Chapter 8

"Elle, you've heard him," Nicole was saying. "He tells you all the time that he thinks you're attractive. It's not something you have to worry about."

"Yeah, but I don't just want him to say I'm pretty," Elle gritted. "I want to be pretty."

"You are pretty," Nicole said. "Go ask some of the other people down the hall if you have to, but—"

A knock on the door interrupted them. For an instant Elle panicked—was Tom here already??—but then she glanced at the little clock Nicole had placed on a shelf next to the mirror, and saw that it wasn't nearly time yet. She went to the door and opened it.

It was David. He understood her rather elaborate state of dress in an instant; he had always been quick on the draw. "Wow. Umm. Is this a bad time?"

"David, you tell her," Nicole said. "She's got a big date with Tom in ten minutes and she isn't sure she looks nice." Nicole had been just as flabbergasted with David's presence as Elle had been, but he'd been coming by, or Elle swinging by his room, almost daily for the entire year. Now it was Valentine's Day, and Nicole was as accustomed to his presence as Elle was.

David gave her a practiced appraisal. "Well, obviously I'm biased, but I think you look lovely. That's the shirt you were talking about from Abercrombie, right? You were right about the color."

Nicole giggled. "He has really good fashion sense, you know."

"Well, of course," Elle said, a little miffed. "I trained him."

As Nicole went back out of the closet compartment to accomplish whatever she was going to accomplish that night, David stepped in close for a low conversation. "You're going back to his place tonight, I assume?"

She questioned that statement with a glance.

"Well, you said that you thought it was ... time. For you two to become ... Better acquainted. And, if it is time, then you can hardly bring him here. Not with Nicole around."

That much was true. "Yeah, but..." She actually hadn't thought it out very far. "The thing is, Tom lives with his parents. I mean, their house is ten minutes away."

"Do they like you?"

"Yeah, they seem to ... But going there to chat and watch TV is different than going there to, you know, do stuff. In his bedroom. Alone."

"So you're not going to his house."

"But I'm not going here either. Not with Nicole in the picture."

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"No, I ... Well, what am I gonna say? She'd..."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Heart attack. Umm ... Do you want me to bring her with me?" He and some friends—guys and girls both—were having a "Singles' Appreciation Day" bowling night, on the premise that this way they'd get to fondle somebody's balls. The funny part was, David's roommate and his girlfriend were going, 'in solidarity with their singleton brethren.' "I mean, we're not leaving until like seven-thirty, and we'll probably just hang out in my room afterwards, which should give you some time. At least until 10. And they won't traumatize her; they aren't gonna drink or make a mess or anything. They're not that type."

"Would you?" she said. "That would solve all my problems."

"Sure," he said.

"Really? It wouldn't be a bother?"

"Not at all," said David. "She's a nice kid. And besides, I gotta help you have the most memorable night you can." He smiled.

"Jeez, I totally owe you," Elle said. "Next time you need your roommate sexiled, I ... Well, what? I'll probably have to seduce him to even the debt."

David burst out laughing. "Nellie!"

"Well, he is pretty hot," Elle said.

"Nellie," David laughed, "your boyfriend is gonna be here in three minutes to take you out on Valentine's Day. Can't you keep your thing in your pants for five minutes?"

"Excuse me," she said. "You're the one with a thing in your pants."

"Nellie, we both knew that you were the guy in our relationship."

There was no arguing with that.

The two of them left the closet partition and sat and talked with Nicole. Elle was reminded again of just how easily David had become 'one of the girls.' Most of the time, when men were in the room Nicole was shy—polite, and not withdrawn, but not animated or particularly engaged. It was only when the boys were gone that she really came out of her shell ... Well, any boy except David, at least. Two weeks ago, Elle and Nicole had noticed that their periods had become synchronized—a discovery that involved a lot of questions and some Internet research, since Nicole had no idea that this sort of thing actually happened. They'd discussed the intricacies and confusions of the female body—from synchronized cycles to heavy flow days—while David sat on Elle's bed, occasionally contributing his own perspective, without Nicole asking him to leave the room or, indeed, expressing discomfort at his presence. Was it just because she was used to him? Or was it something about David himself? Elle thought it was some of both.

There was a knock on the door, and Tom appeared through the makeshift curtain Nicole had hung across the door to the closet compartment. "Hello? Tom Gilmore here, seeking one Elle Mayer." His eyes alighted on her, and lit up. "Ooh. My dear, you look lovely."

She felt her cheeks flush. "Thanks."

"Miss Smith, Mister Glass," said Tom. "Please excuse me for depriving you of Miss Elle's company, but I believe we have an appointment." This formal speech pattern was just something he would do for the first five minutes or so; they'd all gotten used to it by now. She slid off the bed, he offered her his arm, and with a wave to her friends, they were off.

One of the advantages to dating someone who was native to the area was that they—and by 'they, ' of course she meant Tom—knew all the local hideouts and hangouts. When spending time with friends who were, like her, from other areas (or even other states, like Nicole), nobody could ever decide what to do or where to do it, because they just didn't know the geography. (David and his pals, for instance. Singles' Appreciation Day was all well and good, but, bowling?? Just about the only thing dinkier would've been an Easter Egg hunt.) But Tom knew every good restaurant—and every bad one—for miles around (or could find out, pretty quickly), and that advice was serving her well. She was even getting to be popular in David's circle—his roommate Paul, Paul's girlfriend Stacy; their friend Angus Rocklinson who preferred to be called Rock; Jessie Schaefer, Don Wilson, Karina Mandelskaya—because she had a lot more knowledge about the local hotspots. Tonight Tom was taking her to a celebrated Indian restaurant; she'd never been to one before, but one try couldn't hurt, could it?

"So, Elle," said Tom as they drove. "A lot of the time I come by, I see David hanging around with you guys."

Elle felt a jab of irritation. Did this have to come up? Again? "Oh?" she said.

"I thought you two had broken up," Tom said.

"We have. But ... We're still friends."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I mean, you know. There was a lot we had together. We decided not to give up on it." She shrugged.

In truth, his presence made such a difference in her life. She felt saner, more balanced. Even if everything was going wrong in her life, there was someone she could fall back on—someone who would be sane and stable, who would think clearly, who could help her make sense of her life. And she could contemplate spending time with Tom, being with Tom, even making love to Tom, without that overriding sense of panic. Because David was in her life now; she had her center back. She no longer had to hesitate, to hold back, to wonder what she would have to give up in order to bring everything back into balance—in order to, well, to have David in her life again. Because he was. And now she was free.

Every now and then, she caught herself wondering if it was healthy to be this way—to need him so much that she couldn't function properly without him. Then she stopped wondering. Whether it is or not, it's who you are right now. And you have more important things to worry about.

"Let me guess," she said. "You feel like he's a bit of a threat."

"Well..." said Tom. "I'd have to be superhuman not to wonder. But if you say he isn't, then he isn't." He smiled.

It wasn't what she had expected to hear. "Do you mean it?"

"I mean it," he said. "I mean, we all have friends. And sometimes we have history with those friends. Some of those histories are just ... more extensive than others. As long as it doesn't cause problems, I don't see what the issue is."

"Cause problems?" she said. "To you?"

He gave a shrug. " ... To anybody. I mean, what about friends who aren't, actually? Who are just dragging you down?"

She thought about Shelly Baumgarter and the manipulation she liked to use. "If there was something like that, you'd be concerned?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, even if it wasn't bothering you directly? If it wasn't your business?"

"Shouldn't I be?" he asked, smiling.

The kindness of his heart always amazed her. "I wish there were more people like you in the world."

The Indian restaurant was, perhaps predictably, filled with Indians; more of them than she'd realized they there were out here. The food was spicy but flavorful, with an emphasis on sauces and creams. The naan bread was her favorite, especially when Tom said to order it with garlic; he showed her how to dip it in the leftover sauce from her chicken vindaloo. Even better, the restaurant offered a buffet option, so she could try anything. And did.

Tom was a complete gentleman throughout, offering to seat her, getting her water, suggesting good food ideas. They had never lacked for anything to talk about; though they didn't share too many interests, he could make anything seem interesting, and could listen to almost anything. Today their conversation wandered the gamut, from Elle's most difficult class (Calculus) to her easiest (intro to Digital Photo Editing, a prerequisite for many of the more advanced and interesting things in the future) to politics and religion (particularly Nicole's, which were convoluted enough to provide endless talking potential even before being put into the context of college) to the general irrelevancies of university life. They had had many such conversations over the last five months, and Elle knew a lot about him now.

Tom was an only child, whose father was a mid-level corporate manager; his mother had been the real breadwinner for a while, giving up her job only when Tom came along and when his dad started to get promoted. Tom had grown up lucky: no siblings to compete with, enough money to live comfortably, friends and family everywhere he looked. As a child he had loved soccer, which had only worked to his benefit as girls became more interesting to him. But as he matured, the exertion of sports (and the incompetence of his fellow players) began to lose its appeal. He had felt the need to begin to contribute something, to leave something behind. "I started to realize that soon nobody would remember me. It wasn't that good, I wasn't that talented, I wasn't that skilled. And I wanted to be remembered. It's ... you know. It's the wish of every human being: to leave something behind. To leave something lasting, and eternal, and permanent. It's why people do art, it's why people do architecture or sculpture, it's why people have babies. They want to be ... They want to still be there, after they themselves are gone."

The shape his need had taken was paint. He had loved the malleability, the texture, of oil paints from an early age, and played around for fun; but it took until a high-school art class for him to remember just how much he loved it. He began to spend more time practicing, more time experimenting. "I don't claim to have any particular skill," he said. "I just got lucky. All the things they used to tell me about—texture, lighting, perspective—I just happened to understand naturally. So I can do this stuff without having to work on it or think about it; I can just do stuff that other people have to learn. That makes me talented; that makes me lucky. It doesn't make me good."

"Well, doesn't it?" she had asked him.

"No. 'Good' is a measure of skill. I might not have any skill. Just talent. And talent isn't something you earn or create, it's something you just get given. Or not. Something is only 'good' when you have to sweat over it."

She had to disagree. She had seen some of his paintings, and they were good. He did not constrain himself by style; one piece might be in the spare calligraphic lines of Chinese art, the next photorealistic to the extreme, and a third iconic, with bold lines and minimal shading. His best work combined multiple techniques into an idiosyncratic mishmash of dreamy depiction; her favorite of his was a semi-nude woman whose clothes seemed to become either wings or clouds, perhaps both. The woman looked perfectly right, so realistic as to seem like a photo, but with dreamy, pearl-washed lighting that made the transition from mundane (the woman) to fantastic (the clouds/wings) not only believable, but inevitable. He said his favorite artists were Edgar Degas, Salvador Dali and Ian McConville.

Tom said he didn't tell most people about his painting, because he wasn't yet sure how it would be received. "It's such a dying art form nowadays. I mean, they're doing all sorts of cool things on the computer, yeah ... But if you can do it on the computer, you can do it on canvas too. And I figure, why not stick to the old methods? That's how I challenge myself. I don't wanna give up just 'cuz it's easier to do it some other way. If it can be done, I wanna do it." Now he was a sophomore, a year older than her, and well on his way to proving that you didn't need a modern computer to make digital-quality art ... Just some paint, some canvas, and a whole lot of patience.

It was impossible to overstate how easy he was to get along with. He didn't seem to have a single bit of malice in his body. David had been present at some of their more casual hang-outs before, and not once had Tom made any comment, but simply accepted the other man's presence as the natural state of things. He was consistently positive, preferring to look at the bright side of life; he was amenable, easy to compromise with, deeply empathetic. It was as opposite from Weston as she could imagine. Her whole life felt more comfortable with David in it, so he probably had something to do with how much she felt at ease in Tom's presence. But some of it was doubtlessly Tom himself too.

And here she was, chatting with him, riding in his car, ready to sleep with him after only five months. Clearly, Weston could take lessons. And David too. Maybe constantly wheedling her about something was not the right way to go.

True to David's word, Nicole was nowhere in sight when Elle and Tom got back. They passed the time with inconsequential banter—mostly observing just how much their clothes smelled like food now—but after a little while Tom began suggesting that perhaps he should leave.

"Leave?" she said. "Why? What makes you say that?"

"Well..." he said, clearly picking his words with some care. "You're here. And I'm here. And your roommate's not. And ... It's Valentine's Day. And, call me a pig, but ... My mind is going in certain directions."

She leaned in to kiss him. "Why do you think my roommate's not here?"

She let him take the lead again—let him reach for her, draw her into his arms, kiss her. She wanted to see where he would take this. There were certain things she could predict, of course: he'd play with her breasts, he'd wander down between her legs, eventually he would mount her. But she wanted to see how he did it.

And she was surprised: he took his time.

David had known exactly what to do with her, of course; knowledge borne of long experience and plenty of experimentation. He could bring her to orgasm more quickly than anyone else (herself included), knew how to play her like an instrument and delay her climax so that, when it came, it was earth-shattering. That was gone from her. Weston hadn't known any of these things; how could he? But, if the one time they'd done it was any indication, he probably wouldn't have bothered to learn. He saw what he wanted, and took it, and his only concession to her pleasure was to make sure she was aroused before he took the plunge. Weston would not have made a good lover.

Tom was making a much better showing. He spent time exploring, experimenting, whispering—telling her how beautiful she was, asking her if she liked what he was doing. He didn't just go straight for her nipples; he spent his time kissing his way around her breasts, paying attention to her reactions. She wasn't surprised he found the really sensitive spot, off to the side around her ribcage. His eyes lit up when he saw her shiver.

He began to divest her of her pants as they kissed, and once she was completely bare he kissed his way down her body—wandering, in no particular rush, going (evidently) wherever whimsy led him. He paid a lot of attention to her inner thighs. She didn't know whether he was going to go down on her or not; Weston's complaint, that she had a lot of hair down there, was a perfectly valid one, and it hadn't occurred to her to try to tame that mess before tonight. Would he— Was he brave enough to—

He was.

He laid gentle, delicate kisses all down the length of her slit, before beginning to lick his way up. His tongue felt smaller, less intense, than had David's, but she thought she liked his better—Tom had a delicate, teasing touch. Though, of course, she wasn't sure she quite wanted that now.

Though all she could only see him from the nose up now, she could feel. His tongue began to tease its way around her mound—painting little flyspeck kisses on her outer lips, and the her inner lips, and then beginning to separate them. Its little wet point slid into the crevice between her inner and outer lips, stopping to pivot back and forth when he found that one secret place she loved—she saw his eyebrows bob before her eyes rolled back—and then continuing its journey. She felt it leaf through her petals, turning them one way and then the other, before finally descending on her flower itself, and especially the little bud at the top that now longed for attention.

But again he surprised her. He began to kiss his way around her vulva again, and then took her inner lip between his own and sucked on it. It was not something that had ever particularly thrilled her, not now and not then, and he soon gave over; but she was glad that he had tried. His next trick was to slide his tongue inside her as far as it would go—which was not very far; one downside to his particular endowment. But he made it up by licking around the inside of her pussy—something completely new to her, since David had never done that (or, really, needed to). And when his lips finally closed around her clit, the relief was so intense it nearly sent her over.

He began to suck on her clit, gently, and then with increasing intensity. His tongue went to work as well, gliding over its surface. Her fingers gripped the bedspread; her hips flexed, her body arching; she must be moaning, but she could not hear herself above the rushing of blood in her ears. She had just enough sapience to recognize a master at work—whoever had trained him, or whoever he had taught himself this worship with, had been a very lucky woman. Then, his lips still tight around her clit, he hummed, sending a vibrating signal straight to her core.

Then she was gone. She felt her body clenching, felt her release pouring from her, heard her own voice crying out in ecstasy as pleasure rushed over her: her first orgasm from someone who wasn't her, in more than three years.

Her chest was heaving, her body dewed with sweat. She forced her fingers to uncurl, her arms to unlock. As he climbed his way back up, she found movement again, and pulled him (blindly, for her eyes were not quite in focus yet) over to kiss him. "You..." she gasped between kisses. "Are ... Amazing."

She could feel the curve of his smile when she kissed him. "Thank you, darling."

"Has ... Anybody ... Told you that?"

"Umm ... Well, I hate to sound like I'm bragging, but ... Yes, they have." The grin—now that she could see it—was positively smug.

"Well," she said, for lack of any better response. Was it bragging to acknowledge a true talent? Was it humility to disavow it? "Well, one good turn deserves another, and, as soon as I have stopped being turned to jelly, I'm gonna do the same to you."

"Take your time, my dear," he said with a smile, "we have all the time in the world."

"Yeah," Elle grumbled, "at least until Nicole gets back at 10..."