He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Then he grabbed the hand that was on his leg and crushed it in his. He said in a low voice, “Half of me wants to take you home and do all sorts of indecent things to you. And the other half wants to beat myself up for even thinking about you like that.”
“Let the first half win for now,” I suggested. “The second half can come riding in on a white horse later. Or just mind his own damn business.”
“I pick B.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Wait until you’ve eliminated some of the other answers. Narrow your choices down first and explain to me how you know the answer is B.”
“Because it’s right,” he said.
I basically tackled him as soon as we walked through the door of his apartment. I knew if I hesitated even for a second, he’d get all doubty again. (That needs to be a real word, by the way. It’s very useful.)
It was a good strategy, even if we almost tripped trying to make it to the sofa without letting go of each other. Actually, that was kind of fun. We laughed, our lips shaking and sliding against each other, and then got serious again.
He never did get around to beating himself up, although he did occasionally stop kissing me long enough to say, “You sure this is okay?” until I told him I’d beat him up if he didn’t shut up and stop worrying.
What was funny was how little had really changed between us, even though everything had changed. We were still teasing each other; I was still playing the cocky, overconfident girl; and he was still rolling his eyes at me with a mixture of frustration and barely tolerant affection. I used to see it as sort of a fraternal thing, but now . . .
“Not fraternal at all,” I said out loud when we were curled up together on his sofa.
“Excuse me?” he said, pushing himself up on his elbow to look at me.
“Nothing. But I’m curious: How long have you been . . . you know . . . adoring me from afar?”
“Who said anything about adoration?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Way too long.” He collapsed back down at my side. “You don’t want to know.”
“In Hawaii?”
“Definitely in Hawaii. Maybe even before. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Or how much fun it is just to be with you?”
“Tell me.”
He pulled my head onto his shoulder and pressed it down there, almost roughly. “No. You’re conceited enough.”
“Never enough.” I raised my head and studied his face, then gently traced the line of his nose with my fingertip. It felt almost wicked to do something that intimate. His skin was pale and smooth, with slight purple shadows just under his eyes. It seemed perfect to me.
He lay there with his eyes closed, letting me trail my finger lightly along the outlines of his face. Then he grabbed my hand and pressed it against the side of his cheek. Then he opened his eyes. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said, and settled back down next to him, pressed against his side, inside the circle of his arm. Where I belonged.
thirty-four
Eventually he took me home. It was late, so I crept quietly up to my room, assuming everyone was asleep. I was lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, too dazed and happy to start getting ready for bed or do anything really, other than gaze at the spinning fan and wonder if the last few hours had been some kind of a dream, when there was a knock on my door and Grandma walked in.
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Nothing—really, nothing—could make me as sure that I wasn’t dreaming as the sight of my grandmother in her striped long johns (yellow and green) with her hennaed hair sticking up around her head like a spiky red halo.
“Hi,” I said, sitting up. “I didn’t know you were still awake.”
She came over and settled down next to me. “Someone’s in love! And I know who with.”
“It’s not exactly a secret.”
“He’s a good one. I approve.”
I bit down on the sarcastic rejoinder I wanted to make—oh, thank you, because of course I wouldn’t dream of dating someone without your approval—and just said I agreed: he was a good one.
“And now,” she said, “we need to talk about condoms.”
“Oh, God, no,” I said fervently. “Please not now.”
She waggled her finger at me. “If you’re going to act like an adult, you need to be responsible like an adult.”
“Can’t I just enjoy kissing a boy for the first time without having to talk about all that? That’s all we’ve done, I swear.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly one thing leads to another.”
“We both want to take things slowly.” George did, anyway. I wasn’t so sure and had done my best to break down his defenses that night. I’d almost succeeded. But not quite.
It had been fun trying.
My being impulsive and his being cautious—it was who we were. It felt right even when everything else between us had changed.
“Don’t be afraid of sex,” Grandma said. “It’s good for the body—it revs up your circulation and improves brain function. But you do have to be careful. So . . . condoms.”
“Got it,” I said, deciding it was easiest just to agree with everything she said: arguing would lead to a longer discussion, and I really just wanted to be alone. Almost as much as I didn’t want to have a Sex Talk with my grandmother.
“It’s good to be practical, but never forget that sex can be spiritual, too,” she went on. “There’s the tantric approach, of course. And the many positions of the Kama Sutra. And yoga can open you up to better orgasms—but I had to stop doing yoga because of my hip problems. You’re lucky you’re young.”
I nodded, my face blank. I don’t have to listen. I have to sit here, but I don’t have to hear what she’s saying.
She nudged my shoulder with hers. “Experiment. I wish I’d experimented more when I was young and my body was like yours.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
She put her face close to mine. “Your mother isn’t as open-minded as I am,” she whispered. “No one was wilder than she was as a teenager, but now she likes to pretend that none of that happened. So don’t go to her if you have questions. Come to me.” She shifted back. “My mother didn’t talk to me openly about sex and it took me decades to learn everything I’m telling you tonight. I want you to be an expert right away. So ask me anything.”
“I will,” I said. “Only not tonight. I’m really tired.”
“Sex gives you energy,” she said. “Did you know that? It doesn’t work with men—they lose energy with sex. But women gain energy from it. Remember that.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, and she smiled and, to my huge relief and with one more pat on my leg, finally left.
I couldn’t fall asleep. I just couldn’t. Most of it was happy, excited energy, but there was a tiny part of me that felt uneasy—the part that didn’t know how I was going to tell Heather that I was totally in love with the guy she had admitted to having a crush on.
Eventually I gave up on sleeping, picked up my phone, and texted George. He was awake, too. We texted for a while. It was ridiculous—we had been together all evening but still had so much to say to each other. Neither of us was the sentimental type, so it wasn’t gooey and silly, but we talked about what we should do together tomorrow and the next day and the next and about his frustrations with not having a real job yet and about my anxiety about leaving for college when I felt like Mom and Jacob still needed me—stuff like that. One thought led to another, which led to another. It could have gone on all night, but sometime after two a.m. I heard a wail from down the hall.
Jacob’s crying. Going to get him
I dropped my phone and went to Jacob’s room. He was sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes, and softly weeping.