Page 218 of Rock Me All Night
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Itry devotingmy energy to peer editing an essay. Most days, I can spend hours fixing grammar and offering constructive comments. Today, everything about my classmate's writing stands out as wrong. I tear apart her argument with angry red comments. It's all filler. It's all pointless. It's all a distraction from her total lack of a thesis.
When I finish, my head is aching and my neck is sore. I power down my computer and resolve to bullshit my way through the rest of my homework in the morning. The bed is this wonderful supportive foam—it must have cost Drew a fortune. It beckons me, so I flip the lights off and belly flop onto my comforter.
The solitude is soothing. No way anyone can pick apart my expression. Or stare at me with this confused look in his eyes asking for an explanation with his inhale, and rejecting the whole thing outright with his exhale.
It's not his fault.
He was always clear. He was joking, but he was clear. I find my phone and pore over my text messages in search of evidence. The muscles in my chest, neck, and back tense. He's so demanding and playful and arrogant and sweet at the same time. I want to scream and cry and laugh at the same time.
There. Only a week ago, but that feels like an eternity.
Kara: Fuck you.
Drew: Not with your silly rules about how I can't rub you until you scream.
I play with the hem of my skirt the way Drew did. I drag my fingers over my thighs the way Drew did. Over my quads and up my inner thighs. Up, up, up, until they trail over my first set of scars.
If he'd felt them...
These stupid things change everything. I managed to keep them from my ex-boyfriend by insisting on fucking in the dark and keeping my skirt on. I had to take the lead, to take care of the condom, to move things forward before he even tried to touch me.
To tell him I came even if I didn't.
We were together a year and I managed to deter all his advances. Then, one night, we were drinking. I was relaxed and fucking him wasn't getting me there. I thought it might be okay. He was so excited until he saw them. Until he touched them. His eyes went dark and his dick went soft. He stared at me like I was this awful damaged freak.
One minute I was irresistible. The next I was broken.
The asshole dumped me the morning after. That usualit's not you, it's mebullshit.
Then it was like I didn't exist. Like he'd never said he loved me. Like he'd never even met me.
That can't happen with Drew.
I can't be the damaged, unlovable girl. Not to him.
* * *
There'sa soft knock on my door. I throw the comforter over my head and will the sound to go away. I can't explain this and I can't bear to take another second of the awful look in Drew's eyes.
There are footsteps in the hallway. He's leaving. Another door, must be the one to his bedroom, opens and closes.
It's like he's playing some weird grown up version of ding dong ditch.
I climb out of bed and check the hallway. It's empty except for a plate on the ground—the pasta he was making for dinner. It's still steaming and it smells like garlic and lemon.
It smells like heaven.
There's a napkin-wrapped fork lying next to it. I bring both into my room and set them on my desk. My chest pangs. This was supposed to be a celebration dinner. This was supposed to be ours.
My bad mood can't overpower my appetite. I unwrap the fork. It tumbles onto my desk with a clang.
There's something written on the napkin in a black marker. Drew keeps the damn thing in his pants in case he's asked to sign something.
His handwriting is neat and emotionless.The cake is cooling on the counter.That's it.
It's not like I expected a love letter, and it's good that he managed to take the cake out of the oven in time, but I don't need this message. I certainly don't need the taste of sugar and chocolate in my mouth.
