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When it’s over, his arm drops down and clamps me tight to his side. His grip on my hand releases, his fingers slack. Face slack. I pull the blanket up over us.
I listen to the wind outside, the snow hitting the window in a thousand tiny taps.
I think about how many pictures I’ve seen on the Internet. Shiny cocks, pinkish-purple heads, spurting semen.
I think of what we just did, West and me. How it would look in a picture.
A picture like that—it could never be more than a shadow of what we did. What we are together. It would only be parts, but the parts aren’t the thing that matters.
It’s all of it. All of West and me. The way it feels.
West is right. Pictures lie. I don’t understand why I didn’t get it before—that it’s not me on the Internet. It’s just some stupid pictures. Some lie Nate is fixated on telling the world.
They’re about him, those pictures. They’re not about me.
“You okay?” West asks.
I’ve never seen his face so relaxed. I kiss the corner of his mouth, and it tips up into a lopsided smile.
“I’m good. ”
His smile grows. “You’re not. You’re bad. Bad as the rest of us, Caroline Piasecki. ”
I kiss his chin. That smart-ass smile. “I know. It’s more fun than I thought it would be. ”
His laugh is as soft as his face. “I better clean this mess up. ”
He drops his legs over the side of the bed, walks toward the bathroom, scooping up a pair of jeans along the way. I hear water running. “You want something to eat?” he calls. “I think I have chicken noodle soup. And I brought a loaf home. ”
I look at the clock, surprised to see how late it is. Our fifty minutes is up, but there are no alarms going off this time. No walls going up.
“Yeah, that sounds great. ”
I burrow down, pull the covers up to my chin, and give myself three minutes to indulge my stupid sappy heart, storing up memories for the lonely weeks ahead.
“I have something for you,” I tell him.
He’s sitting at the edge of the mattress, pulling on his socks. Preparing to go make me chicken noodle soup, which, I have to say, is the hotness. Even though all that’s involved is a can and some water. Hot.
“I don’t need anything. ”
There’s tension in the way he shapes the words, and when he glances toward me, his eyes are cautious.
I don’t let it bother me. Maybe West doesn’t get a lot of presents. I sit up and press my breasts against his arm, kissing his neck. “Don’t be a grinch. Hang on, I’ll go get it. ”
I walk out into the living room in just my Christmas panties, rummaging through my bag with my ass in the air, putting on a little show because I know he can see me, and I feel so good. So happy.
When I come back, I hand him the book I bought him, wrapped in reindeer paper with a glittery gold bow. He puts it in his lap, reluctant, or maybe waiting for me to give him the card in my hand, so I do that.
He opens the card first, ripping it along the side in a way that causes it to flex inside the envelope and then release, slightly creased, into his palm. The money flutters out. Two hundred dollars in twenties, falling in an untidy pile on top of the book.
Author: Robin York
“What is this?”
Three words, but the way he says them—I shiver.
Something is wrong.
