First
< < This was more like it.
Dimmed lights. Candles. Music.
Ricky all cleaned up. Looking and smelling irresistable.
A romantic dinner -- he cooked it himself -- and honest conversation. About dreams. About life.
It seemed too good to be true. Exactly what she'd told him she'd thought it would be.
Quite a reversal from yesterday, when a half-hour on the couch after church was Ricky's idea of a suitable first time.
This was more than enough to make her forget.
Ricky was nothing if not a quick study.
She expected him to make his move any minute now.
But he didn't.
He just sat there next to her, holding her hand, his head nestled against hers, breathing softly.
This wasn't about sex after all.
Ricky really was special.
Which only made her decision even more heartbreaking.
Because either he wouldn't understand, and it would drive them apart...
...or he *would* understand, and that would mean they couldn't be together.
She wished it would just go away. She just wanted a normal life.
But she was forever changed. She could never look at things the same way again. The Question would always be there.
What could I have done?
The car accident was just a memory now, but its flames would never stop burning.
After yesterday, she knew she had no choice.
I *am* Sapphire.
She was going to have to tell him. But not tonight.
Or maybe not at all.
He was right about the risks. Not just to her, but to him and his dad, and anyone else she knew. As Sapphire she would make enemies. Even if she didn't, people would want to use her. She'd already been through that once. She was lucky to escape it. They all were. If she was going to be Sapphire, she would have to keep it to herself. She would have to be careful.
And in the end, she would have to be alone.
But not tonight.
She felt herself start to shake. The emotions, the memories, they flooded her. It was like she was back up at the cabin.
No, not quite. This time she knew the kind of comfort she needed.
"Make love to me, Rick."
It was so beautiful. Even the awkward moment when he couldn't get the condom wrapper open -- they'd both had a sweet laugh at that. It showed how well they'd connected, that nothing could break the mood. He was so gentle, as if she was the virgin. Which in a way, she was. She'd had sex before -- she was disgusted and ashamed at the memory of callous evil men having their way with her -- but she'd never made love. Rick's tender insistence couldn't wash away every bad experience she'd had, but it made them seem distant and unimportant. Nothing mattered but the two of them now.
Fate couldn't be so cruel as to take this away. There had to be a way to protect this. She needed it. She needed Rick. She couldn't do it alone. She couldn't live in a world that made her try.
Her whole body quivered. What was happening? She'd never felt like this before. Not this soon. It wasn't right. Her mind raced. Thoughts tumbled out of control.
No, not now. Not again. Please. It's so beautiful. Let me have this. I need this.
Feeling it coming only made it worse. Had she missed a dose? No. Not after that first night, she couldn't forget. Then why? The meds were supposed to keep this from happening. Supposed to keep it under control.
Please. I love him. I need him. Don't make me do this to him. Not now.
It was so beautiful.
She closed her eyes. Squeezed them tightly. Tried to slow herself down. Tried to stop her heart from racing. Tried to quell the panic.
Until it seized her.
She can see his soul through his gentle touches.
He is beautiful.
Awkward, but beautiful.
The lights come on. She covers up. Ricky shields her body with his, sacrificing his modesty to save hers.
There is a man in the doorway. Black suit. More behind him.
They have come for her . . .
Climax broke her from the nightmare's grip. But Panic only held on more tightly.
"No! No! Stop! Don't! No! God, no!"
Angela kicked and squirmed and hit, pushing Ricky off her. Eventually the confused young man retreated, but only after taking several blows.
"Angela! Angela! What's wrong? Angela, it's me! It's Ricky! Shhh! --Ow! Angela!"
But she wouldn't, couldn't stop screaming.
"Ricky, please." Angela had endured a week of his lustful stares and opportunistic gropes. But now she found herself begging for it.
"We shouldn't." Ricky feared intimacy. After last night, Angela couldn't blame him.
"Dr. Ward said the higher dose would fix it. I feel fine. It's okay, really."
But it wasn't okay. It was anything but okay. Angela felt like she was stuck in a shell of herself, separated from reality by a layer of unfeeling, like she was living by remote control. The disconnect scared her. She needed something to pull her back. She needed Ricky to anchor her.
She needed to be loved.
Angela had been working Ricky all night -- first with playful flirting, then blatantly brushing up against him. But he'd remained cold.
This was her last best effort.
She stood before him, wearing the same satin babydoll that had gotten his attention last Thursday morning. She held her hands clasped in front of her, her head bowed more than necessary to look at him seated in his office chair.
She'd never looked more vulnerable or more pleading. But her intent was not to manipulate. She'd only dressed this way in a desperate bid to please him, to make him see the frightened lonely girl she'd become and take pity on her.
Ricky looked deep into her eyes. "I don't want to hurt you again."
Desperation made her voice shake. "You won't. I promise."
Her hand fell gently into his lap. His body was already saying Yes. If only it could convince his heart to agree.
She straddled his thighs, sitting atop him, wrapping herself around him, gripping him tightly, pressing her body into his. She squeezed him with all her might, wanting so much to feel connected to him, breathing fast and deep to stave off despondent tears.
"Please," she breathed. Her lips grazed the base of his neck with the gentlest kiss.
She felt Ricky surge against her. No sixteen-year-old boy could resist such a plaintive and physical plea.
Ricky had none of her old "boyfriend" Josh's rude proficiency. His hands explored her body as a blind artist might find sand sculpture -- the lightest, almost fearful touches; slow, reverent movements, making every sloughed grain of sand count; soothing repeated caresses as the curves of her form revealed themselves.
But Angela was more moved by the intent than the contact. Much of his delicacy was lost to the thickness of Angela's medication. She would have asked him to be more physical, more commanding, but she feared it would feel no more comforting, and emotionally untrue.
This was not the way either of them wanted it to be. Angela felt low, seducing him like this just two days after pushing Ricky away and reading him the "it has to be special" riot act. But after last night had turned so ugly, she was desperate to erase it. This would be their First Time. Far from a dream, but if it was far from a nightmare it would be good enough.
Somewhere there was a formula for that Perfect First Time, built up from a surrounding symphony of swirling beautiful emotion, a consummation of sweet wooing. Flowers, romantic dinner, loving looks, held hands, perhaps a walk on the beach under the stars, kisses progressing from gentle to urgent, a held breath in recognition of That Moment when they both knew it was time, a candlelit bedroom, satin sheets, a loving embrace, exploring touches, him waiting until she asked for him, passion lovingly fulfilled, and blissful spooning until dawn.
Last night had come as close to that as she could hope. All that she had time for, knowing the enormity of her fate. Perhaps better for being spontaneous. But it had betrayed her. Pulled her back into the terrifying misery of a heroine exposed.
No. That didn't happen. Wasn't real. Just a nightmare.
Now she'd lost all illusion of a magical first time. Reality seemed tawdry and awkward and desperate by comparison. And yet Ricky said not a harsh word of judgement, and he seemed careful to make the loving best of the situation. He wanted to make her happy. He didn't really understand her need, but he tried to fulfill it anyway. For her part, Angela had only asked for this to draw her out of the pale featureless misery she felt.
Wasn't there a more profound specialness in this? Wasn't it better if their first real time together satisfied a real need for closeness, rather than some thin veneer of Taking It To The Next Level hiding mere physical and emotional gratification?
It was a good story, but it didn't help.
Maybe it was fear. Or resentment. Whatever, this coupling seemed more determined, more mechanical than... the one that didn't happen.
And through the heavy-lidded hammer of her doubled Xanax dose, she started to wonder what the act was supposed to mean.
Ricky had stopped moving inside her. He seemed unsure of how long he should remain like this. It didn't matter anymore. It was over. She pushed him out and rose away from him; he reached down quickly to keep from losing the condom. She watched him slide it off, a momentary fascination before tossing it in the trash.
He suddenly seemed very callous. She supposed she seemed that way to him.
Her retreat to clean up -- physically, anyway -- was halted in the doorway. Somehow the condom wrapper had made its way here. She bent down to pick it up.
"Leave it."
"Your dad will find it."
His answer was quick. Ugly. "Let him."
Suddenly Angela felt like a conquest.
Suddenly what they'd done became a joke.
She glared at him, the furious look of the betrayed. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with you? Don't you want him to know? That's what this is about, right? To prove you're not her."
"Oh my god."
"It's not? What is it then? Why don't you want him to know? Are you embarassed? I thought it was supposed to be beautiful."
No. Ricky was twisting things around. Where did this hatred come from? Why was he trying to hurt her?
Because she'd used him.
She'd been using him this whole time. That's all her "love" was. She knew it couldn't last -- she couldn't let it last -- but she went through with it anyway.
She saw it now. Selfishness. Need. Sex wasn't beautiful. It was a weakness. It was a tool. It was a weapon.
The sham of love was exposed.
And it made her sick.