Gone was the softness. Oliver kissed me intently, on my mouth, my neck, lingering at my breasts, licking, sucking, kneading. I knew I would feel him everywhere for days after. His hands were deliberate as they touched my skin, resolute as he opened my jeans and slipped his fingers into my panties. He looked at me as he soaked his fingers in the wetness he had caused, his gaze drinking in my reaction—the way I exhaled, the flutter of my eyes, the way my mouth searched for his so I could feel his tongue penetrating me as his fingers did.
He helped me undo his jeans, and we kicked our pants off. He kissed my neck and collarbone, and I felt him hard, naked against me. My arms wrapped around his torso, pressing him further to me.
“I want to drown in you,” he half-whispered in my ear.
I didn’t think he meant it just physically. He was already holding me tight, as if I could escape from under his weight, as if I’d want to. I didn’t think he meant it physically, because when he drove himself into me and was already deep inside me, filling me, he repeated it. “I want to drown in you.”
I wanted him to. We completed each other. We both had craters in our hearts, but we each needed them mended in a different way. What he wanted to take, I wanted to give. He wanted to lose himself inside me; I wanted him to fill me.
We both had craters in our hearts.
I was wrapped around him—arms, legs, soul. He was wrapped in me. We breathed together between kisses. Oliver thrust inside me again and again, deeper and deeper. The carpet chafed against my skin where Oliver’s hands weren’t sheltering me from it. Our breaths became labored, the air between us filled with his groans and my moans. One of his arms was encircling my shoulders and cushioning my head, while his other gripped my hip as a lever to pound his rage and pain harder and deeper into me.
We weren’t fucking. We weren’t making love, either. We were complementing something in each other, in ourselves. And although Oliver made me come—I didn’t think he was even aware of it, nor of his own release inside me—it wasn’t about that, though we both peaked almost together. It was the first time I had an orgasm that wasn’t of my own doing. The physical release, as satisfying as it was, was secondary to the momentary shedding of all the bad, the hurt, the rage, the physical wounds, the soul-deep ones.
Momentary, because maybe there’s no way to let go of these forever. They’re settled within us, and only small moments in life, including moments like Oliver and I had just experienced, drive them away for a little while. A little while that helps you go on until you run out of battery again.
Neither one of us thought of the fact that he had just come inside me and that we hadn’t used anything. I only thought about it later, when his semen trickled out and tingled the edge of my thigh. I was on the pill, and I trusted him. There would be no repercussions, not physical ones, to what we had just done.
Oliver wrapped me in his arms, and we were silent for a while.
I rested my head in the nook between his shoulder and chin. When I caressed the side of his face, he broke the silence.
“Why did you do this? Don’t you have a boyfriend?” His voice was hoarse, the vibrations of it under my palm, my skin, where our bodies were aligned.
“We broke up weeks ago. Didn’t you hear the rumors? Turns out I put out.” I knew he’d understand; Oliver had suffered rumors about him for years.
“I hate these people. Want me to take care of him?”
I scoffed. “Nah. Not worth it.”
“Pity, I’d love to beat someone up.”
I huffed a scoff, though I didn’t know if he was serious or not.
“You should call the police,” I said, circling his black eye with the pad of my forefinger. “I can do it for you. I’ll talk to my mom.”
Oliver stiffened. “No. I don’t want to deal with the police, Social Services, or anything like that. If he does it again, I’ll hit him back. Right now, I just want to graduate and get the fuck out and away from here. So, not a word. Promise me, January.” He angled his head to face me, and I saw the plea and determination in his eyes.
I promised.
He grew quieter and calmer until he fell asleep, holding me. Knowing I managed to temporarily soothe him, I covered him with a blanket that I stripped off his bed. I placed a soft kiss on his wounded cheekbone, got dressed, and slinked quietly out of his room. I couldn’t clean the house that day. I tiptoed back to the kitchen, retrieved my backpack, and left through the back door to the bus stop. At home, I told my mom that I didn’t feel well that day and that I’d go there again the next day.
I did, after school. I had been on pins and needles all day. Oliver didn’t show up to school. I searched for him. When I got into the house through the back again, my heart hammered in my chest. I was scared of what I’d find. I was scared of his dad.
The house seemed deserted.
I snuck out of the kitchen and into the living room, intending to go upstairs to look for Oliver.
“Julie’s daughter. No need to clean this week.”
My heart ceased to beat for a second as Alfred Madden appeared from his office.
“Oh. My mom told me that—”
“No, no, there’s no need. You can go.” He waved his hand toward the kitchen, as if he were shooing away a stray cat.
“Um, I also brought Oliver his homework. I didn’t see him at school today. He might have been there, so I brought it just in case. Is he sick?” I had no idea I had such courage in me. It was only the concern for Oliver that drove me forward.
