Slow Dancing on Price's Pier (21 page)

“And he doesn't do that sort of thing with you.”

“No. Not anymore.” She wiped her face—the only sign that she was still crying. “He won't let me tell anyone about us. Jonathan—” She took one of his hands from the steering wheel, held it in hers. Her skin was damp. “I'm so glad you know. It's been killing me to keep it a secret. There's no one I can talk to . . .”

Jonathan's chest grew tight. He pulled his hand away to turn the wheel. “Have you . . . um . . . did you—you know—”

“Sleep with him? No. Not yet.”

“Good.” Relief washed over him as he pulled up in front of her house and stopped the car. “Don't.”

She looked at him. Her eyes had turned more green than brown, the effect of tears.

“Hear me out,” he said. He put his arm around the back of her seat. “The two of you have been just friends for so long. And I think there's a reason for that. I think you make sense as friends. Garret's always wanted to have everything. And I think once he gets everything from you, he'll go on to want whatever the next thing is that catches his attention.”

“I know what Garret is,” she said.

“I'm not blaming him. I don't think he'll try to hurt you on purpose. It's just his nature.” Jonathan leaned toward her, overwhelmed by concern for her. “Just promise me that you'll, I don't know, go slow. Okay?”

She held still, quiet but listening.

“If you guys can hold out until the end of your senior year, like the week of graduation, then maybe you'll have a chance.”

“The week of graduation?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said. But he didn't think they would make it until graduation—Garret's longest relationship had lasted a mere five weeks. Probably this whole thing would blow over soon, especially since Garret was already flirting with other girls. If Thea could hold off on sleeping with him, she might save herself worlds of regret and pain. “I just don't want to see you—
you know—
just to lose him. You deserve better than that.”

“I guess it couldn't hurt to make a timeline . . .”

He nodded and took her hand. “I hope Garret sees how lucky he is to have you.”

She leaned toward him—an awkward hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for your help. And for the ride home. It's good to see you.”

He smiled, felt a little better. He liked being useful to her in a way his brother could not. “What are friends for?”

 

 

On a Saturday in late August, just after the sun had gone down, Thea stood in front of her open closet—a million voices ringing in her head and none of them her own.

From Dani:
Of course you have something to wear to the bar. Here, this black camisole. Is this silk? Yes, I know it's supposed to go under another shirt, but isn't that the point? To show some skin?

From her mother:
Don't change your clothes. That husband of yours never cared what you looked like, and you shouldn't either. You should stay home and read a book. Or I'm sure there's something you can find to clean.

From Irina:
It's not about the clothes, Ma. It's about the makeup. I know—I read it in a magazine when we were in line to pay for groceries. If you put on enough makeup, you won't look old!

From Garret:
What you're supposed to wear? You shouldn't ask me that question. Really—don't.

 

 

Thea had forgotten how loud the night could be—the music, the crowds yelling over the music, the way everything seemed so inflated and larger-than-life. Dani had changed out of her ubiquitous uniform to wear curvy dark jeans and a neon orange satin shirt. There was no question that she was turning heads. She talked as loud as she laughed, and people came from across the bar just to stand near her to see what had everyone so lively and entertained.

Thea wasn't feeling too bad herself—she'd pulled on a red tank top that made her look curvy but not trashy. She'd also managed to put on makeup beyond her usual mascara and blush, and she'd been happy with the extra effort: Her eyes looked smoky and even a little sultry. Her dark curls fell softly around her shoulders. Her lips were full and red.

At the bar, she drank cheap Coronas and danced—she was thrilled to discover she still knew how. At some point during the night, she got the feeling that Dani was sending men over her way, telling them to flirt with her, to buy her a drink and show her a good time. The bar became hazy, kaleidoscopic, all color and smiles and laughter, and Thea gave in to it. She could still flirt. She could still drink. Maybe this was what she was meant for—more people, more laughing, more parties. She yelled to Dani over the music: “This is better than staying home.”

One of the men she'd been talking to—a tall guy who looked like something of a cowboy—stuck around. She could barely hear a word he was saying, but somehow, she found there was a lot to laugh about. When the band dropped into a slow song, the last of the night, he put his arms around her waist, and she could feel his breath in her ear.

As the bar emptied out, he took her hand and brought her tripping over the planks of the pier and into the dark. They stood by the railing, the water far below, the stars far overhead, and distant lights of yachts and dinghies watching them from the black of the bay.

She wasn't at all surprised when he kissed her. She felt his hands on her back, crushing her against him. She felt his lips, thin though they were, and the press of his tongue in her mouth. She had the sense that she wasn't actually kissing him but was instead looking down at herself kissing him, watching with detachment as the scene played out.

She felt the cowboy's hands sliding down into her jeans pockets, and she pulled away. This man wanted her to go home with him—she could feel it, emotionally and physically too. Some part of her was tempted, just to see if she could, until it occurred to her that she didn't know his name.

“You're the most fun I've had in a while,” she said.

“Why do I have a feeling there's a ‘but' coming?”

She took his hand from her waist, held it in hers. “I just don't want to move too fast.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yes. Lots of fun.”

He took out his wallet, pulled out his business card. “Then call me if you ever want a good time again.”

She laughed, and he kissed her again. She felt the barest spark of heat—a tiny flame, but a promising one. Maybe her future wasn't entirely sexless after all.

“Thanks,” she said. And she slipped the card in her pocket before he took her hand and led her back in the direction of the closing bar.

 

 

The winter of her senior year, Thea developed the senses of a cat. She swore that she recognized the sound of Garret's particular brand of sneakers on the sidewalk under her window—a sound distinct from the foot traffic of other pedestrians. She thought she could hear the tap of his finger on her window even before his skin touched the glass.

Some nights, he didn't even say hello. He simply came in, kissed her, reached for buttons and hems. He slid under the covers of her bed, whispering, asking, pushing her to the edge of what she could stand. The press of his fingers was strong and greedy. His mouth was hot. When the creaking of the bed threatened to give them away, they moved to the floor. She'd insisted that they keep their underwear on, a frail and absurd barrier—and she couldn't take it, fabric so thin it drove them both crazy, how easily it could be pushed aside, inches this way or that, and all the agony of the moment, built to excessive and terrible pressure, would be eased. Sometimes her whole body trembled uncontrollably so her skin jumped beneath Garret's hands, and the word that would have ended the torment perched on the tip of her tongue even while Garret dared her to speak it.

And yet she stopped him. She had to. It hurt to hold herself away. “Garret.”

His breathing was rough, his focus not quite meeting hers for some moments. When he raised his head from her chest, his eyes were glassy, unfocused too.

“I need you to know something.” She pushed his hair back from his forehead. Why couldn't this man in her bedroom be the same man she saw in the halls of the school each day? “I can't sleep with you yet. I think we should wait until graduation.”

His sigh was a puff of air on her face, and he dropped his head back down. “Why?”

She looked to the ceiling. There was no way to explain.

“Don't you like this?” he asked, his hands moving over her.

She felt the tug between them. “Yes.”

“So why wait? Thea, it's going to be . . . perfect. I promise.”

She propped herself up, the hard floor hurting her elbows. “Why can't we tell anyone we're seeing each other?”

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair. “Is that what this is about?”

“Jonathan knows.”

“He does? Did you tell him?”

“No.” She reached for her nightshirt, pulled it on. “I just don't understand why we can't tell. Are you . . . are you ashamed of me?”

“No,” he said.

“This isn't serious to you?”

“I've never been more serious about anything in my life.” The look in his eyes was fierce, and she wanted to believe him.

“Then what is it?”

He stood up, crossed the room. She felt the space between them widen like rising waters. He grabbed his jeans from where they were crumpled in a ball, and he tugged them over his hips. When he sat down on the bed, she joined him, and the mattress sagged.

“I don't know how to explain,” he whispered.

“Try.”

He looked away. “I like keeping you to myself. I like this being . . . secret. Just you and me.”

“Really?” Thea sniffed. “Because I thought maybe it was that you just like people thinking you're still single, so that way you can keep on flirting with whoever you want to flirt with and keep getting all the attention you need.”

His lips pressed together. “I do like attention, I guess.”

“And girls do like to give it to you.”

“Can I help it if I'm magnetic?”

She shook her head, but inwardly, she was laughing.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked. “You want to tell everyone? Let everyone in? Be . . . what we are in front of everyone?”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“What if we break up?” he asked.

She pulled away, looked at him with new comprehension. She thought,
So that's what this is about
. He was afraid they wouldn't make it. And that having the entire school in on the heartbreak would make a bad situation unbearable. He didn't do well with public failure—the thing that drove him to be exceptionally brave on the soccer field was, ironically enough, a deep and secret fear. Thea wanted to reassure him.

“There's nothing in the world that would make me want to break up with you. Ever,” she said.

“Really?”

“There's a lot of things you have to worry about,” she said. “Losing me isn't one of them.”

He looked into her eyes, kissed her hard. She felt the press of a kiss that branded them both, one to the other, a promise so ongoing and endless that it could never be completed or entirely kept. When he pulled away, the look in his eyes was desperate.

“We'll tell everyone tomorrow. It will be all over the school in seconds.” He kissed her again, softly. “I don't know if I can wait until graduation.”

She didn't speak. She ran her hand along the ridge of his jeans.
Me neither
, is what she didn't say.

 

 

In the pre-morning dark, Thea fumbled with her key chain at the door of the coffee shop, but her fingers felt clumsy and numb, and she couldn't seem to find the right key. She was glad when she saw Jules appear in the alleyway, his ripped jeans slung low on his hips and a yellow plaid shirt untucked and hanging from narrow shoulders.

“Thea? What are you doing here? You're not opening today,” he said. He stood beside her, his pale face still puffy from sleep, and he noticed that she was juggling her keys to find the right one. “Here, let me do that.”

“Thanks.”

He opened the door, and she followed him inside, glad to be out of the dewy chill of morning. She turned on the lights and headed behind the counter to put her purse away and get her apron.

“Coffee?” Jules asked.

“Shot in the dark.”

“Wow. Espresso and coffee together?” He laughed and set the espresso machine to backflush in order to clean it out. “Rough night?”

“Does it count as night if you never go to sleep?”

“I've often wondered the same thing myself,” he said.

For the next twenty minutes, they worked in silence, booting up the register, brewing coffee, and getting ready for the morning rush. The fresh pastries were delivered, and Thea began setting them out for display in the glass-front fridge. When their coffee was finally ready, they stopped a moment to drink. Through the pressure between her temples, she could feel Jules looking at her, puzzling her out.

“Do you feel okay?” he asked.

“I just have a bit of a headache.”

“Oh my God, Thea . . . Are you
hungover
?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; a shooting pain made its way from one eye to the other. “Fine. Yes. Maybe a little. Okay?”

He laughed and held up his hand for a high five. She gave it begrudgingly. “That's awesome. Good for you, getting out there. What'd you do?”