Whiskey at Midnight, page 28
“Wren, beautiful, give me a cigarette,” Steve says. He wipes his hand across his forehead and grins when she hands him one. “You’re a lifesaver. Chase has been showing me some new dance moves. Wanna see them?”
Wren laughs in that way that sounds half-genuine and half-condescending. It’s the one that makes Emma’s palms sweat when it’s directed at her, the one that makes her smirk when it’s not. Steve never notices when it’s directed at him. “Maybe later,” Wren tells him.
“Suit yourself,” Steve says. He turns around in the alley, looks it up and down. His face clearly says that he’s unimpressed. “Why are you two standing out here in the dark?”
“It’s our spot,” says Wren.
The two stare at each other a moment, having some kind of silent conversation that could mean absolutely anything. Steve looks down toward the asphalt and shrugs his shoulders. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I prefer lights and not hanging out in the darkness.”
He turns around and begins heading back toward the front of the bar, smoking his cigarette along the way.
Chase trails after him. “See you guys inside,” Chase says. Friendly. Emma has never seen Steve spend time with someone so damn friendly. Emma smiles.
“What’s got you smiling?” Wren asks.
“I think I like Chase. At least so far.”
“Well, she doesn’t hate me. That’s a start,” Wren says. She drops her cigarette and crushes it beneath her heel. “I think I’m losing my buzz.”
“Do you want to go back inside?”
“Not yet,” Wren says. She leans forward to grab hold of Emma’s hand and then relaxes back against the hard brick.
The grip on Emma’s hand is loose, but feels steady, as if it tethers Emma to the world. “What was that look between you and Steve?” she asks.
The look of doubt that tinges Wren’s features so rarely makes another appearance. She licks her lips and darts her eyes around before looking at Emma’s lips. “The truth, right?”
“Right.”
“Steve thinks we’re going to get back together and isn’t so excited by the idea,” Wren says. The words leave her mouth in one breath, rushed and uneven. As soon as she says them, her mouth forms a line and her eyes look as certain as the first time she’d kissed Emma, right by the bathroom.
“Oh.”
When asking the question, the possibilities had seemed endless. Abstract answers circled around Emma’s head. Something about Chase, or work, or maybe how much Wren had been drinking all day. There’s no way Wren hadn’t been drinking for most of the day after her last exam, after all. But again, Emma has been blindsided by something that should have been obvious. She tightens her grip on Wren’s hand, frustrated.
“And what do you think about it?” asks Emma.
Emma’s heart beats unevenly. Blood rushes through her veins and it’s hard to breathe. Standing in front of Wren now, who hasn’t let a single emotion flicker across her face, makes Emma’s palms sweat and her stomach flip more than the first day of student teaching a few months ago.
And why not? A room full of kids who still pick their noses while they decide who they want to go steady with is just the beginning of her career, and she has never been as career driven as someone like Cam. No, the students are nothing in this moment, while Wren holds everything on her shoulders, her lips slowly parting now to let out the answer that has the power to crush Emma all over again.
“That’s always been the plan, I thought,” says Wren.
It doesn’t really make it easier to breathe. Emma gulps air in, thankful that her lungs work in some small way, and then lets it out all at once. Her thumb brushes against Wren’s hand and she smiles, tries to ignore the little pinpricks she feels in her eyes.
They’ve been little shits, the both of them. They deserve each other, for better or worse.
Emma pitches forward, unsteadily, and kisses Wren. It feels more impulsive than the kiss on her couch, when she should have gone back to bed instead of letting her body do whatever it wanted. Wren’s lips tremble against her own and their linked hands are broken apart by Wren moving her slender arms up and around Emma’s shoulders.
There are things to talk about, important things, like how serious they are going to be this time. Even though Wren can make Emma’s toes curl and she’d like to disappear into Wren’s bedroom forever, Emma can’t handle just having fun anymore.
Wren convinces Steve that Emma will take her home, hugs him so tightly that his face turns red, and waves to Taylor like they are best friends.
So Emma pushes Wren’s compliant body into her passenger seat and walks around to the driver’s side to take Wren home. Wren clutches a carton of cigarettes to her chest like it is precious cargo.
Emma’s inability to spend a lot of money on alcohol has worked out wonderfully. As they paid, Wren told her in no uncertain terms that she did not want to get into a fucking cab. She was done with all of that business, she said. She was so adamant about it that Emma laughed and promised she could drive.
As soon as Emma reverses out of her parking space and begins heading toward Wren’s apartment, Wren’s hand is on her thigh, brushing up and down in a rhythmic way that causes Emma to bite her lip after two blocks. This is why none of those things they need to talk about will come up. Because Wren is playing her body like an instrument she’s mastered, which she has, and Emma has poor self-control. Wren knows all of this.
“Take me to your place,” Wren says as they pull up outside of Wren’s apartment. “I don’t want to go home tonight.”
Emma turns to Wren to say something important, like how Wren has had a lot to drink and maybe she should go home and sleep it off, but Wren leans over and kisses her, not caring that Emma has barely braked fully.
“I’m not wasted,” Wren says. “Take me to your place.”
Outside, after Steve had stolen his last cigarette of the night, Wren complained that her buzz was leaving her. They’d stayed at the bar for another hour at least and Wren had only one more drink, a single. She put her arm around Steve and went along with his joking, laughing and smiling like his antics were the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
Emma is about to disagree with Wren, tell her she shouldn’t come home with her, because of her drunk demeanor in the bar, even if she hadn’t had much more to drink. But then Wren is giving Emma the same look she’d given Emma in the bar, when she had her arm around Steve, like she was playing along with him and then showing Emma something, something that only Emma was supposed to see.
“You were faking it,” Emma says, uncertain.
“Bingo,” says Wren. “It’s a failure if I don’t get wasted. We’d have never gotten away. Take me to your place.”
The reasons to make Wren go upstairs to her bed seem less important now that Wren isn’t purposefully slurring her words and then winking at Emma. An exaggeration, but not too far from the truth.
“Sneaky. I almost think we should wait on this,” Emma says. Her eyes lower to Wren’s hand on her leg. Stupid. Impulsive. Another complication in life right before graduation.
“Have fun,” Wren persists.
The words have the same effect so many months later. The last shred of resistance leaves Emma’s body as Wren says the words and moves her hand against Emma’s leg again. Another complication, but that will come later.
“Okay,” says Emma. “We’ll go back to my place.”
She drives through the deserted streets, taking side roads to her apartment. Lit by the moonlight, a satisfied smile appears on Wren’s face. They don’t speak the rest of the way. There’s no point in chit-chat, no need to ask inconsequential things like how well Wren thinks she did on her exams. So late in the night, with Wren’s intentions perfectly clear, everything is inconsequential.
Emma brakes too hard when she parks and slams her car door much too loudly. She winces at the sound and Wren laughs.
“Have somewhere to be in a hurry?” Wren asks in a breathy voice.
Emma does, in a way, but their quick trysts are in the past. The need that propelled Emma to tear away at Wren’s clothes in the beginning has faded away, leaving the comfortable certainty that Wren will still be there with Emma in thirty minutes, an hour, maybe longer. She doesn’t have to kiss Wren to trap her.
Wren doesn’t look around in the living room. She doesn’t shift her weight from foot to foot. It’s Emma who stands there awkwardly, looking at Wren and then looking away again. “I’m not really sure what to do now,” Emma says, half-joking.
“It depends on what you want,” Wren says. She deliberately picks at a spot on her chin, waiting for Emma to do or say something. Emma pulls at a strand of hair. Of course, Wren isn’t going to make this as easy as it could be.
“I want things to be normal,” Emma says, quietly. The one lamp she has left on is on the other side of the room. They both stand in the part of the room that is barely lit from it.
Wren laughs and though Emma doesn’t look at her, there is no way Wren doesn’t roll her eyes. “Things are never normal,” says Wren. She grabs hold of Emma’s hand and begins leading her to her own bedroom. “Come on.”
The lessons that Emma has learned, the ways to get Wren’s body going, how her breathing speeds up with just one light brush of Emma’s thumb over a nipple, come back as soon as Wren’s mouth is on Emma’s.
Emma reaches behind to turn on her lamp and it illuminates the room. The room is still tidy. A stack of books sit on the desk, a planner rests next to it. The picture frame, now showing the picture of Wren and Emma, stares at them from its spot on the nightstand.
Wren doesn’t see any of this. Her eyes are focused on Emma. Emma’s lips, eyes, down to her shoulders and back up again. Wren’s bracelets fall down toward her elbow as she smooths a strand of hair out of Emma’s face.
Emma sits on the bed, as much to have a moment to breathe away from Wren as to speed up the process. The red covers seem unnaturally bright until Wren sits down next to Emma. All thoughts of the covers are erased when Wren moves to hover over Emma. Then they’re both vertical as Wren kisses Emma again.
They shed their clothes with only the soundtrack of their breathing to go by. A giggle interrupts them for a moment as Wren notices Emma’s panties. They’re pink with a unicorn, the opposite of sexy. They are a laundry day pair that Emma only wears occasionally. As soon as Emma tosses them over the side of the bed, Wren’s giggling ceases.
“Talk to me,” Wren says as she kisses her way up and down Emma’s torso. The kisses are light, barely there, just enough to frustrate Emma.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
It’s hard to think with Wren on top of her. Emma licks her lips to give herself time to think of something to say.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Emma asks. Wren’s answer is a nip at Emma’s inner thigh. “I mean, more than just us wanting to do this. I guess I’m lost. There’s no guidebook for this kind of thing, right? Act impulsively, hope for the best. I’m not good at that.”
Wren’s movements pause. “Didn’t you start this when you kissed me on the forehead? Didn’t need a guidebook then, did you?”
Even though Wren wants her to talk, Emma’s jaw clamps closed at the response. She hadn’t, at the time, she had just acted. She’d also chastised herself for doing something so stupidly impulsive. These thoughts are chased away as Wren dips her tongue into Emma for her first taste of the night. Like clockwork, Wren eases back to compliment Emma and a smile forms on Emma’s face.
As easily as Wren gets back into pleasuring Emma, Emma begins talking. She tells Wren how confusing she’d found her when they first met. “You were such a strange girl. Who doesn’t talk during a group project?” Emma sighs. “I should have noticed how beautiful you were then.” The words leave her in a rush. Wren’s undivided attention feels like a reward for saying it.
“You’d think I’d know you by now,” Emma continues. She halts as Wren pays more attention to her clit. “But you still surprise me sometimes. Like the fight. You don’t seem the type.”
Later, when they are wrapped around each other and beads of sweat still fall down their foreheads, Wren sighs in contentment. “I’m not the fighting type,” she says. It takes a moment for Emma to realize what Wren is talking about.
“Then what happened?” Emma clenches her fist, the fist that is not by Wren, until her nails dig into the flesh of her palm. It’s too easy to ask these questions in the afterglow, when there seem to be no boundaries.
Wren sits up and leans over the side of the bed until she finds her cigarettes and a lighter. She doesn’t offer one to Emma. She slides off the edge of the bed and crosses over to the window, opens it up and lights her cigarette. There’s no chair, not like there is in Wren’s room, and so Wren stands there, smoking and twisting one of her wrists back and forth so that her bracelets move about.
“I was fucked up. Really fucked up. And I missed you,” says Wren.
Despite the fact that they have seen each other naked so many times, Emma pulls her covers up over her body, right up to her chin. With the help of her lamp, she can almost make out all of Wren’s ribs across the room. “So you got into a fight,” she says.
“Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
Emma wakes when the sun hits her right in the fucking eyes. She turns over, away from the window, toward the middle of the bed. Wren’s not there. Emma’s arm moves across the surface of the bed until her fingers touch the edge. Before she can get angry or begin to cry, Wren slips back into the bedroom wearing one of Emma’s oversized shirts.
“I went out to smoke,” Wren says, seeing Emma’s open eyes. “Coffee is brewing.”
Emma laughs. She’s such an idiot.
Wren’s hand is almost in reach and Emma stretches just enough to grab onto it and pull Wren onto the bed next to her. She snuggles up to Wren and squeezes the tiny body in her arms. Wren’s eyes bulge in a fearful way, like she’s never done the playful cuddling thing before. Emma squeezes her again, wraps her legs around Wren, daring her to try to get away.
“I slept with Kate,” Wren says, her eyes on the ceiling.
Emma’s alert then. She pushes up, her elbow on the bed and her face on her hand, to look at Wren. “Jesus, Wren. Confessions are more of a lunchtime thing, at least. Who’s Kate?”
Wren shrugs. “That girl that danced with you. With the tattoo.”
Emma closes her eyes for a moment, tries to think back. A lot has happened over the school year. A person could easily slip through the cracks. “Sorry, I don’t remember. But thanks for telling me.”
Wren’s shoulders relax against the mattress. A few minutes later, she starts to get up. “I’ll be right back,” she promises. She returns with two cups of coffee.
“Are we?” Emma asks, unable to finish the sentence. She blows on her coffee and takes a sip, burns her tongue.
“Together? In love?” Wren says the last bit in a sing-song voice that sounds a little too mocking to Emma’s ears. “I don’t know,” says Wren in a more serious voice. “I’d like to be. Here’s me trying to do all of this right. Finally.” She exhales. “Fuck it. Yes. We are.”
Emma can’t stop the pleased look that overtakes her face. She absently touches her right eyebrow and bites her lip. “You don’t have to go all in all at once, you know. You don’t have to say everything. I know it’s not your style. I’m sure there’s some kind of middle ground, a balance. Say just enough so that I know what’s going on but not so much that you drive yourself crazy.”
“Okay,” Wren says. Simple, to the point. She rubs at her throat, like it hurts faintly. “You can say what you need to say. I won’t stop you. Fair is fair.”
Emma leans forward and kisses Wren on the tip of her nose. Wren’s eye makeup has been ruined over the last few hours, leaving giant smudges that look amusing. It probably matches Emma’s bedhead perfectly.
Ed stomps up and down the aisles. No one has done anything wrong. Emma knows this because she’s been huddling with all of the other workers when she can, whispering to see if they’ve done something. No mistakes, no complaints. An annoyed person with no reason is a person to stay away from and Emma does her best to stay out of Ed’s sight. She’s not on a register, so she goes from section to section, helping people when she can, always moving so that she’s never spotted by Ed. It becomes something like a game she used to play when she got her first computer. Dodge the enemy, extra points for items picked up. Her parents were forced to take away the game after a few months when her grades dropped.
An older woman walking with a cane stops Emma. Her glasses, too big for her face, are attached to a string that loops around her neck. Someone’s grandmother, she has to be. She asks about a fake bird’s nest, if it ever goes on sale, because she doesn’t need it right now, but it might be nice for a project down the road. And don’t the little bird eggs look darling? The woman is a talker, and ten minutes later she hobbles away, a smile on her face, but it’s too late for Emma. Ed has spotted her and is walking down the aisle toward her.
“Just the person I wanted to see,” Ed says. His face isn’t red anymore, not like it was when Emma first arrived and made a mental note to stay far away. The little bit of hair that is longer on the back of Ed’s head is dishevelled, like he’s been pulling on it or ruffling it throughout the day. The tan line from his wedding ring is starting to fade, might be gone by the end of summer if he puts his mind to it.
“What can I do for you?” Emma asks. She stops herself from smiling. He wouldn’t appreciate it, even if she’s only smiling because it’s one of his key phrases, always asks it in an exaggerated manner to the single women who come in.
“Come with me,” he says and turns around to walk back down the aisle. He turns right at the end, goes past the three cash registers and out the front door. He walks quickly, with purpose, and Emma is forced to follow at a similar pace. Her coworkers look at her with pity. One has a look of dread on her face. None want to be Emma. All assume that she is the reason that Ed has been in a horrible mood. She must have done something wrong.
