Part 11 (1/2)

Does that make me a freak?

Do I belong in Aspen Springs, finger-painting scenes from my childhood, right along with my messed-up brother? Now there's a great family snapshot.

Twin number one: a warped s.e.x addict, filled with enough self-hate to try and end it all. Twin number two: unclear about her s.e.xuality.

In love (?) with a guy. In l.u.s.t (!) with a girl. I have zero doubt about the l.u.s.t. As for the love, I believed it was real. But how can I want to touch someone else if love is what I truly feel for Sean? We've been together almost a year, have plans to continue seeing each other postgraduation. In fact, I know his college plans revolve around me. For the most part, he's kind.

Supportive. Not once has he ever tried to force me to give him more than hot make-out sessions. s.e.x is something that, up until now, I haven't felt ready for. But without it, how can I possibly answer the question grating the inside of me-sc.r.a.ping till I'm raw. l.u.s.t?

Love? Are they mutually exclusive?

Absent s.e.x, how will I know?

Maybe I'll Find Out Tonight Sean and I are going out after his exhibition game. I'm getting ready to go watch him play when I hear a familiar name spill from behind Mom's half-open bedroom door.

...don't care about legalities, Mrs. Sanders, and I'm certain the school board won't either.

Not to mention the press, and if you refuse to see my side of things, that's where I'm going next. Anyway, I'm sure you could use a fresh start.

You won't find a teaching position in this city again. I think the best option for everyone involved is for you to move on. The smell of Mom's drink, acrid and telltale strong for so early in the day, hangs like incense in the air leaking from her room. I hurry away from it and down the hall.

Poor Emily. Against the furious force of my mother, she is powerless- flotsam riding a whitewater course impossible to divert.

No wonder my father offers gauze- thin excuses to not come home.

Lately, he's almost nonexistent.

Something to do with Conner?

Surely I'm not the only one lifting a backbreaking load of guilt.

Or maybe they really don't care.

Me? Sometimes I think I might implode from the pressure. But implosion is not what's expected of me.

Everyone I know would totally freak if they even suspected I have splintered, alone in my room.

I never reveal that Cara. That girl- frail and choking back secrets- is the Cara I am determined to conceal.

Bundled Up Against the flecks of snow, fluttering from the sky, I sit in the spa.r.s.ely populated bleachers, watch Sean belt a long fly ball to center, where it sinks into the fielder's glove. Sixth inning. No heroics so far today.

He gives the catcher a little shove as he turns toward the dugout.

The catcher springs to his feet, gets in Sean's face. What the f.u.c.k?

Before they can beat each other b.l.o.o.d.y, the umpire steps in, issues a reprimand. Sean smiles and looks up at me with searching eyes, as if to ask, Understand?

I shrug. Frustration is evident in the taut slope of his shoulders.

But there's also a copper-hot seethe of anger I hope he never directs at me.

I Have To Admit It's not the first time I've seen a hint of someone... hateful lurking behind nice guy Sean.

Is he flint, waiting for a flick of steel to spark some inner grenade? He never used to be this way, at least never in front of me. When did his temper surface?

I notice it now in the way he attacks the ball, charging grounders, slamming them home.

I see it in how he smacks base runners, tries to intimidate them wide. This isn't about winning.

It's about conquering, and when he errs, there's more than pride on the line. Bottom of the ninth, two-all tie. One out, Sean comes up to bat. Please let him hit!

”Come on, baby,” I shout.

”Piece of cake.” First pitch, he tenses, swings way out ahead.

Easy. Easy. Thwap! He bloops one over the shortstop's head, an ugly hit, but whatever. Grant Blakemore takes two quick strikes, and Sean's chancy lead pays off when he steals second. That makes the pitcher p.i.s.sy. He throws hard and inside, nicks Grant's leg, sends him limping on over to first.

Our coach plays a wild card, sends Bobby Duvall up to bat.

He fouls off the first three pitches.

Perfect. Perfect loser, that is. But on the fourth, he must see the fastball coming. He squares, slams a solid hit into right field. Sean scores, he and Bobby co-heroes this time.

It will be a good night after all.

It Starts Out Great Sean is famished, so we go out for pizza. I pick at one piece while he polishes off four.

Are you sick or something? he asks.

”No. I just like watching you eat.” Not really a lie. I like how he tears each bite almost daintily, wiping tendrils of hot, gooey cheese with a napkin before they can drip down the front of his clean denim s.h.i.+rt. I like the way he's careful to keep his food unseen behind closed lips. s.e.xy lips. Full. Soft, for a guy. I like how his arm muscles flex when he reaches for another slice. I like the charm of his smile.

I like knowing he loves me.

There's something safe in that, and yet, beneath pepperoni and onion, he wears a thin scent of danger.

Danger Scent Is Somehow Attractive I follow it to Sean's truck, its big chrome b.u.mper leering through a delicate veil of snow. I climb up inside, determined to gain some understanding. I need to know if this is where I belong.

At this moment, it feels very right.

I scoot close to him. ”Let's go.”

He looks at me with confusion- clouded eyes. Go? You mean home? I thought we'd hang out a little or something. No?

I run my hand along the meaty muscle of his thigh. Wow. All that lifting paying off. ”Can we go someplace private?” I sigh, and implicit in the soft exhale is something I've never offered before. Sean does not fail to notice. Really? He hesitates, then starts the truck and heads up the highway toward Virginia City.

Thank G.o.d it has stopped snowing.