He walked into the room like he owned the place–always one hand up in the air waving, chest out, and a smile that seem to be mocking me without even a word. The very moment we collided was the very moment that my everything became governed by his, and I was no longer free but rather confined to the ideas he created about me. Ideas that I grew to love and hate, and struggle to decide whether I’d hold onto once I’d finally moved on from where he left me.
We parked on the highest level of the on-campus garage, it was 2am, and my floral maxi dress was hiked up so that I could easily move my foot peddle to peddle. My two-door jeep smelled of pineapple car freshener, and when he yelled at me and punched both hands against the dash, I let my tear-collecting eyes focus on the small blue dreamcatcher that dangled from my rearview mirror. Don’t cry. Crying is weak.
Fear filled my lungs as I breathed the rage and intimidation in. I didn’t imagine he would hurt me; It was the overwhelming feeling that I had gathered up an unbelievable amount of trust and handed it to him–my life built around him like tattoos on my body that removing would be costly and just as painful and lengthy as getting them put on, needle and all.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?! God damn it, Brooke!”
The tears that gathered and filled the lower rims of my blue and worried eyes made a run for it, and as they did, I unbuckled and got out of the car, slamming the door. He yelled, arguable every curse word he knew filled the empty spaces of the car.
My tears were quickly masked by the rain falling, wetting my face, running my mascara, soaking my hair, and forcing my dress to hug me with its dampness. My camouflaged tears couldn’t hide that I was crying though. I let out a fierce moan that was encompassed by a deep breath out and fell to my knees in desperation. You have to get back in the car.
I ran my hands from cheeks to scalp and smoothed my hair to the back of my head. With an inhale that I seemed to choke down, I gathered my dress in my left hand and propped back open the car door.
“Can I come in?”
He didn’t respond. I slowly stepped into the car and wiped my face again, this time with more confidence in my ability to stop whimpering. He was sitting, his face almost to his stomach and resting in both of his hands. He was crying.
I put my hand on his shoulder gently and moved my face towards it. He slowly looked up and mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out.
“I’m sorry,” I said. No matter what happened, I don’t care anymore. Can we just not do this?
He leaned into me and kissed me. His soft lips on mine eased my fear and my hands began to rub the fleece jacket that graced his neck, shoulders, and back. They moved from his shoulders to neck to chest to face, and his right hand reached over and slid into the open cut of my dress and up my inner thigh. His hand was warm, and the inner workings of my stomach felt warmed as he made his way under my lace panties and inside me.
We passionately kissed as I pushed him into the back of the jeep, pushing down my floral dress and then pushing his fleece jacket off of his shoulders. He quickly removed his shorts, and I kissed down his chest–slowly making my way down until I was licking up and down him.
He stopped me before he finished, gripped his thumbs into my waste and turned me around so he could push inside me and thrust while the jeep wobbled side to side in that empty parking lot.
I wore the scent of salt, sweat, and pineapple as I walked home that night. I couldn’t ever remember what that fight had been about. All I could remember was how the sex seemed to mask our problems and how heavy the rain felt when I fell to my knees in that gravel rooftop lot.