Who Do You Love(57)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

A fancy dress in dry-cleaner’s plastic hung on the back of her closet door. A pair of shorter dresses were draped over the back of her chair, and her tops and pants and shoes were folded in stacks, all of them in cream and teal, the sorority’s colors.

“It’s Pledge Week,” she had warned him back in early September, when they’d gone over his schedule on the phone.

“Which means what?” he’d asked.

“Formals,” she’d said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll be crazy busy.” Rachel had been elected the pledge cochair, in charge of recruiting PNMs, which Andy had come to learn meant potential new members. Disappointed and trying not to sound that way, he’d said, “We can try another time,” but immediately she’d said “No,” and “Please come,” and “Don’t be silly,” and “I want you to come to the dance.” Then, before he could ask for specifics about what Pledge Week would involve, she’d said, in her creamiest whisper, “Guess what I’m wearing right now.” The words, the tone, just the whisper all had their usual effect, sending every drop of blood from the waist up racing down south.

“Hey,” she murmured, looking up at him from underneath her lashes. Andy noticed that while there were clothes on almost every available surface, hanging from every hook and covering all the furniture, the bed—queen-size, thank God, a welcome change from the singles they’d been grappling on for freshman year—was pristine and bare. “Come,” she said, throwing herself down on the mattress. “Let’s burn this one off.”

He shook his head, trying to look disapproving, but she pulled him down, kissing his neck, then his ear, and he knew that she was right—they’d been apart for so long that the first time probably wouldn’t last long enough to be any good for her. She was just as eager as he was, shucking off her sweatshirt and her jeans until she was naked against him. He could feel her ribs and clavicles when he touched her—she’d gotten thinner since going to college. Every morning she and her sisters would gather in the living room and put some step aerobics video on and all exercise together. It had sounded like hell to him, working out indoors, without the air and the sunshine, without going anywhere, and he didn’t think she’d needed to lose any weight. “Come on,” Rachel had groaned when he’d made his case. “My butt was enormous.” It had been bigger, but he’d liked it like that, liked stroking it and squeezing it, filling his hands.

Rachel was squirming against him, one leg thrown over his so that he could feel her against him, the wetness and the heat. “Oh, I can’t wait,” she whispered. He put his hand over her mouth, knowing that if she kept talking like that it would put him right over the edge. Parting her lips, she sucked at the pad of his index fingertip. He used his knees to wrench her legs apart. “Ow!” she squealed as he jabbed at her, too hard, desperate to be inside. Then she rolled her hips and he slid forward, up and in, and could almost hear the click as they fitted themselves together.

When they were finished, and lying side by side, still breathing hard, she said, “Okay, let me see ’em.”

“They’re fine,” Andy protested. Rachel gave him a stern look as she sat up and beckoned until he swung his legs into her lap. Every time, after they’d been apart for a while, she’d ask to inspect his feet, then act horrified by what she saw, and every time he’d demur, but he thought that she was secretly pleased—or at least impressed—by their condition, and he knew that he enjoyed her careful attention.

Rachel gasped, and frowned, and ran one fingernail lightly up the sole of his right foot. “Can you feel that?”

Andy shook his head—the calluses were too thick. “God, you’re like a mountain goat or something. These aren’t feet, they’re hooves.” She cooed over his battered toes, saying, “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy has no toenail, and this little piggy has no toenail either . . .”

Pulling his feet out of her lap, he gathered her into his arms. “Ooh, am I about to be ravished?” Rachel asked as she started kissing his chest. She’d twisted her hair into a coil on top of her head, so that he could see the shape of her skull, her sweet little ears, slightly pointed at the top. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down to the small of her back, then stroked his way slowly back up, listening to the throaty noises she made, feeling her breath quicken. They had probably made love dozens of times since the first night in Philadelphia, and it was never less than wonderful. Not that there weren’t missteps—times he finished too quickly, or when they’d be in the throes of it, Rachel on her hands and knees and Andy, slick with sweat, behind her, when she’d get embarrassed about the noises they made, and the more he tried to assure her that he hadn’t noticed them, the more ashamed she’d get. She’d elbowed him in the eye once, in her haste to climb on top of him. He’d given a startled yelp and she’d said, “Quiet down, you’ve got two of those,” and then she’d gripped him, stroking him slowly, rolling her thumb over the head, and added, “but only one of these,” and he’d forgotten all about his eye, forgotten all about everything as he’d grabbed her and pulled her down.