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We go to his house like we always do, because my mom is always home at my house. We don’t have a chance to talk on the way over, because I’m in my car, following his. But even when we get there, we don’t say much. He asks me if I want something to drink, and I tell him water. He steals some scotch, but not that much. I never mind if he has a little. I like the taste of it on his tongue.
He sits down on the couch and turns on the TV. But I know what’s going on. It’s like he can’t come out and say, Let’s make out. A few times he’s started kissing me the minute we’ve gotten in the door—but usually he has to make sure no one’s home, get used to the gravity of being home before we can resist it a little.
So most of the time, it starts like this. Both of us watching the show but not really watching. Him leaning into me or me leaning into him. Putting our drinks down. A hand on a leg, an arm over a shoulder. Bodies starting to confuse. He won’t say that he wants something from me. But it’s there in the air. It’s there and understood between us as his hands go under my shirt and my hands touch his cheek, his ear, his hair.
I return to him. He returns to me. But then it’s not enough for us to balance like that. He pushes it. He’s saying things, but they’re not really directed at me. They’re directed at what we’re doing. They’re part of what we’re doing. The heat feels good. The touch feels good. But it doesn’t feel like enough. Not for him, since he wants more, and more, and more. Not for me, because if it was enough, I wouldn’t be thinking about whether or not it’s enough. We aren’t going all the way—not on the couch, only in the bedroom, where there’s a door to close and protection to wear and blankets to pull up when it’s over and we lie there, pleased. But we’re still doing something—he does what he does when we’re on the couch, and I do what I do when we’re on the
couch, and none of our clothes are totally on and none of them are totally off. He starts to murmur, starts to moan, and yes there’s something he wants from me, there’s something he really wants from me, and I am giving it to him and he’s giving it back to me. I want him to get that peak, because what I want more is the sweetness of breathing together afterward.
He groans. His back shudders under my hand. He kisses me. Once. Twice. Three times. We lie back. I find his heartbeat and lay my head there. He says more things.
The TV is still on, and what he does next is what makes me grateful, what makes me think that maybe all of this is worth it. Because instead of turning back to the TV, he turns it off. He stands up and gets me more water. He does not get himself more scotch. He comes back and returns to his place on the couch, then returns me to my place on his chest. We stay like that for a while. No longer in a rush. No longer wanting anything more than a quiet spot of nothing to share.
Chapter Four
I’m good. I wait until after school on Friday to ask about Steve’s party.
“Will you just stop?” is his reply.
“Excuse me?” I say. “I don’t think I deserve that.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry.”
We’re at my locker. I know he has to get to work. That’s why I’m trying to figure this out now.
“I’m just going to hate at least half the people there,” he says. “As long as you can deal with that, we can go. If Steve and Stephanie start attacking each other, do not expect me to calm him down or take him outside or shield her bitchiness from his bullshit. Just let me sit in the corner and drink and watch like everyone else.”
“They only fought that once!” I argue. These are our friends. Most of the time they behave. Tequila just makes them mean.
He snorts. “Jesus, Rhiannon—open your eyes.”
“You can do whatever you want at the party,” I say. “I’ll drive. Okay?”
“I’m telling you right now, if I go there, I’m going to get wasted.”
“I’ve been warned,” I tell him. “I know I’ve been warned.”
—
It’s only when I’m driving over to pick him up on Saturday night that I wonder why I want to go to this party.
Rebecca won’t be there. She and Ben have a “date night.” Preston and his best friend Allie tend to avoid parties they find “obnoxious.” And while I’m friends with Stephanie, I have to agree with Justin that being the party’s center of attention might not bring out her best behavior.
Mostly, I guess, I feel that something new might happen if we go to the party. If we stay home, there’s no chance that something new will happen.
We get pizza before heading over—apparently Justin’s father told him he couldn’t go out unless his room was clean, and Justin left the house anyway. When I first asked Justin what his dad was like, all he’d say was “military”—I couldn’t tell whether this meant his career or his attitude or both. Now he’s always saying, “Please God, don’t let me turn into that man.”
I think pretty much the same thing about my mom, so I guess we relate.
On our way to Steve’s, I ask Justin if he knows who else is going to be there.
“Does it really matter?” he asks. “It’s the same whoever’s there.”
I don’t think he’s in the mood for me to argue, so I stay quiet. A song I like comes on the radio, and I start to sing along. He shoots me a look like I’m a crazywoman and I stop.
When we get there, he goes, “You know where to find me”—meaning: wherever the alcohol is. He takes off as soon as I lock the car doors, acting like the party might run out of beer before he’s made it inside. Which, considering Steve’s last party, isn’t totally off base.
Crowded. Already it feels like there are people everywhere. I don’t recognize some of them. I see Stephanie for a brief moment—she gives me a squeal and a hug, then moves on to the next squeal and hug.
