Chapter Eight #3
Landon had seen her like this before, of course.
They’d come close to this moment what felt like hundreds of times, and she’d been wearing lingerie far more appealing than this basic set.
He’d traced her curves with his fingertips and slipped cold hands beneath the fabric of her bra.
But Landon had never seen what she looked like without any adornment, beyond any glimpses he’d stolen at the lake.
The old Rose had been embarrassed by her body in a somewhat rote way, the way women are taught to be embarrassed by their naked bodies.
The day she lost her virginity, the room was pitch-black.
This Rose—the version of her who bore her soul in front of a room of near strangers without fear—would not be embarrassed to be seen.
Rose was sure of it. She reached behind her back and unclipped the three hooks holding the taut fabric in place, then pulled the straps up and over her arms. “Take off my underwear,” she told him.
He leaned forward and kissed her stomach, just above her belly button, then the sensitive skin above her panties.
“That, I can do,” he said, slipping them down her legs, the cotton and his fingers skimming her thighs and lighting little fires in their wake. He stood above her, taking her in.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Landon lay down next to her on the bed and studied her with an artist’s intensity.
Rose knew one breast was bigger than the other, that her stomach wasn’t smooth and tight with muscle, and that her legs already bore the markers of stretching and retracting from weight gained and lost in between bouts of insecurity.
She knew that Landon could see those things, the room illuminated as it was by the moon’s bright light.
But if he saw them, it didn’t ruin the picture.
He placed his large hand on her stomach and said, “Rose. You’re perfect.
” He ran his hand down her side, in between her legs, to where she had been wet for him since they’d fallen into her dorm room.
“I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life.
” He moved his fingers maddeningly slowly and surprisingly deftly, as if he’d done this hundreds of times.
Rose would have to ask him about that later, when she wasn’t unraveling beneath him. “And you’re mine.”
The force of the words threatened to deprive Rose of the little control she had.
His.
She had felt it growing, too, the connection between them, the way the little pond down the road from her childhood home grew a thick spine of ice night after cold winter’s night.
She wasn’t sure if it was love yet, or if she wanted to risk what was building by being the first to say the loaded word, but she was sure she could return the sentiment he’d placed so earnestly in her lap. “I’m yours.”
The words stoked something in Landon that Rose knew she would never forget, a passion that simultaneously overwhelmed her senses and made her feel as safe as she ever had. When he finally pressed into her, she had repeated “I’m yours” enough that it lost and regained meaning.
Rose and Landon explored until they could no longer keep their eyes open. Landon was the first to call it. “I didn’t think it was possible around you, but I actually think that I physically cannot go again.”
“I’ll try my best not to be insulted.” Rose nuzzled into the large crook of his long arms. “Let the record show you were the first to tap out.”
“Officially,” Landon said, his breaths already slowing, limbs growing heavy on top of her.
From over his chest, she could just make out her phone on the nightstand. She reached around him, careful not to lean all her weight on his nearly sleeping form, and clicked the side button. The home screen fluttered on. Rose blinked, momentarily disoriented by the harsh light, then froze.
Mom
Mom
Mom
Mom
Mom
Mom
Mom
Seven missed calls from her mother. Her mother never called.
She’d send texts, mostly marking occasions days late or sending strings of gibberish so late at night Rose knew she was probably elbow-deep in a wine bottle.
And when she did call, she always left a voicemail: I sent a few toiletries you forgot in the mail.
You got a jury duty summons last week but I lost the letter.
I don’t have time to visit for parents’ weekend.
Seven missed calls and no voicemail. Rose’s body knew before her mind did.
It unleashed a cry so guttural she worried for a moment she was dying, a cry that scraped her already raw throat and shook her ribs.
Rose pulled her legs into her chest as tight as they could go, thinking maybe she could pull tight enough to disappear.
Then Landon’s arms were on her, strong and steady, ensuring that she wouldn’t. “Whoa, whoa!” she somehow heard over the roaring in her ears. “What’s wrong? Rose, what happened?”
She realized she was going to have to say it out loud.
And the moment she said it out loud, she would have to live in that new world the words ushered in.
The fabric would be ripped at the seams, her life forever divided into a before and an after.
She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t twist the garbled syllables into a coherent sentence.
“Was it something I did?” His face drained of color. “Oh God, did I hurt you? Rose?”
She tried again, but her mouth was wet with tears that had come on so fast they threatened to choke her.
“Rose?” he asked again, this time gently. He pulled back. “What happened?”
Before.
It came out in a whisper. “My dad is dead.”
After.