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ellydashTitle: Shy Beneath the Cloth
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ellydash
Pairing/Characters: Emma Pillsbury/Sam Evans, Emma Pillsbury/Carl Howell, Finn Hudson, Will Schuester, Sue Sylvester
Rating: R
Word Count: 9,406 total
Spoilers: Takes place between 2x05 (Rocky Horror Glee Show) and 2x09 (Special Education).
Warnings: Teacher/student, references to disordered eating and body dysmorphia
Note: The rarest of pairs. Written for a prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
glee_kink_meme that grabbed onto me and wouldn’t let go.
Summary: Emma’s spent the first thirty years of her life following a doctrine of denial. It keeps her safe.
Part One
eighth
It’s the morning of their eighth session, and when Emma wakes up, the sour taste of sleep in her mouth and the daze of a dream she can’t remember still flooding her eyes, she remembers: today I meet with Sam.
Pleasure slinks over her, the righteous pleasure of a woman who knows that the day is fresh and open before her, without any missteps or awkwardness polluting it. The pleasure of knowing she’s helping someone, even if only a little, by listening.
She can’t remember ever actively looking forward to seeing him before. It’s slipped up on Emma, this eagerness, like a birthday she wasn’t expecting.
When he enters her office, a few minutes early (did he really cut his lunch short, to come see her?) he’s blushing, just a little, the tips of his cheeks and nose a faint rose color. Emma doesn’t know why; maybe, she thinks, he’s just been spending his lunch period with Quinn, canoodling or something.
She’d never tell him this, especially not now that she knows what it’s cost him, but Emma envies Sam his social fluency, what he’s managed to build for himself here at McKinley, and the strength of that envy makes her light-headed. Even if she tried as hard as he has, even if she tried harder, she wouldn’t be able to construct a self built for others’ consumption. She’s no one’s favorite flavor, except Carl’s, and she loves him for it. (Will chooses her first out of habit, not taste.)
“How’s the substitute?” she asks him by way of greeting, as he sits in the chair facing her desk. “Ms. Holiday, right? She seems like a lot of fun.” Emma knows Holly, a little, from brief encounters in the faculty lounge. The woman seems nice enough, if overly eager to please.
Sam brightens. “Yeah, Ms. Holiday’s awesome. She took the whole glee club to Taco Bell the other day, and she totally bought everyone quesadillas.” He doesn’t specify everyone but me, but Emma knows it’s implied; Sam would never eat a quesadilla. “And she told me I could just hang out here with you during Spanish class until Mr. Schuester gets back.”
“The whole period?” She’s surprised. “You’d want to?”
“She’s cool and all, but she doesn’t know about Bradbury,” he says, and smiles.
While he’s telling her about his favorite part of “The Veldt” (you remember, Ms. Pillsbury, the part with the bloody scarf, oh, man, that was seriously sweet) she watches his face. It’s softly sunny with the glow of his interest.
“Have you been eating more?” she inquires, after he’s finished his sentence. He looks wounded, as if she’s reneging on the rules; they were talking about Bradbury, not food.
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s a lie. She can tell. He does the same thing Emma does when Nancy asks her a question she can’t answer honestly: lick his lips, bite the lower one, briefly. She wonders, somewhat discomfited, if Nancy sees through her as clearly as Emma sees through Sam.
“What if I can’t stop?” he asks, abruptly. “What if I let myself eat a few Wheat Thins or whatever and then I keep going and eat the whole box?”
“You tell me,” she says. “What happens if you eat a whole box?”
Sam’s hand strays to the plane of his stomach, and he leans back against the chair. “God. I don’t know. I’d gain weight. I’d feel like shit.”
Emma doesn’t comment on his profanity. “I don’t think you’d gain weight. And I’ll eat Wheat Thins with you,” she offers, instead. “We could eat them together.”
His hand tightens against the fabric of his shirt, grabbing at the stretch of skin she knows is beneath. She sees a shock of pale flesh as he tugs the cotton tee, lets his hand fall to his side. “Maybe.”
She knows maybe; it’s the nearest synonym to no, even if the thesaurus doesn’t recognize the relationship. “I could use a few extra Wheat Thins myself. I haven’t been eating so well lately, either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, not elaborating. Sam doesn’t need to know the details of her missing appetite, and Emma’s not sure how she’d explain them, either, except to tell him the only thing she knows: that something isn’t right.
From the way he’s looking at her, though, she doesn’t need to say it.
This time, Sam’s the one who reaches across the desk, wordlessly asking for her hand in return. She gives it to him, without hesitation.
Emma thinks about the sanitizer in her drawer, but it’s a cursory thought, a compulsory scratch over a familiar itch.
telephone
Carl’s at a convention in Toledo, some sales thing with dental equipment (he’d told Emma, and she’d tried to listen, honestly, but even the thought of sterile machines couldn’t keep her interest. She’s been so distracted, lately). It’s quiet in her apartment, without him there in the evenings. He’s been such a staple over the last six months, his white smile matching her white furniture like he’d been pre-ordered for her life.
“I miss you,” she tells him over the phone, curled like a comma on the couch. “How much longer until you come back?”
“Sunday, and you know exactly when I’m coming back, Ems,” he says, cheerfully. “I’ve bet you’ve got it marked in your phone calendar with a red star and a link to Google Maps’ directions for Toledo to Lima, so you know exactly how long it’ll take me.”
He understands her so well. She’s also got a link to the Ohio State Highway Patrol’s website, just so she can monitor traffic, but Emma doesn’t volunteer this information. “I’m just excited, that’s all.”
“I’m glad.” There’s a brief pause. “Can I tell you something, Emma? I don’t want to freak you out.”
Oh, it’s exactly what she doesn’t want to hear. A glut of possibilities occur to her, almost simultaneously. He’s got a disease. He’s seeing someone else on the side. He’s bisexual. He’s gay. He likes Ke$ha’s new album. “Well, when you put it like that,” she manages.
Carl exhales into the receiver, a loud blast of air that rings in her ear. “Before I left for Toledo,” he admits, talking quickly, “I bought some condoms. And some lubricant. I put them in the cabinet under your kitchen sink so we’d have them just in case. I’m not trying to pressure you, okay? I just thought that after our last conversation, you might be, you know, heading in that direction. I want you to know that we’re prepared, whenever you’re ready.”
She’s startled into a response. “Wow, Carl. That’s so nice of you.”
“Really?” He sounds surprised. “Awesome. You sure know how to make a dude’s night, Ems. I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it. I just wanted to tell you in case you went looking for a bleach refill or something.”
“We can talk about it more, when you get home,” she says, and almost adds, I might be ready, but doesn’t. Emma needs to talk about this more with Nancy before she makes any decision. It’s not like she thinks of her virginity as a special gift, exactly; that isn’t why she’s refrained from sex. It’s that she needs to be sure she wants to trust Carl with the notches and bends of her body. Being naked, more than anything, with someone else, is what terrifies her: presenting her vulnerable, flawed flesh without the cosmetics of clothing.
And this, too, although she can’t quite articulate it to herself: the terror of joining, of allowing another human being access to the pith of her body, where he might find a part of her he doesn’t know.
Emma understands, without knowing for sure, that Carl has their first time together all planned out. He’ll put rose petals on the sheets, or sunflower petals if he’s feeling adventurous, and probably some light jazz on her stereo system out in the living room, just loud enough to set the mood in the bedroom. He’ll know exactly what to do. How to touch her just enough to calm her down; how to avoid looking right in her eyes for too long, because he knows just how skittish that makes her; how to unbutton her blouse with one careful hand. She imagines lying under him, staring up at his chest, his neck, his hands above her, looking at the shape and pulp of her future: this man who loves her.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” she promises.
mess
She doesn’t plan it.
She reminds herself of that fact, later, in her dark moments of self-recrimination, moments she deserves. At least she didn’t plan it.
What she doesn’t plan happens the following night, a school night: she’s washing her dinner dishes in the sink when the doorbell rings. The sound is unfamiliar. Carl’s usually her only visitor, and he has a key.
She dries her hands, quickly, and rushes to peer through the peephole. Sam’s face stares back at her; it’s distorted through the fisheye lens, but she can see enough to know he’s distressed.
“What – “ she mutters, and unlocks the door, pulling it open. “Sam, what are you doing here? How’d you find my place?”
He pushes past her, into the apartment. “Google,” he says, shortly.
“You shouldn’t be here, Sam,” Emma insists, but she closes the door behind him.
“I know.” He paces a little, stalking towards the kitchen, then swiveling on his sneakered heal, walking back in her direction. “I know that, okay? I just couldn’t think of where else to go. I needed to talk to someone. I needed to talk to you.”
“What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing. I don’t know. I was talking to Quinn on the phone, and she got mad at me, and I don’t think she’s speaking to me now. And I started thinking what if that’s it, you know? Like, what if she’s done with me and that means I’m done now?” He takes a step towards her, and his eyes are wide. “I messed it up. Why’d I have to mess it up? Why do I always mess everything up?”
“Sam,” she says, and reaches out, cups his face between her hands. “Oh, Sam. Don’t do that to yourself.”
He kisses her.
It’s a clumsy kiss, and it lands mostly on the corner of her lips, but it lasts for more than a few seconds, and while she’s trying to decide what to do, the nerves of her body sparking with panic, she opens her mouth and takes in his uncertain tongue.
He stumbles into her, and Emma, still holding his head between her palms, staggers back against the couch. The impact jolts her out of the kiss. She breathes, hard, against his chin.
“Sam,” she says, again.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I walked into your office.”
“Don’t tell me that.” She’s dizzy. She pushes him away. “Don’t.”
“You’re the only one at this school who really talks to me,” he tells her. “You’re – it’s not that you’re so pretty. It used to be, but now – I want to touch you. I really want that, Ms. Pillsbury.”
“No. It’s not right. It’s so incredibly not okay.”
“When we’re in that room, I don’t feel like a student,” he says, earnestly. “I feel like a person. Like a man. And you’re just a person, too. A woman. We’re just a man and a woman, you know?”
Emma wonders which late night movie that line’s from. She thinks she remembers Julia Roberts saying something like that to Hugh Grant, a lot time ago. That Sam seems to believe it makes him seem all the younger to her, and she nearly recoils from him, nearly tells him to leave. She doesn’t want his youth. She wants the reflection of his frailty.
“I would really like it,” she says, trying to be clear with him, “if you didn’t say things like that. Okay? This is wrong, no matter how we try to rationalize it. No matter how I try to rationalize it. I’m doing something very wrong here.”
“But I want this.” Sam’s face is red. “It’s not wrong if I want you too.”
“Even discounting that what we’re talking about is highly illegal, I have a boyfriend.” Carl – God, if Carl found out about this. “And you – you’re with Quinn. You’d really do that to her?”
“You mean more to me than Quinn,” he pleads. His fingers touch the skin over her sternum. “Please.”
She can tell him to go home, and she can sit here and wait for Carl and the rest of her life. It’s the right thing to do. It’s ready for her: this future, her reward for being careful and patient and a good person.
What would Nancy tell me to do? she thinks, and immediately answers herself, she’d never recognize me like this. Never. Because I’d never do anything like this.
“Why do you like me?” she asks him, and her voice is urgent. “Why me?”
“We’re the same,” he says, not hesitating.
It’s not exactly true, not completely, but no one’s ever said those words to her before. She covers his hand on her with her own, flattening his fingers against her chest.
“Please,” he repeats.
Emma takes a very deep breath and tells him to go wash his hands, thoroughly, with the bar of extra-strength soap she keeps next to the regular dispenser. “Two whole minutes,” she says, because she can’t take any chances.
first
They stay in the living room. The couch will have to do; she won’t take him into the bedroom. Not for this.
Emma’s careful not to touch his stomach, not wanting to make him self-conscious, but she strokes his hair, cups his shoulders, presses her body against his, without insistence. The firm line of his erection juts against her lower belly.
She doesn’t think about Carl. She doesn’t think about Will.
“Could you –“ He’s quiet, his hands on her shoulders. “Can I take this off you? Your sweater. Your, uh, top.”
“Yes,” she says, and raises her arms for him. “You should take your shirt off, too.”
He pulls the sweater over her head, and the oversized bow smacks against her face, making her wince, just a little. The blouse beneath is trickier, with tiny clasps down the front that take too long to work apart, and by the time she’s opening it to reveal the delicate bra beneath she’s breathing hard, not from arousal but from anxiety.
“You okay?” he asks, concerned.
She nods, and folds the blouse and sweater quickly but carefully, placing them on top of the coffee table beside them.
When he touches her again, his hands are cold against her breasts, covering them from view, and her nipples stiffen at the contact. He exhales. Emma turns her face up to his, and he kisses her again: it’s sweet and slow. She’s grateful that Sam, unlike the boys she remembers from high school, doesn’t think kissing’s about invasion.
“Take your shirt off,” she says, again, against his cheek, and this time he does, moving just enough away from her to yank it over his head. She closes her eyes briefly; she doesn’t want to risk staring at him.
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do – anything. Whatever you want. Just tell me. What do you like?”
He doesn’t know. The realization stuns her. He doesn’t know.
“Anything,” she murmurs, to cover up her shock, and she buries her face in the well of his shoulder and neck. Of course he wouldn’t. Why would he know? “Just be gentle, okay?”
Sam’s hands drop from her breasts, and find the zipper on the side of her skirt. She helps him with the hook he doesn’t see, and slips the skirt off. It joins the blouse and sweater on the coffee table, tucked neatly into a square.
She’s standing in front of him in only her underwear. She can’t look at him, not fully, as he stares at her. She looks at his neck instead, watches the cords move as he swallows.
“Hey,” he says, and Emma’s eyes rise reluctantly to his own. “You’re – you’re amazing.”
He’s good at this: saying what he thinks she wants to hear, and it’s so close, it’s very nearly the right words.
“Can I?” he asks, breathless, and she follows his gaze down.
Emma blushes, nods.
He holds her close, one arm spanning her waist. The other moves down between their bodies. She feels the pressure of his fingers between her legs, and gasps, just a little, against his skin, as one slips inside her panties, between the folds of her labia.
“How is that? Is that okay?”
“Yes,” she breathes. Her hips move of their own accord against his hand. “Should I – do you want me to touch you too?”
He nods vigorously, and when she presses her palm lightly over the swell of his erection Sam pushes back against her, gasping. The tip of his finger inside her flicks her clitoris – by accident, she thinks – but it’s good, it’s so good. “Like that,” she says, moving her hand. “Just like that.”
The zipper on his jeans sticks a little, but Emma’s resourceful, and she yanks it down over the catch, revealing the white shock of his boxers. He helps her with the rest of it, abandoning his administrations to pull down his jeans and underwear, kicking them under the coffee table, and she bites her lip to stop from telling him he’s going to wrinkle his clothes. The last thing she wants right now is to sound like his mother.
“Let’s –“ He gestures to the couch. She tears her gaze away from the rumpled shirt and jeans and boxers on the floor, catches a glimpse of his penis, angled, dark and full. It makes her cheeks flush, and she tries to be okay with the heat in her face. She unhooks her bra, slips off her panties.
When Emma lies down, adjusting herself so that she’s comfortable, Sam joins her, positioning himself slowly on top of her body, straddling her legs, and his hand returns to the slick place between her thighs, insistent. Emma reaches for the lubricant and condom she’s placed on the coffee table. She doesn’t think about Carl. She doesn’t think about him buying this for her: hopeful, expectant. She doesn’t think about it.
The lube is alien in her palm, softer, less sticky than she’d thought it would be. Less viscous. Not quite as light as sanitizer, but the basic similarity is soothing, and she’s sure it won’t hurt to pretend that lubricant has similar germ-defying properties, even if it’s a ridiculous fantasy.
He takes the condom from her, unwraps it, and stretches it over his penis with a surety that surprises Emma. It occurs to her, with surprising suddenness, that this might not be, as she’d been assuming all this time, Sam’s first sexual encounter.
She takes a deep breath and wraps her hand around him, stroking up and down, the lube facilitating the slide of her hand. Sam groans, pushing against her. “Ready,” he says. “God, so ready.”
Emma thinks she is, too, although she isn’t sure.
He misses the first time, the head of him trying to enter her an inch or two below the right place, and she takes him in her hand again, guiding him.
At the first push, she gasps, and he freezes.
“Keep going,” she manages. “Please. It’s good, you’re doing so well.”
He pushes in a little more, and there’s a sharp burn when her flesh gives way; she inhales sharply, bites her lip, says, “Okay, stop. Just for a second. I’m okay. Just – hold on.”
Sam reaches for her hand, takes it in his own, and squeezes lightly. He’s shaking, and she presses back, her fingers threading between his. “I’m here,” he promises, and Emma believes him.
“You can move again,” she whispers, feeling the pressure of his hand in hers, and he thrusts forward the remaining inches, now fully inside her. It’s reverse birth: the fullness of return. Emma chokes back the unwanted sob that’s rising in her throat. She won't cry, not here, not with this boy. She won’t add to her growing list of sins.
He touches her breast with his free hand and rocks against her, slowly moving in and out in the first steps of the dance Emma’s wondered about for so many years. There’s pain, still, but it’s muted, the sore scald of unstretched muscles learning to open. She frees her hand and finds the muscles of his hips, encouraging his movements, pressing him against her, gently lifting her own body to match his rhythm.
“Sam,” she says, watching his face closely for signals, “Sam,” and he answers with the unfamiliar wobble of her name, her first name, in his mouth.
She doesn’t orgasm, not tonight and not with him, but it isn’t what she was looking for, anyway, and she takes pleasure in the shocks and sounds he makes as he comes, spilling inside her body. (She’s grateful for the condom, catching every bit of his semen, making the ablutions she knows she’ll have to perform later less intensive. There’ll be very little to clean out of her except her own wetness and the vestiges of the lubricant.)
Afterwards, she holds Sam nestled to her chest, trying to remember the warmth of him, the smell of his skin. It’s a short-lived protest against tomorrow, when she’ll try to forget.
child
It’s a long night, once he's gone and the apartment's quiet again. She doesn’t sleep much, and when she does her dreams are unforgiving.
When Sam stops by her office the next morning, Emma sees him in the doorway and freezes, her imagination tumbling to the worst possible places. He’s told Will. Worse – he’s told Figgins. No, Sue. Oh, dear God.
“It’s cool, Ms. Pillsbury,” he tells her, smiling, and closes the door behind him, stepping into her office. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? I just came by to see if you were doing all right.”
She knows her face is easy to read, but it’s startling to Emma to know just how visible her thoughts are. “I’m fine, Sam. Thank you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” The word sounds like gratitude, not reassurance, and the look on his face loosens the anxious cramp in her stomach. “No, I’m good.”
“You know, we should probably not meet for a while,” Emma says, before her courage fails her. “In my office, I mean. And outside. We shouldn’t see each other outside at all.”
He shuffles his feet, and she sees the hesitancy in him she’d thought he’d lost with her. “That’s sort of what I came to talk to you about. I wanted to say I don’t think I can do that – you know, what we did – I don’t think I can do that with you again. Not that it wasn’t amazing. Because it totally was. But I can’t again. I’m sorry.”
She rushes to assure him that she agrees, but he pushes the hair off his face and shakes his head. “It’s not that. Not the whole you being a teacher thing. I mean, I’d be cool with that if you were. It’s just – “
“What?” Emma’s confused.
“Uh. So. Quinn called me back, last night. After I went home. And we talked a lot, and everything’s cool now. I want to be with her, you know?” He shrugs. “I was thinking about doing something to show her how much I care about her. Like a ring or something? A promise ring. And if I do that, it’s not fair to, I don’t know, see both of you or whatever.”
Emma stares at him. “Oh, my God,” she says, softly.
“What is it? What’d I say?”
“No,” she whispers. “It’s not you. Not really.” He’s a child. He’s still a child. She’s been with a child. “You’re absolutely right, Sam.”
His expression is pure relief, and she wonders, dizzy with what he’s telling her, if Sam had actually thought she’d be upset about his choice of Quinn. If he’d seen himself as having equal opportunities with the cheerleader and the guidance counselor. If he’d chosen Quinn not because she’s the legal option, but because the social currency of that choice gives him a far better foothold than he’d ever have with Emma.
It’s ridiculous, and she hates herself for it, but there it is: a small wave of hurt.
“I appreciate your coming to talk to me,” she tells him, trying to keep her voice steady. “I hope you know that if you need me, I’m here for you. As your counselor.”
“I know,” he says. “I know that. You’re really cool, Ms. Pillsbury. You’ve helped me a lot.”
She nods. He’s helped her, too.
“Please take care of yourself, Sam,” she insists. “Please. You deserve better than what you think you deserve. Be kind to yourself.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, a little, but the curve of his mouth doesn’t match the look in his eyes. “Thanks.”
When he’s gone, she covers her face with her trembling hands and thinks: I can never tell anyone about this. No one. Ever.
She thinks: Carl. I’m going to marry Carl. We're going to build a life together.
It doesn’t make her stomach cramp or her shoulders tense, and the safe promise of the two of them suddenly seems so much more desirable, in contrast.
last
Three weeks later Carl proposes on bended knee in front of the Bellagio fountain in Vegas. His smile is white and blinding, and a small crowd gathers around them, waiting to see if she’ll step into her future.
Emma closes her eyes and feels the heat of the sun on her cold face. It’s harsh, but it’s life-giving, too.
“Yes,” she says, and reaches out for him: the best word for a new world.
Author:
ellydash Pairing/Characters: Emma Pillsbury/Sam Evans, Emma Pillsbury/Carl Howell, Finn Hudson, Will Schuester, Sue Sylvester
Rating: R
Word Count: 9,406 total
Spoilers: Takes place between 2x05 (Rocky Horror Glee Show) and 2x09 (Special Education).
Warnings: Teacher/student, references to disordered eating and body dysmorphia
Note: The rarest of pairs. Written for a prompt at
glee_kink_meme that grabbed onto me and wouldn’t let go. Summary: Emma’s spent the first thirty years of her life following a doctrine of denial. It keeps her safe.
Part One
eighth
It’s the morning of their eighth session, and when Emma wakes up, the sour taste of sleep in her mouth and the daze of a dream she can’t remember still flooding her eyes, she remembers: today I meet with Sam.
Pleasure slinks over her, the righteous pleasure of a woman who knows that the day is fresh and open before her, without any missteps or awkwardness polluting it. The pleasure of knowing she’s helping someone, even if only a little, by listening.
She can’t remember ever actively looking forward to seeing him before. It’s slipped up on Emma, this eagerness, like a birthday she wasn’t expecting.
When he enters her office, a few minutes early (did he really cut his lunch short, to come see her?) he’s blushing, just a little, the tips of his cheeks and nose a faint rose color. Emma doesn’t know why; maybe, she thinks, he’s just been spending his lunch period with Quinn, canoodling or something.
She’d never tell him this, especially not now that she knows what it’s cost him, but Emma envies Sam his social fluency, what he’s managed to build for himself here at McKinley, and the strength of that envy makes her light-headed. Even if she tried as hard as he has, even if she tried harder, she wouldn’t be able to construct a self built for others’ consumption. She’s no one’s favorite flavor, except Carl’s, and she loves him for it. (Will chooses her first out of habit, not taste.)
“How’s the substitute?” she asks him by way of greeting, as he sits in the chair facing her desk. “Ms. Holiday, right? She seems like a lot of fun.” Emma knows Holly, a little, from brief encounters in the faculty lounge. The woman seems nice enough, if overly eager to please.
Sam brightens. “Yeah, Ms. Holiday’s awesome. She took the whole glee club to Taco Bell the other day, and she totally bought everyone quesadillas.” He doesn’t specify everyone but me, but Emma knows it’s implied; Sam would never eat a quesadilla. “And she told me I could just hang out here with you during Spanish class until Mr. Schuester gets back.”
“The whole period?” She’s surprised. “You’d want to?”
“She’s cool and all, but she doesn’t know about Bradbury,” he says, and smiles.
While he’s telling her about his favorite part of “The Veldt” (you remember, Ms. Pillsbury, the part with the bloody scarf, oh, man, that was seriously sweet) she watches his face. It’s softly sunny with the glow of his interest.
“Have you been eating more?” she inquires, after he’s finished his sentence. He looks wounded, as if she’s reneging on the rules; they were talking about Bradbury, not food.
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s a lie. She can tell. He does the same thing Emma does when Nancy asks her a question she can’t answer honestly: lick his lips, bite the lower one, briefly. She wonders, somewhat discomfited, if Nancy sees through her as clearly as Emma sees through Sam.
“What if I can’t stop?” he asks, abruptly. “What if I let myself eat a few Wheat Thins or whatever and then I keep going and eat the whole box?”
“You tell me,” she says. “What happens if you eat a whole box?”
Sam’s hand strays to the plane of his stomach, and he leans back against the chair. “God. I don’t know. I’d gain weight. I’d feel like shit.”
Emma doesn’t comment on his profanity. “I don’t think you’d gain weight. And I’ll eat Wheat Thins with you,” she offers, instead. “We could eat them together.”
His hand tightens against the fabric of his shirt, grabbing at the stretch of skin she knows is beneath. She sees a shock of pale flesh as he tugs the cotton tee, lets his hand fall to his side. “Maybe.”
She knows maybe; it’s the nearest synonym to no, even if the thesaurus doesn’t recognize the relationship. “I could use a few extra Wheat Thins myself. I haven’t been eating so well lately, either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, not elaborating. Sam doesn’t need to know the details of her missing appetite, and Emma’s not sure how she’d explain them, either, except to tell him the only thing she knows: that something isn’t right.
From the way he’s looking at her, though, she doesn’t need to say it.
This time, Sam’s the one who reaches across the desk, wordlessly asking for her hand in return. She gives it to him, without hesitation.
Emma thinks about the sanitizer in her drawer, but it’s a cursory thought, a compulsory scratch over a familiar itch.
telephone
Carl’s at a convention in Toledo, some sales thing with dental equipment (he’d told Emma, and she’d tried to listen, honestly, but even the thought of sterile machines couldn’t keep her interest. She’s been so distracted, lately). It’s quiet in her apartment, without him there in the evenings. He’s been such a staple over the last six months, his white smile matching her white furniture like he’d been pre-ordered for her life.
“I miss you,” she tells him over the phone, curled like a comma on the couch. “How much longer until you come back?”
“Sunday, and you know exactly when I’m coming back, Ems,” he says, cheerfully. “I’ve bet you’ve got it marked in your phone calendar with a red star and a link to Google Maps’ directions for Toledo to Lima, so you know exactly how long it’ll take me.”
He understands her so well. She’s also got a link to the Ohio State Highway Patrol’s website, just so she can monitor traffic, but Emma doesn’t volunteer this information. “I’m just excited, that’s all.”
“I’m glad.” There’s a brief pause. “Can I tell you something, Emma? I don’t want to freak you out.”
Oh, it’s exactly what she doesn’t want to hear. A glut of possibilities occur to her, almost simultaneously. He’s got a disease. He’s seeing someone else on the side. He’s bisexual. He’s gay. He likes Ke$ha’s new album. “Well, when you put it like that,” she manages.
Carl exhales into the receiver, a loud blast of air that rings in her ear. “Before I left for Toledo,” he admits, talking quickly, “I bought some condoms. And some lubricant. I put them in the cabinet under your kitchen sink so we’d have them just in case. I’m not trying to pressure you, okay? I just thought that after our last conversation, you might be, you know, heading in that direction. I want you to know that we’re prepared, whenever you’re ready.”
She’s startled into a response. “Wow, Carl. That’s so nice of you.”
“Really?” He sounds surprised. “Awesome. You sure know how to make a dude’s night, Ems. I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it. I just wanted to tell you in case you went looking for a bleach refill or something.”
“We can talk about it more, when you get home,” she says, and almost adds, I might be ready, but doesn’t. Emma needs to talk about this more with Nancy before she makes any decision. It’s not like she thinks of her virginity as a special gift, exactly; that isn’t why she’s refrained from sex. It’s that she needs to be sure she wants to trust Carl with the notches and bends of her body. Being naked, more than anything, with someone else, is what terrifies her: presenting her vulnerable, flawed flesh without the cosmetics of clothing.
And this, too, although she can’t quite articulate it to herself: the terror of joining, of allowing another human being access to the pith of her body, where he might find a part of her he doesn’t know.
Emma understands, without knowing for sure, that Carl has their first time together all planned out. He’ll put rose petals on the sheets, or sunflower petals if he’s feeling adventurous, and probably some light jazz on her stereo system out in the living room, just loud enough to set the mood in the bedroom. He’ll know exactly what to do. How to touch her just enough to calm her down; how to avoid looking right in her eyes for too long, because he knows just how skittish that makes her; how to unbutton her blouse with one careful hand. She imagines lying under him, staring up at his chest, his neck, his hands above her, looking at the shape and pulp of her future: this man who loves her.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” she promises.
mess
She doesn’t plan it.
She reminds herself of that fact, later, in her dark moments of self-recrimination, moments she deserves. At least she didn’t plan it.
What she doesn’t plan happens the following night, a school night: she’s washing her dinner dishes in the sink when the doorbell rings. The sound is unfamiliar. Carl’s usually her only visitor, and he has a key.
She dries her hands, quickly, and rushes to peer through the peephole. Sam’s face stares back at her; it’s distorted through the fisheye lens, but she can see enough to know he’s distressed.
“What – “ she mutters, and unlocks the door, pulling it open. “Sam, what are you doing here? How’d you find my place?”
He pushes past her, into the apartment. “Google,” he says, shortly.
“You shouldn’t be here, Sam,” Emma insists, but she closes the door behind him.
“I know.” He paces a little, stalking towards the kitchen, then swiveling on his sneakered heal, walking back in her direction. “I know that, okay? I just couldn’t think of where else to go. I needed to talk to someone. I needed to talk to you.”
“What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing. I don’t know. I was talking to Quinn on the phone, and she got mad at me, and I don’t think she’s speaking to me now. And I started thinking what if that’s it, you know? Like, what if she’s done with me and that means I’m done now?” He takes a step towards her, and his eyes are wide. “I messed it up. Why’d I have to mess it up? Why do I always mess everything up?”
“Sam,” she says, and reaches out, cups his face between her hands. “Oh, Sam. Don’t do that to yourself.”
He kisses her.
It’s a clumsy kiss, and it lands mostly on the corner of her lips, but it lasts for more than a few seconds, and while she’s trying to decide what to do, the nerves of her body sparking with panic, she opens her mouth and takes in his uncertain tongue.
He stumbles into her, and Emma, still holding his head between her palms, staggers back against the couch. The impact jolts her out of the kiss. She breathes, hard, against his chin.
“Sam,” she says, again.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I walked into your office.”
“Don’t tell me that.” She’s dizzy. She pushes him away. “Don’t.”
“You’re the only one at this school who really talks to me,” he tells her. “You’re – it’s not that you’re so pretty. It used to be, but now – I want to touch you. I really want that, Ms. Pillsbury.”
“No. It’s not right. It’s so incredibly not okay.”
“When we’re in that room, I don’t feel like a student,” he says, earnestly. “I feel like a person. Like a man. And you’re just a person, too. A woman. We’re just a man and a woman, you know?”
Emma wonders which late night movie that line’s from. She thinks she remembers Julia Roberts saying something like that to Hugh Grant, a lot time ago. That Sam seems to believe it makes him seem all the younger to her, and she nearly recoils from him, nearly tells him to leave. She doesn’t want his youth. She wants the reflection of his frailty.
“I would really like it,” she says, trying to be clear with him, “if you didn’t say things like that. Okay? This is wrong, no matter how we try to rationalize it. No matter how I try to rationalize it. I’m doing something very wrong here.”
“But I want this.” Sam’s face is red. “It’s not wrong if I want you too.”
“Even discounting that what we’re talking about is highly illegal, I have a boyfriend.” Carl – God, if Carl found out about this. “And you – you’re with Quinn. You’d really do that to her?”
“You mean more to me than Quinn,” he pleads. His fingers touch the skin over her sternum. “Please.”
She can tell him to go home, and she can sit here and wait for Carl and the rest of her life. It’s the right thing to do. It’s ready for her: this future, her reward for being careful and patient and a good person.
What would Nancy tell me to do? she thinks, and immediately answers herself, she’d never recognize me like this. Never. Because I’d never do anything like this.
“Why do you like me?” she asks him, and her voice is urgent. “Why me?”
“We’re the same,” he says, not hesitating.
It’s not exactly true, not completely, but no one’s ever said those words to her before. She covers his hand on her with her own, flattening his fingers against her chest.
“Please,” he repeats.
Emma takes a very deep breath and tells him to go wash his hands, thoroughly, with the bar of extra-strength soap she keeps next to the regular dispenser. “Two whole minutes,” she says, because she can’t take any chances.
first
They stay in the living room. The couch will have to do; she won’t take him into the bedroom. Not for this.
Emma’s careful not to touch his stomach, not wanting to make him self-conscious, but she strokes his hair, cups his shoulders, presses her body against his, without insistence. The firm line of his erection juts against her lower belly.
She doesn’t think about Carl. She doesn’t think about Will.
“Could you –“ He’s quiet, his hands on her shoulders. “Can I take this off you? Your sweater. Your, uh, top.”
“Yes,” she says, and raises her arms for him. “You should take your shirt off, too.”
He pulls the sweater over her head, and the oversized bow smacks against her face, making her wince, just a little. The blouse beneath is trickier, with tiny clasps down the front that take too long to work apart, and by the time she’s opening it to reveal the delicate bra beneath she’s breathing hard, not from arousal but from anxiety.
“You okay?” he asks, concerned.
She nods, and folds the blouse and sweater quickly but carefully, placing them on top of the coffee table beside them.
When he touches her again, his hands are cold against her breasts, covering them from view, and her nipples stiffen at the contact. He exhales. Emma turns her face up to his, and he kisses her again: it’s sweet and slow. She’s grateful that Sam, unlike the boys she remembers from high school, doesn’t think kissing’s about invasion.
“Take your shirt off,” she says, again, against his cheek, and this time he does, moving just enough away from her to yank it over his head. She closes her eyes briefly; she doesn’t want to risk staring at him.
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do – anything. Whatever you want. Just tell me. What do you like?”
He doesn’t know. The realization stuns her. He doesn’t know.
“Anything,” she murmurs, to cover up her shock, and she buries her face in the well of his shoulder and neck. Of course he wouldn’t. Why would he know? “Just be gentle, okay?”
Sam’s hands drop from her breasts, and find the zipper on the side of her skirt. She helps him with the hook he doesn’t see, and slips the skirt off. It joins the blouse and sweater on the coffee table, tucked neatly into a square.
She’s standing in front of him in only her underwear. She can’t look at him, not fully, as he stares at her. She looks at his neck instead, watches the cords move as he swallows.
“Hey,” he says, and Emma’s eyes rise reluctantly to his own. “You’re – you’re amazing.”
He’s good at this: saying what he thinks she wants to hear, and it’s so close, it’s very nearly the right words.
“Can I?” he asks, breathless, and she follows his gaze down.
Emma blushes, nods.
He holds her close, one arm spanning her waist. The other moves down between their bodies. She feels the pressure of his fingers between her legs, and gasps, just a little, against his skin, as one slips inside her panties, between the folds of her labia.
“How is that? Is that okay?”
“Yes,” she breathes. Her hips move of their own accord against his hand. “Should I – do you want me to touch you too?”
He nods vigorously, and when she presses her palm lightly over the swell of his erection Sam pushes back against her, gasping. The tip of his finger inside her flicks her clitoris – by accident, she thinks – but it’s good, it’s so good. “Like that,” she says, moving her hand. “Just like that.”
The zipper on his jeans sticks a little, but Emma’s resourceful, and she yanks it down over the catch, revealing the white shock of his boxers. He helps her with the rest of it, abandoning his administrations to pull down his jeans and underwear, kicking them under the coffee table, and she bites her lip to stop from telling him he’s going to wrinkle his clothes. The last thing she wants right now is to sound like his mother.
“Let’s –“ He gestures to the couch. She tears her gaze away from the rumpled shirt and jeans and boxers on the floor, catches a glimpse of his penis, angled, dark and full. It makes her cheeks flush, and she tries to be okay with the heat in her face. She unhooks her bra, slips off her panties.
When Emma lies down, adjusting herself so that she’s comfortable, Sam joins her, positioning himself slowly on top of her body, straddling her legs, and his hand returns to the slick place between her thighs, insistent. Emma reaches for the lubricant and condom she’s placed on the coffee table. She doesn’t think about Carl. She doesn’t think about him buying this for her: hopeful, expectant. She doesn’t think about it.
The lube is alien in her palm, softer, less sticky than she’d thought it would be. Less viscous. Not quite as light as sanitizer, but the basic similarity is soothing, and she’s sure it won’t hurt to pretend that lubricant has similar germ-defying properties, even if it’s a ridiculous fantasy.
He takes the condom from her, unwraps it, and stretches it over his penis with a surety that surprises Emma. It occurs to her, with surprising suddenness, that this might not be, as she’d been assuming all this time, Sam’s first sexual encounter.
She takes a deep breath and wraps her hand around him, stroking up and down, the lube facilitating the slide of her hand. Sam groans, pushing against her. “Ready,” he says. “God, so ready.”
Emma thinks she is, too, although she isn’t sure.
He misses the first time, the head of him trying to enter her an inch or two below the right place, and she takes him in her hand again, guiding him.
At the first push, she gasps, and he freezes.
“Keep going,” she manages. “Please. It’s good, you’re doing so well.”
He pushes in a little more, and there’s a sharp burn when her flesh gives way; she inhales sharply, bites her lip, says, “Okay, stop. Just for a second. I’m okay. Just – hold on.”
Sam reaches for her hand, takes it in his own, and squeezes lightly. He’s shaking, and she presses back, her fingers threading between his. “I’m here,” he promises, and Emma believes him.
“You can move again,” she whispers, feeling the pressure of his hand in hers, and he thrusts forward the remaining inches, now fully inside her. It’s reverse birth: the fullness of return. Emma chokes back the unwanted sob that’s rising in her throat. She won't cry, not here, not with this boy. She won’t add to her growing list of sins.
He touches her breast with his free hand and rocks against her, slowly moving in and out in the first steps of the dance Emma’s wondered about for so many years. There’s pain, still, but it’s muted, the sore scald of unstretched muscles learning to open. She frees her hand and finds the muscles of his hips, encouraging his movements, pressing him against her, gently lifting her own body to match his rhythm.
“Sam,” she says, watching his face closely for signals, “Sam,” and he answers with the unfamiliar wobble of her name, her first name, in his mouth.
She doesn’t orgasm, not tonight and not with him, but it isn’t what she was looking for, anyway, and she takes pleasure in the shocks and sounds he makes as he comes, spilling inside her body. (She’s grateful for the condom, catching every bit of his semen, making the ablutions she knows she’ll have to perform later less intensive. There’ll be very little to clean out of her except her own wetness and the vestiges of the lubricant.)
Afterwards, she holds Sam nestled to her chest, trying to remember the warmth of him, the smell of his skin. It’s a short-lived protest against tomorrow, when she’ll try to forget.
child
It’s a long night, once he's gone and the apartment's quiet again. She doesn’t sleep much, and when she does her dreams are unforgiving.
When Sam stops by her office the next morning, Emma sees him in the doorway and freezes, her imagination tumbling to the worst possible places. He’s told Will. Worse – he’s told Figgins. No, Sue. Oh, dear God.
“It’s cool, Ms. Pillsbury,” he tells her, smiling, and closes the door behind him, stepping into her office. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? I just came by to see if you were doing all right.”
She knows her face is easy to read, but it’s startling to Emma to know just how visible her thoughts are. “I’m fine, Sam. Thank you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” The word sounds like gratitude, not reassurance, and the look on his face loosens the anxious cramp in her stomach. “No, I’m good.”
“You know, we should probably not meet for a while,” Emma says, before her courage fails her. “In my office, I mean. And outside. We shouldn’t see each other outside at all.”
He shuffles his feet, and she sees the hesitancy in him she’d thought he’d lost with her. “That’s sort of what I came to talk to you about. I wanted to say I don’t think I can do that – you know, what we did – I don’t think I can do that with you again. Not that it wasn’t amazing. Because it totally was. But I can’t again. I’m sorry.”
She rushes to assure him that she agrees, but he pushes the hair off his face and shakes his head. “It’s not that. Not the whole you being a teacher thing. I mean, I’d be cool with that if you were. It’s just – “
“What?” Emma’s confused.
“Uh. So. Quinn called me back, last night. After I went home. And we talked a lot, and everything’s cool now. I want to be with her, you know?” He shrugs. “I was thinking about doing something to show her how much I care about her. Like a ring or something? A promise ring. And if I do that, it’s not fair to, I don’t know, see both of you or whatever.”
Emma stares at him. “Oh, my God,” she says, softly.
“What is it? What’d I say?”
“No,” she whispers. “It’s not you. Not really.” He’s a child. He’s still a child. She’s been with a child. “You’re absolutely right, Sam.”
His expression is pure relief, and she wonders, dizzy with what he’s telling her, if Sam had actually thought she’d be upset about his choice of Quinn. If he’d seen himself as having equal opportunities with the cheerleader and the guidance counselor. If he’d chosen Quinn not because she’s the legal option, but because the social currency of that choice gives him a far better foothold than he’d ever have with Emma.
It’s ridiculous, and she hates herself for it, but there it is: a small wave of hurt.
“I appreciate your coming to talk to me,” she tells him, trying to keep her voice steady. “I hope you know that if you need me, I’m here for you. As your counselor.”
“I know,” he says. “I know that. You’re really cool, Ms. Pillsbury. You’ve helped me a lot.”
She nods. He’s helped her, too.
“Please take care of yourself, Sam,” she insists. “Please. You deserve better than what you think you deserve. Be kind to yourself.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, a little, but the curve of his mouth doesn’t match the look in his eyes. “Thanks.”
When he’s gone, she covers her face with her trembling hands and thinks: I can never tell anyone about this. No one. Ever.
She thinks: Carl. I’m going to marry Carl. We're going to build a life together.
It doesn’t make her stomach cramp or her shoulders tense, and the safe promise of the two of them suddenly seems so much more desirable, in contrast.
last
Three weeks later Carl proposes on bended knee in front of the Bellagio fountain in Vegas. His smile is white and blinding, and a small crowd gathers around them, waiting to see if she’ll step into her future.
Emma closes her eyes and feels the heat of the sun on her cold face. It’s harsh, but it’s life-giving, too.
“Yes,” she says, and reaches out for him: the best word for a new world.
