Teeny, tiny little sex scene ahead. Just a warning.


She arrived home to find a postcard from her boyfriend. Laine had a vast collection of postcards that he had sent her from all around the world. This one was from Paris. The sentiments were generic; having a great time, wish you were here. Blah blah blah. She threw the postcard down with a sigh. Peter Sutton was not exactly the most romantic guy she knew.

She supposed she would end up marrying him. Her parents would like that, especially her father. It would be good for business. She was only eighteen, much too young (in her opinion) to be thinking about marriage, but two of her high school girlfriends were already engaged and her mother had began making not so subtle hints.

Janice Peterson had been carded at her engagement party. The irony both amused and depressed Laine.

It wouldn't be all bad, she tried to convince herself. Peter was a good guy, smart and thoughtful enough, and he didn't get wasted every weekend like some of her friend's boyfriends. Sure, the sex was mind-numbingly dull, but it wasn't like she had much basis for comparison.

She'd only ever been with one other person.

They've had a fight, she and Peter, a petty disagreement that had raged out of control. Laine can barely remember why she is so angry, but she knows that she will never forgive him.

She wanders around the city for an hour, staking out all the old hang outs she used to haunt. Sometimes, re-visiting her childhood makes her feel better. This time, it only reminds her of how complicated her life has become.

A familiar figure exits the Starbucks across the street and Laine calls out to him. She worries that he won't remember her, but he smiles and trots over to greet her.

"Sam," she sighs happily. He isn't Stacey (times like this remind Laine of how much she misses Stacey, how much she needs her) but he is the next best thing and when he folds his arms around her in a greeting hug, she sinks into his chest. She would be perfectly content to stay there forever.

Eventually, she pulls away. His arms remain around her. When she looks up at him, he notices her bright, angry eyes.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks kindly. She bursts into tears.

Sam shepherds her into a taxi and takes her back to his hotel room. He is in town with his older brother, he tells her as they settle down onto the couch. Charlie's visiting his girlfriend, he adds, and will be gone all day. It could have been an afterthought, only his tone is too casual.

They raid the mini-bar. Sam doesn't mention her outburst and Laine is grateful. She hates tears, hates showing emotion. She likes to think that she is stronger than that.

Outside, a light dusting of snow is beginning to fall. Inside is warm, almost tropical. Laine begins to peel away her layers, removing everything but her jeans and singlet top. She remembers too late that she isn't wearing a bra.

Sam's eyes travel the length of her body, lingering over her nearly exposed breasts. Her heart races. They move towards each other.

Then they are kissing, their lips meeting passionately and messily, their bodies pressed together firmly. Urgently. Laine wants this more than she has ever wanted anything in her life, except maybe her old best friend. Stacey is at the back of her mind, gnawing guiltily at her conscience. She assures herself that Sam and Stacey have broken up. Sam wouldn't be doing this is he had a girlfriend. Would he? She considers asking him. She should ask him.

She doesn't ask him.

His hands are under her top, gently squeezing her breasts. His thumbs knead her nipples and she gasps audibly. She had never imagined there could be so much pleasure in this world.

They stumble into his bedroom and remove their clothes impatiently. She feels raw and moves to cover her nakedness, but he pushes her hand away. She glimpses undisguised devotion in his eyes and understands with almost prophetic awareness that she will never feel quite as desired ever again.

Laine leaves afterwards. She is afraid that if she hangs around, Sam will do something to knock himself off the pedestal she has placed him upon. She catches a cab to Peter's place and they make up. She feels no guilt over what she has done, only a strange, contented satisfaction. She supposes that the incident is further preparation for the life ahead of her.

A handwritten letter awaits her at home. She instantly recognises the typewriter a's and the small hearts dotting the i's, and tears the envelope open eagerly.

Dear Laine, I forgive you. Love, Stacey.