Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, same as always.
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I'm sweating by the time I get to our door, the way that the line of it goes across my forehead and in-between my legs feels damp. It's kind of gross, but I guess I've been used to it, since we mostly walk everywhere now. I run my wrist over the perspiration at my hairline as I attempt to fit the key into the lock. I think I might actually be shaking with anticipation for the air conditioning I know is waiting on the other side.
There's this triumph of some faux-old school, pretentious indie kind of cacophony in my ears. I listen to it because the other people next to me in school do, just to try it out, but I'm thinking it's not really my style, and the cool combination of the air inside and the satisfaction of taking out the earphones -- and meeting silence, finally -- is something I didn't realize I was waiting for. It's intensely welcoming.
I toe off my shoes and scratch the back of my knee as he steps into the hallway, a duffle bag hanging off his shoulder and his sneakers dangling from his fingers by the laces. He looks tired.
"You're leaving?" The words fall out of my mouth, and everything about last night comes crashing back into me. And it's so much worse than the indie music, and the heat that pounds on my shoulders, and the weight of a thousand pages of studied material in my skull, there between my ears. He doesn't answer and moves to the couch to pick up his keys. "Jim?"
"I'm not leaving," he says, sounding annoyed and hurt. I know he's both, it's painful how aware of this I am, but I'm emphatic with the explanations. With the apologies, with the reasoning. And he certainly looks like he's leaving.
Is Jim leaving me? I mean, is it over? I press my palm to the back of my neck, hoping it's cool. It's damp there, too. I curse the city, wish for simple, gentle Scranton shade under trees at a time like this.
"It looks like you are," I say quietly, resting my book bag on the ground and taking a step toward him, then holding my elbow with my arm hooked behind my back. "Is this about last night?"
The words keep him from looking up at me. He stills, gaze fixed on the dull hardwood floors, before he bends down to pick up his wallet, too.
"I'm just..." He shrugs, mouth in a firm line like he has to bite his words away. "I'm just going to Jersey for the weekend. Hang out with my brother, just... clear my head."
That's what a breakup sounds like, right? Oh, god.
"Jim, don't," I say softly, coming towards him and shaking my head fiercely. "Don't say stuff like that, you're making me..." I look around because he won't look at me, and I'm not going to look at his face because it breaks my heart when he looks like this. "You're making me nervous."
Jim looks visibly disgusted, like he's shaking the memory out of himself again.
"Well, what's going on, Pam?" he says so brokenly, his voice is raw and grating like a small part of him gave up when I told him about all of this. But the question makes me disgusted.
"Nothing's going on," I say, slightly annoyed. He can take his time to be upset, but he doesn't actually think that I still want Roy, does he? "Don't say that. You know that."
"No, I didn't mean like that." He exhales roughly through his nose and adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, holds out the palm of his hand. "What's the deal? Why does this happen now? I just -- You know, I don't want to think about it, it just --"
I move forward, ready to put my warm hands on his face and try to calm him down (he's so rarely upset, this is probably the worst I've seen from him since we've been together). But he shakes his head and his voice is hard, something tough I haven't heard from him before, so I shrink back when he starts talking. Looks me straight in the eye.
"This sucks, Pam," Jim says, throwing his hands around. "Why was he here? Is he still here? I don't even know. Do you even know? And why did he kiss you? God, why..." He grunts and throws his bag on the floor behind him without looking down. "How did he know where you were?"
I close my eyes, hating the way it is right now. In this beautiful, vibrating city when dusk is settling in. I love Fridays, staying up late with Jim in sticky heat into the weekend. Beers sweating in our hands before we head to bed, my fingertips on his bare shoulders and his on mine. His bare feet on the hardwood floors all throughout this ugly little place, the first home we've ever had together. I don't want our sunny Friday to be like this.
But this creepy sensation burns on my lips where Roy's were yesterday afternoon. The way his clumsy hand, not delicate and confident and strong like Jim's, landed on my neck and pulled me toward him. It felt like a very different version of us from a long time ago. I imagine he'd probably kissed me somewhat the same way in high school, near lockers with my textbooks between us. But when he kissed me after a brief conversation (awkward as anything, everything) and stumbled into a kiss... I hadn't even hesitated. I was pushing him away before he'd even reached my lips and the only reason he landed that rushed kind of kiss was because he's bigger and stronger than me.
One of my classmates had just watched warily as I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, glaring at him with wide eyes. I couldn't have been further from accepting, everyone around me had to know that. And my first thought, the headline of it all, was getting home to Jim. Grabbing his hand and keeping it in mine all night, because I never forget that Jim wants me to have whatever I want in my life and Roy just didn't.
I had shouted something at him, something that I don't remember outside of the moment now, but it was so embarrassing. I'm not close enough with anyone at school for them to know the situation between Roy, Jim and I, and sure didn't feel like explaining it (though, I ended up having to, since there was a small crowd during this). Roy went from being angry and confrontational, ending up in near begging stance before he was mumbling the same things he said to me when I packed up my stuff over a year ago and moved away. General crushing things that still burn when I remember then, even if I'm miles and miles away from it all now.
I blink and like that there aren't tears there, that he can't crack my resolve anymore, but Jim looks broken in two. Just the way he looked when I told him about everything that had happened yesterday.
"I don't know why he knows where I am," I say helplessly, a little afraid of how raw his expression is. "I'm assuming his mom ran into mine or something and asked. I have no clue."
Jim runs his hand through his hair and then drags both hands across his face, before they end up in his pockets.
"I just --" He keeps starting out like this, then looking completely devastated. It's too much to bear. "He kissed you!"
I want him to stop saying those words to me. Roy and I, as much as I wished the opposite, didn't leave things on great terms. I walked out of the front door and into Jim's car with all of my things in boxes and bags. It was the most horrible and awkward experience of my life. The whole time, Roy was hovering around the house assuming I'd be back and that I didn't want to go to school years ago, why would I want to now? When people were younger than me? Like Jim would want to pay all the bills and live off of my living expenses checks? I'd alternated between biting back tears and watching them sink into dusty pairs of jeans from the top of my closet. I'd had to pack everything away with him right there (I knew Jim coming into the house for any reason would be a bad idea).
And I wish that the guy I spent so many years with... I wish we would've had a better ending. I don’t want to have to come close to hating anyone in m life. I don't regret leaving him, though, and the thought of him coming near me (touching me) has repulsed me from the day I left our house. Jim was silent for the entire ride back to his place and most of the night, and it was the most comforting way to deal with it all, I think.
His silence now kills me, and the words that break it hurt.
"Just promise me you're happy," Jim pleads, because I haven't answered while I've been wading through old memories. His hands are palms-up at his knees, desperate-looking. His shoulders are sagging, looking so defeated, one foot slightly in front of the other. "Just, Pam, please do that."
"Jim --" I take another step forward to him, but he moves back an inch to the wall like we're playing chess. I hate it, again.
"No, Pam, just say that." He looks around and licks his lips; I know he has more to say, so I nod. "I want you to have everything, and I want you to be here and to do what you want. I..."
He drops his head. I only see his lips move from my angle a few feet away.
"I just want you to be happy," he murmurs, second-guessing himself. The way he says it makes my heart slide down my chest, maybe against my ribs like it's tripping down a flight of stairs (it breaks). "I don't want him here, I don't want him kissing you --"
My skin's on fire when I step up closer to him and I catch his elbow in my hand, despite him flinching slightly.
"I'm happy here with you," I say, letting my confidence in him translate, hopefully. "I don't want him here, either, and I don't know why he is or if he's still here."
That seems like a bad question to put out there, and I get that too late. He looks up, pained and squishes his eyebrows a bit.
I press my palm against his shoulder and give him a shove into the wall, ending up pressed into him and looking up at his worn expression. "But I know that you know there's a difference between being kissed and kissing back, Jim." The words start to fade and my eyes trail away to his nose, his chin, his lips, before I stare straight into the skin above his collar. My voice is quiet but full. He knows. Even though I'd run away from him so many times before we were us, he knows why I kissed him back that day, such a long time ago now. Before all this New York sun lightened our hair and burned our cheeks, before we signed this lease or hauled this couch up three flights of stairs together.
"You know that."
I feel the rubber band in me relax, seeing his hand drift up and catch the side of my shirt in his fist like he can't help himself, like he needs me for balance. Just like I need him. Maybe I don't tell him enough, and maybe we're both a little more insecure than I thought. I feel him pull the fabric tight, never lifting his head.
"I want to be here with you for now," I say slowly, choosing words very carefully. I blink and tilt my head, looking up at him with the assurance that he and this city have gifted me. "And I want to be with you for a long, long time."
I follow his head up, locking eyes with him. He has this question on his face, promise? etched in him like a child. I nod wordlessly, reaching up to hold his face in my hand like I wanted to. Just sick of talking about Roy. I don't know if Roy had been thinking about me for the year and some that we've been apart or if he just came up here on a whim, but I don't care. I hope he doesn't come back, sure, but Jim is right here and it's perfectly enough now. I have that.
My fingers push into his hair. I've been cooling down with my bare feet on the old wood floor and the cool air on my cheeks. He gently takes a hold of my forearm and holds his lips against it. I sigh when he speaks.
"I love you," he says so quietly, in this beautiful and striking way he knows how to, and I remember every hard part of this. End up thankful for it all, again.
"I love you," I repeat, letting him catch my other hand and kiss its palm.
When he looks at me again, it goes from there. Thoughts of Roy end up on the floor with Jim's wallet. The thud of it hitting the ground makes me shiver and reach my tired arms out to him (possibly could've just whimpered, too). His hands end up smooth at the place where there's skin between my shirt and my waist, sliding up as his lips come down onto mine.
Jim's tongue does something that I have to keep up with, something that requires concentration almost, so he picks me up before I know what's happening. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter as his hands grip my waist and all my limbs wrap around him. This doesn't happen often, this crazy passion kind of thing. Nearly every time he does this, I giggle because it's so out of context. His serious and sexy, let me literally sweep you off your feet sexy. This seems like it may actually be the very perfect context, so giggling is nothing I'm thinking about.
I rest my elbows against Jim's chest and keep my hands in his hair, massaging his scalp as I kiss him. His hands hold me up and turn us around, stumbling a bit into the wall. We both moan when my back hits it and makes a noise. The sound that comes unchecked out of our throats brings both of our heavy breathing to my attention.
Jim makes me feel so sexy and weightless when he acts like this, like I'm some goddess he has to kiss to stay worthy. He detaches his lips from mine with a warm, wet and soft sound and trails them down my neck. I close my eyes, briefly wonder what time of day it is when he nudges at my collar. Murmurs, "Off."
I reach down between us, so he has to stop and watch. I can't make eye contact when I get naked in front of him, I know my whole body would go pink. When I stretch and unclasp my bra from behind, though, I don't think he's looking at my eyes anyway. Instead, Jim bows his head and touches his tongue to my nipple and my head falls back and hits the wall.
He kisses all around it, teasing it, and I plunge my hand into his hair to urge him on and try to keep up with him. My head lolls back until the very top of it is touching the wall and I'm facing the ceiling, hips pressed against his and rubbing sloppily. He switches between breasts and I start moving my hips faster. I can't imagine what I look like right now, topless with bad shorts on, up against the wall, bathed in the light of the watercolor sunset outside.
He grunts, frustrated, one short moan from him when he picks me up and hoists me higher against him and carries me to our bedroom. His lips stay at the base of my neck, tracing my collarbone before he lays me down on the bed and stands back.
I look up at Jim through heavy-lidded eyes, lazily sliding off my shorts and panties and kicking them away. He moves to grab the hem of his shirt, but looks transfixed instead, watching me stretch my arms high above my head towards the wall.
As he tugs on his shirt and throws it aside, he's making his way over to the old double set of windows with the crappy view of the street. I crease my brow and watch him shove them open, and every sound of the city is suddenly here with us. I smile, somewhat foggy and heatedly, when he pulls his jeans and boxers off, too, and walks over to me. He stretches out next to me and lays one hand over my breast, cradling it and rubbing his thumb over my nipple as his lips are on mine again.
Sometimes, we forget all about the air conditioning and sit around with the windows open instead. The soundtrack of the streets below us remind us of how we got here, how this place was our Mecca of sorts. Taking a chance and chasing dreams and a million other clichés bloomed right here on a whim, and we haven't looked back since, and even the obnoxious sounds below are beautiful. When his lips trail down my neck and he's kissing up and closer to my ear, I let my head fall a bit and rest my cheek against his hair. My eyes close and I trail my toes up and down his thigh, wrap my leg around his torso and sigh.
One of Jim's hands comes down hard on the mattress, his other side strong when he tips me and hovers above me. I see where he's going, but I want to skip all of this for tonight. I just want him, so much more of him, right now.
Before he gets the chance to get far down, I grab his sides and pull him up and closer to me, moaning into his mouth when I feel him pressing against my thigh.
"Come on," I sigh, my hand at its usual perch on his bicep. I resist the words hurry and fuck me, things I only get the rush to say when I'm pretty buzzed, but they're practically vibrating on my lips. He kisses me and understands, I think.
Jim slides into me and holds my thighs up and away, bringing my hips up into the air. We both groan, letting our voices carry out into the humidity looming outside the window. When Jim gets a certain angle along with this rhythm, I become one long, endless string of nonsense, loose and inarticulate. It makes him move faster, earnest and determined with a breathless look on his face.
He slows so he can bend and kiss me, his torso heavy and smooth resting between my legs. I'm so sensitive that the slightest movements of his body from just his kissing are affecting me. When he pulls back and pushes in slowly, one long stride, a car horn sounds just as his hip bones meet mine.
Jim looks up with a hazy grin on his face and I let out a loose laugh, tightening my hand on the hand he lays on my thigh. We both revel in that irony before he roughly tips my body up and moves into me again. It steals my breath, and he does it again. I start to let out one more constant moan and follow the feeling upward and reach. I close my eyes away to the image of him above me, with his gaze fixed on where we're joined.
I smile half an hour later, when he detangles his long limbs from me and scoots off of the bed in search of a snack. He trips over a bag at the door while I start to throw some clothes on. It makes him aware of his own nudity (which I'm still trying to convince him is pure art, by the way) and he picks up the nearest of his clothes on the floor.
He's slipping a white t-shirt over his head and pulling on jeans, looking very Weekend Jim, when he nods at the boutique bag on the floor.
"You haven't given your sister that yet? Wasn't her birthday like, a week ago?" He scratches his head roughly, and cocks his head to look at me.
I toe the bag to sit up right as we walk past it and make our way into the kitchen. I scratch his lower back when he's in front of the fridge, standing with one foot on top of the other. "No, I did, I just bought some stuff for me in there, too."
"Ah okay," he says, breezy with his carton of orange juice in his hand. He holds it up in question. I shrug, and reach to grab two glasses out of the cupboard. "What did you get?"
"Just some lotion," I say, setting the glasses down on the counter and peering around the kitchen for something edible. It's mostly Chinese leftovers, which sounds the opposite of appetizing after the workout we just had.
He smiles around the rim of his glass. "What are you saving it for? It's been there for some time, you know. Big hazard for big feet."
I wrap my hands around my glass and grin up at Jim. "Lucky I don't have any of those." He scrunches his nose at me and takes a big sip. "Guess I'm just saving it for a special occasion," I tease.
I have my glass tipped way back, more thirsty than I realize I was when he sets his down, looking thoughtful. "Hmm. You should go put it on."
"Why?" I ask, after I smack my lips a little. Pulp is disgusting. Jim is disgusting for getting the kind with pulp. "Why do you buy the juice with all of this at the bottom? It's so... ugh."
"Go put the lotion on," he says, tucking the carton back in the fridge and shrugging, avoiding my eyes. "What's it smell like?"
"Apples?" I lift my shoulders and take another drink. "Why is my glass all pulp?"
"I think you should go put it on," he says. Picking up one of my hands, he pretends to examine my arm before I pull it away, grinning and rolling my eyes. "You're looking a little ashy."
I hand him the glass and head back to our room, bending forward to pick it up off the floor. The bottle slid out of the bag and is lying face-up, right in the stream of a streetlamp's glow.
"Only because I don't want you to break your neck on it," I call, flipping the cap open and putting small amount on my palm. It's instantly a fruity and pretty smell. All apples and summer. I remember why I paid something like sixteen dollars for it now, as it glides over my arm and legs. I decide to just go all out, rubbing it in on the skin of my neck and stomach, sneaking some to my chest, too. When I'm done I toss it onto the bed and meet him back in the living room.
Jim's sitting on the couch in the dark, save for the orange of all the streetlights pouring in. I settle in next to him, where he immediately takes a hold of me.
"Apples," he confirms, tugging on me gently until I'm sitting in his lap. He kisses me tenderly on my lips, still feeling sensitive and swollen after our time earlier. He rubs his knuckles along my side and inhales. "Really does smell good."
I smile and tuck my head against his shoulder, my forehead resting warmly against his chin. Together we look outside as I stay folded up in his lap, his hand running a rhythm back and forth.
"So what's the special occasion?" I ask, winking even though he can't see me. His hand stills and I bring my whole body up to kiss him again.
Jim holds onto me with his hands, soft on the skin of my back, before he rests one on my bare thigh below the hem of my shorts. "I wanted to remember this night. So... wear it sparingly from now on. Make it last a while."
I kiss his nose. "This night kind of sucked at first."
He nods, bending to kiss me again and letting his fingertips trip down my spine.
He takes a deep breath and pushes me away, setting me back further on his knees. I look up in confusion.
"I bought something in that first week, when everything was crazy," he says, looking into our laps. "When we signed the lease here."
"Apple-scented lotion?" I ask, my tongue between my teeth like it's the funniest damn thing anyone's ever said.
I fidget on his lap a little, amused but he just shakes his head. "No, it was a little more pricey than apple-scented lotion," he says slowly, tapping his hands on my legs, with this motion that he uses when he's delicately focused.
"Oh, no, this was like, sixteen dollars," I say with a nod.
He laughs, barely, and I'm not totally sure when he got so serious all of a sudden. "Pam."
I bow my head and try to look at him in the glow from outside. "What?"
He looks up at me for a long time, until I search the room with my eyes and break into a self-conscious grin. "What?" I repeat.
His eyes are still on mine, but he falters and looks at my lips instead when he shifts and reaches into his pocket. I watch him --
Oh. Oh. Oh my God.
He holds it up sheepishly, but sees my face, and his grin blooms and he looks like Jim again. His empty hand touches my knee gently, switches abruptly to my cheek.
Oh my God. I look down at it, the little blue box still shut tight. Open it.
"Jim."
He exhales slowly and his face is a little more concentrated again. He pulls it open and the orange light catches it just right, illuminates the facets of it, lets it gleam in his palm. I fist his shirt in both hands and look up at him.
"Stay with me," he breathes, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. I nod, I'm all his, and I nod because I want him to make me his for the rest of my life. I keep nodding, bobbing my head aimlessly, alternating between looking at him and the ring. "Stay with me for a long, long time."
I want all of these wonderful things to keep happening to us. I want us to be wherever: Scranton, New York, anywhere. He asks me to stay with him for a long, long time.
And I do.
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