Going Under (39 page)

Alyssa smiled kindly. “You better? You think
you’re ready?”

I took one last long breath for good
measure, wiped away the remaining tears, and nodded.

“Okay then,” she replied. “Let’s do this.”
She grabbed my hand and walked me back up the bank to Ryan’s
apartment.

“Wait,” I said, digging in my heels. “Are
you staying around to watch this?”

Her mouth quirked up in a grin. “You want me
to?”

I shook my head.

“Didn’t think so. I’m going for a swim.
Maybe I’ll see you around later,” she said, then walked back down
the beach, tearing off her shirt and shorts to reveal a tiny pink
bikini. I watched her meander in the surf before walking out into
the waves. I turned back to Ryan’s door and knocked again.

This time he answered.

We stared at each other for what seemed like
ages. He finally moved aside to allow me in. I walked in
tentatively, looking around his apartment to see if anything felt
familiar, like his old bedroom back home. It didn’t. He was a new
person, it seemed. His furnishings reflected a man in limbo: not
quite an adult but older than a teenager. He had a dining room
table. I wasn’t sure any guy his age had a dining room table. The
apartment oozed a laidback surfer style: wicker chairs and
beach-themed paintings. They weren’t kitschy or cheesy, though.
They were abstract pieces of art, but they evoked the ocean.

I finally mustered the courage to look at
Ryan’s face. He had been watching me the whole time. I grew
nervous. He had changed. Still the dark, messy hair. Still the
mesmerizing blue eyes. But something had changed. He looked tired.
Not old and haggard. Just tired, like he needed to take a nap and
hadn’t found the time for one in the past three years.

“Hi,” I managed.

“Hello.”

I shuffled my feet.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing
here,” I said.

“A little bit.”

I swallowed. I didn’t know what I needed to
say. Nothing was coming to me, so I asked about Alyssa.

“My best friend,” he replied. “I met her in
a philosophy class at school.”

“She’s really . . . perceptive,” I said. I
was going to say “nice,” but “perceptive” was way more
accurate.

“Yes, she is,” Ryan replied.

“So, you’re in school?” I asked.

Ryan nodded. “Took a year off before
applying to UNCW. I work full time and go to school full time.”

I nodded. Ryan didn’t elaborate. He just
stared at me, and I grew increasingly uncomfortable trying to think
of another general topic of conversation.

“I made a huge mistake!” I blurted instead.
It came out of nowhere, and I actually slapped my hand over my
mouth once I said it.

“Coming here?” he asked.

I shook my head, hand still covering my
mouth.

“Can you explain?” he said.

I dropped my hand. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I was
unfair to you.”

Ryan averted his eyes. “No you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was! Jesus Christ, Lucy’s forgiven
you!
Lucy
! I should have been able to.”

“I did a terrible thing, Brooke. I kept it
from you because I knew you’d hate me for it. I lied to you. That’s
not easy to forgive. Lucy’s forgiveness is something else entirely.
She forgave me for being a coward. That’s not the same thing as
being a liar. I understand why you couldn’t let it go. I do.”

I didn’t know what to say. I stood, mouth
hanging open, dumbfounded.

“But you’re here now,” Ryan went on. “Will
you tell me why?”

“I told you,” I said. “I made a mistake. I
made a mistake not forgiving you. Lucy kept telling me I was making
a huge mistake. I knew it all along. I knew it all those years, but
I let my heart harden because I was afraid that if I picked up the
phone to talk to you, you wouldn’t want to. Or maybe I’d learn that
you were with someone else and I couldn’t stand the thought. Or
maybe—”

Ryan walked towards me, stopping within
inches of my face. I closed my mouth. “I want to kiss you, but I’ll
only do it if you’ll let me.”

I didn’t think twice about it. I flung my
arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his. Everything about
it was familiar, and I wasn’t afraid anymore. I never said the
words to him in the past because I was fearful of them. But not
anymore. I murmured them against his lips over and over.

“I love you. I love you,” I said, until his
tongue invaded my mouth, garbling my declaration.

I clung to him with a fierceness foreign to
me. I felt I was making up for lost time. Three years of being
without him, and so much to learn. I pulled away and held his face
between my hands.

“I need you to tell me everything,” I said.
“Will you? I want to know everything about your life. I’ve missed
so much, Ryan, and I don’t want to miss out on anything else.”

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But first, let me
say how much I love you, Brooke. I told you a long time ago in a
bad place when I was a bad person. I’m not there anymore, and I’m
not that boy, but my love for you has never changed. I love you.
I’ll always love you. There simply isn’t anyone else.”

Epilogue

I lay naked in our unmade bed, hands
grasping the bars of our iron headboard like he instructed. Our
bedroom walls were covered with paintings we’d done together,
mostly at the ocean where the sun and water created the ideal
atmosphere. I stared at them until Ryan redirected my
attention.

“I think I’ll need to make it up to you for
the rest of my life,” he said, hovering over me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The secrets I kept from you. Lucy’s rape,”
he whispered.

I couldn’t believe I was just now piecing it
together. The reason he slept with all those girls. He was trying
to atone for his guilt by giving pleasure to other women. I felt
sorry for him, but not in a pitiful, condescending kind of way. I
felt sorry for him because he was still trapped in the guilt, and
it had been a year since we were back together. A year since I had
forgiven him.

We were living together in Chapel Hill. I
was about to start law school at UNC, and Ryan was finishing a
business degree. We led a quiet life, surrounded by a few close
friends. We spent most of our weekends in Wilmington when the
weather was nice. During the cold months, we hunkered down in our
tiny rented house, fire glowing warm and inviting, wrapped in
blankets and each other’s love.

I looked at my boyfriend and sighed. I could
say the words of forgiveness again like I had done a hundred times
before, but they seemed to make no difference.

“You don’t have to make it up to me, Ryan,”
I said finally. “I just want you to love me and let me love
you.”

He dipped his head and kissed me long and
slow. Then he pulled away and grinned. It lit up my heart. Nothing
explosive. Just lightning bug flickering, and it warmed me through
and through.

“Well, then ladies first,” he said, and
kissed my neck.

I loosened my grasp on the railing, and he
whispered into my shoulder: “Hold on tight, Brooklyn.”

He kissed down the side of my neck to my
collarbone and finally to my breasts. He took his time with them,
drawing one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, forcing my
fingers tighter around the bars, before he moved to the other
breast. He licked my nipples then tugged on them gently with his
teeth eliciting protests from my mouth and hands.

“Put your hands back on the railing,
Brooklyn,” he said, running his nose gently over my right
nipple.

I shook my head.

“Brooklyn,” he said, and gathered my wrists
above my head with one hand while his other snaked down my belly.
“Do you want me to touch you?”

I squirmed.

“Well?”

I nodded, afraid to look at him. I don’t
know why. We’d made love nearly every day since we reunited. But it
was something about him when he got in one of these moods. It
aroused me, and I thought I shouldn’t like it. But I did like
it—being told what to do—because his demands were gentle, and I
knew he’d never abuse the power I entrusted to him.

“Look at me, Brooke,” Ryan said.

I obeyed.

“Spread your legs.”

I did.

“Wider.”

I complied, spreading my legs until he
grunted his satisfaction.

“I’m going to touch you,” Ryan said. “And
then I’m going to taste you. Is that all right?”

“Yes.” I sounded like I was in pain, but it
was purely sexual frustration. I wanted him inside of me
now
, but when he was like this, he made me wait for it. He
would touch me, lick me, taste me everywhere before intercourse,
making it nearly impossible for me to hold out longer than two
minutes once he slid inside of me.

I cried out when I felt a single fingertip
on my clit, circling slowly and gently. Reflex or the intense
sensation made me snap my legs together in one swift movement. I
don’t know why, but it embarrassed me.

“Let’s try again,” Ryan said, amused. There
was a hint of laughter in his voice. “Brooklyn, spread your legs.
And this time, keep them open.”

“Just fuck me already!” I cried. “I can’t
take it!”

Ryan chuckled and kissed me softly on the
lips. “I’m going to make up for those three years we were apart,
Brooke,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been telling you that for a
year already. You should know. So I really need you to hold on to
the headboard. And that’s not a request.”

I held on and spread my legs again, gasping
at the feel of his finger circling my clit once more. He rubbed me
endlessly, plunging his finger into me before taking it out to
stimulate my clit again. I moaned and writhed, feeling my passion
build quickly, afraid I would come too soon before we had
intercourse. I tensed, fighting the sweeping pleasure.

“Brooke,” Ryan said. “We have all the time
in the world, you know.”

I nodded, watching as his face dipped lower
between my legs. I bucked involuntarily, twisting my fingers in his
hair while his tongue lapped me, his fingers plunging inside of me,
heightening my pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” I begged, pushing my hips into
his face.

“I’ve no plans to,” he replied, the words
humming between my legs. He drew my clit into his mouth, sucking
gently but firmly, fingering me relentlessly until I was begging
for release.

I came hard, gripping his hair. I knew I was
hurting him; he grunted but never took his mouth off of my delicate
tissues until my body relaxed, languid and soft in the
afterglow.

He hovered over me once more, staring at my
face, into my eyes, and I thought I saw the guilt vanish from his
own. Just like that. It disappeared to a faraway place.

“Marry me.”

My mouth dropped open. He grinned.

“You’re asking me now? While I’m naked in
bed? After you just made me come?” I asked. “What kind of
engagement story is that?!”

Ryan laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a
whole thing planned out. It’s been planned out for two months, but
I couldn’t wait. I had to ask you now.”

“What do you have planned out?” I asked.

“Yeah right,” he replied, nudging my legs
apart and sliding into me before I could protest.

“Marry me,” he whispered, finding a slow,
gentle rhythm. “Will you?”

“Oh my God, Ryan,” I breathed, clutching his
shoulders. “Now you’re asking me while you’re inside of me?”

He nodded, thrusting hard and deep, and I
arched my body, crying out at the pain and pleasure of it.

“Marry me,” he said again.

I nodded.

“Say it, Brooklyn,” Ryan demanded. “I need
to hear you say it.”

I moaned, grasping at his back, grazing his
skin with my fingernails.

“Say it, Brooklyn,” he whispered, stroking
me softly.

I felt something strange stirring. I
couldn’t understand it fully, but it felt like another orgasm. I’d
never had orgasms so close together, but I felt like I would have
one now, and I also felt like I wouldn’t survive it. It was
building large and demanding in my legs and stomach, threatening to
push out my tendons and bones, my organs and tissues. I struggled
to escape it.

“No, Brooklyn,” Ryan said. “Let me love
you.”

I whimpered.

“Tell me you’ll marry me, Brooklyn,” Ryan
said. “Right now.”

“Ryan . . .”

I screamed at the force of it. The pleasure,
so great that it crashed up my body and down. Up and down, a tidal
wave that swept up my fiancé, drowned him in the pleasure, too,
until he was moaning along with me, gasping on the crest of the
wave before we tumbled over. Down, down, down, shaking from the
after effects, the tiny ripples of pleasure that were reluctant to
recede altogether.

Ryan lay on top of me spent. I didn’t mind
the full weight of his body, though it made it slightly harder to
breathe. I stroked his sweat-slicked back, feeling his lips on my
neck, raining the lightest kisses that said, “Thank you.”

“Ryan?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll marry you.”

I felt his grin on my neck. “You’re not just
saying that because of the nuclear orgasm I gave you, are you?”

I giggled. “Well, the nuclear orgasm is a
very good reason to get hitched. I admit.”

His fingers snaked down my sides to tickle
my ribs. I screamed and squirmed.

“Okay, I’m not just marrying you for the
nuclear orgasm!” I squealed.

He stopped tickling me. “Then why are you
marrying me, Brooke?” He wrapped his arms around me and rolled
over, pulling me on top of him.

I looked down at his face and smiled.
“Because I love you.”

“Just like that?” he asked.

“Just like that.”

End

Dear Reader,

I struggled for some time with whether I
wanted to include a letter at the end of this book explaining the
rape scene in Chapter Twenty. I understand that some readers will
have strong (even angry) reactions to Brooke’s orgasm, and decided
it was necessary to explain my research on involuntary orgasms
during rape. Unfortunately there isn’t a lot, and what’s there is
conflicting. Many speculate that this is because women are ashamed
to admit it. As the nurse explains to Brooke, women feel like it
questions the validity of their rapes or demonstrates their desire
to be raped. That’s why in the little bit of research I did find,
statistics show anywhere from five to 21 percent of women
experience orgasm during rape. That’s a wide range.