Renascence Ch. 06

"You didn't come until I gave you permission to," he said, his voice gravelly, deep. "You think you could manage that again tonight?"

I nodded, face burning. Holy crap, he needed to shut up. He needed to shut up right this second.

"You think you could manage that right now?"

Oh god. He couldn't be serious. Not here. I should remind him how dangerous and stupid it would be to fool around at school, especially since it was a Friday and school was going to be locked up for the weekend—but I couldn't find the words, and a part of me didn't want to find the words. What I wanted was him.

"Don't stop."

That was all it took. Before I could even begin to guess what he'd do next, he was picking me up, his mouth finding mine, kissing me like we were dying, like this was the last kiss we'd ever share. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let out a muffled cry when my back suddenly hit the classroom wall. I hadn't even realized he'd walked us to it.

"Don't make a sound," he said, lifting me higher. My breathing quickened as he unsnapped the button of my jeans and pulled my zipper down in one swift motion. Then he was pulling my jeans down, inch by inch, nice and slow so that he could watch me, like he was teasing himself as he undressed me.

"Gabe."

"Not a sound," he reminded me. Nothing he said was a request. It was an order, a command, a need that bubbled up from inside of him, a need to make me obey, to make me submit. He was powerful, taking what he wanted, and god it was so fucking hot. There were no more wicked games to play, no more talking and teasing—there was only this, him pulling down my jeans to my ankles, guiding my legs over his shoulders, folding me up against the wall, pushing my underwear aside, and then—

"Oh, fuck," I gasped as his hot tongue licked my wet pussy. He glanced up at me, eyes dark, angry, and sucked in my clit—hard. Tears fell from the corner of my eyes. It felt so fucking good, but it also hurt. A lot. Lesson learned; don't make a sound.

I gripped his hair, making him hiss, and threw my head back, hitting it against the wall, but I didn't even feel it, didn't feel anything but the blinding pleasure that came from his tongue on my pussy, licking through my slick folds, tasting me, all but devouring me.

"So fucking good," he said, making my body jolt as he kissed my clit, lapping at it like an animal, making me feel filthy. "You taste so good, Grace. Sweeter than I imagined."

I was going to come—

"Not yet," he said, reading the fluttering in my pussy right before I came. He stopped, making me almost scream in frustration. I wanted to protest, but I knew I couldn't, knew I wasn't supposed to complain, knew I wasn't allowed to make a sound. When he slipped one of his long fingers inside of me, I almost fucking moaned like the little slut I was, but I wanted to come so fucking badly that I swallowed it back.

"Good girl," he said, rewarding me by inserting another finger inside of me. I was so tight and small that those two fingers were almost too much for me, filling me up, lining my sensitive walls. I bit down on my lower lip, legs trembling as he curved those fingers inward, finding that spot. In and out, slow and then fast, hitting that spot again and again and again.

Oh fuck, I couldn't—

"Now," he said. "Come for me."

I came apart. My pussy contracted around those long fingers, squeezing and squeezing, obeying his command, relinquishing all power, gifting it to him in a peace offering. I came for him and came for him and came for him, my toes curling, fingers gripping his hair tighter, making him laugh a cruel laugh before kissing my pussy, licking up my slick, gushing slit one last time.

And then the tenderness that came afterwards; the steady, capable hands of a man that could've been in love; slow, calculated, and gentle; lowering me down, teaching me kindness, teaching me compassion, teaching me all the things I'd forgotten how to define. The way my hair was stroked back from my face, the way a raw kiss tasted, the way we looked right into each other, right where our hearts ticked and our souls resided—right in that place that sang for us.

Because I was in love. And maybe he was too.

"Was it too much?" he asked. His tone was gentle but cautious, like he was afraid I was going to tell him to fuck off or something. I was feeling hella shy, my face burning from the realization that my teacher had just eaten me out, and he'd done it good, so fucking good that my knees were weak and shaking. I didn't know how to answer him without tripping up on my words, but I knew I had to say something.

"No." Nice, just one word. Real eloquent, I know.

Gabe kissed my temple, saying nothing, like he suspected how weird this whole thing was for me. I let him pull my jeans back up, like I was some kind of preschooler who needed the teacher's help. I can't say I minded though. His hands were big, warm, and lingered maybe a second longer on my ass than necessary. It made me laugh, which he took as a good sign.

"Come on," he said, taking my hand. "Let's get going."

"Wait," I said, flexing my hand in his. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I got everything I wanted."

I made a face. "You didn't-uh, you didn't—"

"Come?"

"Yes, that."

Gabe chuckled. "Relax, Grace. I'm good. I promise."

I promise.

His promises were like bandaids laid over my broken heart, holding together all the pieces. I wasn't a self-assuring type of person; I was too hard on myself, too cynical and icy and unforgiving. Gabe was the opposite, speaking every word with conviction, challenging my pain with his own, showing me what it meant to be hurt but also healed. When he made promises, when he placed them like that over my heart, I felt better—reassured.

"You should let me return the favor anyway. Soon," I said.

"There's nothing to return. I didn't do you a favor. Trust me when I say that what I just did was about the most selfish thing I've ever done."

Right, sure.

"You're doing that thing again," I said, rolling my eyes.

"What thing?"

"You know, making zero sense."

Gabe laughed and tugged my hand, pulling me into his arms. He rubbed my back, his laughter like charity, like a blessing, like everything wonderful taken and turned into sound. I grinned and hugged him back, burrowing my face in his shirt to hide how dorky I looked. I'd almost forgotten this, the kind of happiness that made you feel weightless, like you could be swept away by even the gentlest of waves.

"We really do have to go now," he said, giving me a squeeze and crack! went my back.

"Oh shit, Grace. I'm sorry. You okay?"

"Fine," I said, looking up at him. "That felt good. You cracked my back and scratched an itch today. What else can you do?"

"You don't want to find out."

"But I do."

"You're trouble, you know that?" He said, laughing.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an absolute angel."

"Yeah," he said, his voice going soft. "I won't argue that."

I used to be afraid of all the terrible pieces inside of me, of my demons and my ghosts, haunting me in the darkness, but then Gabe came and took over the barren place where my heart had once been. He did not chase my demons away, but rather faced them with open arms, healing the sickest parts of me, the dark places that I'd thought would always bleed, always ache, always hurt. I'd had only the most terrible pain to consume me, but now I had the most beautiful, powerful feeling to counter it—love.

I loved him.

"Let's go," I said, blushing.

And we did just that. We pulled apart like honey, all warm and sticky, clinging together until the very last second, letting go to walk in opposite directions. Me towards the exit with my backpack slung over my shoulder, him towards his desk to gather his things.

"Grace?" he said just as my hand touched the doorknob.

"Yes?" I said, turning around. He was standing by his desk, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. It was a moment before he spoke.

"You are not the rain."

I blinked, vision blurring. The essay. He must've read between the lines.

"You don't exist just to fall."

No.

"You are sunshine, Grace Craft."

Stop.

"I love—I have to go," I said, and bolted. Out the door, down the hall, bursting through the front doors, running right out into the crisp winter air, feet pounding on the pavement, my truck in sight, closer and closer—and then I was driving away, pushing the miles, escaping it, escaping him.

Oh fuck, I almost said it.

I almost told him I loved him.

—

There was this Swiss psychologist that I read about while in AP Psychology my sophomore year. Carl Jung, philosopher, author, anthropologist, and analytical psychologist extraordinaire. The way he'd looked at the world was kind of poetic, kind of beautiful, kind of strange and ugly and wonderful all at once. How we were individually, how understanding others had a lot more to do with understanding ourselves, how we met ourselves in others time and time again, reacquainting ourselves with the mirrors of our souls, finding all the frayed strings and catching hold, reeling ourselves out of every person we ever got to know. He'd had a lot to say about love, a lot of theories that had always stuck with me, brewing in my brain like a witch's potion, one I'd been wary of drinking for years because what he'd said about love had truthfully scared the shit out of me.

In the beginning, it's this veil of illusion, showing us only what we want to see, filling our minds with things like sparks and lightning and thunder and rain—things that we have the capacity to relate to and understand. We fill in all the blanks with what we know, sometimes making a person out to be better than they are, or worse, out to be someone they aren't at all. The person we subconsciously look for is a person we already know, a person we've already loved for a long time. Falling in love was about finding the person who fit, the person who was familiar in a strange but magical way, the person who we'd always dreamt of, always wanted, always had somehow known was out there. And one day we meet them, and it all just kind of clicks.

There you are, our souls would say. I've been looking for you.

But there was a sad truth in Jungian theories, a truth that you had to come to face if you believed in everything else he was saying: love was projection. If you broke it all down, if you studied what he really had to say, poetry aside, love always began kind of fake, kind of made-up, kind of bullshit.

I was in love with someone I barely knew. Was that really love? Or was I projecting?

It fucked me up, laying there in my bed in the dark, thinking about shit that regular people didn't have to think about it. Regular people just fell in love, in the head-over-heels-Hollywood kind of love, worrying only whether or not the other person loved them back. What I worried about was if love was even a real thing, if it was even possible to have a true connection with someone that you didn't know.

Gabe was familiar; his tragedy matching mine, his sense of humor, his understanding, his care, his easy-going nature—all wonderful things, beautiful things, all things that could be relatable to anyone with a broken past. He'd fit right into that hole I'd had in my heart... but it could've been that the hole had been so big that anyone could've fallen in.

It's funny, all it took was me almost saying out loud that I was in love for me to rethink whether it was even true.

"Grace."

"Mm," I responded absently, and shifted in the darkness, bringing my knees up to hug them. My phone rested on the pillow beside me, the call on speaker with the volume on the lowest setting. No one outside of my room would be able to hear.

"You're quiet tonight," said the voice on the other end of the line. He sounded a little tired, but seeing as it was two in the morning, I couldn't have blamed him.

"Go to sleep," I mumbled.

"Only after you tell me what's on your mind."

"Carl Jung," I said, wondering if he'd be jealous, if he'd care that some other guy's name had been uttered from my lips. God, I was so fucking juvenile sometimes.

"The psychologist?" I expected him to laugh, but he didn't.

"Yeah," I said, feeling both disappointed that he wasn't jealous, and relieved that he even knew who I was talking about. That's the thing about being a smart person (not to toot my own horn), sometimes it's hard to find people that get what you're talking about. For most of my life, Emma had been the one to get me, the one that didn't have to Google words I used or make me break down my opinions to make sense. She just kind of got me, and I guess Gabe did too. He fit, and that's what fucking worried me. Fitting was a simple concept, and love? Love was complex. Maybe I was projecting after all.

"Jungian theories keeping you up?" he asked, and this time he did sound a little amused.

"Yeah, well, what keeps you up?" I grumbled defensively. "Number theory? Mathematical physics? Or the dreaded multivariable calculus?"

"Not like they used to," he said, playing along. "These days it's you, Grace."

That made my heart sing.

"You're cheesy, you know that?" I said, trying not to sound pleased.

"Tell me about Carl Jung," he said, ignoring what I'd said. "What theory is keeping you up?"

"You know the one about the anima and the animus? The animus is what women look for in a man, and the anima is the female counterpart that men look for in a woman. It's the name given to the perfect version of the person we're looking for. Well, I was thinking that looking for people based on our own understanding is kind of fake, you know. That would make love a projection of ourselves. It's not... real."

"Love doesn't have to be so textbook," he said. "If that's what's bothering you, just remember that it's only a theory. Jung was just saying that love is subjective. You fall in love with what you know, what you can relate to, what you understand. There's nothing wrong with finding yourself in another person and loving them for it."

"My sister used to say that people are like circles cut in half, and that there's another half of us floating around out there somewhere. She believed in soulmates. I guess it just really fucking sucks how Carl Jung makes my sister's theory sound so childlike."

Gabe surprised me when a moment later he said, "Carl Jung's anima/animus doesn't challenge your sister's theory. In fact, it can even be said that they follow the same thought process. Searching for the other half of ourselves in another person is exactly what Jung and your sister both theorized. I know anima and animus sound cold and clinical, but broken down they're just words for soulmate, aren't they? Jung and your sister were saying the same thing."

It felt suddenly like a weight had been lifted. Deep down, that was what had really been bothering me, my stupid feeling that Jung was challenging my dead sister's philosophy, but Gabe was right; they'd been saying the same thing. Emma had been so whimsical, so full of life, believing in a special kind of love, a life-altering, life-shattering, transcendent kind of love. Jung's theory had seemed so technical that I hadn't been able to make the connection on my own.

And maybe love was a projection, maybe it was mostly about ourselves and how others related to us, but it was damn well better than being alone. From deep inside of me, from my heart, from my bones, from the very matter I was made of, courage surfaced. The courage to forgive, to move on. The courage to love.

"You're right, they were saying the same thing," I said, snuggling cozily into my blanket. "And now that you know what was on my mind, can we sleep?"

"Yeah, Grace," he said, "we can sleep."

—

Light sluiced in patterns through the blinds of the store, casting thin, rectangular shadows on a stack of sketchbooks, all lined up like a dream just waiting to be dreamt. My hand trailed over the spines, warm where the light had touched them. I opened one and felt the texture of the fresh pages, blank and white as eggshells. My fingers flexed, already seeking a pencil to draw with, but I didn't have one. I'd have to buy it, just like I'd have to buy all the other supplies on Mr. Young's list. I'd gathered almost everything, but the only things missing were the paints. The small art store in town didn't carry Sennelier, and Mr. Young had insisted that it was the only brand worth buying. It made him a little bit of an art snob, but I still trusted his opinion enough to be willing to go looking for them.

"So where would I find the Sennelier paints?" I asked at the register. A cashier named Cherry was ringing me up, her long manicured nails clack-clacking loudly on the POS system.

"A Michael's would carry them for sure. There's a few in Omaha," she said, smacking gum around in her mouth as she talked. I cringed, but kept my expression even and composed. It was too early in the day to be getting annoyed. I paid, thanked her, and carted three hundred dollars worth of art supplies to my truck.

"Please tell me you know where I can find a Michael's," I said into my phone, balancing it on one shoulder as I loaded up the supplies. An easel and canvases and brushes and palette knives and sketchpads and pencils and kneaded erasers and—the list goes on and on.

"Like the art store?" asked Gabe's deep voice from the other end of the line.

"Like exactly that."

"There's one about three miles from me. Why?"

"I need to buy some paint for my art class."

"You paint?"

"No, of course not. I'm just buying paint for the sake of owning it," I said sarcastically.

His responding laugh was like food for my soul, sating the hunger.

"Smartass," he said.

"Nerd brain."

"And proud of it. Send me a list," he said. "I'll go get your paints."

"No, I want to check out the store and see what else they have. The art store in town sucks. They barely have anything beyond the basics."

"If that's what sells then that's what they'll stock. It's not their fault that a fancy artist moved into town," he teased.

"I am not a fancy artist," I grumbled, getting into my car and starting up the engine. I hooked up the phone to the car's Bluetooth system so I could talk to him hands-free. The last thing I needed was another fucking accident.

"I'll send you the address," Gabe said, ignoring my comment. "I'll meet you there."

"You don't have to come," I said, feeling shy. We'd never hung out outside of school before.

"I won't if you don't want me to," he said, reading my unease.

"Of course I want you to. I just don't want you to go through any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. I want to see you."

I blushed and was glad that he wasn't there to see it. It'd probably make him smile all smug and tease me.

My phoned dinged from a text message. It was the address to the Michael's art store. I clicked it to bring it up on Google Maps and hit 'Start' to get the directions. An hour and a half. Fucking hell.

"You live so far away," I said. "It's like driving to another planet."

"I can come to get you if you don't think you can make the drive."

"Don't be ridiculous. Back and forth twice, that'd be six hours total of driving for you. Plus, I'm not some gormless twat. I can make the drive."

"Gormless," he said, laughing. "I've never actually heard anyone use that word before."

"It's British slang for fucking idiot."

"You're not gormless, Grace."

"I didn't say I was."

"Right-o, cheerio."

"Oh god, shut up," I said, giggling.