“Everything is a risk.”
The bath stopped running upstairs, but Cal hadn’t really noticed.
He set the garage door remote on the counter and opened the fridge. Then he heard another noise, but it wasn’t water.
Swiping an apple from the bottom drawer, he smiled as he closed the fridge. Her sweet, natural voice attempting to drown out Johnny Cash playing over the radio was a strangely beautiful and comforting sound.
Far better than the crunch the apple made as it squished between his teeth.
After climbing the stairs of the bungalow, he stepped into her bedroom, slipped off his shoes, and stood under the frame of the open bathroom door, watching her in the clawfoot tub.
Hair damp.
One foot propped over the edge of the porcelain.
Eyes closed, she moved to the beat, tilting her head side to side, singing about a man being shot in Reno.
God, she was beautiful.
As Cal sank his teeth into the apple, Jocelyn’s eyes opened, then her mouth followed, and a burst of laughter came out.
He turned the radio dial down. “How was your date?” He bounced his brows.
“Good.” She placed her arms on the sides of the tub. “We saw Edward Scissorhands. How was your day?”
“How old is he?”
“Johnny Depp? He’s young,” she teased, and Cal scowled. “The age of my date is none of your business, Prescott.”
“You’re always so concerned about my age.” He gestured with the partially eaten fruit. “I’m curious if it swings the other way.”
Jocelyn only smiled, but the mischief lighting those twinkly brown orbs assured him a reply would come.
“He’s sixty-one.”
Cal choked, patting his chest, trying to keep bits of apple from spewing out.
“You should be so proud to make it to sixty,” she boasted. “He’s fine. It was fine. I liked the movie.”
“Really?”
“Let’s not talk about this, please?” She pulled her knees toward her chest.
“No, let’s not.” He laughed and sat on the terrazzo floor next to the tub, putting the flesh near her mouth.
“I don’t want that now.” She grimaced, wrinkling her nose.
Cal took another bite, finding an odd satisfaction from inspecting the indentations his teeth made, paying hardly any mind to the way his professor peered at him as if he were a peculiar piece of art she’d discovered in some collection.
Continuing the exploration of toothmarks, core, and seeds, Cal grinned, a silly one, finding the scent of the crisp fruit tantalizing. As was the bathwater, her skin, the bar of lavender soap in the corner. But he wouldn’t look at the fucking Matisse. He kept his back to those two fucking dancers.
Jocelyn slid to the side of the tub, folding her arms over the ledge. Cal looked up.
“Are you sure you don’t want some?” He pointed it toward her lips again.
Jocelyn only stared, observing him the way she often did in the classroom. Like he was odd. Or a prize. He took another bite and glanced at his thighs, his long legs stretching outward, ankles crossed, toes wiggling.
“You’re stoned…” she uttered moments later, her tone like her expression: alight with all kinds of possibilities.
Cal was stoned.
And he was blissfully fucking happy — happier than when he’d left her earlier. Ready for anything the night might bring.
“Did you get high with your friends?”
“No.”
“I thought—”
“I was by myself.” He scanned her beautiful face. Top to bottom. “Stop staring at me, Ms. Ryan. You look like you’re scolding me.”
“Finish that damn thing and get in here.” She twirled the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I won’t fit in there with you.” Leaning closer, he touched the tip of his nose to hers.
“That’s not the point.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’ve never bathed with a lady, have you?”
“With a lady? Jesus, Joc, what are you? The queen?”
“Yes.” She grinned.
“I’ve taken a shower with a lady.”
“It’s not the same. And what’s wrong with that word?”
“Everything’s wrong with that word.”
“Take off your clothes, Cal.” She flicked water toward him, and it was still quite warm. “I want you to wash me.”
Cal stood, put the apple between his teeth, and pulled the tee over his head. Tossing the shirt to the floor and core in the trash, he removed his pants and stepped into the tub. When he slid behind her, he found he did fit. Or they fit. His back touched the porcelain; hers rested against his chest.
“What else did you do today … besides get high?” She handed him the washcloth.
“I don’t smoke all the time, you know.” He wrung out the towel and nudged them forward some. “You don’t have to keep bothering me.”
“I’m not bothering—”
“You are.” He placed the cloth against the nape of her neck. “It’s starting to piss me off. You’re a fucking buzzkill.”
“I wouldn’t know what you do. We only exist—”
“Here. When are you going to stop saying that?”
“I mean, I only get you at night.”
“And on the weekends.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and planted his chin on her shoulder.
“You have to stop staying here all weekend.” She threaded her fingers through his. “It’s too risky.”
“Everything is a risk.” Pulling her along with him, he leaned back. They were more reclined now than at the start, both remaining quiet a moment.
Resting.
Running their fingers over the other’s, feeling each individual digit, slowly and surely, exploring their skin and prints, and the silky sensations of the water.
“How were the waves?”
“Good.” He nuzzled her ear while smoothing the cloth over her collarbone. “I don’t know if I can wash you.”
“Why?”
“I’m already hard.” Tilting his head up, his eyes opened wide toward the ceiling.
“You can manage.” She handed him the soap.
Cal lathered the bar, then lifted one of her arms. Her fingers dangled near his ear. He slid the bubbles over her skin, tickling her. Lavender filled the air, but it didn’t usurp the marigolds or zest or sex.
“How long did you stay out?” She wiggled, releasing a slight giggle. “You got a lot of sun.”
“I don’t know. Until about three or four.” He gave her other arm the same treatment. “You’re so sexy, Joc.”
“Stop,” she whispered, putting her hand over his. “Just washing. No sexy. No sex.”
“None,” he said, lips at her ear. Cal took her hand, placed it on her crotch, and pressed. “None?”
“Then what did you do?” Clearing her throat, she removed his palm and tenderly slapped his cheek with it.
“My day was not that eventful.” He exhaled, trying to send the pent-up frustration somewhere. “I worked on my friend’s car the rest of the afternoon. I listened to music.”
“Did you fix it?” She gathered her hair, raising the strands off her neck.
“Yes.”
“With your hands?”
“Yes,” he whispered, his lips inching closer to her skin.
She moved forward, rising off his chest. “Wash my back.”
Cal was ready to pummel her with his dick, but she couldn’t see his expression, his glassy eyes, his eagerness to devour her whole. Instead, his soapy hands slid freely over her spine and tattoo. She dropped her chin and began to moan.
“Did you get your hands dirty?”
“What?” he choked out, the damn ache in his throat rising, keeping a palm across her navel.
“Working on the car. Were you ... dirty?”
“Yes.” In a second, his middle finger pushed inside her. “I was dirty.”
Jocelyn sucked air into her lungs with such force, the noise almost caused him to laugh, but he quickly realized it wasn’t funny. Feeling her chest tighten, then begin to shake, Cal sensed she wasn’t releasing sounds of pleasure, but grief.
“What’s wrong?” He removed his finger and wrapped an arm around her waist, but Jocelyn barely moved a muscle. “Let me make you forget.”
“You can’t.”
“Let me try.”
“I can’t, Cal.”
“Why didn’t you tell me something was upsetting you when I came in?”
“Because I thought I could handle it.” She pinched a thumb and middle finger into the corners of her eyes. “I had some wine, turned on the music, and got in the bath. I thought I could hide it from you. But you looked at me, like you do, asking me questions with those goddamn ocean eyes.” She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t want to burden you with my real-world problems.”
“I live in the real world.” Cal straightened his spine.
“It’s Amelia.” She sucked back tears, but her chest shook the more she fought them.
“What?” he asked, more frantic than he’d intended, attempting to look at her downturned face. “Is she okay?”
“Yes.” She ran a wet palm over her mouth and chin. “I got off the phone with her a little while ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”
As Jocelyn stepped out of the tub, the water made waves against him. He felt lukewarm — no, he felt cold.
She pulled her white, terrycloth robe off the nearby hook, covered herself, and secured the string tightly. Then she held out a towel for him, staring off into the distance. No smile. No light. No moon. “Do you have any more pot?”
Cal stood, took the towel, and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed a strand of dark, caramel-infused hair from her eyes, peered into her soul the way he always had — past every bit of bullshit and so-called normal — and began to stroke her face with his knuckles. “Yes. In the car.”
“Go get it.”
* * *
Jocelyn looked out the bedroom window, gazing at the sky. Artificial light sometimes made the luminaries difficult to discern, but Cal had learned she enjoyed trying to spot the Big Dipper and the little one — she knew her constellations the way she knew art.
He joined her, dressed in a pair of sweatpants, and they both stared up at the blinking canopy, his arm draped across her shoulders. “We should drive down to Big Sur and sleep under the stars.”
“We can’t do that,” she scoffed. “We can’t do anything normal.”
“You think we exist only here. But I want to take you everywhere. Do everything with—”
“You’re leaving in the summer, Cal.”
“Then let’s drive down the coast next weekend. No one will see us.”
“You don’t know that.” She turned. “God, you don’t know if people see us now, driving your fucking one-of-a-kind car in and out of here. We can’t drive that thing down Highway 1 together. You live in a dream world.”
“No one will see us.”
“What about your friends? Where do you say you go off to at ten o’clock at night when you stay out all night? Most weekends?”
“No one questions me.”
Well, the women in his life did. But the majority of them weren’t around. Three back home: a mother, another mother, and a cousin. The fourth female was on campus, Margaret Jaqueline Oppenheimer, and she was so busy with John, she rarely noticed Cal’s absences.
“My friends respect my privacy, and I live alone.”
“Where is it?” she interrupted, tapping a foot, looking around his frame. “Does it need to be rolled?”
Cal pulled the joint from his pocket and set it on the window ledge, along with a Zippo. She peered at the items for several seconds, then she released a shaky breath and looked outside. Both of them stared into the night sky again.
This was all they did.
She’d been right.
They existed here.
And the sex and the stars and the laughter, her eyes and her smile — it all had to be enough. He wouldn’t stay in California. He had to go to New York.
Something called to him.
The Lonely.
The restlessness.
The searching outside himself.
After Jocelyn lit up, inhaling good and long, she passed it to Cal. “Go turn the music up.”
Once he stepped back into the room, he found her dancing in random circles, the string on her robe looser, almost undone, joint between her lips, raising her arms to the ceiling. She shook her limbs and hips to the psychedelic beat of Petty’s “Don’t Come Around Here No More” until her robe split open completely.
Cal watched.
Observed.
Stared.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so uninhibited and worry-free.
And she was free.
Free when teaching her students what she loved. Free when he pleasured her. Free when she came. Free, he imagined, when she painted.
“Do you want another?” she cried over the music, extending a hand.
Cal nodded, then Jocelyn pulled him closer, placed the joint in his mouth, and moved them to the beat.
“I know you can do better than that.” She laughed and slapped his chest, trying to lead him places he didn’t want to go.
Your hips barely move, Cal. You’re rigid where you must be limber. His mother’s words paraded through his head. She had taught him to dance, but he didn’t enjoy it — ever.
“Dancing is like sex,” Jocelyn continued, her pelvis snug against his, insisting they move in unison.
“No, it’s not.” He wasn’t the figure in the collage, nor the one it pursued — the peacock — the one he chased, held, loved. Needed. Understood.
“Now who’s the buzzkill?” She stepped back, jerked the robe closed, then shoved his shoulder. After taking another hit, she went toward the bathroom and turned off the radio.
Cal stood under the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as she snuffed the joint out on the corner of the sink, then washed her hands. Barely a second after she’d cut the water off, the floodgates released.
“Jocelyn…”
She raised her head and met his eyes in the mirror, practically jumping out of her skin. “Leave me alone.”
The throat stinging returned — the strange stinging, the raw stinging — running through him, ejecting him from his body. Tossed off the board by an errant wave, he swam over to where she stood and stopped directly behind her person. Holding on to her biceps, he looked at her hurt in the mirror as though it were a living, breathing entity.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” she said, hyperventilating, clutching the sink.
Cal pulled her back against his front. “Shhh.” He rocked her slowly, securing her weight to his as if her pain had further to go, trying to suck it up inside him. “I can see you like this. You’re the same to me,” he whispered. “Sad or happy. The same.”
Looking at her beautiful, tearstained face in the mirror, his throat only squeezed him tighter. Nuzzling her neck until she quieted, feeling her relax, he tried to exhale years of preconditioned lies about love and trust and masculinity. When her eyes finally met his, he spoke the feeling in his throat … the feeling he promised he would hold back, the foreign one he’d forbade — the marijuana making it impossible for him to continue to fight it.
“I love you, Jocelyn.”
She stiffened in his embrace, became hard as a rock, then she let her head fall and resumed crying, pinching her thumb and first finger into the corners of her eyes. “You can’t… You… Y-you can’t.”
“What was that this morning, then?” He narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit?”
“Well… Well, now I’m stoned.” She turned around and stared at him, her brow crinkling. “What are we, Cal? What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.”
Her hand met his cheek. “Are we going to just keep going on like this?” She swallowed. “Acting like teenagers?”
“We have to.” The tightness overtook him completely. Her beauty made him breathless, full of life he hadn’t known existed.
“Don’t say it to me again.” She repeated the words he’d used earlier, but her tone was less than convincing. “If I can’t say it … then you can’t. Fuck you, Cal,” she uttered between sobs. “Fuck all this. My life isn’t supposed to be like this.”
“What’s it supposed to be, Joc? What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “You weren’t supposed to... We weren’t... It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Cal dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed his cheek to her stomach, turning his head side to side while she ran fingers through his hair … like always. His hands slid under her robe, his fingers trailing up and down her thighs as he inhaled her smell — the arousal, the flower, the scent of the weed now mixing with lemon zest.
Jocelyn untied the robe and pushed it off, her palm immediately dipping lower, her fingers stroking all the places he hadn’t yet touched tonight. Once she met the pad of her clit, she let out a wonderful little squeak, followed by a fabulous sigh of relief.
Cal felt what she felt.
In his throat.
At his heart.
Taking his time, he slowly rose, kissing his way up the front of her body, wetting her navel, her breasts, her shoulders. Then he stood tall and met her eyes, staring at her for what felt like ages.
“I love you.” Cal swallowed. She tried to move, but he palmed her chin. “Don’t stop.” He placed her hand back over her curls. “Keep touching yourself.”
“Then don’t say that.”
Cal kissed her neck, her collarbone, her jaw, her mouth. The second he came up for air, he spoke softly against her lips. “I was wrong.” They kissed more as he nudged her backside against the sink. “Say it to me now.” Peering into her eyes, he twisted one of her arms behind her tailbone, causing her back to arch. “Fucking say it to me now if you really mean it.”
“I love you, Cal.”
Cal met her flesh so soundly, so treacherously, torridly kissing the I love you off her lips, pushing his tongue into her warmth, swallowing her whole, leaving nothing, not even the words.
He was lost in a beautiful ocean.
He was that ocean.
Cold and warm. Salty and fathomless.
He wished for the sun to shine against his skin forever. The breeze to caress him.
The burning in his throat was scorching, raw, aching. His heart had never beat like this before. He swam inside her mouth, her mind ... inside her aura.
“Make me forget, Cal. Take me right now,” she murmured against his lips. “Right here. Make me forget.”
Cal took Jocelyn.
Cal made love to her.
But they couldn’t forget.
They tried to — to erase life and reality and everything Jocelyn always said didn’t matter.
But they did live in a dream world.
They existed here. Now.
While the clock continued ticking, counting down the remaining days they could spend together. Age and time and necessity all part of Cal’s endless, infinite ocean. As he held Jocelyn close, burying himself inside her warmth, he became convinced he would simply float in the deepest parts of the water forever. Unsure he would ever find land. Or the magical place where the sky meets the horizon.