7
Emily
Stephen: Did you finish that book I lent you yet?
Me: Not yet, Stephen, but it's really just as good as you said it was!
Iput down my phone. The book lies on my nightstand with a bookmark a little less than half-way through. I lift it carefully, and my mouth waters at the sight of the powder divided on top of it. I lean forward and snort a line from the cover of the novel Stephen considers one of his favorites. It definitely made me feel good—just not in the way he expected.
I’m what the average person would call a “functional user”. I get high, but it's within reason, and I still handle myself just fine. I keep it from Stephen to avoid reopening the scars from his own brother's substance abuse. The only person who knows my powdery little secret is David, but it’s his as well.
I hear a car turn into my driveway, and I look out the window to see a familiar two-door sedan. I slip the book into my drawer, stuff my tin alongside it, and wipe any residual powder from my nose. I walk out of my room, down the hall, and stand in anticipation at the door. Stephen is the type to show up unannounced, which I hate.
He knocks.
“Who is it?” my mom yells from the kitchen.
“It’s just Stephen!”
I answer the door with an audible exhale. He doesn't notice and thrusts two more books into my arms.
“Emily! These are the books I told you about!”
His excited smile is cute. I used to share that same excitement about books, talking them up to David, who couldn’t care less.
I reach out to take the books from him, fighting the temptation to roll my eyes. I want him to leave. I can't tell if it's Stephen's fault or the pills’. They both put me on edge and make me impatient.
“I wish you'd call before you come over, Stephen. I’ve told you before, I—”
He cuts me off with a kiss. His lips are always softened by the chap-stick that he carries in the right front pocket of his jeans. He always wears jeans.
“I know, I know. I just finally found these and couldn't wait to bring them over. And to see you!”
His early obsession is typical of bookworms like us. We are optimistic and hopeless romantics because of the many worlds we thrust ourselves into as we read. We are like well-versed explorers. It should have made us great partners and beautiful lovers. Instead, we are like the few sour chapters in a book that you skim because it doesn’t ebb and flow as it should.
I want to like him. I really do. But his key doesn't fit the lock that guards my heart.
My annoyance dissipates, replaced by an aching between my legs. This time I know it’s the pills—not Stephen—inducing the emotion. The silence in my brain is tantalizing and ignites the nerves throughout my body.
“Let’s go to my room,” I whisper to him.
He nods.
My mom doesn’t worry about me in my room with Stephen. She assumes we are reading, not fucking.
I close the door quietly and wrap my hand around the back of Stephen’s neck, pulling him toward me. He leans in and kisses me. His lips are tight, and no matter how many times they touch mine, he seems uncomfortable. I unbutton my jeans. Stephen follows my cues, never the initiator. He releases the clasp of his cheap leather belt and lets his jeans fall to the floor. I sit on the bed and Stephen lies down beside me. His boxers have the cartoon faces of famous poets on them. Is this real life?
I rub my finger along the face of Poe. I grab the waistband of his boxers, pull them past his hips, and toss them to the floor, shielding them from the poetic injustice that is about to happen.
Stephen is a sweet and tender lover. He holds the back of my neck as he looks into my eyes. He is careful and cautious, as if I am some fragile piece of art. When he licks between my legs, it reminds me of a Labrador lapping at water, his neatly styled blonde hair tickling my inner thighs. It's an awkward turnoff.
I pull him up for a kiss and climb on top of him. At least when I'm on top, I can go a little harder and faster. His hands hold my hips, as if telling me to slow down, to go easy. If I want to come, I can’t go easy, which is probably why I never come with Stephen. If only he could read me as well as he does his books. His fingers could trace me as they do the pages. With me, he may very well be illiterate.