Forbidden

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 7 (v.1) - Saturday is the Day

Submitted: January 15, 2014

Reads: 137

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Submitted: January 15, 2014

A A A

A A A

Chapter 7 – Saturday is the day

 

Saturday is the day; the day I will become a woman.

It’s almost noon whenever I’m finished packing. I wasn’t sure exactly what to pack until I read through one of my mother’s magazines, specifically articles on sleep overs and another on interesting sex. Which was somewhat helpful, they insist on Vaseline and lots of condoms – and some other things that I wouldn’t dare bring up on the first time (ropes, handcuffs, beads…). I packed my most flattering nighties, fuzzy slippers, a half-shirt Amanda had left in our drier, short shorts, and the white bikini my mother bought me that withheld very little mystery. I found Vaseline in my mother’s pantry in her bathroom, and condom’s in my stepfather’s nightstand drawer (Which was next to a bottle filled with small blue pills.)

My mother drove me to the McDonald’s we had agreed upon, and I left her with the simple excuse that Sally was meeting me her for hot chocolate, it’s almost October after all, it’s plausible. Whenever it was clear, my mother was long gone to fill her addiction (handbags, candles, jewelry) at the Galleria, I texted him. He showed up within five minutes.

He drives a maroon four door truck; it’s rough with mud on the tires and a spray of dirt and mud just above it. The windows are too tinted for me to see inside as I pass by the front of his truck towards then passenger door. Inside, he’s sitting with a hand on the top of the wheel, the other on the shifter, and he’s looking straight ahead like he’s picking up a relative from the jailhouse – and he’s pissed. “Hey,” I say sweetly with my heart in my throat, suddenly this feels extremely real as I redirect his fan from blowing harsh September air in my direction. He doesn’t even look at me until we’re out of the parking lot. 

“You look nice today.” He says finally as we pull away from a red light. I notice all of the tension is flushed from his tan features, and he’s smiling that perfect grin I love so much.

I smile back, “You too.” That’s the honest truth too. He’s wearing an olive t-shirt with yellow words on the front saying something I can’t completely read from where I’m sitting, and dark jeans. I’m so used to seeing him in basketball shorts and a tank, it’s refreshing, and I’m settling down. This is okay – this is right – I’m going to be okay.

“Are you hungry?” He asks looking briefly from me to the road. We’re pulling onto the highway from the feeder.

I shake my head, “I ate before I left the house.” A turkey sandwich and lays chips.

“Well, that’s fine. You’ll have more than enough time to work up an appetite.” He grins, “I’m cooking tonight.” He says so proudly.

There is something so reserved and intimate about a man cooking for you. “Oh, goodie,” I say, fully delighted with this. “What are we having?” I inquire thinking about putting my hand on his, but I’m too chicken.

“Chicken Marsala,” he says, “And, I hope you like wine. I picked up a couple of bottles of some really good Chardonnay.” I don’t really like wine at all, but I nod approvingly. “So, how crazy is this? I’ve never done this before.” Whoa, major subject change.

“Um, crazy,” I hum, rocking my head back and forth like a moron trying to find my footing again.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

I look at him quickly, “For what?”

“I just made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.” I lie because really just overthinking this makes my stomach queasy.

“We’re going to have a good time though, Penny.” He says, finally, putting his hand over mine and he squeezes.

 

His father’s cabin is located on a secluded part of the beach close to Bolivar Peninsula, but not quite there. The sun is close to setting when we’re trekking up the stone pathway, and through the double glass doors of the expansive cabin. It’s a log-style cabin with the little tweaks of classy taste and quality. The furniture is brass, bronze, silky, and new. We don’t stop until we’re in the kitchen, and it’s completely stocked. There is an entire wall for alcoholic drinks behind a sturdy cherry wood bar with glasses upon glasses dangling above it. “Wine,” he offers, picking a glass from above him, and I nod. “We have other selections if Chardonnay isn’t your drink of choice.”

I don’t want to come off as finicky, “Chardonnay is fine.”

He reaches somewhere below him, and comes back with an icy bottle of golden liquid, and pours two glasses. I pace over to him and take the glass by the stem, and sip it holding the most pleasurable face I can muster with this sweet tasting poison in my mouth.

I finish two glasses while I watch him cook. We talk about school firstly. He’s only interning at my high school with hopes of eventually coaching College or professional football. You have to start somewhere. His mother insisted that he intern at her school because, he thinks, she doesn’t trust he’ll do a professional job (And, I hate to admit it, but romancing your students isn’t exactly professional.) We get into the issue of the school homecoming dance coming up, and it gets a little awkward whenever he asks if I’m going. It isn’t like he can take me, but I say no because actually this is my first time hearing about it.

We’re talking about me whenever we sit down, and I’m a bit uncomfortable in the subject we’re in… “My father was a dentist.” I answer his question picking at the mushroom on my plate. It smells heavenly, but I’m looking for a way out of this topic. He’s pouring my third glass of wine, and I’m tipsy. Yet, I’m not tipsy enough to feel completely okay with trending in these waters of my ill past. “What about your father?” I find solid ground, trying to twist the attention from me.

“He sells real-estate and does other various things.” He says brushing it off. “He lives in New York right now.”

“So, they’re divorced?” I guess, it would explain the different last names between him and his mother.

He nods, “Since I was eleven,” he doesn’t seemed phased by it, his eyes almost black in the candle light between us, his dimples dipping in and out as he chews. “It was a mutual split… between all of us.” He takes a large gulp of wine, and I shake my head understandably. But, really I don’t understand, if it were me, and I had a choice my father would still be here.

I finally take a bite of the pasta, and it tastes delicious. My mother can cook decent Marsala, but I think his might top hers. “If you don’t mind me asking, how,” and he asks that question that always makes my insides squeeze together and that irate burning behind my eyes stings so hard it’s hard not to choke up. But, I don’t. I keep composure, “did your father pass?”

I don’t want to relive that night. I don’t, but I do, it replays over and over and over in my head, and I have to set down my fork for a second. “Um,” I start, trying to decide where exactly I should begin. And, then he puts his hand over mine, a happy distraction for milliseconds. “About two years ago,” I’m staring at his knuckles; the light hair over his glowing skin looks so soft, “he was in a car accident. He was hit head on by an eighteen wheeler; the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. He was dead on impact.” I shut my eyes, because the tears come and I don’t want them to. I just wish I could suck them back up, but they roll down my cheeks, warm hot tears, and he presses them away, cupping my chin making me look at him. His eyes have softened in the candle light; they aren’t as black as I thought they were, they are like chocolate. I’ve never seen dark blue become chocolate, but in this light they were warm comforting pools not overanalyzing me, but looking at me with so much care.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” He mutters.

I can’t finish the story, that isn’t it. That is the basics of it, but what I failed to mention was the hardest details. It was my fault that he was out there. It was my fault that he was mad at me when it happened. But, I can’t say those words, because then it would be so true… I couldn’t live with myself. I nod, looking at my full plate, and feeling a bit silly for crying. But, I take my napkin and dab the rest of the tears away and I muster a smile.

“What does your mother do?” He asks after him chewing and me recovering enough to start eating again.

That’s an easy one, “She’s a secretary at my stepfather’s law firm.” I take another bite.

“Is that how they met?” He asks. The tension has left the room, but his eyes are still fixed into mine no longer kindly, but forming something else.

I shake my head, “He took care of my father’s will.”

He nods, “Isn’t that a ways away from Toledo? Why not find a firm that’s closer?”

“They relocated just months before the accident.”

“How convenient,” he mutters.

“I know, right?” I finish the wine he just poured, because I needed this kind of escape from reality.

“You have no siblings?” He asks, unscrewing the cap from the wine and giving me the remainders of the bottle. It looks to me that I’m supposed to get drunk tonight.

I shake my head, “My parent’s only wanted one little girl.” I say sweetly, sipping the wine that has suddenly became more quenching than bitterly sweet.

“I have three sisters.” He finishes his plate, gets up, and starts over to the sink. We’re dining at the breakfast table because it is much more intimate than the fifty yard dining table that looks as if it can hold 100 guests. “I’m the youngest. Kate is a doctor at Hermann in the city, Patricia is a massage therapist, and Julia is a teacher – following my mother’s footsteps of course,” he rolls his eyes making me giggle, “but she works at the elementary here not the high school.” He’s managed to clear both of our plates, soak them, and put them in the dishwasher as he tells me about his family.

“How far apart in age is each of you?” I ask, trying to deflect as much attention from my family as possible still. I don’t think he wants to see me cry twice tonight.

He shuts the dishwasher door, “About two years, give or take. I’m twenty-one; Julia will be twenty-three in October, and so on.” He paces over to the table, and sets his hand on his chair looking almost bored with this conversation.

“When is your birthday?” I ask.

“Are you going to make me feel old, now?” He smirks.

“Well, you already told me you’re twenty-one.” I sip the wine looking at him with a steady gaze.

“Well, how about a game?” He says, slipping back into his chair directly across from me, the candle light casting shadows causing his eyes to seem darker than they are.

“What kind of game?” I inquire, instantly consumed.

He looks at the table, then back to me, “Ask me questions, and I’ll give you a hint – if you get it wrong you have to,” he looks at me with that something more I saw before – lust tingling in his features as he scans my bare arms over, “Take something off.”

“And if I get it right?” I ask still completely consumed and now aroused.

“Like that will happen, but vice versa.” He bites his lip, “Lady’s first.”

“When is your birthday?” I start.

“Sometime this year,” he says.

“What kind of hint is that?” I counter cutting my eyes at him.

He laughs, “Okay, earlier this year.”

“Still so vague,” I shake my head.

“Well, I never said it was going to be easy.” He folds his arms on the table, looking at me expectantly. I’m trying to add up the months between him and his sister to see if I can find a plausible month or even set of months. But, my mind is so airy with the effects of alcohol counting and remembering what I’m counting to is out the window.

So, I give it a shot in the dark, “May,” I clench my jaw, knowing it’s probably January, but his expression falters.

“How did you know?” He scans me over.

“What? That’s right?” I’m honestly baffled with my guessing powers right now.

He takes of his shirt in one smooth, quick movement, and I think this will be the end of my composure and whatever intelligence I have. He’s perfect like a shaped tan man. I force my eyes to his, and we’re both grinning like we have a secret. “When is your birthday?” He asks.

“Winter,”

“November 28, 1995,” he recites perfectly.

“Cheater!” I accuse.

“That isn’t cheating, it’s just prior knowledge. Plus, we didn’t establish any rules.” He says matter-of-factly, and I growl inwardly.

 I take off a shoe, “There,” I say picking it up and dropping it back onto the tile. He laughs a small laugh, “No questions that you already know the answer to, mister.”

“Okay, okay,” he says holding his hands out in front of him like I’m going to jump over the table and take him for everything. “Your turn,” he bites his lip again.

“How many relationships have you been in?” I ask.

“Define relationship,” he’s still grinning.

“Like boyfriend-girlfriend, wife-husband,” I roll my eyes. I guess I know my next question.

He shrugs, “Fewer than five.”

“Three,” I ask.

He shakes his head, “Nope,” I lose my last shoe, “just two.”

“How about you?”

“Well, I’ve only been married twice now.” I start, and then I shake my head, “No, it’s fewer than five as well.”

“One,” he asks.

I nod, and I’m at odds with which piece of clothing should come off next. I’m only wearing shorts, undergarments, and a tank top. I take the bra off next, just because I’m still concealed for the most part and I have shorts to take off next. I just have to make sure I don’t get any more wrong. I unfasten the strap with one hand, and drag it out with the other hand and I let my black strapless bra hit the ground. His smile grows as he gazes me over, and I nearly feel the urge to cover myself – even though I’m still wearing a tank top. “How many partners have you had?” I swallow, forcing the words out of my trembling lips.

“Fewer than ten,” he says with as much seriousness as I think he can muster because his mouth contorts back into that feverish grin.

“Nine,” I guess quickly, folding my arms mechanically, and he shakes his head.

He leans into the table, “seven.”

“Great,” I mumble, lacing my fingers around the hooks on my shorts and pulling. I kick them over to my bra, and we return gazes.

“And you?” He asks, and I’m nervous about this one. Should I tell him? He would know wouldn’t he? My mind is too fuzzy for this overthinking.

I shrug, “Fewer than five.”

“Two,” he raises his brows.

I shake my head, “None.”

“Wow,” he mutters, undoing his buckle and then slipping his jeans off in silence and I know I must be flushed. I’m glad it’s too dim in here to see how red my face is.

“It’s not a big deal,” I mutter, even though it really, really is. I just want to get it over with, see what all the fuss is about, and why not with Caleb? He’s attractive, cute, promising – right?

“It is,” he says, folding his pants and setting them in front of him on the table. Though, the arousal between us is far from gone, and I hope he doesn’t decide otherwise now. He comes to his feet, his eyes gazing from the table wear his pants lay to me, and he doesn’t stop until he’s standing behind me. He bunches my hair, and puts it on one side. His hands eager, but smooth against my shoulders as he massages the flesh. I lean back into him, my eyes closed, enjoying the feelings bubbling inside of me as he touches me.

“Game over?” I guess opening my eyes partly gazing up at him.

He nods.

He takes me by my wrists leading me away from the chair, walking backwards, until finally he lets go of my left and leads me with my right down a passage way I have yet to embark downwards. It’s dark, but not too dark. I can still see the curves of his muscles, the thinness of his cut waist, and his outspoken booty as we move onwards.

I’m about to speak, because we have been walking a ways, but before I can, he opens a door to the right that creaks until it meets a door stopper. He doesn’t bother with the lights, but stops just short of a large blackness I think is the bed. He pulls me in front of him and kisses me harshly; his tongue finding mine. I’m already gushing for more and more and more.

“I’ve wanted this…” he’s muttering, breathing a little unevenly into my neck, “Since I saw you in that hallway.”

I feel like I’ve heard this before, but I don’t speak it. “Was it the skirt?” I ask biting his neck once and he groans.

“It was everything.” He murmurs. His lips find mine again, and soon we’re at tangle of arms and limbs grinding together. It feels sloppy, but I’m too drunk to fathom past that. Our clothes (What’s left of them) are still on. I want to explode with something, but I fight it because I want him more than that. I want to feel what it feels like so badly. I pinch the back of his shorts, and pull them off. And, he laughs!

“Slow down, sweet heart, I want to make this memorable.” He mutters kissing me twice on the lips and then going downwards. Like my first time wouldn’t be memorable regardless? I let him work it though.

He kisses my neck, taking my shirt off, and then my breasts (Spending certain time on my nipples), then my belly where he fingers my button, and then my panties… the sacredness part about a girl. He feels me first, and his groan matches mine. I force them off myself, and I think he laughs again, but besides the pleasure I can’t sense a thing. He touches me finally… skin on skin… and I’m moaning louder than I ever have before. He massages me, making me want to release that pressure that is the most powerful sensation I have ever felt, but with all my might I hold it in.

He comes back up, I’m thinking this is the moment, and he mutters, “Let me get a condom.” I want to squeal, but I conceal it. He walks away from me, I hear a drawer open, shuffling, and then to my ultimate surprise I feel something gushing out of me… warm and wet. I put my fingers down there, and I know it isn’t that pleasure point. It’s something much, much worse.

“Where is the bathroom at?” I ask.

I think I hear him sigh, but I’m not sure. “It’s on the right wall, let me turn the lights on,” and when he does I hurry to the closest door to the right. It’s a spacious bathroom with gray tile and a notable black Jacuzzi like bath tub. I find the toilet behind another door, and then I find the most despicable part of my night… My period.

I put on the black robe that’s on the door before I walk back into the room. The lamp light is still on, and he’s sitting in bed without even the blankets to cover him. “Where did you put my stuff?” I say with so much sadness in my tone his expression flickers from a smug look to worry.

“Are you okay?” He says, pulling his boxers from the ground, and staggering towards me. I snatch up my panties as he does.

“Not really,” I shrug looking at the door we hurried in through in the first place.

“What is it then?” He tries to read me putting his hands on my shoulders.

I can’t exactly avoid this conversation, “It’s that time of the month,” I wince. He nods, looking away from me, and then towards the door.

“Let me show you,” he says and we both walk down the long hallway together in silence. Could this be a little be more awkward, please?

I find my stuff in the formal living room closest to the front doors. I search my bag for my pads (My mother forbids me to wear tampons until I was “ready”.) I find them, and dash off to the little guest bathroom closest to the kitchen that I had seen once before.

Whenever I come out, he’s leaning against the wall, clothed and toeing something on the ground. I curse myself silently, feeling like I let him down and a tiny bit embarrassed.  Whenever he looks at me though, all of those emotions wash away, because he’s smiling with those perfect white teeth. “C’mon, I want to show you something,” he says, and I loop my arm around his.

He leads me through a pair of glass doors in the kitchen, and onto a vast wooden deck. We don’t stop, he unlatches a gate, and we start down this winding path of cobble stone that’s partially covered by leaves, moss, and sand. He attaches my hand to his once we stop just short of a ledge, and I see it… The huge moon overlooking choppy Galveston water that makes me feels so minuscule. We still don’t stop, he begins to descend and I don’t realize there are steps until he starts to help me down. We’re winding down a metal creaky stair case until my toes are buried heaps of dry sand.

“It’s gorgeous,” I mutter standing beside him, still holding his hand, and we start forwards again. First, just walking, and then jogging, until finally we’re sprinting towards the water and he isn’t holding my hand. Instead, I’m struggling to keep up with him bogging down in the sand, while he seems like it’s so effortless. He stops just before splashing into the sweeping waves on the shore, and I settle down beside him trying to catch my breath.

“Your robe,” he tugs at the fabric covering my breasts. “You better keep those covered before I decide to say hell with it and take you here.”

I grin, tightening the strap so I’m mostly covered, and I fold my arms around my legs. And, the night ascends into deep conversation and subtle kisses. He touches me every now and then sending pleasure filled tingles down my spine.

I awake to the creeping tide splashing at my legs, and the warmness of his chest. I don’t want to move, but the water is chilly. I stretch, looking over him and then back towards the house. I think I should leave him, freshen up, but he will wake up soon. We were positioned a bit awkwardly, my head on his chest while his body lay horizontal to the tide. I’m about to hurry to the house, having made my final decision whenever I hear him yawn, “Good morning.” He gazes over to me.

“We fell asleep.” I mutter as the flood of memories from last night nibble at my ends and nerves. I bite my lip.

He stretches looking from me to the tide that has almost reached him, “I used to sleep out here a lot. It’s like a second bed to me.” He grins.

We head up to the house after that. The day seems to waste away faster than I like. We go swimming for hours, and then have lunch on a red striped towel on the sand. And, we talk and talk and talk and talk. I think I have given him every detail of my life (aside from the few I would rather not mention.) He doesn’t try to make another move towards my virtue. I’m somewhat thankful, because what girl wants to lose it on her period? I’m already in enough pain and emotional stress anyways. But, I’m also curious if he’s purely just disgusted by it or he understands that I don’t want to give it up. I try not to let it boggle me that much, but it’s in the back of my mind regardless. We head back home around seven, after my mother called warning me it was indeed a school night. I had to get back before she decided to get a hold of Sally’s mom.

He drops me off at Myra’s and hurries off. She had agreed to take me home with short advance and a million questions. “So, that’s the Middleton boy?” She starts, looking at me sideways as we back out of her drive way.

I want to remind her to look backwards, but I’m suddenly hopeful she didn’t actually see the “Middleton” boy. I nod.

“What did you two do?” She continues.

“Just hung out,” I say, slipping into the seat, and pushing a tendril of loose brown hair behind my ear.

“Uh-huh,” she says doubtfully. “You’re flushing,” she snickers, “What did you do?

“I think you’re hanging out with Sally too much.” I counter, trying my best to defer the attention off of myself.

“What do you mean?” She says a little defensive.

All the questions, but I just shrug. “Never mind,” I say looking out the window wishing we were closer to my neighborhood.

“Quit dodging the question!” She snaps grinning hugely at me. “Tell me,” she prods my shoulder.

“Um, we talked a lot and went swimming,” I say slowly trying to bide my time, I roll my eyes in the air as if I’m thinking about something else that we could have done, “He cooked for me.”

“Figures,” she mutters. I’m instantly curious and a bit hurt.

“What do you mean ‘figures’?” I snap.

“You’re a prude.” She says. “I’m not trying to offend you. It’s a good thing sometimes.” I wish it were true.

“Thanks,” I say looking out the window and finally seeing the familiarity of my old neighborhood.

“My weekend was boring like usual. I think that girl I met at that party is dodging me. We were supposed to go ice skating at the Galleria, but of course, she didn’t answer her phone.” She goes on and on until she pulls into my drive way and I inch out of the car nodding and saying good bye.

I wave until she’s heading down the street, and then start up my drive way. It’s nearly dark outside, and my mother is sure to be cooking dinner. I put my hand on the door handle, but it’s already turning. I step out of the way for Alex to strut past me without even giving me a glance. Though, her expression isn’t crude or harsh, but almost like she’s in a kind of subtle daze. I watch until she digs into her purse and the sound of her car squeals on the curb. She steps into the driver’s side, and I’m about to walk inside, but chiseled abs are blocking my way.

“Where have you been?” He says not with hostility, but with pure curiosity. There is a tooth pick jutting out from the corner of his mouth as he survey’s me.

“I was at Sally’s.” I try to weave around him.

He isn’t moving, “That’s not what Miles said.”

“Fine, I wasn’t at Sally’s.” I say, trying to peak over him now to make sure he’s the only one hearing this.

“Then where?”

“It’s really none of your business.” I say that more angrily than I should have. I don’t understand it completely, but seeing Alex here hurts. I don’t want these feelings, but I can’t help it. “Move,” I finally say after a few seconds of listening to him gnarl on the tooth pick and his surveying icy eyes.

He drops his arm from the door way, and lets me in. I see, to my surprise, that the kitchen is empty. I turn around as he shuts the front door. He answers my unasked question, “They went to get take out. I had to find a way to sneak Alex out.” He grins, and I feel prodding spikes in my stomach.

“I guess my boyfriend could have dropped me off here then.” I say purely out of spite.

He looks amused, stopping at the first stair, “The Middleton boy?” He knows that is a lie.

“No, he’s older,” I shrug walking passed up hurrying to my room. I don’t like to lie, but I don’t like Alex here even more.

“Like 30?” He says at my heels.

I roll my eyes, “Like 21,” I open my door, finding my room just as I left it as I turn on the lights.

“So, I might know him?” He leans into my door frame.

“I doubt it.” I set my bag onto my bed, and then pace over to my dresser to grab pajamas and fresh undies.

“Well, I am indeed 21.”

“And? He isn’t from around here.” I look at him pointedly. “Why do you care so much anyways?”

He looks me up and down for seconds, “I don’t.” His expression was no longer amusement or anything close to it. It almost looked like he was hurt too. I hurry into my bathroom, slamming the door hoping it would release some of this built frustration, but I don’t feel relieved at all until I’m in the shower letting the tears fall. I hate my period. But, most of all I hate these feelings for Ezra. 


© Copyright 2020 sarahfarahh. All rights reserved.

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