I don’t know what he means to say, and I don’t know if he does either.
Instead, our bodies are drawn toward each other, magnets that should repel but are attracting. He touches my hair, and I back up, running right into a wall. Luke closes the distance between us again, his hand finding my waist.
In my head, I’m arguing with him. I’m telling him that I don’t belong here, in this house, with him. That I never did. I’m sliding away from his touch. I’m pulling my bag tighter over my shoulder and walking out of his house. In real life I am standing on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms around his neck, drawing him to me.
His lips are soft and gentle against mine. I kiss him back, unhurried and loving and sad. His lips taste like frosting and lemon, bittersweet, like the end of something.
We kiss and kiss against the kitchen wall for what feels like hours, and when we can’t possibly kiss anymore, we kiss harder. My tongue claims every spot in his mouth and his hands are starting to roam, starting to burn my skin. When the strap of my bag falls off my shoulder, I let it. In fact, I drop my keys next to it.
After that, it’s all over.
He presses me harder against the wall, and I let my feet leave the ground, let them wrap around his waist as he hoists me up. Then we’re walking. He’s kissing me and carrying me up the stairs.
I haven’t been in his room in a year.
It is still not neat, still covered in books, and his bed is unmade. He kicks the door shut with his foot and carries me to the bed. I reach for him, impatient, and pull him down with me. I dig my fingers into his hair and he starts undoing the buttons of my blouse.
Then I’m in my bra and he reaches for the button of my jeans.
“I fucking love these jeans,” he rasps.
I surprise him by going for his shorts first, unbuttoning, pulling down. He’s on top of me, kissing me again, and it’s unfair because his shirt is still on.
He laughs in the back of his throat at my frustration when I try and fail to get his shirt off.
“Want me to do it?”
“No,” I say, so he lifts his arms over his head like an obedient child and I yank it up over his head. As soon as it’s off, I paw at his chest, his abs, the happy trail going down from his bellybutton. As I’m doing that, he untangles his arms from me enough to reach into the drawer beside his bed for a small silver packet. Our hands and mouths are everywhere. It’s a far cry from “I won’t touch you” and the last time I was in this bed. I remember thinking that morning that I wanted to do everything with him, and tonight I do.
After, we lie there tangled up in each other. My head on his chest, his hands in my hair. I fall asleep to his heartbeat. Wake up again and he’s still there, and it’s dark out now, so we go back to the beginning and hold each other in the darkness.
I squint when he turns on the lamp, then shut my eyes against the light.
“Sorry.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and gets out of bed. When I hear his footsteps again, I force my lazy eyes open.
He smiles at me as he slips back under the sheets, and he’s wearing his glasses. I haven’t seen them in so many years, and I don’t know why it makes my eyes start to water. Maybe because it takes me back to a time when everything was simpler, when I thought we—Mel, Luke, Ro, and I—would have a happy ending.
“Are you okay?” he whispers as he pulls me to him again. I nod, but he must feel the tears on his bare chest.
In the morning, just enough light streams in through the crack in the curtain. Luke is fast asleep still, the sheets tangled up somewhere around his legs.
I get dressed quietly, make my way downstairs, and find my keys and bag in the kitchen.
I think about leaving a note, but I don’t know what else to say.
We said everything last night and yesterday morning when he came to see me.
It’s just after five when I step out the front door.
I walk out of Mel’s house, knowing that everything will be different the next time I’m here.
NOW
I’ve barely entered my house when a door shuts and then my mom is hurrying down the stairs.
“Jessi?” she says, as if she’s expecting someone else.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, not meeting her eyes. I don’t know how other kids feel when they’re doing the walk of shame, but I feel like she can see everything scrawled all over my skin.
