Robin York - Deeper

“You okay?” West asks.

I’ve never seen his face so relaxed. I kiss the corner of his mouth, and it tips up into a lopsided smile.

“I’m good.”

His smile grows. “You’re not. You’re bad. Bad as the rest of us, Caroline Piasecki.”

I kiss his chin. That smart-ass smile. “I know. It’s more fun than I thought it would be.”

His laugh is as soft as his face. “I better clean this mess up.”

He drops his legs over the side of the bed, walks toward the bathroom, scooping up a pair of jeans along the way. I hear water running. “You want something to eat?” he calls. “I think I have chicken noodle soup. And I brought a loaf home.”

I look at the clock, surprised to see how late it is. Our fifty minutes is up, but there are no alarms going off this time. No walls going up.

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

I burrow down, pull the covers up to my chin, and give myself three minutes to indulge my stupid sappy heart, storing up memories for the lonely weeks ahead.

“I have something for you,” I tell him.

He’s sitting at the edge of the mattress, pulling on his socks. Preparing to go make me chicken noodle soup, which, I have to say, is the hotness. Even though all that’s involved is a can and some water. Hot.

“I don’t need anything.”

There’s tension in the way he shapes the words, and when he glances toward me, his eyes are cautious.

I don’t let it bother me. Maybe West doesn’t get a lot of presents. I sit up and press my breasts against his arm, kissing his neck. “Don’t be a grinch. Hang on, I’ll go get it.”

I walk out into the living room in just my Christmas panties, rummaging through my bag with my ass in the air, putting on a little show because I know he can see me, and I feel so good. So happy.

When I come back, I hand him the book I bought him, wrapped in reindeer paper with a glittery gold bow. He puts it in his lap, reluctant, or maybe waiting for me to give him the card in my hand, so I do that.

He opens the card first, ripping it along the side in a way that causes it to flex inside the envelope and then release, slightly creased, into his palm. The money flutters out. Two hundred dollars in twenties, falling in an untidy pile on top of the book.

“What is this?”

Three words, but the way he says them—I shiver.

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong, and I feel suddenly scared, small. Ashamed to be standing here nearly naked when West is clothed and closed off. When he sounds so angry.

I start looking around the room for my bra. “You were supposed to open the present first,” I tease. “Who starts with the card?”

“I do.”

I’ve managed to locate my bra and I’m putting it on, fastening the hooks, when West’s hand closes around my calf. “Caroline. What is this for?”

He asks the question very slowly and deliberately, leaning on every word. Fury etched into the lines of his face.

I can’t imagine what he thinks I’ve done. Charity? Pity?

“The loan.” And I tell myself not to say more, but I can’t stop talking with his eyes so angry. I babble. “Sorry it’s not more. That’s all I could save in the past six weeks, with Christmas coming. I hope you aren’t one of those people who think a book is a bad present, because I got books for everybody this year. I thought you might like it, though. It’s about the science of bread, and there’s a chapter in there—what?”

He’s softened. The relief in his eyes—in his whole body—is palpable.

“Jeez. West, what did you think it was?”

He doesn’t answer. I wait, and he unwraps the book, flips through the pages. I think if it were in Latin, or blank, he wouldn’t notice. He’s just pulling himself together, and I’m embarrassed to have to stand here and see it happen when he obviously wishes I were somewhere else.

“This is great,” he says, after a long, awkward minute. “Thanks.” A pause. “You don’t have to pay me back.”

“Of course I do.”

He looks up at last. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

I’m not sure how to answer that. I’m so bewildered, but he sets the book down on the bed and puts his hands at my hips. He pulls me in between his legs and rests his face against my stomach.

“Really,” he says. “Just don’t.”

His hands slide over my butt. I’m worried about what happened, but West’s hands are soothing. An effective distraction. As I’m sure he knows.

“I didn’t get you anything,” he murmurs.

“That’s okay.”

“Did I tell you how much I like these panties?”

“These? Why?”

“They’re on you.”

I exhale a laugh. I’m not sure what to do with my hands, so I rest them on top of his head. “I thought you were going to make me soup. That can be my Christmas present.”

He hooks a finger in the elastic of my panties, drags them down, follows his finger with his nose. Inhales.

“I got a better idea.”

I smack his shoulder. One of those smacks that turns into a caress. “West.”

Something happened. I’d like to press him, but the truth is that I’m afraid to, and he’s got his hands inside my underwear now. His palms are big and warm, his breath a tease that makes me think about his tongue and how I’ve never liked getting oral before but how, with West, everything’s different.

With West, I have a feeling, I’m going to like it.

“Come back to bed,” he orders.

So I do.

And oh my God. I like it.

Later on, the doorbell rings.

The gusts have died down outside, but the snow’s still falling. I’m on West’s couch, my laptop warming my thighs, my thoughts on Romantic poetry, Grecian vases, Mont Blanc. I’m gazing at the back of West’s head where he’s sitting on the floor by my hip, working out practice problems for his physics final. I’m trying to decide whether the sublime might actually be this moment. This glow in my body, my affection for his ears, the way my fingers want to rest on him when I’m thinking about the next paragraph I’m going to type.

The doorbell doesn’t make any sense at all. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go outside in this weather or what possible reason a person who isn’t West or me could have to be here.

He’s standing up, though, almost immediately, sliding his phone out of his pocket, checking his texts or his email.

Oh, right, he’s a dealer.

“You expecting someone?”

The bakery was busy last night, a lot of students wanting to ensure they had enough supplies to stay high through a month’s worth of encounters with their parents or parties with their old friends from high school.

“No.”

He goes to the door, opens it, and blocks my view of the fire escape. He’s up on the second floor, the apartment above a store that sells gifts and women’s clothes. The landing outside is small, and the couch has a better angle on the door than my nook at the bakery. I can see two figures beyond West.

I’m not sure why I get up. Because I don’t want to feel apart from him today, I guess. Because I’m getting less willing to turn my eyes away from things that make me uncomfortable and simply pretend they’re not happening.

This is going to sound strange, but it’s a little bit because of West’s penis, too. By which I mean: I was afraid to touch him there without clear guidelines. Afraid I wouldn’t be any good at it, or I’d mess it up. But look how well it turned out when I did, right?

I’m afraid of this part of who he is, more afraid than I was of touching him. This West who breaks rules, who could get arrested or sent to jail—I don’t even know why he does it. Just for the money? Because he wants to? Because he wants to prove he’s not afraid?