Leah Pricewater

"Charlie, I'm so sorry!" she moaned. "I mean, I just—I—oh, god, Charlie I'm so embarrassed! It's my neck. I never should have let you kiss my neck. I'm—" At this point I had successfully removed her hands from her face and was staring down at a woman in agony. Clasping both her hands in one of mine, I shut down her babbling with a gentle kiss and swept her hair back from her face.

"I guess you're kind of sensitive there," I said, trying hard not to laugh. She was adorable. Even in the semi-darkness, I could tell that she was blushing furiously, and she lowered her eyes as she spoke.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes I am." She looked on the verge of tears, so I opted to tell her what was going through my mind.

"I'm sorry I kept going if you didn't want me to," I said shakily, "but I've got to tell you: that was the hottest thing I've ever seen. You're incredibly sexy when you come," I finished, and I could feel heat rise in my cheeks. What was wrong with me? I was embarrassed by that admission? Amy and I spilled all kinds of filthy talk to each other in bed. But this? This felt different. This felt intimate. For the first time in my life, I felt vulnerable around a woman, and I was aware of two things. First, Leah wasn't fawning over me like Amy did, trying to make me feel like a sex god. She was having her own, genuine reaction to what we had just done. And second, the thought occurred to me that, because of this, she might reject me. What if she was angry that I had kept going when she had reservations? What if she felt guilty about what we had done? What if—this gave me pause—what if it just wasn't that great of an orgasm?

She looked up at me slowly, unsteadily, passing a hand over my cheek. I pressed my face into it and kissed her palm. She gave me a small smile.

"I guess," she said slowly, "we've solved our chemistry problem." She dropped her hand from my cheek and reached down to straighten her costume. She looked like she had something else to say, but if she did she wasn't saying it.

"I don't know," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "I think we may need to head back to my place and rehearse some more." I winked. She looked up at me as though unsure whether or not to believe me. I was dead serious.

"Come back to my place. Please. I just...I can't...I don't want this to be over." I was stumbling over my words, but I didn't care. I couldn't let this end. Leah's expression was unreadable. She looked up at me and said one word, her tone suggesting it was the answer to a question that I hadn't realized was hanging over us.

"Amy."

My heart plunged into my stomach. Amy. Of course. Still, I was young and horny and stupid, and I wasn't willing to give Leah up without a fight. Not after wanting her for so long. In that moment, as selfish and low as it was, all I cared about was kissing her again. Even my erection, which had flagged only slightly, was coming in as an afterthought. What I really wanted was just Leah in my arms again. Out of the depths of this desperation came the absolute worst thing I could have said. Before the words were even out of my mouth, I knew I was shooting myself in the foot. Again: young, horny, stupid.

"She doesn't need to find out, baby. No one does." Fuck me. Leah looked up at me with an expression of such hurt that I felt as though I'd been stabbed. I actually sucked in a sharp breath as I felt my eyes widening in fear.

"No one needs to find out," she repeated softly. For a moment, I thought she was acquiescing. Then, loud and firm: "No one needs to find out? What do you think I am, Charlie?" She had pushed me off her and was standing up. She reached for the light switch, and we were suddenly bathed in a fluorescent glow that harshly illuminated my wretchedness. The magic was gone.

"Do you think that's who I am?" she continued. "The kind of girl who sneaks around with guys who are taken? You think because I lost control once I'm going to—to—" Tears were welling in her eyes.

"No, baby!" She flinched. I stood up and pressed on. "That's not what I meant. I just meant..." I stared at her. What did I mean? "I just..." I was only digging myself deeper. "I just can't let this end, Leah. Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you?" She narrowed her eyes at me. I continued. Time to lay it all on the line. "Leah, I've wanted you since seventh grade. I've wanted you since the moment I saw you." I don't know why I thought that would be enough to placate her. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't.

"Right," she said scornfully. "You want me. Sure. We've known each other for six years, Charlie. Was that just not enough time for you?"

"It's not that!" I cried, moving closer to her. "I just..." How could I finish that sentence in a way that wouldn't make my situation worse? "I was scared, Leah."

"Of what?" she asked, her voice icy. She already knew. I decided to be honest. How much worse could this get?

"I...I was scared of what people would think," I said lamely. "I got so used to being half in love with you from afar that it just never..." I trailed off, unsure where to go. I was pathetic, but Leah had the end of the sentence ready for me.

"It just never seemed worth the risk," she said softly, her tone unreadable. Against my better judgment, I nodded, raking my fingers through my hair. How had I screwed this up?

"And now," continued Leah, still in that soft, unreadable voice, "you figured I was so desperate for affection that I would agree to be your fat little secret? Is that what this is, Charlie?" I closed my eyes at her use of my name. I wanted to deny it, tell her she'd gotten the wrong end of the stick, but I couldn't. She was right. I wasn't offering to break up with Amy and tell the school I loved Leah Pricewater. I was asking her to hook up with me in secret, behind my girlfriend's back. I was scum. Leah had turned and was headed toward the door. I made one last attempt to salvage the situation.

"Baby, please—" That was as far as I got. She whipped around, ice in her eyes, and said, in a quiet, deadly voice that drained my erection and made me quake, "I'm not your baby, Charlie. The only time I ever want to see you again is onstage, where we will do our best to put on a good show. Go change your clothes, hang up your costume, and go see Amy. Bring her some flowers and forget about what happened here today. Goodbye." She got to the door and opened it, then turned around and fired a parting shot: "We never knew each other well before now, Charlie, but I always liked you. You seemed like one of the good ones." Then she closed the door and walked out of my life.

I don't know how long I stood in that dressing room in my 1940s suit, staring at the door with my mouth open. I'm not a crier, but right then, I wanted to break down in tears. I felt like the worst piece of trash, and I knew I deserved it.

Eventually, the custodian came in to clean out the room and asked if I needed anything. I shook my head and went in the back to change into my regular clothes. I hung the costume up, left the building, and drove home, completely lost in thought.

***

The last two months of high school went by in a blur. Outwardly, nothing had changed. The play went off without a hitch, and Leah and I even managed to have decent chemistry in our scenes together. In fact, the only problem I had was trying not to kiss her longer, not to run my hands all over her sumptuous body. But I resisted. I was too ashamed to do anything else. Offstage, she was polite but curt. She didn't ignore me, but our burgeoning friendship was effectively over. Honestly? That hurt more than anything. In Leah, I had found someone I could truly be myself around, someone who didn't judge me on what I was "supposed" to be. Now that was gone, and I was bereft.

When the play was over, my life went back to normal for the last few weeks of school. I hung out with my swimming buddies, fucked around with Amy (who either didn't notice or didn't care that I wasn't into it), played video games, and counted down the days until school was over. Outwardly, everything was the same. Inwardly, I wanted to scream. Inwardly, I didn't want this life anymore. It all seemed pointless and empty, and I couldn't wait for college where, I hoped, I could start fresh. Inwardly, something big had shifted. I had realized the value of liking what you like and being who you are, unapologetically. Only problem was, I had realized it too late.

The last time I saw Leah, she was walking across the stage at graduation to a chorus of "moos" from the football team. She kept her head high, grabbed her diploma, and walked off the stage. I wanted to make a big gesture, to tell the jocks off, tell the school she was beautiful, that I loved her, that she was an amazing kisser, that she looked like Venus when she came. Instead, I kept my head down and ignored everything around me.

That summer I told my dad I wanted to move to Tennessee early, take a few summer courses and get a head start on my degree. The truth was I wanted my fresh start. This town was suffocating me, and I couldn't get Leah off my brain. He agreed, and within two weeks I was out of Chapelville for good. I said goodbye to my friends, promising to stay in touch (I knew we wouldn't). The hardest part was breaking up with Amy. I think she really expected us to be long-distance while she went to Chapelville Community. I think she expected us to get married and stay in Chapelville forever. Truthfully, at one time, I believed that, too. But things were different now.

So I started my life in Nashville. My roommate was a cool guy, and when classes started I took my lesson from high school seriously, exploring new parts of my personality that I had quashed previously. I joined a men's chorus to start, and I took a few theater classes. I still swam, but I found myself mostly hanging out not with my teammates but with my roommate and his fantasy role-playing pals. I wasn't much into the games, but they were fun guys to have a beer with. In my junior year, I moved into a four-bedroom apartment with a few of them.

I saw Leah from time to time on campus, but I never had the guts to approach her. I continued to admire her from afar, swallowing my regrets and only letting her enter my thoughts late at night when I needed inspiration. I dated in college, sure. But never anything serious. Most of the girls I saw were in the same mold as Amy: tight, perky, and annoyingly bubbly. Old habits die hard. As much as I wanted something else, and as much as I was making it a point to try new things that I thought I would like, reputation be damned, I was still a coward. It was one of these girls, Tiffany, who I was dating when I saw the flyer in my junior year. The community theater guild was putting on The Sound of Music. I don't know why, but I suddenly realized I had to see that show.

"A musical?" asked Tiffany, her distaste obvious.

"Yeah!" I said, getting excited. "I did this show in high school—it's a great play. Come on, go with me! I'll make it worth your while," I offered, trailing a hand up her thigh. Unsurprisingly, she agreed.

The night of the show I was nervous, and I had no idea why. I felt almost like I was returning to the scene of a crime. As I sat in the third row, the lights dimmed, and the music swelled...and a very familiar figure appeared on stage.

Quickly, I removed my arm from Tiffany's shoulder and began rifling through the program. It was her. Leah Pricewater as Maria. As her voice drifted over us, I was transported back to that day in the dressing room—her lips on mine, her breasts under my hands, her sweet perfume. I was lost in my own little world for most of the first act. At intermission, Tiffany informed me that she was leaving.

"This is lame," she said dispassionately. "Let's go get sushi or something."

"No," I said. "I want to see the end of the show. You don't like it?"

She shrugged. "It's okay I guess. It would be better if they didn't have that fat chick as the main character." I grimaced. "I mean," Tiffany continued, "she has a nice voice, but that captain guy is way too hot for her." She looked at me. "It would be like you being interested in her." She laughed and pulled out her phone. "Are we leaving?"

Part of me was tempted. It would certainly be easier. But in that moment, I realized how much I had been compromising. Despite my pledge to be true to myself, I was letting my fear of others' judgment continue to dictate my choices.

"No," I said. "No, you go on ahead. I'm staying here." She shrugged again, gave me a sloppy kiss, and left.

As the music swelled again to announce the end of intermission, I made a decision: I was going to see Leah when the show was over. No sooner had I made that vow than time seemed to stop. The second act dragged on seemingly forever. Finally, it was the end, and I couldn't help but wolf-whistle as Leah took her bow.

It wasn't hard, after the crowd had filed out, to sneak backstage. It was even easier to find Leah's dressing room and knock on the door. The minute I had, I wished I hadn't. What the hell was I going to say to her? Before she had a chance to come to the door, I ran. I had made it onto the stage and was contemplating leaping over the orchestra pit to get out faster when I heard my name.

"Charlie?" I froze. Her voice wasn't angry or hurt. It was curious. Cautious. Slowly, I turned around. "I thought that was you," she said as my face came into view. Her hair was down, but she was still in her costume. A small smile played at her lips. "Are you planning to jump over the pit?" she asked, the smile growing.

I said nothing. I was too busy staring. This was the first time I had seen Leah up close since the last night of the play in high school, and I couldn't help but look my fill. Her hair was the same, long, dark, and flowing, a little wavy from having been pulled back for the show. She had a few more freckles on her cheeks now, and she still wore them proudly. I wondered if she had freckles anywhere else. If it were possible, she was even curvier. Her waist seemed to nip in just a touch more, accentuating her hips and breasts further. Her feet were bare, and I noticed that her toes were painted bright red. I was overcome with an urge to suck on them. All in all, she was more delectable than ever, and I could feel my cock stirring just from looking at her.

She cleared her throat, and I snapped out of my reverie. "Leah," I said, my voice hoarse.

"Charlie," she repeated.

"How—how have you been?" Ugh. I couldn't think of anything better to say? She smiled indulgently, the way you would smile at a small child who doesn't want to nap.

"I've been well," she said evenly. Then, "What are you doing here?"

I swallowed hard. I guess honesty was the best policy here. "I came to see you," I said. "I wanted to see you."

"Why?" she asked. I don't know what I had expected her to say. In my imagination, she had run into my arms and kissed me deeply, her breasts crushing against my chest in all their glory. Reality dictated otherwise. So now I had a question to answer. Why did I want to see her? Because I was in love with her? Because she gave me the feelings? Because...

"Because I wanted to apologize." Where had that come from? Leah raised her eyebrows but said nothing, so I continued, the words coming out of nowhere but sounding exactly true. "I wanted to apologize for what happened between us in high school," I said shakily. I stuffed my hands in my pockets so she wouldn't see them trembling. "I—I was an asshole. I never told you I liked you because I was afraid it would hurt my stupid reputation. When I finally got a chance with you, I blew it because I was afraid of what my friends would think. I treated you like a—a—"

"An opportunistic slut?" she offered. I hung my head.

"Pretty much. You deserve better than that. You deserve more. You deserve someone who realizes how lucky he is to have your attention, who's proud to be with you and wants everyone to know he's yours. That—that wasn't me."

"No," she said. "I suppose it wasn't." Then, "But I know who I am, Charlie. I know what I look like. I'm okay with it, for the most part at least, but I know I could never expect someone like you to be that person for me." I felt my heart twist at her words. What could I say to that?

"I—I—I want to be that person for you," I managed to spit out. Looking over at her, I saw her eyes narrow.

"Charlie..." she began. I cut her off.

"Please, Leah. Give me a chance. All I'm asking for is...how about one date? Let me take you out to dinner. Now—tonight. You must be hungry. We can go anywhere you like—the city's the limit. Please?" I actually had my fingers crossed in my pockets. What would she say?

She seemed to take an eternity thinking of a response. Then, "I have to hang up my costume. I'll meet you at Lucille's in fifteen minutes." She gave me a small, unsure smile, then she was turning around and walking back to her dressing room. I stood there in shock for approximately ten seconds before literally jumping for joy. Turning around, I took a running leap and cleared the orchestra pit in one bound. I think I could have leapt over the Pacific Ocean with the way I was feeling. I practically skipped out to my car and headed to Lucille's, a small, 24-hour greasy spoon diner a few blocks away from the theater.

I quickly claimed a corner booth in the back and waited. When she arrived, I actually stood up as she slid into the booth before retaking my seat. We ordered quickly, then sat in almost complete silence until the food arrived. I had no idea what to say.

"So," I finally asked as I dug into my burger. "Why Lucille's?"

"It's the only place in town with lemon rice soup," she replied, pointing to the bowl in front of her. "Do you not like it here?" She looked nervous. I rushed to reassure her.

"No, I love this place! I've pulled more than a few all-nighters here. Dirt-cheap food, great coffee, and cute waitresses. What's not to...to like?" I realized what I'd said too late, and I could have kicked myself. Leah looked around.

"You like the waitresses?" her voice registered surprise but no malice.

"I—yeah," I said lamely. Indeed, the waitresses here were a big draw for me. Most of them were in the same mold as Leah: large breasts, larger hips, rounded stomachs, and sweet faces. True, most of them were significantly shorter than Leah, and more than a few of them were old enough to be my mother. That didn't stop me from looking.

"I'm surprised," said Leah.

"Everyone has a type," I said, reddening.

"You have no reason to be embarrassed, Charlie."

"I just don't want to say the wrong thing!" I blurted. "I'm well aware that this may be my only chance with you. I still can't believe you're not seeing anybody." A horrible thought occurred to me. "You're—you're not seeing anybody, are you?"

"No," said Leah, looking down at the table. "No, I'm not. I've put myself on the shelf lately."

I was flooded with relief, then curiosity. "Any particular reason why?" I asked. She smiled darkly.

"I got tired of guys who subscribe to the moped theory. No one else was interested."

"The moped theory?"

"You've never heard that saying?" I shook my head, and she began, dully, to recite: "It goes, 'A fat girl is like a moped: fun to ride, but you'd never want anyone to find out.'"

I felt sick to my stomach. "Someone actually said that to you?" She nodded.

"Even if they don't say it, you can tell that's what they're thinking. Guys only want one thing from me, and heaven forbid anyone find out they want it." She gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh.

My mind was flooded with the distasteful picture of my Leah with a string of nameless, faceless men. Jealousy surged in my stomach. Words were on the tip of my tongue. I was about to swear to her that not every guy was like that—that I would never treat her that way—when I remembered that I had treated her that way. I was overcome with a fresh wave of guilt.