On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

How we never should’ve let go.

Untying my pants, he pushed them down to my ankles and looped his fingers under my panties—yanking them off.

I sat up a bit and fumbled his belt buckle, but he pushed me back down.

Moving on top of me, he pressed kisses against my neck—rendering me speechless with the power of his mouth.

Trailing his way down to my stomach, he ran his hand against my thighs and spread them a bit wider.

He kept his eyes on mine as he moved lower, blowing against my clit. Then he swirled his tongue against it—making it swell against his lips.

“Ahhh …” I moaned as he sped up his rhythm, as he slipped two fingers deep inside of me.

“Court…” He unwrapped a condom and slid into me all at once, forcing me to dig my nails into his skin.

I watched him, and he watched me.

Every stroke was a deep reminder of the memories that still kept us up at night.

His lips met mine as my pussy throbbed against his cock, and as he whispered my name, we came together.

We remained panting and entwined, both of us unable to say a word.

He slowly rolled off me, trailing his hand against the side of my face before throwing the condom away. Then, like he once did, he cleaned me up and redressed me first.

When I finally regained my strength, I stood to my feet.

“We’ll need to meet in public next Wednesday if you really want me to interview you,” I said. “In full view of the press.”

He said nothing.

“Thank you for the opportunity to finally show everyone that I’m capable of writing something great. I promise that I’ll take great care of your reasoning, and—”

“This isn’t about a fucking article, Court.” He cut me off. “As far as I’m concerned, the best thing that was ever written about me was your thesis in college, and you should publish that publicly.”

I stepped back. “You’re committing career suicide, and you want me to publish my college work?”

“I’m committing career suicide for you,” he said. “I want you back, and I don’t know any other way to make that clear. And I don’t know why I’ve waited all this time to tell you how I feel.”

“You could’ve picked up the phone.”

“You could’ve, too.”

Silence.

“I tried to reach you for over a year.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I wrote you a shit ton of letters, and I tried to find your phone number and email. I fucking tried.”

“Just like the time you met me freshman year and gave me an imaginary ride, right? Just like that?”

“Court…”

“Kyle, I’m really happy that you’re having a great career,” I said. “But there are certain words that you can’t take back, and I think that what we had in college, was just for college.”

“Can you at least hear me out?” He asked. “One drink and I won’t ask you to meet me for another Wednesday.”

“That’s a promise?”

“One-hundred-percent.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. “One drink.”

He smiled and walked into his kitchen, taking out a few glasses.

When he was out of my sight, I turned around and rushed away—taking the elevator out of his place before I made the mistake of believing we could ever be anything more than we were.

Kyle: Now

When I made it downstairs, Courtney was long gone.

Courtney: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

Tears fell down my face as I opened my “Welcome to The London Collective!” scholarship packet.

Inside, my rooming information, plane ticket, exchange information, and my tentative schedule for the next four years stared back at me.

Months ago, I would’ve savored this moment. I would’ve taken tons of pictures and packed up my entire apartment just to be certain that I was getting the hell away from Judy-April as fast as possible.

Now, all I wanted to do was cry.

“Why do you look like you’re about to break down on me, Court?” Kyle pushed my glass of wine toward me. “I thought you invited me over to celebrate your scholarship.”

“I don’t feel like there’s anything to celebrate,” I said. “They rejected my flight extension request, so I won’t even get to see you on your draft night. I won’t get to see you at all.”

“Just because we’re going in different directions temporarily—”

“Four years is not temporary, Kyle.”

“That’s only four football seasons,” he said. “That’s your cheerleading career.”

“In that case, it’ll feel more like a decade.”

He stood up and walked over to me. Gently grabbing my wrists, he helped me up—pulling me flush against his chest.

“Four seasons will go by in a flash.” He looked into my eyes. “And last time I checked, I can fly to see you whenever you want.”

“I don’t want you to do that.” I shook my head. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll send mixed signals, Kyle,” I said. “And on my worst days when I’m wondering what you’re doing and I happen to open Page Six or TMZ Sports, I don’t want to think about you being with someone else, days after being with me.”