Page 58 of Sicken of the Calm
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Despite all the time we spendtogether, we don’t talk about the approaching holiday. All my attempts, even inthose pliable moments after sex, to bring up the subject of getting togetherwhen we are back home are avoided by Ezra. I finally agree to simply call himwhen we are both there, as Ezra keeps insisting. These are the moments thatconfuse the part of me that is sure that whatever name we have given this, weare heading for something more.
Ezra is flying a few days afterme, and on my last night in Fox Lake, before I fly out, he fucks me with aviscous, tender desperation that scares me. I’m already shaking with need froma rimming so slow and thorough that it has left me a little delirious. He hasunder-prepped me, though, like I enjoy sometimes so that when he finally,finally thrusts in, it is with an edge of pain that has me arching and cryingout, my wrists yanking on their binds in an attempt to pull him closer. Hepresses his lips to my gaping mouth, murmuring shaped, hot breaths into it,things I can’t hear but still want to keep, licking them from his teeth andtongue desperately.
He fucks me like that, pressedclose, long and deep and slow, one hand around my neck so he can feel everybreath and cry and moan and aborted plea, staring into my eyes like he isimprinting his soul onto mine, or mine onto his. He keeps his face just shy ofkissing distance, his pace just shy of something I can come to. My painfullyhard dick leaks between us, until all I know is the infernal heat of it as Ibeg for it to burn me away, aplease, please, pleasethat loses meaning,just another noise from my ragged, collared throat.
When he finally wraps his handaround me, his other tightening around my throat, my eyes roll back as my mouthbecomes silent and clogged with need. When I come, the shaking of it breaks meapart for a single, perfect moment. I can feel Ezra in my throat and my mouth,in my body and deeper, until I am nothing and everything all at once.
After, cleaned and wrapped aroundeach other, there is a look in his eyes that unsettles me. Like he’s expectingme to disappear, as if my soul isn’t refuged in this bed. I press close andtight, letting my body do the talking, but something must be lost intranslation, for his hands cling with a need that should be sated.
When we part the next day, mysuitcase by my feet, I kiss him casually, not wanting it to feel like agoodbye.
“See you in a few days,” I say.He nods, but the skin around his eyes is tight, and I kiss him there, too,until they crinkle with a smile.
“Yeah,” he says, and he almostseems to mean it.
Arriving home is always a littlelike going back in time. Everything seems unchanged, and I am instantly drawninto the welcoming arms of my parents and siblings, the familiar smells andsounds of my family. Even though I only spoke to them a few days ago, my momacts as if it’s been ages, asking me questions about my exams, about Iva andMoore, about Ezra. I am gratified about the latter and confirm instantly thatshe’ll meet him soon, smiling at her pleased reaction.
It’s only late at night, when Ifinally go to bed, that I have a moment to text Ezra, telling him pointedlyabout my mom’s queries and the standing invitation to eat at mine next week.Cool,he texts back, and I allow myself a little huff of exasperation.
It’s a disorienting relief to bereleased from the vice-grip of exams, and the next few days are spent eatingand resting, helping around the house to immerse myself in its rhythm fully.I’m counting down the hours until Ezra lands, though, and give him a smallrespite to settle in before I text him over an invitation for the following day.His reply takes longer than usual, but at least he doesn’t fight me on it,sending back a simple,Ok.
The relief I feel when he showsup the next day is telling, however. I open the door to him holding a bouquetof flowers for my mom, wearing a nervous expression I’m not used to seeing onhim. He rolls his eyes, though, when he sees my incredulous expression at thecolourful flowers.
“I’m polite,” he says testily,and I tamp down a grin.
“Uh-huh,” I say. He elbows me alittle when he passes me walking into the house, and my smile can’t help butfully bloom.
He’s reverted back to nerves whenmy mom comes out to greet him, and the meeting is everything I hoped andexpected. My mom is completely taken by the flowers, and Ezra blushes,pointedly not looking at me.
I’m divested of any hostingduties as Ezra gets swallowed whole by my family. I almost feel sorry for himas they pounce all at once, asking him about the flight, about his courses,about where he lives, about high school, about his plans for Christmas, abouthis plans for the future. I stay close to him, in case he really needs to besaved, but even my sisters are, if not exactly tactful, at least kind. My heartswells when my mom asks him to help setting the table, a chore that someone whowas purely seen as a guest would never be asked.
The addition of food dams theflood of questions and Ezra has a little bit of respite. He inadvertentlyingratiates himself further, however, by tucking into the food with noises ofappreciated, and the look of pleased satisfaction on my mom’s face as heaccepts seconds makes me smile into a forkful.
I’ve tried making clear in thedays since I arrived that Ezra and I aren’t boyfriends, to avoid awkwardquestions, but the intense attention in my dad’s face as he asks Ezra questionsseems disproportionate. Although I doubt Ezra knows the reason, he replies inkind, a little stiff and formal. My dad seems pleased, though, and the lightfeeling in my chest should be worrying if it didn’t feel so good.
“Wow,” he says when we’re finallyallowed to retire, but his smile is glowing. He’s saved from my gloatingresponse, however, as he becomes instantly distracted stepping into my room. Helooks around like he’s never seen four walls before, and I look around withhim, trying to see it from his eyes. To me, nothing looks worthy of inspiringhis wide-eyed look; a bookcase cluttered with books, a neat desk and bed, somefootball medals and paraphernalia, photographs, mostly of Iva and my family,although there’s one of the football team, and plenty of Iva’s drawing, datingback from when she was little. There’s one of Fredo, tacked onto the side ofthe bookcase, drawn in pencil on slightly crinkled paper, showing its age.
Ezra gravitates to the drawingIva did of me in our final year of high school. She insisted I keep it, and Ihadn’t fought her hard on it. Despite it being of me, I can admit it’sstunning, done simply in charcoal and yet capturing a depth of expression thatis almost disorienting to see on my own features. The face in the picture islooking straight at the viewer, and it seems to look at you with an intensity sopiercing and knowing that I hardly believe it was really inspired by me.
As Ezra looks at it, I rememberhim mentioning the picture to Iva what feels like an age ago as we sat on FoxLake grass. It inspires a sense of vertigo, thinking about how much hashappened between us since then. I suddenly want to touch him, assure myself ofhis solidity, but something holds me back. Somehow, it feels like it would becrossing a line to touch him here, away from the capsule of Fox Lake, as ifeverything we have done was only permitted because it wasn’t quite infringed byreality. Abruptly, I understand Ezra’s fears of coming here a little better.
This is one of those moments, Irealize, in which your choices truly count. In which it is fear or action, andyou don’t have the scapegoat excuse of circumstance. From the corner of my eye,I see Fredo in black pencil, Iva and me with our hands in his fur. Iva isn’there to guide my hand, now. This time, it’s up to me.
Ezra is still staring at thepicture. Despite all the thoughts that have rushed through me, it’s probablyonly been a handful of seconds. I swallow, moving forward until I’m rightbehind him. He turns around, mouth open to say something, but he must seesomething on my face, for it closes again, eyes searching. I don’t have wordseither, though, and let my hand lift to cradle the side of his face. Hiseyelashes flutter, and when he opens his eyes again they are filled withsomething I can’t comprehend, but that must be good if the way my heart racesis to be trusted.
I just look at him for a moment,at the bowed lips and amber eyes and hair wild around him, before I tilt myhead in for a kiss. That first contact is just a press of closed lips, barelymoving, but it’s like waking up, like stretching all your muscles with the sunwarming your face. I kiss him again, and again, just my lips on his, but whenour mouths open it’s with a rush of breath. The kiss turns deep but remainsslow, almost sweet. We taste like Puerto Rican food, like my home. He wraps hisarms over my shoulders and I press him close, my hand at the back of his head.I let myself fall into the kiss, let it speak for me.
When we finally part, breaths alittle ragged despite the languorous pace of the kiss, I look at him carefully.His eyes open slowly, looking a little dazed, but I recognize the relief there.It mirrors mine. I brush my thumb on his cheekbone, feeling it shift as hesmiles.
“I can’t believe…” He trails off,looking around the room a little incredulously. I feel my eyebrows tick down inquestion.
“What?” I ask, but he shakes hishead.
“Nothing,” he says ruefully,giving my lips a quick kiss as if sealing any further questions behind them.
“Ok, now show me all theembarrassing pictures of you from when you were little,” he says. I roll myeyes.
