Free All We Left Behind by Ingrid Sundberg

favorite book, or if I like chocolate more than vanilla. But the trees curl back ahead of us, exposing the ridge and sky, and I know none of those questions will matter.
    Because the road has ended.
    And his hand is already in my hair.
    He cuts the engine, and the thrum of the car rumbles out beneath us. His fingers tease my neck and I look out the window at the view. It’s breathtaking. Water stretches all the way to the horizon, ocean against dusk, and the last thread of sun dips behind the tide.
    His thumb hits my earlobe, and it’s me—turning to him, wanting what I don’t know how to ask for or take.
    I close my eyes, and for a moment I’m not inside myself. I’m not here at all. It scares me, because I know this is all happening too fast, and I want him to know my last name and my favorite subject and that I miss my mother sometimes, and that I’m not Lilith. That this isn’t easy for me.
    But I’m sure he thinks I’ve already said yes.
    â€œKurt, I—”
    But his hands cup my neck and we’re kissing. His lips press against mine with a rush of breath, and he opens my mouth and finds the inside of me.
    His hands are hot, wrists at my collarbone, elbows brushing the fabric on my chest, and I don’t know what to do with him. I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know him.
    His mouth tugs on my lip, the bottom one, and I try to concentrate on his warmness and spit, but his hands are in my hair. He pulls me close, and hard, and against. And all I can think about are flip-flops broken between my toes, and mud, and creek water, and—
    Hands that touch.
    Hands I can’t trust.
    Kurt unhooks my bra and his fingers slide over my breasts, making me shake. Only this isn’t the good kind of tremble.
    My seat falls back with a clunk, and he’s reclined the chair. He climbs on top and I can’t keep track of his hands, his lips. He peels my shirt up, over my head, and his touch is everywhere—hot, wet—and this doesn’t feel powerful. This is small and dark as his weight digs into my hip.
    My skin shudders, my arms lifted high above my head, where they drape naked over the backrest. My hands dangle and I want to cut my hair off and get rid of this blond fanned out over the seat. The smell of barbecue and mud clogs in my throat and I don’t know how to tell him to stop.
    He’s on top of me.
    His hands are in my hair.
    I got in his car and wanted him to kiss me and—
    My body trembles as his hands slide down my front to the top of my jeans. His fingers undo my buttons and start unzipping—and I know this is it.
    Everything shudders. My insides unhook, rumbling up like an earthquake unleashed from the pit of me. My shoulders heave and I can’t stop it.
    I can’t force it down.
    There are things my body knows—
    Things it wants to scream that I can’t say.
    Things—
    Things my body has to say for me.

Kurt
    I shift my weight and what I see makes me want to fucking die.
    Marion’s not trembling, she’s crying. And she’s not just crying, she’s crying . Like somebody died.
    â€œShit, are you . . .” But I freeze. I don’t know what to do. My elbows lock and I hover over her. Not daring to move. “Um, do you . . .”
    But her whole body shakes. Her shoulders rock and that blond hair of hers falls to the side, exposing her chest. I force my eyes out the back window, cursing the fact that I’m still hard, which she must know, because I’m freaking on top of her.
    â€œUh, do . . .” I grip the seat, panic squirming in my gut, and I see her shirt in the back. The tag sticks up and the whole thing is turned inside out, and it’s too far to reach without touching her. “Look, uh . . . here.”
    I pull my shirt off and lay it over the front of her. The crumpled fabric makes her flinch, and her eyes hollow me. Her arm