The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  “I mean, he’s kinda messed up. But brilliant.” I take another sip. It doesn’t taste as bad this time, like my senses have been dulled. “Are any of them women? I just realized you don’t wear any women.”

  “Wearing women. Sounds a bit Silence of the Lambs, don’t you think?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I only wear my favorites.”

  I want to say something about that, but he’s standing so close to me that I can see the freshly shaved stubble on his jaw, can almost feel his warm breath. I don’t want to challenge him and ruin the fizzling magic of this moment.

  “Okay, how about Collins?”

  “You’re a director?” He raises his eyebrows, an expression I hope means he’s impressed.

  “I might be,” I say. “Someday. And then you can put me on your shirt.”

  “Well, let me know when the time comes,” he says, leaning toward me, his voice low. “Because you’ll definitely be one of my favorites.”

  “Okay.” I can tell I’m smiling like crazy, but I can’t help it. I feel clumsy, alight from his words. I put the bottle down on top of the dresser and notice a pile of photographs, in disarray as if someone has carelessly dropped them there. “What are these?”

  I pick up the first picture in the pile and look at it before it can cross my mind that it might be personal. It’s a woman, slim and beautiful, with long dark hair and a wide smile. She looks like someone you’d want to tell secrets to over a steaming mug of tea.

  “Oh, that’s my mom,” he says, scratching the stubble on his face.

  “Sorry.” I put the photograph back down on the dresser. “Are these private? I didn’t mean to look. I just—”

  “It’s no big deal,” he says, picking it back up. He smiles, running a finger down the side of her glossy face. “I took these when I was home over Christmas break. I don’t get to see her much, so it’s kind of nice to have these.” He picks up another photograph, this one a German shepherd, tongue flopping out the side of its mouth. “They’re like tiny stand-ins for my family. Sometimes when I’m, like . . . lonely or stressed or whatever, I’ll talk to them. Is that corny? Sorry, that’s pretty corny.” His face turns an adorable red color. “I’ve clearly had too much whiskey if I’m telling you these things.”

  “It’s not corny,” I say. “It’s sweet.” I want to reach a hand up and run it through his tousled hair, but I keep my arms firmly by my sides.

  “To be honest, I miss Charlie the most.” He grins. “He’s the dog.”

  “That’s my friend’s ex-boyfriend’s name, actually. Charlie. He’s a Death Eater.” I press my lips together as soon as I’ve said it because oh my god Dean is going to think I’m idiotic. He doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate a Harry Potter reference.

  Luckily he laughs. “Really? Hmm, well, this Charlie is more of a shoe eater. And a furniture eater. And sometimes even his own shit.”

  “Glad Hannah’s ex didn’t do that,” I say. I have to get us back on track. How do I keep leading us into the least sexy conversations of all time? I look back at the pictures. “What’s your mom like?” I just want to know everything about him, wrap myself up in the details of his life like a blanket.

  “She’s a badass,” he says. “Raised my brother and me on her own.”

  “I like her.” I pick up her picture, standing it vertically on the dresser as if it has little legs. “Hi, Dean,” I say in a high-pitched voice, wiggling the picture to make it talk. “You should clean your room. It’s a mess.” I’m surprising myself, acting silly like this. I’ve been so reserved in front of Dean so far, so nervous, like every interaction between us is a test I need to pass. Maybe it’s the sips of whiskey working their way through me, warming me from my chest to my toes. Maybe it’s the change in location. I’m so very aware of his bed only a few feet away from us. We’ve never been truly alone before, not like this. I wonder briefly if he locked the door when we came in. I didn’t notice.

  “I shouldn’t be drinking in front of my mom,” he says, picking up the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “She wouldn’t approve.” He takes a sip anyway and then hands it over to me.

  “Well, then I probably shouldn’t drink either. I want to make a good impression on her.”

  He puts a hand over her face, shielding her eyes. “Coast is clear.”

  I giggle, feeling light and airy. Then, horribly, I snort. I feel heat flood through me. Snorting in front of my friends is one thing, but this is James Dean. I have always tried so hard to limit my awkward bodily noises in front of boys.

  “Did you just snort?”

  “Nope,” I say, and then take a drink from the bottle. “So what do you say when you talk to them? The pictures.”

  “If you don’t snort, then I don’t talk to pictures,” he answers, grinning. He runs a hand through his dark mess of hair and I watch it enviously.

  “Fine,” I say. “I may have snorted. What do you say?”

  “Give me another drink first.”

  I hand him the bottle and he takes a sip, smacking his lips dramatically when he’s done. Then he puts it back on the dresser and picks up the picture of his mom. He clears his throat and then winks at me. Winking is usually something people do in cheesy movies, but seeing James Dean, a normal, cute, definitely-not-cheesy guy, wink at me makes it feel new, like he’s the one who invented it.

  He grins, looking at me and then down at the picture of his mom. For a moment—just a flash—I’m filled with embarrassment that I asked him to do something so silly, so awkward and personal. Why did I think this was a good idea? Then he begins to speak and my anxiety melts away at the warm, easy tone in his voice. He isn’t embarrassed. Of course he isn’t.

  “Mom, how’s it going?” he says to the picture. “You’re looking fantastic, really sepia-toned. Please don’t judge my behavior at the moment.” He glances away from the photo to look at me, his gaze locking on to mine. “Because I am drinking, and I have a pretty girl in my room, and I might kiss her.”

  “Are you drunk?” I ask suddenly, leaning closer to him—so close I can see a fleck of gold in one of his eyes.

  “Probably,” he says. “A little.” He smiles at me in an easy, relaxed way, and I feel myself drawn to him, smiling to match his.

  “I think I might be,” I say.

  And then he kisses me. I’ve only been kissed once before, at summer camp when I was fifteen. This kiss is nothing like that one—a kiss I now know, with certainty, didn’t count. Dean’s tongue rubs against my lips, begging permission, and so I open them and let him in, the feel of it new and wonderful. He moves his hand from my neck down my arm and then takes hold of my hand, intertwining our fingers. He tugs me over to the bed, never breaking contact. I sit down with a thunk, the bed lower than I expected it to be, and start to giggle, the tension and energy between us too much. Dean pulls away to place a light kiss on the top of my nose.

  “You’re cute.”

  He gently pushes me back so I’m lying on the bed, and then lies over me, his body covering mine, touching mine in all the right places. His hands roam through my hair and down the side of my waist to touch the bare skin between my jeans and top. He pulls his lips from mine and begins to press light kisses down my neck, and I tighten my grasp on his shirt. His smell is intoxicating, aftershave mixed faintly with tobacco smoke, and something about it feels so grown up. He smells like a man somehow, not like some boy from high school, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that, entwined together on the bed. It could be hours, days, years. I’m in a daze, my only thoughts on the feel of him.

  “You should stay over,” he says, breathing huskily into my ear. His voice is a rough whisper and as he speaks, his lips brush the soft skin of my earlobe.

  “What about my friends?” I ask, pulling away slightly.

>   “They’ll be fine.” He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “They can stay over too, on the couch. Or they can go home. Whatever.”

  “I should just check,” I say, pulling out of his grasp to find my phone. I have no idea what time it is. How long have we been in his room? I press the button to light up the screen, and see it’s already after midnight. I have a bunch of texts.

  HANNAH

  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

  DANIELLE

  Are you still a virgin?

  AVA

  have you seeen Deany’s wieney?

  HANNAH

  Ava is dancing on the coffee table. We might need to take her home soon

  AVA

  DANIELLE

  Ava is singing show tunes! We’re taking her home. It’s for her own good. Stay here and get laid

  HANNAH

  Do you want to come with us?

  AVA

  Keely god liuck u luve yo!

  “I think they might have left,” I say. I know I should be upset they ditched me, but a part of me is glad I have an excuse to stay. I type a group message back.

  I’m going to stay here. See you guys tomorrow

  As soon as the message sends I feel the impact of what the words mean, my stomach flipping uneasily. I’m staying the night. In a boy’s bed.

  “Good,” he says. He flips off the light on his bedside table and then he pulls me back down, a smile in his kiss. His lips brush my cheek, then my chin, then down my neck, giving me shivers. He pulls away and then brings his shirt up over his head, revealing a toned chest. I reach a hand up to his shoulder and then brush my fingertips softly down his bare arm, reveling in the feeling of his warm skin.

  “Your turn,” he says, his voice raspy. He holds on to the bottom of my top, and then slowly pulls the fabric up over my head. I don’t stop him, but I suck in a deep breath when he leans back to look at me, and I’m thankful the room is dark.

  I’m in Danielle’s bra—a black lacy one from Victoria’s Secret, and it’s a little too big for me. She noticed my old sports bra when we were getting ready earlier and insisted I borrow one of hers, a “real bra,” just in case. Now I’m glad I did.

  “You’re so hot,” he says.

  “Really?” I ask before realizing it’s the wrong thing to say.

  “Damn right,” he says, pulling me toward him. He settles down into the mattress and I settle onto him. We stay like that for a while longer, though it’s hard to judge how long. I feel like we’re separate from time—like the world is going on around us, but we aren’t a part of it. We’re in our own galaxy, just lips and warm breath and soft hands. I feel like I’m honey dripping slowly from a spoon.

  And then he pulls his face from mine and whispers the words that snap me back into focus.

  “Should I get a condom?”

  “What?” I whisper back, though I heard him perfectly. I don’t know what else to say. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and says it again, his voice scratchy from lack of use.

  “Should I get a condom?”

  Yes. Isn’t that the obvious answer? Isn’t this what I was hoping would happen when I came to his house, when I went alone to his room? I think of Danielle’s warning from earlier in the night, an uneasy feeling churning in my stomach. If you tell him you’re a virgin, it could only go two ways: he’ll be weirded out and lose interest, or he’ll take your virginity and never speak to you again. I just doubt he wants to teach you how to have sex.

  It’s a catch-22. I don’t want to be a virgin anymore, but I don’t want to scare Dean away by letting him take my virginity. What if he freaks out at my inexperience? Or maybe worse—what if he never talks to me again afterward, because he’s gotten what he wanted? I wish there was some way to just get it over with, some way to have already had sex. I don’t want Dean to have to teach me. I want to already know what I’m doing. I want this not to be a BIG DEAL.

  Maybe Dean doesn’t have to know I’m a virgin. I know the basics. I could probably fake it. But what if it hurts? Hannah told me the first time she had sex with Charlie, it hurt so much she cried. They lay on top of a bath towel just in case, and she bled all over it. I can’t imagine the humiliation I’d feel if I bled all over Dean’s sheets. He would have to wash them right away, would have to take them into the living room where Cody might see them, and they’d both laugh and call me disgusting, and that would become my label: the disgusting high school girl who ruined Dean’s sheets. The lying virgin caught red-handed. I’d be an embarrassing blip on Dean’s timeline: a regretful mistake.

  “Keely?” He sits up and leans over to his bedside table, rummaging through it in the dark. Then there it is in his hand—a condom, wrapped in a shiny square package. I’ve seen condoms before in health class. They’re passed around in a basket several times a year while everyone giggles and self-consciously grabs a few, like some twisted grown-up version of trick-or-treat. Still, condoms are novel to me. The fact that Dean keeps them in his bedside table, that he uses them enough to have them on hand, feels strange. To Dean, are condoms just as ordinary as hand sanitizer or Advil?

  “It’s okay,” I say, though it doesn’t mean anything. I feel like I’m speaking into a tunnel.

  “What’s okay?” He reaches down toward his belt, undoing the buckle with deft fingers.

  “No, I mean, we don’t have to.”

  “You’re cool with no condom?” he asks, flicking it away. He pulls the belt off.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “We don’t have to have sex.”

  He grins at me, his teeth still visible in the dark room. “Of course we don’t have to.” He kisses me, pulling me back toward him, back into our galaxy. “But we want to.” His hand reaches toward the button of my pants.

  I remember with horror that I’m wearing an old pair of underwear, cotton with polar bears I’ve had since middle school. Danielle didn’t offer to let me borrow any “real underwear,” and I didn’t ask because that would have been too weird. I feel clammy, my breath shallow, like I’ve had too much whiskey, even though we stopped drinking ages ago.

  “Wait.”

  “You okay?” He draws back his hand.

  “I think we should wait.”

  “Oh.” He sounds disappointed. Sitting up, he pulls away from me. “Oh. Okay.”

  “I want to,” I say, stupidly upset I’ve let him down. “I want to. Just not yet.”

  “Are you sure? It’s not a big deal.” He kisses me again, as if he knows the magic he holds in his kisses, the spell he casts over me with his lips and tongue. But I’m stuck, my virginity an invisible wall between us. I’ll make a decision later. This isn’t my only chance with Dean. It can’t be.

  “Another time, okay?”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” I take his hand in mine and squeeze, the thought hitting me that promising is sort of like making a decision after all.

  “You know how I feel about promises.” He kisses the tip of my nose and then sits up and gets out of bed. “I’m gonna go take a shower. I won’t be able to sleep until this goes away.” He motions casually toward his pants, unembarrassed.

  “Oh, sure.” I’m trying to sound casual but I can’t breathe.

  “See you later, work buddy.” Grabbing a towel out of the hamper, he slings it over his shoulder, whistling as he leaves the room.

  When he comes back fifteen minutes later, I pretend to be asleep. It feels easier to lie next to him with my eyes closed than to have to come up with new things to say. I can be cool, confident, and experienced again in the morning. He climbs into bed next to me and curls himself around me, tangling his legs with mine.

  I don’t sleep a wink.
r />   TWELVE

  IN THE MORNING I’m still lying stiffly beside Dean, who’s snoring softly, little puffs of air tickling my ear. His arm is slung over me, holding me still. I sit up as much as I can, trying to reach for my phone without waking him.

  When I get ahold of it, I click it on and check the time: 7:30. I have to get back to Danielle’s soon, before her parents notice I’m missing. Is it too early to wake Dean? I study his face for a minute, thankful for the opportunity to stare at him unnoticed. He looks younger when he sleeps, and less intimidating. He has a dark freckle next to his left eye and a little scar on his forehead I can just barely see through a part in his messy hair.

  I’m worried that once he wakes up the easy way things were last night will be gone, that everything between us was only a result of the whiskey. Talking to him now might ruin it. I don’t want him to see the morning crusts in my eyes. What if he tries to kiss me and I have morning breath? Or worse, what if he doesn’t try to kiss me at all?

  I have to get out from under his arm.

  I shift slightly to the right, trying to wiggle over to the side of the bed as quietly as I can. He moves and the arm tightens, pulling me closer into his chest. I lie still for a minute, enjoying the feel of it. With his body against mine it’s easy to imagine just staying here forever.

  But then I think again of my greasy face and the mascara that’s probably smudged under my eyes. No, definitely better to sneak out. I pause for a moment, sinking into him and closing my eyes, trying to remember exactly how it feels to be wrapped up in him, in case it’s the last time. And then I lift his arm just enough to squeeze under and climb out of the bed, trying to gather up my scattered clothes.

  As I put my top on, I feel a lot more exposed in the morning light than I did last night. I glance over at the pair of sparkling torture shoes lying by the door. I really don’t want to strap them back on.