wall, and I crane my face into the pillow, hoping I won’t die by way of a broken neck. God forbid he snaps my spinal cord, and I spend the rest of my life doing a circuit-speaking tour on the dangers of aggressive sex from the confines of a wheelchair.
Jet drags my body down the bed several feet as if he read my mind, or was tired of the racket, and in doing so fills my body until I’m certain that fifth limb of his will pop straight from my throat. He thrashes and smashes our bodies into one another until he grips my hips and lets out a roar that blows the membrane out in both of my eardrums.
Jet collapses next to me, gently rubbing my thigh as if tapping out. I land next to him and listen to the sound of our wild breathing until we smooth out to nothing.
A part of me wants to admonish him for momentarily deafening me, or in the least serve him a nice helping of sarcasm along with that kitten he ate for dinner, but I can’t seem to do it.
Jet and I are officially familiar with one another in the biblical sense. There, I’ve done it. I’ve officially become the whore my father accused me of being. At least now when I think of how much those words scarred me I won’t be so angry with him for getting it wrong. Maybe my heart won’t ache, and that searing wound he created as far back as my childhood will finally have the chance to heal. A hard sniffle comes from me, followed by an unexpected watershed of not so quiet tears.
The bed stirs as Jet wraps an arm around me. He buries a tender kiss to the back of my head and lingers for a moment before seemingly falling contentedly to sleep.
Then, in a miracle to end all miracles, I fall right asleep, too.
M y phone never stops buzzing .
A text from my mother. Congratulations! You’ve officially killed your father. He’s quitting the Elks. He no longer has the gumption to face his friends.
My heart sinks. I hate that this ridiculous nightmare has snowballed into a monster that’s eating through my life and now that of my family.
A text from my brother, Jonas. What the hell, kid? Tell me you’re not a dancer. And that senator? No fucking way. Jen is due in four weeks, and now she’s stressed that the firm is in danger. Lay low for the next four years, would you?
A text from an unknown number. We can talk anytime you want. I’ve got two good ears. Rumor has it I’m a good listener.
I bet they’re a good listener. It’s probably FOX Hole news or Capitalize Off Your Emergen-C-NN. No thanks. I may be blonde, but I’m not that blonde.
I reply right back. Thanks for nothing, jerkwad! Take your two good ears and shove them up your asshole!
And another, this time a group message from Tiffany Ikeman, president of the WB Legal Eagles. Remember to keep your eye on the message boards for news of upcoming events! Welcome to a brand new school year! And, remember, the future legal challenges of our great nation will be in your hands one day!
All of that enthusiasm crammed in one small text makes me want to vomit exclamation points. At least it wasn’t caustic. So what if it was a group message? At least she didn’t exclude me. Right about now, I want nothing more than to blend deep into the crowd, and at this point any crowd will do.
All day at school I drift from class to class, attempting to hide from the angry dark cloud of photographers who rabidly follow me around and yet have proven impervious to campus police. Students stop to gape at me as if trying to place my face before offering a depleted smile or an honest gasp. It’s as if I’ve singlehandedly managed to disappoint every single person at WB. How the hell is this my life again?
But the one thing that can’t seem to leave my mind, that overshadows even the most despondent of thoughts, is a replay of what happened between Jet and me last night. It’s as if I’m stuck on a replay of one earthshaking moment—the one where Jet looked up with sleepy, stoned eyes and commanded me not to fight it. My
Jet drags my body down the bed several feet as if he read my mind, or was tired of the racket, and in doing so fills my body until I’m certain that fifth limb of his will pop straight from my throat. He thrashes and smashes our bodies into one another until he grips my hips and lets out a roar that blows the membrane out in both of my eardrums.
Jet collapses next to me, gently rubbing my thigh as if tapping out. I land next to him and listen to the sound of our wild breathing until we smooth out to nothing.
A part of me wants to admonish him for momentarily deafening me, or in the least serve him a nice helping of sarcasm along with that kitten he ate for dinner, but I can’t seem to do it.
Jet and I are officially familiar with one another in the biblical sense. There, I’ve done it. I’ve officially become the whore my father accused me of being. At least now when I think of how much those words scarred me I won’t be so angry with him for getting it wrong. Maybe my heart won’t ache, and that searing wound he created as far back as my childhood will finally have the chance to heal. A hard sniffle comes from me, followed by an unexpected watershed of not so quiet tears.
The bed stirs as Jet wraps an arm around me. He buries a tender kiss to the back of my head and lingers for a moment before seemingly falling contentedly to sleep.
Then, in a miracle to end all miracles, I fall right asleep, too.
M y phone never stops buzzing .
A text from my mother. Congratulations! You’ve officially killed your father. He’s quitting the Elks. He no longer has the gumption to face his friends.
My heart sinks. I hate that this ridiculous nightmare has snowballed into a monster that’s eating through my life and now that of my family.
A text from my brother, Jonas. What the hell, kid? Tell me you’re not a dancer. And that senator? No fucking way. Jen is due in four weeks, and now she’s stressed that the firm is in danger. Lay low for the next four years, would you?
A text from an unknown number. We can talk anytime you want. I’ve got two good ears. Rumor has it I’m a good listener.
I bet they’re a good listener. It’s probably FOX Hole news or Capitalize Off Your Emergen-C-NN. No thanks. I may be blonde, but I’m not that blonde.
I reply right back. Thanks for nothing, jerkwad! Take your two good ears and shove them up your asshole!
And another, this time a group message from Tiffany Ikeman, president of the WB Legal Eagles. Remember to keep your eye on the message boards for news of upcoming events! Welcome to a brand new school year! And, remember, the future legal challenges of our great nation will be in your hands one day!
All of that enthusiasm crammed in one small text makes me want to vomit exclamation points. At least it wasn’t caustic. So what if it was a group message? At least she didn’t exclude me. Right about now, I want nothing more than to blend deep into the crowd, and at this point any crowd will do.
All day at school I drift from class to class, attempting to hide from the angry dark cloud of photographers who rabidly follow me around and yet have proven impervious to campus police. Students stop to gape at me as if trying to place my face before offering a depleted smile or an honest gasp. It’s as if I’ve singlehandedly managed to disappoint every single person at WB. How the hell is this my life again?
But the one thing that can’t seem to leave my mind, that overshadows even the most despondent of thoughts, is a replay of what happened between Jet and me last night. It’s as if I’m stuck on a replay of one earthshaking moment—the one where Jet looked up with sleepy, stoned eyes and commanded me not to fight it. My
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