Collide

  And there was Johnny in the middle of it, holding my hand. Kissing me casually. Capturing my hair at the base of my neck and lifting it off my skin to give the air a chance to reach it. Letting me drink from his bottle of beer, eat from his fork, taking my head into his lap and tracing every line of my face as we lay in the grass of the backyard and looked up at the blue summer sky.

  “Wish you’d stay over,” Johnny said to me as he drew deep on a joint and passed it to me.

  I declined; he shook his head and tucked it back in his mouth. “Can’t. You know that.”

  “I know you say it,” Johnny said.

  I was content, just now, the dream sugar-sweet. I laughed, just because it felt good to laugh. I shifted in the green grass, looked at blue sky. Looked at the face of the man I loved.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I’m just…happy.”

  He leaned to kiss me, breath fragrant with pot but not gross. “I’m glad you’re happy, Emm.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He put on an exaggerated frown. “Sometimes.”

  I sat up, playing along. “Awww. Poor Johnny. What’s wrong?”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, wish you’d stay.”

  “Oh…you wouldn’t like it half as much if I did,” I told him, giddy with my own sense of joy and with the freedom of dreams.

  “Yeah, I would.”

  “No. You’d get tired of me like you get tired of all your women.”

  Johnny laughed. “I never get tired of women, baby. I love them all too much. That’s my problem.”

  “See? I don’t want to be just another woman!”

  He shook his head slowly, looking into my eyes. “You’re not, Emm. Not even close.”

  I settled back onto his lap, feeling his bare flesh against my cheek. He wore truly horrible red short shorts lined with white piping, further proof this was a dream. My Johnny would never be caught dead in something so yuck—well, not now. Back in 1978 they were probably superhot.

  “Trust me, you should be glad I don’t hang around all the time,” I said.

  “Well, I ain’t.” He put the joint away and rested his hands behind him in the grass to look up at the sky.

  I sobered a little. “We’d have a fight.”

  “About what?” he asked, like he didn’t at all care.

  “Something. I don’t know. People always have fights eventually. I mean…I’m a raging bitch sometimes.”

  He laughed at that. “You think I can’t handle that?”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to, that’s all.” Not here. Not in a dream.

  “Maybe I want to,” Johnny said in the same nonchalant tone I didn’t believe for a second. “Didja ever think of that?”

  Everything was topsy-turvy, all switched up. I could remember the fugues, our conversations, the lovemaking, but where they fit into this time, this dream, I couldn’t quite figure out. Everything had gotten chopped up into pieces.

  I sat up and looked at him. “I love you, you know.”

  He looked pleased. “Yeah?”

  I poked his bare chest—short shorts aside, he was naked. “You’re supposed to say it back, you ass.”

  Johnny leaned in to kiss me. “I love you, Emm.”

  From the pool in front of us came a giant splash, and Ed surfaced, blowing out a spray of water. The others weren’t around. We’d been alone until now. I wished we still were.

  “Even if I am a bitch,” I said, “it doesn’t last long.”

  “No?” He kissed me again, and his hand found the spot on the back of my neck he liked so well to cradle.

  “No,” I said against his mouth.

  “Good to know,” Johnny said.

  Someone called his name. He looked toward the house with a frown. Bellina stood at the back door, holding the phone stretched tight on its long, curly cord. She said a name.

  “My agent,” Johnny explained, and looked apologetic. “Gotta take that, babe.”

  “You go.” I stretched in the sun, lazy and sated.

  He got up, looking down at me, silhouetted by the sun. “Will you be here when you get back?”

  “I hope so.”

  But I wasn’t.

  Another night I was back again. Same place. Slightly different time. Johnny walked out of the kitchen and found me standing in the front hallway. He looked me up and down.

  “Hey. That was Freddy. Says he got a gig for me set up in Italy. Horror flick.” He took me in his arms. “Wanna go to Italy with me?”

  Why not? “Sure.”

  He grinned. Kissed me. Then a little harder. “Wanna go upstairs with me?”

  “Sure to that, too,” I said with both my hands on his ass and squeezed.

  A clatter of something in the hall made us both turn. It was Ed. Annoyed, I frowned. Was he following us, or what?

  “Sorry,” Ed muttered, weaving a little. “I thought…you’d gone, Emm. You were there and then I thought you… Never mind.”

  “I’m right here,” I said, annoyed.

  Johnny laughed. “Go sleep it off, man. That guy,” he said when Ed stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the couch, “should cut back on the booze.”

  Upstairs in Johnny’s bedroom, he stripped out of those godawful shorts and stood naked, his erection already thick and gorgeous, begging for me to get down in front of it and take it in my mouth. Which I did, gladly, the hem of my lightweight nightgown crushing under my knees. His fingers ran along the spaghetti straps, pushing them off my shoulders so my breasts pushed up and out of the material.

  I stroked my hand down his cock and took the head in my mouth. I sucked. He moaned. He thrust. I licked and nibbled gently, and Johnny tugged on my hair until I looked up.

  “Stand up,” he said. “Turn around.”

  I did. I put my hands on his dresser, my fingers flat on the polished wood. Behind me, he slipped up my gown, found me bare beneath. His fingers toyed with the crack of my ass, then slid between my legs to stroke my clit. I shivered, head bent, legs spread. I was already wet.

  “You always go without panties?” he murmured, not like he expected an answer. Appreciative.

  I slept in this gown without panties, yes, and would never have gone out in public this way if it hadn’t been a dream. But that was too long an explanation. “Just for you.”

  He grunted. His fingers slid into me, then out. He used his thumb and forefinger to tug gently at my clit, and a low noise eased from my throat.

  “You want me to fuck you, Emm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like this?”

  “Definitely,” I answered.

  Above Johnny’s dresser was a mirror. When he pushed inside me, he also gathered my hair at the back of my neck and pulled until I looked up. I gazed at both of us, captured there in glass, a frame around us like a painting. Making us art.

  His face looked grim as he moved inside me. Concentrating. His brow furrowed, mouth thinned. My gaze blurred as pleasure built, but his hand in my hair kept me from looking away. Our eyes met in the mirror.

  His other hand moved against my clit, stroking in time to every thrust. My fingers curled and bent on top of the dresser, sliding and unable to grip. We moved together. The dresser shifted, squeaking on the floor, nudging the wall. The mirror shook, and we shook inside it.

  Everything shook.

  I was coming, fast and hard. Johnny closed his eyes, head back, his hand still gripped so tight in my hair I couldn’t move without pulling. I watched ecstasy wash over his face and wanted to look away from my own twisted features. Then, over Johnny’s shoulder, in the doorway, I saw him.

  Ed. Watching us. This was worse, somehow, than having Sandy walk in on us, because it could be said that even in a dream I wanted to prove to her she’d lost Johnny and I had him. But this voyeurism didn’t feel sexy to me.

  I gasped, orgasm ripping through me. Johnny let out a low cry. I said his name, urgently, and he opened his eyes. He blinked, gaze
hazy, thrusts slowing.

  Then he blinked, half turning, letting go of my hair but still inside me. “What the hell?”

  Ed shook his head, hands up, muttering apologies. He ducked out of the room. Johnny pulled out from me and wet heat slid down my thighs. I gasped at the sudden withdrawal and turned as he stalked to the doorway.

  “Ed! Hey!”

  “Johnny, don’t.” The hem of my dress fell around my thighs, covering me. I pulled up the straps. “It’s not worth it. I don’t think he meant anything.”

  “The hell,” Johnny said, sounding confused. “Drunk son of a bitch.”

  I didn’t think Ed was so drunk, so high, that he hadn’t known what he was doing. I don’t know why I lied to save him, either, other than just as I knew this was a dream, I knew what happened to him, eventually. “Don’t worry about it. He got an eyeful of your ass, that’s all. And who hasn’t.”

  Johnny didn’t laugh. Still naked, he slammed the door and turned to face me, his cock still half-hard and glistening. He put his hands on his hips. “He’s been acting like a freak for weeks.”

  I wasn’t sure how he could tell Ed had been acting like more of a freak than normal, but what did I know? “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I ain’t worried, just pissed off.” Johnny jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Give the guy a place to crash, he does that sort of shit?”

  “Maybe…maybe you should stop giving everyone a place to crash.” I didn’t know where that came from, either. I knew they all broke apart after Ed killed himself, but technically that hadn’t happened yet.

  Well, it had. Just not here. Not in this now. In this time.

  My head whirled.

  I looked down at my dress. My hands, which had left no marks on the dresser, though I could still feel the tingling from the pressure I’d used. Johnny was talking, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  I was dreaming. Or had I gone dark? Was this a fugue? I couldn’t tell. I looked at him, his face, his body, his mouth, moving. I could still feel him inside me. Still feel the aftershock rumbles of my orgasm.

  He was at my side in a second when I crumpled. “Emm, you okay?”

  “Fine,” I managed to say. “Just a little light-headed. That’s all. It’s hot in here.”

  “Let me get you a drink.”

  I let him lead me to the bed. I put my head between my legs, smelling our sex. Johnny brought back a cool cloth for the back of my neck and a cup of water from which I could only manage a few sips before my stomach turned. I pushed it away with a shake of my head. I took deep, slow breaths, learned from my meditations. I pressed my two fingers to a spot on the inside of my wrist, a trick I’d learned about acupressure.

  “You sick?” Johnny rubbed my back. “Or upset?”

  “Just a little woozy, that’s all.” I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. The nausea was fading too slowly for my comfort. The piece of the floor I could see between my feet wasn’t staying still.

  Johnny rubbed my back in slow circles and kept the cool cloth on my neck. I breathed. I breathed.

  I breathed.

  “I’m going to go,” I told him.

  “You shouldn’t go anywhere, you should stay here,” Johnny said.

  “No. I have to go.” I stood. My feet planted, anchoring me. I didn’t fall.

  Johnny sighed. “Fine. Go ahead. Leave.”

  I didn’t want him to be angry, but did it matter? Really? My head whirled again, all of this confusing and too much to take. To understand.

  “Where do I go?” I took the cloth from my neck to press to my face, hiding it.

  “Hell if I know. You won’t tell me.” He sounded sullen but resigned. “No phone number. No address. You show up, you leave.”

  “But I always come back, right?”

  “So far,” Johnny said, as though he didn’t believe it would always be the truth.

  I took the cloth from my face. “But you never see me go or come?”

  “I’ve seen you come plenty,” he said with a grin I’d have returned if my stomach weren’t still doing the Hustle.

  This was a puzzle with a few pieces missing. I could see the picture. I could even see what parts yet needed placing. I simply couldn’t find them. Or maybe I didn’t want to—I was suddenly very tired.

  If this was a dream, I could leave it now. Same with a fugue. Just…go. Without leaving the room, or Johnny in it. I could vanish like a genie. I should.

  Yet I backed up toward the door, never looking away from him. Not willing to vanish. Not willing to be made a ghost, an unreal thing. Not in front of him.

  “I’ll be back, Johnny. I promise.”

  He bent to grab up his shorts and put them on. He turned without looking at me, his shoulders slumped. He didn’t answer.

  “I will,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I left.

  Chapter 30

  I woke with a start, my stomach still twisting and turning. I was in my bed but so disoriented I couldn’t figure that out for a good thirty seconds. Johnny snored lightly beside me, one arm flung over his head.

  My guts forced their way into my throat. I tossed off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, where I fell to my knees in front of the toilet and tossed up everything I’d eaten for the past year and a half—or so it felt. Heaving, sweating, the tile cool under my knees, I closed my eyes.

  I already knew.

  I hadn’t been thinking about it. The slight bit of extra tightness in the waist of my jeans was easily explained by too many brownies in the Mocha. The tenderness in my breasts was PMS. My late period and the spotting in between was from nerves.

  That wasn’t it. I wiped my mouth with a handful of tissues, then bent over the sink to splash my face and rinse my mouth. I spit, then spit again. I closed my eyes as my fingers gripped cold porcelain almost the way they’d gripped the dresser the night before, in my dream that wasn’t a dream.

  “Emm? You okay?”

  It was so much like what he’d said to me last night I was afraid to look, afraid to see Johnny-then somehow in my now, like those old commercials for Reese’s peanut butter cups. Chocolate in my peanut butter. I rinsed and spat. I splashed my face. I heard his feet on the bathroom floor.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No.” I cleared my throat. “I’m okay.”

  I did feel better. Hungry, in fact, despite my still-tumbling stomach. I looked at my reflection. Pale face, circles under my eyes. I’d looked better.

  I smoothed my hair from my forehead. “Must’ve been something I ate.”

  “Huh,” Johnny said. “You going in to work?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I feel okay. Just need to eat some crackers or something. Settle my stomach.”

  “You sure?” He looked doubtful. Also, beautiful, even with sleepy eyes and messy hair, his pajama bottoms riding low.

  “Yep.” I pulled my toothbrush from the holder and spread a thick layer of paste on it. Brushed. Spat. Again, until the taste was driven from my tongue.

  Johnny watched me, and I felt him looking but neither of us spoke as I turned on the water in the shower and shrugged out of my nightdress. He stooped to pick it up off the floor, which was nice, as I thought if I bent I might end up back in front of the toilet. Johnny fingered the cloth as he hung it on the hook.

  “I like this gown,” he said. “I always did.”

  I shuddered, one hand under the still-cold water. It could take forever to heat up. My nipples peaked from chill, not arousal, and I put a hand across my chest. I cupped a breast, then laid my palm flat. Feeling my heart.

  “You bought it for me,” I reminded him.

  He’d brought it home and presented it with a flourish normally reserved for something like the crown jewels. I liked the nightgown, too, with its funky retro vibe and soft fabric. It was what I’d worn to bed and worn in my…dreams, too.

  “What made you pick it?” I asked.

  Johnny looked at me. ??
?It looked like something you’d wear, that’s all. It looked like you.”

  I sipped some breaths, willing my stomach to stay in its place. The world, too. I got in the shower with a hiss at the water, now too hot. I fiddled with the faucets. I pressed my face into the stream of water and hoped I wasn’t crying.

  “You sure I can’t get you anything?” Johnny pulled aside the curtain and looked in, his face concerned.

  “Some toast,” I said. “Dry toast would be great. Peppermint tea? That would be great, baby. Thanks.”

  “Sure, okay.” He sounded doubtful, but closed the curtain.

  I waited until I heard the bathroom door close before I sank onto my hands and knees. I didn’t feel like I had to puke again. Didn’t feel faint. But I was trembling and sought the comfort of being low to the ground. I put my face in my hands, pressed them to the tub’s slick surface. Water hit my back.

  I’d seen the movie The Time Traveler’s Wife. The heroine, desperate for a child, and angry at her time-traveling husband, meets up with his prevasectomy self and urges him to make love to her so she can get pregnant, though her present-time husband doesn’t want her to. In other words, she fucks her husband-then in order to have a child with her husband-now.

  Never once in any of the fugues or the dreams had I made Johnny wear a rubber. Hell, they had them in 1978, didn’t they? Even if hardly anyone in that pre-AIDS era used them? And I was, albeit haphazardly, on birth control. We’d been careful, but even if we weren’t, Johnny-now couldn’t knock me up.

  “Oh, fuck,” I said miserably into my palms. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.”

  A baby. I was going to have a baby with Johnny. I slid my wet hands over my belly.

  But how could I tell him?

  I felt sicker to my stomach about facing him and telling him that by some miracle, some unbelievable, fantastic, impossible occurrence, we were going to be parents. He was going to be a dad again when he was already a grandfather. I could only imagine what Kimmy was going to say.

  In the kitchen, I found him with tea brewed, toast browned, waiting for me. He was looking over a folder of invoices or something from the gallery, but he took his glasses off and stood when I came into the kitchen. He looked me over.