Chapter Thirteen
August was standing outside when I pulled into his driveway and parked behind his car. I reached back to grab my bag out of my back seat, and when I looked back, he was already opening my door for me.
I didn’t say anything as I got out, or on our way up the stairs.
When we made it to his room above the garage, he took his shoes off, leaving them by the door, and then turned, without question, and began to unzip my boots.
I lost a few inches of height as my feet landed flat on his soft carpet. My toes curled into it on instinct.
We sat on the couch to study. Opposite ends, facing one another. His feet hung off the edge, while mine were crossed one over the other over his knee. Touching, but not really.
Over the next hour August asked me questions about marine biology, and I answered them with ease. After every section I passed he said something like: “You’re so smart.” or “You’re doing a good job.” and every time the coil in my stomach got impossibly tighter.
After the last question, that earned me a “You’re amazing.” He closed his laptop, and leaned forward, his long fingers wrapping around my ankles as he set the computer on his coffee table. He grabbed my own laptop, placing it next to his.
We looked at each other for too long to not be considered intimate. My body sank comfortably into the sofa, my face rested against the back cushion as I leaned into it.
“Tell me what your favorite food would be if the calories didn’t matter,” he said finally, and I was so struck by the question that I couldn’t think of an answer to it right away.
He didn’t push me to answer, or repeat himself. He just waited. In the time it took me to respond, my brain transformed this image of us on the couch into an old married couple. I pushed it away instantly, and finally said “Fried Pickles from The Grill. With ranch.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Is that it?” he asked.
I bit my lip, holding back a smile. “And a cheerwine.”
He nodded, his smile growing wider. “Glass bottle?”
I shook my head. “Glass bottles are for purists. I’ll take a crisp can any day.” This earned me a full, thousand-watt smile, which sent the butterflies in my stomach into a whirlwind.
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“My dad’s cheesy penne pasta.” he answered without having to think about it.
“What’s special about it?”
He lifted his shoulders a bit. “It’s his.”
I did my best to give a convincing smile of understanding, though I had no idea what it was like to love anything that belonged to my father.
“Did you want to stay for dinner? My mom uses gluten-free pasta.”
I studied his face before saying, “It’s early.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you’d have to hang out with me for a few hours. I promise the pasta is worth the wait though.”
“Alright,” I agreed.
He stood, placing my feet gently on the couch behind him.
He grabbed the remote from the TV stand, and a throw blanket from its place neatly folded at the foot of his bed.
He held the blanket out for me to take. I did, sitting up so I could slide to the center of the couch and rest my feet on the coffee table.
When he sat beside me, as far into the corner of the couch as he could manage, I tossed one end of the blanket over him.
“Whats your favorite movie?” he asked, flicking the TV on.
“The book of life.” I said. He repeated the title into the speaker of the remote, and it popped up on the streaming service on his TV. He hit play, then adjusted himself against the arm of the couch.
My hands were under the blanket, and I was all too aware of the outline of his hand resting between us, his long fingers tapping against the couch cushion. I waited till he had completed his third tap to slide my hand over, my pinky hooking over his.
I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t take my eyes off the ad playing on the screen.
“Does the tapping bother you?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said firmly. He didn’t respond, but turned his hand a bit so that his little finger could loop around mine also.
“Are you comfortable?” I asked quietly as the movie started.
“Yeah, are you?”
“Yeah,” I echoed.
A few minutes went by before I heard August clear his throat, and I looked over at him.
“Did you have fun at church last night?” he asked softly. My body stiffened, and my expression must have changed because he added on, “You can tell me about it, if you want.”
“I fucking hate it there,” I said before I could stop myself. I had never said that out loud to anyone before, and it startled me that I’d said it here.
“Why?” he asked, and it didn’t sound like he was asking it because it was the natural question to ask. It sounded like he wanted to know the real answer, and that sent a painful pang through my chest.
“Everyone is so judgmental. I just don’t get how people could be so sure that they are right about something they have absolutely no way of knowing is true. Then feel so righteous in that belief that they are willing to make other people’s lives hell for it.”
“What else?” he asked, because somehow he knew there was more.
“I hate how they pick and choose what parts they want to shove down my throat, while the rest of it, the parts that don’t benefit them, get swept under the rug.”
After another beat I added, “And I hate when that old creep shoves bread in my mouth during communion.” August’s features twisted a bit at that.
“Your parents make you go?” he guessed.
“Yeah,” I said quietly.
“You hate that too?”
“Yes,” I agreed hesitantly.
“You can say it here, Lola. You can say whatever you want here.” His little finger squeezed mine under the blanket.
“I hate my dad for making me go.” Then, after a beat, “I hate him for everything.”
He gave me a sad smile, then asked, “Does Andy like it? Church, I mean.”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
“Does he actually, or did he just like going because you blow him after?” There was no malice or amusement in his voice when he asked.
“He really likes it. I suppose he likes both. I think I would too if I were a man,” I admitted.
“You didn’t have your cough drops this morning,” he noted.
I shifted a bit, before saying: “No.”
“Did you forget them, or did you not need them?” There was something desperate in his voice that I couldn’t pinpoint. It made me nervous how hard he was to read. Most people were easier to perform for.
I knew exactly what people wanted to hear from me in most cases, which I loved because it made managing their expectations easier. But with August, it felt like he only wanted the truth, and that wasn’t something I was well versed in giving.
“I didn’t need them,” I swallowed around the words as they left me.
“Why?” he asked, brows sliding inward.
“You know why,” I said around a smile, tilting my head to the side.
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “You could’ve not needed them because you didn’t blow him,” he shrugged, “or you could’ve not needed them because you didn’t let him beat the shit out of your throat, Lola.” His expression was too unbothered for his tone to be as cold as it was.
“The first,” I said quickly, growing agitated with his insistence that I be detailed in my answers.
“Did you have sex?” he asked, quieter now.
I sighed. “Yes, August. I had sex with my boyfriend. Does that bother you?”
“No,” he said easily. “Does it bother you that I don’t care?”
“Why would it?” I said, the irritation beginning to come out in my voice. I started to pull my finger away from his, but he only held mine tighter.
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to be jealous,” he said with another casual lift of his shoulders. His attention went back to the TV.
I shifted, turning my body toward his. “Why would I want you to be jealous, August?”
He glanced at me briefly, an annoyed look suddenly on his features.
“Don’t do that, Sin. There is no one to perform for here.
I have no interest in being friends with the version of you that only says what you think I want to hear.
You know I think about you. And I know you don’t think about me the same way, but we both knew you do still think about me.
I’m not going to judge you for liking the attention I enjoy giving you, so don’t pretend it isn’t happening, okay? ”
I bit my lip, trying to ignore that he had just said my earlier thoughts out loud.
“Okay,” I agreed. Then, after a beat, “So, you aren’t jealous?”
He shook his head. “Anyone could have you like that, and as long as you want them too, then that’s fine. But I want you like this, and I know no one else gets you like this.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Honest,” he said easily.
I shifted again, looking back at the TV. “How do you know I’m honest with you?”
“Because you have nothing to lose with me,” he said simply. I didn’t have time to think this over before he asked: “Did you fake it?”
It took me a second to realize what he was asking. “No,” I finally answered.
I could almost hear the smile in his voice as he asked: “How did that make you feel?”
“Irritated,” I said without really thinking about it.
“What else?” he pushed.
“Robbed,” I answered, surprising myself. “Like I didn’t get what I worked for, and it pissed me off that he didn’t care. He didn’t even offer to do it another way.” August’s ring finger had reached over, pulling mine under it.
“Did you tell him you were pissed?”
“No,” I said, and the word came out breathless.
“Tell me.”
I turned my head to look at his profile, “What do you mean?”
He met my eyes, “If it had been me, and I had let you down, what would you have said to me?” His fingers squeezed mine again briefly.
“I’d tell you that it makes me feel disposable.
Like I’m something you just use to make yourself feel good.
Like I could be anyone, doing anything, and it wouldn’t matter unless you felt good.
Unless you got off. Makes me feel like as long as I’m pretty, and I’m polite, and I laugh at your jokes, and show up to your games, and you get to parade me around in front of your friends then it doesn’t really matter what feels good for me. ”
I didn’t even feel the tears come up until my vision was already swimming and the bridge of my nose burned. I sank my teeth into my lower lip to stop it from trembling.
August untangled our hands, and slid his finger into the waistband of my skirt at my hip, and tugged, beckoning me to move closer to him. As I did, he adjusted the blanket so it was between us. I laid my head on the back of the couch, where his arm was now resting.
We were close enough to touch, but we weren’t. Not really.
“Tell me what you deserve,” he whispered, leaning in so his breath fanned the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
I rolled my head, resting my temple against his jaw, desperate for any sort of contact. I inhaled, taking in his cedar scent. If I had angled my head upward just slightly, our mouths would have been right next to each other’s.
His voice was strained as he said, “Don’t give me things I haven’t worked for, Lola.”
I sucked in a deep breath.
“Tell me what you deserve,” he begged.
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears that wanted to escape.
“Tell me you deserve to feel good,” he said softly against my cheek.
“I can’t,” I said, voice breaking around the words.
“Take a deep breath,” he said, and I felt his chest give beneath me as he breathed inward. I followed him, pulling in a breath through my nose. I held it in my chest until I felt his rise again, and I exhaled through my mouth as I heard him do the same.
“Good,” he said quietly. He brushed a stray hair away from my face, and I could feel him looking down at me, though I was too scared to open my eyes.
“You’ve spent your whole life being lied to, Lola. Being shoved into a cage, and told that it was for your own good. That it means you are cared for. But we shouldn’t cage things we love, should we?”
I shook my head. The whole time August spoke, I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, and I worked to match his breathing.
“You’ve been told you’re too pretty to be kind.
Too young to be smart, or worse too smart to be this young.
Your pastor tells you that you were born to be a sinner, and that you have to spend your life making up for it.
You’re told you’re a slut if you put out, but a prude if you don’t.
You’re a bitch when you’re right, but naive when you’re wrong.
And I don’t know who told you this one, but somehow you believe that not every inch of your body is perfect, when it is. ”
My hands found his shirt, and I was gripping the hem, silently begging him to either stop, or to keep going; I was lost somewhere in the middle.
“But it isn’t what you deserve, is it, Sin?” he said, and I felt his lips brushing against my cheekbone as he spoke.
“No,” I breathed out.
“So, tell me what you deserve,” he asked me one last time.
“More,” I said instantly.
I felt him smile against my hair. “That’s right. You deserve more than a bad fuck in the back of a nice guy’s truck, Lola. You deserve to come. You deserve to be the thing he worships.” His words were so soft, the profanity of it didn’t register.
His hand came up, spreading the length of my jaw, the ring on his thumb brushing against my cheekbone as he pulled back enough to look at me. I tilted my head back to meet his eyes.
“You deserve whatever it is you want, Lola. And no one else deserves to judge you for it,” he said, searching my eyes for any sign that I believed him.
I nodded gently in his grasp. “What do you want?” I asked, dropping my eyes to his mouth.
The corners of his lips tilted up just slightly.
“I want everything outside of this room to not matter. If we have to ignore each other in front of our friends just to make it easier, then that’s fine.
I don’t really care about anyone else’s opinion on this.
But I want this. I want to be the one who gets to see you like this when no one else does. I want you honest.”
“I want you honest, too,” I said, breathlessly.
My instincts told me to kiss him, but I remembered what he had said about earning it, and thought better of it.
August moved his hand back to the arm of the couch, and faced the TV.
I thought of Andy, and I tried to feel guilty, I really did. But when I searched for the feeling in my chest, it wasn’t there. I told myself I hadn’t said anything to August that I wouldn’t have said to Emily, if I had thought she’d let me.
And Lindsey and I had held hands plenty of times. August and I had barely touched two fingers together. The blanket was still bunched between us, under my legs, and on top of his. His arm lay just behind my head on the couch. We weren’t touching.
Not really.
I hadn’t done anything wrong.