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Wow, if I'd wanted proof that Greg really had been thinking about me, here it is, hanging from a chain that must have cost five times what I paid for the pendant. That he's worn my cheap little trinket for so long is all the proof I need. He really is the guy I'd hoped he was.
"Greg," I say, looking him right in the eye, "I forgive you."
His look of joy warms my heart. "Wow," he says in a tone that's almost awe. "Thank you, Lana. You have no idea how much that means to me. And I swear I'll do my best never to hurt you again."
"I'll hold you to that," I say with a smile, while I blink away happy tears. I wonder if my words of forgiveness can possibly have been as big a relief to Greg as they are to me. I feel five years of bitterness and anger wash away, and my soul gets an almost religious boost of joy. I don't have to loath him anymore!
"Greg, I need to ask for your forgiveness too," I say.
"Really? What for?"
"I lied to your parents to avoid seeing you at Christmas, and I was indefensibly rude to you today when you showed up at the house. I gave no thought to what could have provoked your actions, only to my own hurt. There were good reasons that I cared as much about you as I did back then, so I should have known that there must have been more going on than I could see. My stupid pride kept me from realizing that, and I'm sorry."
It's obvious to me that he wants to automatically say there's nothing to forgive, so I'm impressed when he stops himself to think it over. Eventually he nods. "I forgive you, Lana."
"Thank you, Greg."
I feel now like I felt in the band room when Greg used the word "us" to describe our relationship, and I just want to hold him. I tentatively move closer and he opens his arms to me. I lay my head onto his chest, the pendant smooth against my cheek. He wraps his arms around me as naturally as if we do this every day. I've wanted this for so long, and it's just as good as I could have hoped.
I know I should be satisfied, but there's another question about those times that I'm just too curious to leave alone. "So, did Courtney drop you when you got hurt?"
"Yeah. I don't think you'd be surprised to hear that she wasn't all that interested in me as a person. She just liked the bragging rights that came with being the girlfriend of a bigtime jock. Once that went away, so did she."
Counterintuitively, I don't like hearing that Greg and Courtney had split up so quickly, because there's an image in my mind of the kinds of carnal pleasure a tall and handsome guy like Greg must have had, unencumbered and loose on a college campus, even without jock status. He'd have had women falling all over him. At least if he'd been with only Courtney, there would have been just one woman from his college days whose bedroom skills he might eventually compare to mine.
"So you were finally free to play the field?" I say, forcing a light-hearted and conspiratorial tone. I'm glad he can't see my face now. I was brought up with quite conservative family values, and the idea that he's been with a lot of girls frankly bugs me.
"Indeed I was," he says, in that same tone.
I hold up a hand. "Fine, but I don't wanna know."
"Fair enough."
I swear I'll never let him even suspect my jealousy. Instead, I snuggle up a little closer.
Perhaps it's the relief I feel from finally being able to let go of the hurt and resentment, maybe it's knowing that there's nothing I can do about what's going on outside the bunker, or possibly it's just the comforting feeling of being in Greg's arms, but all of the emotions I've been holding inside for years finally bubble up from inside me.
When the terrible accident had taken most of my family, I'd been so overwhelmed with everything that needed to be done that I hadn't had time to mourn in the way my broken soul had needed. With the solemn message delivered to me in my dorm room, I'd had to go from a barely-seventeen-year-old girl to the head of a household.
Crystal had come back from LA when I'd called to break the news to her, but she'd been a total basket case, unable to do much more than hide in her room and cry. It had been up to me to organize the funeral, write the obituary, deal with my dad's bills and finances, then figure out what to do with his will. Unfortunately, he had never anticipated that both his wife and mother might die at the same time he did, and the document wasn't structured to deal with that eventuality.
The only thing that had gotten me through was that one of my dad's friends was a family law attorney. He'd helped me with the legal issues, not the least of which was my emancipation, so that I could sign a bunch of documents as an adult. I'd been so busy that nine weeks after the accident, when we'd crossed the last T and dotted the last I, I was exhausted and emotionally dead inside. I never cried.
Crystal had left town as soon as she'd gotten her first inheritance check. I'd found myself alone and dealing with a whole lot of work that just went on and on. When I'd climbed into bed each night, the enormity of what had happened would tug at me, but I never felt that I could give in and wallow in it. There were too many things for me to do, so I pushed those thoughts, hurts and feelings behind the wall I'd built.
Now a whole other world of pain and hurt has been laid on me. We're safe for the moment in here, but I mourn for the millions of people outside who are going through hell on earth. I mourn for friends and neighbors, second guessing our decision not to drive down the road a couple of miles to put the word out. I mourn for my country, which has been attacked. And dammit, I mourn for Charlotte, Frank, and the rest of my chickens, stuck in their coop while the greed and avarice of humankind descends on them. I begin to weep bitter tears.
Thankfully, Greg doesn't say a word. He seems to know that I just need a strong shoulder to cry on. He holds me gently as I let go.
After a while, I've cried myself out. My tears haven't improved the situation one little bit, but somehow I feel much better.
"Thank you, Greg," I say softly, sniffling a little.
"It was the least I could do," he says. "I could tell that you needed it. I feel the same way."
"But you didn't cry."
"No, that's not my way, but I shared in your tears. It helped." He lightly strokes my head. "Lana, I have faith that we're going to make it through this. We're in it together, and I don't think there's anyone else I'd want with me now more than you."
That's an interesting thing to say to someone you haven't seen in five years, but when I think about it, I realize that it's true for me as well. "I'm glad it's you here with me too," I say.
For a long while, nothing more needs to be said. I rest in the security of Greg's arms.
"So, what do we do now?" I finally ask.
"I suppose we lay low and wait to hear from Lt. Garcia."
"We may be waiting a while. He's probably busy."
"Well at least I get to spend that time with the prettiest girl in the world."
I smirk.
"What?" he says. "Do you think I'm kidding?"
"How could you even know if I'm pretty? I've got no makeup on and my hair has only barely been combed out. And the only thing you've seen me in since high school is this baggy train wreck of an outfit."
He's silent for a long moment. "Actually," he finally ventures, "that's not entirely true."
"Lana," he says calmly, but with an edge of guilt, "it wasn't my intention. I rang the bell twice. When you didn't answer, I went around back, thinking you were probably working on your project. Then, when I saw you, I was totally spellbound. I honestly had no idea that a woman could be so beautiful, and I just had to drink you in. It took a lot longer than it should have for my manners to kick in and force me to walk back around to the front."
But then it finally hits me. I wasn't just folding clothes. Could he have seen that? For a moment I nearly panic, but then I realize that with the tall bushes on either side of the porch stairs, he couldn't have seen me sit down, much less what I was doing. Besides, he said he walked away while I was still folding, not because I was going into the house. I breathe an inward sigh of relief.
"Greg," I say, praying that he didn't notice my moment of panic, "I guess I don't mind that you saw me like that, but you don't need to blow smoke up my ass about my being attractive."
"Lana, I'm not blowing smoke. You truly are absolutely gorgeous."
"Please stop. It's not like I'm going to kick you out of the bunker if you don't make up goofy compliments."
"Lana, are you blind?"
"I know what I look like."
"No, I don't think you do, but I'm going to show you right now." With that, he gets to his feet, effortlessly scoops me up into his arms, and starts to carry me down the hall.
Part of me knows that I should demand he put me down, but a larger part wants very badly whatever it is that he's about to do.
He carries me into the bunk room and sets me down lightly on my feet in front of the full-length mirror. He turns me to face it, standing right behind me and looking over my shoulder.
"Lana, I want you to know that what I like the best about you is on the inside," he says. "I fell in love with you while we were on the phone, when I couldn't even see you. But when I held you in my arms that first time, you with your braces and stick figure, there was this sense of security that came over me, and though I was ashamed of myself for being attracted to a girl so young, it also felt right, if that makes any sense. I knew, in that moment, that in the long run, you were where I was meant to be."
"I felt that way too, Greg."
He strips off his jacket, then mine, tossing them onto an upper bunk. I shiver, but not from the cold.
"But now I love what's on the outside too," he says. "As I thought you would, you've become a truly beautiful woman. Lana, I want you to see yourself the way I see you."
I look my reflection up and down, then cross my arms on my chest. "I see a plain, skinny girl with an improbably large nose," I say, almost petulantly.
He puts his hands on the backs of mine. They're warm against my skin. "What I see," he whispers in my ear, "is a tall, sleek, beautiful woman." I watch in the mirror as his hands draw themselves, seemingly with minds of their own, up my arms, which are unfortunately encased in long sleeves. His fingers are probing my arms and shoulders as they move up.
"I can feel your strength, Lana. You're no city girl." I know he means this as a compliment, but part of me worries that he views me as a country bumpkin. He's been among sophisticated college and city girls for so long.
He brushes the nape of my neck, then runs his fingers through my locks. "I always liked your thick brunette hair."
"It so short," I protest. Not long, blond and curly, like Courtney's.
"It's soft and beautiful."
With light touches of his fingertips, Greg traces my face, then gazes straight at me in the mirror. "I could drown in your eyes, Lana. So deep, so brown."
Maybe, but not sparkling blue like Courtney's.
He's still tracing, exploring, moving across my face. In any other circumstance I would undoubtedly find being touched like this annoying, but with Greg...
"You have such a noble nose, Lana. And I love your high cheek bones, full lips and that cute chin."
I suppose "noble' is one word for my proboscis. "Big" is the one I usually use, though I've heard the term "Roman" used to describe it. In any case, it's certainly not Courtney's cute little button nose. And my chin? I've always hated its cleft. My friends used to say that it made me look a little like Sandra Bullock, but I'd have given a lot for it to have been smoothly rounded -- like Courtney's.
I watch as his gentle fingers trace downward across my neck and into the little hollow of my throat, exploring, investigating, not missing a square inch of me. "You have such a long, graceful neck," he murmurs.
Then, without the slightest hint of hesitation, Greg begins to unbutton my blouse.
I instinctively begin to reach up, but my hands pause when they're only halfway there. "I'll stop if you want," he murmurs, "but you're going to have to ask." His hands never pause. I realize that this is almost exactly what I've imagined in my fantasy; Greg asserting his desire for me and doing with me as he will. I'm scared, but can't deny, even to myself, that I want this too.
Greg is slowed a little by the fact that the buttons on women's blouses are reversed from men's, but he adjusts quickly and moves with amazing assurance, as always. Then I feel his hands hook under the fabric, and the blouse slips off my shoulders to pool around my feet. Again without hesitation, he neatly unhooks my plain white bra and it joins my blouse. I'm naked from the waist up.
It's almost mortifying, seeing my bare breasts and a man's face in a mirror at the same time, but this is Greg's face. A shiver of anticipation runs through me.
Without pause, he's tracing my clavicles and the detailed area where they come together. "I love the feel of your smooth, flawless skin," he murmurs, "and the look of your neck and shoulders... It's like you were created by a master sculptor." I guess he's right about my skin at least. My father had always complimented my mother's exceptionally smooth, lustrous, olive skin, and I inherited that from her.
As his hands move lower across my upper chest, I hold my breath, not really believing that he will be so forward, but he doesn't even hesitate. My breasts are cupped in a man's hands for the first time.
"It's okay to breathe," he murmurs, and I realize that I haven't done that for a quite a while. The rise of my chest as I inhale moves me within the confines of his hands. The feeling is beyond intense.
They frankly look a little small in his palms. "From seeing you earlier," he says, "I knew your breasts had grown to a perfect shape and size, but I wouldn't have believed they could be so firm. They're flawless."
Caressing my own breasts never felt a tenth as good as this. And I suppose their firmness would be the one good feature of them. They've always stood up high and proud.
"And your nipples," he continues, "so eager." Frankly, I always thought they were too big. They always seemed to poke out at inconvenient times. I wore padded bras to help disguise this when I went out in public.
He takes my almost painfully erect nubbins between his thumbs and forefingers, twisting and pulling a little. I wouldn't have thought I would like this, but I find myself biting my tongue before I end up begging him to do it harder.
Now his hands leave my breasts, running at will as they move further down. I stifle any sounds of disappointment at the loss of his touch on my sensitive mounds. I'd love the feel of his caress anywhere.
His large hands wrap around my waist and squeeze me a little. Unbelievably, I feel him touch thumb to thumb, finger to finger. He can completely encircle me. "Oh Lana, I love your tiny waist. So perfectly feminine -- and completely sexy."
His hands move and begin stroking my belly. "You're so perfectly toned," he says, "but still sleek and womanly. No hard angles or bulges." I feel a fingertip swirl in my navel. It tickles a little, but mostly it's erotic in a way that I would never have guessed that my little innie could be. Then any thought about my belly button is forgotten as his hands move lower.
Greg doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask permission. He just unbuttons the top of my loose-fitting jeans. I can't believe I'm letting him do this, but I've imagined it so intensely, so many times, that I find myself wanting to fulfil that fantasy in the worst way. I pry off my boots with my feet, then pull off my socks by stepping on the toes. Greg slides my jeans over my hips, making no comment about my lack of panties. He lets them fall from there and I kick the whole pile away. I'm naked before him.
"I love that you're not afraid to have pubic hair," he says, in a way that somehow makes my bush sound sexy. "It fits you beautifully." I'm trimmed, but I've never used a razor down there. I'd bet money that Courtney had her pubic hair waxed down to little or nothing.
I can feel that I'm very, very wet, but despite my embarrassment, I pray that he will touch me there. Instead, his hands move down to where my hip bones make gentle swells in otherwise smooth curves.
"Oh God," he murmurs, "these are a couple of the sexiest places on the female body, and on you, they're absolutely amazing. You have the perfect hips, Lana -- not too wide and not too slim. You're sexy without being lush. Absolutely wonderful."
Then he brushes his palm ever so lightly across my bush, and the feel I get just through my short, curly hair is intense. Again, I wish that he would really touch me there, ravish me, and make me his, but I understand that this is not the aim of what he's doing now.
Sure enough, Greg's hands slide around to where they're half on my hips, and half on my ass, not blocking any part of me from our view in the mirror. I look back up and see Greg gazing intently into the reflection of my eyes. "Now do you see what I see?" he murmurs in my ear.
Now, as I look at the two of us in the mirror, I do my best to not be so critical of myself. I am a lot taller than Courtney -- just four inches shorter than Greg's six feet three. My skin is several shades darker than his, but it's smooth, unblemished, and completely without tan lines. (If I'm going to expose any of myself to the sun, I expose all of me.) I guess I'm not a stick figure anymore, since my hips and breasts have filled out enough to give me a feminine shape. And all of the individual aspects of my body that Greg listed off? I suppose he was accurate with those, but seriously, am I actually beautiful? I'm different from Courtney in so many ways.
But if Greg is to be believed -- and I do believe him -- he vastly prefers the way I'm put together. I rejoice in that knowledge, because whether I'm objectively beautiful or not, Greg finds me to be so, and that's more than enough. He's the one man in the world for whom it is important to me that I be beautiful. And it's evidently important to him that I see myself that way.
"Yes Greg," I murmur. "I think I see what you see now."
"Smart girl," he murmurs back. Then he's turning me, and I think we're going to kiss, but he gently cradles my head to his broad chest as his other hand explores. "Oh Lana, the sleekness of your back is astounding." Then he's gently kneading the globes of my ass. I can feel that this time, I am a perfect handful for him.
"Jesus," he murmurs, "how did you get such a perfectly rounded little bottom? So smooth, so firm, so flawless. I could play with it all day." With this admission, he has seamlessly moved past the point where he could say that he's just showing me off to myself for the benefit of my self-esteem. Now he's touching me because he desires my body, just like I've always desired his.
