Still not into you - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,24
his lips run down my neck. His kisses are so soft, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Somehow, we end up in my bedroom. I have no idea where Juliet is, but I also don’t particularly care. I just hope that she doesn’t come home any time soon.
We fall into bed together. Our legs intertwine. His hands caress my shoulders and run down both sides of my body. As we grind against each other, we shed our clothes. My legs open and his intertwine with mine.
“Wait, I have to get my wallet,” he mumbles. I nod. He needs to get a condom. We’ve never had unprotected sex. I’ve been meaning to go on the pill, but that requires going to the gynecologist. I hate doctors, let alone gynecologists, so I’ve been putting it off.
When Hudson’s ready, he plops back next to me.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, brushing hair out of my face.
“So are you,” I say, smiling.
I pull him on top of me and kiss him. His hair falls into my eyes. He comes into me. Slowly, our bodies start to move in sync. His hands slide up and down my body and I bury my fingernails into his back. I start to moan with pleasure. Our bodies rise and fall with each movement.
“Oh, shit!” Hudson says and pulls out of me. “Oh my God, no, no, no.”
I look down. The condom is broken.
“What does this mean?” he asks. “What are we going to do?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Oh my God, you can’t get pregnant.”
“I know! Stop freaking out,” I say. “It’s going to be fine. You didn’t…finish yet. So, the likelihood is probably really small.”
“But there’s still a likelihood,” he says.
“I don’t know.” I shrug.
We sit in bed for a few moments, staring at each other. We both know that the night is over and there is no way to recover it now. Eventually, I grab my clothes and hand Hudson his.
Later that evening, I meet up with Hudson again in the living room. He’s watching TV, but not really watching. Just flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch.
“There’s nothing good on,” he says.
“Yeah, I know,” I say.
Hudson turns off the TV and grabs a Red Bull out of the refrigerator.
“Isn’t it a little late for Red Bull?” I ask.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I have a lot of Macroeconomics to do. I think I’m going to fail that class.”
“I’m sure you won’t.”
“Can I tell you something, Alice?” he asks and continues without waiting for my answer. “I just feel a lot of pressure. I’m working these crazy hours. I don’t have time for anything. Not for my classes. Not for you. Not even for work. You know, I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do there. I mean, I look at those charts and figures and they just intimidate me, but I pretend that I know what’s going on and that’s exhausting.”
“I can imagine,” I sympathize.
“As for going out afterward. I often don’t want to go. Really. I just want to come home and be with you and study, though I don’t really want to study.”
“So, why don’t you?” I ask.
“Because I hear the way they all talk about other interns who didn’t come along and how all the full-time people mock them for skipping out. All those people who didn’t go out with them—well, they’re not working there now. Tim told me that many of them are still struggling to find work six months after finishing college.”
I nod. I want to sympathize. I want to say something that will make him feel better, but nothing comes to mind.
“Hudson, it’s your freshman year of college. You shouldn’t be working so hard. You should have some fun.”
“Alice, I’m talking to you about something serious that I’m going through and you…you just act like it’s nothing. Like what I do doesn’t matter. Don’t you know how that makes me feel?”
I shrug. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t want to…”
“I know. You never mean it, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve said it.”
I don’t know what’s happening here. How did all of this suddenly become my fault?
“I know you’re working hard, but maybe the internship is just too much. I mean, you’re going to an Ivy League school and it’s your freshman year. You should be able to have some fun sometimes. You’re practically entitled to it.”
“And what makes me entitled to it, exactly?” he asks.
“I don’t know. The fact