Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“I’ll have you know I was very good at it,” she replies.
“Why don’t I believe that?” Cornelia asks as they disappear into the house together.
I stand in the shadow of Rosethorn, racked with indecision. Feelings churn inside me: longing, shame, anger at myself for not pressing her for the truth. What just happened rocked me to my bones, but Maren seems wholly unaffected by it.
Is she truly?
Are we not in this together?
Falling?
23
Maren
I’m sad I have to shower before dinner. Standing under the stream, I resent having to wash away Nicholas’ scent. I lather up my skin and linger, putting my hands in the same spots where his were, trying to feel what he felt. I grip my thigh like he did when we were careening down Ocean Drive. I slide my hand into my hair and twist it like he did, taking a fistful of it in a painful grip. Tugging. Wincing. It’s not the same though, and when I turn off the hot water and step out to wrap a towel around my shoulders, I catch my reflection in the mirror and smile.
Shame might be a common emotion in a situation like this, but I don’t feel it.
I feel heated and happy and devious.
It must be what Ariana felt all those years ago, doing something bad and getting away with it.
I know there’s no going back from what we just did in his car. There are so many possibilities open now. You can’t kiss the way we kissed then expect nothing to change, but I can’t seem to care. I’m too delirious, even now.
I choose a silky dress for dinner, something that glides over my skin like his hands did. I’m still worked up and on edge. He started something and I stopped him before he could finish, so I only have myself to blame. I know that, and still…
I take my bottom lip between my teeth and skate my hand between my thighs, rubbing the silk against my overly sensitive skin.
I want to continue like this—getting carried away in our bad choices—but I’m late for dinner and I can’t keep everyone waiting, so with a sigh, I drop my hand and tug open my door, wandering down the hall.
I know Nicholas already left; I heard his car pull away as I was dressing after my shower. There’s no hope of him slipping through my bedroom door and joining me tonight, no potential for him to greet me with a knowing smile in the morning. He had to get back to New York City, and I have to get back to my life too.
I play the piano for Cornelia after dinner, and I don’t stop until my fingers ache.
I use up all my energy there, expecting to walk upstairs later and find that I’m spent, but Nicholas creeps back into my mind as soon as I close my door. My dark room beckons dark thoughts. I wonder if he’s thinking of me too as I take my dress off and hang it neatly back in my closet. I’m left in a lacy bra and panties and normally I would change into a comfy nightgown, but tonight I slide between my sheets just like this and feel the cool fabric rub against my skin, the lace against my breasts.
If I knew Nicholas’ number, I’d call him just to hear his voice.
Maybe I’d ask him what he was doing. Wearing. Thinking.
Where do you wish I touched you today?
Were you upset that I stopped us or are you glad we have something to look forward to for next time?
Next time.
What a tantalizing thought.
I know I’m strategically leaving out half the truth. Uneasy thoughts are tucked under a rug, worry about what comes next, waiting to trip me up when I least expect them to. Does Nicholas just want to fool around? And what do I want? What happens when Cornelia finds out?
The thing is, those thoughts are easy to sweep away because today doesn’t feel quite real.
It was a dream, right?
It had to be.
* * *
My week follows a remarkably normal pattern after that Sunday on the beach. I teach piano lessons to the children from St. Michael’s. I play tennis with Tori. I work in the garden with Cornelia. I think of Nicholas. Fantasize about him, really. His touch haunts me in a way that makes me anxious for the weekend, anxious for the moment his wheels hit the gravel drive.
So anxious and preoccupied, in fact, that I completely forget about the gala and my date with Barrett. He sends flowers Friday morning, an overflowing vase of red roses and a little matching corsage I’m apparently supposed to wear to the event.
I should find it silly and juvenile, but I didn’t go to prom or any other school dances that would have required a corsage, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have been as delicately arranged as this one.