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Lena
We’re on the porch again. I’m wearing a different sweater and a fresh pair of pants. Jamie had a box of plain clothes of various sizes, but it was all for men. My sex tingles from what we did, my core aching from his two fingers. His response when I told him I was a virgin blew my mind.
He said I could only be that way forhim. He owns me. I know he doesn’t mean forever. I know he doesn’t mean white picket fences, kids, and all the stuff I’m too embarrassed to talk about. Still, in that moment, he meant it.
What about Mom? It’s wrong, but I’m starting to think she lied. I believe Jamie. I can’t keep denying it. A part of me also watches with a frown, like I’m the Old Lena, suspicious of everybody except Mom. Now it’s reversed.
Old Lena is telling me to stop until I know everythingfor sure. Just because I have lovey-dovey feelings about Jamie doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth. People lie all the time. He could easily be lying, too. I need to think, not feel, but I can’t. I’m lying to myself if I say I can fight it.
Mom is still asleep. It’s been maybe twenty minutes since thestuffwent down. As the world grows darker, we’ve just been sitting out here, Jamie across the short table from me. It’s strangely comfortable, sitting silently without talking, Demon sleeping on the porch.
I’m not sure how long Mom will be asleep, though. “You never answered my question.”
He smiles over at me, almost sadly. “You never answered mine. I asked what you wanted to do, and you looked at me like I was crazy, Lena. Like you’ve never stopped to think once about what you could do with your life. Or that you could do anything.”
I fold my arms, staring stubbornly at the lake. He’s hit my most sensitive spot without even trying. At least, I hope—think—he wasn’t trying.Think, not feel. Yeah, right.
“But you can be,” he says fiercely. “You can be anything you want. Find a career. A passion. Or find a man, settle down, maybe have some kids.”
His voice gets husky. I look at him. He’s watching the lake. It’s like he won’t look at me. My thoughts go to a depressing place. Not for him, if it’s true, but he’s older than me. It’s possible.
“Doyouhave kids?” I ask.
He looks at me sharply, almost offended. “No.”
“Sorry.” My heart drops. “Are you against the idea of having them?”
“No,” he says, his tone savage, equally offended. “It would be a good thing, Lena, to raise children and do it right. Give them the time, the attention, the love they need. Support them and protect them.”
There’s a tickling deep within. I won’t let myself think insane things, like my desire is talking to me, urging me to do the right thing. To climb into his lap and grind against him, feel that huge manhood between my legs, slide up and down, coax him inside. Take his seed—all of it.
“I’m sure you could’ve had a family years ago.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve seen what happens when a man doesn’t love his woman. It’s a sad sight.”
“Your mom?” I ask.
He somehow smirks and frowns at the same time. “Nothing gets past you.”
“Who was it, Jack?”
His eyes get that furious glint. Before, I thought it was aimed at me. When he pulled up at the red light, when this first began—hell,daysago—I thought he’d hurt me. I can’t imagine it now. There’s too much between us, even if a lot of it is unspoken orimagined.
“No,” he says. “My dad, a cliché as old as time itself. He used to beat my mom. We lived out in Cali in the middle of nowhere. It was a good place. Picturesque. I could’ve been a real-life cowboy in a different life. Then Dad beat up Mom badly one night. She thought I was staying at a friend’s house. She decided to burn him down. Then she heard me yelling and tried to save me. Got herself killed… and Dad.”
He lists all this off like it’s instructions for some military tutorial. His voice is numb as he calmly relays it, but there’s a slight note of pain. He’s burying it. “You don’t have to be tough with me all the time, Jamie.”
He smirks. “Says you?”
“Maybe neither of us has to be as tough as we think.”
“You’re wrong,” he says fiercely. “The world’s a nasty place. A man has to be tough.”
“But not a woman?” I counter.
He reaches across the table and slides his hand toward mine. I know it’s, yeah,wrong. Everything we do feels like that, but I grab his hand anyway, hold it tightly, praying he’s telling the truth every moment we share. What a horrible position to be in—hoping my mom’s a liar.
“Not if she’s got a man who’ll always look out for her,” he says passionately.
