killing it off.
I listen hard for the sound of his motorcycle, but the windows are closed and my CD player sings in my ear— the sound of water trickling down a brook. I switched it on to drown out my thoughts. It obviously isn’t working.
I toss in bed, noticing how my skin itches and my body feels suddenly sweaty. I sit up finally and reach for my glass of water.
That’s when I see him, just a second away from rapping on my window. His face is illuminated by the moon, making him look straight out of a dream.
I open the window wide.
“Take your promise back,” he says, before I can utter a single word. “I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
“I have to.”
Ben looks away so that I won’t see his eyes tearing up. “I know,” he mouths; the words don’t come out. “I was just thinking that maybe . . .” He looks at me again, his eyes full of sadness. “We could just be together one last time?”
I know I should say no. For five full seconds I tell myself that I can’t possibly allow this to happen. But instead I open the window wider and invite him to crawl inside.
We lie together on the bed, under the covers, and face the window. The moon casts its glow over the mound of our bodies.
I close my eyes and feel Ben’s hand slide up my back, underneath my shirt, sending tingles all over my skin. His fingers glide across my shoulders and down my spine, nearly stealing my breath.
And stealing his breath too.
As I start to fall asleep, I hear his breath heaving in and out. A gasp escapes his throat and he has to pull away, only to do it all over again a few moments later.
At one point in the night, I think I feel his kisses at the nape of my neck, his leg against my thigh, and his body spooning me up from behind.
My blood stirs and my body churns.
But maybe it’s all just a dream.
When I wake up the following morning to the buzz of my alarm, Ben is no longer there. A note rests in his place. In bright red cursive, it says “Thanks for breaking your promise and giving me one more night.”
I take it and press it against my chest, wishing it were so much more than one night, but grateful just the same. Because maybe this was the closure I was waiting for.
And maybe I’m finally ready to move on.
27
The next full week goes by in a blur, pretty uneventful and utterly depressing. You’d think that a bit of peace would come as a welcome blessing, but it only affirms the empty sensation inside me—a deep and bottomless pit that I can’t seem to fill with food, the company of friends, or even by doing pottery. I feel like one of those windup robots, wired to waddle through life, blindly bumping into walls and colliding with other objects.
That’s how out of it I’ve been.
I haven’t really spoken to Ben since that night. Whenever I see him in school we mostly just exchange a nod in passing, or sometimes a faint smile.
Kimmie calls our situation tragically romantic. “You have to admit, it’s totally hot of him to give up his own lustful needs because he’s afraid he might hurt you. I mean, aside from the other night, that is. He was obviously jonesing for you big-time to pay a visit to your bedroom. And that, my friend, makes him just beastly enough to score huge on my hot-o-meter.”
“Beastly?”
“You heard me. A sexy little blending of primal need and old-fashioned chivalry.”
“Too bad I’m going out with Adam,” I say, opening my closet door wide. Kimmie, my stylist-on-demand, is helping me pick out an outfit for tonight’s date.
“Why is it too bad?” She pulls a tube skirt from the rack. “I mean, look at what happened after just one measly scone and cup of coffee with Adam. You scored a date and laughed for the first time in months.”
“Not months ,” I correct her.
“Well, whatever, my point is that the possibilities are endless . . . just like Ms. Mazur’s ass. I mean, did you see her in pottery class today . . . pink spandex with a T-shirt that barely
I listen hard for the sound of his motorcycle, but the windows are closed and my CD player sings in my ear— the sound of water trickling down a brook. I switched it on to drown out my thoughts. It obviously isn’t working.
I toss in bed, noticing how my skin itches and my body feels suddenly sweaty. I sit up finally and reach for my glass of water.
That’s when I see him, just a second away from rapping on my window. His face is illuminated by the moon, making him look straight out of a dream.
I open the window wide.
“Take your promise back,” he says, before I can utter a single word. “I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
“I have to.”
Ben looks away so that I won’t see his eyes tearing up. “I know,” he mouths; the words don’t come out. “I was just thinking that maybe . . .” He looks at me again, his eyes full of sadness. “We could just be together one last time?”
I know I should say no. For five full seconds I tell myself that I can’t possibly allow this to happen. But instead I open the window wider and invite him to crawl inside.
We lie together on the bed, under the covers, and face the window. The moon casts its glow over the mound of our bodies.
I close my eyes and feel Ben’s hand slide up my back, underneath my shirt, sending tingles all over my skin. His fingers glide across my shoulders and down my spine, nearly stealing my breath.
And stealing his breath too.
As I start to fall asleep, I hear his breath heaving in and out. A gasp escapes his throat and he has to pull away, only to do it all over again a few moments later.
At one point in the night, I think I feel his kisses at the nape of my neck, his leg against my thigh, and his body spooning me up from behind.
My blood stirs and my body churns.
But maybe it’s all just a dream.
When I wake up the following morning to the buzz of my alarm, Ben is no longer there. A note rests in his place. In bright red cursive, it says “Thanks for breaking your promise and giving me one more night.”
I take it and press it against my chest, wishing it were so much more than one night, but grateful just the same. Because maybe this was the closure I was waiting for.
And maybe I’m finally ready to move on.
27
The next full week goes by in a blur, pretty uneventful and utterly depressing. You’d think that a bit of peace would come as a welcome blessing, but it only affirms the empty sensation inside me—a deep and bottomless pit that I can’t seem to fill with food, the company of friends, or even by doing pottery. I feel like one of those windup robots, wired to waddle through life, blindly bumping into walls and colliding with other objects.
That’s how out of it I’ve been.
I haven’t really spoken to Ben since that night. Whenever I see him in school we mostly just exchange a nod in passing, or sometimes a faint smile.
Kimmie calls our situation tragically romantic. “You have to admit, it’s totally hot of him to give up his own lustful needs because he’s afraid he might hurt you. I mean, aside from the other night, that is. He was obviously jonesing for you big-time to pay a visit to your bedroom. And that, my friend, makes him just beastly enough to score huge on my hot-o-meter.”
“Beastly?”
“You heard me. A sexy little blending of primal need and old-fashioned chivalry.”
“Too bad I’m going out with Adam,” I say, opening my closet door wide. Kimmie, my stylist-on-demand, is helping me pick out an outfit for tonight’s date.
“Why is it too bad?” She pulls a tube skirt from the rack. “I mean, look at what happened after just one measly scone and cup of coffee with Adam. You scored a date and laughed for the first time in months.”
“Not months ,” I correct her.
“Well, whatever, my point is that the possibilities are endless . . . just like Ms. Mazur’s ass. I mean, did you see her in pottery class today . . . pink spandex with a T-shirt that barely
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