The Real Thing (21 page)

I move against him, but he keeps me back. It frustrates the hell out of me, and I wish his hair was longer so I could yank it. Instead I bite, I lick, I suck every part of his lips and mouth. He growls, finally responding to my aggression. But it’s still … not enough.

He’s holding back. I sneak a peek at his face—his pained and concentrated expression tells me he won’t let go. Why the hell will he not let go? I whimper into his mouth, pulling back enough to say, “Eric …
please
.”

“Em …,” he grunts, struggling to pry me from his hips, “we have to go slower. I need to go slower.”

“Why?” I know he said he needed slow, but my ego needs to hear why he
still wants slow.
I’m on the verge of tears because he says it’s him, but what if it’s really me? Every other relationship on the planet seems to go faster than this.

He kisses me lightly, and I know it’s to reassure me, but it pisses me off.

“Will you just trust me?” he whispers against my lips. “And remember that it’s damn near as painful for me as it is for you.”

“Doubtful.”

He smiles, and it makes me feel maybe, sort of, kind of, a
teensy
bit better. But I’m still ramped up to the max, and if he wants to keep going slow, he better take me out in public right now.

“Emmy,” he says, tucking my face into his hard chest. He smells like Tide, and it’s the smell and the warmth of him that causes my lips to curve up in the dorkiest of smiles. I’m frustrated, but it feels good here. “I have to go slow, because too fast and I’ll lose control. I’ll freak out. I’ll run. I can’t do that to you.”

He’ll run? Just the words cause my grip to tighten on his shirt. If he thinks I’ll get pregnant, and he’s not ready for that, I should let him know I’m covered for the birth-control thing and ease his mind. But I don’t want to bring it up now, especially since we haven’t talked about protection, or exactly what sex means to either of us.

Maybe he’s right, and we need to take things at this freakish turtle’s pace if we want to make this last. And boy, I want to make this last and last and last.

“Okay.”

“Is that a real okay, or an okay that means you’re humoring me?”

I hug him tighter. “It’s real.”

He squeezes back. “Okay.”

We hold each other, following his rules and going slow. But as I breathe him in, and he rocks me, I don’t mind going slow anymore. It really does feel okay. Right. At least, right for
us
.

I wonder if this is how real-life couples fall in love. You know, if love is the direction I’m heading.

“Sixteen blue, twenty yellow, and a whopping forty-two red.” Eric marks another blue tally on my forearm as the last firework disappears from the sky. He slides the Sharpie across my skin, next to the waving American flag he drew on my wrist. When I flex my fingers it looks like it really is waving in the wind. Damn, he’s good.

“Does that mean I win?” I ask, swiping a red Sharpie mark on his elbow. He jerks back and laughs, and I mentally take note of
another
ticklish spot.

“Yes, you win.” He turns and rests his back against the deck railing and caps his blue Sharpie. “How long do you want?”

I raise an eyebrow, toss the marker over my shoulder, and hear it smack the wood on the deck before it rolls to who knows where. I let my gaze roam over his sexy-ass body before I squeeze against his side. “I want ten minutes.”

“Only ten?”

I nod, licking my bottom lip before tucking it between my teeth. “Not sure if I’ll be able to take much longer than that.”

He wraps his hand around my waist and kisses the tip of my nose. “Oil or lotion?”

“Oil, please. It’s in the inside pocket of my purse.”

“You keep oil in your purse?”

“The kind I want, yes.”

“Okay.” He kisses my nose again, and I feel it everywhere. Then his hand roams over my butt and squeezes. “You park this sexy ass on my very comfortable LoveSac. I’ll meet you there.”

I squeal and skip inside. I’m so glad waxed legs stay that way for a while. If Eric slid his hand up my pant leg and felt woolly mammoth, I bet he’d think twice about ever touching my legs again.

Eric looks good in white. I couldn’t really tell outside in the dark, but in here, as he reaches over the bar to my purse, his shoulder blades visible under the fabric, white looks so good with his skin tone. Oh, I could just eat him up! I always knew he was hot, but now that he’s
mine
… damn, it makes it so much better.

“Huuuuurry,” I sing at him as I flop onto the beanbag. He needs to get his butt over here right now and work those fingers on me before I explode.

“Patience is not your virtue, is it?” he asks, still digging around in my purse. “And where the hell is this oil?”

I laugh and tilt my head back. “Side pocket on the inside. Should be in the zipper part.”

“There’s like, fifty zippers on this thing.”

Seriously … “There is
one
zipper on the
inside.
It’s not hard to find, Eric.”

He pauses, hovering over my purse. Okay, so maybe I was a bit snotty. I scoot to the edge of the beanbag to get out, but he turns around, eyebrows pinched together as he drops my bag in the LoveSac and slouches on the floor in front of me. It takes me two seconds to locate the oil, and when I do I shake it in front of his face.

“Right where I said,” I say, teasing.

He grabs it from my hand and pours a dot in the middle of his palm. His touch should make my brain turn off, and the foot massage does feel good, but his silence thickens the air around us. I could be swimming in a massive bowl of mashed potatoes.

“Hey, I was just jok—”

“Who’s that guy that keeps messaging you?”

My cheeks go up in flames and my stomach jumps like I was on a tilt-a-whirl. “Um, what?”

He scratches his nose with the back of his hand, then attempts to rub the arch of my foot, but I can tell he’s not paying attention to that.

“Your phone went off in your purse, and I saw it was that guy … the one with the tattoo on his neck? He messaged a lot when I was holding your phone when your dad was …” He shakes his head, refusing to meet my eyes. My heart takes off and crash lands in my gut.

“He’s … a friend.”

“From school?”

“Um, no. We met online.”

He stops rubbing my foot and finally looks at me. I feel like I’m sweating out the Atlantic along my hairline. My voice comes out a little shaky.

“I meet a lot of people online. Like reading groups, Twitter, Instagram.”

“And you met him through one of those?”

Instead of answering, I avoid the question entirely. “Does it bother you?”

“No.” His brow relaxes and he lets out a croaky laugh. “Actually, yeah, it does.”

“Is that why I get ‘the look’ every time I pull out my phone?”

“Partly.”

“I promise it’s nothing.” I prod his hand with my toes and try to ignore the sick taste on my tongue. “And you used to like it when I was online all the time.”

“Yeah, when I lived across the ocean and you were talking to me.” He slides his finger over the pink nail polish on my big toe. “Now I’m here and you’re still …”

“Online.”

He nods, then buries his face in his hand. “Is it something I should worry about?”

“No.”
I slide off the LoveSac and throw my legs over his. “I don’t even talk to him that often. And he’s not the only person I talk to. Eve is constantly messaging me. And Rachel. Then there’s other stuff, like my book-chat groups, and sometimes I have my phone out to read.” I’m grasping for excuses, trying to convince not only him, but
me.

“So, when was the last time you talked to him?”

Today.
Not just today, but right before Eric walked into the room. I was thinking about him while Eric kissed me. I already know Eric’s insecure about our relationship moving forward; the truth would put up a cement wall.

“I don’t remember.” It floats from my mouth so easily, but it leaves a sharp pain in the back of my throat.

He studies my face for a second, and I wonder if he sees the word “guilt” painted across my forehead. But he pulls me in and pecks my lips, body relaxing underneath me.

“Okay.”

I blink my eyes open. “Okay?”

“I won’t worry about it.”

“Good.” I force a smile. “You shouldn’t.”

He goes back to my feet, but his hand travels up my calf to the crook of my knee, then I’m underneath him and he’s kissing my neck and squeezing my thigh, and I know he’s still holding back, but this time I don’t care. Because if he finally took the next step with me, all I’d think about is how it happened right after I lied to him.

Eric Matua is offline

“When was the last time you took your medication?”

Dr. Shuman hasn’t picked up his pen once during our session, and I take that as a good sign. I haven’t fidgeted once either.

“Few days ago.”

“Are things getting more comfortable for you?”

I smile and stare at the carpet. They got the stain out of it. “A million times more comfortable.”

“Well, this sounds great, Eric.” He leans back in his seat and scratches his goatee. “Is there a reason you scheduled this appointment? Because you seem to be doing just fine.”

“Yeah …” Something tightens around my chest, but I inhale, hold, exhale, and it goes away. “Things with Em are fine, and I think I’m finally pushing past everything, but sometimes … I can still hear her in my head.”

“Ali?”

I nod.

“Do you only hear her when you’re being intimate? Or is it a random thing?”

Intimate.
My palms get clammy. Still haven’t been able to cross that bridge.

“When I’m with Em.” I let out a hollow laugh. “It’s annoying as hell.”

He picks up his pen.
Damn it.
“I can imagine.”

“Wow … sound advice, Doc.” I watch him scribble on the clipboard. “You’re not writing a prescription for hearing voices are you?”

“Should I?”

“Do you always ask a question in answer to a question?”

“Is that something that bothers you?”

“Yes.”

He grins, dragging the pen across the clipboard. “No, I’m not writing a prescription.”

“Will you tell me how to deal with it?”

“You’re not going to like my answer.”

“Is it in the form of a question?”

He tucks the pen in his front pocket. “If something is triggering the memories of Ali—specifically what she said to you—you need to find out what that something is.”

“Okay …”

“And you’ll need to let your girlfriend know so she can help you through it.”

I groan and stare at the carpet. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Why not? You care about her?”

“Yeah.”

“You see a future with her?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve been friends with her for …?”

“Five years.”

“So you trust her?”

I open my mouth, then close it when nothing comes out. My automatic response was yes, but the thing is … I’m not sure. I trusted Ali and that went to shit. But Em’s different. Em
is not
Ali.

But … I asked her flat out about that guy and I could tell she was tiptoeing. Whenever I ask what she’s doing on her phone she dodges the question. I want to feel like I trust her, because why wouldn’t I? Does she have a reason to hide things from me?

Holy shit … I don’t know if I trust her. And I’m not sure if it’s my problem or hers.

The timer goes off for the session and I curse under my breath, because I’m not sure how long I was sitting here contemplating whether or not I trust my girlfriend. I snatch my keys from my pocket and stand, not bothering to shake Dr. Shuman’s hand.

“Eric?”

I pause in front of the door. Dr. Shuman sets his clipboard down.

“Suppressing what happened will only force it out in a way you can’t control.”

My brows pull together and I glance over my shoulder at him. His lips purse and twitch like I’m some bomb about to explode.

“Maybe the problem isn’t trusting her. It might be trusting yourself to handle talking about it.”

He gives me a halfhearted smile, then turns back to the stuff on his desk. He’s probably right. Still, I think there are a few things I’d like to tackle with Em before I dump the Ali load on her.

It’s a rare day when both Em and I don’t have to work. It’s one of those chill summer days I’m really starting to get used to with her. Makes me want to take the plunge and ask if she’s all right with me moving to Keiser with her in the fall. But I haven’t had the guts yet.

I’m doing my sit-ups in the living room while she fixes herself a bowl of cereal. I put Tolani on speakerphone after talking to him about easing off the Xanax and maybe not setting up any more therapy sessions. He was sort of quiet about it, and I’m not sure if it’s because he still has anxiety meds on hand for himself and he’s just patronizing me and shit, or if he just had nothing to say. Either way, I’m pretty damn proud of myself, so I’m easing off the stuff.

Now he’s talking about crashing the beach house for my birthday.

“That actually works perfect,” Em says as she zips the bag of no-name Froot Loops. “Eve’s baby shower is that weekend, so my bed is free.”

“You mean you’re not sharing a bed?” Tolani laughs and I clench my jaw, wishing he was here so I could lay a fist into his gut.

“Not while Momma Matua is here.” Em picks up her bowl and steps over me while I do another sit-up. I plant a kiss to the back of her knee as she passes, and it calms me down at the same time it excites me. She laughs and chucks a Froot Loop at my face.

“All right, I gotta run,” Tolani says as Isaac screams in the background. “I’ll see you late on the twenty-fifth.”

Em calls out “Bye,” and I smack my hand on the End button when I sit up again. My breathing is all out of whack because I haven’t been concentrating on it, so my workout’s complete shit at the moment.

“You know what I love?” Em asks, chomping down on her cereal and flicking through something on her phone. I try to ignore that she’s been looking at it all morning.