Chapter 6
six
. . .
Jordana
When I opened my front door, the fringed living-room lamp — a score from Hawthorne’s flea market — cast a soft glow over the couch and colorful throw pillows. Eden must be home already.
I knocked lightly on her open bedroom door.
Eden looked up from her book. She sat under a patchwork quilt, wearing heart-printed pajamas, her hair braided off her face. Pink twinkle lights lined her walls, making her room cozy and inviting.
“Where have you been?” she exclaimed. “I texted you. I thought you were coming to the Mug and Trencher.”
“I’m so sorry.” I glanced at my phone. Alongside Eden’s messages were a slew from my mother: texts, voicemails. I stuffed the phone in my purse. “I was with Gavin. The new lighting designer…”
Eden gaped at me. “Him? That grumpy old guy? Sit down! Tell me everything.”
In the car, Gavin had asked me to keep the project quiet. But I was dying to tell Eden just one thing, because this night had been so different.
I sat on her bed, smoothing the blue and white quilt. Eden’s grandma had sewn it, with a label that said Eden was “wrapped in love.” I adored her stories about growing up as the cherished baby of the close-knit Reinhardt clan. They proved happy families could exist.
“Believe it or not…” I grinned at Eden. “We talked.”
“For three hours? You just talked?”
Gavin’s dirty words echoed through me, and I squeezed my thighs together under my cheetah coat.
“You’re blushing…”
“Oh my God. I don’t blush.”
“You are!” Her braid swung forward as she grabbed my knee. “What happened? What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know! All kinds of things. He stayed behind in the theater and created this whole gorgeous light setup for me, just because.”
“That is so freaking romantic.” Eden shook my knee. “Jorie. He likes you.”
“And he… Well, I thought we’d at least kiss. But he got all stern and said he’d never touch me.”
“What?” Eden shoved back the quilt indignantly. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He was trying to be a gentleman.”
“I don’t like him being stern.” She threw her pillow at me. “I like nice boys.”
I caught it and held it to my chest. “I know you do. Gavin is…more than nice. I swear he’s some kind of angel, looking out for me. He just needs someone to look out for him too.”
“I’ve never heard you talk like this. You’re getting converted. You’re going to believe in love.”
“He also told me what he’d do if he ever touched me.”
“Yes! What did he say?”
I buried my face in the pillow, giggling.
“What is going on with you?” Eden squeezed my shoulders. “You’re blushing, giggling… Who are you, Jorie Green? What happened to you?”
I lifted my head, struggling for breath. “He said…he’d make me come until I cry.”
“Oh.” She looked shocked. “What — what does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. But I want to find out.”
“This is a good thing? This is a good guy?” She still held my shoulders, staring at me with wide brown eyes. “You need a good guy, Jorie.”
I picked at a leaf design sewn into the quilt. “He’s good. Even if he doesn’t agree. And anyway, we’re just talking.”
And shooting photographs. And eventually, tying me up.
“Until you cry,” she murmured, as if she couldn’t get that phrase out of her head. “He wants to make you come. Until you cry. Seriously, what does that mean? Who would want that?”
“You’re thinking about this too hard.” I touched her furrowed forehead.
“I’m curious, that’s all.”
“I know.”
Eden had always been fascinated by my escapades. She heard about everything and everyone, except Corey. But she also cared about my well-being. She wanted me to call, to check in with her. Wanted to know I was safe. No one had ever asked that of me before. With Eden, I felt a little less alone.
“Confession time.” She scooped up her second pillow and cradled it to her chest, mirroring me. “I kind of wanted to kiss someone too, tonight. But I was a lady and didn’t.”
“Who?”
“Corey!”
I froze.
Eden blinked. “Don’t look so worried. I don’t do second-chance romances.
You know that. We had our relationship last year and that was it.
But he was so sweet at the Mug and Trencher tonight.
He put his arm around me.” She scooted close to demonstrate, slinging her arm around my shoulders.
“And he said…” Her voice dropped to imitate Corey’s with surprising accuracy.
Eden was good at impressions. “‘I know you’re missing your roommate. You two are practically sisters in real life, not just in the show. I’ll keep her seat warm until she gets here.
’ He stayed by my side the whole time. Then he gave me a ride home, and we sat in his car and talked.
When he gave me a hug…I felt things. Remind me why I broke up with him again? ”
I squeezed my pillow, trying to measure my words. Hoping to protect Eden without laying my own shame bare.
“You didn’t want to be tied down,” I said lightly. “You weren’t ready for anything serious. And you thought he wasn’t civilized enough. Too rough around the edges.”
“Right. But he’s gotten better! He was so adorable tonight. Do you think people can change?”
“I don’t know, hon. I think we are who we are. Let’s get some sleep, okay?”
She giggled. “Usually I’m the one who says ‘bedtime’ around here.”
I hugged her goodnight, glancing at her photo wall as I climbed off the bed — a collage of our college lives.
There was a snapshot of our first night out freshman year, Eden looking sweet and innocent in a pale-pink sundress, me giving shameless hussy vibes with smudged eyeliner and disco shorts.
A Broadway marquee from a trip to New York together.
The curtain call for last spring’s production of Hamlet.
The dinner party we’d hosted for her twentieth birthday with all our friends — and Corey kissing Eden’s cheek as her birthday tiara caught the light. They’d been together then.
Could any of us change? Could I change? As I passed Eden’s full-length mirror on the way out, I caught a glimpse of myself — standing straighter, a smile in my eyes.
I flicked on the light in my room. Posters covered my walls so densely, they could’ve been wallpaper: theater posters, signed programs, favorite movies, and the performers I idolized.
My phone buzzed. Reluctantly, I checked it. Yet another text from my mother.
At some point, I’d have to deal with her messages. Might as well be now.
I hung up the cheetah coat, stroking the soft fake fur and allowing myself a brief daydream about Gavin.
Then, steeling myself, I dropped onto my bed to scroll through my mother’s texts, her voicemails and emails.
There were so many, more than usual, though I was used to my mom contacting me at odd hours when she craved reassurance or was angry over some way that I’d failed her.
Every message amounted to the same thing: Help me. Save me.
That had been my mom’s MO all these years.
My father rescued her from her small-town life in Ohio when he flew in on business, glimpsed her dazzling beauty at the restaurant where she was a hostess, and swept her off her feet.
Since then, she’d always expected to be taken care of.
In return, she’d done everything to keep the peace with my dad.
She’d bowed to his wishes, taken his side, and gone silent when I needed her.
But I couldn’t blame her. I’d done that, too. I’d always forgiven him, just like her.
We’d talked for a long time this morning when he broke the news. Nothing I said helped. When I suggested this could be a new chapter for her, she’d accused me of having my head in the theater, like this was all a play.
Her most recent messages had to do with money.
Jorie, I’ll never have enough to live on now that your father is leaving me. What did I do wrong? I gave that man everything he wanted!
Tell him you need money for school. Clothes, expenses, anything. Send it over to me. I’m desperate.
I kneaded my temples. Why couldn’t she get a therapist, or a real friend her age, or depend on herself? Why couldn’t she get a job?
Why couldn’t I tell her I felt scared and angry and abandoned by Dad too?
I texted back.
Mom, I’m really sorry. I know this is hard. I had a long day with tech rehearsal and I’m exhausted. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I love you.
My stomach knotted because I was letting her down. A message came back immediately.
Your father’s girl, as always. I’ve tried and I’ve sacrificed and this is what I get.
Feeling hollow, I turned off the phone, shut the lights, and curled up in bed. Normally, under stress, I’d seek a distraction. I’d fuck or drink the pain away.
But now, I had a different distraction.
I had Gavin.
And our project.
Peeling off my sweater and bra, my jeans and panties, I let my hands slide over my skin in the dark.
I pictured his amber eyes — guarded, then smoking with lust. His tattooed forearms, flexing as he tried to keep his hands off me. His tall grace, his husky voice piercing my defenses.
My worries dissolved. I was hot, wet, and more eager than I ever allowed myself to be.
As my fingers slipped into my core, I imagined myself innocent for Gavin. I imagined he was my first and no one before him mattered. He was kissing my breasts, his touch so patient, his fingers careful as they entered me, knowing just how much to give…
“Such a good little kitten,” he’d whisper.
My thighs closed hard around my hand, my heart pounding until I shattered.