Page 115 of Talk Nerdy To Me
“That it’s inconvenient for your penis,” she says very seriously, then starts laughing again. “Sorry,” she says, her face not straightening, despite her clearest best efforts.
“How much did you drink?” I ask, eyebrow arching as she hiccups and giggles again.
“Just one.” Giggle. Giggle. Straight face. Giggle.
I drop my head to her chest, because I’ll start fucking laughing too if I keep watching her attempt to force a neutral expression. Her body shaking with silent laughter isn’t much better.
“Now you could teach me oral,” she suggests like she’s had a stroke of genius that eclipses her paused giggle-fit.
I snort out laughter, then groan as I drop back on the bed, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“You’re going to go on tour before you have time to show me oral if you keep procrastinating,” she goes on, shoving at my chest as she rolls over and drapes her body over mine with so much ease.
My finger runs down her side as the humor slips away.
“Please,” she says so motherfucking sincerely.
“You’re literally begging to suck my dick right now,” I point out, wondering if she knows just how bad this would fuck with any man’s damn head.
She nods like it’s not a big deal.
“I’m going to hell for this one day. I just know it,” I mutter to myself. “Now that I’ve written a full album, tell me the true story behind those sad eyes, and I’ll teach you oral,” I tell her.
I’ll last five seconds of coaching her on how to suck me off. Sure be gloriously humiliating for me.
“I’ve been assured that sad stories can put a damper on sexual exploits,” she deadpans.
“I’ll risk it,” I say softly as I twirl a lock of hair around my finger.
“Everyone expects some really big, terribly tragic story. But it’s really the most common story there is. Mine’s only different because it ended good for a change,” she says on a breath as she drops back.
“You can give me the Britt Sterling special and make it as nonchalant as you need to, even if you need to list it,” I murmur as I kiss her jaw.
“I was never physically abused. Not all the kids were mean to me. I was just neglected or ignored. I was as miserable as every other problematic child in the system. I couldn’t properly communicate the things I needed to. Conflict was impossible for me. I had to be really calm and work really hard to talk in no more than three-people-at-a-time settings. Then I got a job as a waitress, and got great tips because people thought I was mentally challenged and doing the best I could. It felt like a lot longer than it actually was.”
I cringe, then suck in a deep breath when she arches an eyebrow at me.
“I’m not sad about it. I often play down how lonely and hard it was just to exist, because people expect me to be sad about it when they know the full depths of all I felt. I’m not often overwhelmed by emotion anymore, but it does happen on occasion, despite the robot memes people make of me.”
I smooth my hand up her back. “People can be dicks.”
“I know,” she says with another shrug. “I understand their impression though, and I’m not offended by them.”
Her eyes move up my body until they meet mine.
“But the pictures of sad eyes with practiced smiles? Those are when I have moments where I feel bad for being one of the few to get a happy ending. I feel sad for the ones who don’t have a brother like I do. And I wish I could do more.”
My mind goes over the countless stories and songs that played out in my head.
“I never guessed right,” I murmur quietly, more to myself than to her.
It seems like it should be a little obvious, but I wrote a lot of songs about the damaged and broken. Not the healed and burdened.
“I communicate better almost daily,” she goes on, dragging me out of my thoughts as I brush her hair to the side.
A loud banging at my door is followed by a few laughs. “Hey, we’re going to play the set for Ralphy. He’s out here if you want to play with us. If not, he’s going to fill your spot,” Taylor calls through the door.
“Let him fill my spot,” I call out. “And tell me what he thinks about the new sound.”
