“Yeah.”
“Sorry. I can go. You go back to sleep. I know this is, like, your one big chance to be lazy.”
“It’s all right. How’s your break going?” We’ve only exchanged a few texts since she left on Wednesday. I haven’t known what to say to her. She’s pissed at me. I’m pissed at myself. I think we’d be better off not seeing each other at all, but if we’re going to stop, it’s going to have to be her who stops it.
“Okay, I guess. I mean, Thanksgiving was okay. Now everybody’s gone, and it kind of sucks.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Janelle and her fiancé already went home. My dad went over to some friends of our family’s in Marshalltown.”
“He left you home by yourself?”
“He wanted me to go with him, but I didn’t feel like it.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Late, I guess. It’s for dinner, but this friend is a judge, too, and they usually drink after dinner and sit around telling judge stories for hours.”
“Huh. So what are you up to?”
“Nothing.” She makes this soft sound, kind of laughing at herself. “I’m bored. Three days off school, and I officially have no idea what to do with myself. Plus, I’m lying on my bed in my room, which hasn’t changed since high school, so I kind of feel like I’m in this weird time warp, like I never went to college at all, and nothing that happened at Putnam was real.”
I reach down to adjust myself. I’m picturing her on her bed, and it’s not helping the hard-on situation. In real life she’s probably got her sweats on and her hair in one of those floppy-mess ponytails, but in my head she’s wearing that pajama top from the first night at the bakery, white panties, and nothing else. Lacy panties—the kind that go down over her hips like shorts, her pussy a pink shadow underneath.
“But then you wouldn’t be talking to me,” I say. “Since you know me from Putnam.”
“Yeah. It still kind of feels like that, though.”
“Like what?”
There’s a hitch in my breathing. I’ve got my hand on my cock, stroking.
Fuck. I shouldn’t. She’s interested in another guy, and I’m an asshole. I shouldn’t.
But I don’t stop. I haven’t heard her voice in a few days. I’ve been alone so much, I’m not sure I can stop. My hand is dry and hot, pulling so hard it’s almost cruel.
“Not real,” she says. “Like my worlds are colliding, only not, like, colliding. More like mingling or something?”
“Are you sober?”
She laughs. “I am. That just makes it weirder. Are you?”
“Yeah, why?”
The reason I’m picturing those white panties so vividly is she wore them in one of the pictures online.
I know her pussy is pink beneath those panties, shaved, because I’ve seen it.
I don’t deserve to be her friend.
I have to stop.
“Your voice is all scratchy,” she says. “You don’t sound like you.”
I’m not who you think I am.
I’m an asshole with my hand on my cock, picturing you, because I want you.
I want you all the goddamn time, and it’s making everything impossible.
“Who do I sound like?”
She’s quiet for a second, and then she laughs again, shy now. “I don’t know.”
I want her to say something dirty. I want this to be phone sex, for Caroline to tell me she’s blowing me, I’m fucking her, she never wants me to stop.
I’m loathsome.
It only makes my hand jerk faster.
“Tell me what your room looks like,” I say.
Tell me what you’re wearing. Tell me what you want me to do to you.
So she describes it—purple walls painted when she was eleven, a desk that she got in trouble for carving her name into, a daybed, whatever the fuck that is—and I turn my face away from the phone so she can’t hear my breath, broken.
“West?”
“Yeah?” I sound strange. I’ve lost track of everything but the sound of her voice and the slick flesh moving under my palm.
“Will you come, West?”
The sound of my name, the way her voice wraps around it. The breathy intimacy of her request. She wants me with her, and I do come. All over my hand.
“Sure.” I’m so wrecked, I have to clear my throat and try again. “Sure, yeah, I’ll come.”
It’s only when I’m getting in the car, asking her for directions, that I understand what a terrible idea this is.
By then it’s too late to back out.
“Boost me,” she says, and she giggles. Actually giggles, like a kid. “C’mon, West! Give me a boost!”
She’s got her hands on the roof, one foot denting the gutter—though it’s already pretty trashed at that spot, she must always go up this way—and her ass wiggling in my face. I’m pushed up against the railing of this tiny balcony off Caroline’s bedroom on the second story of her giant house, the cold of the metal seeping through my coat, wondering how I got myself into this insane situation.
She slips, shrieks, and knocks against me, hard. Without thinking, I get an arm around her waist, the fingers of my other hand wrapped tight around the rail. I wonder how this balcony is attached to the house. A few bolts? What’s the weight limit? What’s this fucking thing for, anyway? It’s not as if she’s going to string the laundry out her window to dry.
“You’re crazy,” I tell her, but she just laughs.
“I’ve done this a zillion times. Give me a boost, and I’ll help you up.”
“It’s November.”
“There’s no snow or ice. The stars are good up here. Come on.”
I figure either I help her up on the roof or I spend the next hour of my life trying to talk her out of it. Plus, if we keep trying to do this her way, we’re going to end up dead.
She’s already got her foot up again, her ass pressing into my groin. My hands grip her hips automatically, guiding that sweet, soft pressure right where I want it.
I’ve forgotten all about helping her up, but Caroline finds purchase with her other foot, and then she’s gone, up, up, and away.
I’ve just helped a stoned girl onto the roof of her suburban mansion. After getting her stoned.
I’m going to hell for this.
Her hand is in front of my face now, white and small. “I’ll help you up.”
“I can do it. Move over.”
Her hand disappears. I climb up. She’s flopped onto her back, looking at the sky. The black coat she’s wearing kind of disappears into the dark shingles, and the moonlight catches the row of silver buttons like a landing strip that leads to her smile and the sparkles in her knit cap.
“Lie down,” she tells me.
I just stand there and look at her for a minute, because she’s perfect. Her hair is loose. Her guard is down. She told me she was worried the pot would make her paranoid, but she wanted to try it, anyway. Instead, it’s made her soft and receptive, blown her pupils up so her eyes look huge and dark, full of wonder.
I feel like I’ve performed some kind of miracle.
“Wow,” she says. “You look so weird from here.”
That makes me smile. I kneel on the roof next to her, enthralled by her teeth. I only took a few hits off the pipe I brought, but it’s been a while since I smoked. I could look at her face for an hour. I want to touch her hair, feel how soft it is. Run my fingers through it, over her throat, down that line of buttons and up under her shirt, pushing it out of the way to expose her skin to the moonlight. I want to make her cold so I can warm her up with my body, my mouth, my hands, my tongue.
I want to make her belong to me.
“What is it?”