“But you still have sex with Logan,” I say.
Afton’s blue eyes cloud over in a way that makes me think maybe sex with Logan isn’t so great, either. “Yes.”
“Is that a mistake?”
“No. But that’s because I know Logan, and—”
“And I know Leo. We’ve been dating for six months.”
“Wait, isn’t it more like five months?” Afton asks.
“The point is, this is a fine choice.” I fold the wine-colored shirt and the jean shorts carefully and set them on top of my dresser for tomorrow. “It’s my choice. I’m choosing to have sex. With my boyfriend. Who I . . . really like. In a bed. Not in a garage.”
“Okay, fine.” Afton starts flipping through my shirts again, even though we already chose the one I would wear. Her movements are brisk, jerky. Upset again.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” She smiles tightly. Subtext: it’s not fine, but she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I’m happy for you,” she says.
But she doesn’t sound very happy.
5
My best date with Leo was like six weeks ago. Normally our “dates” are just hanging out at his place, but this time we actually went somewhere together. There’s a boardwalk in Santa Cruz with amusement park rides and a long stretch of beach. We spent the first couple hours playing mini golf, of all things, at this indoor pirate-themed golf course. Leo was good at golf. I sucked, but I enjoyed Leo trying to console me every time I missed a shot, a little kiss, a hug, a touch. And I blamed him, of course, for keeping me so distracted.
“I just wanted you to feel good about yourself,” I told him as we scarfed down some pizza for lunch later. “I had to lose so you could feel like you were winning.”
“Is that right?” His honey-brown eyes were full of light and humor. He reached across the table and took my pizza-grease-stained hand in his. He has large hands, like big blocks on the ends of his arms. An artist’s eye is trained to recognize shapes, and to mine, Leo’s hand is made of solid squares and rectangles. But gentle.
“That’s right.”
“In that case, thank you,” he said, and actually lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You’re my good-luck charm, I guess.”
But it was me who felt like I was winning.
He made me feel brave. Like if a guy like Leo liked me, I must be doing something right. And that made me feel like I could do anything. Be anything. Strong. Fearless. Attractive. Cool. The way I always saw Afton, but me this time. Me.
So then I went on the boardwalk rides with Leo, even though I don’t like rides. I got tossed into the air, screaming in a fun way. I was whisked and whipped by a roller coaster, swung by one ride, spun by another, and I didn’t barf, not once.
Leo played some of the carnival games, and because he’s good at everything, he won more often than he lost. I was his good-luck charm.
But the best part was at the end: when we walked along the beach, holding cotton-candy-sticky hands. We didn’t talk much. We took off our shoes and rolled up our pant legs and made a set of footprints in the sand, side by side. We played for a while—like kids, I guess—a kind of tag with the water, back and forth, laughing when it almost caught us. Then we let it catch us, and stood kissing while the waves rolled past our legs. Salt on Leo’s lips. Golden glints in his tawny hair. The water shining as the sun began to set.
If my life has a top ten list, this is in the top three. Leo on the beach. It’s the image that keeps coming back as I lie in bed tonight, thinking about tomorrow and the sex I’m determined to have, no matter what now, so Leo will be happy. I’ll be happy, too, of course—this isn’t all for him. I still don’t know if I love Leo, like from-the-heart love him, but maybe I do. I think about the day on the beach and it makes me feel all warm inside. Tingly. Nice. That could be love. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on the word.
What I do know is that I’m ready this time. Seriously. I’m ready.
Because Leo is a miracle, I tell myself.
And I want to believe.
6
Saturday afternoon. I’m nervous as I make my way into the pool area where (after some light internet stalking) I figured out that Leo’s swim meet was being held. But it’s a good nervous. I feel prepared this time. Ready, like I said. I even feel pretty. My hair has been tamed and braided over one shoulder. I’m wearing some light makeup and the prearranged outfit and a pair of strappy sandals that show off the pedicure Afton gave me. The shoes are Afton’s, too. We don’t have the same size bodies, so we’ve never been able to share clothes, but we do have the same size feet: seven and a half.
I trot those strappy sandals up to a seat in the bleachers. From above I spot Leo right away. His cowlick is covered by a swim cap, and his eyes with goggles, but I still recognize him by his height and the chest-forward way he strides along the edge of the pool. He’s wearing a black Speedo with a bright blue letter Q on the side—Q for Quicksilver, the name of his swim team.
I don’t try to get his attention, and I don’t text to tell him I’m here. I don’t want him to know yet. I’ve been imagining a moment while he’s swimming when he’ll look up, and then he’ll see me here, and I will wave and cheer, and he will smile and swim even faster.
He’s gorgeous in the water, graceful in a way he isn’t on solid ground. I compose a half dozen mental sketches of him swimming, the shapes filling my mind: the double arcs of his arms sluicing through the crystalline liquid, his legs trailing behind, the fierce set of his mouth as he pushes forward. I can almost understand his preoccupation with Michael Phelps. There’s something mesmerizing about watching Leo do what he does best.
But he never looks up. When he’s in the water he’s completely focused, and when he’s out of the water he concentrates on his teammates, encouraging them, calling out their names.
“Go, Kayla!” he screams during one of the girls’ races. “You’ve got this, Kayla! You’re killing it, Kayla! Go!”
I wonder if the swimmers can even hear what people shout at them, or if their ears are full of water. I guess it doesn’t matter. The point is that people are cheering them on.
I feel proud when Leo wins first place in his division, like my presence has brought him good luck, like that day on the boardwalk. I’m happy for him, of course, but I’m also happy because now tonight’s sex can be a celebration of his awesomeness. If he lost, it might feel like consolation sex, which sounds like less fun. The only problem is that I can’t stay the night. My family is leaving for Hawaii at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.
Hawaii is turning out to be a major inconvenience in my life.
I wait until the meet is completely over—the medals handed out and everything—before approaching Leo. Outside the men’s locker room I pause a moment to reapply my lip balm. I want my lips to be soft and smooth against his when we kiss. My heart is beating fast again. But good fast.
“Hello there,” I imagine myself saying as he comes out. Or maybe I’ll try to come up with something bold like I said that first day in his mother’s gallery, like, “It must be exhausting, being that good at swimming.”