In high school, Nelly and I would frequently skip class to come lay out on the beach, lathered up in tanning oil, with tumbler cups full of cranberry juice and stolen vodka from my mom’s liquor cabinet. We would get in so much trouble, but we didn’t care. We’d turn around and do it again the next week. It’s a damn miracle we graduated and got into college, I swear.
We pick up a couple of bottles, some Sprite, and some munchie snacks at the store before making our way back to my condo. It’s early afternoon at this point during the week, so the streets aren’t too busy. The entire trip only takes us about forty minutes there and back.
Back upstairs, I pour us some drinks while she turns the music back on. Cranking the volume, she starts dancing, and I can’t help but watch her, enraptured. Her soft curves give her an hourglass shape, and her legs are long and lean, toned. The tank she’s wearing is short, riding up as she lifts her arms in the air. Her navel has a ring shoved through it that matches mine. We got them done together in college, and she has one single tattoo on her left hip bone that also matches mine. She has a Virgo symbol because that’s my astrology sign, and I have a Pisces symbol because that’s hers.
I cross the room, both drinks in hand, handing her one while I take a sip from the straw in mine. We make our way out onto my balcony, sitting in the chairs out there, but leaving the back door open so we can hear the music.
“Yum,” Nelly groans, taking a sip. “This is fucking good. I’m about to have like five more of these by the end of the day.”
Chapter Eleven
Penelope Boswell
Today has been perfect.
Wren and I have hung out at her place all day, being lazy, dancing, drinking, having fun. I haven’t had to think about anything that’s to come with Anthony and the divorce, or my parents and the disappointment and shame that comes with it all. Today was exactly what I needed.
The sun set not that long ago, and we ended up coming inside. It got a little too chilly on the balcony for our liking. Wren started the fireplace—it’s an electric one, so it didn’t take long to warm up the house—and we poured ourselves another drink. We’re on like number four or five so far; I’ve lost count. Curled up on her huge cream-colored leather sofa, she’s on one side, and I’m on the other, but we’re facing one another. The vodka running through my bloodstream has my head feeling light and my body relaxed.
It also has me wanting to do things I probably shouldn’t.
Like crawl over to the other side of the couch and straddle Wren, stealing her breath with a kiss so intense, it’ll make her want to rip my clothes off. The desire that’s been growing inside of me all week is not so slowly turning into a burning inferno of need the longer I’m around her. If I’m being honest, it’s probably been there ever since the kiss years ago, but I was just blind to it because of Anthony.
And I know she thinks this is some sort of sad and confused rebound from him, trying to make myself feel better, but I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think my marriage with Anthony ended a long time ago, and I was just too scared to admit it. I stopped caring if he stayed out late with friends, stopped caring if he would go all day without texting me. On weeks he had to go out of town for work, I wouldn’t miss him. In fact, I’d enjoy myself so much more. Sex felt like a chore—or a punishment, and not the fun kind.
The truth is, I’m not sad our marriage is over. I’m relieved. Had he not hit me as bad as he did, I probably would’ve stayed in that marriage unhappily, because I just didn’t know how to leave. I was scared. The shame that blooms inside of me when I think about that almost consumes me. Knowing the abuse had to get worse before I finally stood up for myself… I hate it. I’m trying not to think too hard about it, but it’s the truth. His abuse was the final straw, but the reality is, I’ve wanted to leave for years.
I’ve never felt more sure of anything in my life, and I know wholeheartedly, the way I’m seeing Wren now has nothing to do with him. I just wish she’d see it too.
“Thank you,” I say to Wren, breaking this bubble of silence we’ve enveloped ourselves in, loving when her amber eyes flit to meet mine.
She smiles. “For what?”
“For everything.” Taking a chance, thanks to a little liquid courage, I scoot closer. “For coming to get me. For driving all the way back here with me. Letting me crash with you. For the impromptu zoo adventure yesterday. For today.”
Wren swallows hard, her jaw flexing when I try my luck again, swinging my leg over her lap and sliding on. I swear she doesn’t even breathe as she peers up at me, her irises overtaken by her pupils.
Tucking a strand of her auburn locks behind her ear, feigning a confidence I don’t feel, I continue. “And thank you for always being exactly who I need, always. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Wren.”
I don’t know what I’m doing. Don’t know how to be with a woman. But I do know that Wren would never judge me. If I make an idiot of myself, she’d never let it show. What I also know, is I want this—want her—more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And I want her to want me just as badly.
Her gaze dips to my lips, my tongue wetting them on instinct, and when she looks back into my eyes, the intensity of her stare has me forgetting how to breathe. Reaching up, she cups the back of my neck, pulling me into her. Our lips meet, and fireworks go off. My heart races behind my rib cage, threatening to burst through.
Wren’s tongue dips out, slipping between my parted lips, caressing mine with gentle strokes. She kisses me like she’s savoring the moment, like she’s unhurried but hungry. She’s confident in her movements, and she’s a damn good kisser.
Kissing her is an experience. One I feel I’ve been missing out on for a long time. Soft skin, gentle lips, no stubbly facial hair, and when her hands slide underneath my shirt and up my back, they aren’t rough and weathered. A shiver rolls down my spine, and she grins against my lips before pulling away slightly.
“What are we doing?” she asks, voice breathy.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “But I don’t want to stop.”
Her hands are now on my hips, thumbs rubbing against the bare skin, the sensation maddening, heat spreading under my skin. “Me either, but we probably should.” The words sound like they’re painful for her to say.
My pulse races, but for an entirely different reason now. “Why? I don’t want to.” The blood roars in my ears, an impossibly large lump lodged in my throat. I want to shake her and make her see the truth.
“Because, Nelly… I don’t want you to regret it when the sun comes up tomorrow. I couldn’t live with myself, knowing we did something you wish you could take back.”
“I won’t regret it, though,” I insist.
