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We block all this out, and enjoy ourselves.
Day 6020
Xavier Adams could not have imagined his Saturday was going to turn in this direction. He’s supposed to go to play practice at noon, but as soon as he leaves his house, he calls his director and tells him he has a bad flu bug—hopefully the twenty-fo
ur-hour kind. The director is understanding—it’s Hamlet and Xavier is playing Laertes, so there are plenty of scenes that can be run without him there. So Xavier is free … and immediately heads toward Rhiannon.
She’s left me directions, but she hasn’t told me what the ultimate destination is. I drive for almost two hours, west into the hinterlands of Maryland. Eventually the directions lead me to a small cabin hidden in the woods. If Rhiannon’s car weren’t in front, I’m sure I’d think I was hopelessly lost.
She’s waiting in the doorway by the time I get out of the car. She looks happy-nervous. I still have no idea where I am.
“You’re really cute today,” she observes as I get closer.
“French Canadian dad, Creole mom,” I say. “But I don’t speak a word of French.”
“Your mom isn’t going to show up this time, is she?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Then I can do this without being killed.”
She kisses me hard. I kiss her hard back. And suddenly we’re letting our bodies do the talking. We are inside the doorway, inside the cabin. But I’m not looking at the room—I am feeling her, tasting her, pressing against her as she’s pressing against me. She’s pulling off my coat and we’re kicking off our shoes and she’s directing me backward. The edge of the bed kicks the backs of my legs, and then we are awkwardly, enjoyably stumbling over, me lying down, her pinning my shoulders, us kissing and kissing and kissing. Breath and heat and contact and shirts off and skin on skin and smiles and murmurs and the enormity revealing itself in the tiniest of gestures, the most delicate sensations.
I pull back from a kiss and look at her. She stops and looks at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says.
I trace the contours of her face, her collarbone. She runs her fingers along my shoulders, my back. Kisses my neck, my ear.
For the first time, I look around. It’s a one-room cabin—the bathroom must be out back. There are deer heads on the wall, staring down at us with glass eyes.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s a hunting cabin my uncle uses. He’s in California now, so I figured it was safe to break in.”
I search for broken windows, signs of forced entry. “You broke in?”
“Well, with the spare key.”
Her hand moves to the patch of hair at the center of my chest, then to my heartbeat. I rest one of my hands on her side, glide lightly over the smoothness of the skin there.
“That was quite a welcome,” I tell her.
“It’s not over yet,” she says. And, just like that, we’re pressed together again.
I am letting her take the lead. I am letting her unbutton the top of my jeans. I am letting her pull the zipper down. I am letting her remove her bra. I am following along, but with each step, the pressure builds. How far is this going? How far should this go?
I know our nakedness means something. I know our nakedness is as much a form of trust as it is a form of craving. This is what we look like when we are completely open to each other. This is where we go when we no longer want to hide. I want her. I want this. But I’m afraid.
We move as if we’re in a fever, then we slow down and move as if we’re in a dream. There’s no clothing now, just sheets. This is not my body, but it’s the body she wants.
I feel like a pretender.
This is the source of the pressure. This is the cause of my hesitation. Right now I am here with her completely. But tomorrow I may not be. I can enjoy this today. It can feel right now. But tomorrow, I don’t know. Tomorrow I may be gone.
I want to sleep with her. I want to sleep with her so much.
