Someone to Love(73)

“I thought we had something special,” she bleats.

I swallow hard. There’s no way in hell Cruise and I could ever land in the deep end of the shitter like Lauren and Cal. What we have is forever.

“I thought we would be together forever.” Her words meld with a cry.

“She hasn’t called him out on it.” Ally nods into Lauren as if coaxing the truth out of her.

“He has a lot of parties at his place.” Lauren digs her pinkies into the corners of her eyes and is quick to recompose herself. “There’s a good chance he’s innocent. Besides, I think I should throw a pretty brunette at him one more time to solidify my theory.” She hardens her gaze as if to insist I have no say in the boyfriend-trapping matter.

“He was totally resistive the last time we tried,” I say, trying to break it to her gently. “Besides, it felt like I was assaulting him.”

“That’s because you were in public, and Ally works there. He knows I’m never that far from Ally. It extinguished his potential hard-on.”

“No.” I shake my head.

“One last time, I swear,” she pleads.

I hate the thought of having her disappointed in me, but something about it doesn’t feel right.

“Look,” I say, getting up to head to my English class, “I know a girl who has some unspoken vendetta against anyone with a spare appendage hanging between his legs. She’d probably be happy to do it. I need to run.”

They offer anemic good-byes as I head out into the cold.

It seems like everyone has a boyfriend, or husband, that cheats. Maybe Mom’s long line of ill-gotten suitors wasn’t such a fluke after all.

Cruise is different. I can feel it.

I wonder if my mother ever said that about any of her ex-husbands?

Dear God, Cruise had better be different.





In the evening, under a sterile bloom of moonlight, Cruise drives us over to an Italian restaurant called the, Della Argento. We round out the building and find a spot not too far from the entrance. It looks busy, but Cruise lets me know he made reservations. Strangely, the sheer mention of reservations makes me feel more adult than either living three thousand miles from my mother or copulating with him like a sexed-up bunny. Reservations require forethought and planning, a phone call—all of which my adolescent fast-food brain quantifies as a giant leap into adulthood.

A large gift-wrapped box sits wedged behind his seat. I pretended not to see it when I climbed in. For all I know, it could be a birthday gift for maniacal Molly.

“I have something for you.” The sweet kiss of moonlight pours in through the windshield, caressing his features. Its clean glow highlights the fact that Cruise is born of God’s own breath and beauty.

What Cruise Elton ever sees in me I will never know. He reaches back and pulls the gift up front. The slick red box takes up the entire space between us. “It’s sort of a belated birthday gift.” His dimples implode, sending an entire riot of pleasure spasming through me. Soon, all I’ll have to do is look at Cruise, and I’ll have a spontaneous orgasm. That should make for an interesting hour during gender relations.

“You already gave me the perfect gift for my birthday. It was you, remember?”

“No, I don’t remember.” His cheek digs in with a naughty half-smile. “Maybe you can jog my memory.”

I give a little laugh and unwrap the shiny crimson package. A glossy white box lies beneath. Even that feels expensive, something far too opulent for me to ever own. I lift the lid and pull back layers of tissue, revealing a dark wool coat. I extract it with care as I feel its heft, its warmth already radiating over my fingers. It’s so beautiful—charcoal grey with matte silver buttons, a svelte woolen sash attached at the hips.

“Cruise.” I gasp as I pull it to my chest. “It’s gorgeous. You didn’t have to do this.” I happen to know these are damn expensive.

“I wanted to.” He rounds out his gaze over me with a quiet stillness.

Cruise bought me a gift. One he couldn’t really afford. I don’t think anyone has ever done anything so thoughtful for me before.

“Besides,” he continues, “no matter how hot you look in that jean jacket of yours, it won’t stave off pneumonia. And, if you get sick, who am I going to do this with?” He leans over and indulges in a gentle kiss—the barely there flick of his tongue caressing mine. A soft moan squeezes out of his throat and drives me insane with pleasure. For a moment, I think of abandoning our dinner plans, but he went out of his way to call ahead, so I don’t say anything.

Cruise comes around to my side and helps me put the jacket on. It stops just above my knees and warms me as proficient as a heater. I cinch the belt around my waist, and he groans while embracing me.