I help her see me

I focus my attention on Whitney. On further reflection, I’m not so sure that’s her wedding dress—it’s white and everything, but aren’t wedding dresses long and floofy? The dress she’s wearing isn’t short, but it isn’t floor-length, and it’s elegant rather than ornate.

It doesn’t matter. Focus on the woman. I walk slowly and softly to Whitney and kneel before her. I lift her dress, slowly, unhurriedly, but feel her tense up anyway. I take no outward notice (though I do take a discreet peek to see that she’s sitting on a towel and has her panties off) but start gently massaging her calves. As I work her leg muscles, I feel her begin to relax into my touch. It will take more than this to get her ready, though.

“Whitney,” I say softly, looking up at her. She starts a little and looks down into my eyes. I can see the roiling emotion on her face; anxiety is still dominant, but curiosity and hunger are growing stronger. She really does want this, I think. Part of her does, anyway. I just need her to trust me. “Whitney, it’s OK. It’s just me. I know we don’t know each other well, but you do know me. I’m just the guy you laughed at when he stumbled and fell off the diving board at Eileen’s pool party.” I don’t get the giggle I’m hoping for, but her eyes light up and the corners of her mouth quirk upward. “I’m the guy you found holding Heather while she cried into my shoulder.” I see a start of memory in Whitney’s eyes now. Then she surprises me.

“More than once, actually,” she murmurs, almost too softly for me to hear.

“Really?” I ask. “I only remember the time with Rick Wood.”

“Rick,” Whitney says, and the distaste in her voice is clear even as softly as she’s speaking. “The other times, I was more careful—you didn’t know I was there. I didn’t want to disturb . . . anything.” The way she says that is odd, somehow. She gazes intently into my eyes. She’s still smiling. I didn’t expect her to be still smiling. Then she floors me again.

“You love her, don’t you.” It isn’t a question. Whitney understands it doesn’t need to be a question. I suddenly realize the only question at all is whether I’m willing—or even able—to admit the truth. To her . . . to anyone. Even, fully, to myself.

“Uhhhh,” I say, taken completely off guard. She just waits and looks into my eyes with that odd, soft smile. Finally, I swallow hard and say, “Yes. Ever since sixth grade.”

“I know,” she replies gently. She opens her mouth as if to say more, pauses, and closes it. She thinks for a minute, opens her mouth again, and again closes it without speaking. Finally, with a tiny shake of her head, she says, “Don’t lose heart.” What am I supposed to do with that? Whitney watches me trying to process her words for several moments, then adds, “I’m ready.”