Who Do You Love (17 page)

We kissed and kissed, and then he bent his head to take my nipple in his mouth, circling it with his tongue. I felt the muscles in my thighs and belly clench, felt my hips lift toward him without knowing that they would. I wanted so badly for him to touch me between my legs, where I was slippery wet, as aroused as I'd ever been, and for the first time I felt an absence there, a new understanding that this was a part of my body that could be filled . . . and I wanted him there, wanted him inside of me so badly I thought that if I didn't get it I wouldn't be able to stand it.

Finally, I grabbed his hand and drew it down, inside my pants, outside of my panties, a black lacy pair I'd bought at Victoria's Secret. Andy gave a harsh, almost pained gasp as he touched me, feeling the wetness that had soaked the cotton. “Wait,” he whispered. He yanked down my pants hard enough to let me feel how strong he was and how impatient, and I pulled my panties off myself. He pushed my legs apart, his big hands moving me easily. For a minute he just looked. I squeezed my eyes shut. I'd shaved all the hair that would have shown when I wore my swimsuits, but there was still a lot there, a few shades darker than my brown hair, coiled in tight curls, and I wondered what he thought, if I was supposed to look that way. He stroked the hair, tugging at one of the little curls the way he'd pulled the one on my head. Then he slipped one finger inside me, parting the outer lips, dipping into the wetness, caressing upward until he found the tiny little bump.

“Ooh!” I hadn't meant to say it so loud, but when he put his finger on that spot it was like when we'd learned about circuits in science class, when you touched a live wire to another and electricity flowed through. Andy moved his finger gently, leaning forward to kiss me, and it was like nothing I'd ever felt, nothing I'd ever imagined. How had he known how to do this? Had he done this with other girls? I wondered, and then I pushed the thought away, because I was feeling too good to care about that or anything.

Andy moved one finger gently, rubbing me, and slipped another finger inside, moving it until he was right up against the barrier. My arms were spread wide, my hands were gripping the sheets, and I was breathing hard, and my heart was pounding, but I barely felt it, barely cared. Finally, he lifted himself onto his elbows and looked at me, his face serious in the shadowy light.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Please.”

He had a condom. I watched him pull it out of the pocket of his discarded jeans and open it with his teeth. Together we rolled it down, smoothing it over his hard penis. I didn't feel any anxiety or any shame, even though I'd never seen a penis up close.

“Tell me if I'm hurting you,” he said. I lay back, spread my legs, shut my eyes, and sucked in my breath when I felt the tip brushing me. Then his mouth was on my breast, and my hands were on his shoulders, and he was pushing his way inside of me, rocking back and forth, inching himself forward in the tiniest increments, until I couldn't stand it anymore, until I grabbed him and whispered, “Oh, God, go deeper, put it in deeper.” With a groan, he pushed himself all the way inside of me, and there was pain, an instant of searing pain that made me gasp . . . and then his face was buried in my neck, and he was shuddering, his hips jerking, whispering,
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't wait.

I cradled his head in my hands. I stroked his hair. My hips were still rocking in a faint up-and-down motion. I wanted to put my hand between my legs or have him put his hand back . . . and then he did just that, cupping me, covering me possessively.

“Am I bleeding?” I whispered.

He didn't even look at his fingers. “Did it hurt?” he asked instead.

“Just a little.”

“And did you . . .”

“I don't know,” I whispered, with my face against his chest. He had some hair there, and he smelled so good, that specific Andy smell, soap and cotton and his skin. “I don't think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not sure I ever have.”

He looked down at me, his expression a familiar mix of amusement and doubt. “How can you not be sure?”

I squirmed, feeling embarrassed. “I don't know! It's not like with boys, you know.”

He held still, like he was considering this . . . and then he was touching me again, with just one finger, moving lightly, almost teasingly against me. The fluttering ache intensified, and my hips rocked faster, and I felt his penis, slick with whatever they'd put on the condom, begin to stiffen against my leg. He was propped on one elbow, watching my face as he moved his finger, higher, then lower, slowly, then more quickly. I sighed and wriggled, and then, when he was touching me in the spot he'd found the first time, I whispered, “There.”

“Like this?” he whispered back, and then, because it was Andy, because my body was moving without my direction, because something was building inside of me, something wonderful and unstoppable, I grabbed his wrist and moved his hand the necessary fraction of an inch. My hips rose and fell, rose and fell, and my breath was coming in pants, and then my hips snapped up, and I froze as an unbelievably pleasurable feeling burst through me, radiating out from where Andy was touching down toward my feet and up through my chest as I felt myself, my whole body, clenching and releasing.

“Oh,” I whispered, “oh my God.”

Andy bent down and kissed my cheek. “Did you?”

I caught my breath and opened my eyes. When I could speak, I said, “If there's anything else I don't think I could stand it,” I said, and laughed, a little shakily.

“Pretty girl,” he said. His hands were moving in my hair, big, warm hands. I put my head on his chest and closed my eyes as contentment rose and swelled and filled me, until there was no room left for any doubt. He'd been lonely, and I'd been lonely, but if we were together, we'd never have to be lonely again.

•••

We must have fallen asleep, and when we woke up, the candle had gone out. Outside the window, the sky was almost dark.

“What time is it?” I asked, and then, before he could answer, I looked up at the digital clock on his dresser that was flashing
7:12.

“Are you late?”

“Oh, God,” I said, pulling my dress over my head, looking around for my panties. “I have to be back at the hotel at eight. Can we make it?”

“I guess we'll see.” He found his own clothes as I put on my boots and we ran down the stairs, leaving the bed unmade, the blankets tangled, the sheets stained.

Andy took the stairs up to the train tracks two at a time, then turned around and ran back down, holding my hand and helping me to the top. On the train, he offered his seat to a pregnant lady. “God bless you,” she said, and sank down with a sigh, putting her grocery bags between her legs. Andy held on to a steel pole, and I held on to Andy, pressing against him every time the train sped up around a curve or lurched to a stop. There was a little bit of pain still, an unfamiliar soreness between my legs, and I welcomed it as a reminder of how we'd been together.

At almost eight o'clock, it was completely dark, the air soft and warm, and Rittenhouse Square Park was as crowded as it had been in the afternoon when I'd left. We ran past a violinist, a beautiful girl in a black dress that showed most of her back, playing something sweet and sad, her bow dancing over the strings, her velvet-lined case open in front of her, half full of coins and bills. Beside her, a homeless man slept on a bench. On the bench next to him, a young couple sat, holding hands, the girl with her head resting against the guy's shoulder.

The cool air and the hushed stillness of the Rittenhouse Hotel's lobby were a shock after the crowded bustle of the park. The air smelled like lilies, from the enormous arrangement on an octagonal-shaped table in the center of the room. I turned my head when I heard my voice, and there was Nana, dressed for dinner in black pants and a beaded jacket.

She pressed her cool, powdered cheek against my heated one and looked at me, smiling. “Introduce me to your friend.”

“Nana, this is Andrew Landis. Andy, this is my nana Faye.”

Andy shook her hand gently. “It's nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Nana was looking at him, taking his measure. “Did you two have a nice day?” She looked at me, then put a finger under my chin and turned my face toward hers. “It looks like you got some sun.”

I felt myself flush even more deeply. “We had lunch at the Reading Terminal, and then we walked around for a while. Andy showed me where he lived.”

“Sounds perfect,” Nana pronounced. “Young man, would you like to join us for dinner?”

Andy shifted from foot to foot. “Are you sure I'm dressed all right?”

Nana studied his T-shirt and jeans. “If you aren't, I'm sure they'll be happy to give you a jacket. I should warn you, it will most likely be an awful jacket.”

I clapped my hands. “Oh, yes! Yes, please!”

Andy gave me a mock-angry look, then smiled and took my hand. I felt like I was melting as I leaned against him. When Nana wasn't looking, he leaned down and gave me a kiss.

The maître d' at the restaurant did make Andy wear a jacket, and it was hideous, a blue-and-yellow plaid thing made for someone much shorter and wider than Andy was, but he put it on without complaining, and followed the hostess to a table by the window that looked over the park. I was worried that he'd never been in a place like this—not that I'd spent much time in fancy French restaurants, either—but when the waiter asked what we wanted to drink, Andy said that water would be fine, and then when he came back to take our orders, I asked for the sea bass, and Andy said, very politely, “I'd like the burger, please,” which was the least-expensive thing on the menu.

“And how would you like that prepared?” the waiter asked.

Nana lifted her hand. “Young man, are you sure you would
n't
rather have the steak?”

When he smiled, his white teeth flashed. “I never say no to steak.”

“French fries?” asked the waiter, his pen hovering over his pad.

“Can I just have steamed spinach?”

“Of course.”

“Watching your weight?” asked Nana, looking surprised.

“No, ma'am. I just try to eat healthy. Not a lot of fried stuff. Coach wouldn't approve.”

“Disciplined,” Nana said, and smiled.

I sat there, glowing, feeling pretty and content, with my tanned shoulders beneath the thin white straps of my sundress and my handsome guy beside me, as Andy and my nana talked—about her childhood in Newark and his in Philadelphia, how they'd both lived in row houses and both had jobs as teenagers, she in a candy store, Andy with his paper route and part-time job at the bowling alley. She told him all about her travels, and how, in 1960, her husband had taken her to the Olympics in Rome, where she'd seen Wilma Rudolph win the one-hundred-meter and two-hundred-meter races, and her team take the four-by-one-hundred relay. When the bottle of wine she'd ordered came, she asked the sommelier to pour each of us a taste, and Andy swished it around in his mouth the way she did, before swallowing and saying, “Not bad.”

We had profiteroles for dessert, and even Andy had a bite. When the check came, Nana said, “Rachel, I'll see you in the room, if you want to say goodnight downstairs.”

We held hands in the elevator, and I leaned against him, trying not to cry. The next morning I'd be on a plane, and when he was going to sleep in Philadelphia I'd be halfway around the world.

Andy walked me to the fountain where I'd first seen him again. The drive was busy, with valets in uniforms running with car keys, and fancy cars pulling up for the doorman to open the doors and help the ladies out.

“This was so nice,” I said, hating how inadequate the words sounded.

Instead of answering, he bundled me into his arms, pulling me close. His kiss triggered a jolt of pure longing in my body. “How am I going to stand it?” I asked when he let me go. I was starting to cry. I'd been so worried, and it had been so perfect, and now we'd be apart again. “I don't want to go.”

“We'll have time,” he told me.

“I have your heart,” I said, and reached into my pocket, and showed him the red paper clip on a chain. I wiped my eyes and hoped my nose wasn't running. “I have it with me every day.”

“You have my heart,” he said, and hugged me again, and whispered
I love you.
He gave me one last kiss and then, without looking back, he walked toward the park, out into the vibrant, fragrant night.

Andy

1996

A
ndy saw her as soon as the bus pulled up to the newsstand in the center of town, thinner than the last time, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with Greek letters, jumping up and down and waving at him. She grabbed him, kissed his cheek, took his hand, and started chattering before he'd had time to pull his duffel out from the storage compartment. “Did you win?”

In the clear late-autumn sunshine Rachel looked like a flower, her pretty face peeking out from her curls, eyes shining. She looked very young, and very sweet, even though, during their phone call Friday, before he'd left for the meet at UVA, she'd been delightfully explicit about what she planned to do when they were i
n bed.

“Don't I always?” Andy lifted her in his arms, kissed her nose, her cheeks, her lips, first quickly, then longer.

“Always,” she confirmed, lacing her fingers with his, swinging his arm up and down as she led him toward campus.

As soon as he'd gotten his schedule of meets in September, he'd gone to the map that he'd tacked up over his desk, using his ruler to figure out how many miles each meet was from Beaumont, Virginia, where Rachel was earning a degree in history at Beaumont College. With an eye toward travel, Andy had set up his classes so that the last one finished on noon at Friday, and the first one of the week didn't begin until four o'clock on Monday. Coach had agreed to let him change his plane ticket, which gave him forty-eight hours to spend with his girl.

“Are they calling you Streak?” Rachel asked.

He shook his head.

“Can I call you Streak?” she asked, then said, “You know what? I'd better not. What if people think I'm talking about your underwear?” She swung their joined hands up and down, let go long enough to wave hello to a pair of girls dressed like she was, then grabbed his hand again.

Andy had gone undefeated in college so far, enough of a feat for the papers to take notice. Lori had sent him the clippings from home:
Local Runner Triumphs Out West
. A sticky note had been attached to the page.
I'm proud of you,
she'd written, the way he'd always wanted her to write when he'd been in elementary school, pulling notes from Miles Stratton's mom out of the trash. When he'd started track in high school his mom had never made it to his meets. It wasn't until he'd started winning, breaking records, and collecting medals and accolades, All-State honors, and recruiting letters from coaches that Lori had started getting her friend Marie to switch shifts so that she could be there to watch him run.

At first she'd sat by herself, high in the bleachers, maybe feeling awkward in the company of all the moms she'd barely met, the ones who knew to wear the school colors to meets and when to call their sons' names. Slowly, as the weeks went by and the weather got warmer, Lori had drifted toward the other mothers, joining them as they cheered. Sometimes Mr. Sills would sit with her in the stands, both of them cheering for him, Lori in her high voice, Mr. Sills in his deep one. Eventually, his mother had started sitting right by the track. She'd hand him his warm-ups, tell him she was proud. She'd even called her parents to tell them the news after he'd won States his senior year, and had let them come to his graduation. Where his grandpa had said, “I'm proud of you,” and his grandmother had cried.

“My little man,” Lori had said in the car at the airport, the morning he'd left for Oregon. “I can't believe you're so grown-up.” In the early-morning light in jeans and the Oregon sweatshirt he'd bought her, she looked so young, with her smooth skin and her long hair, now colored a more natural shade of blond, artfully highlighted and curled into soft waves. She was only thirty-six, years younger than most of the other boys' moms. Maybe now that he was gone she'd have a boyfriend. If she met a nice guy he'd be fine with it. He worried, picturing Lori coming home from work, smelling like bleach and perm chemicals, to find the kitchen cold and dark, the couch empty.

He'd climbed out of the car, pulled out his duffel bag, one of a dozen donated to the team by a sneaker company, and tightened the laces of his shoes, which had been donated by another. His days of hand-me-down coats were over—between his paper route and the bowling alley and the giveaway T-shirts and warm-ups he got, he had plenty to wear.

“I'll miss you,” said his mom, and swiped almost angrily under her eyes with the sides of her thumbs. “I should've done better.”

Surprised, he'd asked, “What do you mean?”

She'd brushed away more tears. “I should have encouraged you more. I should have come to more of your meets.” She'd sniffled, then said, “I should have bought you that goddamned coat in fifth grade.”

“Oh, Mom.” He pulled her into his arms, surprised at her smallness. When he'd been little he thought she was as tall as a giantess, big and scary, but now he could see her clearly, a petite, still-pretty woman who'd tried her best for him. Maybe she hadn't done everything right, telling him that they were a team, that it was the two of them against the world and that they could never let anyone else in . . . but she'd worked hard to support them. She'd never had a boyfriend, never once, in all their years together, brought a man home, the way most of his friends' single mothers would do. If she hadn't given him everything he'd wanted, at least he wasn't spoiled, and he'd learned, on his own, how to push himself hard, how to work for the things that he wanted.

“Go on,” she said. “Can't miss your plane.” Carefully, she used the pads of her thumbs to pat concealer beneath her eyes. Her nails were long, shaped into ovals, perfectly painted, as
always
.

“Mom,” he'd said again, and she'd waved him away, a brief, dismissive gesture, turning her face so that he couldn't see if she was still crying.

“I know,” she'd said. “I know.”

He'd picked up his bag, put his backpack on his shoulders, and walked through the airport's automatic doors, to the gate, and to college, the next step in the future he'd mapped out for himself years ago. Oregon was the best place in the country for college runners. He'd train and race and impress the coaches with his skills and speed and, most of all, his attitude, his capacity to work hard, to push through the pain, to take whatever they gave him and keep coming back for more. He'd win the NCAAs and the Nationals and the Olympics; he'd get paid to endorse things, to give speeches and lead clinics and coach; he'd buy Lori a house someplace warm, so that she could relax, enjoy herself, not have to wait on other people all day long. He wondered how she'd look when he gave her a gold medal, or the keys to a house that he'd bought; how it would be to have his mom completely happy, entirely approving, glad that he wa
s
her son.
Work hard
—he heard Coach Maxwell's voice in his head.
Do your training, run your laps, and maybe someday you'll find out.

•••

The Beaumont campus looked like a small village; a rich little village made of old brick and marble buildings crawling with ivy, of plush green lawns and weathered wood benches, wide stone walkways, and students who looked like they could all be Abercrombie & Fitch models. Rachel had lived in the dorms for her first year. Sophomores were allowed to live off-campus, or in their fraternities or sororities, and that was where she had moved. “Here we go,” she said, leading Andy down a street lined with stately mansions, all with Greek letters hanging over their doors and wide, carefully tended lawns, and tall trees that had been planted to shade the paths to the front doors. The Gammas were housed in a three-story white building with marble steps that looked like a smaller version of Scarlett O'Hara's plantation house in
Gone with the Wind,
with its pillars and its deep front porch. Inside, it was cool and smelled like furniture polish and roasting chicken. Rachel's room was on the third floor, and the first thing Andy noticed was that it wasn't just one room but a suite of rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room with a desk and a couch and a little refrigerator and a fireplace, an actual, working, wood-burning fireplace, with a neat stack of logs in a round iron holder beside it.

A fancy dress in dry-cleaner's plastic hung on the back of her closet door. A pair of shorter dresses were draped over the back of her chair, and her tops and pants and shoes were folded in stacks, all of them in cream and teal, the sorority's colors.

“It's Pledge Week,” she had warned him back in early September, when they'd gone over his schedule on the phone.

“Which means what?” he'd asked.

“Formals,” she'd said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I'll be crazy busy.” Rachel had been elected the pledge cochair, in charge of recruiting PNMs, which Andy had come to learn meant potential new members. Disappointed and trying not to sound that way, he'd said, “We can try another time,” but immediately she'd said “No,” and “Please come,” and “Don't be silly,” and “I want you to come to the dance.” Then, before he could ask for specifics about what Pledge Week would involve, she'd said, in her creamiest whisper, “Guess what I'm wearing right now.” The words, the tone, just the whisper all had their usual effect, sending every drop of blood from the waist up racing down south.

“Hey,” she murmured, looking up at him from underneath her lashes. Andy noticed that while there were clothes on almost every available surface, hanging from every hook and covering all the furniture, the bed—queen-size, thank God, a welcome change from the singles they'd been grappling on for freshman year—was pristine and bare. “Come,” she said, throwing herself down on the mattress. “Let's burn this one off.”

He shook his head, trying to look disapproving, but she pulled him down, kissing his neck, then his ear, and he knew that she was right—they'd been apart for so long that the first time probably wouldn't last long enough to be any good for her. She was just as eager as he was, shucking off her sweatshirt and her jeans until she was naked against him. He could feel her ribs and clavicles when he touched her—she'd gotten thinner since going to college. Every morning she and her sisters would gather in the living room and put some step aerobics video on and all exercise together. It had sounded like hell to him, working out indoors, without the air and the sunshine, without going anywhere, and he didn't think she'd needed to lose any weight. “Come on,” Rachel had groaned when he'd made his case. “My butt was enormous.” It had been bigger, but he'd liked it like that, liked stroking it and squeezing it, filling his hands.

Rachel was squirming against him, one leg thrown over his so that he could feel her against him, the wetness and the heat. “Oh, I can't wait,” she whispered. He put his hand over her mouth, knowing that if she kept talking like that it would put him right over the edge. Parting her lips, she sucked at the pad of his index fingertip. He used his knees to wrench her legs apart. “Ow!” she squealed as he jabbed at her, too hard, desperate to be inside. Then she rolled her hips and he slid forward, up
and in, and could almost hear the click as they fitted themselves together.

When they were finished, and lying side by side, still breathing hard, she said, “Okay, let me see 'em.”

“They're fine,” Andy protested. Rachel gave him a stern look as she sat up and beckoned until he swung his legs into her lap. Every time, after they'd been apart for a while, she'd ask to inspect his feet, then act horrified by what she saw, and every time he'd demur, but he thought that she was secretly pleased—or at least impressed—by their condition, and he knew that he enjoyed her careful attention.

Rachel gasped, and frowned, and ran one fingernail lightly up the sole of his right foot. “Can you feel that?”

Andy shook his head—the calluses were too thick. “God, you're like a mountain goat or something. These aren't feet, they're hooves.” She cooed over his battered toes, saying, “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy has no toenail, and this little piggy has no toenail either . . .”

Pulling his feet out of her lap, he gathered her into his arms. “Ooh, am I about to be ravished?” Rachel asked as she started kissing his chest. She'd twisted her hair into a coil on top of her head, so that he could see the shape of her skull, her sweet little ears, slightly pointed at the top. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down to the small of her back, then stroked his way slowly back up, listening to the throaty noises she made, feeling her breath quicken. They had probably made love dozens of times since the first night in Philadelphia, and it was never less than wonderful. Not that there weren't missteps—times he finished too quickly, or when they'd be in the throes of it, Rachel on her hands and knees and Andy, slick with sweat, behind her, when she'd get embarrassed about the noises they made, and the more he tried to assure her that he hadn't noticed them, the more ashamed she'd get. She'd elbowed him in the eye once, in her haste to climb on top of him. He'd given a startled yelp and she'd said, “Quiet down, you've got two of those,” and then she'd gripped him, stroking him slowly, rolling her thumb over the head, and added, “but only one of these,” and he'd forgotten all about his eye, forgotten all about everything as he'd grabbed her and pulled her down.

“Rachel?”

“Hang on,” she said, and hopped out of bed, pulling on a robe and walking to the sitting room. Andy half dozed as he heard Rachel and another woman talking. “Everything okay?” Andy asked when Rachel came back to the bedroom, and Rachel, rolling her eyes, said, “I don't know what part of ‘French manicure or a short, neutral nail' they don't understand.”

“Are you kidding?” he asked, but she shook her head. She was adorable, with her soft brown eyes, her pert little chin, the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Andy even loved her little white teeth.
My little honey, my little sweetheart,
he would call her, and she'd stand on her tiptoes and say, “I'm full-grown!” Now she was looking at him, trying to look authoritative, not adorable.