Georgia: Britain’s Story, Part 1 (Spearhead Lake)
Prologue
Britain
18 years old
I step out onto the darkened front porch to check the weather, not sure if I’ll need a sweatshirt tonight or if I can get away with just my tank top and jean shorts. I swear, the worst part about living in this valley is the summer heat. It’s a dry, sweltering heat. But the best part is the nightly breeze that rolls off the foothills. The tall, golden grasses and eucalyptus trees surrounding our little ranch house sway in the breeze, creating a constant, gentle rustling. It sounds like a waterfall of whispers and soft-spoken promises, and when the breeze touches my bare shoulders, a gentle shudder passes through me, and warmth fills my insides. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. I decide then, no sweater needed. If I get chilled, I’ll ask him to keep me warm.
The screen door thwacks closed behind me as I turn to walk back into the house, flipping the porch light on behind me. As I enter, my mom shuffles down the hallway in her worn slippers and decades-old robe, no doubt to scoop up her nightly bowl of ice cream. My lips tilt up slightly, not in a smile, but at the predictability of her days that provide a certain kind of comfort. I follow her into our galley kitchen of oak cabinets and terracotta tiles.
“What flavor you having tonight?” I ask.
She opens the freezer door and ponders her choices for a few seconds. “Looks like it’s going to be…chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” we both say at the same time.
Closing the door, she smiles, holding her nightly treat in hand. My mother is predictable; every day the same. She wakes up before dawn to work her small garden at the back of our house that sits just ten minutes outside of town. She gets ready for work while drinking two cups of coffee and grabs a can of V8 for the road. She heads into town to her job at the MS Group and is back home at 5:15 on the dot. She immediately sheds her work clothes and makeup, replacing them with a pair of comfy linen shorts and a tank. Slipping on her worn-down Birkenstocks, she’ll head out into the backyard with a glass of white wine and a paperback.
Just thinking about it, I can hear the three ice cubes clinking against the stemless, plastic wine glass emblazoned permanently with her classic mauve lipstick along the rim. That Avon lipstick may as well be her calling card; she’s worn the same shade since I’ve been alive. She’ll putz around the garden, weeding or reading until the sun starts to set, then shuffle inside, trading her Birkenstocks for equally worn house slippers and head into the kitchen. She’ll warm a can of soup for dinner, eat while watching the evening news, then retreat to her room for the rest of the night. That is, until it’s time for ice cream.
Every day is predictable and constant. I find it equal parts comforting, depressing, and frustrating. I want nothing more than to not be like my mother. I send out a silent prayer — a wish — to whoever’s out there to please, please, not let me be like my mother. To not let me be lonely.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of feet being wiped against our sunflower doormat followed by a gentle knock on the frame of the screen door. Warmth and anticipation pool in my belly from the mere proximity of his presence. My cheeks heat, and I know without looking I’m as pink as a garden rose.
“Hello?” A deep, comforting voice sounds from the porch.
Oh my god, that voice. I could melt.
“Let me just get some shoes on!” I shout while I run out to the garage to grab a pair of flip flops then nearly skip to the front door. My mom watches me while never adjusting her blank expression, but there's something out of the corner of her eye that glistens. Is that right? Weird.
On my way to the door, I holler back over my shoulder, “Just going for a drive. Be back in a bit! Love you!”
“Bye! Be safe,” she calls after me, never once changing her blank expression, just that slight glisten to her eye.
“Hi,” I beam as I open the screen door and step on to the porch that’s now softly glowing from the dim lights mounted on the beige siding.
He smiles back at me and, without a word, slides his hand into mine. He pulls me down the front walkway and into his Camaro, gently closing the car door behind me once I’m seated. I buckle up and inhale. His scent is fucking intoxicating. Pine, aftershave, maybe a hint of tobacco. He opens the driver door and slides into the low car, pure fluid, grace, and man. He turns to give me a dimple-filled smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Fuck, I can already feel myself dampening as I clench my thighs together in anticipation.
“Where are we going?” I inquire.
“Just somewhere I want you to see,” he says quietly. He’s not normally so subdued. It’s kind of strange, but he smiles towards me while continuing to face the road, and that’s all I need to see to be satiated. I trust him, and honestly, he could take me to see the gas station three miles down the road and I’d still probably be awestruck. I feel like I’m falling in love. Maybe I already am?
My ex, Jeremy, was the first boy I ever told I loved him, and I never, never felt this way towards Jeremy. What I feel for this man, is altogether different. My stomach twists as that thought flows through me. I’m in love with him. I look out the window as we wind through the low golden hills lit by moonlight and smile as an old George Strait song flows gently through the car.
We drive through town only to turn and head straight back out of town on highway 68, the one that leads to Spearhead Lake. Fifteen minutes later we’re pulling off the side of the road onto a narrow gravel lane that leads into a small grove of trees. When the lane abruptly ends, we slowly ease to a stop.
I turn and give him a questioning look, but all I receive in answer is a slight smirk and a low, “Come on, let’s go.” He reaches behind his seat, pulling out a familiar plaid blanket. My cheeks turn bright pink as I dip my head, smiling, and I exit the car.
He comes around to my side, taking my hand so gently and looking down at me with such intensity I can hardly stand the feel of his gaze. My insides turn hot and I begin to fidget. This is what’s so special about him. Despite his size and his looks and who he is, he is always so gentle and affectionate with me. It’s a quality I never knew existed in men, quite honestly. I’ll never forget the way he makes me feel.
He leads me through the trees, heading the opposite direction of the road. There’s enough moonlight that I can make out a small foot path, freshly made. After several minutes we come to the top of a hill whose peak is part granite. The large boulder is lodged in such a way that it looks like an extension of the hill itself. A deep crack runs right through the middle, dividing it into two broken halves — one smooth and gently inclined to the peak, the other jagged with hard lines and sharp edges that might cut you just by running your hand across it.
The boulder is a bit like us; two sides of the same stone, but different, so different. Where I’m fair and light, he’s tan with hair as black as night. I’ve always been a shy outsider, and he always lights up any room. I’m a “have not” from a single mother with a brother who lives 3,000 miles away. He’s a “have” with three brothers and a huge extended family, like something out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
But the hill, the huge chunk of granite, aren’t the good parts. The good part of this spot is the view. Looking down onto the valley floor, you can see all the littered lights of town and beyond that, all the way out to the coastal range. At the back of the hill, in the distance, stand the Sierra Nevada mountains, large and domineering in all their glory.
I take it all in: the whispering grasses, the trees with their soft spoken promises, the moonlight cascading across the cool gray granite peak, and I breathe deeply.
“This spot is amazing,” I say after we stand there for several moments completely silent.
“I knew you’d like it,” he says with a side smile before he turns, laying out the blanket over the tall grass closest to the split peak. He lowers himself down and pats the space beside him, beckoning me. I happily comply, taking my place next to him. I sit, bracing myself on my arms, knees half bent and my face turned up to the sky. I just sit and gaze up at the stars for some interminable amount of time until I feel the gentle stroke of his thumb up and down my arm, over and over sending with it a shiver of desire. I turn to him and it feels like there are tangible sparks between us. It's been like this since our first date two months ago, but somehow I feel like I’ve known him forever. I hope I’ll know him forever.
“Someday, I’d like to develop this land,” he says. “Make it a place people call home.”
“Interesting,” I reply. “I guess I’m just greedy, because I was thinking this would be a great place to build a home. Singular.”
We both laugh, and then he sits up and gently kisses me. Putting his lips to mine, he tugs me in close, then runs his tongue over my lips in a silent plea to open. I allow him in and his kisses envelop me, warming me, filling me. This kiss — his kiss — is a languid and emotion-filled kiss. It’s not slow, but not urgent. Not hungry, but not satisfied. It’s nothing and everything, and my insides are on fire. I burn for this man.
In one motion, he places my back to the blanket and lays me out beneath him. My breath turns quick and heavy as he slips his hand underneath my tank top, his large palm gliding across my stomach and up to my breasts. He gently massages then pinches my nipple through my thin bralette as he continues the kiss that’s stealing my breath. I moan as he pulls my lip between his teeth and tugs ever so gently. He pulls away, slightly breathless, and breathes into my ear, “Babe, I need you. Right now.”
I nod my head and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He unbuttons my jean shorts and slides them down leaving my pink lace underwear in place. He pauses and stares at them for just a moment before bending over me and placing his mouth right over the sheer fabric covering my mound and sucks, depriving me of thoughts and eliciting a squeal of desire from me.
“God you’re soaking wet for me, aren’t you?”
I nod again, the ability to form words has left.
“I thought about you all day today,” he says, reaching down to put one hand behind my neck, firmly holding me while simultaneously stroking my jaw with his thumb. The look on his face is different tonight. I can’t figure out the emotion behind it, but his body is still encouraging, nudging me forward as he grinds his thick erection over me. I reach out and begin unbuckling his belt as he reaches in his back pocket for a condom. He releases me, pulling his jeans and briefs down, exposing his long, thick cock which has already begun to leak and throb. I can’t look away as I lick my lips in anticipation. He opens the foil and slowly rolls it down his length. Once he turns his eyes to me, though, I flip my eyes to his and lock in. I move to start pulling my panties down when his hand reaches out quickly and stops me, accompanied by a quick shake of his head.
“No, I need to be inside you now,” he says hoarsely as he releases my hand then shoves my panties to the side and lines himself up at my entrance. Before I can even inhale, he’s thrusting into me and bottoming out. I’m so wet for him, there’s only smooth friction, and the feeling of complete fullness and heat.
God, he feels so fucking good as he pulls out slowly and thrusts briskly back into me.
“You feel so good babe, so tight,” he pauses briefly. “You were made for my dick.”
If I thought I was hot before, his words set my blood boiling and with each thrust rubbing against all my sensitive spots, I can feel my muscles starting to tense. Every bit of my body seems to pull and want to contract to where he’s sliding in and out of me at an aggressive pace. I’m so close.
“I’m going to c-com-,” I stutter, but he stops me before I can finish.
“Look at me,” he says with all the dominant authority that makes my insides quiver. When my eyes meet his, the dam breaks and my inner walls convulse and contract pulling him in, my back arching, my moan guttural, but my eyes remain locked on his. He thrusts one more time slamming into me and lets out a deep moan. Shuddering above me, he thrusts his spurts into me as my aftershocks continue milking him. Eyes still locked, my emotions are blooming and multiplying at an egregious rate for this man, and I can’t keep it to myself any longer.
I start, “I….I think I l-love…”
“Stop,” he says in an alarmingly brash tone.
One word, four letters — that's all it takes for the switch to flip and my post sex body goes utterly rigid as the anxiety starts ramping up in my veins, spreading to every extremity until I’m on the verge of trembling. But not from lust or ecstasy. This is fear, pure fear.
“I can’t do this,” he says in a firm voice. “I can’t do this with you. I’m sorry.”
He then slowly pulls out of me and begins pulling up his briefs and refastening the button on his jeans.
With you…can’t do this with you. On the outside, I appear completely unmoving, but on the inside, it feels like someone threw a grenade in my chest, and it just detonated, depriving me of oxygen. My insides are scorched yet simultaneously ice has crept in, freezing and crippling my limbs. My stomach rolls, and I think I might be sick. What. The. Hell.
It may have been 30 seconds or ten minutes, but he finally reaches out and gingerly hands me my shorts like I’m a delicate flower that might wilt under too much pressure. He has no idea I’m a glass sculpture that just had a chisel hammered into my core, cracking me, breaking me.
I can’t look at him. I would rather die than look at him right now. I sit up and slide my shorts on. I start trying to work the top button closed, but I can’t. My hands are clammy and my fingers are trembling and numb. He moves closer to me and asks low and quiet, “Do you want some help?”
His hands are already reaching for the gap in my shorts when I violently lurch backwards, away from him. “DO NOT. EVER. TOUCH. ME. AGAIN,” I say with barely contained rage. Fuck the button on my shorts, they’re not going anywhere, and I turn and start making my way to the foot path through the trees. Without my former guide, I turn my face to the ground and focus on not losing my footing. The last thing I need is to trip, fall, and look like a fool…again.
That’s what I am, a fool. I don’t know what made me think this was real. Someone like him, with someone like me. Was this a dare? A sick joke one of his stupid friends put him up to? I can hear that prick Jake now:“You should totally fuck with the receptionist’s daughter, haha. What an idiot!” He probably did it at that stupid company picnic my mom forced us both to go to. Where I met him. What a mistake.
I’m angry. Understatement of the century. I’m actually really fucking pissed, and at no one more than my own self. My GPA may be a 4.2, but my relationship intelligence on a scale of 1 to 10 is a -946. How did I not see this coming? He probably saw me as some stupid little girl that would keep his dick warm for a couple weeks and nothing more. He can see it, I’m sure everyone else could see it. But not me because I’m an idiot and a fool.
I’ve stopped in front of his car by the passenger door, head down as he makes his way to the gravel lane. “I just need my phone out of your car,” I say, trying my best to keep my tone firm and void of any emotion.
“I’m going to drive you home.”
“NO!” I practically bark, “I just need my phone.” My voice shakes and is moments from cracking, but my pride is holding me upright, and I just need to last a few more minutes.
“Please, I’m not going to leave you here. I can’t leave you here. Get in the car and I’ll drive you home.”
“Why can’t you just leave me here? You care now?”
I’m breathless when I finish my last question. I’ve never had a panic attack, but I feel like I’m really close to losing my panic attack cherry.
“Get. In. The. Car.” His raised voice is hoarse and angry. I’ve never heard him like this before. “I’m driving you home. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Please.” He says “please” as if he’s begging for his damn life. Yeah, don’t let me make it hard for you. Fuckface.
The wind picks up, blowing my hair across my face, blurring my vision. As the breeze dies down, my hair continues to stick to my face, and as I reach up to push it back, I realize it’s stuck to the tears streaming down my cheeks.
“I can’t go home right now,” I say. Not like this. “Drop me off at Aubrey’s.”
He hesitates for a brief moment, then unlocks the car and I pull myself down and into the seat. I let out a choked sob against my own will, quickly slamming my hand over my mouth in hopes he didn’t notice. I just need 20 minutes, 20 fucking minutes, and then I can break down.
He slides into the seat opposite and starts the car, the engine roaring to life as he tosses the blanket behind his front seat. I shudder. I think I might physically be ill. I can’t believe he just fucked me and then tossed me aside like a piece of trash. He was still inside me when he fucking broke me. What the fuck?!
We pull out onto the highway and I throw my attention out the passenger side window, turning my head to give him as little visual of my face as possible. I know tears are falling down my face. I wish they weren’t, but I’m a crier. It’s what I do, just like my mom. My entire inside lurches with a cringe. Just like my mom.
I hate him, but I hate myself more. Just like my mom repeats over and over in my mind, and I feel the self loathing burn the back of my throat all the way down into my stomach like acid. My mind jumps ahead, thinking of all the ways I could lash out, make him hurt, too. But I stumble over my own thoughts. I don’t think you can hurt someone who doesn’t give a fuck about you. And someone who cares about you doesn’t shatter you while they’re still inside you.
Blink, blink the tears away, I tell myself, as the landscape starts to brighten and turn, as we leave the hills and approach town bringing with it stoplights and lit-up business signs. He makes the turn on to Aubrey’s street and I finally allow myself to glance over to his side of the car. He’s white knuckling the steering wheel, and for a second I’m concerned he might rip it off. Bet he can’t wait to get me the fuck out of his car.
We slow to a stop in front of Aubrey’s house. Well, her parents' house, a well-kept 1950s rambler with a perfectly manicured lawn. And next to it, another rambler, with a perfectly manicured lawn. And so on and so forth till the end of the block. I snap to and realize, I’m just staring out at the street, but have yet to make the move to rid myself from his vehicle. My subconscious knows what I can’t bring my waking mind to understand, this is the last time I’ll ever be in this car. The last time I’ll ever see his face. Against my own volition, my head turns to face his and the moment our eyes meet, I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. The pain is too much. His stupid, perfect face stares back at me with a hard expression and gritted teeth.
I can’t imagine how awkward this must be for him — breaking up with someone face to face while you’re still inside them. I bet he normally just sends a text message. Something like “We’re over, lose my number.” Asshole.
I’m still staring at him, though, half hoping he’ll say something. That he’ll take it back. He didn’t mean it, right? He’s madly in love with me. But the seconds push on, and he says nothing. Noted. My pride won’t allow me to remain here a moment longer, so I turn and push to open the door.
“I’ll see you around, yeah?” he says in his low, deep tone, as I’m half outside his car. I turn around without a second thought, stealing one last look.
“Ha!” My part choke, part laugh, part sob escapes me. “You’ll never see me again.”
I slam the car door shut and run straight through the perfect lawn to the front door. My pride is screaming at me, don’t you dare look back, don’t even think about it! So I don’t. I bend down, snapping up the key from underneath the doormat that I know is always there, unlock the door, and slip inside. I don’t make it one step before my gutted sobs slam my back against the large wood door, my knees give out, and I slide to the cold, tile floor. A moment passes before I hear his car roar as it accelerates, then fades away as he severs me from his life.