Isn't She Lovely (20 page)

We’re not even close to the good stuff, and yet we both groan, her back arching into me as she offers her breasts up to my hands, to my mouth. I hook the fingers of both hands under those tiny straps and slowly ease them down her shoulders, exposing her breasts inch by creamy inch until I’m one tiny tug away from exposing her nipples.

I stop then, moving my hands down to her waist, leaving her arms semi-pinned by her tank top as I ravage the top of her breasts with sweet kisses. I’ve known from day one that she’s beautiful, but this is beyond any fantasy I’d ever had of her. And I’ve had more than a few.

I suck and lave her skin until we’re both panting and her fingers are in my hair urging me forward. Urging me down.

I let my tongue snake beneath the thin fabric, coming so close to her nipple but not quite, and she cries out. I do the same thing on the other side, refusing to give her what she wants until she asks for it.

“Ethan,” she says, her voice little more than a breath. “
Ethan
.”

It’s enough for me.

I tug the tank top down to her waist, and she’s fully exposed to me. As soon as the cool air hits her nipples, she lifts her hands to cover herself, and the sight of her tiny hands on her not-tiny boobs has me wanting to explode.

“Don’t,” I say hoarsely. “Let me see. Let me touch.”

Her eyes are wide and scared, and I simply meet her gaze, asking her to trust me.

Finally she gives a small nod, moving her hands to my shoulders. I move slowly, giving her time to back away. But she doesn’t, and when my tongue makes that first pass over her nipple, I think it’s going to kill both of us.

I lose track of how long I tease, giving her long licks alternating with playful pecks until she’s writhing in my lap, panting for more. Only then do I wrap my mouth around her and
suckle, breathing in the sweet smell that is Stephanie while I feast on the part of her anatomy that’s been haunting me every goddamned day.

Her hands are doing some wandering of their own, and until I feel her tugging at my undershirt I scarcely notice that she’s discarded my tie and unbuttoned my dress shirt. Giving the tip of her breast one last long lick, I move my hands to her waist, setting her back on the couch long enough for me to remove my shirt. Her tank top is still around her waist, and the sight of her topless paired with those camouflage pants is so ridiculously sexy I almost wish she’d kept the boots on.

Maybe next time.

She smiles at me, and I smile back before pushing her farther into the couch cushions and following her down. We kiss again as our hands continue to explore, and finally—
finally
—I move my hands down to the waistband of her pants.

I undo the first button before she freezes.

I freeze too. “Is this okay?” I ask softly, trailing kisses over her chest.

She doesn’t say anything, and I pull back to look at her face, keeping my hands lightly stroking her arms, her sides … trying to figure her out.

She licks her lips. “I, um … I want to, I do. It’s just …”

I give her a quick kiss for encouragement. “Yeah?”

“I don’t have a lot of experience with this.”

I give her a little smile. “I’m oddly pleased to hear that.” And I am. I like the idea of Stephanie being … mine.

“You want to talk numbers?” I say teasingly, even though I’m half dying.

She licks her lips but doesn’t answer, and I realize I need to tell her that I’m not exactly experienced myself. It’s humiliating to admit, but I don’t have a lot of notches in my own belt. Olivia and I lost it to each other when we were sixteen. And unlike Olivia, I believe in fidelity.

“Well, is it less than one?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “Because that’s about the extent of my experience.”

She doesn’t answer, and the uneasiness doesn’t leave her face. Which doesn’t make sense, unless …

Holy hell.

“Stephanie, are you a virgin?” I say it as casually as possible, letting her know that either answer is okay.

Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I put a finger under her chin to force her to look at me. “What about David?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Never got that far.”

A little alarm bell is going off in my head. “What about the guy from high school? You
said you guys were good before he …”

There it is. The terrified-rabbit look.

My hands still for a second in rage before I gather her toward me.

“Stephanie, that night when the bastard put something in your drink … was that your first time?”

Please say no. Please tell me the bastard didn’t rape you
.

I’m so prepared for a black-or-white answer that it doesn’t occur to me that there’s a potential gray zone.

Her eyes find mine, and they’re filled with tears. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Chapter Seventeen

Stephanie

“You
do
know we’re only going to be gone for a couple of days?”

I glance over my shoulder. Ethan’s leaning against the door jamb of my bedroom, wearing blue plaid shorts and a coordinating blue polo. I swear to God, he’s more color coordinated than any of my girlfriends from high school.

I turn back to the bed, where I’m setting all my clothes into piles. It’s a blatant visual representation of the last couple of months: brightly colored piles for fake Stephanie, black piles for old Stephanie.

I fold a pair of freshly washed black pants and set it in the old-Stephanie pile. I frown a little as I realize I’ve stopped thinking about my old stuff as the
real
-Stephanie pile. Before meeting Ethan, I was so sure about who I was. But the thought of going back to the way I was—skulking around campus, studying film so I don’t have to interact with people …

It’s lost some of its appeal.

Ethan wanders into the room like he owns the place—which he does—and picks up a tiny pink thong with two fingers, raising an eyebrow. “Thought you didn’t like pink.”

I snatch it back. “Go play with your own underwear.”

“Not
nearly
as interesting,” he says as he inspects a pair of green polka-dot boyshorts.

I don’t bother to stop him, sensing that it’ll be a losing battle. Ever since that night on the couch, the mood between us has alternated between easy and loaded with sexual tension.

I’m still not sure what the hell happened. But I’m definitely sure how it ended.

To borrow his friend Andrea’s words, we definitely did
not
consummate.

He sits on top of the pile of clothes I’ve just finished folding and looks at me. He doesn’t say a word. Just studies me.

“What?” I snap.

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?” I’m not proud of playing dumb, but sometimes it’s reflexive.

“You know what.”

I take a deep breath and spend way too much time folding a pale yellow cardigan so I won’t have to look at him.

“I wrote an email,” I say finally. Quietly.

“Good.” His fingers brush along the back of my hand, and I take a long, shuddering breath.

“What if he doesn’t write back?”

I meet Ethan’s eyes then, and they hold the same gentle understanding that was there when I told him my secret.

That I don’t know whether or not I am a virgin.

I didn’t mean to tell him, or anyone. But then I got lost in his kisses and I wanted—needed—him to know.

And then I started talking …

The real kicker is that I didn’t want to go to that stupid party in the first place. I wanted to stay in the hospital with my mom
.

But she wanted me to go. She was too weak to push the issue, but my dad wasn’t. He told me it was important to my mother to see me happy. To see me living my life, even as hers was ending
.

So I went. But I was mad, and sad, and lost. I had more drinks than I should have, but not so many that I didn’t realize the last rum and Coke tasted faintly bitter. I set the cup aside almost immediately, but it was too late. The dizziness followed soon after, and in those last lucid moments I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I just wanted to lie down somewhere. Anywhere
.

My eyes found Caleb, and I knew. Knew that he knew what was in my cup
.

I woke up in Caleb’s bed, barely managing to get my head over the side of the bed before throwing up all over his white carpet
.

I retched again and again as I tried to clear the cobwebs and piece together what had happened. Why I was naked. Why I was so hung over after a few drinks
.

Caleb came in then. I expected him to lose his shit over the fact that I’d thrown up on his bed, on his floor, but he didn’t seem to see it
.

Then I saw a phone in his hand
.

My phone
.

I raised my eyes to his face, and I knew. Knew that he’d answered my phone
.

Knew that it was my dad calling
.

Knew that my mother was dead
.

And then I retched again
.

It was the first time I’d talked about it. Ever. I’d never told anyone what happened. I mean, of course I was a zombie after it happened, and of course everyone noticed. I’d just lost my mother. I was entitled to be a zombie. Nobody suspected that there was anything else to it. That I’d lost more than Mom that night.

Well, Caleb knew.

It may sound odd, but I’d never really considered Caleb in all of this. On some level I suppose I hated him, but on another it was like he wasn’t even a person. He was just this demon in my past that had sort of been absorbed into the bad memory that was that night.

But Ethan wasn’t inclined to let Caleb off that easily.

After I told him the entire sick story, I expected him to give me a condescending hug and then tell me that it sucked and that it was time to move on.

And he
did
give me a hug, but I didn’t expect the next words out of his mouth.

You’ve got to find Caleb, Stephanie. Confront him. Get answers. You deserve answers
.

I guess it’s weird that I needed someone else to tell me this, to point out that the worst night of my life doesn’t have to be shrouded in mystery.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that Caleb will remember, or that he’ll be honest with me. But deep down I suspect that he will. We cared about each other once. And I’m pretty sure that at one time he even loved me, before he heeded the siren call of booze and drugs.

It took all of thirty seconds on the Internet to find him. He’s at Boston University, which I knew, of course. He sent me about a dozen messages our freshman year asking if we could talk, all of which I ignored. And he tried to get in touch through Jordan and the handful of other high school friends I kept in contact with. I ignored those efforts too.

But this is the first time I’ve sought
him
out. I was expecting a rush of anger, but mostly I just feel curious. Jordan told me he’s clean now. That he’s reverted back to the “nice guy” he was before the Jack Daniel’s and pills and shit took over his life.

If his online profile pictures are any indication, Jordan is right. Gone are the red-rimmed eyes and bloated face I remember from the end. Instead he’s clean-cut and handsome. Not unlike Ethan, actually—blond, blue-eyed, and totally preppy.

I don’t know how long I stared at his smiling face, waiting to feel some sort of emotion. Mostly I felt relief. And a hope that maybe Ethan is right, that I can move on.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ethan asks, yanking me out of memories.

I give a little smile and shake my head. “I think I’m all talked out on that topic, you know?”

He searches my face. “But when he writes back, you’ll tell me.”

I meet his eyes. “I’ll tell you.”

I don’t have a choice. Not if I want Ethan to touch me. Because he made it very clear that night when he gently set me away from him and slowly pulled his own T-shirt over my head to cover me that he won’t touch me again until I have closure.

You deserve more, Stephanie. You deserve everything
.

And in that moment, whatever I was feeling for this all-wrong-guy exploded into something I absolutely, positively do not want to name. Can’t name.

Because a few days from now I’ll have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Ethan will have survived this stupid party and can move on with his life. Maybe get a real girlfriend instead of an impostor.

My stomach clenches at the thought.

“Okay, Goth, one more time. Why is your
entire
wardrobe on your bed? I did mention that this is just a two-night thing, right?”

I swat at his hip until he shifts and I can pull a couple of now smashed bras out from under his ass. He doesn’t look twice. I can’t blame him, I guess. I mean, they’re some boring blue cotton affairs. But it’s another reminder that he hasn’t made a single romantic move since that night on his couch.

I know why, of course.

But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Damn Caleb.

And damn myself for being such a chicken for the past three years that I didn’t seek answers. Hell, worse than that, I actually avoided them. I was like those weird birds that stick their head in the sand.

No more. I want my dignity back. I want my
life
back.

I gesture toward a smaller pile of clothes on the desk chair in the corner of the room. “
That
is for the trip. I just haven’t put it in my bag yet.”

He gestures toward the piles on the bed. “Then what’s this?”

I lift a shoulder. “Figured while I was packing for the trip, I may as well start packing for good.”

Ethan freezes in the process of inspecting my bras. (Guess he isn’t so immune after all.) “What do you mean, packing for good?”

“Come on, smart guy, you’ve got this,” I say, keeping my tone light. I shouldn’t be glad that he sounds upset, but I am getting a little rush because he’s clearly not happy to get rid of me.

“Fall semester doesn’t start for two weeks,” he says.