Chapter 5
One morning in the summer she is 15, she wakes to pain in her belly, and blood, sticky and thick on the new downy hairs between her thighs.
She knows what the blood is; her mom gave her a book last year. She locked herself in her room and read it, cover to cover, in bug-eyed fascination. Then she reached down into her shorts and found all the parts the book said would make her feel good.
Now she touches herself down there almost every day, freeing her budding breasts from her tee shirts, which are all suddenly too tight.
At first, she thought about tv actors when she did it. One time she thought about kissing a cute senior boy who said “hi” to her once. But then she noticed Will. Or, “Spike”, as he prefers to be called now. Stupid name, she thinks, but she can’t help smiling to herself; she knows he got the nickname from the boys on his basketball team.
He practices shooting hoops in his driveway, wearing cut off denim shorts and white, sleeveless shirts. He has muscles now, long and lean in his thighs and arms. A hard, flat stomach appears when he takes off his shirt to mop his face. When he jumps to take a shot, his pants ride low, showing the high swells at the top of his backside, revealing that he doesn’t wear any underwear. She thinks that’s gross, but still, can’t help picturing it when she touches herself.
She’ll recall one of the hundreds of times he’s come over to watch tv. Still sweaty, no shirt, pants slung low on his hips. Fine threads of hair trailing down his belly, into his shorts. She imagines touching that hair. Thinks about the pout of his lips, and how they would feel on hers. How his broad palms and long fingers would feel on her breasts, belly- and lower. Caressing, rubbing all the places she does when she’s alone after school.
She calls out his name when the release comes, shudders and quakes. But she clamps her hand over her mouth, horrified, once she calms down.
On the morning of her first blood, she gets up early. Goes to the bathroom and gets herself sorted, after a painfully embarrassing admission to her mother. Once she’s cleaned up, she goes back to her room. She stands by the window, pulls back the curtain. He is in his room, spiking up his newly white-blonde hair. It was shocking the first time she saw him with his hair bleached. But now she likes it. Can’t even remember what he looked like before. He’s not that boy to her anymore.
But he doesn’t look out the window for her anymore. Doesn’t go to the tree house to sit and talk, or play cards. A month ago she found his stash of girly magazines there and yelled at him for leaving them there for her to find. At first he was just embarrassed. But then, he was pissed at her, asking her if she learned anything, because, “God knows,” he spat, “you could use a few pointers.” He hasn’t been back to the woods since, and the magazines are gone.
She misses him. This big, weird thing is happening to her, and she wishes she could tell him. Course, he would just make fun of her; he’d probably tell everyone. Or tell her she was disgusting.
She watches him turn and put down the comb, then adjusts his parts in his pants. She’s seen him do it a million times, but somehow now, it’s different now. She imagines what he looks like down there, and it makes her blush. A hot jolt of excitement rushes between her legs, making her belly cramp more.
He never looks over. Never sees her watching him, or notices how much she is missing him, longing for him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Buffy wakes the next morning on the couch in his living room, her back stiff, kinked from sleeping curled up in an awkward position.
The night before, after Spike had fallen asleep, she had gone downstairs to find the house was a mess. She decided to tackle it in the morning, knowing he wouldn’t have the energy to do so himself. So she called home, told Joyce she was staying, to watch over him and to clean up for him.
She stands and stretches, her black dress wrinkled and her hair a-tangle. Her eyes hurt from sleeping with her mascara still on. She looks up to see the pictures on the mantle. One photo is of his mother in her wedding gown, Mr. Price standing behind her, beaming. There are several shots of Will as a boy, in various sports uniforms- he’s holding trophies in several of the pictures. One of Will at their high school graduation, looking somber and defeated.
Buffy swipes a layer of dust off this last snapshot, caressing the image of his hollow face with the tip of her index finger. She wishes she could wipe away that pained expression as easily as she removes the dust. She remembers that time clearly; the memory is like a sliver of ice in her heart.
With a heavy sigh, she makes her way to the kitchen, where the dishes are piled high, food stuck onto baking dishes and plates. She takes an apron- one of Mrs. Price’s, she supposes- and puts it on over her dress, then sets to filling the sink with hot, soapy water.
She digs in to the work, and although dishes aren’t usually her favorite chore, somehow the work is soothing. The mindless effort, the quiet swish of soap and sponge, the feeling she is, in this small way, doing something good for him, is calming her, helping her prepare for when he comes downstairs to face the day.
After 10 or so minutes she hears a noise down the hall. She turns, looking over her shoulder, to see him shuffling down the hall. He is bare-chested, wearing a pair of jeans, his hair in a curly, rumpled disarray. She cannot move for a moment, can’t breathe, as she watches him walk, watches the way his body moves. He is strong and lean as he always has been, achingly beautiful. But he’s lost his cockiness, his swaggering air of bravado and predatory sensuality.
He sees her in the kitchen and startles, jerking one arm over his chest. He spies his suit coat from the day before, lying over the back of the couch, and lunges for it, putting it on quickly. She can’t help feeling surprised at his modesty, after all they’ve done, all they’ve been to each other.
She wipes her wet hands on her apron and turns around fully to face him, summoning up her sweetest smile.
“Good morning. Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah.” He leans against the wall in the hallway, just outside the kitchen door. “Not great, but, uh, I got some rest.” He pauses, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”
She holds her hands up, gesturing at the soapy water. “Thought it was kinda obvious…”
“Yeah, right. But, I mean, WHY are you?”
“Well, there was a big mess. And it needed cleaning. I’m not doing anything today, so I thought…”
He cuts her off. “You thought… what? That I’m pathetic? Can’t get on without your help?”
“No, I just… I wanted to. That’s all.”
He looks down, jamming his hands into his pockets, hunching forward a bit. Buffy thinks she’s never seen him look this small. So defeated.
His voice is quiet as he tells her, “You don’t have to.”
She watches him. Watches his eyes as he searches the floor, until he realizes she is looking at him, waiting for him to look at her. He slowly lifts his gaze to meet hers.
“I know I don’t HAVE to. I want to, Spike.”
Silence falls, the slow pull of their breath the only sound in the room for a long half minute.
“All right.” He says, so soft, his eyelashes wet.
She breathes out a relieved sigh. “So, you want something to eat? Your friends left plenty of food.”
He shakes his head, looking confused, clearly trying to reconcile himself to the way she is reaching out to him. “Uh, sure. Gotta eat, I suppose.”
“Ok. Why don’t you go sit down, and I’ll bring something. It might be casserole, though. I don’t think there’s anything else in the fridge.”
“'S fine.” She is about to go back to the kitchen, when he calls her name.
His voice is low, silky smooth and soft, and full of gratitude. She can’t recall him saying her name like that before; it makes her shiver. “Buffy. Thank you.”
She shakes herself again, forcing a smile, despite the pull of desire she feels, sudden and sharp. She longs to go to him and hold him, to kiss him breathless, until he can’t remember why he is sad anymore. Instead she makes her tone sound casual. “Sure. You should eat up all those meals, anyway, or they’ll all go bad…”
“No, not for that. For last night.”
She can’t resist. She steps forward and cups one of his cheeks with her palm. She thinks he leans in to her touch, but it’s so subtle, she could be mistaken. “You’re welcome, Spike. I’m so sorry about your Mom. She was a very special lady.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to his face to cover hers. “Yeah. She was.” One thin tear tracks down his cheek, wetting their joined hands.
They stand there for the longest time. She listens to the birds singing outside, the chug-chug of his old refrigerator in the other room. His breath puffs over her wrist.
After a while he backs off, pulls away. Awkwardness settles between them again.
“Well, let me get breakfast…” she backs away, unsure of what to do, how to make this easier for him. He sits down on the couch, letting his head fall back and his eyes close, so she hurries back to the kitchen to make their plates.
When she comes back ten minutes later, he is lying on the couch, asleep. His head is on the armrest, his hands resting open like butterfly wings.
She puts the plates down on the coffee table and kneels on the floor before him. This time, she can’t resist. She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, then one on the sharp plane of his cheek. One in the hollow above his jaw. Then she sits back on her heels, settles for smoothing his hair back again and again, loving the feel of his soft curls under her hand again. She wonders if there has ever been anyone so beautiful in the world. Being this close to him again makes her chest ache.
“Please, forgive me. Let me in again, Spike,” she whispers, watching his chest slowly rise and fall as he sleeps.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
TBC
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