how to do that. The week before it was about learning to compromise and seek each other's goals and not fight each other—basically the same thing you said at Thanksgiving, but with a lot more detail. Now, I respect that there are some things you'd prefer to keep to yourself," he said, smiling, heading off her protest before it could begin. "But just so you know, you're not fooling anybody. And, just so you know, you don't have to fool anybody. I love you. Whatever it is you want to say, I will listen." Danielle looked at him for a long time in silence. The door was open. "I'm seeing a therapist," she said finally. He blinked at her. "Okay. And... ?" "And ... And what?" She sat up, astonished. "Davey, don't you know what that means?" He blinked. "Well, I thought I did, but perhaps I didn't get it right. What does it mean?" "It means..." She struggled to articulate the thought. "It means I need help. It means there's problems in my life that I can't handle alone. Big problems. Things that I need professional help for. It means I'm damaged." "Whoa, okay, hold on," said David. He sat up, his hand touching her face. "Nellie, talk to me here. What's going on? Are you addicted to drugs?" "No," she said, affronted. "Are you an alcoholic?" "No." "Do you need to take pills or something? Are you schizophrenic? Are you hallucinating that aliens are trying to control your brain?" "No," she said. "David, what kind of a loser do you think I am?" "Well, you're the one who said you were damaged," he said, his brow furrowed in concern. "I'm just trying to figure out what you meant by that. I mean, it must be something big, or you wouldn't be worried about me finding out." " ... Maybe we have different definitions of 'big'," she said. "David, I'm not like psycho or something. It's just ... I didn't..." She sighed. "I swore I would never tell you this. I swore that part of myself was behind me." "Danielle, I love you," he said again. "That includes the parts of you you don't like." He gave a little smile. "Hell, that includes the parts of you I don't like. It means not caring about those things. It means knowing that other things are more important. It means loving you even though you're not perfect." She remembered what Sonya had said. "Love isn't what you buy. It's what you buy with." He smiled. "That's a wise analysis. Did your therapist say that?" She gave a hapless snort. "No, my sister." "I've always thought Sonya was smarter than she let on. But Nellie, that's neither here nor there. If ... If you want to keep this secret, you can. But you should know that I love you. No matter what." "Even if I'm schizophrenic and I start peeing all over the bed," she said. He laughed. "Wow. Are those things related?" "I don't know," she said. "I'm not schizophrenic. And I don't pee beds anymore." "Oh good," he said with a sardonic laugh. She took a moment to compose herself. "David," she said. "Didn't you ever wonder what happened during those five months when I was gone?" "Five months?" he said. "I only counted two. You stopped coming to school after about Thanksgiving." "And you never wondered?" she said. "Well," he said. He ran his hand through his hair—the gesture that meant he was uncomfortable. "I ... I suppose I should have. But, Nellie, I ... I mean, we had just broken up, you know? I was dating Angela Wentworth, and, and trying to love her, and focus on her, and pretend that I was happy with her even though we didn't know each other all that well, and she wasn't as willing to compromise (which was weird because simultaneously she was extremely pleasant company), and that she wasn't ... She wasn't ... She wasn't you. "So there I was, and then you disappeared. Yes, I wondered. But I couldn't afford to care. It would've hurt too much." She nodded. "I understand. I ... That was why I disappeared, really." He tilted his head. "Oh?" "The, just the..." She tossed her hands. "How do I explain it! It was like I didn't know how to live anymore. There wasn't ... There wasn't anything in my life that you weren't involved in somehow." She grimaced. "Kind of like now. There's ... I mean, fuck, we even do dishes together. It's even worse now. And it was hard enough the first time." "Why, are we going to break up a second time?" he said. She gulped. "I hope not. Because the first time we did, I just broke down. It ... I mean, I just ... Disengaged. I stopped doing homework, I stopped paying attention, I stopped ... I stopped caring about ... Everything. It was like I—what, I didn't know how to function. At all." David said nothing. "And that's why it was five months for me, because I was just ... Gone. I barely remember anything from that time—not like memory loss, but just ... You know how it's like, when you know that things happened to you, but they weren't important enough to remember? That's the whole five months. But it must've gotten bad at some point, because..." She took a deep breath—and then held out her hands to him, wrists up. David accepted them wordlessly. "In retrospect, maybe it was for the best," she said, "because it ... It kicked me out of my fugue. I woke up in the hospital and started to be ready to live my life again, and God only knows how long it might've taken for me to get there otherwise. But that was how I got into therapy. And that ... That was what happened." David pressed her forearm against his face, his eyes closed. After a moment, she felt wetness, and realized he was crying. "No, it wasn't your fault," she said. "Davey, it ... There was no way we could have guessed that this was going to happen. I..." She looked around, helpless to comfort him. "I'm sure similar things happened to you." "They did," he whispered. "Haven't you ever wondered where I went right before the end of senior year?" Now it was her turn to feel uncomfortable. "Well, I ... I mean, I noticed, yes. But ... At the time, there was ... I had Weston to deal with. And I was trying to be happy with him, and deal with him, and deal with the fact that I'm not Jodie. And that he wasn't ... Wasn't ... Wasn't you. And having to decide whether I was gonna do it with him, when just the thought of doing it with him was already skeeving me out ... I had ... Other things on my mind." He nodded. "I understand. I ... It was what hurt. Seeing you trying to be ... Trying to be good with him, and knowing that that part of my life was over, that ... All the things we had shared, once, were going to go to him now. Thinking of him..." He grimaced. "Thinking of him doing it with you skeeved me out too. Hell, me doing with Angela was ... There was always something wrong with it." "With the sex?" "No, not just with the sex ... I mean, yeah, she was just, you know, lying there and taking it, which was kind of a turn-off. Actually it was kind of creepy. All of it was creepy. It was like doing a corpse." Danielle shuddered. "And then here you were, and what we had shared was so different, and ... Now you were going to share it with Weston." He grimaced. "And I ... I ran away." She stared. "That afternoon, when school was over, I just ... I got in my car, and ... I'm not even sure where I went. I don't remember. I got hopelessly lost and had to print out directions at a public library. But that was Tuesday morning. By Monday night I had gotten myself hopelessly lost, and I was just ... I was standing on an overpass, looking down, and thinking. Thinking, Maybe it'd be easier if... " Blindly, tears overwhelming her, she reached out and pulled him to her. She wasn't sure if she was giving comfort or seeking it. His skin was warm against hers; his voice rumbled against her chest. "But ... I couldn't," he mumbled. "I was a coward. I was too afraid to face death." She clung to him. The thought of losing him, of his not being here... "And I knew that ... That if I couldn't choose death, then I was choosing life. And ... I had to face that. So I did. I found out how to get home, and ... I went home." He gave a humorless laugh. "Mom almost grounded me to death. It took a lot of explaining before she would let me go to prom and not, you know, waste all the money I'd spent on tuxedos and limos and stuff. I almost didn't want to go in the first place, but that was a lot of money." "It was," she said. "It was crazy." "So, no, Danielle, I'm not going to judge you if you like to talk to a therapist," he said. "There are problems that are too big to carry alone. Most of the time, that's what you've got me for. But I know there are some I can't help you with. You know, like, the ones where I am the problem." She gave a helpless laugh. "So..." He pushed back to look her in the eye. "So don't feel bad. I love you. And whatever you need to do ... I'm with you, all the way." "Good," she whispered. "Because what I need is you. David, I can't live without you. We made mistakes, we tried it, it didn't work. I can't live without you." He kissed her. "Then you won't." "But what about ... David, what about everything that pushed us apart? The arguments we had ... That we still have. I'm worried. They don't come up much, but these things are ... I mean, they aren't avoidable." He gave her a wry smile. "Well, what do you think your therapist is for? Danielle, just because we love each other doesn't mean we can't change." "But just because we love each other doesn't mean we will change, Davey," she sobbed. "It scares me. I can't live without you, but I never know if you're going to be someone I can live with either." "I know, I know," he said, sighing, "I ... Well, it's like you said. It is hard for me to, to contemplate the big things. And besides ... Nellie, how is that different from anything? How is that different from anybody who gets married? People change, and not always for the better. If we're planning to spend our lives together ... Well, how do you know I'm going to be someone you like in five or ten years? For that matter, how do I know you're going to be someone I like at that time? We don't. We just have to ... Cross our fingers, and hope that the other person will listen." "Will you? David, they're going to lay you off in a month. That can't be a, a normal state of affairs." "I know." He smiled. "So, what if we don't move in together unless I get a job?" She grimaced. "Sounds more like punishing me for your mess-ups." "Oh, come on, angel, you don't think I want to live with you? You don't think I don't want to marry you?" He smiled. "Look, the point is ... Yes, I need to work on listening to you when you say you're worried. But you also need to have a little faith—in me, and in yourself." He kissed her nose. "You need to believe that love is enough." "It wasn't last time," she whispered. "No," he said. "It wasn't. But we're smarter now, and we've learned more. History does not have to repeat itself." "But what if it does?" she said. "I'm scared." He drew her close. "So am I," he murmured, his head over her shoulder. "But that's one more thing we have in common now than we did an hour ago." "That's ... More comforting than it ought to be," she said. "And besides ... Sweetie, we both want it to work. We're both scared. We both know what the stakes are. 'cuz ... Danielle, I can't live without you either. Whatever we need to do ... I'm with you. I'm gonna do it." It was what she had needed to hear. She hadn't even known she needed to hear it, but now that he had said it she felt tension ebbing away. It was good to know that she wasn't alone in this thing, that he wouldn't just jump ship if it got inconvenient. That he couldn't, any more than she could. "But you have to be patient with me," he said. "You know that ... Changing myself ... You know that that can be hard for me." She nodded. "I know. I know. I just ... I needed to know that you'd try." "For you," he said. "Anything." "Not for me," she said. "For us." "For us," he agreed. ------- In later years, she would come to look on that conversation as the beginning of the end. Or perhaps it was the end of the beginning. Either way, it was a point of transition, one of those gateways which marked a different way of life. Suddenly the fears she had were gone. Suddenly David was her ally, her friend, as reliable as oxygen; she could turn to him at any time, in any way, and know he would be there. It was like it had been at the beginning, but this time without the doubt and fear. David began to come with her to therapy sessions. The Stantons were couples counselors, after all, and they were pleased to bring David into their weekly sessions. Of course, they didn't go for long; David turned out to be an intuitive at the coping strategies the Stantons advocated, and he was much better at remembering to use them than she was. Before long, neither of them felt like they needed the help—and, as much as Danielle loved the Stantons, every visit cost money. By August their sessions had stopped. David, Danielle began to understand, was the kind of person who just needed peace and quiet to work through his own problems. Her inclination was to rush in and talk things out; David, deeply intuitive, was not as beholden to logic. All he needed was space and time to let the problem percolate; eventually the answer would pop out. For her to badger him and demand to know his thought processes was irritating to both of them: there was no thought process for him to report, not really. His best decision-making went on far below the level of conscious thought. So he'd have to make something up, and she'd call bullshit on it, and they'd just fight. She began to listen when he said, "I haven't decided yet," and began to believe him when he continued, "but I will eventually." And to trust him when he said, "This is what's right for me," even if she wasn't sure how he'd concluded that. Eventually she realized that he wasn't always sure either. David became more sympathetic when Danielle tried to talk out her problems. He had often been skeptical of such conversations, suspecting that Danielle would try to steer things towards his own unresolved issues—which, to be fair, she often had. But she explained to him that these conversations were not a front (or at least not just a front); she needed to hear her own thoughts to know what they were, and sometimes another person to repeat them before she even heard them. Even more than that, she did not always trust her own judgment: she liked having David there to poke holes in her arguments—or, more frequently, defend her from her own skepticism, pointing out why already-discarded courses of action might actually be viable. It was, of course, the opposite of what David did—it was remarkable, but he could be in her life almost twenty-four hours a day and still manage to keep things to himself. It was just who he was. But as David began more comfortable with her way of thinking, he began to approach her for advice, bringing out his conclusions and asking for her perspective. And Danielle, benefiting both from David's urging and her own experiences, began to trust herself more, to be more willing to say, "No, I'm come to this conclusion and I'm going to stick with it." Sometimes she just knew—without knowing how she knew—that one decision or another was right, and instead of questioning that knowledge, she trusted it. It was, she realized, the same thing David did. And, she realized, generally, when they had that knowledge to fall back on, both of them were right. Under the Stantons' guidance, and then later on their own, they began to set goals for themselves, particularly on the life they wanted to share. The Stantons embraced David's suggestion of setting up things as a reward, though with some reservations: "Be careful that it doesn't turn into a power thing," they said. "The point is for you two to work together on accomplishing something, not for one or the other of you to be right and get to gloat about it." The goals often came in multiple levels. David would set something overall; he was much better about analyzing where they were, and whether any given objective was within reach. Then Danielle would break that objective down into smaller steps, for while David was great at big-picture, he wasn't so good with details. That was Danielle's job. Before too long they'd have a plan of action that looked both achievable and impressive, which benefited them both. David admitted that he often wanted things on a daunting scale, which sapped even more of his already-low willpower; and Danielle, who was so used to just snapping her fingers and getting things done, sometimes felt as if it were pointless. Now they both had goals which were small enough to chew but large enough to be exciting. One of them was the practicalities of life. David was a man of comfort, by and large; once he found a place where he was happy, he didn't care to stir himself and (though it shamed him to admit it) sometimes went out of his way to stay in that place, even if that meant passing up on other opportunities. Danielle felt no particular need to fix what wasn't broken; but she also knew that that which wasn't broken might not stay that way. "At the very least," she told him, "we need to think about children. We need to be prepared just in case." "Why," he said, "are we going to have any?" "At the rate we're having sex? Probably," she said. "It's almost inevitable. Even if we aren't trying, accidents happen. So I think we need to be prepared." David grimaced. "See, this is one of those daunting goals we were talking about. Do you know how much money it takes to raise a child?" "I know," she said, hugging him, "it's kind of frightening to me too. But, David ... If we do have a baby, I wanna do as well by him as I can. Or her. Wouldn't it be a shame to not be able to give our children the best? To have to let them down, because ... What? Because we were too lazy?" "We could just get our tubes tied," he said. She gave him a wry smile. "I don't know what we'll decide. But my point is, I want to keep our options open. Whatever might come along ... Let's not close any doors." He gave her a look. "You know that involves work on your part too," he said. "It's not just me who has to have a better job, it's you too." Suddenly she understood some of the 'daunting' he had referred to. "I know," she said. "I know. It isn't ... I know sometimes it's, like, always focused on you. That's just ... You know. That's the way I am." He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "That's the girl I love." They set themselves goals for income and savings over the next five years. David was quick to demand that these goals be revisable in future, that they not be set in stone, and seemed surprised when Danielle agreed without hesitation. "Come on, Davey, I may be determined but I'm not crazy. I know that things can change under us at any moment. These are our goals for today, now, when you and I are in this particular place, with these particular monthly expenses and these particular jobs. If any of those change, then these goals aren't applicable anymore. They'd have to be revised. And of course we'll revise them." In the meanwhile, of course, David had found himself a new job, though through an unexpected means: one of the partners at his architectural firm had decided to spall off and found a new company. David was one of the first people he tried to recruit. "It's going to be a small firm," David explained, "he wants to go into housing. No more shopping malls or airport terminals; now it's just individual homes." David's great asset to the new firm was his ability to deal with the government bureaucracy. Every building needed to pass city inspections and comply with city codes, something most architects didn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole. David, with his enormous patience and quiet demeanor, was better at smiling his way through the city planning department than any firebreathing anger-driven architect who wasn't even sure if he was talking to the right manager. Of course, it drove David mad, hunting down obscure rules and regulations, but even he had to admit that he was being overpaid for his services: "Evidently Gene" (the owner of the company) "really appreciates not having to deal with that stuff." Besides, it wasn't all he did; he was increasingly being brought into architectural matters, personnel management and the business's financial matters. David didn't feel like he was contributing much there, but his bosses assured him he was on his way to being useful. Danielle had widened her freelance work by a simple expedient: she had mentioned to a teacher at the district that she had once been into photography, and said teacher had offered to hire Danielle as a secondary wedding photographer on the spot. Danielle had warned her (her name was Ramona Danziger) that she had very little formal training as a photographer, and even less practical experience, but Ramona had been insistent—especially after seeing an ad-hoc portfolio of her earlier work. Danielle had to run around for three hours while trying to be invisible, but she and David got to attend the wedding, which was fun and had delicious food to boot, and Ramona Danziger (now Ramona Luchen) was satisfied with a lot more of the prints than Danielle had expected. And once the school year resumed and the new Mrs. Luchen began flashing those pictures around, many at the district started trying to hire her as well. There was even talk of outsourcing the yearbook portraits to her. (That, Danielle turned down in a flash. Photographing every single grade-schooler in the district did not sound like fun to her.) In the meanwhile, she had gotten work as a faculty member at the local community college, passing on her PhotoShop expertise. All of this went on in between moving apartments. David had met the goals they'd set—so, for that matter, had Danielle met his counter-goals—and both of them were happy to reap the reward of moving in together. The two of them found a nice one-bedroom at a location that was more central to their various places of employment; Liz was moving into Danielle's old room with Nicole. Danielle, who had now moved twice in a year, made David promise that they would stay in this new one for at least a few years, though David countered this with a laugh: "Your specialty is three-dimensional computer graphics, Danielle. That's Pixar, that's ILM, that's mostly out in California. You're being wasted at your current jobs. If we move anywhere, it'll be for you." This of course was an oversimplification—there were smaller CGI houses, like Zoic Studios—but none of them were nearby. Besides, the truth was that Danielle liked working in photography. Her computer-graphics degree had involved a lot of generating content from scratch, which she wasn't as good with; her hand was best at taking an existing photo and bringing out its beauty. The one thing she had never anticipated having problems with was their sex life, so she was astonished one evening to find herself laying beneath him, staring at the ceiling, wondering, Is this all there is? It took her even longer to figure out just what was wrong. David knew her body as intimately as he always had; he could bring her to orgasm more quickly, and more strongly, than she could ever be able to. No, she could not claim dissatisfaction on that score. What irked her, she realized, was how... vanilla it was. Their lovemaking habits didn't help the situation; David (she noticed) was not the type to seek out sex, preferring to just let it naturally evolve out of whatever they were doing at the time. The idea of coming home from work and wanting to jump her bones was alien to him—or, at least, the idea of acting out that want. It was startling to realize how reserved he was. They had known each other's bodies since before they understood what they were knowing; what was to be ashamed of? And yet he was. Either he had no rough-sex inclinations (doubtful), or he felt hesitant to express them. Getting him over these inhibitions was harder than she expected. When she brought it up, he looked flabbergasted. "You mean you ... You want..." "You know, something more kinky. Hold me down. Turn me over, do it to me from behind. Get into it. I love you, Davey, and I love the way we make love, but sometimes a girl just wants to get fucked. I mean. You know?" "Not ... Not really," said David. Danielle gave him a skeptical look. "Who have you been dating?" "Nicole," he said, "who could barely maintain arousal for blushing for about the first six months. And before that, Angela Wentworth and Missy Renquist, who wanted me to just get it over and done with. And, both before and after all that, you, who—our first time around, at least—would never have suggested such a thing. Of course, we weren't actually doing it at the time, so..." "Okay, okay," she said, "I get the idea. Well, Davey, in case you haven't noticed, we've changed since then. I've learned more about what I want from a lover. So have you. And this is something I want." "Is ... Do you not... Like what we do? Is it..." "Oh, Davey, no, no," she said, seeing immediately that he felt like he'd made a mistake somewhere. "Davey, when we make love, it ... It's like being one soul with you. One body. No more you, no more me, just us, and no barriers anymore." She could not even begin to explain what it was like: lying beneath him, her legs wrapped around him, her body sliding up and down with each thrust, her breasts rubbing against his chest, gasping into his mouth, their eyes locked—sharing breath and soul and gaze, knowing that there was nothing of her that was not going back to him, knowing that the two halves of their being had joined in a perfect circle. Making love with him was not so much sexual as it was spiritual. And that, in itself, was the problem. "I love it, but sometimes I just wanna cum, you know? Sometimes I just wanna enjoy your body, and mine, and what your body does to mine. And what mine does to yours too, for that matter. You know? I love that when we make love, it's such a ... It's like a sacrament. But it doesn't have to be that all the time. You know?" "Err ... Kind of," said David, his eyebrows skeptical. She laughed. "You aren't seeing it." "Well, the ... Dani, we get to have the intense physical sensations too, you know? We've always known how to do that. From a physical standpoint, sex with you is more satisfying and more powerful than with anyone else I've ever had it with. But it's harder to be make love well than it is to be a good lover. What we share, when we're one being ... That's more valuable than being able to fuck well." "True, but they aren't mutually exclusive either," she said, grinning. "We can still make love even if we learn to fuck too." And from then on they began to learn. For Danielle, it was a very different experience; David was like breathing to her, but now she was learning not to take him for granted. And for David ... She was starting to realize that beneath that layer of competence and insight and patience was a man of startlingly diminished confidence. He didn't believe in himself, not the way Danielle believed in herself. Or, for that matter, in the way she believed in him. Soft, loving sex was his way of hiding the fact that he didn't think he could pull off hard, powerful sex. And yet it was easy to bring him along. She started by showing him the different things she could do to him. Riding him for the first time was an epiphany for him; it showed on his face just how turned on he was to see her rocking up and down above him, her breasts free, her hands on his chest. When she turned around and rode him backwards, he came like a fire hose! And from there it wasn't too hard to coax him up to his knees behind her. When she looked over her shoulder at him—seeing the curve of her own butt, his torso above it, his confused face above that—it was clear that he wasn't sure what to do, how to move, where to put his hands. But his body knew, and pretty soon he was fucking her as if he'd been born to it. Her breasts swung free below her, tingling; her whole body rocked with the shock of each thrust, her organs feeling like they were moving inside her; the smacks of his flesh against hers filled the room. She came, it seemed, harder than she ever had in her life. But while some of it was easy, other aspects were more difficult. He loved the spectacle, surely; she knew from past experience (mostly with Tom) that riding him backwards or in doggie style would give him a brilliant view of her body, of her ass, and even (depending on the angle) of his cock entering her, clasped by her nether lips, and that this would turn him on like crazy. Men were visual creatures. But none of this was really new territory; it was just sex. Yes, she was accentuating different features of it, but, really, it was still just sex. Besides, he wasn't ever taking the lead in this stuff. She might encourage it from him, and of course he didn't mind complying, but it wasn't something he wanted. So one Friday afternoon, when they had decided to go out that evening, she made sure to get home before he did. She put on the perfume he liked, and the dress he said made her cleavage look perfect. All through the evening she did coquettish things, the flirty things television said she should do—sucking on utensils, acting gigglish and a little drunk, leaning against him so that he could look down her dress (God only knew that she had precious little to look down, but he claimed this dress framed it perfectly, and he should know. She certainly couldn't look down her own dress). It drove her nearly mad to act that way. David, of course, was a complete gentleman. He smiled and nodded in a slightly embarrassed way, as though he thought her behavior were absurd. It daunted her, but she didn't give up. Still, she wasn't sure who was going to win; dinner was over, and they were driving home, and he showed no sign of being perturbed—or, for that matter, aroused. Maybe he was one of those truly bizarre men who couldn't be made to think of sex by putting pouty lips around a straw. But when he shut the door of their apartment behind them and turned to her with fire in his eyes, she knew she'd won. And yet, the fire was more than she'd anticipated. Before she knew what was happening, he had her against the wall, her arms pinned by his hand, his face inches from hers, the warmth and hardness of his cock evident despite several layers of clothing. "You little minx," he breathed. "It was all I could do not to turn you over the table and just fuck you right there." She grinned. "Silly. What made you think I didn't want you to?" "Well, right now, I've got you, Danielle Meyer," he growled. "And now we're going to find out just how much you want it." By the end of the night, they knew: evidently, she wanted it several times. First he commanded her to kneel before him and suck him off; he exploded almost immediately, a testament to how well it she had done her job. Then he undressed her, bade her face the wall, and ate her out until her climax shuddered through her; instead of taking mercy, he kept sucking and licking as she came, making her knees shake to the point that she thought she might collapse. Then he rose to his feet and without prelude took her from behind, practically before her previous orgasm had subsided. She had time for a smaller one before he exploded inside her, painting her walls with his silver cum. Lest she think he was done, he dragged her to the bed and set her to work at his cock again, still sweet with his juices and her own. But once he was erect, he pulled himself free of her and crawled below to return the favor. She came twice, shrieking, before he saw fit to penetrate once again; he seized her legs and brought them up against his chest, pulling her to the edge of the bed until her ass nearly hung off it. When he finally came, it was deep inside her, but she could barely feel it; her pussy felt numb. Then he collapsed beside her and, with barely a good-night, fell asleep. The next morning he was shy and embarrassed, and Danielle allowed that he might have gone a tad overboard, seeing as how she was a little sore. But she refused to agree that he was wrong to have taken control at all. "Davey, I trust you. I'm not scared that you'd hurt me, I know you'd never do that. What I am is happy: happy that you trust me enough to let go like that. It's not easy to do." David wouldn't meet her gaze. "I just ... I'm scared that if I just ... If I just care about my own pleasure, it wouldn't be fun for you. You wouldn't enjoy it." "Hon, did you notice how many times I came? she said. "Me being sore isn't from you being in there too long." Actually, that wasn't true—quite the opposite, in fact—but he needed to be encouraged. She would teach him to have control later; it was a far bigger deal (in her opinion) that he had finally learned to not have it. "And besides, it's fun, isn't it?—to just go for it. You don't have to be responsible for the sex all the time, David. You can relax and let it take care of itself. Hell, you can relax and not even worry about it at all. It's not a big deal if I don't cum all the time." "Yeah, but I do," he said. "And that matters?" she said. "Hon, it doesn't have to be perfect equality. We make sacrifices for each other all the time. Love isn't what you buy, after all. It's what you buy with." He thought about that. "Well ... Not every time we have sex," he said finally. "God no! I'd die from orgasm! I'd die happy, obviously, but..." He smiled for the first time that day. "But maybe sometimes. Every now and then." She kissed him. "Whenever you want." And so the days passed. There was always something to worry about, because most of these things happened over a long period of time, and often concurrently; there was stress, and fatigue, and sometimes arguments born out of irritation. But Danielle was never particularly aware of being angry or upset. By and large, she wasn't. By and large, things went well. The days passed, and the holidays, and their birthdays; the seasons turned on their endless wheel; David's twenty-fourth birthday came and went; and soon it was April, April of another year, with flowers blooming and sunlight slicing through the budding leaves of the black-barked trees. One evening—a Tuesday—David came home with a bemused expression on his face. "It was the oddest thing," he explained. "I was talking to Ron, just, you know, chatting. And he asked me what we did last weekend—" They had gone to a wedding as photographers. "—and I said, 'My wife and I went'." He laughed a little. "Didn't even think about it, it just popped out." Danielle shrugged. "Well, we have been living together for a while. And, for that matter, we've been a part of each other's lives for a while. I mean ... We're taking each other for granted. You know?" "Isn't that normally a bad thing?" "Well, normally, yes, but I imagine it starts to happen in any marriage after a while. I can't think ours would be any exception." He chortled. " 'Our' marriage. We're not married yet, hon." "No, but we might as well be," she said, kissing his cheek. "And it's been like that for a while now. We're like an old married couple." "Except for the 'married' part," he said. "Except for the 'married' part," she agreed. He looked at her for a long moment. "Why aren't we married?" he said. "What?" she said. "Why don't we get married? I mean, if we're so married already—" "What, like... Now?" she said. "Sure," he said, shrugging. "We'll just call everybody up and go down to the courthouse, and that'll be that." It sounded outrageous ... And yet, it had its own appeal. After all, what was the point of a massive ceremony, if the only objective was to make formal what was already true (and had been for a while)? Anyone who knew them, knew that this was the end result. In fact, the only people who had doubted it were she and David themselves. "Tonight?" she said. "I haven't a thing to wear." "Oh, come on," he said, smiling. "David, it's not like I'm gonna have a second chance at this. This is the one time in my life I'm walking down the aisle. I at least want a white dress. And some flowers. In a church. And I think you owe me an engagement ring. And we have a bunch of people to invite. And we gotta have some sort of reception..." "Okay, tomorrow night maybe," he said. "But let's do it." "Tomorrow night?" she said. "You're optimistic." "We've got a few hours before the shops close," he said. "We'll go now, and start making the phone calls. But we can do it." She smiled. "Okay. Let's do it." And so there was some pretty frantic shopping that night, and a lot of astonished replies when they made the phone calls. The Stantons were invited, of course, and Scott was going to be the best man and Nicole the maid of honor. Danielle's parents were astonished to hear of the news, but David's parents just laughed. "We knew this was going to happen," they said. "Anyone could tell." "No, it's not that," Danielle's mom protested. "It's that they aren't giving this event the time and effort it deserves! It's a big day! You don't just get married every day, you know!" "We do, evidently," Danielle snickered. There was a fair amount to be done, but with all their family and friends mobilized, they managed to accomplish it all. The hardest part was finding a church and priest who was available on such short notice. But it all worked out in the end, and in a brief but pleasant ceremony, Danielle Sabrina Mayer married David Theodore Glass, and passed from her father's hand to her husband's. It was a modest ceremony by anybody's standards, with little elaboration; there was barely any music, and the reception was simply some party platters in the church's gathering hall. But Danielle didn't mind; what mattered to her was her family and friends—and they were there. Liz and Carmen, who had been with her since high school; her mother and father, ever-present, ever-knowing; her sister, who was finally growing up. Nicole, who was closer to her than anyone else had ever been. And, of course, David; David, whose presence was like breath, who had been there always and always would be. Before long, Danielle had to start wrapping things up. "Sorry to kick you all out, but we need to clean up and get to bed. It's getting late." "Oh, come on," said Liz, grinning, "you just got married." "Yeah," said Danielle, "and we've still got work in the morning." "Aren't you going on a honeymoon or something?" Sonya asked. "Ha!" said David. "Like we have time or money for that." "At least you guys should go home," said Scott. "We can clean up. You're newlyweds. There's things newlyweds do together, traditionally." David and Danielle looked at each other for a moment, and then shrugged. "Not really," said Danielle. "Been there, done that." "Maybe tomorrow," said David. "But it's been a long day and I think we just wanna get to bed. After we clean up this reception thing." Scott shook his head. "You guys have the most boring marriage ever." So they cleaned up, and wished their family and friends farewell, and drove home, and went to sleep. And during the night she awoke to feel him curled up behind her in the dark the way he always did, and his arm curled around her the way it always was, and felt something jostling her finger when she went to put her hand on his. It was a silver wedding band. Oh yeah, she thought, we're married. I'm not Danielle Mayer anymore. I'm Danielle Glass. She had no idea what life might bring her from here on out. One day they should think about owning a house, for instance—especially if they wanted to have children of their own. That was a frightening idea and exciting all at once: a daughter, that looked like him? A son that looked like her? (That could be terrifying.) What was it like to own a house? It would mean more housework, obviously, since any place they might own would need to be larger than this 700-square-foot apartment. Anything that she owned they would need to take better care of too. What kind of money would they need? More than they were making now, that was certain. They might have to take loans, which meant paying off the student ones as soon as possible—which was another stifling thought. Heck, what if one of their cars broke and they needed to buy a new one? All these things were unknown experiences to her, things she had never done before—much less with David. She wondered if she should feel like her future had changed, unfolded in some way; she wondered if she should feel like she was entering a new world. Because she didn't. As far as she was concerned, nothing much had changed at all. All that's changed is that we are finally—finally—where we are meant to be. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. Then she nestled into his arms and went back to sleep. ------- The End ------- Posted: 2009-05-18 Last Modified: 2009-07-02 / 03:54:00 pm ------- http://storiesonline.net/ -------