Calico (20 page)

We’re walking home from school three days after my father left, when Callan folds his arms around me and draws me up close against him, kissing me in the street. My breath feels like water, slowly filling me up, rising from my stomach all the way to the top of my head. My skin breaks out in goose bumps, and Callan must feel the change in me because he laughs, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. “Feels strange, right? Not worrying about that old man of yours,” he says.
 

It’s weird that we don’t talk about it very often, but Dad casts a huge shadow over us at all times. Callan’s been accepting of my clipped, firm responses whenever he’s suggested that he come over and introduce himself to Malcolm. Perhaps I’m not as good at masking my abject terror whenever he brings this up, but Callan never pushes. He drops the subject right away, and two seconds later it’s like we were never even talking about my home life.
 

“This feels right, doesn’t it? Nice not having to hide,” Callan says into my hair. He nibbles at my ear lobe, gathering my hair in both his hands and sweeping it down my back, out of the way, so he has better access to my neck.
 

“We’re still out in public,” I say, panting a little. “We still have to observe the laws of common decency.” I don’t want him to stop what he’s doing, though. His mouth on my skin feels so good. I can barely think straight.
 

“Observe the laws of common decency? You sound like a fifty year old,” Callan says, laughing. Little does he know that the line comes straight from my father’s mouth, who
is
close enough to fifty. He says it all the time whenever he sees people holding hands in the street. “We’re young. We’re kids. We’re supposed to be making out on the streets, making the old folks feel awkward about themselves. They used to do it, too, though, bluebird. Guaranteed Mrs. Lowercroft used to get fingerbanged in
her
lowercroft when she was a teenager.”

Mrs. Lowercroft, the woman he’s referring to, is walking with her grocery bags looped over either arm on the other side of the road. She has to be in her early sixties now, hair done up majestically in true southern belle scrolls and swooshes of steel gray. She sends us a rather scathing sideways glance as she passes, high heels making loud rapping sounds against the sidewalk.
 

“There is no way she ever let a boy touch her vagina,” I say. “That woman is far too proper. Her husband’s probably still a virgin.”

Callan gives one hard laugh. “They had a son. He died, though, years ago.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. He had cancer. He was only twenty-three. Mom told me she used to have a huge crush on him. She cried herself to sleep for two months after he passed away.”

I can imagine Jo doing that. She’s such an empathetic person. She feels everything for everyone. Her own pain must be breathtaking. “Poor Jo. Let’s get her some flowers on the way home.”

We cut behind the Smoke Shop and hop the fence into the fields beyond, giggling like idiots as Mrs. Lowercroft stands on the corner of 5
th
and Main, watching us like we’ve lost our minds. I’d be concerned that she might tell my father about my behavior, but she’s always hated him. No matter what I did, she’d rather gossip to her girlfriends than confront my father directly over the errant child he’s raised.
 

The tall grass whips at our legs as Callan and I run. The fields stretch on forever, down to the reservoir that my mother used to take me swimming in when I was tiny. The sun beats down, causing sweat to bead and run down my back as we collect stems of Yellow Cosmos, Indian Blanket, Lemon Mint and Black-Eyed Susan. I pull out the disposable camera Callan gave to me last week—this must be our seventh camera now—and I hang back, taking a picture of him walking ahead of me, flowers held by his side, his free hand out, skimming the tops of the wild wheat and grass. I’m sun drunk and so happy I could burst by the time we reach the water. Light glances off the flat surface of the reservoir, the wide, deep body of water so calm and still that it looks like a mirror.
 

Callan drops his book bag to the ground and places his carefully gathered bunch of flowers on top of it. When he stands, he looks at me mischievously. “So?” he says.

“So what?”

“Are we going in? It’s hotter than hades out here, and I know you’re just dying to get me out of my clothes.” He waggles his eyebrows.
 

“You should be so lucky, Callan Cross.” I swat at him, but my cheeks flare bright red. I’m embarrassed. I do want to get him out of his clothes, but I don’t know how to make it happen. I’m not experienced. I don’t have a clue how to seduce a guy. When we’ve made out and touched each other back at Callan’s place, it’s felt secret, like it’s not really happening because it’s in the dark. When Callan’s made me come with his fingers, we’ve been clinging onto each other like we’re drowning, trying to stay afloat, and the miracle that’s occurred between us is sacred, something that shouldn’t be talked about.
 

When
I
made
Callan
come for the first time, I’d been so surprised that I’d rolled over and pretended to be asleep. It had been ridiculous. Callan had laughed softly under his breath and gotten up to fetch some toilet roll. He’d curled himself around me from behind and gently wiped his come from my stomach and my thighs, and then he’d kissed my shoulder and stroked my hair until I actually did fall asleep.
 

“Friday’ll be mad if I come home soaking wet, Callan.” I ditch my bag on the floor next to his, waiting to be talked into it, though. Callan sees right through me.
 

“You won’t be soaking wet. You’ll be dry by the time we get back. I promise.”

“I don’t think I should—”

Callan takes a step and covers my mouth with his, his hands laid heavily one on top of the other at the base of my spine. He kisses me deeply, more intense than when he was teasing me with his lips up on the street just now. If Mrs. Lowercroft had witnessed this, she probably would have called the police. His tongue darts into my mouth, stroking softly over my own tongue. Callan breathes out slowly, but it’s a shaky breath. He’s trying to take this easy, to be calm and collected, though his efforts don’t appear to be paying off.
 

His hands make their way underneath my shirt, fingers lightly skating over my back as they rise up, up, up between my shoulders. My stomach is bare. The warmed metal of Callan’s belt buckle presses up against my belly, and I have the strangest reaction to the contact. I shiver, the sensation beginning at my neck, traveling down my chest and rising up across my cheeks at the same time. Callan reaches up through the neck of my shirt and holds the base of my skull, his thumb rubbing lightly over my ear lobe again.
 

“You can stop me,” he says. “If you don’t want this, you can stop me. You know it’ll be okay, right?”
 

I look up at him and I know he’s speaking the truth. I hear kids talking at school; plenty of guys in our year are so determined to get laid that they bully their girlfriends into having sex. It’s never rape, but at the same time it’s hardly a mutual decision. I can’t imagine Callan trying to coerce me into anything. He’s strong, and he’s confident, and he has a smart mouth on him, but he’d never ask me to do anything I was uncomfortable with.
 

“I’m okay,” I tell him softly. “This is okay.”
 

“Good.” He smiles at me, flashing his teeth, and my heart somersaults. His smile is the thing of Hollywood legends. It’s not that his teeth are perfectly white and perfectly straight, because they’re not. It’s the way his full lips part and then press together, that crazy dimple forming in his cheek. It makes my own mouth ache, like I just ate something too sweet. When he smiles at me like this, I can tell he’s thinking nefarious things—he looks like he wants to devour me in the most sexual way. “I’m going to take my clothes off now. All of them. If you’re terrified by my Adonis-like physique, then I can definitely put them back on again. But I really would like to go skinny-dipping with you right now, bluebird. And I think you want to do the same. Am I wrong?”

I’m such a coward. It takes a full twenty seconds of me chewing on my lip before I nod. “Okay, fine. Skinny-dipping. I can do that.”

Callan smirks. His hands slide out of my shirt, and he begins to undress himself, starting with the belt buckle at his waist. He kicks his shoes off at the same time he pulls his t-shirt over his head. Callan sleeps in a t-shirt and shorts when I’m around, even though I know he hates it. This is literally the first time I’m seeing him without a shirt, and I’m shocked by how it makes me feel: dizzy, turned around, excited and scared all at once. Callan neatly folds his shirt next to his bag and then unbuttons his jeans, kicking out of them. His socks are next. He stands there with his fingers hooked beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he gives me that ruinous smile again.
 

“Ready?”

I shrug, like this is no big deal. It really is though. I’ve touched him, sure. I’ve felt him grow hard in my hands, marveled at the feel and the smoothness of him, but I’ve never seen him naked in the broad light of day. “Yeah, of course,” I say breezily. My voice warbles, though, ruining my hopes of sounding unfazed. Callan stifles more laughter. He tugs his underwear down and steps out of it, grinning sheepishly. He has a hard on. His erection is huge and standing to attention, almost brushing up against his belly button. “Sorry,” he says. “But, y’know…teenaged guy. Beautiful girl. Kissing and touching. It was bound to happen.”

“Of course. It’s fine.” I’m trying not to stare at his cock in amazement. There’s a very good chance my amazement will look like horror, and I don’t want him to think I’m scared. He’ll get dressed again in an instant and that will be that. “Should I…” I trail off. “I suppose I should take my clothes off too, then,” I say, correcting myself. Asking him what I should do is not sexy. Tina’s reliably informed me that guys love confident women, so that’s who I should be right now. The only problem is I have no idea how to project a confident, sexy woman given that I’ve had zero experiences in that arena.
 

I disguise the fact that my hands are shaking by moving quickly as I remove my shirt and my denim jean shorts. I hesitate for a second as I fiddle with the clasp for my bra.
 

“Hey.” Callan steps closer, touching my arm. “Hey, bluebird. Don’t freak out. Look at me.” I do look at him. He’s relaxed, smiling, his skin bathed in sun, his dark hair turned almost caramel by the warm light. “Take a breath. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me to, of course.”
 

I laugh then, my nerves calming a little. I lean my forehead against his bare chest, exhaling deeply in a sigh. “Sorry. You must think I’m a train wreck.”

“A very beautiful train wreck,” he tells me, kissing me on the top of my head. “My wonderful, beautiful train wreck.” He kisses me again, and slowly everything else melts away. I can still feel my nerves fretting away somewhere in the background, but they become easy to ignore. I melt into Callan, lose myself in him. As we kiss, he unhooks my bra and slides the straps over my shoulders, and I’m not worried anymore. I stand up straight, enjoying the sun on my near naked body. The temperature increases a hundred fold when Callan looks down and surveys my chest, though. I can feel myself turning red in the face. My nipples are peaked, tight and sensitive.
 

Callan looks fascinated by them. He cups my right breast, stooping slowly so that he can take my nipple into his mouth. The warmth is intense and surprising, and it feels so good. I tremble as he strokes his hand over my other breast, pinching and rolling my nipple between his fingers.
 

“God, Coralie. You’re so fucking perfect. I can’t stand it.” All thoughts of the water and skinny-dipping are forgotten. Callan lays me down on the grass, which feels prickly and dry underneath me, kind of uncomfortable, but I don’t care. He smiles, his eyes dancing a little as he lowers himself down next to me. Funnily, he looks a little nervous himself. He lays his head down on his arm, using it like a pillow, and he watches me, moving his hand slowly up and down my body. “I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love every part of you.” He smiles, nudging my shoulder with the end of his nose. “I love your crazy, weird eyes. I love your non-symmetrical face. I love the way you look at things, trying to figure out how you’re going to paint them. I love the way you hum when you’re trying to concentrate. And I love how you look at
me
, Coralie.”

“How do I look at you?”

“Like you love me, too. Like there are things about me that make your heart swell in your chest. Like you might love me enough to be with me for the rest of your life.” He takes a lock of my hair and twists it gently around his fingers. “Is that how you feel?” he whispers. “Is that what you want?”

This is the first time he’s spoken about love. It’s been an elusive word between us, but it’s never played on my mind that neither of us has said it. It hasn’t needed saying. I’ve felt it growing stronger and stronger every day. I never doubted for a second that Callan was in love with me, just as I never doubted I was in love with him. I feel a pleasant pressure all over my body as I answer him.
 

“Yes, that’s how I feel. I love you so much, Callan. I never want to be without you. Do you think we can do it? Do you think we’ll end up being together forever?”

Callan takes hold of me by the hand and kisses my fingers one at a time. He stops on my ring finger, biting it gently. “I’d marry you tomorrow, bluebird. If you wanted to, we would figure it out.”

I feel giddy. This is a lot to take in in one go. Callan hums softly as he kisses my hand again. “Of course, waiting until after college is probably a good idea,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We’d be the worst southern stereotype there is if we showed up to our first class as that married couple from South Carolina.”