Not Looking for Love: Episode 4 (6 page)

I pull him in deeper, because I want it all. He's still gazing into my eyes, and we're not in my bed anymore, we're on a boat far beyond the horizon, and the waves are rolling right through me, deep and high, relentless.

"Harder," I whisper, and throw my head back as he obeys, his cock hitting a spot inside me I never even knew existed. I arch my back and open my legs wider, each thrust like an angry black wave, hitting the cliffs, my entire stomach a raging, burning wet cave, the waves filling it so fast I scream out, because it's too much, too fast, too deep, and I don't ever want it to stop.
 

The explosion comes suddenly, with no warning. He's still thrusting into me, and I'm gasping for breath in between short shrieks, because the heat is searing through me, waves building again, filling me a second time beyond anything I can endure. I wrap my legs around his waist, want him still and deep so I can ride this wave out, catch my breath, stop screaming. Only he's not stopping, and his cock feels like a burning log inside me now, so deep it's up near my heart, my insides melting from its heat. I can't see a thing even though my eyes are wide open, and the explosions keep coming, keep breaking apart, breeding off each other, multiplying, the night awash with a million firecrackers going off at once.

I wake up later and the room is dark. My stomach is so empty and hollow, I want to cry. Scott's not anywhere near me. I throw the blanket off and lunge out of bed, sending the lamp crashing to the floor as I try to light it.

Scott's sitting in the armchair by the window, putting on his shoes.

"You can't go," I say and stumble toward him. I can't see his eyes, it's too dark, but I know they're black, because cold shadows are snaking all around him.
 

"Sure I can," he says, straightening up like he's about to stand up and walk out.
 

I topple into his lap before he can do it, because I'll never let him. My lips find his, and I'm running my hands down the sides of his face, through his hair, down his neck, kissing him wetly. Only he's not kissing me back.

"Please, Scott. Don't be like this." I'm tasting my tears, shaking now, and not from the cold. "Please just stay."

He's stiff as a rock under me, but I can feel he's hard and my stomach twists, because I want him inside me again so bad. But I can't force him to do something he doesn't want to do. No matter how much I want to. I'll be alright if he leaves, eventually I'll be alright.
 

"But I won't make you," I whisper and kiss him one last time, wet and sloppy, then climb off and return to bed.
 

I drape the blanket over my head, and stick my fingers into my ears, because I can't hear him leave.

The sound of my blood rushing through my body, is making the bed spin all around, but I don't move and I don't take my fingers from my ears, because I'm just fine like this.

Ages later, the bed finally moves and then Scott's arm is around my waist. His belt buckle is pressing into my lower back, so he hasn't undressed and might still leave, but I pull my fingers from my ears anyway and poke my head out from under the blanket.
 

I clutch his hand, lacing my fingers with his and hold on tight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the morning, I wake up still clutching Scott's hand. He's asleep, but his eyes open as
 
I turn to face him.

"You stayed," I whisper.
 

"I did," he says and props himself on one elbow, gazing at me. His eyes are the color of a calm sea at dawn, not a single ripple disturbing the surface.

"For good?" I ask, holding my breath.

He smiles, but mostly with his eyes. "I probably better, right?"

His gaze tickling my nipples. "I won't make you. I meant it. Stay only if you want to."

He leans over and kisses my nipple. I gasp, running my palm across his cheek.
 

"I do want to stay," he says, and smiles up at me.
 

"Good," I sigh. "But I already knew you did."

And then I'm on my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his tongue in my mouth, his thumb tracing a slow circle across my clit.

"Want to do it again?" he asks. I nod, biting my bottom lip and don't fight it when he gets the condoms.

"But you won't pass out again?" he asks, grinning widely, my cheeks growing hot.

"I can't make any promises," I manage. "That's up to you."

"Is it now?" he asks, letting his pants fall down. "You can always tell me when you've had enough."

I open my legs, and run my fingers across my clit. "You just come over here."

He doesn't need any more urging than that.
 

His cock slides in easier this morning, going deep, filling the void and it's like he never left. Each thrust builds on the next, until I can't see his face, the waves building, crashing, his cock so deep I can't take anymore of it.

I slide my hands under his sweater, my fingertips grazing the dips and valleys. He expands inside me, melts into my own flesh. His lips are parted, his breaths coming in hard jabs, ending in grunts. All I see are his eyes, ripples building on the sea surface now, forming white foam crested waves. My entire body morphs, becomes the ocean, a perfect summer storm brewing between my legs, starting in his eyes.
 

His thrusts come faster now, his breaths shallower and I close my eyes, let the waves take me under, the storm consume me.
 

When I wake up again, Scott's laying beside me, all dressed again.

"Don't get mad, but I have to go back tonight," he whispers, brushing the hair from my eyes.

"Why?" I ask, propping myself up.
 

"I just do," he says, his jaw clenched, shadows collecting in his eyes.

"But you'll pick up when I call you?" I ask.

"Not tonight, tomorrow," he says.

"Tonight," I argue. "I don't care how late."

He runs his fingers down my cheek, cupping my chin. "You really are very pushy."

I grin and sit up, kissing him lightly. "I know."

He kisses me back, for a long time, until I'm sure it's already tonight, only the sun is still shining when he leaves.

"Promise me you'll call," I yell after him from the doorway as he's getting into his car.

"Alright, Gail, I'll call you."
 

Then he climbs in his car and drives off. I could still go to school, catch my last two classes, but my brain is foggier than a moor, so what would be the point?

My phone rings at two in the morning. I'd given up waiting at midnight, cried myself to sleep, certain all of it was just another lie.

"You called," I mutter.

"Well, I promised," Scott says, sounding very far away. "But it's late. I kinda just wanna sleep."

"When will I see you again?" I ask, wide awake suddenly, because I don't want him to stop talking.

"Friday?" he asks, and chuckles when I gasp. Friday's too far away. I can't wait that long.

"Can't you come here before then? Then I can come down on Friday." I'd pack my bags and leave school to be with him right now, and the thought sends my heart racing. I've fought my way clear of one insanity, just to plunge myself into another.
 

"Alright, Gail, whatever. Let's figure it out tomorrow," he says tonelessly. He wants to stop talking, and I'm not sure I'll ever hear from him again. My whole bed is shaking like there's an earthquake.
 

"OK," I mutter, because it's all I can manage.

But it takes me forever to fall back asleep, and I keep my phone off, so he can't break up with me over a text again.

CHAPTER NINE

"The weekend's no good for me," Scott tells me on Wednesday morning. "Maybe Thursday and Friday."

But I have to retake Professor Harvey's test on Friday, and I've yet to study.

"Come here tonight then," I suggest anyway. I'll make it work out. I need to see him. "Then I'll come on Friday, because that's when Thanksgiving break starts anyway, so we'll have almost ten days."

I'm rambling, because I can't stop picturing him going to see his Swedish exchange student girlfriend on Saturday night, and I don't even want to think it, or else I'll say something and drive him away.

"I have to study this week anyway," I finish, interrupting him as he tries to say something.

"So now you don't want me to come?" he says.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," I reply. We haven't really spoken about anything, mainly because I'm too busy discussing plans.

"I do and I don't, Gail," he says, his voice fading in the middle of the sentence as he probably brings the phone to his other ear.

"What does that even mean?" I ask, because I'm done begging.
 

"I don't know," he says, his voice soft and distant.

"Well, figure it out." I say it too harshly, because the burning anger rising in my chest is nothing I can control. "Do you want to see me or not?"

He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly into the phone. "Gail. I do want to see you. I want to see you right now. I just don't know if I should."

"Just tell me why and let me decide then," I say, speaking louder than I intended.
 

"I want to see you too. Right now," I add more quietly.

"I can't actually tell you anything," he says, and I know his eyes are filled with shadows. "Besides, didn't you say you won't ask any questions?"

"You know what? Fine. I'll be there on Friday and then we'll have the whole next week to talk, or not, depending on your wishes and schedule."
 

I'm breathing hard now, and he's not saying anything. Raindrops are hitting my window, running down like tears, forming small rivers. But I'm done crying, because it won't solve this.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he says suddenly, and my breath hitches in my throat.

But I let him go, because I'm done begging.

I spend the next two days cramming for Harvey's test, until my head is so full of dates and convention clauses there's no room for anything else. This test is something I can solve. Whatever's going on with Scott, I may never be able to. Somehow, after all that studying it doesn't sound as important anymore.
 

But it comes crashing back, in all it's unresolved glory, as soon as I hand in my test and turn my phone back on.

Tonight's no good. Tomorrow? Scott's text reads. There's no voicemail message, no missed call. He didn't even bother trying to talk to me. I want to throw my phone at him.

I call him, my hand shaking. It goes straight to voicemail. "I'm coming tonight anyway. So call me whenever."

The phone slips from my fingers, because I press End Call so fast, and I barely manage to catch it before it crashes onto the concrete.

I stop by my house just long enough to collect my bag, which I packed the night before.

"You're leaving already?" Phillipa asks, standing in the doorway to my bedroom. "When will I see you again?"

I swallow against the prickly ball of tears lodged in my throat. "It's Thanksgiving. I have to be home with my Dad."

"So after the holidays?" she asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice to come if I try to speak. My mom made the best stuffing, and she never had the time to teach me. She tried to, last year, but back then I couldn't accept her diagnosis as final, and I couldn't stand any reminder of it.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I ask, blinking back the tears. "You could come to my house, if you want?"

Phillipa smiles, but shakes her head. "Holly's staying in town. We'll just do something the two of us."

"Good, that's good," I mutter, stuffing my laptop into my purse.
 

Fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting in gridlock traffic on the highway, and I wish I'd waited to leave.

"I'm going to Geneva on Sunday," Dad informs me over dinner. He's drinking a seltzer, but I can smell whiskey on him from across the table. The pizza we ordered is too salty and the cheese sticks to my teeth.

"For how long?" I ask.

"A week," he says. "But I was thinking you could come with me, and we can do Thanksgiving there."

There's hope in his eyes and I know he was dreading Thanksgiving dinner without Mom as much as me. Only, if I leave with him, I won't get to see Scott at all, so I'm not even considering it.

"I should stay. I have a huge term paper due after the break."

The hope fades from his eyes, the lack hitting me right in the stomach, until I almost tell him I'll come. But I can't not see Scott all week. I'd never last.

"There's always Christmas," he says and takes a bite of his pizza.
 

My phone's ringing upstairs, but I don't move. I'll finish dinner with my dad first, all else can wait.

But it wasn't Scott calling at all, it was Kate.

"I saw you come home like hours ago," she says after I call her back. "Were you going to call me at all?"

I'm still struggling with my disappointment that Scott hasn't called yet. I was sure he would.
 

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I didn't think you'd be home."

Which is true. Kate's been my best friend since before kindergarten, and I've not known her to be home on a Friday night for the past ten years.
 

"Oh, I'm home. So come over."

The cold, sad undercurrent in her voice makes it impossible to say no. Besides, what else am I going to do all night? Mope around and wait for Scott to call, that's what, probably crying if he doesn't soon.

I wrap an old cardigan around my shoulders and slip past the living room. Dad's got the TV on too loud, and his soda's sitting forgotten on the dining room table.

I slip out through the kitchen door without telling him I'm going out. He's drinking again, I can smell the scotch from the kitchen and if I say anything, I'll yell.

I slip though the hole in the fence that separates my house from Kate's. There's a crisp scent of snow on the air, and a slight drizzle is hitting my face.

Kate's smoking a cigarette on the back porch, their vast living room sparkling behind her.