After Swan Lae:

Wednesday, May 22

Paul sent me a message early in the morning: "Let's make it 5 tonight. Casual, wear comfy shoes."

I was so preoccupied with my evening plans that the day dragged on agonizingly slowly. I could tell Hanna was getting more suspicious too, which gave me all kinds of guilt. Not only was I hiding major life stuff from my best friend, I couldn't even talk through the mess of thoughts and emotions roiling within me.

When I got home, I immediately turned out my closet. He said casual, but obviously I still wanted to look cute, or sexy, or something.

Eventually, I landed on a mid-length flared cotton skirt; white with a blue floral pattern. I paired it with a yellow tank top that ended just above my belly button, and a gauzy white button up shirt over it.

I had time to shower and fix my hair, but I still had no idea what we were doing. I decided to play it safe with my usual Dutch braids.

The skirt was translucent enough that I needed to be careful picking underwear. I went with a lacy, pale pink thong and matching bra.

I decided on very light makeup: foundation, soft eyeliner, chap stick. With some perfume and my white sneakers, I was ready to go at 4:57. I had been building up to this the entire day, and paced the front of the house anxiously.

Paul pulled in at 5:10, and I came out the front door. He looked totally relaxed and classic: hair somehow windswept, but perfectly arranged. Tortoiseshell JFK sunglasses, off-white linen shirt, dark jeans. It probably took him longer to drive the two blocks to my house than it did to get ready. Jerk.

"You're late."

"It's 5:10," he said, slightly surprised. "I thought you might need extra time to get ready."

"I'm a dancer," I said, closing the car door. "I can change my entire outfit in under three minutes."

Maybe it was a slight exaggeration.

"OK, but how many times did you change before you landed on the lovely ensemble you're wearing right now?"

I shot him a look without answering. "So where are you taking me? You didn't give me any hints."

He answered me by backing out of the driveway with a faint smile on his face.

After a minute or two, his hand found its way over to my side of the car, and I pulled it up to my cheek. I kissed his fingers and watched his face as he drove. As usual, he smelled amazing. (I still hadn't figured out what it was though.)

"Seven," I said.

"Samurai?"

"What?"

"Never mind," he said with a laugh. "Seven what?"

"I tried seven outfits. This was number three."

He grinned. "I don't know what the other ones looked like, but you do look beautiful in that one."

I squeezed his hand and ran my fingertips along his forearm. "So where are you taking me?"

"That depends; how hungry are you?"

"Eight."

"OK, eight hungry," he said. "I assume that's on a ten scale?"

"Yes, but it's zero-indexed."

"You could've just said 'near starvation' or something," he said, shaking his head.

"That sounds like a history teacher's level of precision."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, but only on account of your pretty-pretty face," he said. "There might be a mint in the arm rest if you don't think you're going to make it."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of rummaging the arm rest. Ten minutes later we pulled off near a bright blue shack with faded yellow awning.

Between the gravel lot and the building, there were red wooden picnic tables with umbrellas that matched the awning. It pulled off the delicate trick that all truly great roadside seafood places need to manage: looking shabby, but not so bad as to be off-putting. Same goes for Chinese and Italian restaurants. The best ones have plastic tablecloths.

I gasped and said: "Shut up. It's like you

know

me."

"The transitive power of Costello's Pizza," he replied with a shrug.

"You know Rutilius," I said, getting out of the car. "You make a pretty adequate boyfriend."

I closed the door before he could respond.

"Just for that," he said as we walked away from the car, "you're buying."

"I forgot my wallet," I said blithely.

"You can pay with your phone."

"Oh, is that a thing? I'll have to look into it."

"Keep it up, Cameron," he said. "Next stop? You won't know what hit you."

I leaned into him and took his hand again. Pitched my voice low and sultry. "Will it be anything like what hit me Saturday night? Because I'd be OK with that."

"I'll remember you said that."

I bit my lip and nodded at him as we reached the window. I ordered for both of us: a bucket of clams, two lobster rolls, and lemonade.

We grabbed a picnic table and waited for our food. He asked me a little bit about ballet classes starting back up, and what kind of stuff we did when we weren't prepping a show.

"When I had the nightmare," I started, changing the subject. "You told me that story about the forest. Was it true?"

"Of course it's true."

"Have you ever told anyone else? Why did you tell me?"

"No," he said. "It's not particularly secret or anything; it just doesn't really come up. But it's the most at-peace I've ever felt. Thinking about it still helps me relax or calm down when I get worked up about something. I thought I could sort of transfer some of that over to you when you needed it."

As he spoke, I studied his face. I felt a thousand invisible threads emanating from deep within my chest. They pulled me toward this man who seemed to know so much without being told. I visualized ethereal strands of luminous, ineffable filament binding us together. Closer every moment, every look, every conversation. I wondered if he felt anything similar.

The sound of his voice broke my trance. Low and slightly uncertain.

"Shelly, can I ask you a serious question?"

My mind was swimming and I blinked at him a few times. "Should I be worried?"

"You asked me if this is real, and I told you it is."

Uh oh. Where was this going?

"I meant it," he said, "but we haven't talked about what comes next. You graduate in a couple weeks. That's a major life transition. Does your plan have room for me? For us?"

They called our order as he was saying this, which gave me an extra moment to think while he grabbed the tray of food.

"I don't have a firm plan," I said as we started eating. "I did some auditions and sent out some video earlier this year for professional training programs, but I'm waiting for the decisions."

"OK, where are these programs?"

"There are a bunch in the city, so, you know, not far..."

"It sounds like maybe that sentence ends somewhere else."

"Princeton."

"And?"

"L.A."

"Anywhere else?"

"Atlanta, Chicago, Denver. I have my heart set on New York though. It's just... really competitive."

"I can imagine," he said, looking thoughtful.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? Having dreams?"

"I don't know, I keep asking you if this is real--if you're serious--and I basically just admitted I'm leaving town as soon as possible."

"I can't stay here and be with you anyway." His voice was smooth, reassuring. "I would rather be with you than be here, but I know that's a lot. We don't have to talk it to death, but I'd be glad to know what you're thinking. How you're feeling."

"I don't even understand my feelings. I don't like the secrecy, but you make me feel safe. Comfortable. Like this is how it's always been. I don't know, am I crazy? Rushing?"

"It happened quickly, but you're not crazy." He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. "That first night, when I walked you home? If you hadn't told me to kiss you, walking away would've been the hardest thing I ever had to do."

"I was so nervous, but it felt like I would regret it forever if I didn't."

"I don't know if it makes me the crazy one, but I haven't had a single doubt or second thought."

As we finished our (excellent) food, I told him about Mr. and Mrs. Holland, and how she said it felt when they met.

"How long were they married?" he asked.

"I'm not sure exactly. Maybe 40 years? Probably longer. They got married in 1968. He's been gone a while; as long as I've known her. I'll have to ask her next time I see her."

He was quiet on the ride to our next destination, which turned out to be medieval fantasy-themed mini golf, complete with dragon climbing a castle spire.

I persuaded him use a hot pink ball because the blue one matched my skirt. Also because it made me laugh. We mostly had the place to ourselves, and played through in a leisurely 45 minutes. We were pretty even the whole time, but he managed to beat me on the last two holes.

"Loser buys ice cream, right?" he asked.

"I didn't bring my wallet, remember? Besides, it's not quite warm enough for ice cream."

We held hands and strolled back to the car. "I might consider providing a consolation prize though."

"I would never describe that as a consolation prize," he said, leaning over to kiss me after we got in the car. His fingertips traced the outline of my ear as the tip of his tongue gently parted my lips. I felt the threads pulling again, gentle but insistent. It made me feel vulnerable, like an essential part of me now resided outside my body.

"I may not have a plan," I said, looking into his eyes, "but I want you in my life. Will you make room for me?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

The pulling sensation got stronger. It felt like such a small moment, but it fundamentally altered the way I thought about us. "Let's go home."

I was surprised when we arrived at my house, and it must've shown on my face.

"What's wrong?" Paul asked. "You do still live here, right?"

"N-nothing. Yes," I sputtered. "I just didn't expect us to come back here."

"You said 'home,' I just assumed...." He gestured toward the house.

"No, you're right. That makes sense," I was still tongue-tied. "Um, I think I'd rather go to your place. If you--if that's OK?"

"Sure."

He didn't seem particularly bothered, so I wasn't sure why I was so flustered. I tried to put it out of my mind when we arrived at his house.

Inside, I took his hand before he could say anything, and quietly led him up to the bedroom. The room was softly lit by the day's last copper rays of sunlight spilling around closed blinds. I shrugged off the shirt I wore over my tank top before turning to face him. I unbuttoned his shirt and slipped my hands inside.

I held him tight and let all of my feelings wash over me. Excitement. Confusion. Longing. Anxiety. The precariousness of it all. After a moment, the noise inside my head faded. I think Paul sensed some of what was happening; he hardly moved except to put his hands on the small of my back. His breathing was slow and even. Steadier than mine.

"Shell, are you OK?" he asked softly. "We can just go relax on the couch if you want."

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and nudged him to lay on the bed, putting my head over his heart.

"That's not it," I said as he stroked my hair. "All night, it's been like there's something inside my body pulling me toward you. I feel it--physically--and it scares me. I'm just feeling, I don't know, vulnerable."

He held me quietly in the fading light and I listened to his heart, felt his breathing.

"You know C.S. Lewis?" he said after several minutes. "

Chronicles of Narnia

? I don't know the exact quote, but he wrote something like 'To love is to be vulnerable. If you love anything, your heart will be wrung and may be broken.' I'm sure I couldn't say it better."

I kept listening to his heart, trying to be as close to him as I could get. After a time, I ran my hands up his chest and I moved so I could kiss him again. As his lips moved to my neck, I whispered to him: "I need you."

He pulled the tank top over my head, and started kissing along my collarbone, slowly drifting lower. I ran my fingers through his thick, soft hair as he unclasped my bra. His mouth kept going until I felt his lips brush my nipple. I sighed softly as I felt a warming sensation flowing through my body, like I was melting into his touch.

He kept his oral attentions focused on my breasts, but his hands danced across my flat belly, flirting with the waistline of my skirt. My own fingers started working on his belt, and then his jeans.

I moved down his body as I pulled off the last of his clothing. I kissed the inside of his legs, ran my fingertips down his abs until they grazed the base of his shaft, kept going lower as I brought my mouth closer. I ran my tongue up the length of him, lightly, all the way to the tip.

I slowly pushed him between my lips, wanting him to savor the feeling of my mouth opening to him, working in concert with my hands. I could taste his desire, felt the warmth in myself that meant the same. I held him softly in my mouth, moving slowly, letting my tongue explore his prominent ridge.

His low groan told me it had the desired effect, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could go without our full union.

I took him deeper into my mouth, swallowing as I felt him near the back of my throat. My hands moved to my own hips, pushing my skirt and panties down my thighs. I ran a finger between my legs and felt the accumulation of my own excitement.

I reveled in the satisfied noises emanating from Paul's throat, but could no longer defer my craving to hold him within me. I positioned myself over him. Guiding his tip along the length of my slit sent waves of pleasure through me. We hung like that for a moment, until I felt myself yielding to his entry. I went as slowly as my body would allow, staring deeply into his eyes the whole time, until I fully enveloped him. Even at that, I pushed down harder, trying to slake my overwhelming need for fullness.

I leaned down over him, putting my mouth to his ear. "That's my second-favorite part."

His voice rumbled from deep down in his chest: "It takes my breath away every time, but what's your favorite part?"

He squeezed my hips as I was grinding into him, the pressure of his skin against me steadily building my pleasure. I put my hand down between his legs, my fingers gently squeezing and caressing.

"The part where I feel you empty yourself into me."

He put his hand on the back of my neck, gently pulled me to his face. We kissed deeply, hungrily, and I slowly rocked my hips. I felt his tongue urgently pressing into my mouth, his hands pulling me into him.

I paused to roll onto the bed. I laid on my stomach and felt his weight on top of me. I welcomed the pressure on my body as he slipped back inside. He was incredibly hard, and the change in position meant he was pressing down at an angle, giving me a completely different sensation of his motion. I thought that was mind-blowing until he worked his hand down to my sex. He pushed deep into me and held still, steadily wiggling his finger against me.

I buried my face in his pillow and pushed back into him as hard as I could. Within seconds I started to orgasm. I moaned and writhed with pleasure as he patiently kept me at my peak.

I couldn't take much more, and eventually pulled his hand up to my mouth. I tasted myself on his fingers as he started moving his hips again, then I took his thumb between my lips. I gently bit the digit before I started using my mouth the way I had with his manhood earlier.

By now his strokes were fast and deep. I could hear my own wetness with his every movement. He pulled back, nearly withdrawing from my clutches, then pushed hard all the way back into me. I didn't want it to end, but I was desperate to feel him throbbing, to feel his essence flooding my body.

I pushed my legs together and arched my hips ever so slightly, hoping to grip him even tighter. He immediately let out a low groan.

"I want to feel it, Paul. Just let go. I want to feel you come inside me."

He lasted another two strokes before slamming back into me as deep as he would go. I pushed back as I felt him pulsing. The pulling sensation in my chest had been replaced by a radiant warmth as I took his most intimate gift into myself. I was overwhelmed with emotions. Pleasure, relief, joy, connection. I managed not to cry, but I felt my chest swell and open to him.

He collapsed on the bed next to me, and as he did I rolled on my side to keep us joined. His arms were around me, and we were both slick with sweat, breathing hard.

We stayed like that until he fell out of me. I turned to face him in the darkness.

"Definitely my favorite part," I said softly, kissing his face.

"Shell," he whispered. "I don't have words. Mind-blowing doesn't even begin to describe it, but are you sure we should?"

"As sure as anyone can be. I told you I wouldn't lie to you. I'm not going to spring something on you without your enthusiastic participation."

We held each other until well after the last blue light of dusk faded. I looked over at the clock: 9:03. I groaned and sat up.

"Fuck I don't want to do anything tomorrow."

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

"It's all your fault anyway."

He sighed back at me and I kissed him again before gathering my clothes to go back to the house where I kept most of my things.

###

Thursday, May 23

Presentation day.

I had never been more nervous about an assignment in my life. My stomach was in knots. I hadn't slept well. I was a mess of conflicting emotions.

Paul and I hadn't actually talked about the project much. At this point, I didn't care about the grade. Not really. But at the same time, I wanted my work to stand on its own merit. My mind also kept drifting back to glimpses of the life I desperately wanted to be my reality.

I had picked out my clothes earlier in the week and kept the braids from Wednesday night. Silk blouse in lilac purple, simple and classic, over black pinstriped slacks that make my butt look awesome. Black flats.

I tried to eat a bowl of cereal, but the first few bites didn't sit well. I dumped it and started gathering my things. I figured I would use the extra time to go over my notes again.

I stepped out the front door into a shockingly clear morning. The air was slightly cool and dewy. I took a deep breath, trying to settle myself. I caught a hint of wood smoke on the air, like a neighbor had lit their fireplace.

The birds--particularly the crows--were noisier than usual. I listened closely, wondering at the messages they called back and forth.

As I walked, the smell got stronger. It seemed odd; I didn't think any of the houses in our neighborhood had a wood-burning fireplace.

As I continued walking, I became aware of another sound. Faint; mixed in with the birds. It was so similar I almost missed it, but it was recognizably artificial. A particularly insistent chime or bell.

In an instant, everything snapped into focus. The source of both the sound and the smell was just ahead. A painfully familiar yellow house with beautiful front garden. My own hands had dug in the rich, cool earth of that garden just days ago.

I ran.

Dropping my bag in the front yard, I hit the front door hard and bounced off. I tried again with the same result. After a moment of frantic searching, I grabbed one of the bricks lining the front path, put it through the glass. I reached inside to open the door.

Thicker, blacker smoke lazily billowed across the threshold. Up into the bright, beautiful morning. I tried to stay low as I called out to Mrs. Holland.

The smoke seemed to be coming from the back of the house, so I headed in that direction. Entering the kitchen, I tripped over something. I picked it up and realized it was a fire extinguisher. She had to be in there.

I still couldn't see any flames, but the heat in the room was beyond comprehension, agonizing. I was on the verge of turning back, when I saw a still, irregular shape on the floor. I reached out and felt fabric over flesh. Muscle, bone. A shoulder maybe.