The Shortest Way Home (31 page)

Rebecca looked away and gave a little shrug.

“Becky . . .” said Sean, but she didn’t face him.

She got out of the car, and he followed her into the house. “You’re
taking
that furniture, so help me,” he warned idly. “I’ll make the call myself. I’ll say I’m the moving company and I’m arranging a pickup. Then I’ll call your parents and say . . . uh . . . I’ll say there was a small fire and the house is fine, but all the furniture got smoke damaged and had to be thrown out.”

She sat down on the couch and folded her arms. He lowered himself gingerly next to her. “That could work, actually,” he said.

“I am not going to
lie
to my parents, Sean. That is some seriously bad karma.”

“Then for crying out loud, just tell them the truth! This is a perfect opportunity and you’re throwing up all kinds of ridiculous roadblocks. What the hell kind of karma is
that
?”

She scowled at him. “I really dislike you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

He watched her face soften from aggravation to a barely perceptible smile. And parts of him began to throb, none of which were in his back. If she held his gaze a moment longer, he was pretty sure things would start happening that he wasn’t entirely in control of.

She ran her hand through her hair and glanced at the hulking furniture pieces. “I need to get out of this room,” she said. “And I could really stand to meditate.”

He followed her downstairs, knowing he would have followed her pretty much anywhere—a bridal shower, a group therapy session, the mall—just to maintain physical proximity. She spread out a cotton blanket for him, knowing he’d be more comfortable lying flat.

And then the soft, atonal gonging music started, and she was saying something about sitting in the center of all things, and other stuff that had made a lot of sense the last time they meditated. But all he could really focus on was the occasional whiff of her scent—not perfume, he decided, more like really nice-smelling soap. And the way her legs had looked in those running shorts a few days ago. And that surging feeling between his legs.

Cut it out,
he told his crotch.
This is not good.
He tried to think about patients he’d treated, emaciated babies and AIDS-infected mothers, but inevitably the train of thought veered off to the med student or volunteer doctor who’d helped him treat the patients, all of whom he’d later slept with.

Sex.

Such a good thing. A necessary thing for most people. And it sure had been a while since he’d had any. Was it that USAID worker who’d toured the area when the rainy season had turned the fields into swampland and they’d spent so much time indoors? Or maybe the assistant to that minor celebrity who had “worked” at the clinic for a couple of weeks?

He wanted Rebecca. It was pretty clear. But how badly would that screw things up—everything would get weird. She would feel hurt when he left. He cared so much about that, he realized—about not hurting her. The thought of his guilt and her sadness dialed back the activity down below. He could still feel it, but it was less like a steaming locomotive, more like the hum of distant traffic.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her sitting a few feet away, her eyes closed, her back straight. She had taken off her cotton jacket when they sat down, and her hair concealed the straps of her tank top. If he looked only at her shoulders and head, it was as if she were topless. . . .

Sean shut his eyes.
What are you—sixteen?
he chastised himself. She was beautiful, though. In a sort of an understated, easy-to-miss way. Not like Chrissy, who had that obvious, lingerie model, you-know-you-want-me thing going for her.

Oh, yeah. Chrissy.

It had been two days since their date, and he realized he was probably supposed to call her again. The idea evoked about as much interest as making a haircut appointment. How had that happened? How had the pinnacle of all fantasies been reduced to a maintenance task? She was as attractive as ever, but other than that . . . no juice. She was actually a little boring. And if he had to sit through one more stupid movie . . . Would things have been different if they’d had sex? Maybe. But then what? He’d be in even deeper, with those handcuffs getting tighter. . . .

Nah. He was glad he’d left early. So much simpler. So much less to regret. In fact, he was proud of himself that his head had won out over its downstairs neighbor. A sign of maturity. And it would be the same with Rebecca. A month or two from now, when he was at his next foreign post, he’d be glad he hadn’t screwed things up with her. Because she was beautiful and kind and smart and good. And he wanted her in his life. More than anything, he wanted to be able to come back here and hang out with her and know things were okay between them.

As she meditated Rebecca had occasionally murmured a comment or suggestion, such as returning to the sensation of breathing when the mind began to wander. This was clearly for his benefit, though his mind had wandered like a frustrated teenager with a boner for most of the time. Now she began to murmur again, a summation of sorts, or in any case, notice that the meditation was about to end. Sean was fine with that, since his had never actually begun.

She glanced over at him. Her face was serene, glowing like a saint in a medieval painting, and he thought that if he looked hard enough, he might see the aura of a halo around her head.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he responded. And the surging and throbbing started up like a band that had come back from a break.

“Can you hand me my jacket,” she said. “My cell phone’s in the pocket.” When he gave it to her, she pulled out the phone and dialed. “Mom, it’s me. . . .”

Holy smokes!
he thought.
She’s doing
it!

Pleasantries were exchanged. Apparently the air conditioning in their condo had been turned off one morning when they’d gone to Sanibel Island for the day. Mom blamed Dad, Dad blamed Mom, but he then admitted it could have been him, however he refused to plead guilty until evidence could be produced. When they came home, the place had smelled like a cave.

“A cave?” said Rebecca. “Oh, mold . . . Are caves moldy? . . . No, I’ve never been in one, either. . . .” She glanced over at Sean, and he fixed her with a gaze that was meant to imply,
Enough with the moldy cave. Get down to business.

She took a deep breath and reached her hand out to grasp his.

“So listen,” she said into the phone. “I have this really unbelievable opportunity. . . .”

Sean marveled at her diplomacy. While the old furniture had been such a smart buy, she told them, it had probably come to the end of its reasonable usefulness. Her hand gripped his, squeezing occasionally when they balked or came up with yet another reason to keep everything the same. Though quite a bit smaller than his, her hand was strong, and the squeezing sent sensations up his arm. Her olive-toned skin, slightly tan, especially across the knuckles, looked like caramel against his freckled paleness. He wanted to pull her hand up to his face and smell it.

“I was thinking I could store the old furniture in the garage,” she said. “And if there are pieces you want, they’d be handy for you. . . . Of course, I’d have to have it all out of there by winter so I can pull my car in.”

He nodded at her encouragingly.
Smart thinking!
he mouthed. She squeezed hard and practically broke his pinkie.

“You’re sure?” she was saying. “That’s so understanding of you . . . no, really, you guys are the best . . . I love you, too . . . so much. . . .”

When she closed the phone, she looked at him, eyes wide, face lit up with surprised joy.

“I am so proud of you!” he said.

She let out a squeal and launched herself at him, hugging him, knocking him over. His back twanged in protest, but every other single part of him welcomed her body like a long-overdue homecoming. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek, and she kissed his.

“Sean,” she whispered in his ear, “Sean, I’m so happy!”

“You deserve it,” he murmured back. “You deserve everything.”

Sprawled on top of him, she pulled back and looked down into his face. “You do, too,” she said.

It should have been impossible for him to lean up to her—his back should have stamped that move “access denied.” And it may have tried. But all Sean knew was that he had to have his face near hers, breathing her in, kissing her lips. Had to taste her and smell her and feel her stomach against his.

“Rebecca,” he breathed. “Rebecca . . .” Her name felt so good in his mouth. Her real name. How had it taken him this long to use it?

She seemed to hesitate at first, her lips soft but closed, kissing but not pressing. Once he said her name, though, her lips opened and invited him in, and her arms slid behind his neck and cradled his shoulders. Her legs slipped around his hips.

Her legs . . . that was when every nerve ending rose up against his skin, straining to feel every single part of her. His hands moved down her back, around her bottom, down her thighs and back again, and she let out the slenderest moan of agreement.

That sound. Good
God.

She was pressing into him, rocking slightly, and he felt as if he might burst the metal fly of his shorts. His hands came up, slipping her tank top off, tugging at her bra clasp until it flew open. He rolled to the side, lowering her to the cotton blanket so he could get rid of the bra completely. Her breasts, several shades lighter than the rest of her, were soft and warm under his hands.

She tugged off his T-shirt and explored him as if she’d never touched him before, and didn’t already know the contour of every rib and muscle. Their kissing became needier. The shorts and underwear came off. And they were naked, stroking and pressing and wanting with a desperation Sean couldn’t ever remember feeling before.

When he slid inside her, they let out twin moans. “Sean . . .” she murmured in his ear. It sounded like a plea. “Sean . . .”

He was able to hold off until she cried out, but just barely. And then the world exploded in warm and wet and good and release. There were loud sounds—his own, it turned out—and she gripped him harder, rocking against him from below until he was spent and loose, with only enough strength to take in air.

CHAPTER 38

W
hen his limbs could hold him again, he moved off her, but not far, still wanting closeness, the aftershocks of their lovemaking still sending ripples across the network of his nervous system.

And then worry gripped him. What the hell had he done? This was exactly
not
the plan. Friendship. Hanging out. Not messing it up. What happened to those? What happened to using his head—the guy on the top floor, instead of the guy in the garden apartment?

He was afraid to look at her, but he had to look. Exactly how bad had he screwed up?

It was like glancing in a mirror. She had that same
Holy shit, did that really happen, was it okay, are we okay?
expression that he felt on his own face. She pressed her lips together, and he thought,
Oh no, please don’t do that. Please let it be okay.
Her lips pressed tighter, almost disappearing. And then a snort came out of her nose—a laugh that exploded from the only available outlet. She was laughing!

“What?” he demanded to know.

“Oh, my God, Sean. That was . . . it was . . . unbe
liev
able.”

He smiled. How could he not?

“I mean . . .” She suddenly looked unsure. “It was, right?”

He gathered her up in his arms, kissing her temple, running his fingers up and down her back, thanking God she was happy. “It was,” he murmured against her cheek. “Un. Believable.”

She snuggled deeper into his embrace until every possible part of them that could be touching was. And he surrendered to that loose, weak feeling, with the astoundingly comforting knowledge that everything was okay. At least for now.

* * *

W
hen he woke, it was dark, and he was freezing. He slowly released one arm from around her back and reached behind him to see if he could pull a corner of the cotton blanket over them. His back registered its extreme displeasure.

Rebecca stirred. “I’m hungry,” she whispered.

They put on clothes and went up to the kitchen. Rebecca poured them each a heaping bowl of Raisin Bran. She’d put on her tank top and shorts, but her bra must have been left in the basement, wherever he’d flung it. Her breasts were loose against the fabric of her shirt. He dutifully ate his cereal, all the while wondering how soon he could get his hands on her again.

“How’s your back?” she asked with a yawn.

He shrugged. It was killing him, but he didn’t want her to know that. Suddenly back pain seemed synonymous with old and decrepit, and that was hardly the look he was going for.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess.” She smiled wryly. “It’s been an unusually busy
day.”

“If you’re too tired to drive me home . . . I could stay.” As soon as he said it, he was sure it sounded desperate. But how did he know? Before now, he’d never really cared all that much whether he stayed or not. Which, of course, meant that he had never sounded desperate.

She crunched on her Raisin Bran for a few chews. “Do you
want
to stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

She studied him, thinking about this. Five seconds of torture. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.”

How do guys do this?
he wondered.
How do
I
do this?

He stood, came around to her side of the table, took the spoon out of her hand, and slid it into the bowl. Then he gently pulled her up toward him, against him, wrapping his arms around her. “I am very enthusiastic.”

“I can feel your enthusiasm,” she giggled.

“My enthusiasm likes to make its presence known. And it wouldn’t mind feeling a little of yours, in return.”

* * *

T
hey slept in the twin bed in her room, which was uncomfortable in a very appealing way. He couldn’t get enough of feeling her body against his, even when he was spent, and sex wouldn’t be happening again anytime soon. And since there was no way for a good portion of her
not
to be in contact with a good portion of him, he spent a very happy, if incommodious, night.