Diary of a Crush: Kiss and Make Up (23 page)

‘Mine,’ he said possessively. ‘You’re mine. I’ve always loved you, even when I thought I’d lost you.’

I stroked his face. ‘I love you too,’ I told him. The words sounded strange, I’d never said it out loud before and meant it so much. ‘When we were in Paris, you stopped being a crush…’

Dylan smoothed the hair back from my face. ‘We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.’

I put a finger to his lips. ‘I do. But, you know, I’m still… it’s my first time. I didn’t, not with him. I think I always wanted it to be you.’

Dylan smiled and nipped at my finger. ‘I wanted it to be me too,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll be gentle, I promise.’

As I slid between the covers I wondered why I wasn’t panicking like I had been with Carter and I realised it was ’cause it felt right. Right place, right time and definitely the right boy.

Dylan hesitated before getting back into bed. ‘Edie?’

‘Hmmm?’ I said dreamily tracing a finger down his back. Dylan caught my hand and pressed a kiss into my palm.

‘Have you got any… I haven’t got any protection,’ he said with an embarrassed smile.

‘In my backpack,’ I murmured. ‘I’ve got about fifty condoms.’ And then I started laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ Dylan asked, almost falling out of bed as he dragged my backpack across the floor.

‘I never thought when I bought them that I’d actually be using them, y’know, in a room like this and with
you
!’ I said, giggling.

‘I’m glad you are using them with me,’ Dylan said slightly huffily. ‘And not with Carter.’

‘If you’re trying to kill the moment by talking about that wanker, then you’re going the right way about it,’ I pouted.

Dylan gave a smile that was positively evil and rolled on top of me. ‘You’re so sexy when you get stroppy,’ he purred. ‘Which is practically all the time.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

Then Dylan was kissing me hard and it was all I could do to remember to breathe. And when it finally happened Dylan held me tight and whispered sweet things in my ear. His fingers traced patterns all over me as he touched my skin wonderingly as if he couldn’t believe that I was there and we were doing what we were doing. Afterwards, he folded me up in his arms and kissed my forehead and told me how much he loved me.

When I woke up the first fingers of light were beginning to creep through the curtains. Dylan was asleep, his arm around my waist. I lay there for a minute trying not to think but it was no good. There was too much stuff going on in my head and I really needed to pee.

I wriggled out of bed and hunted for some clothes. I might have had sex (oh my God, I’d had sex!) but I wasn’t ready to strut around bare-ass naked. I found Dylan’s T-shirt and pulled it on before scurrying into the bathroom.

While I was washing my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. My face stared back. Same old Edie. Same old fringe that wouldn’t lie flat. Same old blue eyes. Same old freckles. Same old slightly-too-pouty mouth. I’d read these books where after the heroine had lost her virginity she’d go look in the mirror and realise she’d turned into a woman. But, y’know, not so much. I still looked Edie-shaped. Though I felt a bit wobbly still. I hadn’t like, come but the feeling of closeness, the feeling that me and Dylan were together, like, really, really together had been wonderful and a tiny bit frightening at the same time. Yawning, I crept back into bed and Dylan gave a sigh and pulled me against him.

‘What are you wearing?’ he complained sleepily.

‘Your T-shirt,’ I sighed, fighting between my modesty and how nice it felt to have Dylan’s chest pressed against my back. Niceness won and I tugged off the offending item.

‘That’s better,’ said Dylan, sounding more awake. He kissed my shoulder.

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘I only went to the bathroom,’ I protested.

‘No, I mean I missed you when we weren’t together,’ Dylan replied. ‘I missed your smile and your freckles and your Edieisms and I missed you.’

I turned round so I was facing him. ‘I missed you too but I always knew we’d get back together,’ I said firmly.

‘Was it all right before?’ Dylan asked, wrapping his arms round me. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘It was fine,’ I told him. ‘It wasn’t like how I imagined it.’

Dylan frowned. ‘It gets better. I tried to take it slow.’

I smiled. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ I traced his lips with my finger. I loved the fact that he was mine to touch again. ‘Isn’t it strange? Sex, I mean. It’s just so odd. Majorly odd.’

Dylan laughed, his eyebrows quirking upwards, a wicked look on his face. ‘Pity to let this bed go to waste.’

‘We could always go back to sleep,’ I suggested with a smirk.

‘But I had something else in mind,’ he drawled.

And the second time was different to the first. Better. Infinitely, wonderfully better. Then I slept in Dylan’s arms until someone tapped on the door and told us we had to check out in half an hour. I’d been scared that when I woke up, the dream would have disappeared but it was still there. Dylan was still there.

We drove back to the site even though I was contemplating emptying my bank account so we could spend another night at the Manor Park.

‘Hmmm, it was sort of cool in a so-chintzy-it-made-my-eyes-hurt way,’ agreed Dylan sarcastically when I put the idea to him, but he started up the van anyway.

I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘It’s not the decor I like. It’s the fact that it doesn’t resemble a tent.’

‘You’re such a princess,’ laughed Dylan. ‘But I do have a vacancy in my two-man tent that you might be interested in.’

‘I wonder what the others will think,’ I mused.

‘I don’t care,’ said Dylan decisively. ‘I don’t care about anything except you. Do you know what I thought last night when you were asleep and I was holding you?’

‘What?’ I asked in a trembly voice.

‘That you and me were inevitable. You’re the only thing that makes me happy.’

‘You make me happy too,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s not like last time, I don’t think. ’Cause I’m way more mature than you now.’ Dylan rolled his eyes at that. ‘And I don’t think it’s about being friends and kissing each other. We’re, like, having a relationship.’

‘I can handle it, if you can,’ grinned Dylan. ‘You game?’

I reached out a hand and gently pulled at his hair. ‘If you break my heart again, I’m going to kill you,’ I said quietly.

Dylan pulled me across the seat and wrapped an arm around me. I rested my head against his shoulder.

‘It’s not going to happen,’ he promised. That was good enough for me.

I could hear the steady beat of his heart and smell the scent of lemons and soap on his skin. Dylan sang along to an old song on the radio, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, and the road stretched out before us.

This piece was originally written to accompany
Diary of
a Crush
the first time it was published as a trilogy, which was way back in 2004.

Hello, Edie here.

Now, I might not be the class brainiac, but there are some things I’m an expert in. Like, buying vintage frocks on Ebay or the fifteen different ways to eat a Twix. And the one subject that I get an A plus in every time, is the ancient art of crushing. I crush, therefore I am.

I’ve decided to share the benefit of my wisdom and after months of hopelessly lusting after Dylan, I’ve REALISED that there are twelve degrees of crushing from the slightly embarrassing things most girls will do to catch the eye of the heir to their heart, to the verging on ridiculous stunts you pull when you’re in the grip of a passion that renders you powerless. And then there are the other things – the deranged, insane things that will probably result in you being sectioned or sent to your room until you’re thirty.

I’ve written it all down in a handy list. No need to thank me.

It’s not enough to simply like the look of someone. You have to know that it’s meant to be. That you both can’t function without three hits of sugar in your coffee or that you both look really good in green. Or, gasp, you both love quoting funny bits of
Modern Family.

Sometimes you need science to prove your compatibility, which is why I spend a lot of time working out my love percentage (
www.atombooks.net/books/love-calculator
), I can then bore my friends and my cat by informing them that, ‘Yay! We love each other 98%!’

How the hell else will you know exactly what bus your beloved gets to and from his place of learning? And you can tell so much about a boy by knowing that he always goes to Pizza Express on a Saturday afternoon, can’t you?

Just so you know whether to keep your own name when you get married or whether you’ll actually like the way Mrs Shovelbottom sounds.

Stick to the weather, telly and how much coursework sucks. Don’t make the mistake of spending too long thinking of something to say. ’Cause when you do pluck up the courage to like, talk to him, you’ll end up saying something completely hatstand. ‘Do you like
Glee
?’ will come out as ‘Kurt! Quinn! Unk! Unk!’ leaving your love-god with a look of bewilderment on his face. Not all attention is good attention.

About a month into your crush (if no-one tastier has come along) you’ll find that you’ve amassed a small collection of bizarre white elephants and
objets
d’art
. Let’s take a look, shall we? A couple of old Coke cans, a balled-up sheet of Italian vocab, an empty Doritos bag and, best of all, a sweaty footie shirt that you, erm, found when he left his bag unattended in Starbucks. What have all these items got in common? Why, they’ve all known the touch of his heavenly hands, like you didn’t already know that.

Although you and your mates all know the true identities of your respective crushes, it would never do to mention them by name. Instead you create a new way of communicating with each other. Why? Because the world would end if anyone were to hear you discussing the pert pecs of Trent the art supply shop assistant. Instead you say things like, ‘Artboy has arm bumps. Over.’ Should come in handy if there’s ever an opening at MI6.

It’s not enough that you might just happen to bump into him. You plan every potential encounter with your special boy like a military campaign. For starters, you’ve already memorised his weekly movements so you have a pretty clear idea of when and where he’ll be. You also spend hours designing a look that suggests you’ve just happened to throw on the nearest outfit. But then when you do track him down, you’re too freaked out by his nearness to do anything but run away.

Even though if you lost your phone, you could never forget his number – it’s engraved on your heart!

Because when he picks up the phone and says, ‘Hello, 4436988’, it makes your heart turn somersaults. And if you dial 141 before tapping in his number he can never trace your call. Well, not until his family get the police involved, that is.

In your heart of hearts you know that one day your crush will suddenly wake up, realise that you’re his and knock on your front door to sweep you off on the best date ever, ever, EVER. Until that happy day, you spend your life stealthily peering out at your street from the front room window, just in case the doorbell rang while you were doing noisy stuff like running water or shouting at your tiresome little brother.

When he says, ‘Hi’ to you after you ‘accidentally’ crashed your bike against his, you begin to wonder what he meant. And why did his voice go slightly up in pitch at the end of the syllable? And did he raise one of his eyebrows half a millimetre higher than the other one? And if he did, what was he trying to tell you? Why? Why? Why?

You sad, sad girl. Stop it right now.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next instalment from Edie’s journal
 

I can’t believe that my diary now has volumes! I’m, like, a twenty-first century Samuel Pepys or possibly someone less old, uncool, male and, y’know,
dead
who also kept a diary.

Anyway, my life up till now has been girl (that would be me), meets boy (that would be Dylan) and then fast forward through two years of torturous back and forth, kissing and fighting and all points in between. And now it’s all different. Dylan and I have been back together for nearly a month and we’ve managed not to have a single argument. Weird. Carter (the king of evil ex-boyfriends) is still seething in the background but thankfully there have been no sightings of Veronique (his sister and the queen of evil ex-girlfriends).

And the other less-Dylan-y, but just as important parts of my life involve working in a café, being in a band with my friends, Poppy, Atsuko and Darby, and trying to decide what I want to be when I finally grow up.

Dylan and I haven’t done it for two weeks. Having the parents back from their second honeymoon thing is kinda cramping my style.

There’s, like, nowhere to go that doesn’t involve secluded corners of parks or spending vast sums of money on a hotel room. And although the getting pelvic is fantastic, I kinda enjoy all the furtive kissing that doesn’t lead anywhere.

Sex is strange. It’s like this big secret that I have that no-one else knows about. Like this place that only Dylan and me have been to. Before the ’rents came home, he spent all his time here. And we’d just disappear under my covers, popping out now and then to load up with supplies from the fridge. It’s not like we were doing it all the time, because we weren’t, but the rest of the world just slipped away until all there was was Dylan and me. And what we used to be is nothing like what we’ve become.

When it’s dark and the only light is coming from the muted television set in the corner of my bedroom, he talks in whispers about everything. His family and his dreams and what makes him frightened. Most of which I’m not going to put down here ’cause it’s private – it’s Dylan’s story, not mine. But it made me understand why he is like he is, which is moody and difficult and messed up but still the sweetest boy you could ever hope to meet.

And did I mention the part where I fall in love with him a little bit more every day? It’s a lot like drowning but the water feels so warm and wet against my skin that I don’t really mind.

We had another band rehearsal tonight. We’re starting to sound like a proper group. If proper groups sang songs about pink Converse All-Stars and had a lead singer who insisted on hula-hooping during the fast songs. Poppy is becoming more and more of a mentalist every day, which leads me to the part where me and Atsuko and Darby were just packing away our gear when Poppy suddenly dropped her bombshell. ‘Oh by the way,’ she announced casually. Way too casually. ‘We’re playing a gig next month. On Halloween actually.’

‘What?!’ we screamed in unison.

‘What’s the what?’ she asked innocently. ‘There’s no point in rehearsing forever. We’re ready for a paying audience.’

‘But, but, but…’ stammered Darby while Atsuko narrowed her eyes and began cursing under her breath in Japanese. That is, I think they were swear words, I couldn’t be entirely sure.

Poppy began to twitch. ‘Is that the time? Gotta go.’ Then she practically ran out of the room though she’d never admit that she was too chicken to stay and face her band-mates’ wrath.

‘I’m so going to kill your sister,’ I told Grace as we walked to the chippy later.

Grace didn’t look too perturbed. ‘She’s just impulsive,’ she said in her tiny voice. Since we got back from the festival, Grace and I have become mates. Well, I talk and she listens. I think the whole having-her-Highland-Spring-spiked-with-acid incident made her realise that she actually had to take part in life, instead of just observing it from the sidelines. Since then I’ve made a point of trying to drag her out of her shell. Because I’m all heart, in case you hadn’t noticed.

As we reached the top of her road, my mobile started ringing. It was Dylan.

‘Hey you,’ I said softly.

‘All my flatmates have disappeared off to Altrincham for an all-night rave,’ Dylan drawled.

‘And?’ I prompted.

‘Fancy a sleepover?’

‘Cool! Shall I bring DVDs and ice cream?’ I enquired.

‘Just bring yourself and your toothbrush,’ Dylan purred. ‘And I’ll provide the entertainment.’

Yay! I’m going to get seduced tonight. Go team Edie!

What I like about staying over at Dylan’s:

What I don’t like about staying over at Dylan’s:

Luckily I was clothed. ’Cause I learnt pretty quickly that you don’t wander round in your underwear when your boyfriend lives with other boys.

I glared at Carter, but it was pretty hard to pull off when I had a mouthful of toothpaste, which was threatening to dribble down my chin.

‘Oh, you stay over now, do you?’ Carter enquired with a nasty smile. ‘God, you’ve gone from shy virgin to experienced woman of the world in sixty seconds.’

I spat a big mouthful of foam into the basin and pointed at the door with my toothbrush. ‘Get out!’

But Carter just stood there, grinning like the total, toxic cretin that he is. ‘You know something, sweetheart?’ he said in a low, confiding tone, leaning closer to me. ‘You’re not looking as cottony fresh as you used to. In fact, you seem a bit worn-in, a bit pounded, if you get my drift.’

I took a step back to get away from him and got banged in the butt by the edge of the sink. ‘Firstly, ew! And secondly, get the
hell
out!’ I said furiously, but I kept my voice down because if Dylan knew that Carter had come into the bathroom while I was in there, let alone knew what he’d just said to me, it would have been like the Iraqi Conflict all over again. But with art boys.

I made another threatening gesture with the hand that was brandishing my toothbrush and with that stupid, inane chuckle of his, Carter finally got out.

It left me in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

Dylan’ll be going back to university at the end of this week. That means no more smooching in the storeroom ’cause he’s also starting back at his regular part-time job in Rhythm Records next door.

‘It’s a good excuse to have a party this weekend,’ Poppy pointed out as I bemoaned the disadvantages of not having a willing kiss-object at my beck and call.

‘Well it would make a nice break from the chip fat in here and being in a band with a complete slave-driver who wants me to rehearse twenty-four seven,’ I agreed.

‘It’s just over a month to go till our gig,’ Poppy reminded me yet again. ‘We have to be perfect. In a really cool, rock ’n’ roll kind of way.’

I waved my hands in front of her face. ‘Between mastering A flat diminished and the endless washing-up, my fingers are seizing up. I’m going to start charging you for my hand-cream supplies.’

‘Stop being a drama queen and go and take this order to table five.’

I’m sure I’m developing calluses on the tips of my fingers from all that strumming action. Plus I have to have really short nails now and the polish just gets scraped off as soon as I apply it. This rock ’n’ roll stuff is not in the least bit glamorous.

If I thought I could spend the next year waiting tables while waiting to be famous, The Mothership has other ideas. She’s got this notion that I should spend my gap year doing something worthy (translation:
boring
) like working in the Third World or going trekking in the Hindu Kush. What she really means is that she doesn’t like me going out with Dylan. Not when I could be having a proper, committed relationship with the ‘lovely Jake’.

‘Carter was an evil, scheming rat,’ I told her till I was blue in the face.

‘Well he had charming manners,’ my mum said mildly. ‘While Dylan, well he’s very glowery, isn’t he?’

Jesus!

I took the day off so I could spend some quality time with Dylan before he becomes re-immersed in doing art boy stuff.

We went to the Tate Modern in London and after we’d admired the Warhols we walked hand in hand by the Thames, which isn’t a patch on the Manchester Ship Canal, quite frankly.

‘I hate that summer’s over,’ I moaned as we sat down on a bench. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to look forward to.’

‘Winter’s good too,’ said Dylan. ‘We can stay in and I’ll paint while you play the guitar and it’ll be all dark outside.’

And where was the fun in that? ‘Yeah, but your central heating doesn’t work,’ I reminded him, thinking back to a party they’d thrown last winter when I’d had to keep my coat on for, like, the entire three hours I was there.

Dylan grinned and shook his head at me. ‘You’re such a princess.’

‘My mum doesn’t think so.’ I rested my head against his shoulder because that’s my head’s preferred resting place these days. ‘She thinks I should be travelling round Asia in my gap year. Like, I would ever go anywhere that doesn’t have public lavatories.
Clean
public lavatories.’

‘We could go somewhere next summer,’ Dylan said but I thought he was trying to get me off the topic of public conveniences.

‘Like where? Blackpool? Or, hey, maybe we could go back to Paris at a push.’

Dylan gave a start and I had to sit up. ‘Oh! Yeah! We should go to America.’

‘Dream on, D. It would cost a fortune.’ I stood up and stretched lazily. ‘But my limited funds will stretch to a couple of ice creams.’

‘It wouldn’t have to cost that much. I have some money in the bank from the guilt fund my dad left me when he walked out anyway,’ Dylan continued, leaning forward and yanking me back down on the bench. ‘If we went next summer we’d have a whole year to save up and we could hire a car and do a road trip. Road trip, Eeds!’

I still wasn’t convinced. ‘So you think we’ll still be together then?’ I asked him.

He touched my face lightly. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’ He moved closer to me and brushed my mouth with his. ‘Just think, we could go to New York, LA, San Francisco…’ He nudged me with his elbow. ‘You know you want to.’

He was right. I did. I wanted us to stay together and I wanted to do stuff with him. Exciting, adventurey stuff like going on a road trip in a cool car and going to places that I’d only seen in films. And shopping. A girl could do some serious shopping in the land of rampant consumerism.

‘Well I have always wanted to go to New Orleans,’ I admitted carefully. ‘And Seattle, maybe Chicago, oooh! And we
so
have to go to Las Vegas! Oh God, we’re going to do this, aren’t we? We’re going to do a road trip and I’m going to save all my tips and empty out my Marc Jacobs shoe savings account…’

Dylan jumped up so he could pull me to my feet, hoist me up and swing me round till I squealed because I was getting dizzy. ‘Think of all those cheap motel rooms too! Double beds, no parents, no friends, no annoying flatmates.’

‘Talking of which my parents have got a do tonight.’

Dylan smirked and leered at me at the same time, which was quite a feat. ‘So that means…’

‘An empty house. C’mon let’s go and get the train home.’