Page 20 of Off Limits

He presses his mouth against my temple, which feels nice too, and rubs my back. It’s all so close, so physical, so intimate, I can feel my heart hammering in my chest and heat shimmering through my body.

I’m hyper aware of my own body, everywhere it’s pressed up against his, and as he runs his hand down over my back my nipples get hard. So hard I get self-conscious that he might feel them against his chest. I should pull away, but my body has a mind of its own. As if on instinct, I tilt my pelvis towards him so that the whole plane of my body is against his and that’s when I think I feel something.

Maybe…possibly…I’m not entirely sure, but I think I might feel…a bulge.

There’s a slight protrusion of some kind that meets my lower belly as I press myself against him, and just as my mind starts to process that, Jean-Luc separates us, pulling himself back as he lifts me away.

“I have to go to the washroom,” he says nonchalantly. “Do the potatoes after the leeks, please.”

He walks out of the kitchen as if we haven’t just had the most intimate hug we’ve ever had and I try to focus on the vegetables, chopping them evenly and piling them into the little bowls he’s put out for them.

By the time he comes back, I’ve prepped everything and taken a seat at the kitchen island, distracted by my phone. Kye has sent me a text I don’t know how to respond to.

Sorry I was a jerk today, it reads.

I’m staring at it as Jean-Luc returns to the kitchen, patting my back as he walks past me.

“Who’re you texting?” he asks casually.

“No one,” I answer quickly. “Christine.” I don’t know why, but it seems better to lie than admit it’s Kye. “What’s next?”

“Time to cook,” says my stepdad happily. “I’m going to teach you how to make a very good traditional Swiss papet vaudois.”

He’s in his element, walking me through the process as he measures out the wine and soup stock and shows me how to puncture the sausages. In the kitchen with Jean-Luc, away from the rest of the world and free to just enjoy his company, I’m happier than I’ve been all day.

Danica

THIS IS THE face of an eighteen year old, I think as I look in the mirror.

It doesn’t feel any different, today versus yesterday, but while I may look and feel the same, I’m not. Something changed overnight. At the stroke of midnight I transformed from a child to a woman. Age of majority. It’s just a number, but it carries a lot of weight.

Tonight, for my birthday, Jean-Luc is taking me out to one of the best restaurants in Vancouver. My friend Christine can’t believe I’m grounded for my eighteenth birthday, and I feel like I should be more upset than I am, but truthfully, I’d much rather have a fancy dinner with Jean-Luc than spend a drunken night at the beach with kids. The prospect of dressing up and and being seen on Jean-Luc’s arm doesn’t make me feel like I am missing anything at all.

People will think we’re a couple, I think.

I wonder what it’s like to be on a real date with a man like Jean-Luc—to have him pick you up in his Jaguar, impeccably dressed in a suit, perfectly trimmed beard and perfectly mussed hair. How he would know exactly what to do, how to pull out the chair for you in the restaurant, how to listen to you like you were the only woman in the world. How charmed the wait staff would be by him, how he would know exactly the best thing to order and just the right wine to drink…

I have no idea if Jean-Luc is currently dating. Occasionally he has late night meetings, or he goes out with clients or friends. I’ve never wondered if any of these clients or friends were women, but the idea that they might be makes my stomach churn.

If Jean-Luc were dating, I could imagine the kind of women he would be interested in: beautiful women, probably much younger than him, with long legs in slinky dresses and sky-high heels.

Women like my mother. She’s actually close in age to Jean-Luc but she’s always looked much younger. She must have seemed so fun and vivacious to him when they met. It makes me wonder if he ever misses her.

At least when he was with my mother, Jean-Luc still always had eyes for me. I was his special little girl. Another woman, someone new, might not understand the bond between us. Another woman might think she had something to offer Jean-Luc that I don’t. The idea makes me sick.

With a sigh, I turn to the bathroom mirror and pin a stray curl back into my chignon. My hair is the feature that is most like my mother’s, yet somehow with it pulled back off my face I look even more like her. I know she’s beautiful, but even seeing the resemblance I don’t see her beauty in me. I don’t have the same almond tilt to my eyes, the same sharp boniness of her nose, or the same lively charisma. Everything that’s soft about me is all that’s left of my father—whoever he is. Melanie’s always refused to acknowledge he even exists, deflecting anyone with questions by making wild declarations like, ‘Danica sprung fully formed from the earth.’ It’s the kind of inanity only Melanie gets away with. Stepping back from the mirror to look at myself, I wonder in passing—as I often do—about this man who preceded Jean-Luc, the man who made me.

Turning sideways and tilting my head, I have to admit that I like what I see, even if I’m not the great beauty my mother is. I lift my chin. I’m wearing a fitted white sheath dress with textured fabric that belongs to Melanie. It had been hanging in my closet at the apartment and I’d packed it with my things. It’s nicer than anything I’ve ever owned, and I’m surprised I can fit in it.

I could almost pass for a grown woman who gets taken out to fancy restaurants, I think, admiring the way the fabric clings to my hips and the way my legs look in my only high heel shoes. I spritz on a bit of Melanie’s perfume, adjust my new necklace, and head downstairs with excitement and anticipation.

Jean-Luc gave me my gift this morning when I woke up, after a goofy show of singing Happy Birthday and presenting my breakfast to me with a candle on top.

Sitting on the kitchen stool with a ridiculous smile on my face, I felt shy but pleased about the attention. I yawned as he lit the candle, hugging my arms against the morning chill.

“You’re cold,” he’d observed, coming up behind me to wrap strong, warm arms around me and rest his chin on the top of my head. I placed my hands on his forearms and pulled him closer around me, feeling sleepy and affectionate, and he kissed my hair just above my ear, murmuring, “Blow out your candle.”

Taking a deep breath, I blew the candle out and then turned my head to smile at Jean-Luc. He smiled back, and before I even knew what I was doing, I lifted my chin and kissed him, quickly and chastely, on the lips.

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