Oh god, I’m thinking about my mother. I squirm, and Leo pulls back. His face is so red it makes his eyebrows stand out against his skin, like furry caterpillars clinging to his forehead. It’s distracting.
“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles.
“You too,” I say automatically, and blush so hard it feels like my cheeks and neck have been scalded. Leo keeps kissing me and touching me, and I’m totally into it. At least my body is. My lower half seems to be transforming into hot liquid. There’s a knot of sensation building between my legs. But the further along we get, the closer to the actual sex that’s going to be happening any minute now, the more weirdly disconnected I feel. To the point where I can almost slip out of my body and float over us. See myself from the outside.
I’m wearing a red Harry Potter shirt from last year’s trip to Orlando. It reads “9¾” on the front. It’s childish—I can see that so clearly now—and unflattering, a size too big for me, because I prefer loose-fitting clothes. Leo is pulling this shirt up, exposing my very white, not-very-flat belly, and underneath he discovers a gray sports bra, which confounds him because it doesn’t have any kind of hook or clasp. My mind whirls trying to remember what panties I’m wearing. Hopefully not the plain white cotton with the hole in the butt, which I should have thrown away months ago, but they’re the most comfortable pair I own. Shit. It’s probably those. My hair is tangled around my head. My chest heaves behind the sports bra, which is dark in places, because I’m so sweaty.
From this vantage point, the one in my imagination—seeing as how my eyes are actually squeezed shut—I know I’m not beautiful. Leo only said that to try to make me feel sexy. So I would want to have sex.
I do want to have sex, don’t I?
Yes, I tell myself. Relax. This is fine.
But then Leo’s hand is on the button of my shorts, and my upper half turns to ice. Wait, I think. Wait, and then I almost knock heads with him as I try to sit up.
He examines my face. “Hey. Are you okay?”
I swipe at a strand of hair that’s clinging damply to my cheek. “I’m good. Sorry. Can we just take it slower?”
He nods. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
“Okay.” I lean in to kiss him again. We do that for a while, and the tension in my shoulders eases. He’s very good at kissing, and I’m not so bad at it, either. It’s not sloppy or teeth-banging. There’s just the right amount of tongue involved. His arms feel solid around me. His hand squeezing my breast is good. I try to touch him, too, running my hands along his back, his swimmer’s chest. Then lower.
“I love you,” he says then, softly.
My hand stills. He’s never said that before, the L-word. Neither of us have.
He says, “I should, uh, get some protection.”
I blink up at him. Somehow I’m lying down again, although I don’t know when that happened. “What?”
He spells it out for me. “A condom.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” How responsible of us.
He gets up and goes out of the room. I wonder where he’s going for this condom. Is he ransacking his mom’s bedside table? Or the bathroom, where he has a stash for situations such as these? Has he done this before? We haven’t talked about it. We really should have talked about it. At least then I would know what to expect.
I smooth my clothes back down over myself and take a steadying breath. The gray jersey sheets beneath me smell like fresh laundry detergent. I sit up. I’m surprised, actually, by how clean Leo’s room is. There are no piles of dirty laundry like you’d find on the floor of my room. The carpet even has vacuum lines in it.
How long has he been planning this? Did he wake up this morning thinking tonight’s the night? Did he tidy up and wash his sheets and hug his mom goodbye with a secret smile because he knew he was going to get laid? When all that time I was thinking that we were simply going to a movie this afternoon, then maybe we’d go back to his house, have dinner and talk art with Leo’s mom, stream a show. Most of our relationship consists of watching various things together. And making out while his mom isn’t looking.
But this.
It’s unfair of him, springing this on me. I would have dressed better if I’d known, done something with my hair. Picked different underwear, at least. Shaved my legs.
Oh god. I haven’t shaved my legs in days.
I glance around wildly like a razor is just going to magically materialize. Michael Phelps glares down at me from the walls. One of the posters reads, FEARLESS. If you want to be the best, you have to do things other people aren’t willing to do.
And Leo just said he loved me. Was he being serious? Did he mean love the way you can say, I love peanut butter cups? Or the real way? Was I supposed to say it back? I like him, yes, so much, but could I say I love him? I mouth the words “I love you,” and it feels fake. Maybe I could mean it in the peanut-butter-cup sense. But it’s too late to respond now, anyway. He said he loved me, and I didn’t say anything, and now we’re on to the sex.
This is happening. I’m about to have sex.
Leo returns. He holds up a foil packet triumphantly. “Okay, let’s do this.”
That’s when I know I can’t do this.
“Actually, let’s not.” I stand up, eager to get off the bed.
His smile fades. “What? What happened?”
“Nothing. I . . .” I choose my next words very carefully. “I just don’t want to go all the way. Not tonight. Okay?”
Now he looks like a little kid who’s opened his Christmas present to discover a sweater. “But why not?”
“I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. Sorry,” I tack on, and then hate myself for apologizing. I’m not supposed to be sorry. But I am.
Leo’s frowning, but he says, “All right. I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it, obviously.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Silence builds between us. A new song starts pouring out of the speaker, a song I know this time, a slow song by The Weeknd called “Earned It.” Over Leo’s shoulder I read another inspirational Michael Phelps poster. You can’t put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get.
Leo puts the condom on the bedside table. “So what do you want to do?”
I wouldn’t mind making out some more, but that could send a mixed message. Besides, my lower half is starting to ache, a tight but heavy, decidedly unpleasant feeling, like period cramps. I try to smile at him. “I don’t know. Maybe we could watch something?”
“Sure,” he says dully. “Whatever you want.”
2
“I thought you were staying at Lucy’s tonight,” Pop says when I come into the kitchen later.
“I just wanted to be home.” Things were awkward with Leo, so awkward that I finally said I wasn’t feeling well—which wasn’t really a lie—and he insisted on walking me to the train station.
“You’re my little homebody,” Pop says now with a smile. Like that’s cute.
My five-year-old sister, Abby, is sitting at the counter coloring while Pop makes dinner. “What’s a homebody?” Abby asks.