Meeting with Heather

It’s good to be home, but not as good as my parents think. I enjoyed my classes, and I think I should have a 4.0 (or close) for the semester. More than that, at school, I get to eat a lot of pussy, I’ve made a lot of money doing it, and I get to fuck a lot of those girls to boot. I’m going to miss my clients quite a bit . . . especially Rachel, now.

That’s the heart of my problem: I’m conflicted. On the one hand, being home gives me a little distance from the drama—from what Noelle did to me (though the hurt is fading, the awkwardness remains), and especially from the awkwardness with Danni. I decided to tell her the truth about Heather, too—though not the truth about Rachel; that would have been too much—and she reacted as I hoped: she acknowledged that I need to talk to Heather first, looking disappointed but not personally rejected. She did not suggest we could be one happy threesome the way Rachel did, which was good . . . It was interesting to examine my emotions afterward and realize that my interest has definitely shifted from Danni to Rachel. Was that just because Rachel asked first, or had that been going on in my heart and I just failed to notice? I wonder. I suppose I’ll never know.

On the other, being home means facing Heather, and my emotions are in a complete roil. I want her, and I love her; I want Rachel, too, and I wonder if I’m falling for her; I don’t want to lose either of them, and I have no idea how Heather will react when I float Rachel’s idea—or even how to bring it up. If I end up having to choose, I think I’ll have to choose Heather . . . but the fact that I can’t quite say that definitively to myself raises questions in my heart. I suppose, underlying it all, is a more basic, irrational, fear that Alyssa wasn’t telling the truth, and that I’m about to hideously embarrass myself.

Mom startles me out of my ponderings, sticking her head in the door with a grin and saying, “Get up, sleepyhead—you have a phone call.”

“I didn’t hear the phone ring,” I say in surprise.

“Deep in thought again, huh?” she laughs. “Seriously, kiddo, get up, you want to take this. It’s your friend Heather.”

I take the phone from Mom, who waves herself out and closes the door behind her. Stay natural, I tell myself. “Hey, beautiful,” I greet Heather. “How are you doing?”

“Oooh,” she coos happily, “I like that. You’re getting smooth, Andrew. Not smooth enough to answer your cell when I call you”—I can hear the smirk in her voice—“but pretty smooth, anyway.”

“Sorry about that, Heather,” I say, chagrined. “I got in late and the battery was dead. I left it off to charge, and I haven’t turned it back on yet. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, actually.”

“Mmm,” she purrs. “Well, I’d better help you recover from finals, then. How about coffee this afternoon?”

“Sure! My treat?”

“Of course,” she responds, delight glimmering and glinting in her voice.

“Where do you want to meet? Espress Yourself or Common Grounds?” We have Starbucks in our supermarkets, but they don’t even try to compete with our local coffee shops. Espress Yourself is an extroverted sort of place, with upbeat music and bright décor; my friends all thought it had slightly better coffee. Common Grounds is more the dark-wood-paneling-and-overstuffed-chairs kind of place, with much softer music (often jazz) and more subdued lighting. Heather has always preferred Espress Yourself, but given what I know she wants to talk about . . .

“Common Grounds,” she responds promptly. Bingo. “One o’clock?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I tell her. “I look forward to seeing you, as always.”

“Such a gentleman,” she says softly. “See you then.”

*******

I get there a few minutes before one and get in line to order. During the day, Heather invariably orders the same thing: on Espress Yourself’s menu, it’s called a Depth Charge, but Common Grounds calls it a Shot in the Dark. It’s a shot of espresso in a mug of regular coffee.

I feel long, slender arms wrap around me from behind and hear a musical voice in my ear say, “It’s really good to see you.” I turn in Heather’s embrace and wrap my arms around her in return. I’m acutely aware of the pressure of her big, soft breasts against my chest. We hold each other tightly for a moment, then let go. “You know what I want?” she asks happily.

“I ought to, after all the repetition,” I tell her with a grin.

Heather grins back at me and says, “I’ll go get us a table,” then heads off with a distinct bounce in her step. I watch her for a moment, then turn my attention back toward the barista.

*******

To my surprise, I find Heather sitting in the most secluded corner of the shop. I sit down and give her her coffee, then lift my own in salute. We touch our cups together gently and each take a drink. She sets her cup down first; before I can say anything, she looks at me and sighs. “Alyssa told you, didn’t she?”