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Kendall
I step out the front door and down the walkway on a caffeine mission to the coffee shop at the bottom of the hill. Sleep once again eluded me last night, the culprit a birthday boy with the power to tie me in knots comprised of want, need, and curiosity that overrides my uncertainty. I hate the way I left things with Vaughn last night.
I acted immature. I am what I am, and I’m pretty sure he knew before he touched me that I didn’t make a habit of hooking up. What Vaughn did was make me feel. Physical urges I haven’t felt since Mason, but also emotions I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with. I’ve kept myself closed off from anything too intense for a long time, always in control of my body and mind, but Vaughn threatens my control without even trying. I can’t write it off as a standard female reaction to a chiseled jaw and a billboard-worthy assemblage of abs, chest, and…ahem…other male attributes displayed to perfection in snug boxer briefs. NYU had its share of gorgeous guys who occasionally earned a second glance, but never a second date. What draws me to Vaughn runs deeper. He asks, “Can I trust you?” and I’m toast. I want to know his secrets, and that scares me. I want him to know my secrets, too, and that scares me even more, despite—or maybe because—sharing those secrets means giving up control. And losing control with him feels incredibly right. It gives me…hope. Hope that I can find happiness with someone again. Happiness with myself, too.
So just be with him already, right?
It’s not that easy. His concern and patience last night when he discovered I’m still a virgin were very reassuring, but also stark reminders that he doesn’t know all there is to know about me. If he knew why I was a twenty-two-year-old virgin, how would he look at me then? Would he still want me? Without knowing the answer to that question, I couldn’t be with him. And that’s all I could focus on in that moment—that I shouldn’t be there, letting him assume I was some kind of good girl when I’m the furthest thing from good. I’d needed to escape. From him, from my past, from having choices Mason doesn’t. I glance up at the light-blue sky, wishing for the thousandth time he and I had made a different decision that night.
With my sudden mood flip, I figured Vaughn would run for the hills. Only he didn’t. Instead, he had the decency to be concerned. Five minutes after I ran home and into the sanctuary of a hot shower, Amber knocked on the door and wanted to know if I was okay. Vaughn had told her I was upset and asked her to check on me. It had taken another five minutes to convince her I had a skull-splitting headache and needed darkness and solitude to make it go away. I got out of the shower to find a glass of water and two pain relievers on my nightstand, which immediately made me feel guilty because I didn’t really need them. I made a mental note to thank her this morning, but she was gone by the time I woke up.
I’ve made it as far as the sidewalk when I notice activity at the house across the street. Without thinking, my feet take me over there. Little girls are twirling around the front lawn in princess costumes, giggling. Their arms are spread wide, playfully bumping one another. A big blue plastic tub sits off to the side and overflows with tulle, colorful boas, magic wands, veils, crowns, and sparkly shoes. My fingers twitch. I stare as the mid-morning sun shines down on the dancing princesses like a spotlight, and I’m reminded of my own childhood when my friends and I dressed up and performed for our parents.
When nothing could touch us, and the applause from our “audience” echoed in my ears for days.
The tallest girl notices me and stops moving. She’s wearing a Birthday Princess crown to go with her yellow gown. She looks over her shoulder at her mom, I’m guessing, sitting on an iron bench near the front door, then back at me. I smile, give a little wave, and because I don’t want to come off like a creeper, call out, “Hi. I’m from across the street.” I gesture to my aunt and uncle’s house. “I was just out for a walk and noticed you guys playing. Happy birthday.”
“Want to play with us?”
Her invitation surprises me until I watch her stare dip below my chin. I look down. Oh yeah. I’m wearing my black Kings tank top with a big silver crown on the front that my aunt sent me after they won the Stanley Cup.
“It’s Kendall, right?” the mom says, walking across the grass.
“Right.”
“Sally talks about you and your sisters all the time.” She puts her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Sally says Meg reminds her of you at this age.” Meg does have my same coloring.
The young girl’s eyes go saucer-size. “Do you like to play make believe?”
“I do,” I say, unable to stop my smile.
“Cool. Wanna play with us?”
I absolutely do. I want to remember what it feels like to be free of all the thoughts clogging my mind and pretend to be someone else for a little while. I step onto the grass. “I’d love to.”
“You can be Ariel.”
“She’s my favorite. How did you know?”
Meg grins with a shrug then takes my hand. Her fingers are chubby, her palm soft. “Come on. You have to get dressed up.”
My dressing up entails a purple boa around my neck, a green one around my waist, and every bangle the girls own on my wrists. I love that I’m the lone throwback princess.
“All the girls are in a young ensemble group that meets twice a week,” Meg’s mom says. “This summer they’re performing—”
“You can go sit down now, Mom.”
I chuckle, remembering all the times I dismissed my mom when I was young, and am soon swept up in an elaborate story of princess sisters on a quest to find Ariel’s long lost prince. It seems all the other princesses have their one true love already. Before I know it, I’m teaching them little things that my drama teachers taught me. Lessons to improve body awareness and creativity and how to throw their voices. We stretch our imaginations and laugh and twirl, and I’m having a great time.
I like this version of myself.
Something behind me grabs the girls’ attention and I turn.
It’s Vaughn.
My heart skips a beat. He’s a hundred kinds of distracting, wearing olive cargo shorts, a thin light-green T-shirt that stretches across his chest and shoulders, Nikes, and no visible socks. He smiles and the under-ten set beside me go all smiley in return. He’s a freaking female magnet no matter the age.
Everything we did—he did—last night crashes into my mind, and despite my panic attack when I left him, I’m happy to see him again. By the sexy twitch of his lips and awareness in his eyes, I think he’s glad to see me, too. No doubt my cheeks are flaming brighter than Red Hot Cheetos.
