Authors: Playing Hurt Holly Schindler
“Chelse,” he says, shaking his head.
I kiss him again—kiss him the way he’d kissed me a moment ago, asking for nothing more than this moment. Telling him with my mouth that I only want this, that I am sure of nothing else
but
this. That the only thing right now that is pure and unsoiled and perfect is the way he feels against me.
Clint takes his red cap off and tosses it to the floor. I reach for his Tshirt, pull it over his head. I pull my own T-shirt off, and Clint reaches 173/262
around to my back, unfastening my bra. He searches my eyes for a sign to keep going.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the Chelsea I became after the accident crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot. Frowning, she juts her head forward and starts to repeat the same word over and over again. I can tell, from the shape her lips take, that’s she’s shouting
Gabe, Gabe, Gabe.
But she’s a TV show on mute. Her mouth moves but no sound comes. So it’s easy to turn my back on her. Easy to ignore her, to turn toward Clint, and toward the fiery-hot feelings that ignite inside me. Our fingers start peeling back the rest of each other’s clothes in big chunks—the way I sometimes peel back the husks from fresh corncobs in the summer. Clint slides my bra off and I unbutton his shorts. After we peel back the thickest layers, we start to take away the tiny corn silks that remain: my panties, his underwear, my ponytail holder, his watch. We stand naked in front of each other, studying the many inches of exposed skin.
Clint finally takes my face in his hands and kisses me. As we kiss, I push him toward the shower. Our mouths are still locked as I twist the cold knob full-force, then grope for the hot, adding just enough to take the edge off. We’re still kissing as we step into the cool stream. But these kisses are more … tender, pleading.
Please?
our kisses beg, while answering, at the same time,
yes.
The water pelts us, soaking my hair and Clint’s, making rivers down our bodies, running between our lips.
Clint’s body is glorious. The reality of him far outshines any mere fantasy. The cool shower refuses to squelch the passion that radiates far hotter than the summer sun ever thought about. His hands are everywhere—my breasts, my backside, my thighs. 174/262
I suddenly realize what he’s touching, and I grab his hand. Stare down at my scar. After being pummeled by the shower stream, it looks brutally pink. Raw. Ugly.
But Clint untangles his fingers from my own, traces the outline of my surgical scar. Against the thick tip of his finger, the scar looks tiny by comparison. Actually disappears beneath his hand.
“Show me where your room is,” he mumbles.
I’m already twisting the knob to kill the shower, and we’re hurrying our naked, dripping bodies down the hall.
We fall into a twisted, jumbled mass on the bed as Clint kicks the heavy cover back. We’re like ocean waves that just keep rising and crashing against each other, our wet bodies and hair soaking everything we touch. My arm flies to the purse at my bedside, tugs the zipper down.
Thank God for Fair Grove commencement night at Hill Top-
pers’
, I think as I pull out the box of condoms. Clint grabs the box, tears it open. I close my eyes as our mouths come together, gently. He rustles against me; I’m sure he’s rolling the condom on.
He’s gazing right into my eyes when I finally open them. I can feel him, hard against my inner thigh, breathing hot on my neck. I run my hands down his back, turning my touch as soft as a summer breeze. An engine roars up to the cabin.
Clint frowns, turns his head toward my window. When the engine outside dies, he growls, “You gotta be kidding.” He jumps off the bed like the mattress has teeth and is threatening to bite him.
“What? What?” I ask, panicking.
“Your parents are here,” he says, his feet stomping the floor as he races out of my room.
“
What?
” I repeat, because I’m absolutely sure that I’ve heard him all wrong.
This can’t be happening …
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“Hurry,” Clint yells, even though I’m moving faster than I have since my last game.
Clint’s already fastening the button on his shorts when I burst into the bathroom. He throws his shirt over his head and tries to hand me the jean shorts I’d been wearing a moment ago. But they’re so tight, and my legs are still so wet, I know they’ll only get stuck mid-thigh. And I have no idea where my T-shirt landed. Desperate, I grab one of Brandon’s concert tees from the bag Mom’s using for our dirty clothes, along with the baggy shorts I slept in the night before.
“Come on,” Clint urges, dragging me back down the hall while I’m still hiking up my shorts. He grabs his iced tea off the counter, and we plop into a couple of kitchen chairs just as Mom opens the door.
“What—Chelse?” Mom says, her eyes flying wide behind her glasses at the moment she steps into the kitchen.
“You’re back awfully early,” I say, trying on an innocent tone. It doesn’t fit me any better than a pair of size two jeans would, no matter how hard I try to tug on it.
“Brandon—ah—he forgot his strap,” Mom stutters. “He’s trying to play sitting on a stool, but he’s so miserable not being able to dance—jump—whatever he does—that I decided to come back for it. Your dad’s still at Pike’s.”
“Hey, Mrs. Keyes,” Clint says, waving coolly before raising the glass of tea to his lips.
“Why are you two so wet?” Mom finally asks, through a frown.
“Turned the boat over,” Clint said. “Can you believe it? Not two minutes into our trip.”
“You didn’t get hurt again,” Mom says.
“No, no—Chelsea Keyes, made of steel. Literally,” I try to quip.
“Your clothes dried awfully fast,” Mom says, running her eyes over both of us. She crosses her arms over her chest and tightens her lips at me.
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“I changed,” I say with a shrug.
“Me, too,” Clint adds. “I had some extra stuff in the truck. Chelse was nice enough to let me use your bathroom.”
Is he explaining too
much?
He gulps down his tea so fast I’m sure he gets brain freeze. But he doesn’t show it—tonight, he’s rattled by nothing.
“You don’t have to run off—” Mom begins.
“No, no, that’s all right,” Clint tells her. “I have to get to the lodge. Guy up there does maintenance on the Lake of the Woods boats. I’ll get him to look over that motor on the skiff. Greg’ll kill me if I did any real damage.”
“Which means I can go to Pike’s after all,” I tell Mom with a plastered-on grin.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I insist. “It really wasn’t a big deal.” This could quite possibly be the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
Not a big deal!
I replay what just happened in my room.
Clint pats my shoulder like we were old pals. “See you, Chelse. Thanks for the tea—and better luck next time. Rain check, okay?” He winks.
I nod, watch him grab the fishing poles before he walks out of the kitchen.
“I’ll comb my hair, grab something a little better to wear,” I tell Mom as Clint stomps out of the cabin.
I dash down the hall. But when I think again of what just happened, I can hardly walk—my toes nearly curl under in sheer pleasure. And when I think about how close I’ve just come to losing my virginity, I mostly just feel like I need another shower. Arctic cold, this time. Clint
deflection
I’m on the path just behind the cabin, still hoping I’ll get one more glimpse of Chelsea, when the cabin door flaps open. She’s wearing a sundress that makes me remember Willie Walleye Day … and kissing her that night for the very first time. From this distance, her voice sounds like the bells on wind chimes. Chattering on about Brandon, I think, as I pick up a few stray words here and there. She stands beside the SUV, waiting for her mom to unlock the doors. I’m pretty sure she could never look any more beautiful than she does right now, standing in the soft evening light … because I can tell, by the way her head keeps turning toward the nearby docks and walking trails, that she’s searching for me. Her mom’s on the driver’s side of the SUV when Chelsea finally swivels enough to catch a glimpse of me on the trail. A sly smile spreads as she raises her hand, as if to push hair out of her face. But her hand twists, her fingers flap toward me, and I realize she’s trying to wave at me without her mom noticing.
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Tomorrow
, I mouth, and even though I’ve got to be too far away for Chelsea to read my lips, I swear she nods her head once—as if to agree—before slipping into the SUV and pulling away for the night. I’m whistling as I wander down the dirt path toward the lodge. Whistling, of all the crazy things. But I can’t quit. As I’m walking, I realize I’m jiggling the decoy poles a little so that the bobbers will knock together, jingle. Add a little percussion to my song. I quit when I see her.
She’s swinging her legs from the edge of the dock, a fishing pole at her side. Leaning back on her palms. Wavy chestnut hair going all crazy down her chest. “I finally decided to come out with you,” she says.
“Kenzie,” I say, “I was—” But I don’t have any idea how to finish my sentence. I just sigh, close my mouth.
“Never mind,” she says, shaking her head. “Dumb idea, anyway.”
“No,” I insist, because I feel like a jackass for embarrassing her.
“Let’s go—come on. I’m free for the night, now, my—my group decided not to—ah—”
Everything
I say is stupid. She stands, grabbing up her pole. “Forget it.” She walks to the edge of the dock, her sneakers thunking against the boards. She pats my arm, stares at my soaked hair, smiles. “You’re awfully wet for never having gotten into your boat,” she observes, nodding her head once toward the Minnow. I just stare at her, not sure what to do next.
“Don’t worry,” she says with a laugh. “I’m not going to tell Earl about you and your—
client
.” She wiggles her fingers as she says the last word, framing it in air quotes.
“There’s nothing to tell … Kenzie!” I shout.
But she walks toward the lodge, deaf to my lies. Chelsea
brick
I’m
still
dizzyfrommynear-misswithClintwhenImeetupwithhim in the lodge around noon the next day. All we’re doing is splitting a club sandwich, but as our knees touch under the table, I swear the whole world starts to sparkle like sapphire light on the lake. Kenzie, the girl who’d popped up out of nowhere during Willie Walleye Day to warn me that Clint would
never fall in love with me
, steps out from behind a door branded
Office
. She glares at me and Clint like we’re a couple of high school freshmen engaging in some heavy PDA. I glance back at Clint, worried we’re being horrendously obvious. But my worries evaporate soon enough. Because once we finish up lunch, my thoughts are only of the gorgeous, edible man who pushes me through a door marked
Staff Only
, then presses my back against the wall, sinking a kiss deep against my mouth.
Ha, ha, double ha,
I imagine spitting at Kenzie. Clint starts to pull away from me, then comes back for yet another kiss. 180/262
“See you tonight?” he asks, while the clank and bustle of the lodge—no, of the entire external
world—
comes to me muffled, distant. I’m having to get really creative with my excuses for seeing Clint at night, but I don’t care. I could write a book on lying at this point. I nod, still spinning from his kiss.
“Coming with me when I take a group out orchid hunting this afternoon, too, aren’t you?” he murmurs into my neck.
Yes, yes, yes—anywhere. I’ll go anywhere with you.
We ease ourselves out of the narrow hallway that leads to the break room, drop each other’s hands, and walk oh-so-innocently into the lobby.
“Chelsea,” Earl shouts, waving me over to the pay phone. “Just in time. You have a phone call.”
“That’s weird,” I say with a light shrug.
Clint nods once toward the bulletin board on the opposite end of the lobby, an
I’ll wait here
motion
.
Stands below the picture of me and my walleye—still the #1 biggest catch of the summer.
“Chelsea?” the familiar voice barks as soon as I pick up the receiver.
“
Gabe
,” I say, before I can stop myself. Clint turns on his heel, staring at me with eyes like open wounds. I chastise myself.
Why’d you have to blurt his name? You can be so
dumb …
“Listen, I’m still at work,” Gabe says, “and I don’t have much time, but something’s been on my mind and I just—I’m sorry. This probably sounds really possessive and paranoid, but is everything okay?”
My head turns into a giant scoreboard, like the one in the Fair Grove High gym. And over my name, the score is a great big glowing zero. Chelsea Keyes is losing, losing.
And don’t I deserve to?
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“I—what—you—what?” I babble. I don’t know if I should scream or beg or start crying. How does Gabe know this—Wait. What, exactly, does he know? Has Brandon called him? What is going on?
“I guess—I mean, I’m just used to us talking on the phone for hours. And even when we weren’t talking, it sounds hokey, but you used to drop all those notes in my locker. Love notes. You used to say it all the time, the way you felt about me.
We
said it all the time. Love, we said. We used that word so much, it shouldn’t have meant anything at all—it should have been watered down and worn out, the way we used it. But I haven’t heard it
once
since you left. I didn’t even get a ‘love you’ on my birthday.”
Oh, my God, Gabe, no!
“Chelse? You still there?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, staring at Clint while my heart clatters around inside me like a dropped plastic plate flopping and twirling on a kitchen floor. “I’m here.”
“I know you said that you get bad cell reception and all, but it just seems like—like you just don’t
want
to talk to me. I can’t help it—I just wonder if something’s up. I think about you all the time.”
A giant tear escapes and rolls down my cheek, even though I’m trying to tug it back. “I do, too,” I whimper, my voice all shuddery. I can’t stand to look at Clint. I wipe my cheek and turn my back to him, lower my face down toward the gleaming front of the pay phone, my heart drumming away like an entire marching band.
How can this
be happening?