“Okay,” I say slowly. “We don’t have to have sex. I agree that would definitely make things complicated. But…I’m sorry, but I am going to kiss you.”
Her eyes widen as she looks up at me.
Bloody hell. She looks so absolutely shocked, it’s adorable. I could kiss her right now.
“And I’m going to touch you,” I add. “That’s part of the game, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t say anything to that.
I lick my lips in thought, trying to phrase this right. “Can I ask you something?”
“What?” she asks warily.
“Do you not…are you not…physical, you know, with the guys you date?”
“Laz, I’m telling you, it never goes past date three.”
“Well, it’s not because you’ve been cursed by an old witch a long time ago.” I pause. “Is it?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“So, are you physical? I mean, obviously there’s a kiss goodnight.”
“Not on the first date.”
My eyes nearly fall out of my head. “You don’t even kiss on the first date? Marina…”
“What?” she snaps. “If I’m not feeling it, I’m not feeling it.”
“Are you…ever feeling it?”
She closes her eyes and rests her head in her hands. “I don’t want to talk to you about it.”
“Why not? I’m your friend.”
“You’re a whole bunch of things right now,” she mumbles.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning in across the table. “Talk to me. Please. I want to help you.”
“Help me?” She sighs long and loud and gives me big puppy dog eyes. “I’m just not comfortable…with any guys. I don’t know what happens, but I just freeze up. If they touch me, all I can think about is what’s next, what’s coming.”
My god. I mean, I know she’s awkward as fuck sometimes but she’s gorgeous and so breezy, I just thought…
“Marina,” I say softly. “Are you…a virgin?”
Her flush deepens.
Holy fuck.
“This is so embarrassing,” she whispers, looking away.
“Marina, there is nothing for you to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m twenty-nine, Laz,” she says softly. “It’s sad. Sure, I’ve fooled around with guys, especially in college. But when it comes to actually having sex, I…I don’t know. Okay, I guess the technical truth is that I’m not a virgin. My ex, Cody, way back in college, he had the condom on and everything and, well, I guess I was too tense. He couldn’t get it in. It hurt too much. So, I made him stop.” She glances at me. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“I’m glad you are,” I say. “We should be able to talk about this kind of stuff.”
“You think I’m pathetic.”
“You know I would never think that, no matter what you told me. If anything, I’m…in awe. You’re like a fucking gem. You’re smart, pretty, fucking hot…and a virgin. That’s rarer than diamonds. Don’t be ashamed of it. Be proud of it.”
“But the thing is…I don’t want to be a…a virgin. At all. I know it sounds like an oxymoron but I like getting off. I want to get laid. I know what I want and I’m tired of pretending all my vibrators are the real deal. I want that connection. I want that passion, the heat. I need it.”
Bloody hell. I’m getting hot under my skin again and my dick is starting to strain against my jeans. I adjust myself in my seat, trying to ignore it. But fuck...this is making me feel a lot of things I pretend not to feel. Or, at least I don’t often indulge it.
I swallow, my throat feeling thick. “Uh-huh,” I murmur.
“It’s true,” she says. “But on these dates, I just…god, I just start freaking out. And that’s why I’m single.”
“Explain what you mean by freaking out…”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”
I mull that over. I can’t believe we’re doing this. And now with Marina’s confession, it’s putting things in a whole new light. I’ve always been protective of her but now I just want to keep her to myself. I don’t want to give her my opinion on what she’s doing wrong, have her fix that, and then sleep with the first guy she gets past the third date with.
“I just want you to know, in case you don’t,” I tell her, “that any guy that has a problem with you not kissing them or putting out isn’t worth it. Believe me. The right guy will understand. The right guy knows what he has in his hands.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “You just acted all shocked when I said I wasn’t physical with them.”
“Because, for a moment, I wrongly assumed you were like every other woman.”
“Seriously?”
I grin. “I know. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Way to make me feel normal.”
“I’m joking, Bumble. We can joke with each other. That doesn’t change. None of that changes, okay?”
“You don’t think I’m…weird?”
I’m trying not to smile. God, she looks so fucking sweet right now. “You’re an odd duck, Marina. So am I. That’s why we work so well together. But for this? No. I don’t think you’re weird.” I reach out and tap my finger on the notepad. “Back to the rules.”
“You still want to do this?”
I give her a look.
“I’m still unsure about the rules,” she says.
“Look, I’m putting the ball in your court. Or my balls in your court, if you will.” She rolls her eyes. “You control the ride. I won’t touch you, I won’t do anything. If you want to touch me, kiss me…that’s up to you.”
That seems to make her feel better. In a way I wish it wouldn’t, but as long as she’s comfortable.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“So, when is our date?”
“You’re in charge of the first one. You decide.”
“It’s Sunday now, so how about Tuesday night? I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She gives me a shy smile and laughs. “I’m already nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous. It’s me. Except it won’t be me. My name will be Carl. Carl McNaughty.”
“It will not,” she says, gathering up all the crap on the table and putting it back in her bag.
“You have to pick a name too. Think on it.”
“It’ll be better than Carl McNaughty, I’ll tell you that much,” she says, getting to her feet and slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“You’re leaving already?”
She gives me an apologetic shrug. “I promised Barbara I’d help her with dinner tonight. Which means I’m making her dinner.”
“You’re an angel, you know that?”
She taps her fingers along her chin. “Maybe that will be my name.”
“It suits you.”
She starts toward the door and I quickly get up, opening it for her before she reaches it.
“See you Tuesday,” she says to me as she passes by.
I reach out and grab her arm, pulling her closer to me.
Her eyes widen. I lean in an inch. She smells amazing, like honey yet sweeter.
“You told me something about you just now that I didn’t know before,” I say, my voice low. “That took a lot of guts. I figure I should do the same with you.”
She stares at my lips for a moment before her eyes meet mine. “If you tell me you’re a virgin…” she says.
I smile. “I’m not a virgin. But I do consult a Magic 8 Ball when I have to make some major life decisions.”
She blinks at me, then lets out a short laugh. “What?”
“It’s true. The band’s name came from somewhere.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“So…when it came to this whole dating thing, did it decide anything for you?”
“It said Better Not Tell You Now,” I tell her. “So, we’ll see.”
She shakes her head and steps out of the door. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it,
Bumble,” I say with a wink.
She just smiles and walks down the hall.
Chapter Four
Marina
“Sweetest Perfection”
“Last night I dreamt I was in Manderley again,” I say in a dreamy voice.
“Pardon?” Susan asks.
I give my therapist an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s from a movie I watched the other night.”
“Yes, I know the film. Hitchcock’s Rebecca,” she says. Her eyes are kind as usual, but coaxing, wanting me to get back on track. “But we’re talking about your dream. You mentioned it at the beginning of the session.”
I take in a deep breath and relax against the chair, stealing a glimpse at Frodo, her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that acts like the resident therapy pet. “It was nothing.”
“All dreams are something. You know this. Now, what do you remember about it?”
“It was one of those dreams where I remembered it so well upon waking but now I don’t remember it at all. Just the feeling.”
“Are you still writing in your dream journal?”
“No.” Honestly, I stopped doing that years ago.
“What was the feeling it gave you?”
“Hopelessness. Bleakness. Despair. I remember just this emptiness, a void where there was no light or color, and I think I was lost in it. I think I was looking for someone. Maybe my mother. Who knows?”
I shudder. Even though in the dream I knew I was in a dream, there was the fear that I wouldn’t be able to escape. Then when I woke up, the feeling never went away. I still haven’t escaped. It didn’t let me.
She nods. “Do you think it was her? Perhaps your father. You get different feelings from each of them.”
I start stroking Frodo’s ears. “I think with my dad, it’s usually anger. Like I’ll wake up angry. My mother, I’m usually sad.”
“And what was your mood that day?”
“It was last night or this morning I had the dream,” I tell her. “And today I’ve just been…blah all day. You know? Like scooped out and sad. But it’s that terrible form of sadness. Like a sickness that clings to your bones and your heart and you can’t shake it. That kind of sad. I’m infected.”
“You know you’re going to get days like that. You know that grief doesn’t go away—it just manifests itself differently and becomes easier to manage. There will always be steps backward. The best thing you can do is call me, and you did that.”
“Yeah,” I say absently. Even heading out into the garden and working with bees didn’t do me any good. Usually, watching them go about their day, working for the greater good of the hive, being so efficient and cooperative and selfless, put things into perspective for me. How these tiny creatures are capable of so much, more than most of us are beginning to understand.
But I couldn’t find the peace they usually bring me. So even though I hadn’t been in to see Dr. Bader for a long time, I made the call, and she was able to fit me in.
“Are you going through any changes right now?” she asks. “Anything in your life out of the ordinary? Stresses that have popped up?”
I shake my head. “Not really.” I don’t want to bring up the whole dating Laz thing, not before we actually go out on a date. We’re supposed to go on our first one tonight. “I did tell Laz, my friend, about the fact that I’m more or less a virgin.”
“Oh, good,” she says. “And how did that go?”
“Pretty good. I guess. He was amazed.”
“But supportive, I’m assuming?”
“Yes. Very supportive. He’s a…he’s one of the good guys, you know?”
“I do. I always enjoy hearing you talk about him.”
I swear I’m detecting something…knowing in her tone. Then again, she is a therapist. Everything that comes out of her mouth is knowing.
“And how did it make you feel, to tell him?”
“Good. After I realized he wasn’t really judging me or making me feel like a freak, yeah. Good. It was a huge relief.”
“Does it make a difference that he’s a man? Were you more worried about telling him, than say, your friend Naomi?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
But fuck, I know it did worry me. With Naomi and Jane, they didn’t care, they sort of made it their mission to try and find me the right guy to lose my virginity to. Yet another reason why Jane was against Laz and I ever being together. They both gave up after a point and left me to my own devices, but I never felt like I couldn’t tell them.
With Laz, though, I never wanted to bring it up. I’d rather he go on thinking I am normal like the rest of them. And, I mean, I know I’m not normal. I’m talking about dreams and my dead mother and drunken father with my therapist. I’ll probably need another refill of Ativan after this, something I was trying to wean myself off of.
And Laz knows all that stuff about me. It took a while for us both to open up to each other about our pasts, but eventually it all came out. I was involved in a horrific car crash when I was fourteen, my father driving drunk, my mother dying on impact. Laz had his father (also a drunk) walk out on him when he was fourteen. He was sent off to boarding school (this was in England), and when he came out, his mother had remarried and was living in the States. Nothing bonds people faster than a shared resentment over their fathers.
“Well,” Susan goes on, bringing my focus back to her, “I can certainly see why you might have a dream like that. This admission to Laz might be freeing but it also leaves you vulnerable. And you know when you get vulnerable, your defenses go up. But you have to look at vulnerability as a strength, Marina, not a weakness. There isn’t bleakness or despair in it, there’s hope. Take solace in that and in the fact that this might bring you and Laz closer.”
I don’t know why those last few words cause my stomach to flip, but they do. “We are pretty close already. I’m not sure how much closer we can get,” I say rather feebly.
Or maybe it’s that I’m about to find out.
After the therapy session, I’m feeling a little bit better. The sticky fragments of the dream are wearing off and I’m starting to feel more whole than hollow. It’s funny how that can sneak up on me sometimes, even without a bleak dream to kick it all off. Some days, I just carry this immeasurable sadness inside, one that makes me feel like everything soft and warm and good inside of me has been removed, scooped out. I know it’s all connected to my parents, but lately I’ve been wondering if it’s more about my father than my mother.
Fourteen is an awful age to lose anybody, let alone your mother, who at the time, was my best friend. In some ways, she still is. I talk to her often, usually right before I go to sleep, or when I’m working the hives. If I see something beautiful, like a sunset or perfectly built comb on the hive frames, something I know she’d appreciate, I tell her about it. It’s more my heart speaking out to her than anything I’m thinking, but the feeling is still there. It’s communication on another level, something I call heartspeak.
I was close with my father too, before the accident. I knew he drank too much, but the image I had back then of someone having a “problem” was the deadbeat drunk, the one who would hit his family or run down the street in their underwear with a bottle of whisky in hand or lose their jobs. My father was always able to keep his drinking under control. He managed to have a great job as a financial consultant. Sure, some days he would work late in the city (our house was in the hills of Ramona, about a forty-minute drive from San Diego) and he’d come home in the middle of the night, but…it was just life. I didn’t know any better. My parents were great to me, they seemed happy, therefore I was happy.
But eventually the lies caught up to us. We went to my father’s Christmas party, and he drove my mother and I home drunk. We went off the windy highway that takes you through the hills.
I still can’t remember all the details of the crash and I don’t want to. I remember the swerve, the headlights on a tree, the car tilting down at an unnatural angle, the glass
shattering. When I woke up, I was in the hospital with a broken arm, collarbone, concussion. My mother was dead. My father was arrested for drinking and driving.
The house was sold, my mother’s hives destroyed. I had to move in with my Aunt Margaret in Irvine, who was already a single mother to her two young kids. I had to go to a new high school. I became even more withdrawn than before. I had no friends. The only thing I had, the only thing that distracted me, was studying, so I threw myself into school.
Then, after I graduated from university, my father was out of prison and I began the tenuous task of repairing my relationship with him. I still love him because he’s my father, but I basically have to take care of him now. Rehab never seems to work for long and he’s a full-fledged alcoholic, drinking himself to death before getting sober and doing it all over again, an unending cycle.
Sometimes I have that horrible, shameful, terrible thought that I want him to die. Sometimes I’m so full of rage at him for driving drunk, for killing my mother, for nearly killing me, that I don’t know what to do with myself. It eats me up inside. It makes me hate myself just as much as I hate him.
But I don’t hate him because I love him. I hate the world.
I stare at myself in my mirror, leaning over the sink, my fingers clenching the porcelain edges. I have to remind myself to breathe, to not let these thoughts wrap me up.
Think about Laz. Put on your makeup and think about Laz. Concentrate on him, on tonight.
It seems to work. I wash my face and start putting on my makeup, carefully, slowly. I have a lot of makeup, but I don’t wear much of it. There’s no point when you’re wearing a beekeeper hat a lot of the time and I usually don’t have the time to play with it. But for tonight, for Laz’s sake, I decide to make the effort.
Only it’s not really for Laz’s sake, is it?
It’s for Carl McNaughty.
I burst out laughing at the thought, causing my mascara to smear under my eyes. I quickly wipe off the excess with a cotton swab.
Honestly, I can’t believe this is actually happening. Like, what are we really going to learn about each other? How can I believe that it’s some stranger, some random Tinder date, and not my good friend? What can Laz possibly tell me about how I am on a date?