Ritual - Palm South University

But tonight is different.

Tonight, as soon as the thought of them comes, it’s whisked away by another kiss from Gavin. He holds all of my focus, so much that I can’t think of anything else but the way he feels — his lips on mine, his finger pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves between my legs, his other hand holding me steady, digging into my hip.

Gavin breaks our kiss, eyes on mine as he skates his finger up and down my slick lips, and then — carefully and slowly — he enters me.

I must have blacked out. I must have collapsed in his arms and lost myself in another universe with him. I must have found a piece of me I thought was gone forever. Something out of this world happened, because when I finally come to, Gavin is kissing me to keep me quiet as I ride out an orgasm on his fingers, bucking my hips and digging my nails into his shoulders and crying out against his lips.

The climax is so powerful and electric that I feel it in every muscle, in every bone, in every fiber of my being and corner of my soul. I forgot what it was to feel this way, to be touched and not be scared, to have a man inside me and not be crying and praying for it to end.

Instead, I prayed for it to never end.

But it does, and when the climax fades, and the cool breeze of the night sweeps across my hot, slick skin, I whimper, folding into Gavin’s arms.

He catches me easily, his fingers withdrawing from inside me slowly and carefully. He puts my panties back in place, drops my leg back to the ground, and wraps me in his arms, surrounding me with his warmth and embrace.

And just when I thought I was okay, I fucking lose it.

Sobs rip through my chest, and I cling to him more, like if he even thinks of letting me go, I’ll die. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t flinch or ask me what’s wrong or demand that I stop crying. He just pulls me deeper into his chest, wrapping me in his arms as fully as he can and kissing my hair, repeating the same words over and over again until I can finally breathe.

“It’s okay. I got you. You’re beautiful. You’re safe.”

“It’s okay. I got you. You’re beautiful. You’re safe.”

It’s okay.

I got you.

You’re beautiful.

You’re safe.I AM THE EQUIVALENT to a dog with its tail tucked firmly between its legs when I knock on Becca’s door a week before Thanksgiving.

My heart races in my chest as I wait for her to answer, knowing she’s home since I asked permission before coming over. I haven’t seen her since the night she booted me out and essentially told me to get my shit together.

And she was right — I did need time alone.

I was also right.

It sucked.

I spent most of the first week wallowing, turning to the classic things that always got me by: drinking, working out, and — since fucking was out of the question with Becca being so pissed off — masturbating.

I had zero shame, and I wasted away seven days without a single urge to do anything about my predicament.

But something happened on that seventh day, like God himself was yanking me up out of my bed and throwing me in the shower and telling me we had work to do. I drove out to the beach that morning and sat there for hours, watching the sun rise, listening to the waves, and — for the first time since last semester — not running from the thoughts inside my head.

I thought about Erin, about our unborn child, about how it hurt me that I hadn’t been a part of the conversation and how I also understood how it wouldn’t have been my decision anyway. I thought about how I’d been so focused on my own betrayal and hurt that I hadn’t thought about the fact that Erin went through that just months before she was raped, and then she slipped into the darkest hole I’d ever seen her in.

She’s been fighting her way out of that hole all summer and all fall semester long, going to therapy and trying to make amends with the people she hurt.

And I shut her out.

She’s on my list of people to try to make things right with, and next on that list is my little brother.

My mother, too.

That long morning at the beach helped me see that a lot of my anger toward my mother rests in the fact that I’m jealous.

I’m jealous that she never got clean when I was a kid. I’m jealous that I can’t be there to get to know her — sober — and have a relationship with her. I’m jealous that my little brother doesn’t need me now, that he might very well move out of Mac’s place soon and back in with Mom, and then where will that leave me?