“One day, you’ll see the things you thought you wanted ... aren’t the things you need.”
Cal stepped inside her house, into the kitchen, after parking the car and shutting the garage, as always, but this time, it was late, later than usual, and she was probably asleep.
Once upstairs, he took off his clothes, strolled over to his side of the bed, and pulled the cool, flat sheet down. Anticipating her warmth despite the chill taking over the room from the breeze coming through the open window.
“It’s late,” Jocelyn muttered, startling him.
Smiling, he covered them both with the heavy blanket, then wrapped an arm around her waist. She was warm. Like the feel of sand on the soles of the feet after a hot day in the sun. She was the sun and the moon, and he was cold like the deepest part of the ocean.
“Go back to sleep.” He pushed his nose through strands of her hair, breathing in her marigold scent.
“What time is it?”
“After midnight.” He settled, getting even more comfortable. “Go back to sleep.”
“Why are you so late?”
Cal glanced down. Her eyes had popped open, but she wasn’t looking at him. She stared at the curtains. The wind violent, more tempestuous than usual, causing the bottoms of the lace cloth to knock the sill.
After a few more seconds passed, her gaze finally skirted to his.
“I couldn’t get away,” he said.
“Were you with a girl?” Jocelyn pinched her lids shut, but Cal saw the regret even in the darkness — in her stare and in the adorable crinkles now stretching across her forehead. Her abdomen tightened.
“I was with friends.” Cal nuzzled her earlobe while she threaded her fingers through his.
“I’m sorry.” She smiled, but the emotion looked forced. She squeezed his hand.
“You’re my girl, Joc,” he whispered, then kissed her cheek.
He felt the muscles in her stomach relax, her breathing return to normal as Cal held her, caressed her, simply watched her until she fell back asleep — the way a parent comforts a child after a nightmare.
Or so he imagined.
* * *
The sun shone through the open window and its closed curtains, streaking the crisp, white cotton sheets and matching feather bed, creating diagonal patterns across them.
The scent of sex mixed with the cool air while Cal’s head found Jocelyn’s naked chest. But his mind wasn’t on her breasts. It was on the surf. The waves. He wondered if they were any good today. Cold never kept him from the water. Nothing could keep him from the ocean.
“Your hair is getting long,” Joc said, breaking the silence, combing her fingers through it. Her touch felt good. More than good. It was uncomplicated and satisfying.
Several minutes had already passed since they’d made love, moments where no words needed to be said. Cal might’ve lost count of the clock, but he did know exactly how many times he’d been inside her body today: twice.
“It’s so blond too … from all the sun … even though it’s winter.”
“This isn’t winter.” He lifted his head and grinned. “It’s paradise.” He glanced through the lace of the curtains, squinted, then looked back at Jocelyn. “My mother hates it.” Now, he felt that grin pulsing through his entire body.
“The blond?” She smiled, grabbing the ends of his locks and tugging. “Mmm, is that why you’re growing it out, then?”
“I don’t know why.” He rubbed his feet together, avoiding her gaze. But Cal always knew the whys, the hows — he even had reasons for choosing a particular shoe.
“Huh,” she muttered. “That can’t be true, Prescott.” Their eyes met, then tangled. “I bet you know exactly where you’re going to be living and working after graduation.” She stopped stroking his hair for a beat or two or three. “Have you…?” she began but hesitated. “Have you decided?”
It was enough to have had this conversation with the other women in his life — and there were four of them. Apparently, he had to have it with Jocelyn too.
Except … this felt different.
And he didn’t want it to.
So he lowered his mouth to her tits.
“Stop playing with me.” She squirmed a few seconds later.
They stared at one another.
“I’m going to New York,” he finally said after another long pause, one in which he sensed her heart rate slow and her breath practically cease. “I can’t be tied down.”
“I know. Don’t be silly. I know.” A few strands of his hair twirled tightly around her index finger. “My God, it’s not like you want to be tied to an older woman who—”
“You’re not—”
“You’ll find out,” she interrupted. “One day, you’ll see the things you thought you wanted ... aren’t the things you need. You’ll realize being tied down is what you need.”
“Not to someone.”
“Then to something. Something other than a job and money and things.”
“You’re tied to your job. Isn’t it what you want? Doesn’t it make you happy?”
“I wanted to paint.”
Over three months he’d been coming here, taking risk and throwing it out the window, and she’d finally admitted it.
“Don’t laugh." She pushed on his bicep. “I gave it up.”
Cal tickled her ribs.
“Stop it.” She placed a palm on one of his wrists. “I got pregnant, and then I—”
Cal tickled her again.
She laughed. “And then I chased everything.” She slapped his shoulder and grinned. “Are you listening to me?”
“What do you like to paint?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Nudes? Is there something here?” He peered around the room.
“No,” she said, but he was certain her work lined some of the walls of this house. He’d never examined her other pieces of art, not the way he had the Matisse.
“Not anywhere?”
“Stop it, Prescott. I’m not showing you right now…” She sighed and paused. “Spending time with you…” Jocelyn began to twirl his hair again. “You’ve made me remember. The painting ... everything. One day, you’ll see... You’ll see what you really need.”
Cal sat up and looked toward the window. She didn’t know what he needed. She couldn’t possibly know. He would have everything he always wanted. On his own. With no fucking strings. No attachments. He would control the future and the past.
She put her hand on his back.
He peered at her. “You will paint again, Jocelyn.”
Her eyes glossed.
“What’s wrong?” Cal whispered as he wiped a single tear from her cheek. He cradled her face. “You can do those things now. You can do anything.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little in his grasp. “I should be the one comforting you.”
“Why? Because you’re my professor? I think we’ve moved far beyond the classroom.”
“Have we? Because we’ve only been here”—she glanced around the space—“in this room.”
“And the living room.” He kissed her neck and cheeks, then he met her gaze, hoping his eyes might distract her. Girls often complimented them — green like a faraway sea, like nothing they’d ever seen — and he had to be careful not to use them like weapons. “The stairs … the kitchen.”
“Stop it…” She grinned.
“I have to go…” He sighed, then kissed her forehead. “I have plans.”
“I do too. I have a date tonight.” Jocelyn squinted as she turned toward toward the sun, her brown eyes twinkling despite their dime shape.
“You don’t have to tell me about it,” he teased as he stood and slipped on his boxer shorts. “I don’t tell you about—”
“What? About your conquests?” Even though she’d tried to be funny, the luminosity left her eyes, the caverns no longer shining like diamonds over water but looking more like mud at the edge of a lake.
“I don’t sleep around, Joc.”
“No, maybe not.” A forced smile made an appearance, one she sometimes wore in the classroom. Cal despised it. Wanted to erase it. “But there are others.”
“I don’t want to do this.” Cal pinched the back of his neck. “You’re free. I’m free.”
Jocelyn laughed. “God, you are so—”
“What?” He put his face in her space, grabbed one of her wrists, and pinned it to the mattress. “What am I?”
“You’re a cocky bastard.” Now, her grin was genuine, mingling with that subtle sexuality she could wield at a moment’s notice. It all worked like a charm, calming him.
Cal smiled, let her go, then put on his shorts.
“I’m going to the beach,” he said, the words seeming to catch in his throat. For some odd reason he had a hard time swallowing. “I’m meeting some friends.”
The stinging increased, making it almost impossible for him to speak, but something forced him, compelling him to continue. “Joc…” His voice cracked, and she gave him her full attention. “There hasn’t… There hasn’t been anyone...”
Fuck. He shifted his head, wishing he hadn’t uttered a single fucking word, wondering why his eyes stung, his throat stung, why his heart felt like a balloon in his chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Jocelyn bolted from the bed, still naked, the sheet falling partially to the floor. “Cal. Please.”
“I said it was nothing. Okay?”
“Nothing…” She narrowed her gaze. “You come here ... to my house and make love to me anytime you damn well please, but you won’t talk to me! This is what I mean. We live here. Exist here.”
“Goddammit, you’re not my fucking mother.” He swiped his shirt off the wooden footboard.
“No.” Jocelyn grabbed him by his waist and pressed herself against him, seeming to do so with all her strength. “No, I’m not.” Her voice grew quieter, but it shook. “I’m not your mother.”
After a moment or two of silence, she released him. Cal watched her step toward the window, rest her elbows on the ledge, and look outside. He pulled his shirt over his head.
“My mother…” He exhaled, scratching fingers through his hair. “My mother wouldn’t bother with this.”
“What do you mean?” She turned around.
“Forget it, Joc. This is bullshit.” He pinched the back of his neck.
“No, it’s not.” She stepped closer. “Tell me. Please.”
“I mean ... if she saw my face…” He tilted his chin toward the floor. “If she had seen my face the way you did ... before ... she wouldn’t have asked what was wrong.” He dared to glance back up into her eyes. “She wouldn’t be concerned. She probably wouldn’t have even noticed.”
“You said…” She swallowed. “You said, ‘There hasn’t been anyone.’”
“Jesus, Joc, if you understood me, then why are we doing this?”
“You know why.”
Cal peered into her eyes, deciding if he could tell her what still itched to be said. Falling deeper and deeper into those caverns of brown, two things occurred at once: Cal held back the emotions he’d been taught were bullshit and yet he desperately wanted to release them.
“You’re the first person…” Fuck… He pinched his neck and retreated.
“Cal…”
He took a deep breath. “You’re the first person I’ve been serious with. And I haven’t slept with as many girls as you might’ve imagined. I can’t get close to people.” He avoided her gaze. “Not intimately close.”
The room seemed to grow smaller. His clothes felt tighter. Cal’s shirt didn’t fit right.
“You’re young,” she finally uttered, inching toward him as though he might break. And he didn’t want to be reminded of his age. “Don’t rush anything. What you feel is completely normal. The way you are, it’s part of who you are. Don’t make excuses, and don’t worry about what other people have done or what they might think about you. Make your own way.”
“Is that what you’ve done?”
“Yes,” she replied rather emphatically. “You will fall in love.”
“And will they fall in love with me?” he asked quickly, much too quickly while attempting to pull back the deluge of what he presumed was a tsunami of weakness ready to crash over him.
But the entire shitstorm had already arrived.
His fucking throat closing, his heartbeat slowing.
All that was left now was this beautiful woman beside him and the ache. It was a most strange ache. He’d never felt anything quite like it. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to feel it ever again.
“Lots of women will love you.” She kissed his neck, nuzzling her nose through his hair. “I love you.”
Cal removed her hands from his body and sat on the bed. He looked at their feet, the floor, the different patterns in the wood.
He hadn’t heard those three words.
Didn’t see them.
Or know them.
Couldn’t conceive of them.
He was too busy invalidating them in every corner of his analytical mind.
The word was empty and devoid of all meaning. Love. People used it, sure, but they didn’t mean it. They didn’t know what it really meant, didn’t know how to use it properly or how to make someone feel it. The word was something bestowed in greater quantities onto pets or cars or things. Love was a story. A manipulation. A fucked-up fairy tale.
Love was a necessity laid upon someone for a lifetime of misery.
“No, you don’t, Jocelyn,” he said as he finally glanced at her face, checking for the truth of those words to ring out in the brown of her eyes.
“Cal, love doesn’t have to look like a picture-perfect postcard.” She took a seat next to him. “I know this relationship isn’t what I necessarily want for a lifetime, but my God, if you want me to be brutally honest—”
“I don’t know if I do now.”
“It’s too late.” She touched his thigh. “I can’t be with someone the way I am with you and pretend I don’t care for you. This isn’t just sex. Can’t you feel that?”
Shaking his head, he stood and grabbed his boat shoes. “I’m going surfing.” He slipped them on.
“Goddamn you, Cal.”
Leaning down, a grin on his face a mile wide, he pressed his palms into the bed, trying to kiss her, but she turned her head.
“I’m twenty-one.” He smiled. “Remember?”
“You never let me forget.”
A few seconds later, he stood in front of the mirror at the dresser and dragged a comb through his hair.
“It is…” He paused, realizing Jocelyn had been observing him — the same way she had the first time he’d stepped foot inside her classroom. “It is more than sex.” He shoved his keys in his pocket. “I’ll be back tonight.” He walked toward the door.
“I told you, I have a date tonight.”
“Then I’ll be here late tonight. Leave the opener in the hiding spot.”
“What if I decide to bring him back here?”
Cal turned, took two giant steps toward the bed, and grabbed her, pulling her body to the edge of the mattress. His eyes bored into her breasts, her heartbeat, her core. He stared at her olive skin for days, only quiet and breathing.
Once she seemed to finally have had enough of the unending silence and suffocation, she pushed against his chest. But her determination only made him grip her tighter. Stronger. He straightened her body up, stiff as a board.
“I want to fuck you tonight,” he said, full of the emotion of the abandoned conversation, full of her I love you and his denial. “I want your pussy. I want to have all of you.”
“Cal”—she wiggled—“let go of me. Be with your friends tonight.”
Carefully using his weight, he brought her back flush against the sheets and placed his head on her chest — the way he had earlier, right after they’d made love. His cheek pressed to her heart.
But a few minutes later, she broke the comfort and the silence with more despicable words…
“You don’t have to be afraid.”
Lifting his upper body off her, he planted a palm on either side of her waist and glanced into her eyes, feeling wild, crazed, out of his fucking mind. Like a shark hunting prey in the ocean. His feelings for this woman, his teacher, this girl who was supposed to be only a conquest, were slowly dismantling his well-proportioned life.
“Is that what you think I am?” His palms rattled the mattress, each forthcoming word matching the motion, causing the bed to shake. “I’m. Not. Afraid.” His eyes felt like they were beginning to melt, pooling over the edge of his lids, dripping like sea-foam onto her sheets. “Don’t ever say that to me again!”
Cal stood, pinched his nose, then his neck. “Don’t ever say that you love me again.”
“Come back tonight,” Jocelyn said the moment he reached the door, her tone somber, more tender than he’d ever heard. “I... I need you.”
Cal swallowed, a hand on the doorjamb, watching her over his shoulder like a hawk.
Then her voice changed again. “Am I allowed to say that?” It grew frantic. Loud. Louder. She stood. “I need you. You think I want to love you or need you? You can go to hell!”
“You go on your date…” He stared so far through her he didn’t think he could find his way back out. “And I’ll go to hell.” If Cal’s eyes could be considered weapons, what kind were they now? “Leave me the opener, Jocelyn.”
Once he made his way downstairs, past her pictures and paintings and all the effects of her, her, her — Cal berated himself. Wishing he’d never shared parts of himself, never dropped his guard, wishing he’d never opened. Loathing that he’d lost what he considered to be the pinnacle of control: authority over his emotions.
A man never gives away his hand, Cal. A man simply cannot show emotion. A man is expected to take charge, to lead.
With his mother’s goddamn voice in his head, it was a wonder Cal erroneously thought he could control the bastardly things.
By the time Cal jumped in his car and started the engine, he’d made a decision. A choice.
Because there are no fucking mistakes.
No one, he smiled as he reversed out of her garage. No one — would make him lose control over his emotions or his ability to think clearly.
Ever again.