Page 57 of Fade into You
She plants kisses down my neck with her hands on my hips, then pushes me onto my back. She kisses me hard and sweet andher hand trails up my stomach, just skating the outline of my breast. And now my hands find her hips and her butt and my legs part to let her come closer and the pulsing deep inside me is too much and I don’t want to stop I don’t want to stop I don’t want to stop.
I pull my hands between us and bring them under her shirt, up the soft skin of her stomach, until my palms fit so absolutely perfectly over her breasts. She gasps, letting her head fall against my chest, pressing ever closer to me, and she feels so good I wish I had the words to tell her.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Bird?”
“Yeah?” I let my hands float down her sides to rest on her back. She raises her head to look at me, and oh god, she has never looked more beautiful.
“Are we going too fast… I mean, should we maybe slow down?”
“We can, yeah. If you want to. Do you?”
She laughs, and says, “I don’t really want to, but maybe that’s why we should.”
“I don’t really want to either. But we should, um, probably—”
“Yeah, okay.” She shifts her weight off me and we kiss once more, softer, slower, calmer.
We lie side by side again, and I place my hand on my chest, trying to feel my heart, make it slow down too. “Wow,” I whisper. “I really liked that.” Because I can’t quite bring myself to say,I really likeyou.
Jessa laughs and buries her face in my shoulder—embarrassed, adorable. I put my arm around her and she settles in with herhead tucked into my neck, her hand lying along my sternum. “I really liked that too,” she says.
I’m smiling as I close my eyes.
I wake up at some point in the night to a car door closing outside. Jessa rolls out of my arms but doesn’t really wake up. I take this moment to look at her in the darkness, by whatever light is coming in from the window. She’s so pretty without even trying, so beautiful even though I can tell she tries to hide it. I need to make sure I tell her that when she’s awake. But for now, I lay my head on her chest and feel her arms fold around me, let myself fall asleep to her breathing.
JESSA
I’m back at Touchstone inthe moshpit, I can see Bird across from me, she’s falling under, in danger, Doc Martens and Vans stepping on her. I try to dive for her, help her, but I’m pulled back and up, the crowd surfing me away from her, dozens of hands on me, and Bird is getting farther and farther away. I try to scream, but all that comes out is noise rock, my voice booming and still doing absolutely nothing.
Sharp barks bring me out of the dream, and I’m still in a sleep stupor when I realize Falstaff is yelling at someone outside for performing the extreme offense of walking by our home. I roll over and come face-to-face with Bird.Oh shit.
The events of last night come flying back at me like the backhand from the guy at the bar. I look at her, sleeping lightly, small puffs of air escaping her lips, the curve of them still so enticing. I can’t see her eyes now, but I remember her looking at me, her eyes kind and understanding, the way she leaned in, her lips on mine, the taste of her in my mouth, sweet like candy. A thrill rushes through me and I reach out and touch one of her mermaidylocks, the hair soft and still wavy and beautiful in spite of my hands having run through it for what seemed like forever and fleeting all at the same time.
She’s the first girl I’ve ever woken up beside. She’s the only one who’s ever stayed. It’s like a miracle, and for a second I think my heart’s gonna fly outta my chest until reality shoves it back in. She didn’t have an escape, she was stoned, did she actually want to be here or was she just tired? Doubt creeps in, malignant and gross, and a big hole inside me opens up and starts to swallow everything good about this moment.
She sighs and shifts and I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. I always feel like this when I do manage to kiss or touch another girl. My touch has never been good for anyone, my affection a toxic thing that leads to rumors and hate and alienation. When she wakes up, she’ll have regret. I already have it for fucking up and loving her with some horrible part of myself. I know the books and articles I’ve read on coming out tell you it’s okay and normal and fine, but the television and radio stations Mom likes to frequent (God I hate Rush Limbaugh) say something different. Bird’s own sister, Olivia Fucking Rubens, says different. They say I’m recruiting, I’m spreading disease, they say I’m drawing people to sin…. All those voices versus the small online communities I’ve connected with fight inside my head, and those awful voices win.
They always win.
Bird being here in my bed is a problem and not because Mom and Dad might come in, but because somehow I’ve drawn her into this horrible space where I live and now I need to makethis a short-term visit. Anyone even hears she slept over, her goddamned stepsister will latch on and spread it all over school. My problems are dirt on her face, and even if somehow she did turn out as queer as me, god knows how close I am to becoming Mack and all her issues.
For fuck’s sake, I’m sitting here hating myself first thing in the morning—isn’t that the epitome of mental illness? If I’m not going to hell, I’m going to the psych ward, and Bird doesn’t deserve that.
But she’s wearing an old Xena T-shirt of mine and it’s curved around her torso, uncovered, allowing a peekaboo of her waist, and I can remember my hands grabbing there and pulling her in, the soft heat of her body against mine. How much more I wanted… Fuck, I have to stop. Stifling a groan as I feel the soreness in my neck from a direct hit to the face, I force myself to sit up.
Guilt and I are best friends, and we both need coffee.
I slide out of bed, grab a pair of jeans from my laundry basket, and pull them on before heading downstairs to see that everything’s settled. Bird doesn’t stir, still peaceful. Still blissfully unaware of what I have done.
Downstairs, Mom and Dad are sitting drinking coffee in the kitchen nook. Dad looks up at me with a concerned face. He must have realized when they got home and Mack was here but not her bike that something happened. Seeing the new bruise blooming on my face confirms it. His lips form a hard line. Mom is clueless as ever, sets down the book she’s reading, and says, “Morning, honey, would you like waffles? I’m thinking about making some.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, pouring myself a cup from the percolator. It’s already cool enough to sip.
I’m trying to figure out how to broach the topic of Mack when Mom heads to the counter. “How many do you want?” She’s pulling out the big mixing bowl.
“Um, just one is good. But my friend Bird stayed over, so she might want one or two.” Can’t let my shame make Bird starve.
Dad lets out a low whistle and Mom drops the bowl. It clatters to the ground with a hefty thump, but the glass is heavy enough that it doesn’t break, just rolls across the floor for Falstaff to inspect with a couple of sniffs. No one says shit.
