Christina (Daughters #1) Page 14

  My eyes close and I lose my bearings. It’s the most intense, strange, beautiful moment of my life. Oh, God, it ends with me almost screaming until Max covers my mouth. He kind of shudders over me as a deep groan escapes his mouth before he falls to the side of me. Despite his not touching me, and after withdrawing from me, I still love the warmth I feel beside me.

  It’s over. It’s done. Quiet completely envelops us… me. We lie side-by-side on the empty beach, in the dark night, staring at the starry sky above us… without touching.

  Chapter Nine

  ~Max~

  WHAT HAVE I DONE? I am staring up at the dark sky, and my body is starting to dry from the sweat. I am completely spent. I don’t know what to do. I feel immobilized. I never, not even for a second, considered doing this; not in all the times we’ve been together, alone, in my bedroom or hers. Or any of the times we went off alone, on this very beach, to hang out away from the others. More often than not, we ended up away from everyone else. We frequently were off and all alone. But never, not once, did we do anything.

  She is not what I expected. She is hot and forward and totally went with it. Even with how fucking odd I am, and how screwed up I have to do it, she did it. With only a few holds on me. I can’t believe this happened. I know I pushed it. I started it. I totally knew I was doing it, but now, I don’t know what to do. I feel a blush starting in my chest that rises up to my cheeks. I can’t believe it; searing heat and jangled nerves begin churning in my gut. I am naked on the beach we hang out on, naked with Christina Hendricks.

  I didn’t expect what she did. She was not shy or virginal. She was responsive and completely into me too.

  But now? I don’t know what to do.

  The first time I had sex, I was seventeen, and it was with a college girl at a party, after my stupid fighting act. She thought I didn’t speak English, so I went with it. That time, it seemed to turn her on. She thought I didn’t understand her. She was filthy-mouthed; and wow, yeah, like I was going to correct her? She showed me what was what, and got pissed at my no touching rule. Which I communicated poorly by shoving her hands off me. She soon got the message and made quick work of my virginity. She even made it work without much touching. That showed me, finally, there was a way I could touch another human. Yeah, sex is that powerful, even I crave the touch of that. I used it and exploited it after that. I used girls so I could feel something because I don’t feel the things I probably should. Sometimes, it scares the piss out of me. I wonder what is wrong with me. Am I some kind of sociopath? I’m a hundred percent sure I don’t want to hurt anyone, or kill anyone, so I’m definitely not a serial killer. But why am I so disconnected from people? It’s not normal. And that’s about all I know about myself I am so not normal. Christina somehow makes me feel normal. The times spent with her are the only times I feel completely okay. I feel like I belong and that helps me connect with other things. But I never thought I could find a way to have sex with her.

  I have Tanya to thank for what happened here tonight, I realize that with a cringe. Christina picked up on my estrangement, while I realized over the summer, how much I want to do the same things I did with Tanya, only with Christina. Tanya was just practice for what I truly desire to do with Christina.

  She sensed something was off between us, and came to find out what. I should have let her walk off, still mad at me, instead of almost crying out to her how much I freaking needed and wanted her. Epic, wasn’t I? The way I played her. Got her feeling confused and sorry and unsure about me, so she did this. She’s still confused with all her new feelings towards me. I wish I could say I didn’t know that. I wish I could say I didn’t make this happen. But I am not so sure that is true.

  Until Tanya, I never had sex with anyone more than once. She was, in a twisted way, my first relationship. So I managed to figure out a few things. How to get satisfaction without freaking out. Great huh? I learned how to seduce someone with my limited, screwed-up abilities. I close my eyes, horrified after performing all that on Christina. A virgin. A confused girl who cared about and trusted me. I played on all her feelings for me. All her confusion. In all honesty, that is what I did; I manipulated her into doing that with me.

  I really don’t know if I did it intentionally. I just know that I did it.

  The last person I want to alienate from me is the girl next to me. I love her as much as I know how to love anyone. It scares me too. I don’t really know if it’s “being in love.” I just know it sounds like that thing other people describe as love. But I sure as shit don’t think of her in the sister, or family way that everyone else thinks we do. Or maybe they just hope we do.

  But now? I slept with her. There is no going back. I know what she needs. I don’t know much in this world about how relationships work, of any kind, but I do know what Christina needs right now. She needs affection. Touch. Care. She needs to hold onto me, and feel that I care about her. She needs my support. She needs what anyone who has an arm can give her, except me. I, quite literally, can’t stomach giving her what she needs.

  I have never felt as twisted and wrong as I do right now. I tilt my head finally towards her and take in a breath for courage. I’m such a pussy. Here I can pick fights with guys twice my weight, and I can’t even face the girl I love in whatever capacity I feel for her.

  The night is cooling fast. The air stirs over us. If I were normal, I’d roll over and put my hand on her waist, or hip, and pull her towards me. I’d hug her and hold her… and simply care for her as she deserves.

  I am filled with sickening regret and sorrow for what happened.

  “We should go. Will’s going to be wondering where you are.”

  I flinch. I sound so cold. She turns her head to stare at me. She slowly raises up and pulls her knees towards her chest before resting her chin on her knees and staring out at the dark river.

  “I love you, Max.”

  Her words make my heart expand, then contract. I want to respond. Her slender arms circle her legs. She looks small and sweet and vulnerable, the opposite of the comfortable, naked, hot girl she was just a few moments before. She was never a shrinking violet and always knew what she wanted and went after it. I should have expected her to be just as straightforward and honest. Just like she is. Like I am not.

  “When did you start to love me, Christina? While you were defending me, when I was almost mute? Or when you were trying to explain to people why they had to like me? Or when you were persuading them to forgive me for trying to rip their larynxes out if they so much as touched my arm? When and how could you think you love me as anything other than the troubled asshole I’ve always been in your eyes?”

  Her back hunches more forward as I speak. My words are too harsh. But I don’t know how to handle her quiet, yet serious, and I’m sure, heartfelt words.

  “Now. I love you now.”

  “You’re mistaking sex for love.”

  She whips her face up and her eyes narrow in on my face. Her mouth turns down in a frown. Simply, she says, “I think sex is sex. I think love is love. I think combining the two makes them both even better.”

  I sit up and replicate how she’s sitting. I hang my head. She’s right. It should have been better. It was better, but I can’t make any words come out. It feels like a giant knot has been tied around me. I feel strangled over what we’ve done.

  We’re both naked and it’s getting cold. In the dark, I just took her virginity on the beach. I didn’t mean to do it. I can’t believe I did it. I don’t know what do next, or what to say. There was nothing preceding this. We spent most of the summer barely talking or hanging out. If we were together, it seemed odd and kind of distant. Mostly, it was caused by me. I know that. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to involve her with whatever I’m setting up to do at the gym. I think I know what I’m doing is wrong, both the fighting and Tanya. Or maybe not wrong, but I’m ashamed to tell Christina. She has a deep, abiding sense of right and wrong. Nothing and no one distracts her from her path.
Meanwhile, my sense of right and wrong is more like shades of gray. Lots and lots of shades. She could be a definitive Supreme Court judge for how quick and easy she determines whether or not people’s actions are ethical and correct. She also uses her judgment of people’s actions and behaviors to decide how she feels about them.

  Me? No. I tend to act impulsively, without good reason, or really, any reason at all. I like being screwed-up and doing things just for kicks, or a thrill. Not Christina. She is so judgmental that I’ve always hidden the things I do, or knew she disapproved of, from her. In the past, it was easier, perhaps a fight, or a girl, or a lousy grade, or cheating, or once in a while, smoking some pot or something stronger. She didn’t even start drinking until this summer, and she thinks I don’t either. Despite knowing me, and my inner self probably better than anyone alive, she still doesn’t know all that I am and do.

  I could just tell her. I know she wouldn’t tell anyone. She’d keep it quiet. She’s not a tattletale. But I don’t tell her because I don’t want to disappoint her. I can’t stand to see her mouth tighten into a flat line, or her interested, always kind, eyes suddenly dim with disdain. I just want to reflect the best of me when I’m with her. And come on, there isn’t very much worthwhile in me. I am not the best at anything from sports to behavior to grades to even holding a job. I could barely talk, for God’s sake, when she first met me. There has never been anything about me that even remotely justifies all the time and attention she openly gave me. I am not worthy. She’s a straight A student. That’s because she’s so damn smart. Everyone likes Christina. Every. One. It doesn’t matter the group or stereotype, she is liked by all because she is so nice and genuine and real to people. Every one of them has something she can respond to. Including me. Of course, she took me under her wing when she first met me. I was almost mute and regularly humiliated almost every day that first year. I wasn’t smart and I couldn’t do the schoolwork. I was so far behind, I had to take remedial classes. And yet, my best friend was the Christina Hendricks. Go figure. I was eventually accepted and tolerated, but only because of her. I never doubted that for a moment. Not even now, do I.

  But at the gym, with that crew, I’m just Max. There is no Christina there. I don’t have Christina’s pity or acceptance to determine whether or not I’m liked and accepted. For the first time in five years, it feels really good just to be me. The total me, not the best version me. Even if I like Christina’s version of me best, it’s exhausting to keep the façade up continually.

  Why oh why then, did I sleep with her now? I was about to be free of her, she’s leaving, and I finally have some people who want me around and not her; so why did I sleep with her now? I don’t know. I feel a sick pit in my stomach. How could I have done that? Why did I do that?

  Releasing the real Max more often this summer, I find myself doing less of what I should, and more of what I want. And this? Having sex with Christina is something I’ve wanted since I was thirteen. I mean, come on, she’s gorgeous, hot, with a small, tight body and a smile that radiates every single time she sees me. I mean, she adores me. Of course, until now, I was simply her total BFF. Still, it was intoxicating to have someone like her feel that way about me. I wanted her acceptance and I wanted her. I just kept it all in check before. But now? I’m acting the way I really want to act. And this is the result. I just hurt the only person who ever stuck by me. The only person who never had to, but always chose to.

  I run my hands through my hair. Fuck. The regret is sharp and it stabs right through the center of my stomach, from my skin inwards. It hurts. It hurts to realize what I’ve done and whom I’ve hurt. Most of all, it hurts to not know how to make it better.

  She is huddled next to me, kind of sunken in on herself, with her arms clutching her knees to her small chest. She’s a small, fragile girl. Thin, but not too thin, she looks vulnerable. I need to lean over and wrap her in my arms. That would help. That is the bare minimum of what she deserves. She needs to feel cherished, cared for, wanted. Instead? I have nothing. Every muscle in my body freezes at the very thought of leaning over to hold her.

  Still, her statement is so real and so Christina. The forwardness of it. And the honesty. Her heart is in it. She is wisdom and naïveté, beautifully combined. That has always been the damn draw to her. She possesses a girlish demeanor and still harbors hopefulness, which is evident from her squeals over anything that makes her excited or happy. There is also another side of her that seems wise beyond her years, an old-world philosophy kind of intelligence. Like the statement she just said.

  “It was a mistake. This… this was a mistake.”

  Her face turns towards me. I can’t make out her total expression. I know it would rip my heart out of I did.

  “Why?” she whispers. “What happened to change us?”

  Something hard and cold sits over my heart. “We grew up,” I finally say after a long, interminable silence, during which we stare at each other in the dark.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can’t be your best friend anymore, Christina. This is what I want to do with you. But I’m not…” I nearly gulp out loud. Can I say it out loud? It will crush her. Hurt her. Save her. It will save her from me. Because I am not delusional; I know I am not meant for her. She deserves to go off to college and fulfill her dreams and her potential. Her innate goodness will surely help her find someone who can give that back to her. Someone who would hold her fucking hand, at the minimum, without attempting to break her heart, or even kiss her. Still, here is the real me as I say, “I’m not in love with you.”

  Her back stiffens and jerks as she seems to have a physical reaction to my words. It makes me reach my hand out. Only I grab empty air. She stares at my hand for a second and leans forward so she’s closer to me. “Is that to console me? Even now, huh, you can’t just touch me in some kind of ‘sorry, but I’m about to break your heart’?”

  I drop my hand back to my leg. “I’m not breaking your heart. You don’t love me. You love me as your friend.”

  “I don’t fuck my friends.” Her tone was dead. Hollow. Confident. Yeah, I’m a little shocked she said that. A little bit impressed to. She’s not discussing the subject the way I thought she would. There is no simpering at me. Or any displays of outraged, virginal shock or anger, although she should. I deserve it.

  “I do,” I say finally, softly, to the silence. I see her shoulders hunch over as if she’s giving up.

  She turns away from me and reaches for her clothes. Slipping the white cover-up over her body, she huddles inside it. I shuffle around, grabbing my swim trunks and putting them back on. We both get up and start collecting the few articles around us. I throw the dirty condom into a pile of driftwood behind me.

  I feel her eyes following my action and I know she feels like I just threw her away. In a way, I suppose I did. But I also know, what I’m doing to her now is better than hurting her later if we try to make this work long-term. I can’t stand the thought of Christina settling for someone like me. It’s not just poor me bullshit, or a self-confidence problem, it’s knowing who I am, and being honest enough to say I am not what Christina should settle for. So do I love her? Yeah, by doing that, I’d say I love her more than I love anyone. But my love? My version is going to be half of what she needs, wants, and deserves. How can anyone be in a relationship with someone who can’t stand being touched or touching another person? I’m not a social moron, I know what touching means to almost everyone else. People in general, hug, slap shoulders, shake hands, hold hands, kiss cheeks and lips, and squeeze arms, or shoulders. It’s constantly in my face, and all the time, although most people don’t realize it. Take the thing you fear the most and visualize all day long, people coming at you with your fear, challenging you. That is what touching means to me.

  I can’t have a normal relationship with a normal girl. And for me, Christina is the girl, not just a normal girl. She’s everything extraordinary I think a girl can be. So, no, I’
m not for her.

  She turns and starts across the beach, her flip-flops making loud slaps. Her anger is nearly radiating off her. I follow her across the now dark, silent beach. Everyone else seems to have gone. We go to her car. She drove tonight. I throw my stuff in the back seat and slide into the passenger’s seat. She does the same. I hate the small, cramped space. My legs poke up near where her hand pulls back the gearshift. I feel a tremor go through me as she’s too close to touching me, and I want to simply lie down and give up. Even now, this moment, after breaking her heart, along with my own, I still cringe at her closeness. The stab of self-loathing is strong.

  Her hands grip the steering wheel too tightly. I can see her lower lip being pressed into her mouth as if she’s sucking on it. She’s trying to hold herself together, and not cry. Trying not to react to what I said to her. Trying not to feel hurt. I know every single thing she thinks and feels. I know what I did to her. I know it with a clarity I won’t share with anyone else. It makes it worse, and punishes me more, which, in many ways, I crave. I deserve that.

  We drive in total silence. It feels like a living, breathing entity has joined us in the car. How can energy, especially negative energy, feel so real? But it does. It makes me grip the handle hanging from the roof of the car as I sway with her sharp turns and quick stops. I don’t comment when she finally stops her car with a screech in my driveway. I glance up. It’s a huge, old, grand home that Noah restored to its original magnificence over the last decade. I don’t deserve it. This place I live in and the people who care for me are much too good for my kind. Most of all, I don’t deserve the girl I just hurt. Maybe it’s time to quit the fantasy that someday, maybe, I could have her, or turn out right for her. Maybe I did this because it’s way too hard to be friends with her. That much is very true. I can’t really hide it anymore. We need to be separate.