The "Impact" series began as a collaboration with ButteredCrumpet who has posted our original versions* as "Impact of Collision".
For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.
Special thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for proof reading this chapter - repeatedly.
Impact of Repentance
"MOTHER OF GOD!"
I'd been
so
close to cumming when I heard my phone vibrate and saw it light up with an incoming text.
I lunged for the bedside table, grabbed at my phone with wet fingers and lost my balance - that's when I started sliding off the bed, helpless to stop myself as I slowly, slowly crashed to the floor. I was lying face down and naked in a heap, staring at Kwasi's text in dawning horror.
Hey, Claire is looking for you. Is everything ok?
"What the shit!?!" I squeaked, toggling to the menu, and that's when I finally saw all of Claire's texts.
Did you get my voicemail? Did Wes make his bus?
"FUCK!" I felt my stomach drop as I realized it was Claire who left the voicemail, not my mother - that was hours ago. I forced myself to keep reading.
Is everything OK? Your bag is here, I thought you were coming back - please let me know where you are.
Sarah, why aren't you answering me? I'm worried, please tell me where you are.
I don't know what to do, I wish you'd just reply.
"GOD No! No! No! NOOO!" I screamed at the phone, seeing there were also three missed calls from Claire while I slept, and I realized how royally I'd fucked up. Claire had been trying to reach me all day.
'She thinks I'm mad, that I'm ghosting her,' I thought. My stomach felt like lead.
I started to write a response and then dropped my phone, jumped up to get dressed and then dropped that idea too. I grabbed my phone and pushed my feet into a pair of boots and wrapped myself in my little trench coat and ran out the door. The whole operation couldn't have taken more than ten seconds.
I clattered down the stairs. Of course the only boots that were immediately on hand were my knee-high black leather Nine West
come-fuck-me's
. I was lucky not to break an ankle in my mad dash out the door, never mind the fucking stairs. As I all but slid down the first flight I wondered idly if anyone had ever run down these steps in four inch stiletto heels before. But even as I came dangerously close to wiping out halfway down the second flight I found myself imagining the decades of Times Square pimps and hookers who must have haunted these steps in their platform heels, and decided it's probably happened thousands of times.
'Welcome to the big city, New Girl,' I chided myself as I sped on, picturing a police officer explaining to my mother how I'd been found naked at the bottom of a flight of stairs with my neck broken.
'I'm getting good at this,' I realized as I flew down the last flight of steps and out onto the street. I was still struggling to get the trench all the way closed as I ran.
I could smell the storm. Its great breath was moving through Manhattan, forcing out the dusty burnt ammonia miasma of the warm weather. Fat drops of rain were spattering the sidewalk as I reached the end of the block, but they were still few and far between. It was only there at the avenue, as I saw that there wasn't a cab to hail, that I realized I'd left my wallet in my purse. No money. No credit cards.
So fucked.
Searching my pockets I found an old Metro Card. I had no idea how much was on it...
Looking like a runaway stripper, I bolted for Thirty-Fourth Street.
I knew I should call Claire, but I was scared to. Scared she wouldn't pick up, scared she'd tell me to fuck off. It was then, hobbling as fast as the fucking boots would allow and gasping loudly, that I finally opened Claire's voicemail. Her voice whispering sing-song into my ear.
"Je suis ton pile, Tu es mon face" she hushed. "Toi mon nombril, Et moi ta glace."
She sounded so unsure of herself, faltering at first. I'd frozen, sucking breath, but forcing myself to be quiet so I could hear her. I was going to be that fucking girl again, crying in the street.
"Tu es l'envie et moi le geste, Toi le citron et moi le zeste," she sang, her voice gaining force, her song's rhythm picking up pace. I could hear the smile on her lips. I pushed myself to start moving again, tears burning my eyes.
"Je suis le café, a grande caramel macchiato, tu es la tasse. Toi la guitare et moi la basse." Her voice was high and clear, but the song sounded so different from the first night she had sung it to me. She had sounded saucy and sure of herself backing down the street, swinging her hips, now she sounded like she was begging.
"I was listening to this song, and I was missing you," she explained after a brief pause. "Actually the French is more than 'I miss you', tu me manques, it's that you are missing
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