The Nix(93)

“Why not?” she says. And she looks at him, sees him and realizes she hasn’t done that—actually looked at him—in how long? All night? She’s been avoiding his eyes, embarrassed for him, hating him a little, and now she finds him grim and scowling.

“I want to…,” he says, but stops. He never finishes the sentence. Instead, he leans quickly into Faye and kisses her.

Kisses her hard.

Like he did that night at the playground, and it surprises her—the sudden taste of him, his warmth pressing into her, the oily smell of his hands now clutching her face. It’s shocking, his forcefulness, pushing his mouth to hers, driving his tongue past her lips. He’s kissing like it’s combat. She falls back into the sand and he pushes himself onto her, over her, still seizing her face, kissing wildly. He isn’t rough, exactly. But commanding. Her first impulse is to shrink away. He squeezes her, crushes his body into hers. Their front teeth knock together but he keeps going. She’s never felt Henry so strongly and savagely male. She can’t move under his weight, and now she feels other of her body’s demands—her skin is cold, her belly full of cola, she needs to burp. Needs to wiggle out and run.

And just at that moment he stops, draws back a few inches, and looks at her. Henry, she sees now, is in agony. His face is screwed up in knots. He’s staring at her with big pleading desperate eyes. He’s waiting for her to protest. Waiting for her to say No. And she’s about to, but she catches herself. And this will be the moment, later on in the night, after everything’s over, after Henry has driven her home, as she stays awake till dawn thinking about it, the thing that will confuse her most is this precise moment: when she had the chance to flee, but she did not.

She does not say No. She does not say anything at all. She simply meets Henry’s gaze. Maybe—though she’s not entirely sure of it—maybe she even nods: Yes.

And so Henry goes back at it, vigor renewed. Kissing her, tonguing her ear, biting her neck. He drives his hand down, between them, and she hears the undoings of various mechanisms—belt and buckle, zipper.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Henry.”

“Please. Close your eyes. Pretend you’re asleep.”

She looks at him again, his face inches away, eyes closed. He’s consumed by something, some unutterable need. “Please,” he says, and he takes her hand and guides it down. Faye pulls against him, weakly resisting until he says “Please” again and tugs harder and she lets her hand go limp, lets him do what he wants. He draws himself out of his slacks and guides her hand the rest of the way, between the folds of his pants, under his briefs. When she touches him, he leaps.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he says.

And she does. She feels him move against her, feels him slide across her fingers. It’s an abstract feeling, removed from the world of actual things. He’s pressing his face to her neck and pumping his hips and, she realizes, he’s crying, soft little whimpers, warm tears puddling where he’s bearing into her.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And Faye feels like she should be mortified but mostly she feels pity. She feels bad for Henry, his despair and his guilt, the crude needs wrecking him, the hopeless way he’s gone about it tonight. And so she pulls him closer and grips him tighter and suddenly, with a great shudder and a splash of warmth, it’s all over.

Henry collapses, groans, falls into her, and cries.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying.

His body is curled up against her, and in her hand, he’s quickly shrinking away. “I’m so sorry,” he says. She tells him it’s okay. Strokes his hair slowly, holds him as the sobs ripple through his body.

This cannot be what people mean when they talk about fate and romance and destiny. No, these things are ornaments, Faye decides, decorations hiding this one bleak fact: that Henry’s master tonight was not love but rather catharsis, plain old animal release.

He whimpers into her chest. Her hand is sticky and cold. True love, she thinks. And she almost laughs.





7


THERE ARE TWO CONDITIONS, Margaret says, for dinner at the Schwingles. First, pick up a package at the pharmacy. And second, tell no one.

“What’s in the package?” Faye says.

“Sweets,” Margaret says. “Chocolates and stuff. Bonbons. My dad doesn’t want me to have that kind of food. He says I need to watch my figure.”

“You don’t need to watch your figure.”

“That’s what I said! Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

“That is so unfair.”

“Thank you,” she says. She smoothes her skirt, a gesture that seems inherited from her mother. “So when you pick it up, can you pretend it’s yours?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“Thank you. I already paid for it. I placed the order in your name, so I wouldn’t get yelled at.”

“I understand,” Faye says.

“The dinner is going to be a surprise for my dad. So when you see him at the pharmacy, tell him you’re going on a date that night. With Henry. To throw him off the track.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Better yet, tell everyone you’re going on a date that night.”

“Everyone?”