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"C-come in," she said, standing beside the still-swaying rocker.
Chase rounded the door, his eyebrows knit as he surveyed her. "Your mom sent me up. She wanted me to tell you that we're having pork chops for dinner and you're supposed to set the table."
She blinked, taken aback for a moment by the deja vu of it all. Chase had been in the house nearly every day this week, and normal as it was to see him with her family, she still hadn't quite gotten used to the jolt of electricity that sparked to life in her whenever she saw him. Or the pull she felt to make excuses to hang around with him when he was there.
"Okay, let her know I'll be right down."
"Hang on. Not so fast. What are you doing up here?"
"Working."
"On what?" He walked toward the messenger bag and Julie took another step forward, defending it against his prying eyes.
"Nothing. I'll be down in a second."
"Julie."
"What?"
"Whatever you've got, you've got to share it with the whole class." He made to walk away, then faked back and grabbed her bag off the seat. She reached out, but it was too late. He swept a hand inside, then came up with...
"Cigarettes?" He twirled the packet in his hand, then wrinkled his nose. "Were you smoking up here?"
"No. Those...those are a long story."
"They make Lucky Strikes still?" He examined the box, then glanced at Julie. "You sure you're not smoking?"
"Positive. Now if you'd just--"
She reached for the bag again, but he dipped his hand inside again and pulled out her thick yellow notebook. "A diary?"
"No."
"You sure? Your face is getting awful red."
She pressed a palm to her cheek and felt the rising heat, then tore it away and said, “Positive. Now if you’d just—“
He flipped the front-page open, then glanced at the picture and then up at her face. “These are yours?”
“Yes, okay? They’re mine, but—“
He turned the page, then ran his thumb along the sampled fabric she’d glued beside her design. “They look just like you.”
“I don’t—“
“They’re beautiful, Jules. Really.” He looked at the next page, and this time she glanced at it to see a dress she’d designed for her first big fashion show. It was a purple number with a trumpet waist and a low, sculpted neckline. Ever since she’d drawn it, she’d pictured herself in it a hundred times over.
“Thank you.” She said the words quietly, and he set the notebook down, their eyes meeting in that same, meaningful way that they had that night in the woods.
And in that instant, she knew what she wanted more than anything else in the world.
“We’re alone. Why are you still wearing clothes?” She reached to unbutton his pants, as little as she could move, anyway, but he swatted her hand away again.
He laughed, and then pulled away for a moment to lift his t-shirt over his head. What he did afterward she couldn’t say. She was too focused on the way the moonlight glowed against his rippling muscles, on the glint of his belt buckle as he undid it. She must have, she realized, been undressing too, but damn it all if she knew what she was doing.
He was too beautiful for her to tear her eyes away from him, too perfect, and after all the years she’d waited for this moment, she wasn’t about to miss a single instant. When he pulled his pants away, she caught her breath, then licked her lips are she took in his hard length. He was huge, bigger than she’d ever seen, and for a moment she was worried she might not be able to take all of him.
He rolled a condom over his length, and then he smiled. Before she knew it she was pulling aside her panties and leaving them in the grass, forgotten.
