Page 7 of The Girl He Loves
Something about his words hit me the wrong way. …I’ve ever tasted. How many pussies has he eaten exactly? We’ve been together since I was in high school. Well, I know he had two girlfriends before me, so I let it go.
He peels off my panties and pants, and slides them over my calves. “My sweet, sweet girl,” he whispers.
Sweet, sweet girl.I think of Ava. Her sweet face. Her youthful cheeks. Her long flowing hair.
“Hey, why don’t you ever wear your sexy outfits for me anymore?” he asks as he moves back north to my breasts. He swirls his tongue around my nipple, teasing. My tits are small, but he loves them all the same.
Brian doesn’t particularly like corsets, stockings and stilettos… the usual stuff. He prefers me in boxer briefs and skimpy t-shirts, or soft baby doll teddies. And he also loves me in the little school girl plaid skirt and white button shirt I sometimes wear. I always pair it with pigtails and white knee socks.
I think of Ava again. I feel sick. It comes on suddenly. My pulse races and I feel faint. The rooms swirls around me. “Brian…”
He lifts his gaze to mine, his widow’s peak and large green eyes in full evidence. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concerned.
“I feel faint.”
He throws me a sidelong glance. “Did you forget to take your iron supplements?”
I have anemia, and on top of 40 mg of Escitalopram Oxalate, a ginseng herbal pill, a multivitamin, a vitamin B complex, vitamin D, and a probiotic, I also take an iron supplement.
“Uh… I may have,” I lie. He should know better — I never forget anything.
He pulls away from me, clearly disappointed. “You go and take your supplement, and drink a tall glass of water.”
He leaves the room, and I wonder where he’s heading. He’s often in our shared office at night. He says he’s grading papers and the like, but I wonder if there’s more to it. Could he be watching porn? Or worse? He always keeps the door closed, and once when I asked him why, he said it was because he needed privacy and quiet to do his work.
You’re being paranoid again, I hear Dr. Russell say. Her voice never leaves me.These thoughts have no weight. They are not real. They are of no importance or consequence. Your condition makes them appear so.
I reach for my panties and lounge pants and pull them back on. It’s fine, I tell myself. Everything is fine.
I can’t believe our relationship has come to this. I obviously don’t trust my husband anymore. It seems like only yesterday when we went on our first date.
He showed up with an adorable purple flower plant in a small basket. I smiled coyly and said thank you, wondering if he liked my dress; a checkered print jersey dress with a flowy skirt. I stared down at my red pumps for a second before inviting him into my house. Unfortunately, my sisters and mother were milling about, pretending to just be going on about their lives, while so obviously checking him out. They could not have been more conspicuous. At one point, Anika even whispered. “He’s soooo cute.”
My mom introduced herself, all giggles and smiles. She was over-the-top happy. I think she was just relieved that her youngest weirdo daughter could actually snatch herself a date, and a good-looking one at that. I was mortified.
Brian looked so handsome in dark jeans and a long sleeved black top. It was a hot summer day, so I was confused by his choice, but I later learned that he didn’t want my mom to see his tattoos. He was afraid that she would judge him unfairly, and I laughed because he was right — she would have.
I knew underneath the ‘bad boy’ rocker, there was a sensitive type, a good person. Despite my problems, I’ve always been a good judge of character.
We had dinner at a quaint little Italian restaurant, which was actually owned by his uncle, so the meal was on the house, which was great because both of us were broke. I was working at the Gap and saving up for college. Brian already had college loans, and didn’t have a ‘real job’. His band brought in some money, but not quite enough to pay for all his school expenses.
We gorged on warm bread, and by the time our meals came, we were already half full. He had veal piccata and I had penne a la vodka. When I ordered my entrée, he asked me if I was an alcoholic, and although it was a lame joke, I laughed genuinely because I was so happy.
We chatted about our families. He loved his siblings; two older brothers and a younger sister. I told him I kind of hated my sister Sacha. I told him about my father leaving us, and he said he was sorry. I knew he could never understand because his parents were still happily married and his whole family seemed veryLeave it to Beaver, in other words, perfect.
He had brought a book along, and I loved that. I’ve always had a thing for nerds. Jocks did nothing for me, and the feeling was mutual. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a freak. No, I much preferred the idea of this beautiful bad-boy rocker slash nerd. And I just didn’t like the ‘idea of him’, I really liked him too.
He was everything I could have hoped for, and I often reminded myself to take it slow, to not let him see how much I liked him, or he might just run away, or make fun of me, like Connor, my first crush, did. I knew I had a tendency to become obsessive when it came to boys… and so many other things.
I knew that self-awareness was a first step to appearing normal.
We shared blueberry pie and tartufo for dessert. I’d never had it, and I loved it; a cocoa covered ball of chocolate ice cream with a strawberry ice cream surprise in the middle. He let me have the last bite, and I knew right then that he was the man I would spend the rest of my life with.
“So, is that book any good?” I asked. A bookmark was sticking out of the pages — he’d read about three quarters of it.
