27. MAGDALEN
27
MAGDALEN
‘Bye, my little bitch.’
Anika kisses me sloppily on the cheek and smacks my ass before skipping off to Dante. Even by just the posture of her back, I can tell she’s happiest when walking towards him. As if he’s pulling her forward, her feet settle in the footsteps he leaves behind. Thinking back on our friendship, I hope my awkwardness with intimacy didn’t stop them getting together. How beautiful it would be if she was my sister in more than one way. One day I’ll ask her.
Sighing, I place the cue back in the wall mount. I’m secretly happy to end the game early, as my lack of coordination was appalling. The bar is warm, and I take a moment to stretch my hands above my head, feeling the happy buzz of three beers trickle from my fingertips to the soles of my feet. I feel good. Almost carefree. Wanting a reason to smile, I do a little twirl when a hand catches me, finger poking me underneath my ribs, and I gasp. Spinning, Theo, arms crossed in front of him, frowns at me.
‘Okay, silly girl, it’s time to get you home.’
The beers speak before I can, the eager smile I’d pocketed bursting free, and I laugh openly at Theo poking me to get my attention.
‘You poked me!’ I say through my giggles.
‘Would you prefer I tickled you?’
‘No!’ I shriek, taking a few steps back until the upper part of my thighs hits the cool wood of the pool table. Something shifts in Theo’s gaze as he looks at me leaning against the table. His eyes lazily drift to my mouth, then slowly, deliberately, trail down to where my pink dress stops at my thighs.
‘I’ve been told I’m very good with my hands,’ he says roughly, walking towards me with the stealth of a predator. Slowly. ‘When it comes to tickling, of course.’ His hands are in his trouser pockets, an unfazed demeanour. But beneath the layer of fabric, I see his fingers dig into his legs. He’s holding back.
My breath catches in my throat. Fear and something else, something unfamiliar, makes me shudder at the deepness of his voice. My body feels warm and sensitive as I imagine what Theo’s hands on my skin would feel like. Again. How his palms would brush against my ribcage, strong fingers gripping my hips until I’m sitting on the table.
‘Mhm.’ I nod my head, looking up at him. ‘Whoever told you that was being generous.’
He’s so close to me that I can smell the clean cotton of his shirt. Can smell how the wind dried it on the clothesline. How his skin seems to hold the sunshine even in the dark lighting of the bar. I’m completely overwhelmed by him.
‘My sincerest apologies.’ His knee brushes against my own, and my cheeks flood with warmth.
‘Let me make it better, okay?’ he whispers, tilting his head so that his hair falls to the left. Without thinking, my fingers reach out and brush through the strands, checking my work from earlier. My nails rake against his scalp accidentally, each strand curling around my fingers as if coaxing me to stay in the warmth of his head, to bury myself in his thoughts. He briefly closes his eyes, letting out a small sigh, leaning his head into my touch.
‘Hair looks good,’ I say, swallowing before removing my hand and leaning both of them against the pool table behind me.
He opens his eyes. I stare back, lost in the silence between us. It’s difficult to feel self-conscious when I’m lost in his eyes, the colour of thunderstorms before a heavy rainfall.
He grunts in agreement, settling a hand at my waist, his focus falling on the soft spot underneath my ribs. Barely acknowledging that I’m here, he seems transfixed on this singular point on my stomach. In a swift move, his fingers glide across my waist, letting his thumb rhythmically smooth over the spot, back and forth, for what feels like an eternity. I don’t breathe. Afraid that if I move, I’ll break whatever’s happening between us. So I stay silent, holding my breath.
Since we entered the bar, Theo had been sitting on the far-end stool, seemingly transfixed by the epoxy counter for the entire night. I have no idea if he’s drunk. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it’s me that he’s caressing, I think happily. Maybe he thinks I’m someone else. Another girl with auburn hair and green eyes. This idea brings me relief. Like I could do anything without the risk of embarrassment. I close my eyes and memorize the press of his four fingertips underneath my beating heart, feeling thankful. His thumb presses harder into the almost hollow place above my stomach, pushing and kneading, massaging deliciously slow. I release a breath, or possibly an ‘oh’, or maybe I moan, warmth spreading slowly down from my navel to my toes.
‘Better?’ His voice is dangerously low, and when I look down I see that his feet are in between mine, our thighs nearly pressed against one another.
‘I think I owe whoever I insulted an apology,’ I say to the ceiling, because looking at him feels disgustingly close to staring at the sun.
He chuckles, and it really is a luxurious sound. Like the struffoli Nonna used to make on Christmas Eve. Warm and decadent. He raises his right hand, bringing it to the other side of my waist, but hovers halfway. He blinks. And I know before his hand does that he’s remembered it’s just me.
‘It’s okay,’ I say before he can fumble an awkward apology. ‘I get it.’
It’s easier to pretend I’m not the issue if I speak first. The ends of his mouth curve downwards like he wants to protest, but he stays silent, just looking at me. Trying to contain the tears that burn behind my eyes, I blink a few times and start to step away. No matter how much older I get, I think I will always feel as worthless as I did as a child. A sudden desire for Emily and rainy England, the smell of red wine and old books, consumes me. I want comfort and faded leather chairs. To never have to try new things again.
‘Magdalen,’ he says, a roughness to his voice, but I’m too embarrassed to hear any reasoning. It would be better to feel angry. I try to muster fire, to take another step away from his proximity. But his hands are suddenly on me again, stopping me from moving.
‘Shit,’ he says, looking at his own hands like they’re not attached to him. He looks at me, brows furrowed like he wants to say something, but instead, he just shakes his head and wraps his hands around my hips more tightly.
‘I get it,’ I mumble again, the only three words I can say without crying.
Fingers digging into my skin almost painfully, he pulls me so I’m flush against him. ‘No, you don’t,’ he whispers, pushing himself further on me, lips brushing the hollow of my neck so quickly I have no time to process. My body heats with his closeness, feeling scrambled and messy.
‘Well, now I certainly don’t,’ I whisper. His fingers move to my neck, tilting it back. He comes in closer, brushing his nose against my exposed throat. I hear him take a deep breath.
And then he releases me. Quickly and efficiently, like he didn’t just completely mind-fuck me on a billiard table.
He exhales through his mouth angrily. ‘Sorry, ehm, I’ll wait outside for you. Take your time.’
And then he’s gone.