If I Stay (4 page)

He just one finger inside of me, working slowly, and with each soft moan his wicked grin grew wider and wider, his nose against mine, every exhale sharp.

“Come for me, Gemma,” he breathed, his voice hard and breath hot against my lips as he kissed me again. “God, please come for me.”

Gripping his hair, his kiss painful and soft all at once, I came in waves. Seconds passed like minutes, the minutes stretching thin before I finally returned to semi-consciousness, and Ben was watching me intently.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, his hands suddenly cupping my face, my skirt still around my ankles. He kissed me again and again planting a dozen gentle kisses on my lips like I was worth worshiping and not just some girl he'd brought back from a bar. “You are. You really, really are.”

“And what about you?” I asked, giving him my best attempt at coy. While he was on his knees I sat up and reached down to unbutton his jeans, his erection still full and straining against the
material. Oh, how I wanted to see it. “This is only fair, right?”

He moved my hands immediately, although I could see the yearning in the way he pressed his lips together, his fingers fumbling to re-button his pants.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.”

Not tonight?
I didn't understand.
Was he joking?

“But...” I re-clasped my bra, feeling suddenly exposed and admittedly confused. “I thought you wanted to...”

“Oh, believe me,” he swallowed, slowly calming himself. “I do. But not tonight. I can't.”

Inside my head, I was throwing a fit. What was he saying? Of course he could. He totally could. But instead, I sank a little.

“Why not?” I asked. Ben smiled somberly.

“Because I'm not an animal, Gemma. I'm able to suppress my rabid desires.”

He stood over me, still half-naked and still as beautiful as when he was standing on stage. I didn't take my eyes off of him as I said, quiet as a wisp: “Just once?”

“Just once?” he asked, baffled. “Just one what?”

“I just want to feel you inside of me. Just for a moment,” I told him. “We don't have to have sex. It would just be like...a tease.”

He looked uncertain, but I could see the sparks.

“A tease?” he asked quietly.

“Exactly.”

I lifted myself against him, running a fingertip down his spine. On his knees, he cautiously removed his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. From the wallet, a condom.

“Just a tease?” he asked again. Shallow, primal. When he stood, I suddenly felt small. I wanted him now. I wanted to feel him crushing against me. Oh, how insane it is that even minutes, when you want someone so badly, drag at the pace of eternity.

He unbuttoned his jeans, leaning over and grazing his lips against my neck.

“Close your eyes,” he prompted. I did as I was told, listening to the sweet, toying sounds of his zipper, his pants dropping to his feet, and the sound of foil ripping open. Before I could even say his name, his entire torso was pressed against me, heavy and yet not enough. He nipped at my earlobe, his teeth pulling gently as he whispered: “Just once. Only once.”

With that, he was inside of me, every inch moving slowly until I could feel him: full and trembling as his body shook, the strength that it must have taken him to hold back unimaginable. His hips grinding against mine, he thrust once, a groan escaping his lips as he buried his face into my neck, saying only my name: “Gemma.”

He paused for a moment, still inside me, like the wheels in his head were turning and urging him to keep going. He slid out quickly, his breath cut like a razor blade.

And then it was over.

Only a tease
. I repeated as he was pulling his pants up and rolling over to lay down next to me.
But I want so much more.

His hand found mine, and I could still hear his breath. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving, and I couldn't fathom what was flooding through his own intricate circuitry. The strength it must take to stop yourself from snapping, to fight the release. To abstain from pleasure when it's all right there in front of you.

“I like you,” he whispered, his eyes on the ceiling. “Have I said that already? I don't want to be the idiot that repeats himself.”

“No,” I said quietly, and I couldn't help but smile. “But I think I had an idea.”

He rolled over, turning to me, and I could see the fatigue pressed beneath his eyes. With the clap of his hands, the lights were off, and the only thing that gave guidance to the room was the faint street lamps that shone through the sparkling windows, still running from the rain.

Quietly I watched as Ben kicked out of his pants, got under the covers, and motioned for me to join him. I did so happily, scrambling beneath the blankets into the warm and welcoming curve of his arm. My head on his chest, the smell of his cologne still entrancing.

“I think I'll work on that poem,” he said, his eyes heavy. “Hopefully I can remember it verbatim by morning.”

“I still can't believe you recited a poem for me, on whim.”

Ben chuckled, and there it was: the writer's glow.

“It was worth it just to see your reaction. You should smile more.”

“I know.”

He grinned.

“I know, too.”

I stayed in his arms as the hours passed, and eventually he fell into sleep. I tried to follow suit, but not matter how many times I closed my eyes I was met with no avail. My mind was still alive, remembering where I was only earlier. And looking at Ben, fast asleep, it astounded me that someone who seemed so gentle could also be so fierce.

Then again, how could I question it? He was a writer. He was an artist. Passion was perhaps a natural thing.

When 3 o'clock rolled around, and my eyelids felt nearly weighed-down by lead despite their unwillingness to close, I stumbled out of bed and threw my clothes on, careful to keep quiet as possible. Spotting the familiar piece of clothing, and after a half-second of internal debate, I snatched Ben's shirt and found my way in the darkness down the steps and into the living room. On the coffee table was my purse, and I searched for something, anything to write Ben a note. Settling on an old receipt, I scrawled a message that I hoped he could read, even in my drowsy, nerve-riddled state:

I was never good with sleepovers. I hope you don't hate me.

I left my number scratched at the bottom, and because I didn't feel like standing out in the freezing wet cold to hail a taxi, I settled on shelling out the money for their most standard room. It was nothing like Ben's suite, nothing to really look at with the typical bed, desk, and small television. No mini-fridge. No kitchen. Nothing fancy. But just for the night, it was perfect.

I sank down on the comforter, not even bothering to undress, and fell into sleep with the sweet, familiar scent of Ben's cologne. His shirt cuddled up to me like a blanket.

And quite frankly, I didn't care how weird it made me look.

FOUR

I'll admit it: tip-toeing through the lobby and out the doors of the
L'Hotel D'Amour
made me feel kind of like I was doing the Walk of Shame. I'm not entirely sure why, but there was something about the way the receptionist regarded me. Her eyes narrowed slightly as I stood there, trying to avoid all possible eye-contact, still wearing the clothes of yesterday –
oh
. And secretly hiding Ben's shirt in my purse like a klepto nut.

After handing back the key, I pulled up the hood of my coat, my thigh-high socks now feeling too-tight and remarkably uncomfortable, and stepped out onto a fresh sheet of ice that had resulted by the freezing rain – falling straight on my ass, in the middle of the sidewalk, where everyone could see.

Phenomenal.

I was convinced that upon standing, Ben would be waiting behind me. The classic, unexpected (and yet entirely expected) run-in. Literally. But when I stood, I was at least relieved to discover that he wasn't there. I had no idea if he was even still in the hotel. If he was still sleeping, or if he'd left. If he'd gotten my note. If I'd be hearing from him, or if he was upset about my leaving when I was more than certain that he was expecting wake up next to me. Only now he wouldn't.

Hailing a cab, I slid in and gave the driver my address, crossing my legs and peering through the foggy window. The sky still hung with heavy clouds, the streets still scattered with pools of black rain water.

Why
– I asked myself –
did I even do this?

At least the cab driver was of the quiet variety. He didn't press, or try to engage with me in pointless small-talk. Rather, he simply asked:

“Everything alright, miss?”

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. Did I appear uneasy? My backbone hurt from the fall, so sure, maybe I was wincing. But my clothes weren't terribly wrinkled, my makeup still relatively in place. All things considered, I thought I looked at least esthetically acceptable. Unless, of course, he saw something that I didn't.

After wasting a few beats trying to unscramble the words, I finally answered.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

Simple enough. With my index finger, I traced my name on the window in script. Quick and precise as a paintbrush, which was something I'd sort of perfected since the fourth grade given the fact that we were only ever allowed to write in cursive. It just sort of stuck. I drew a heart around it, wondering if the cab driver would ask me to stop or risk making a smudgy mess out of his windows. Yet he never said anything, and as we pulled around the corner that met my street, I added, in very small print under my name, barely squeezing into the heart:
+ Ben
.

I was still caught up in that teenage feeling of hormones and more, more, more. Even when it ends, you still want it to continue. You want to hit the replay button over and over again, keep playing it out like film across a movie screen.

Except this wasn't cinema. Everything eventually came to an end. An immediate, hardening regret tightened in my stomach. Maybe if I'd stayed, we could have picked up where we left off.

I shuddered at the memories still fresh in my mind. The thought of me on my back, his weight pressing me into the bed, his eyes sharp as razor blades, entirely dilated. How he'd kissed me like he didn't care whether or not it hurt, and I didn't care either. All I wanted was him. Ben. Ben the Poet. Ben the Stranger.

A sigh escaped my mouth as I leaned against the hard, cold glass. Remembering vaguely the sound of the rain, and the sound of Ben's breath against my skin. Shivers. More shivers. And suddenly, I missed him. Suddenly, I wished that I could go back, apologize for leaving, and jump into his arms (and bed) and make nice. Or love. Making love would also be nice. That is, if he was willing.

However, the near sighting of my apartment complex reminded me in an almost cruel manner that this was impossible. For starters, I'd need to turn around and go back to the hotel – and secondly, I didn't have the cab fare to make a second trip. My splurge money for the week had been spent on a hotel room. Oh, the regret that spun around my head like a twisted carnival ride.

So it goes.

Our street was cram-packed with rather identical looking buildings. Brick with cement steps, sidewalks leading to other brick buildings with cement steps. Iron-wrought gates like spears, and paths where people would jog, walks their dogs, or simply stroll by foot to wherever they were going. That was one of the conveniences of living near the city. You didn't really need a car.

But the only real stark contrast to our otherwise picturesque, story-book street was what Brandon had fondly coined the Haunted McMansion (during a phase where he was adding Mc to everything). It was a giant structure that nobody seemed to ever occupy, surrounded by the similar giant gates that gave it a rather ominous sort of feel, like the place was haunted. And maybe it was. Lots of people had tried to jump the fence, but always ended up getting nabbed by the cops before making it to the door. The rest, I guess, were too scared to actually make it past the final front step.

As for me, I was always fascinated by the place, mainly because it reminded me of something out of a dark fairy tale. The exterior was all fading brick, with vines creeping up the sides that had since died from the cold frosts. The windows were always too dark to catch a glimpse of the interior, and there was a tower that from time to time I'd thought about, imagining what it looked like on the inside, or if it was simply all cobwebs and spiders. It was probably the latter, sure. But still – sometimes it's fun to fantasize.

I withdrew the money, handing it to the cabby with my best attempt at a sweet
thank you
kind of smile. Jogging up the steps, I was careful to watch out for patches of black ice. The last thing I needed was to trip down a stretch of cement steps and crack my head open. I can't imagine that would be a pleasant sight, or a pleasant mess to pick up. I stopped by the mailbox to grab out mail – bills. All bills. And when I reached the door, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and sang a tiny mantra:

You're home. And Ben's probably called. He must have called. And everything's alright. Everything. Is. Alright.

Which I guess it was. As I unlocked the door, I repeated it one more time just for good measure, dropping my purse on the entry-way floor with a long, lazy stretch. Maybe I'd take a shower. Actually, I would definitely take a shower.

I thought of Ben in the shower, his hair wet and gorgeous, and my plans were suddenly solidified.

“So, did you screw Angel Face's brains out last night?”

Brandon called from the living room. I walked around the corner to find him sprawled on the couch, clad in only a pair of smiley-face boxers and playing Mario Cart on the old Nintendo console. I plunked down next to him, and he gave me half-glance.

“What happened? Was he terrible?”

“Could you maybe shut the game off?”

“Can't,” he answered quickly. “I'm racing Nic and am about to win. I can't miss this.”

I looked over my shoulder at the cardboard cutout of Nic Cage standing by the couch, a controller lazily draped around his neck. On the screen, Yoshi, sitting in his little red car, had yet to budge from the starting line.

“Nic doesn't seem to be making much of an effort.”

“He's just being a little bitch. I'd play with someone that could actually, you know, work the controller. But ANTHONY -” he yelled in the direction of the bathroom, which I suddenly saw was closed. And, if I wasn't mistaken, I heard the shower going. There went my plans to bathe, since all the hot water would be gone. “Feels like taking the longest freaking shower ever of all time. Holy shit.”

“You didn't want to join him?”

Bowser blasted through the finish line, coming in second, and Brandon threw the remote on the ground with a wall-shaking scream.

“EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. It's always whenever I play Bowser, too.”

He wasn't listening.

“You don't think that it's maybe just you?”

“Obviously not. Besides, Gems. Besides, you know how that accountability and I have never really been on a first-name basis.” He finally shut the game off, or rather, just the television. “And to answer your previous question, no. Besides, I'd say he's quite contented at the moment. So did you guys bang?”

“Brandon.”

“It's an honest question. Do you want some pizza?” He motioned to the box on the coffee table, and I shook my head.

“No thanks,” I mumbled. “And yeah. We did. Sort of.”

“Sort of. How does someone sort of stick their penis into something? I've never made that mistake.” And then he paused for a moment, as it to verify the words that had just come out of his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, so what do you mean
sort of
?”

“I mean, like, we kind of did it.” It felt weird attempting to explain it to Brandon. “But not all the way. You know?”

“So neither of you guys orgasmed.”

“Well, I did. He didn't.”

“That's cruel.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “It's what he wanted. He didn't actually
want
to have sex with me in the first place. I just sort of convinced him to kind of, I don't know, tease ourselves a little?”

“Tease?” Brandon looked appalled. “So you screwed, but not really.”

“For less than a second. At least, that's what it felt like.”

Brandon was obviously baffled. He combed his fingers through his hair, blew out air like it was smoke, and closed his eyes as if to process – or perhaps comprehend – exactly what I was telling him.

“Well, you guys are obviously going to see each other again, aren't you?”

“I don't know,” I answered quietly.

“How could you not know? You spent the night with him.”

I didn't say anything. Brandon's already messy hair seemed to rise like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket, his crystal eyes widening.

“Gemma,” Brandon prompted. Still nothing. Not even a peep. “Gems, tell me you didn't leave.”

“I didn't,” I answered. Which was sort of true. “Not at first, at least.”

“So you left...” He stopped, his mouth gaped open. “When? When did you leave?”

“While he was asleep,” I finally said. “I got another room and just spent the night at the hotel. I was exhausted.”

Brandon laughed, shaking his head.

“Jesus, Gems,” he muttered. “Well, did you at least leave a note?”

“With my number at the bottom,” I smiled numbly. “I'm still hoping he'll call.”

Brandon nodded, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me into one of his classically awkward, fumbling, totally too-aggressive hugs. Then, as Brandon always did, he snuck a quick kiss on my forehead.

“I hope he does,” he said. He didn't release me until the bathroom door opened, where two boys, a blonde and a brunette, emerged wearing towels and half-smirks. Brandon grinned, and I couldn't help but follow suit.

“So I guess your night went well.”

“Well, you know how hook-ups can be,” he said, standing and wrapping an arm around each of the smirking visitors. “Sometimes, they can blow totally blow up. You know, like yours did. Or, like in my case...they can go very, very right.”

With all three of them laughing, I watched as they ran like children at play into Brandon's bedroom, slamming the door behind him. When I was finally alone, I shut off the video game console, went into my room, and peeled off my clothes.

Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I noted the little marks on my neck, like red insect bites. The bruise on my hip-bone from where Ben had bitten-down just a little too hard. The bone-structure disappeared into a sloped-shadow, covered by my underwear. I touched that spot, right where he had touched, and felt my knees go weak.

At my feet, there was the box of all just about every relic that had accumulated in the course of mine and Toby's three year relationship. Kneeling down, I sifted through some of the items. Random notes, a deflated balloon from when Toby had decided that he wanted to attempt making Balloon Animals, a Rubix Cube, and lots of photos. Photos of us standing outside of museums, or the cinema, or at restaurants. In some, we're both smiling. In others, only I'm smiling. In one, he's kissing my cheek while I looked totally embarrassed. Brandon stood behind us, giving us both bunny ears. In the background was Sacha, smiling but otherwise preoccupied with whatever he was talking about with one of the dozen other party guests that had come that day to my 20
th
birthday party. I loved that photo a lot, and looking at it made my organs feel like they were slightly collapsing, my chest aching just a pinch. Not enough to kill me, but enough to force me into remembering that
yes
, I had once belonged to somebody. I had once been in a long-term, committed relationship. A relationship that was over.

I stood, looking at my bed and remembering how it was having sex with Toby. It wasn't terrible. He wasn't terrible. Some instances were better than others. And maybe it's just because I'd gotten back from being with Ben that my mind was clouded. Maybe I was just being a selective, shallow, and perhaps slightly bitchy twenty-two year old girl. Or it could have just been that in my young life I'd only ever had one partner. Toby. Toby had been my first and only time before meeting Ben, and so obviously my time spent in passion-play was spread relatively thin. I hadn't seen much. I hadn't really
felt
much. Until last night.