Beautiful Little Fools(43)

“Don’t be silly,” I said, my own voice raspy in my throat. “You won’t ever get a good night’s sleep on the hard wood. You stay on that side. I’ll sleep on the other one.”

I took my nightgown from my bag, turned my back, and changed quickly. When I turned around, she was staring at me, but when she noticed that I noticed, she quickly averted her eyes. And then, I felt it, coursing through me: heat and bravery and stupidity. It burned too hot, out of control.

I got into the bed, slipped under the covers, and pulled the lamp. Only then did Mary Margaret get up and change. I watched the shadow of her, then closed my eyes until I felt her slip back into bed. We both lay there silently, breathing heavily. From the sounds of her breath, I was certain she was still awake.

I slowly moved my arm across the bed and reached for her hand. I’d done the same with Daisy a thousand times lying in her bed in Louisville. There was nothing wrong with holding her hand. But Mary Margaret pulled her hand away so quickly when I touched her, it was like she knew she was touching fire, and she didn’t want to get burned. “What are you afraid of, Ems?” I whispered into the darkness.

She didn’t say anything for a few moments, and tears stung hot in my eyes. I felt hurt by her pulling away from me, her silence. The hurt turned a little angry. The fire started to simmer into rage.

But then she spoke, just one tiny, enormous word: “Everything,” she said softly. And my fire turned from rage into something else, desire.

I rolled over on my side and stroked her arm. Her skin was soft, but her muscles were toned from golf. I ran my fingers slowly from her wrist to her shoulder and back.

And then she rolled on her side, too, and we were shoulder to shoulder, face to face. Her mouth was inches from mine. Her breath hit my lips. “I’m so afraid, Jordan. Afraid of people finding out what I feel,” she whispered. “And I’m afraid of leaving this room and never feeling the way I feel right now, ever again in my whole entire life.”

“Shh.” I put my forefinger to her lips. She stopped talking, and I traced her lips lightly with my finger. We had kissed only once before, that one night on the golf course. It was so long ago now that sometimes I wondered if it had really happened at all or if it had been a dream. And aside from that, there were nights when Mary Margaret had crawled into my bunk bed, and we’d held each other in the middle of the night. But the next morning, in the light of day, we pretended it had never happened at all. And really, nothing had happened. We were roommates, friends. Every touch between us could be explained away as chaste.

Then I’d gone to France and lain out on the beach with Daisy and had caught Tom with the nurse in the middle of the night. And all I could think that whole time, that whole entire time, was that I felt sorry for Daisy. She loved a man, and men were animals. And maybe I would be lucky to never love a man in my whole entire life. Maybe I was the lucky one, after all. Maybe Mary Margaret and I both were.

“Ems,” I whispered now. “I’m not afraid.” I moved my finger from her lips to her cheek, and then I leaned in just another inch and put my lips on her lips. It was different this time than it had been that other time, on the golf course. There was nothing quick or soft or remotely chaste about this kiss. I was fire and she was fire, too—my bravery made her brave. We kissed each other hungrily, greedily. My tongue explored her mouth and met hers.

“Wait,” she said, pulling back after a few minutes. Or a few hours. I’d lost track of time and place, and I was dizzy and breathless. She sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head, threw it on the floor. The only light was the light of the moon casting a glimmer in through the sheer-curtained window, but it was enough for me to see her body. I’d seen her before many times, of course, changing. But I’d tried not to stare then. This time, it was different. She wanted me to stare. She sat before me naked and beautiful and still. And I stared. Her breasts were larger than mine, perfect, round summer peaches, jutting out from her tiny rib cage, her narrow waist.

It was as if my eyes on her, my expression, made her newly brave. She sat up on her knees, crawled closer to me, and lifted my nightgown over my head slowly. I shivered a little as my bare skin felt the cool January air, but my blood ran hot; my cheeks flushed. She left her hand hovering in the air, just above my breasts. “Can I touch you?” she whispered. I nodded and reached up for her hand, pulling it to my chest. Her fingers were hot on my cool skin and I shivered again.

But bravery ran through my veins, hotter than blood, and I pulled her toward me, held her body against mine, and kissed her again.



* * *



THE NEXT MORNING I woke up to the sound of banging.

I opened my eyes, and sunlight streamed in through the window, too bright. My body felt hot and tired and hungover. I tried to move, and I realized Mary Margaret was lying half on top of me, naked, still asleep.

I closed my eyes again and remembered, like flashes of a silent film rolling through my mind: Mary Margaret’s fingers in between my legs, my mouth all over her body. I reached my hand up to my lips and they felt swollen now.

“Jordan and Mary Margaret.” Mrs. Pearce stormed in through the door, bellowing our names. That’s what the banging was. The door. There was a lock on it, and I’d turned it when we’d come in last night, but of course, Mrs. Pearce also had a key. “Do you know what time…” She suddenly caught sight of us, there in the bed, naked and entwined, and she stopped talking midsentence.