I love this man, and I have been in love with him since my junior year of high school. The perpetual sincerity in his voice shakes my steel core every time.
“All right,” I say, caving in without putting up much of a fight. “But I swear, if someone calls me Linda, I’m out of there immediately. Do you hear me?”
“We don’t have to stay the entire time if you don’t want. I just want to hang out with you.”
Against my better judgment, I agree to let him shower and change clothes before heading to the bonfire, but now that we’re here in the trailer park, I’m not so sure it was a good idea.
Arthur pulls into the gravel driveway of a small mobile home, then hops out of his truck and hastily opens my door. His excitement is a little jarring, honestly, because I am not used to bright, bubbly personalities, not after having been away at college for the past year. I’m used to keeping my eyes glued to the sidewalk and walking with my earbuds in, to avoid any unnecessary—or necessary—conversations.
Arthur helps me down from the truck and hugs me again, this time pressing his chest against mine.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he says. His voice cracks a little, like he’s about to cry. “You have no idea.”
Arthur’s trailer is small, but clean and tidy, with lingering scents of bleach and Pine-Sol in the air, and I’m surprised to see a bag of cat food sitting on his kitchen table.
“Do you have a cat?” I ask, half-shouting so that he can hear me in the backroom. “I thought you were allergic!”
“Two,” he says, the sound of his voice mixing with other noises. “Yin and Yang.”
Arthur returns from his bedroom, walking down the narrow hallway, two kittens—one black, one white—in his arms. I notice he’s not wearing a shirt and that his ponytail has come undone. My pulse speeds up.
Coming here was a terrible idea. I’ve made a huge mistake.
I try not to look at Arthur’s large forearms, or the blue veins coming to the surface of his heavily tan skin, or the surprisingly large tattoo of a claymore on his biceps that he must have gotten sometime this past year. But there’s just so much of him now that averting my gaze would be too obvious.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. The kittens jump from his arms onto the table and chase after each other. “Feel free help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’ve got some filtered water, and some chocolate soy milk, I think. There might be a beer in there, but I’m not sure. It’s been a few days since I’ve actually had the time to sit down and eat a home-cooked meal.”
I pour myself a glass of water and look at a wall calendar next to the refrigerator. Today’s date is circled in bright red ink, and below is written the word LANCE accompanied by two underlines. Arthur must have asked Gwen in advance if he could pick me up from the store. Those two are always up to something.
When Arthur emerges from the bathroom, I smell him instantly—a familiar mixture of patchouli and cedar announcing his existence. I would know that scent anywhere, because it’s one that I’ve associated with him since the eleventh grade. It never gets old.
Walking into the kitchen now, wearing a tight black T-shirt that fits snugly around his biceps and a pair of black skinny jeans that hug his lean frame, Arthur could easily be mistaken for the witch responsible for tonight’s séance and bonfire.
When he calls my name, I blanch, because I have no idea how long I’ve been staring at him.
“Oh, huh?” I ask, placing my glass in the sink, my back now turned toward him. “What was that? I’m sorry, I spaced out. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
Arthur laces up his other boot and says, “I asked if you were seeing anyone at the moment.”
The question slithers its way up my neck and squeezes at my throat, cutting off my oxygen. Arthur has a way of doing this to me, and I know by the way he asked the question that it’s been on his mind for some time now.
“I don’t really have time to do much other than study, you know?” I say, taking a seat on the black futon in the living room. “I’m kind of boring.”
Arthur straightens his back and unbuttons his pants, then tucks in his shirt. “Well,” he replies, “I don’t plan on doing anything this summer other than working, and trying to spend as much time with you as I can. How does that sound?”
My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. Gwen has finally responded, but instead of an apology, she’s texted a picture of two men dressed in black leather, kissing. I roll my eyes and shove the phone back into my pocket. Ass. When I raise my head, I see Arthur staring at me.
“What?” I ask, hoping that he didn’t see Gwen’s text. “What is it?”
He sits down beside me on the futon and fixes my shirt collar.
“I’m just waitin’ for you to ask me if I’m seeing anyone,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
Arthur hasn’t always been so forward, but in the year that I’ve been away, he’s become a proper man. Working a full-time job, living by himself, driving his own car and paying all of his bills—a truly admirable thing for a man who’s not quite nineteen years old. I don’t know how he does it.
I swallow and look down at the relatively fresh tattoos on my knuckles. They’re not peeling anymore, but they have started itching, and I silently chide myself for not keeping lotion in my bag. The moon on my thumb is the worst offender.
“Are you seeing anyone?” My question is barely audible.
“Nope,” he says, buttoning and unbuttoning my collar. “I’m as single as it gets.”
“That’s not what your Instagram suggests,” I say, catching his hands mid-buttoning. Our eyes finally meet. “Looks like you have a different girl every week.”
Arthur bites his bottom lip and wags his head. “You know everythin’ posted on the Internet ain’t real life. And besides, I wouldn’t lie to ya.”
Arthur has asked me out twice now, and both times I have turned him down because I’m not ready for a relationship. Or rather, I’m not ready to have my heart broken by this man. It’s one of the reasons why I didn’t come home this past year. Actually, he’s the main reason, if I’m being completely honest with myself.
The moment I first laid eyes on Arthur, I knew he would be my undoing. I can’t resist a man with blond hair and brown eyes—they make for a deadly concoction when combined.
At first I told myself to resist his charms because of our age difference—he was in the ninth grade when we met—but then last year he texted me on his birthday at midnight, an image of a pack of cigarettes and two porno mags. An announcement to me—and the world, I guess, as the image later popped up on Instagram—that he was of consenting age. I never saw so many people like an image of a Playgirl in all my life.
“I didn’t call you a liar,” I reply. “But you ain’t exactly some sweet, innocent boy no more.”
Arthur exhales loudly and sinks into the futon cushion. “Lance,” he says. “I don’t want to be turned down a third time.”
“So then don’t ask me if you think you already know the answer.”
We sit in silence until Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. The sound of the spark catching fills the small room. I turn around and see a joint in his hand.