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 Contents
The Love Playbook
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue

Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
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About Jerica MacMillan
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 The Love Playbook
Jerica MacMillan

Copyright © 2022 by Jerica MacMillan

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express
written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
 CHAPTER ONE

Jackson

More people spill through the door to our apartment, provoking a cry
of welcome from the crowd already gathered in the living room. It’s
the first week of classes and Eli and I have revived our weekly game
night tradition. We thought about starting it with just the football
team a couple weeks ago when practices started, but with two-a-
days, everyone was too exhausted to even think about anything
other than food and sleep.
We’re in the same apartment as last year. A sweet place we
scored when some seniors moved out. The rent is great, and it’s
only a five minute drive to campus.
I look up from my spot in the kitchen to see who’s arrived,
releasing my breath in a mix of relief and disappointment when I see
that it’s Gardner and Johnson.
Johnson, my backup wide receiver, catches my eye, lifts his chin
in greeting, and holds up a case of soda. “Hey, man. We brought
some drinks.”
I return the chin lift and take the drinks from him. “Cool.
Thanks.”
He sticks around to talk about the new plays Coach Reese had us
running today, but I’m only half paying attention. The rest of my
attention is focused on the door, and I brace each time it opens until
I find out who’s arrived.
I’m hiding. I won’t admit that out loud, but I won’t lie to myself.
 Not from my teammates, though. From Dani and her friends.
Well, not Dani, really. She’s over here all the time. She and Eli are
super tight, and she’s a cool chick. It’s really her friend Autumn,
whose arrival I’m both waiting for and dreading in equal parts.
That chick is something else. She seems all airy and unassuming,
but beneath that she has a spine of steel and the ability to reduce
me to a stammering wreck faster than anyone.
Everyone thinks she’s nice enough. A little quirky with her hair
dyed outlandish colors and her tendency to talk about moon phases
and energies. She likes to sleep around, but somehow manages to
stay friends—or at least friendly—with all of her exes. Not that she
considers them exes. That would imply more of a relationship than
she’s had with anyone that I’ve seen anyway.
When we first started hanging out last semester, I had the same
impression of her—nice, quirky, pretty, easy to be around. She
recognized my shyness and did her best to put me at ease as much
as possible.
Until she ruined it all by offering to be my love tutor. That’s what
she called it.
If she shows up tonight, it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her since
she made the offer at the last team party of spring semester.
Johnson doesn’t seem to notice that he only has half my
attention, my grunts and monosyllabic answers good enough to
keep him talking. Which is fine, really. If I’m talking to him, it’ll be
easier to avoid Autumn when she shows up. And I think that’s what
I want. At least to start with.
The grunts and single word answers are pretty standard for me,
though. I’m the quiet one on the team. Some guys run their mouths
constantly, can’t get enough of their own stories and ridiculousness.
I’m not that guy. Never have been. Don’t see the point, really. Sure,
I’ll say something if it matters. But it’s easier to sit back and let
everyone else fill the silence if they want to.
I don’t mind the silence. And it doesn’t bother me if other people
feel like filling it. I’m just as happy on my own as in a group. Which
apparently is weird to some people. But I’m fine with my
teammates. We get along, and I only blush when they try to include
me in the locker room talk about sex.
It’s mostly that I’m not used to being noticed, I guess. Other
than for football. Though even with that, if it’s more than a general
acknowledgment like, “Good game,” or, “Nice catch,” my cheeks start
to heat up. When anyone starts gushing, you could fry an egg on my
face.
It’s even worse when the person doing the gushing is a pretty
girl. Though I’ve been told that’s flirting, not just friendliness or
genuine interest in my playing ability. At least that’s what Autumn
told me at the end of the spring semester. And when I was home
over the summer my older sister confirmed it.
I almost hadn’t asked, because I knew Naomi would laugh at me.
But when Autumn talked to me at that last party of the semester
before finals, she’d planted the idea in my head and as much as I’d
tried to dismiss it, I couldn’t. So even though it had been beyond
embarrassing to ask, eventually I had to. I trust Naomi’s opinion.
She laughed, of course, just like I knew she would. Then she
speared me with dark eyes that mirrored my own and opened a
package of fruit snacks for my niece. “Seriously, Jackson?” She
shook her head, her voice still vibrating with laughter. “You really
can’t tell when a girl is flirting with you?”
I described how the girls at the party would act … the
compliments about my game performance, the little touches that
were easy to excuse because of close proximity but maybe were
deliberate, the way they’d sip their drinks and appear super
interested until I’d just … not really talk much, and then their eyes
would glaze over and they’d leave. All except Autumn, who’d talk
long enough for me to get comfortable and actually respond. Of
course she’d talk about more than just how amazing I played. She’d
ask questions about the game, about training, about school and
seemed genuinely interested in my answers.
I didn’t tell Naomi about Autumn, though. Especially with
Autumn’s love tutor offer constantly prodding the back of my
consciousness no matter how I tried to forget it. Listening to Naomi
laugh about my cluelessness was bad enough. I had no desire to
hear her reaction to that.
Because the longer I went on about the other girls, the harder
Naomi laughed. “Oh, man.” She made an exaggerated show of
wiping tears from her eyes. “Yes, those girls were all flirting with
you. How often does that happen?”
I shrugged, uncomfortable, my skin feeling itchy and too tight,
my cheeks and ears hot. “I dunno,” I mumbled.
“So basically all the time,” she accurately surmised.
And now I’m here at the beginning of another fall semester,
another football season, with Eli and I continuing our tradition of
hosting all our friends to play video games in our living room. The
whole team’s technically invited, but not everyone is interested.
Which is fine, because there’s no way they’d all fit anyway. It’s really
only the guys we’re friends with who come, plus whoever they’re
seeing and the usual crew of chicks who hang around in hopes of
bagging an athlete. Though most of them don’t have to hope too
hard.
I guess it’s extra ridiculous that I don’t recognize the flirting.
Except they never seem to be flirting with me. Or interested in me.
When I talk, they don’t seem very interested in what I’m saying,
interrupting me to ask how much I can bench while staring at my
chest or finding an excuse to squeeze my bicep, usually when I’m
trying to do something. That part is extra strange because I was the
skinny, fast kid in high school. Girls weren’t really interested in me.
Football team or not, I was still the nerdy kid who did great in math
class, too tall and scrawny and quiet to attract much attention.
But I’ve bulked up since coming to Marycliff, putting on a
significant amount of muscle. Not so much that I’m not still fast, of
course. As a wide receiver, speed is important. But I have to have
enough bulk to hold my own against the defensive line, too. It’s a
balance. Last year I was the backup, but got enough playing time to
get attention. And this year I’m the starter, so I can only imagine the
uninvited touching and awkward flirting will get worse.
Hence why I’m hiding. Well, part of the reason.
 Because even though Autumn has never really indulged in
uninvited touching—with the notable exception of the kiss on the
cheek and pat on the chest she gave me when she offered to be my
love tutor—I’m just as afraid of being cornered by her now as I am
of the other unattached women.
I still don’t know how serious she was. Or if I want to take her up
on the offer.
I mean, come on? A love tutor? Just the words mashed together
sound ridiculous.
But given Naomi’s reaction to my question and thinking back over
all the encounters with girls I’ve had at parties and game nights over
the last couple of years … maybe it would be a good idea to take her
up on the offer.
Which is why I’m so nervous about her appearance tonight.
She told me to call her if I was interested. But it’s been months
… is she still willing? Will she offer again? Or will I have to suffer the
indignity of bringing it up myself?
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize she’s arrived until she’s
standing in front of me, that smile on her face that makes it seem
like she knows all my secrets. And I guess, in a way, she kinda does.
She’s figured out that I’m hopeless with women, though she maybe
hasn’t figured out why.
Yet.
“Hey, Jackson,” she says, slipping her arms around my torso and
pressing her face into my chest.
Surprised, I hold my arms out to the side for a second before
awkwardly patting her back and eventually letting my arms rest
around her. You’d think I’d never hugged anyone before with the
way I’m acting. I have. Plenty of times. I’ve even hugged Autumn
before, in fact. Just … usually I knew it was coming because she’d
given out hugs to everyone else and I was next in line and could
mentally prepare myself.
I can’t deny that I enjoy the feel of her body pressed against
mine, though. Maybe I should let her tutor me like she’s offered …
She doesn’t seem to notice any awkwardness, though. “I’m glad
you guys are hosting these again this year.” Her voice is still muffled
by my chest. “And I’m also glad that we’re the same year, so I won’t
have to worry about someday facing school without game nights at
Eli and Jackson’s.” She pulls back, squinting as she looks up at my
face, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief and her lips curved in a
tiny smile. “You’re going to keep doing this until you graduate, right?
I hope so. Because it’s become one of the fixtures of my routine,
and since there are so few, I don’t want any of them to disappear on
me.”
With her hands gripping my waist, I awkwardly pat her shoulder
again, my face heating from the cumulative embarrassment of my
existence. “No plans to stop at this point. I’ll be sure to keep you
posted if that changes.”
“Yes. Do.” She turns to face the counter laden with snacks and
drinks, her long wavy hair fanning around her shoulders. She’s
changed the color since last semester. It used to be kind of a pinky
lavender and now it’s a light turquoise streaked with pink. “What are
we drinking? You guys are still early in the season, so I’m guessing
we’re still being good boys and girls and sticking to the nutrition
plan?” She glances back over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow. “Are
you on drink duty? Is that why you’re back here?”
“Nah. I’m just …” My mouth hanging open, I trail off, not sure
how to finish that sentence. Hiding is the word I’m looking for, but I
can’t say that. Not to her.
“I see,” she murmurs, and my cheeks heat again. Because she
really does. And that’s both exciting and terrifying.
As the quiet one, I’m easily overlooked. Not many people take
the time to see me. And the fact that she does … I’m not sure how I
feel about it, to be honest.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I look away, breaking the moment
we seem to find ourselves suspended in. This would be the perfect
time to bring up her offer from last semester. See if she’s still open
to the idea. Let her know I’m interested after all.
But what if she has a boyfriend?
I’ve never known her to have one before, but anything’s possible.
If nothing else, last year was proof of that with several of the players
who no one expected to settle down finding long-term relationships.
Cal McAdam, for example, the newest quarterback for the Colorado
Bison. I never would’ve expected him to find a steady girlfriend,
especially not when he was going in for the NFL draft.
But he met Piper and ended up falling hard, despite the fact that
he only went after her to mess with her brother. I saw them
together enough times to know that what they have is serious, even
if I’ve never experienced anything like that myself.
I don’t even know how to get from where I am now—an entirely
inexperienced virgin who’s far too acquainted with his right hand—to
something like McAdam and Piper have, even if they are long
distance since he got drafted.
Autumn’s poured herself a drink, though I was too lost in my own
thoughts to notice what, and now she’s studying me again. Her
smile’s gone, her eyes sharp and cataloging me the way she always
seems to do, her incisive expression so at odds with her pixie-like
face with its pointy chin and upturned nose.
My gaze can’t help snagging on the creamy expanse of skin she’s
showing off tonight, my eyes drawn by the pendant dangling
between her breasts, the clear crystal sparkling against the rust
colored tank she’s wearing paired with little black shorts and her
favorite flip flops. The first time it was warm enough to wear flip
flops last spring, she told me all about how she discovered them and
how she’s had them for three years already. Looks like she hasn’t
walked through the soles yet.
She’s so pretty and fun to look at that it distracts from the fact
that she can see right through to my soul.
“Have you thought any more about my offer?” she tosses out like
she’s asking what I think about the weather.
I almost choke on my own spit. Which is ridiculous, because I
was hoping she’d bring it up so I wouldn’t have to. But now that she
has … it’s just as embarrassing as it was the first time.
Coughing into my fist, I thump myself on the chest and clear my
throat a few times before I manage to get myself under control.
Autumn’s still watching me, her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips
quirked in that knowing smile.
 “Um, uh, yeah, actually.” God, I’m sure I’m beet red. “I, uh—” I
rub the back of my neck. “Um, I actually wanted to talk to you about
that.”
For the first time since she approached me, her face changes
from mildly amused to avidly interested. Even excited. “You did?
What did you want to talk about?”
“Are you really gonna make me say it?” I mumble.
Laughing softly, she steps closer and rubs her hand over my
chest. And somehow when she does it, it seems to sensitize my skin,
sending electric pulses racing through my blood. Plenty of girls have
touched me, and maybe it’s just because I know Autumn’s at least
marginally interested in me—she offered to be my love tutor, after
all. Though I’m not sure exactly what she means by that, even if I
have a few guesses. Regardless, she wouldn’t do that if she thought
I was hideous or repulsive. Right? And she kissed me on the cheek.
Is she going to do that again?
“Yes,” she says quietly, her face tipped up, her eyes locked with
mine. “Consider this your first lesson. You have to verbalize what
you want if you ever hope to get it. Especially with women.”
Swallowing seems almost impossible with her so close, her light
floral scent tickling my nose, her brown eyes soft and warm locked
on mine. “I’d, uh, um …” I clear my throat. Closing my eyes, I force
the words out. “Autumn, I’d like to take you up on the offer you
made at the end of last semester. To, uh, help me. With women.”
“Deal,” she murmurs, and I open my eyes just in time for her to
press up on her toes, hook a hand behind my neck, and kiss me.
 CHAPTER TWO

Autumn

Jackson’s lips are immobile against mine, his heart pounding hard
under my hand. I press my lips to his again, gently. Still no
response.
“Kiss me back, Jackson,” I whisper against his mouth.
He sucks in a breath like his diaphragm got paralyzed and just
now restarted. I nip at his lower lip, then kiss it again.
This time he seems to get the idea, and he tentatively kisses me
back. Reaching for one of his arms, I grab it by the wrist and wrap it
around me, placing his hand on my lower back. His fingers tighten,
like he wants to pull me closer, but for some reason he stops himself.
Alright. Good instincts. Some kind of hangup that prevents him
from fully acting on them. I think I can work with that.
I press my lips to his once more, happy that he returns the
pressure, then sink back onto my heels, looking up at him with a
smile. “Good first effort. We’ll definitely need more practice, though.
Have you ever kissed anyone before, or was that your first?”
His cheeks coloring—no surprise—he lifts his head and glances
around. Oh, oops. Maybe I should be more discreet about this line of
questioning. While his friends and teammates surely realize that he’s
not on the bang train along with them—I mean, I’ve noticed, and I
barely spend any time with the guy—that doesn’t mean he wants to
advertise exactly how inexperienced he is.
 Lowering my voice to a whisper, I lean in close. “Sorry. I
shouldn’t have asked that out loud right here. I got caught up in the
moment and forgot other people are around. Let’s make a plan to
get together somewhere quieter soon and you can answer all my
questions then.”
“I’ve kissed someone before. Lauren Targer in the eighth grade.”
I raise my eyebrows, silently inviting him to continue if he wishes.
Sadly, he doesn’t. “And will you also answer my questions then?”
“Of course. I will always answer your questions. You don’t even
have to wait until then, you can just text me anything you want to
know. Or ask now.” I shrug. “I don’t mind.”
His eyes dart around again, and he gives a tiny shake of his
head. “Later is fine.”
I give him a big sunny smile. I can’t help myself. This guy is too
adorable for words with his soft cheeks, straight nose, and the
dimples I can’t see right now but know are there. Plus his blushes.
So many blushes. He’s definitely a virgin. And I’d bet money that
Lauren Targer in the eighth grade is his one and only kiss before
now.
The question I want answered is, did he initiate the kiss or did
she? And why hasn’t he kissed anyone since then?
Some guys aren’t into sleeping with every girl who expresses
interest, and that’s understandable. But kissing? Surely you’re
allowed to be a little more indiscriminate with your kissing, even if
you come from a hyper-religious background.
I knew a few kids like that back in high school, but at least one
of them had a boyfriend, and they made out all the time.
Stepping back, I thread my fingers with Jackson’s. “Stick with me
tonight.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Everyone will think we’re
together.”
“So? Is that a problem for you?”
His eyes track over me, taking in my flowy tank and black yoga
shorts, lingering on the hint of cleavage showing over the scoop
neck of my top and the curve of my hips. I can’t help smiling to
myself. He definitely likes what he sees. I know that look all too well.
 “No,” he manages at last, his voice almost raw. “I just didn’t
know if you’d want to advertise that you’re taken.”
I step in close again, and his cheeks color like he’s half expecting
me to kiss him. I don’t, though. “For right now, I am taken. If I’m
going to be teaching you how to date, then you’ll get all my
attention. Besides, no one here is as interesting to me as you.”
The color in his cheeks deepens, but he clears his throat again
and nods once, just a slight dip of his chin, but it’s enough.
Unable to stop myself from smiling, I lead him out of his hiding
spot and into the living room. Advertising that we’re together—at
least for now, and no one else needs to know the details of why,
exactly, we’re entering this arrangement—will only serve to make
him more attractive in the long run. Which will help him with his
future endeavors once I’ve taught him all I can and turn him loose
on the world.
How exciting.
I’ve never done anything like this before. The offer was made on
a whim a few months ago when I saw another dejected girl walk
away from him. I’d noticed it happen again and again throughout
the course of the year, and when we got to know each other
working on scenes in our theatre class last semester, I thought
maybe I’d get a clue as to why. He’s shy, of course, which would
explain why he doesn’t approach anyone. But I’ve watched so many
girls come onto him. Why wouldn’t he go for any of them? Yet every
party and game night, I watched him brush them off like he wasn’t
interested at all.
Was he just not interested in girls? Or was there something else
at work?
With a couple of drinks in my system and maudlin thoughts
chasing me through the party, I let my curiosity get the better of me
and asked him point blank if he was gay or asexual, and he denied
both things.
Which only left clueless.
So I figured I’d offer to help him out. I like Jackson. He’s cute
with his baby face and easy smile—once you get to know him, at
least. Sweet. And he obviously cares about his appearance. His hair’s
nearly always done and he gets it cut regularly because I’ve never
seen him shaggy. He shaves. And he dresses reasonably well. Not
designer clothes or anything, but clean and neat and they fit. Even
when he’s dressed down in athletic gear, his shirts hug his chest and
broad shoulders just right, falling loose around his trim middle. And
his joggers stretch tight across a biteable ass.
Honestly, my offer was semi selfish too. He’s the only guy I know
on the football team who hasn’t hit on me. Which of course intrigues
me even more.
Obviously if he’s not interested or attracted to me, I won’t pursue
him. But if he just needs a little … push?
Which is why I decided to mention it again, though partly it was
because I knew I’d get him to blush too. Maybe it’s not very nice,
but he’s just so adorable when he blushes like that, and sometimes I
can’t help myself.
I figured he’d turn me down, though. He’s so sweet and shy and
buttoned up that I couldn’t see any way that he’d ever take me up
on my offer. I mean, I thought he was going to swallow his tongue
the last time I suggested it.
But now that he’s decided he wants to do this, I’m going to have
to figure out a plan of action. Of course I need to know what he has
and hasn’t done first—I have my suspicions, but knowing for sure is
important—and where his hard limits lie.
This is going to be a blast.

***

As soon as we’re back home, Ellie closes the door behind her, locking
the deadbolt, then crosses her arms and stares me down. The look
would work better if her reddish brown hair weren’t falling out of its
ponytail. And the smattering of freckles across her nose from time
spent in the sun over the summer gives her too much of a girl-next-
door look versus the severe taskmaster she’s trying to embody. Not
that either of those things stop her from trying. “What is going on
with you?”
 I give her a quizzical look, cocking my head to the side. “I’m
sorry? I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Piper laughs, and even Dani ducks her head to hide a smile, like
she’s trying to hide behind her hair. But her dark wavy hair is pulled
back in her customary ponytail as well, so it doesn’t really work.
“Is there a joke I’m missing here?” I ask.
“Please, Autumn,” Piper says, flipping her long black hair over her
pale shoulder, exposed by her red tank top. “We all saw you spend
the entire evening with Jackson Lancaster, the boy who never does
anything.” She sits on the end of the couch and kicks off her flip
flops, pulling her feet under her, propping her elbow on the arm of
the couch and her chin on her hand as she surveys me, eyes
narrowed. “What’s your game with him? He’s a sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” Ellie puts in, dropping her purse on top of the coffee
table and claiming the spot next to Piper. Like they’re presenting a
united front. Against me.
Surveying my three roommates and taking in their nearly
identical expressions, I purse my lips and squint my eyes. I’m not
quite used to this new dynamic, and I don’t think I like it.
While we’ve all known each other since we were freshmen, Ellie’s
the only one I’ve lived with before. But after two years in the dorms,
we were all ready to move off campus. I think Piper and Ellie
especially wanted to live off campus after spending so much time at
their boyfriends’ house last year. Access to a kitchen and laundry
that you don’t have to share with an entire building is really nice.
But houses are more expensive to rent, so we asked Piper and
Dani to join us. We found a nice four bedroom with an early August
move in date, which gave us all plenty of time to work over the
summer and visit our families plus a little time to settle in before
classes started this week.
I could’ve done with a little less time at home, personally, but I
made the best of it by filling my schedule with online tarot clients
and signing up for a booth to read tarot at various summer festivals
in the area. That led to booking a few private parties too, which is
always fun.
 But apparently Piper and Ellie have kept in touch over the
summer, bonding over their respective boyfriends getting drafted by
the NFL and going off to pursue their glamorous new pro football
player lives, leaving the women they love behind to finish their
degrees.
On the one hand, I admire their drive to finish school ahead of
schedule and their unwillingness to sacrifice what they care about
for a guy. On the other hand … life is short. If the person you want
to be with has to move across the country, why wouldn’t you find a
way to go with them?
I can’t imagine dropping everything to follow a guy, personally.
But I can’t imagine being in that kind of long-term relationship
either. No, my attachments are all short lived and based around fun.
Just the way I like them.
But Ellie and Piper both want and have something deeper and
more serious. So I don’t understand why they’d stay here when the
people they love are thousands of miles away. I mean, look at
Tiffany, Piper’s soon-to-be sister-in-law. Maybe it’s not official, but …
she and Gray have a kid together. She figured out a way to follow
him to Florida, of all places, so she could be with him. And from
what she was saying before they left, she has every intention of
finishing her degree no matter what.
If she can do it, why can’t Piper and Ellie?
Not that I want them to leave, necessarily. Selfishly, I like having
them here. They’re two of my best friends, and Dani and I couldn’t
afford this place on our own. Plus, Dani only lives with me because
of Piper, who only lives with me because of Ellie. Dani’s quiet and
reserved, more comfortable talking sports and hanging with the guys
than the more traditionally feminine things Piper and Ellie are into—
though Piper’s a sports fan, to be fair, so they have that in common
—and I’m … well, me.
I’ve always followed my own path, and while I enjoy company
along the way, I’m aware most people don’t see or interact with the
world the same way I do.
I know the kind of reputation I have—a mix of airy fairy and
maneater, and no one’s quite sure what to make of me.
 In reality, I’m just moving through the world trying to engage the
energies I find around me and hopefully leave things a little better
than I found them. I’m not sure why that’s so weird or whatever, but
I have come to realize that not everyone is as comfortable with their
bodies, or even other people’s bodies, as I am, and discussing
energies and the universe makes some people wrinkle their nose
and change the subject.
So in deference to other people’s sensibilities, I keep a lot of that
to myself, or bring it out in more subtle ways.
And I thought my friends saw past both the airy fairy and
maneater reputations to the real me beneath—at least to some
degree. But with the way they’re acting … maybe not.
Sighing, I drop into the cream armchair across from them,
choosing to let go of my budding annoyance and take a more
agreeable tack. It’s comfy and cushy, a sweet steal from a thrift
store at fifty bucks. “I agree. Jackson is a sweetheart.”
Ellie narrows her eyes. “So you’re not going to do your usual
thing where you sex him up and then leave him hanging?”
I can’t help but laugh at her assessment of my interactions with
guys. “I don’t know that I’ve ever done that.”
Piper and Ellie exchange a look and Dani snorts from her spot on
the mismatched loveseat. I like our hodgepodge furniture, even if I’d
be okay with a comfier couch. It’s fun, eclectic, representative of the
four of us—obviously different but still fits together well.
“Sure, Autumn. If you say so,” Ellie says. “I know you aren’t
trying to leave the guys hanging. But you have to see the way they
all follow you around with their tongues hanging out after you hook
up with them. They want to lock you down, and you’re not
interested in that.”
“Okay. That’s true. But it’s not like they don’t know what they’re
getting into. Everyone knows party hookups aren’t the start of long-
term relationships. I’m not mean to them. I just like having fun.” And
I like sex. Just not enough with any of them for a repeat
performance. No one’s exactly rocked my world. Not that I expect
Jackson to, but his case is different.
 And I have to admit that being the one to introduce him to the
full range of pleasure his body can experience has a surprising
appeal. I wonder what he looks like when he’s aroused … will he
blush when I take him in my mouth the first time? Assuming he lets
me, of course.
That’s the first thing on the list that we’ll have to cover—figuring
out what he’s done and what he’s willing to do.
“Earth to Autumn,” Piper calls, provoking another snort from
Dani.
I refocus on my roommates. “Hmm? I’m sorry, I was distracted.”
“What are your intentions with Jackson?” Ellie asks firmly.
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Are you here to protect his virtue, Ellie?
You?”
Her cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t back down. “He’s not the
party hookup type. I don’t want you to hurt him.”
“You’re sweet, Ellie. I promise I’m not going to hurt him. The
opposite, in fact. I’m going to help him.”
The girls exchange another look, a look that clearly says they
think I’m full of shit. But that’s nothing really new. Any time I bring
out my crystals they give me that same look—though they like it
when I read tarot for them, interestingly enough. I got the same
look from them when I smudged the house with cedar as we were
moving in to protect us and clear the space of any unwelcome
energies.
That’s fine. They don’t have to believe me. I’ve never let it stop
me before. I’m not about to start now.
 CHAPTER THREE

Jackson

“So …” Eli says as we finish cleaning up after everyone’s finally gone.

I brace myself, because I’ve known this was coming since
Autumn insisted we spend the evening together. I’m not sure exactly
what I was expecting when I took her up on her offer, but it
certainly wasn’t anything that happened—the kiss, the handholding,
the way she sat leaning against me most of the night, the casual
touching …
Anyone paying attention, which was literally everyone, would’ve
thought we’re a couple.
Which is why Eli’s now questioning me. Because he’s never seen
me with a girl either. I mean, sure, yeah, I’ve talked to girls. Or at
least they’ve talked to me. But I haven’t let any of them do what
Autumn did tonight, and I know it caused more than a few raised
eyebrows.
I literally saw people look at us and raise their eyebrows,
including Eli.
But I’m not going to encourage him, so I just pick up the stray
cups and a napkin on the floor next to the couch and head to the
kitchen to toss them in the trash.
When I turn around, Eli stands in the doorway of the kitchen and
tosses his hands in the air, his face a picture of exasperation.
“Seriously, dude?”
“What?”
 “What? What. Motherfucker’s asking me what.” He gives me an
exaggerated blink. “What was that tonight? With that chick with the
crazy colored hair? What’s her name?”
“Autumn,” I supply.
“Autumn,” he repeats. “Her. She was all over you, man. And you
were cool with it?”
I shrug, ignoring the blush I know is painted all over my face.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Eli sounds like he’s choking on his own spit. “Are you fucking with
me, dude? You’ve gotta be fucking with me. You’ve literally never
been okay with a chick acting like that. You usually get all stiff and
quiet and turn red like you’re doing now. And then they get bored
and move on to easier pickings.” He holds up his hands, palms out.
“Wait, wait, wait. Was she just not getting the hint? You’re usually
really good at telegraphing your disinterest. Hell, I’ve even seen you
walk away from a chick like you were just bored with her or
something.”
To be honest, I probably was. Most of the girls that try to talk to
me at parties aren’t exactly scintillating conversationalists. Maybe it
makes me weird or old-fashioned, but I don’t really want some girl
hanging all over me who only knows my last name, the number on
my jersey, and what position I play. If that. Some of them just know
I’m a football player, so our conversation consists of them asking for
those details. And I’m supposed to … what? Go off in a room and
have sex with someone I don’t even know? And risk getting her
pregnant?
Pass.
My sister got pregnant at nineteen. At least that was with her
boyfriend. And yeah, they’re not together any more, but he’s
involved. They share custody and have an amicable relationship.
How would I make that happen if I knocked up some girl I don’t
even know at a party? I have no desire to tie myself to some
random chick for life after exchanging names, majors, and
hometowns at most.
“Don’t worry about it, man. Autumn’s fine.” I move to pass him,
but he won’t get out of the way.
 Instead, he narrows his eyes at me and stares up at me with the
belligerent tilt to his chin that I know and hate. It means he’s
digging his heels in, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
Mostly because I’m not sure what to tell him about Autumn.
Saying out loud that she offered to be my love tutor is embarrassing.
And while obviously it’s well known that I don’t sleep around,
admitting that I’m a virgin to my teammates would open me up to
endless amounts of teasing. Plus, if they see me with Autumn, which
seems likely, they’ll all be hounding me for details of when I finally
fuck her, and I don’t need my whole team up my ass like that.
While Eli might keep my secret—he’s been my closest friend for
years, after all—there’s no telling what could happen if he got drunk
around the wrong person and ran his mouth … Eli’s notorious for
spilling his guts when he’s drunk. Which also means that he’ll spill
whatever secrets he’s keeping for anyone else, especially if it’s a
recent discovery or something occupying his thoughts, and I have a
feeling finding out that Autumn is going to teach me about dating
and sex would definitely occupy his mind.
“You know she doesn’t do relationships, right?”
That stops me, because I’m not really sure that’s true. I tilt my
head and give him a questioning look. “What are you talking about?”
He throws up his hands again. “Seriously? Do you not pay any
attention at all? She slept with like half the team last year.” He
wiggles a finger through the air like he’s tracing his way through a
maze. “Working her way through most of the defensive line before
heading on to special teams.” He gives a snort at that. “Special
teams. That sounds dirty when I say it like that.”
Cracking a smile, because he’s not wrong, I stick my hands in my
pockets and tilt my head at the door. “Can I get past now?”
That sobers him up, and he draws up to his full height, which is a
few inches shorter than me, and looks me in the eyes. “You sure you
know what you’re in for with her?”
Sighing, I nod. “Yes. I’m sure. Seriously, dude. Don’t worry about
it. We’re friends.” Sort of. We’re friendly, at least, after working
together in our theatre class on a couple of projects last semester.
We even had a stage kiss in one scene, and the memory of her soft
lips on mine has haunted me ever since.
Now that she’s kissed me again for real … that’s going to keep
me going for quite a while. Our stage kiss was barely anything, just
a quick press of closed lips. But tonight’s kiss …
She touched me, pressed her body against me, her lips slightly
parted, silky and sweet on mine …
I’m not sure exactly what she has in mind for our … sessions. But
if they include more of that, I’ll be a happy guy.
“Friends, huh?” Eli says, doubt thick in his tone.
“Yes, dude. Friends. Like we are.”
He snorts. “Dude. No. You and I are not friends like you and
Autumn apparently are. If I ever leaned against you like she did
tonight, you’d punch me in the face.”
“True,” I say around a laugh. “Fine. She’s not my friend in the
same way you’re my friend. But you don’t need to worry about me
with her, okay? I can handle myself. Promise.”
He gives me another doubtful look, but eventually lets me pass.
I just hope that I don’t have to deal with another round of this in
the locker room tomorrow. If I’d known that agreeing to this at the
beginning of the party would mean Autumn spending the evening
attached to me, I don’t know if I would’ve had the guts to do it. I
kinda figured she’d say sure and tell me she’d text me later, then go
off with her friends or talk to the other guys, because that’s what
she normally does.
I have to admit, though, being included in her warm bubble was
nicer than I expected. And it has me looking forward to more.
 CHAPTER FOUR

Autumn

Sitting across from Jackson at a corner table in The Pastry Corner,

my favorite bakery and coffee shop in town, I set my pen on top of
my red leather notebook embossed with a tree of life on the cover.
After escaping my roommates’ intervention or whatever that was, I
holed up in my room and wrote out a list of questions that I want to
go over with him. I know what I want out of this arrangement—a
good time and the opportunity to mold a guy into a sex god—but I
need to find out exactly what he’s hoping for before I implement my
tentative plan of action. Like any good tutor, I need to know what he
already knows and is comfortable with before introducing new and
maybe challenging ideas.
Jackson shifts nervously in his seat, looking everywhere except at
me.
Tucking my hair behind my ear, I lean my chin on my hand, a
smile tugging at my lips as I examine him. He’s so adorable. I’ve
thought so since we got put in a group with Tiffany to act out a
scene in our theatre class last semester. His sweet face, not quite
fully matured into the hard planes of manhood—will he always have
a baby face? Some of his teammates look more like men than boys,
though there are still a few who haven’t quite hit that phase yet.
Some never really do, or at least not until they’re well past middle
age. It’s probably annoying now, but given the general trend toward
vanity and everyone wanting to look as young as possible for as long
as possible, he might be more okay with it in a decade or two. Or
three, depending on how long the baby face lasts.
Despite how young he looks—and how lost and overwhelmed he
seems right now—he’s definitely all man with those broad shoulders
that could handle even more muscle than he’s currently managed to
put on. As a wide receiver, he doesn’t need to be as bulky as Simon,
for example, who’s on the offensive line.
Since Ellie started dating a football player last year, I’ve spent a
lot more time around the team, and I’ve learned a lot about the
game that I never knew I wanted to know. My dad watched sports
when I was growing up, but he wasn’t a die-hard fan. And it never
interested me, so if he was watching something while I was around,
I found something else to do.
My mom has never had an interest in professional sports. She’s
more of the yoga type who believes sports and athletics are useful
for maintaining the body, but thinks competitive sports are silly.
I have to admit I inherited that attitude to a large degree, but
experiencing the dedication and passion of the football players I’ve
met has made me change my mind. Just because it’s not something
I want to do doesn’t make it silly or unworthy of pursuit by someone
else.
And I really can’t deny the positive effects it has on their bodies
…
I’m far from the only woman who’s noticed. Which is why it’s so
interesting to me that Jackson, who says he isn’t gay or asexual,
hasn’t taken advantage of the young women on offer. I mean, some
guys aren’t into hookups and casual relationships, I can understand
that. But surely some girl would’ve been interested in being his
girlfriend? He’s a sweetheart, he’s cute, and he’s smart. Why hasn’t
he been snapped up yet?
“It makes me nervous when you look at me for that long,” he
murmurs at last, his gaze fixed on his hands straightening the
napkin holder and paper tent advertising the bakery’s seasonal
specials.
Sitting up tall in my seat, my smile pulls wider. “Sorry. I just find
you fascinating.”
 He lets out a nervous chuckle and shakes his head. “I promise,
I’m not.”
“Hmm. I’ll have to disagree. And you don’t get to tell me what I
find fascinating or not. I won’t dictate your thoughts or feelings to
you either, okay?”
He raises his hazel eyes to mine at last, surprise on his face.
“Um. Okay.” Rubbing his hands on his thighs, he looks around again.
“So, uh, you wanted to … talk.”
Trying and failing to bite back my smirk, I look down to hide my
expression, pick up my pen, and open my notebook to the marked
page. “Yes. I do. You said you want my help, but I need to know
exactly what I’m working with. I have an idea, of course, just based
on things you’ve said and your behavior in general.” I wave a hand
in his direction, indicating his current nervousness. “You’re
uncomfortable being here with me. Why is that? I thought we were
friends.” I prop my chin on my hand again, waiting for his answer.
He clears his throat a couple of times, glancing at me, the tips of
his ears turning pink but not his whole face. Not a full blush. That’s
something, at least. He’s not entirely uncomfortable. I can only
imagine that the fact we’ve known each other for most of a year is
helping with that.
But when he opens his mouth to finally deliver his answer, our
order is called.
Stifling a sigh at the interruption, I hold up a finger. “Hold that
thought. Let me grab our drinks. Maybe having something in your
hand will make it easier on you.” I pat his shoulder on my way to the
counter, letting my hand drag down his arm as I move past him.
He stiffens under my touch before relaxing after a second just
like he did every time I touched him at the game night the other
day. I’m glad they had a home game this weekend, because
otherwise I’m not sure how long we would’ve had to wait to have
this meeting. As it is, it still took all the way until Sunday before we
managed to both have room in our schedules at the same time.
When we were trying to work out a day and time to get together,
part of me wondered if he was going to back out, if his protests that
he didn’t have time on Friday were genuine or if he was getting cold
feet. But when he suggested Sunday afternoon, I felt better about
the whole thing.
I know I can be forward when I want to be. Some guys don’t like
that. They want the chase, and while I can sometimes enjoy being
someone’s prey, I’m not always in the mood to dampen my natural
attitude. A lot of guys are perfectly happy to be approached by a
pretty girl who just wants to fuck. And while I’m open to it being
more than a one time thing, I know I’m not cut out for relationships.
Because relationships never last. My parents are proof enough of
that—I thought everything was fine until they sat me down the
summer I was fifteen and announced that Dad would be moving out
and they’d be getting a divorce.
They said they were doing “conscious uncoupling,” and I don’t
know, maybe they did. But Mom especially made it sound like some
highly spiritual positive practice. In reality, their divorce was anything
but the evolved and spiritual separation of two souls no longer
sharing the same path.
They fought over nearly everything. They tried to hide it from
me, but I overheard Mom venting to her friends about it often
enough that I have some idea of how bad it was.
They were the perfect couple until suddenly one day they
weren’t. Now I split my school vacations between them, and the
tension is enough to make me not want to spend time at home if I
can help it.
So no. I’m not interested in a fairy-tale ending. Because they only
happen in fairy tales, and I stopped believing in those a long time
ago. This is real life.
However, I am interested in pleasure, and it’s more fun if you
have the time and luxury of getting to know another person and
what they enjoy and vice versa. I’ve sampled the college buffet
plenty, and now I’m looking for a steady diet. For a while, at least.
If this goes well with Jackson, maybe that can be him until he’s
ready to be unleashed on the female population of Marycliff
University.
Returning to my seat, I pass Jackson his coffee. Black. Gotta
watch those calories. He very carefully waits for me to release it
before reaching for it, and I can’t help the zing of disappointment. I
wanted his fingers to brush against mine.
I sip my drink and study him as he sips his, still avoiding my
gaze. “Jackson.” I say his name softly, but with a firmness that I
know he’ll respond to.
It does the trick perfectly. He jerks his head up, his eyes colliding
with mine.
I give him an encouraging smile. “When you’re having a coffee or
a meal with a girl, it’s okay to let your fingers brush hers if the
opportunity presents itself. Little touches like that telegraph your
interest.”
He drops his eyes, his brows pulling together. Then his forehead
clears, and he nods, his eyes coming back to mine. “Alright,” he
says, voice hoarse.
“Can I ask you a question?” I turn my cup idly on the table—my
usual chai latte. I intentionally focus on my cup while leaning back in
my chair. Having even just this slight amount of extra distance
between us seems to help him relax more than when I’m leaning
forward. Eventually he’ll have to get over that, but we’re just getting
started. I want him to be comfortable or we’ll never get anywhere.
He sits back as well, surveying me coolly. He’s not blushing for
once, so I’ll count that as a win. Then his lips tip up in the first smile
he’s given me since we got here. “Isn’t that a question already?”
I let out a soft laugh. “So it is. But what I really want to know is
whether or not you find me attractive.”
And there’s the blush. A full blown one, his neck above the collar
of his T-shirt, his cheeks, and his ears all turn a bright, fiery red. I
want to make light of his reaction, but I have a feeling that will only
make it worse for him, so I ignore it.
He clears his throat, looking away and rubbing the back of his
neck before jerking his chin down in a quick nod.
“Good. Thank you. I find you attractive as well. This wouldn’t
really work otherwise, so I just wanted to make sure.” Unable to
help myself, I put both of my forearms on the table and lean
forward, lowering my voice so as to invite confidence. “It’s nothing
to be ashamed of, you know. Attraction is a pretty common
Another random document with
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closest friends.
Mansur was not at home, having gone to fetch the bride; so Amor
was the only one of the Khalifa’s sons who bade me welcome.
I was shown to my quarters in the guest-cave, and our horses
were stabled in the cave passage, as on my first visit. A first-rate
gala dinner refreshed me; the table being laden with dishes and
bowls of well-cooked food, which I relished with the good appetite of
a hungry man. The Khalifa himself came to look after me during my
meal, followed by an inquisitive mob who crouched round the cave,
darkening the entrance.
The onlookers remained silent while the meal lasted, and when it
was over were hustled out, and I ordered Hamed to post himself at
the door and forbid ingress to each and all, as I desired to change
my dress and attire myself in my festal costume—a white linen suit.
When this was done, Hamed entered, leading by the hand a
sprightly eleven-year-old lad, who addressed me in pure French, and
was introduced by Hamed as his little brother Ali, who was invited to
the festival, and had arrived with his mother and sister from Gabés,
having ridden thence on a donkey.
Ali attended a French school at Gabés, and, being a bright
intelligent lad, had soon learnt to talk fluent French. He told me that
the Khalifa had said he might come and ask if I would employ him as
interpreter.
I was much pleased with this acquisition, and during the hour
which remained before the bride’s arrival, and the consequent
commencement of festivities, occupied myself, with little Ali’s help, in
gathering information on the subject of the wedding customs in the
Matmata mountains, which enabled me to more fully understand
what I witnessed later in the day, and thus add to the knowledge I
had already acquired from both Mansur and Amor, and from several
others of the better class of mountaineers.
And here I will diverge a little to describe the ceremonies that had
preceded this last great function; and, in the meantime, my readers
may picture to themselves the crowd eagerly scanning the
mountains to espy the expected little caravan led by Mansur, who
was to bring home the bride; the guests steadily increasing in
numbers, and the bridegroom in his hiding-place, listening to the
sounds of rejoicing, and perhaps dreaming of his bride-elect; whilst
muskets were being loaded, locks examined, horses saddled,
women adorned, and the bridal chamber made ready.
On his son Mohammed’s behalf, the old Khalifa discussed the
necessary arrangements with the bride’s father, who is one of the
tribe of Uled Sliman. The marriage is then concluded, but by merely
a civil contract. Before the bridegroom can be left in peace with his
second wife, there must be much feu de joie, many songs sung,
quantities of kus-kus eaten, and many preparations made in both the
bride’s and the bridegroom’s homes. In the latter especially, where
festivities must be kept up for eight days, men and women vie with
each other in making ready for great rejoicings.
It was, as my readers may remember, eight days earlier, on the
17th October, that I had witnessed the festival of the opening day. At
first the women had been mainly occupied in collecting wheat and
barley to be ground in their small stone handmills, many people
being expected; so there was much work that had to be done, but joy
and festivity would reign in Hadeij, so the village women met in the
evenings and tried to surpass each other in improvising songs.
Whilst the chorus and joyful “Yu, yu” re-echoed in the still
evenings, the men, as we have seen, sat in groups listening to the
songs of the women, the negro comic singers, and the noisy drums
and clarionets. Now and again there would be the flash of powder
and report following report, all tokens of universal rejoicing.
The two first fête days are called “Faraja.” The third, “El Henna,” is
so named after the plant, the leaves of which stain red the nails on
the hands and feet of the women. A young bride must never be
without this beautifying preparation in her new home, and every day
she must adorn herself to please and attract her husband.
On the fourth day, “Nugera,” the women again assemble and work
and sing, busying themselves with preparations for the festival.
 At last on the fifth day, “Mahal,” the rejoicings begin. The
tribesmen and women arrive to devour enormous quantities of
various kinds of food, in addition to their well-loved “kus-kus.” The
negroes dance, sing, and earn much money, as they are never
overlooked by either host or guests.
The next morning, that is, of the sixth day, called “Follag,” the men
begin by again revelling in “kus-kus” and meat dishes; they require to
be well fed and strengthened, for in the evening after sunset they
must sally out to collect wood for fuel. They return in the early
morning, and then the women’s turn comes, when they will make
their last and greatest effort to render the bridal banquet worthy of
the occasion, and to do credit to themselves and to the Khalifa.
Many oxen and some score of sheep are slaughtered, for no festive
occasion passes without every man gorging until he is almost unfit to
move.
The seventh day, “El Kesuar,” is appointed for the presentation to
the bride of her dresses and ornaments. In this case this honourable
commission was entrusted to Amor, the Khalifa’s second son.
Soon after midday he swung himself into his saddle and led the
way, followed by some ten horsemen and a number of men on foot.
The latter led mules laden with the bridal gifts. On the way the riders
galloped in wildest “fantasia,” riding gallantly as they proceeded
towards the bride’s home on the other side of the mountains, whilst
muskets were discharged, and the smoke of the gunpowder rose
amongst the hills. The negro musicians, who accompanied them,
played on their flutes and beat their drums to warn the Uled Sliman
of the approach of the people from Hadeij.
These are expected, and a festal welcome prepared in the village;
for there also, during many days, great preparations have been
made, the tribe being proud that little Mena should go to Hadeij as
bride to the Khalifa’s son.
What a crowd there was the other evening, when, after sunset,
she stepped from the cave into the open court, shy and timid, to
allow herself to be seen by the men of her homestead, who had
gathered on the top of the bank, whence they could see down into
the deep courtyard to where the light flickered from the candle she
carried, and where her shadow wavered on the perpendicular walls.
For the last time they looked on her maiden form and beautiful
features, and could not but acknowledge that little Mena was a fitting
bride for Mohammed, son of the Khalifa of Hadeij.
The previous day the village women of the Uled Sliman sang the
live-long day—morning, noon, and night their joyful songs arose from
the caves.
There was no more work to be done. Enough food was provided
for their own tribesmen, and for the strangers who were to come and
fetch the bride.
After Amor and his men have done honour to the Uled Sliman by
the “fantasia” on horseback, they are led into a cave, the residence
of the bride’s father. Here they hand over the lovely clothes, and are
regaled with roast and stewed meats.
Before leaving, they pass into another room, where the women
have ranged themselves along the walls, each seated on her own
“senduk” (chest). On the head of every woman they place pieces of
money, intended for the negress who will adorn the bride, for she
must have encouragement and be paid in ringing coin to embellish
the bride, that she may prove attractive in the eyes of her future
husband.
Not until after sunset does Amor return to Hadeij, where again the
musket shots re-echo and the negroes dance and play, richly
rewarded by the spectators.
In the village of Uled Sliman there is also feasting: the last great
festival before the little girl leaves her home for ever, for next day she
must bid farewell to all those who have been so good to her, to
become the wife of a stranger, a man with whom she may be
scarcely acquainted, except by name. But she probably dreams of
her coming prosperity, and of him who will shortly be her husband
and master. Lucky for her if she does not dwell on the thought that
perhaps in seven, eight, or even fewer, years,—when she is faded,
old, and ugly,—she may become a beast of burden, and make way
for another and more youthful woman, whom she may gratefully
welcome as a help in her work.
But we will not overshadow a happy hour with such forebodings.
Sorrow may come early, but, possibly, never!
At dawn of the final day, called “Sjiffa” (a canopy), all were early
afoot in Hadeij. During the previous evening, and late into the night,
guests kept arriving from distant regions, and more would arrive that
day. People had been invited from all the villages in the Matmata
mountains—first and foremost, those of Uled Sliman, but also from
Ras-el Ned, Beni Sultan, Tujan, Smerten, Beni Aissa. Many
hundreds would assemble, and, with the men, women, and children
of Hadeij, between one and two thousand would be present.
In the Khalifa’s house, in all the caves, and in the tents, the guests
were fed in the early morning. Belkassim had his hands full, taking
care that everyone had his appointed place.
The meal soon being finished, the people flocked to watch
Mansur start with the canopy (Sjiffa) perched on the bridal camel. He
rode a donkey, and was accompanied by both horsemen and men
on foot, the latter firing off muskets and performing the most graceful
and joyous “fantasia,” whilst the negroes played gaily on flutes and
tambourines as they disappeared amongst the mountain paths.
But we must glance at the home of the bride, where Mansur is
expected to arrive some hours later.
The father of the bride had given a banquet to the men, women,
and children, and even to the negroes, followed by much feu de joie.
Towards midday, when the bride has been adorned, and only
waits to be fetched, the men of her tribe enter, and each lays his mite
on her head. All is for the negress who has dressed her and striven
faithfully that the result may be superlatively impressive.
But hark! The report of guns is heard in the distance, the men
from Hadeij are coming. Haste, oh, Uled Sliman, to receive them, for
the powder speaks, the clarionets shrill, and the tom-toms boom
incessantly.
 CAMEL WITH CANOPY.

The palanquin is decorated and enveloped in many coloured

draperies. Within it is placed the bride, completely veiled, the
hangings are drawn around it, so that she can neither see nor be
seen, and the joyous procession starts homewards towards Hadeij,
Mansur leading. The bride’s mother, sister, and father follow afoot,
the negress with them—all walking immediately behind the
palanquin. Before it go the negro musicians playing.
A message was brought me that the bridal procession was to be
seen coming down the mountain. We hastened out and joined the
stream of people hurrying to a great open space, where the
“fantasia” was to be held. Thither rushed also a flock of females,
enveloped in yellow and red draperies. These were the young and
half-grown girls. They kept close together, and grouped themselves
under the shade of a palm tree. The old Khalifa sat on his mule, a
clubbed stick in his hand. He, Belkassim, Amor, and some of the
men, directed the crowd to stand in long rows on either side of the
open space.
My place, on a chair under a palm tree, was pointed out to me.
Beside me were Ali and Hamed; and the Khalifa rode up now and
again and halted near me, when we would smile at each other; while
he inquired whether I was satisfied, if I was comfortably seated, and
expressed his gratification at my presence on this festal day.
Behind me rose a rampart of earth, banked up about the palm
trees; it was tightly packed with rows of men; and above this white
crowd the palms towered into the air. Farther off the crowns of other
palms and olives were visible, scattered here and there over the
valley of which the horizon is bounded by blue mountains. Clinging
to the tops of the neighbouring palm trees I saw boys, who had
climbed there for a better view.
Behind the men stood groups of women; amongst the former
were the negro musicians, and beside these were men in silken
apparel and carrying muskets, in readiness to perform the gun dance
(or powder-play).
Far to the left, on an open space between two roads, were
gathered a number of horsemen, clothed in flowing garments and
with their silver-inlaid guns held pointing upwards, prepared to spring
forward at a given moment and pass us at flying speed.
To the right, the ground rose in a gentle incline to the caves in the
bank.
It was hot at the midday hour, and the sun burnt scorchingly in the
valley, but the attention of all was strained watching for the long-
expected procession, so no one noticed the heat.
The flutes, clarionets, and drums began to play. The boys started
running across the open space, followed and driven back by
Belkassim and his assistants, and roundly abused even by the
Khalifa himself; for the space had to be kept clear for the horses to
gallop over.
 Suddenly the sound of gun-shots was heard coming from the
opposite groups. The smoke rose amongst the palm leaves, and
then I saw men beautifully dressed and wearing red caps and full
white trousers, performing the gun dance, either two or four at a
time.
Two men sprang forward from the group. The first rested his
cheek on his gun, aimed at his companion, and danced round in a
circle with little tripping steps, still steadily sighting the other, who,
opposite to him, danced in the same circle, the butt end of his gun
held in a similar position. Thus they tripped from side to side,
keeping with their guns a steady aim at each other. Then, suddenly,
a report sounded from the two guns simultaneously. The dancers
then sprang round to the staccato and nasal notes of the clarionets,
now playing in quicker time. One of the men threw his musket up in
the air to catch it again as it fell, the other whirled his whizzing round
in his hand. So they danced for a while, and then dropped into
slower measure, aiming at each other as at first, and ending by
abruptly vanishing amongst the crowd to reload their guns, whilst
others danced forward and the firing was repeated.
Two and two, aiming at each other, four men danced in a circle;
as they tripped from one side to the other, reports re-echoed and
guns whirled in the air. The sun gleamed on silver-inlaid weapons,
on the dust, the dazzling white burnouses of the men, on the women,
the palms and the olive trees, whilst the music’s monotonous nasal
clamour resounded hideously.
Then the riders to the left stirred into activity. Two men started
their horses at a gallop, forcing them along at furious speed. Like
lightning they approached, the riders leaning towards each other so
that their heads pressed cheek to cheek. Their caps seemed one red
spot, their two faces were not distinguishable the one from the other.
The rider on the right held his gun in his right hand, the other in his
left, and as they galloped they swung them to and fro and up and
down in the air. When they were quite in front of us, just outside the
group of dancers, one of them fired his gun into the ground and the
other into the air, then they parted, galloping quickly back to join their
ranks.
 Other horsemen followed in the same fashion.
In El Hamma I had noticed some riders whose horses had silken
coverings flowing over their quarters, but here I saw none.
Some thirty horsemen came forward in turn to take part in the
powder-play. The dancing group did not cease firing when the riders
passed; the flutes and clarionets wildly intermingled their din—it was
deafening. But the riders’ prowess was a beautiful sight. Some of
them had no guns and only galloped past; one carried, hanging by
his saddle, a splendid long silver-mounted sword, resembling our
own old Viking swords. This I was to see used later, during the bridal
ceremony.
After some time passed in this way, I heard the sound of other
flutes and drums. The dancers and riders redoubled their exertions,
for at last the bridal procession was on the point of arriving.
Mansur on his mule came riding into the square, and was nearly
trampled on by the “fantasia” riders.
After him followed the camel with the canopy. It was led forward
by men on foot, others supporting the palanquin on either side as it
swayed backwards and forwards.
Behind the camel came some women, and the procession was
closed by a mule laden with dresses and gifts.
Just as the camel was about to halt beneath the shade of the
palm trees in front of me, two horsemen came tearing up. They fired
their guns quite close to the canopy. Their horses reared, and I saw
their forelegs right up in the air as the guns whirled over the men’s
heads.
At short intervals other riders followed, some singly, others in
couples, or even three riding side by side. In the last case, the two
outside riders leant towards the central figure. All fired off their guns
close to the palanquin, where the bride sat ensconced. She must
have been unconscious of all save the fiendish noise made in her
honour, and the unpleasant rocking motion produced by a camel’s
action.
 THE BRIDE ESCORTED OVER THE MOUNTAINS.
(From a sketch by Knud Gamborg.)

The horsemen returned to their starting-point after each gallop.

The reel and gold canopied palanquin with its pointed top was now
just in front of me. The music continued, and the clatter of the
horses’ hoofs, and of shots fired into the ground; whilst the
spectators in their white burnouses stood almost motionless,
enjoying the beautiful sight. The sun shone brightly, and many drew
their hoods over their heads to protect themselves from its rays, and
the horses were white with foam from excitement and heat.
Behind a couple of the horsemen, a stark-naked negro lad,
bestriding a little jennet, came galloping up. He waved his arms and
gesticulated wildly with a stick, using it as a gun. Alas! the mule
stopped suddenly, sticking his forefeet into the ground. The negro
lad, with an indescribable grimace, threw his arms about its neck.
The mule reared with a bound; the lad clung fast and anxiously to its
neck as he still hung on, but was fated to fall, for the mule finally
plunged to one side, pitching the naked boy on to the sand. For the
first time I saw the spectators smile, some even laughed aloud. The
mule trotted off towards the hills, followed by the shouting lad, whose
unclothed form was covered with dust.
Such clowns often appear on the scene during a festival; the part
always being played by a negro.
The black boy must soon have caught his mule, for a few minutes
after his first performance he again rushed by to repeat his uncouth
“fantasia.”
After the palanquin had been present at the “powder-play” for
about half an hour, it was conducted towards the caves. The
“fantasia” being at an end, all the people followed the bride; some
going before, some behind the camel, and others alongside of it. The
whole ground seemed sown with a crop of burnouses.
The Khalifa rode up and gave directions to Hamed and Ali as to
where I was to be placed during the remainder of the function.
We took a short cut back to the Khalifa’s house, where I was
stationed on a chair, over the entrance gate through which the bride
would pass.
From my commanding position I looked down on the spot where
the women sat and sang to me on my first evening.
Gradually more and more men and boys arrived, till the slopes
were crowded. In front of the gate was Belkassim, the ubiquitous
Belkassim, keeping back the boys with his marshal’s stick. Amor was
there also, and a little later the Khalifa arrived on his mule. These
kept a small space clear near the gate. Pressed together close
beside it was a group of girls, mostly half-grown; in their light-
coloured clothes they were very effective. They chaffed one another
as they watched for the advent of the bride. By chance one of them
looked up and caught sight of me; in an instant she had imparted her
interesting discovery to the others, and many a pretty, roguish, or
inquisitive glance was cast on me. When I nodded to them, they
tittered, and the biggest girl withdrew the kerchief from before her
face.
 FANTASIA.
(From a sketch by Knud Gamborg.)

The Khalifa on his mule had enough to do keeping order. His

angry voice thundered not only at the boys, but also at the men who
pushed forward to have a look.
At length the musicians and the red-topped palanquin came in
sight. Gun-shots exploded all around. Four negroes appeared,
tripping along with a swaying motion from their hips, and playing, two
on drums, and two on clarionets; the music shrieking hideously over
the hill. Behind them came the palanquin, followed by the mule with
the gifts.
A short distance from the gateway they halted, and the camel was
ordered to kneel. The obstinate beast refused; supported by the
men, the palanquin swayed from left to right. Poor little Mena: you
were to be worried yet a little longer before you were to be allowed to
leave your cage.
At last the men succeeded in making the camel kneel and in
binding its foreleg, its complaining roar mingling with the rest of the
infernal din.
The negress stood beside the palanquin, and I saw that she
conversed with the captive—perhaps seeking to reassure her. She
stretched her black arm beneath the canopy to pass in a finger-ring
which Amor handed her. It was evidently a wedding present, but
whether from Amor himself or from his brother, the bridegroom, I was
unable to ascertain.
In the meanwhile, on the small clear space in front of the gate, a
carpet had been spread, and on it a mattress, on which was placed a
large flat pan filled with sand.
The men busied themselves stripping the palanquin of its canopy
of hangings and kerchiefs, and when this was done they lifted down
the closely veiled bride and set her on the ground. The negress took
her by the hand and led her within a couple of paces of the edge of
the carpet, where they remained standing. Round it some men had
stationed themselves, holding unfolded burnouses spread above
their heads, so that carpet and mattress were hidden from view.
I could not understand what these preparations could portend,
and asked Hamed. He explained, in a whisper, that some small boys
were to be circumcised, and pointed out three men each holding a
child in his arms. These children were from two to four years old: one
of them was little Hamed, the bridegroom’s son by his first wife;
another, Amor’s son Mahmud; and the third little boy was also a
relative.
The children wore red caps with tassels richly adorned with gold
and silver ornaments, and, so far as I could make out, chains hung
about their ears and necks. They were dressed in coloured coats,
below which appeared white shirts and bare legs encircled by
anklets. The two elder children cried incessantly, as if they knew
what awaited them, but the youngest smiled and looked about him.
The music in the meantime drowned the screams of the small
boys. Belkassim disappeared beneath the coverings, and one of the
small boys was carried in. After a time he was brought out, fainting,
and was taken to the cave; the other boys followed in the same
manner.
During this ceremony, which lasted at least twenty minutes, the
bride stood, closely veiled, by the carpet. Extending her right hand,
decked with gold and silver rings, she took some leaves from a basin
held by a negress and strewed them over the covering, and, whilst
the music played and the drums boomed, I saw the slender little arm
continually moving to and fro sprinkling the “henna” leaves above the
boys and men.
At last the boys were taken away, and the carpet, etc. removed.
The maiden bride had fulfilled the first of her duties—she had
blessed the ceremony. The children being now purified, in token
thereof water-coolers were broken on the ground, I observed also
that chopped eggs and a great quantity of food were distributed to
the assembled children.
The scene I had just witnessed was so full of charm, and, above
all, so impressive, that for a moment I was almost awed by its
solemnity.
At the end of the enclosure the crowd kept moving restlessly
backwards and forwards, endeavouring to see what was going on,
for the bride was about to enter her house.
 Mohammed’s first wife, closely veiled, came forward, and, taking
her rival by the hand, led her into their dwelling. On the other side of
the bride walked the negress, who for the last time, after many years
of loving care, directed her little Mena’s footsteps. On her head was
held a little mirror, whilst she herself grasped with her right hand the
hilt of a long, straight, double-edged sword, the point of which,
carried foremost, was borne by a man. “Beware! Ill befall those who
would injure this pure young woman; the sword would avenge her!”
Thus, to the screaming of the music, the young bride entered the
gate.
As soon as the door had swung-to on its creaking hinges, guns
were discharged in every direction with a deafening noise, and I was
compelled to abandon in haste my exalted seat, for the smoke nearly
choked me as the men and boys fired wildly in front of the gate.
It was then past noon, and there ensued a pause in the festivities,
the musicians requiring rest, being expected to play with renewed
vigour in the evening.
The numerous guests were fed in the dwellings and tents. Before
the meal the people collected in groups under the trees, and friends
and acquaintances conversed together. The Khalifa, who sat
surrounded by the sheikhs of the villages, requested me to seat
myself near him.
Several of these men were known to me, and I thanked them for
their hospitality; others invited me to their villages. I replied that time
was short, and I must hasten over the mountains and on to Medinin
on the plains; so on this occasion they must excuse me, for I could
not accept their invitation.
“But you have visited Judlig, Ben Aissa, Tujud, Zaraua, and many
other villages in our land. You accepted the invitations of their
sheikhs—wherefore, then, will you not also visit Beni Sultan?” said
the sheikh of that village. “Come to our ‘Ksar,’ and if you will remain
a long time you will be welcome.”
I explained that I had to go all the way to Medinin, where I was
expected, but the sheikh would take no refusal, and the Khalifa put in
his word, saying—
“You can ride to-morrow to Beni Sultan, and eat ‘kus-kus’ there;
thence you can go on to Tujan, sleep there, and next day ride
straight to Medinin.”
“But I was informed at Gabés that I could not ride a horse over the
mountain on account of the road being rough and impracticable.”
“You shall have a mule which will carry you anywhere.”
“But my horse and my Spahi’s horse, what shall I do with them?”
“I will take them to Gabés with greetings from you,” said the
Sheikh of Tujan. “I am just about to travel there to confer with the
Khalifa, and so must also the Sheikh of Beni Sultan.”
“That is all very well, but I shall not see anything of yourselves.”
“No, unfortunately we are compelled to be away, as the Khalifa
has summoned us; but the men in our villages will receive you well,
and be pleased at your visit.”
I could but consent, and thank them for their invitation.
The Sheikh of Beni Sultan was a proud, generous man, who was
said to be very wealthy.
Tujan is under the Khalifa of Gabés. This official had sent his
friend, the Khalifa of Hadeij, a fine bull and five goats as an offering
towards the feast.
For an hour I sat in conversation with the men, to whom I offered
cigarettes, the old Khalifa having a positive weakness for these, to
him rare, articles of commerce.
After sauntering for some time amongst the various groups to
greet the people, I returned to my cave. It was quite dark; I lit a
couple of candles, and occupied myself making notes of all I had
seen and heard, Mansur, Amor, and several others sitting round me,
and giving me any explanations I desired. Little Ali and his brother
were my faithful interpreters, but my work was often interrupted, so
many came to salute me, perhaps in hopes of being offered
cigarettes; and the room filled by degrees.
 At last meal-time approached, and they left me. So for once I ate
all the good things in peace. Soup, ragout of fowl, roast kid, kus-kus,
bread and honey, and dates. Only Mansur remained with me, and
overwhelmed me with assurances of his friendship, which I heartily
returned.
When I had eaten, I looked out into the courtyard. The great
vaulted chamber opposite was lighted, and was choke full of men
eating amongst the pillars. Deep silence reigned, for it is not
considered correct to be noisy when eating.
In the room next my cave were Ali, Hamed, and many others,
busy eating up the remains of my meal, and in the long cavern
passage stood our horses devouring their plentiful fodder. Under the
palms, the olive trees, and beneath the tents, all were in full
enjoyment of the wedding feast.
I stepped out and went up the hill, where the stars twinkled above
me, and all was still.
Out of the caves in the heart of the earth, streaming up from the
courtyards on every side, I saw rays of light coming from the
women’s dwellings, where they and the children also enjoyed the
banquet.
It was nearly seven o’clock, and it would not be long ere the
rejoicings recommenced in the enclosure before the gate with song
music, and dancing. But the hour was also near when the
bridegroom would present himself to his bride, accompanied only by
a few friends.
As I stood, lost in thought, Ali came hastily and pulled at my
burnous, whispering that the bridegroom had sent me a message by
one of his friends, who was seeking me.
As I returned to learn particulars, I met the messenger.
“Mohammed asks if you will accompany him, Sidi. Will you? And
shall I lead you?”
I consented without hesitation, whereupon we, the messenger, Ali,
and I, started at once on our way in the dark, going through narrow
lanes in the direction of the mountains.
All around was quiet, and became even more so as we put a
distance between ourselves and the festivities. Suddenly a dog
barked in the darkness; we were probably in the neighbourhood of a
dwelling-place. Soon after, it ceased barking; we were beyond its
domain.
The messenger, who was one of the bridegroom’s intimate
friends, took my hand and led me, as he perceived that I had some
difficulty in finding secure footing, and my little Ali walked on the
other side of me, clinging to a fold of my burnous.
When we had proceeded thus some ten minutes, I made out
some dark figures before me. These were the bridegroom and his
friends. They were squatted on the ground, but rose when I
approached.
By the faint light of the stars I distinguished an average-sized man
clothed in a red burnous, beneath which showed a white haik—could
it be, perchance, my gift? On his head he wore a red fez with a
tassel. This was evidently the bridegroom.
Addressing me he said, “If you will be my friend, as you have
become that of my father and my brothers, I shall be grateful to you,
and will beg of you to accompany me shortly to my house.”
I thanked him for his invitation, which I was delighted to accept.
The bridegroom’s toilet was evidently only just completed, for a
young Jew was still present, whose father I had visited during my
first visit to Hadeij. He was very busy arranging the folds of the
bridegroom’s costume, having doubtless acted as his valet.
We all sat down together. A pleasant scent of attar of rose was
wafted from the bridegroom’s clothing towards me, and he produced
a little phial of this, and passed it to me to use from. When he
stretched out his hand, I noticed that rings glittered on his fingers,
and that he held a pocket-handkerchief, a luxury I was not
accustomed to see hereabouts.
“Are you married?” he asked me.
 I answered, “Yes, surely.”
“How many wives have you?”
“I have only one.”
“Only one!”
I explained that in our country we were in the habit of having only
one wife. It was forbidden to us to have several. Why, he could not
comprehend, and at that moment I did not think fit to explain.
“See, Mohammed,” I said, “I will confess to you that it is not good
to have only one wife, for a man is her slave. Two wives must
doubtless be worse, for then there can be no peace; but I tell you
that, in my opinion, a man ought to have three wives, neither more
nor less. With that number he can pit two against each other, and
take refuge with the third; but in such case he must be careful to
vary.”
Mohammed understood my joke, and invited me at once to visit
Hadeij next time he should marry.
Lighting one of my cigarettes, I passed them round. When I was
about to offer them to the Jew, little Ali hastily pulled my sleeve and
whispered, “You must not offer him any; he is a Jew.” I did so
notwithstanding, and probably by this act fell low in Ali’s estimation,
so innate is the contempt for the Jewish race—“Those dogs!”
Afterwards I found it had been a great piece of stupidity on my
part to have shown civility to the Jew. He misunderstood it, and
became intrusive and impertinent, so that later in the evening I had
to set him down sharply, causing little Ali to laugh a laugh of
superiority.
Although much tempted, I did not try to converse with the
bridegroom about his home life, knowing that it would be considered
indelicate. For an Arab never asks even his best friend after his
wife’s health. The most he may say is, “How is it with your house?”
When we had waited there for about an hour, a man came
running in to say that it was time. We rose, and I was told that
amongst good friends it was always customary to carry the