Authors: Kristen Kehoe
It’s like that every time I touch her—her response is uninhibited, primal,
alive
. I strip her of her clothing quickly, hating to rush, but knowing if I don’t touch her, all of her, I might lose it. Somewhere at the back of my brain is a nagging fear—an awareness that we never talked. I never finished telling her everything I feel…but when my fingers find her and push her up and over that first wave, my tongue meeting that juncture between her thighs at the same time, that feeling and all others give way to this moment.
Rachel is beautiful every day. She’s beautiful on the court, as a mom, as a person. She’s beautiful when she’s mad, and heartbreakingly fragile when she’s sad. But when she’s lost in passion, her beauty is unrivaled. Every passion she’s ever had comes to the surface, exploding until she’s the living embodiment of life.
As she trembles through the aftershocks of her orgasm, I kiss her everywhere I can, stroking her hair and her cheeks, my lips nuzzling as I tell her everything I just saw and what it made me feel.
I love you
, my heart screams. I know this isn’t the time to tell her—not when we’re naked and vulnerable, or when she might think it’s a line, something I use as a thanks or a bargaining tool. To keep the words inside, I kiss her again, tangling my tongue with hers. She’s shaking, and because I can’t resist her taste, I move to her breast again.
When I hear her ask me for a condom, my heart stops—that nagging feeling is back, full throttle, asking me if this is real or somehow I’m making a mistake. If it’s a mistake, it’s ours; nothing and no one is making me walk away from this girl tonight. We deserve this—here and now, we deserve each other.
I shift, digging through my jeans, flipping my wallet open, and sliding out a condom. I roll back to her and make quick work of it. Then I shift back to the welcoming cradle of her thighs, meeting her mouth with mine. It’s a kiss that says everything—the passion, the love, the need, and when I pull back to look at her, I search her eyes and wonder if she feels it too.
My heart seizes for a second when she breaks eye contact quickly, forcing my lips down to hers in a move I’ve perfected over the last year. Then I’m rocking with her—inside of her—becoming a part of her. Moving with her, I can’t think of anything but Rachel, and what she does to me.
17
Past
The elevator ride is far from silent as my mother is next to me, but I’m not aware of what she’s saying. I stopped paying attention to her at the breakfast table the minute I got the text from Katie.
Katie: Flow had her baby. Go visit her in the hospital.
My first though was,
had
? As in, she’s not in labor anymore, and I’m just finding out about this now? When I texted this to Katie, she responded no more than ten seconds later.
Katie: Not everything’s about you, dickhead, especially this. Go see her.
Katie: And be nice.
She added the last text before I finished reading the one before it. I clenched my teeth; I couldn’t retort, because after previous behavior, she has a right to say shit like that. So, now I’m on my way up to Rachel’s room to meet her baby. I feel cheated somehow that I didn’t know Rachel was in labor. I know Katie’s right, and Jesus is
that
a bitter pill to swallow. There are things that are off limits; being there with her when she brought her baby girl into the world is probably one of them.
We step out of the elevator and onto the maternity floor. I’m struck with how happy it is. And how secure. There are locked doors and alarms everywhere—sign ins and sign outs, and rules the nurse hits us with when we say Rachel’s name and get our visitor badges.
I remain silent the entire walk from the sign in counter to her room, shifting the gift bag nervously in my hands. My mom’s holding flowers—something she said all mother’s need. I nodded, but asked to stop at Rachel’s house on the way to the hospital. I might not know a lot about new mothers, but I know Rachel. I know what her go-to comfort outfit is.
I’m holding a bag of her original Marvel-Comic Wolverine T-shirt and her oversized OSU Nike sweats, along with a Snickers bar and some Baked Barbecue Lays—wondering if I should really be here. For the first time since we started talking again, I find myself hesitating over the idea of seeing Rachel.
I know my mom’s next to me, staring at me, but I can’t look over—just like I can’t make myself move. Rachel’s on the other side of the door I’m staring at. Everything I feared in the least eight months will be real once I open it and see her with her daughter.
Daughter
.
Rachel is a mother. There’s nothing I can say or do to change what that means; I can’t help but wish that I somehow could. It’s stupid—beyond pointless—but right now, I wish like I have a thousand times in the past months. I yearn to be able to go back and change something, one thing, that could change this outcome right here—that Rachel wasn’t the one who paid the price for our recklessness.
When the door opens from the other side, I step back and almost clobber my mother. “Good Lord, Jackson, settle down before you scare someone. What is wrong with you?”
It’s a long list, Mom.
Dr. C is on the other side of the threshold, holding the door open with a slight smile on her face. “Tripp, Georgie, come on in. The baby was just taken to get some shots and a jaundice check; I don’t know when she’ll be back, but Rae’s in here.”
When she brushes past me, my mom gives me the look that says “get your shit together.” I take a deep breath and scrub my free hand over my face before stepping inside the room. The lights are dim, only the one over the small chair by the window is on. There are flowers and balloons, some teddy bears and a depleted bag of chocolates on the table. It makes me smile to think of Rachel eating her chocolate. I nod at Stacy, her older sister, who’s standing near the window, her arms crossed over her chest. She gives a smile in return before walking toward her mother.
When I’ve looked at everything but the bed, I take a deep breath and turn. She’s wearing a hospital gown and her hair is piled on top of her head. Her face is pale—a stark contrast to her normally warm skin. My mom is talking to her quietly, but I can’t see Rachel’s face fully enough to understand how she’s reacting. I wait, happy to take in details before she notices me—gathering my strength for the moment she does so I don’t go and say something stupid… or nothing at all.
I’m standing just inside the door and when Dr. C says my name, Rachel’s eyes veer to mine. I try to swallow through the dryness in my mouth, offering a small and stupid wave with the hand that holds her present. I want to make a wisecrack, to say something that lightens the mood, but our eyes are locked; there’s something in hers that keeps me from saying anything. I vaguely hear my mom tell me she’s going to get coffee with Rachel’s mom and Stacy, but I don’t dare glance away from Rachel as she keeps that gaze steady on mine.
My heart’s pounding, but I stay still, waiting until the door to her room is closed and we’re alone before I try to talk. Looking at Rachel has made me weak; I don’t know how or why or what to do about it, but I
do
know I don’t want an audience.
“Are you just going to stand there gawking at me?” she finally asks, and it breaks through the fog enough to have my feet moving. I pull a chair up next to her bed and sit so we’re eye level. When silence threatens to descend again, I toss the package on her lap with more force than intended. She winces, and I feel like an epic failure.
“Sorry,” I mumble, heat crawling up my neck. Christ, maybe this is why she didn’t call me. Awkward much?
“No worries. I just pushed a human out of my body from a place I can assure you that—no matter what my mom says about biology and chemistry and their ridiculous powers—was not meant to do that.”
I grimace, involuntarily clenching my thighs at even the mere mention of the horror. “I don’t want the details, killer.”
“Then why did you come?”
She’s not laughing. Neither am I. She can’t see me shrug because she’s picking at a loose ribbon on the gift bag that holds her things. “I guess, because I wanted to see you. And because Katie texted me.”
“She did?”
I nod when she glances at me. Then I ask, even though I know I shouldn’t. “Why didn’t you? Text me, I mean, or call me?”
She shrugs and goes back to staring at the gift bag. I clench my fists in my lap to keep from putting my hands over hers and forcing her to look at me. It takes her two minutes, but she finally answers me, her eyes never wavering from the bag.
“I guess…I didn’t know if you’d want to be here. I mean, this is weird, right?”
I nod because it
is
weird, but then I put my hand over hers and wait for her to look at me. “Maybe it’s awkward, but I still wanted to see you. I’m still glad I’m here.”
I’m nervous. Rachel isn’t the most open person—far more comfortable with yelling and innuendoes than talking about actual feelings. After what seems like an eternity, she nods. “Me, too.”
I smile, the pressure in my chest easing. “You should open the bag—it might help you feel a little better.”
She does, and her eyes fill, and the tears spill over. This time they’re less involuntary sobs like they have been the past few months, and more of a racking sob that shakes her whole body. I reach to pat her head; she slaps my hand out of the way and I nod, accepting the decision because,
Jesus
, is she a dog? I shove my hands back into my lap, aware that I’m way out of my depth.
“Shit, Rachel what’s wrong? Should I call the nurse? Your mom?”
I’m panicking, the tightening in my chest making it difficult to breathe. The one thing I was sure she would need has sent her over the edge. She shakes her head to all of my suggestions, but it doesn’t keep me from making more. I break down and offer to call Katie, though I know if I do, she’ll have my balls, blaming me for this.
I stand to take my phone out, ready to dial and willingly put my own head on the chopping block when Rachel puts her hand on my arm and says my name through her sniffles. “Tripp, don’t. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Rachel. You’re crying.”
“Oh, what’s new? I’m always crying these days. Isn’t that what being pregnant is about?”
She stops. I think she heard it too—the word that
isn’t so
anymore. She’s not pregnant; there is no waiting and wondering. Her baby is here and in the world and holy shit, there’s the panic in my chest again.
“How is she?” I ask, putting my phone away and sitting slowly.
Rachel shrugs, but she’s holding her Wolverine T-shirt; I see her smile at the food, though she makes no move to touch it. “Good, I guess. She looks like a baby.”
I snort out a laugh and she smiles, but it’s small. “I’m serious; I don’t really know what she’s supposed to do or look like—but everyone tells me she’s perfect, so I guess that’s good.”
I want to ask more, but I can see her retreating into herself, sinking down in the bed and curling onto her side so she’s facing me. “Tripp?”
I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep them from stroking the loose piece of hair from her cheek. “Hmm?”
“I’m glad you came. I’m glad you’re with me.”
I nod, risking it and placing one of my hands over hers. “Me, too.”
18
Present
I’m in Rachel’s bed, lying next to her. It’s so similar, yet so unlike the last time and I don’t know what the hell to do. We should be wrapped together, laughing, talking, kissing, having more sex—because when we do, fireworks explode—we’re that good together.
Instead, we’re immobile, both of us breathing as quietly as possible, neither of us talking, neither of us breaching the gap between us that’s getting larger by the second.
Why? I want to rage, to scream, to beat my fists against the wall and then haul her up by the shoulders and demand she tell me why she’s shutting me out. But I don’t, because as much as I want the answer, I’m afraid of it. Just like I was two years ago. Only now, I know what it feels like to go back to being just her friend and I don’t think I can survive that again.
Just as I’m about to clear my throat, to damn my pride and the fear of rejection and reach over that two-inch gap and take her hand, she speaks. Her words are like a fist in my face.
“I guess you proved your point.”
Still lost in my own head and insecurities, I take a second to process. “What?”
She doesn’t hear me—or doesn’t want to answer. She’s sliding from bed, leaving me there alone, aching, and pissed off at her and me—and everything we can’t just fucking say.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side, grab my jeans, and hitch them on. That nagging sensation is now like a bell clanging over and over in my head, alerting me that there’s danger up ahead. Curving road. Icy surface. Falling boulders. Yeah, I got that when she jumped out of bed like it was on fire. Thanks for nothing.
“What point, Rachel?” I ask again, and though I can barely make her form out in the dark, I know immediately that she’s got on her tough-girl exterior. This isn’t going to be an easy conversation—or an honest one if she can help it.
“I was mad because you insinuated that I was a slut earlier tonight. I don’t guess sleeping with you was the proper way to prove you wrong, now, was it?” She forces a smile that’s so fake it looks as brittle as glass. She turns away from me, as if she couldn’t care less what just happened between us—as if she’s so unaffected by it, she can already make jokes and shrug me
off.
“Is that what you think this was? A way to prove a point?”
“Wasn’t it?”
Direct hit. Snapping on the light, I ignore her curses and taunts as I grab her arm and force her to face me. I wince slightly when I notice her wearing my shirt. Without meaning to, I sweep my eyes over her, burning that image permanently into my brain.
This is how it should be
, I think for a second. She should be wearing my shirt, but we shouldn’t be fighting. Why the hell are we fighting?