The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  “My heart isn’t your problem,” I say, and my voice cracks, because of course I want it to be. “You should have let me get my heart broken. That’s just a part of life, isn’t it? You can’t keep me locked away in a tower like freaking Rapunzel!” He takes a step toward me and I take a step back, needing to get away from him before I do something stupid. “You’re not my brother or my boyfriend.”

  “Keely, I didn’t mean . . . I just know these guys and I hear the way they talk and I didn’t want that for you. You deserve better. You deserve someone who loves you.” His voice is soft and kind and it kills me.

  “Well, how am I supposed to find that if you won’t let anyone near me?”

  “You found someone anyway, didn’t you?” he says. “Where’s your date?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. He could be standing right behind me at this point and I wouldn’t notice. My entire focus is on this conversation, on this fight. “Did you tell him to stay away too?”

  “Of course he’s missing.” Andrew sighs. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Typical.”

  “Why do you hate him?” I’m yelling now, and I can see that Abby has completely given up on her text, watching us with rapt attention.

  “I don’t hate him,” he says, and then shakes his head, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “Actually, you know what, I do hate him. I have every right to. You used me to get with him. You fucking said his name while we were hooking up. You’re the hypocrite, Collins. You get mad at me for using girls, for hooking up with girls when it doesn’t mean anything, but you’re the master at using people. You didn’t even care about my feelings.”

  “You never care about anyone’s feelings!” I say, throwing my hands into the air. “You’ve been sleeping with girls for years, throwing them away the second something better comes along.”

  “No I haven’t!” he shouts.

  “Are you kidding? You’ve—”

  “I haven’t been sleeping with anyone!” He looks quickly behind him and then takes my arm and pulls me farther into the corner, out of earshot.

  “What are you talking about?” I say, pulling my arm out of his grip.

  “I haven’t . . .” He pauses, and his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him over the thumping of the music. “I haven’t slept . . . with anyone. Ever.”

  “That’s not . . .” That’s not true, I want to say. But—he never slept with Cecilia, she said so herself, never slept with Sophie, because she’s waiting until marriage.

  “You’re a virgin?” I ask, feeling as small as my voice.

  “Yeah.”

  It all makes sense now—why he’s been acting so cagey around me. It’s because, this whole time, he’s been scared I’ll find out the truth.

  “You lied to me,” I say. “I thought . . . you let me believe you were some sort of expert. I never would have . . .”

  “Come on, Collins, that’s not fair. What was I supposed to say? You came to me and you were so vulnerable and I just wanted to help you. I just felt bad—”

  “You felt bad for me,” I say, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut. Could I be any more pathetic? “You could have told me the truth. I feel like such an idiot. I asked for your help, I wanted your advice, and you didn’t know anything either.”

  “It’s not easy for guys to just . . . admit they don’t know anything. I never lied to you, I just didn’t correct you when you assumed—”

  “You made it pretty easy to assume!” I think of all the times he’s told me about his hookups, how I never once asked for clarification on what the term meant; how convenient that must have been for him. Hooking up can mean so many different things: making out on a dance floor, a hand job at the movie theater, going almost all the way in someone’s bed but changing your mind.

  “There are expectations when you’re a guy,” Andrew says. “There’s pressure. Guys talk shit. And you’ve always had these ideas about me—Party Andrew. Everybody has these ideas about me now, and I can’t just . . . I’m all fucking talk, okay? Is that what you want to hear? If people want to believe I’m some big player, I’m not going to correct anybody. You can’t just admit to other dudes that it hasn’t happened yet. That you want sex to be special. Nobody buys that.”

  “But I’m not just anybody,” I say. “I’m somebody. I’m your most important somebody.”

  I’m not though; I realize as soon as I say it. “So you haven’t slept with Danielle.” It’s a statement, not a question. He doesn’t answer, and I let the word hanging between us unsaid come to the surface: “Yet.”

  He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “You’ve had plenty of opportunities. Why did you let Chase get there first?”

  He takes a long time to answer, like even now the words are hard for him to admit. “It’s not a race, Collins.”

  “Are you sure?” Because that’s how it’s felt so far—like high school is one big competition and I’m the one losing.

  Just then, I feel a heavy arm on my shoulder, the familiar smell of aftershave and tobacco that once made me so giddy, and I know that it’s Dean. Andrew’s expression hardens and he stands up a little bit straighter, and I bristle, because there it is in action: there’s the overprotective brother.

  “What are you two fighting about now?” Dean asks, and the question makes me sad. Andrew and I have disintegrated so much—our friendship is so strained—that Dean assumes we’re probably fighting about something. And even though Dean is the reason for it, it’s my fault really. I was the one who couldn’t be honest with myself, who couldn’t be honest with Dean. I was the one who decided to risk my friendship with Andrew instead of telling Dean the truth. I’m the one who messed everything up.

  “We’re not fighting,” Andrew says. Even though he’s admitted his secret to me, I can tell he still doesn’t want anyone to know.

  “Oh thank God,” Dean says, his tone flat and sarcastic. He nuzzles his face into my neck, tickling my skin with his nose. “It’s getting pretty boring here. You want to head up to the room?”

  I know I should answer Dean, but I can’t look away from Andrew. His cheeks are red from our fight, and he’s breathing hard. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and he looks, suddenly, so young, like the little boy I used to tell everything to.

  And all I want to do is comfort him, even though I’m the reason he’s upset in the first place. I want to leave everything behind—leave this ballroom, leave Dean, leave Prescott, and just be with him, just hold on to him and never let him go. But it’s too late for that.

  I know suddenly what his grand gesture is going to be. I know why he and Danielle got a room tonight. He’s going to tell her he loves her and then he’s going to sleep with her for the first time. His first time.

  So I have to let him go.

  I turn around and face Dean, placing my hands on either side of his chin and pulling his face toward mine. Then I kiss him like there’s nobody else around—like we’re already up in the room. I kiss him like it’s a promise. When I pull back, I can see his pupils have dilated.

  “Yeah, let’s head up to the room,” I say, my voice scratchy.

  He begins to lead me away and I let him, following him toward the exit. I don’t want to look back at Andrew, but I can’t help it and at the last second I turn and look behind me, afraid of what I’ll see on his face.

  But he isn’t there anymore. I don’t know when he left. Maybe it was a long time ago.

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE ROOM IS beautiful. It’s everything you’d expect in an old hotel—dark wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, a red carpet and plush armchair, a fireplace with a coat of arms over it like we’re no longer in Vermont but in some European castle far, far away. Best of all (though it doesn’t fe
el that way right now) there’s a giant four-poster bed.

  Dean heads directly for the bed, pulling me with him. The sheets feel like they’re made of butter, like you could melt into them. It’s like we’re in a movie—this is exactly the moment I wanted it to be. It’s exactly the right time.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  Dean kisses me and I kiss him back but then pull away and slide a few feet away from him, so there’s a respectable space between us on the bed.

  “Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I say, because I need to fill the silence.

  “No problem,” he says. Then he breaks into a smile and I can see the joke forming behind his eyes. “I’ll come with you all night.”

  I try to laugh, but I feel a bit dizzy and the sound doesn’t come out quite right. I can still hear the thumping bass of the music coming from downstairs, but everything is muffled. Dean reaches over and takes my hand in his and I remember when that feeling, his skin on mine, was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I want that feeling back.

  “Are you having a good time?” I ask, trying to stall.

  “I’m having a good time now,” he says. “Now that we’re alone.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, resting his warm palm against my cheek. “This is what prom is about, isn’t it? You and me? It’s not about that other shit. That other shit is what we have to deal with to get to this.”

  “That other shit—those are my friends.”

  “Are they, Keely? Are you sure? You’re better than that.”

  Sometimes it feels like Dean is telling me things he wants to be true, not things that actually are. What makes me any better than the other girls at school? Why me, Dean? Is it just because I’m a challenge?

  An image flashes through my mind of Andrew and Danielle dancing downstairs, wrapped up in each other, his hands gripping her like he’s scared she’ll float away. That’s what Andrew wants. So this is what I want. It has to be.

  And maybe it’s better like this. I wanted to get my first time out of the way with someone I didn’t have feelings for. Now here we are. The girls who have it right are the ones like Ava—who sleep with whoever they want just because they want to. You can’t shame girls for liking sex just because you don’t, Andrew said to me once. And he’s wrong, because I can like casual sex too. So what if he’s about to have a moment, if he waited for the girl he loves? I’ve waited long enough.

  Dean uses our clasped hands to pull me closer on the bed and I let him, leaning over to kiss him like it’s everything that I want. His breath tastes like champagne and risotto, and the smell of his aftershave wraps me up. I’m trying to find the feeling I once had while kissing him—trying to find the swoop in my stomach. But it isn’t there. His tongue is just a tongue—slimy and wet. The stubble on his face feels scratchy against my cheek.

  It’s funny how things work out, how everything flipped upside down and in the end I still got what I wanted: sex with a guy that didn’t have to mean anything at all. It turns out the Plan wasn’t such a bad idea after all; I just had the wrong guy in mind to do it.

  Dean deepens the kiss and pulls me against him, threading his hand through my hair and pulling just a bit, just enough that I know he’s into this. My eyes are closed and I let myself pretend for just a moment that he’s Andrew instead, let myself envision the honey color of his hair, his smattering of freckles, his green eyes. I haven’t kissed Andrew since I realized I love him, and I get light-headed at the thought of it.

  Dean moves his hand down the side of my neck and then to the zipper at my back, trying to get it loose. I reach back and help him, because I want this too. I slide down the zipper and then stand up so he can peel the green dress off me. We leave it in a pool on the floor. Dean unbuttons and takes off his shirt and undershirt, and then I’m looking right at the tan muscles of his chest and they’re mine if I want them, and I do. I run my hands down him, and he sucks in a sharp breath as I reach the V of muscle above his belt. He’s so beautiful—his dark eyelashes, the hard edges of his cheekbones. I could cry because I should want this so much—anyone would want this.

  I wonder if Andrew and Danielle have left the ballroom yet, if they’ve wandered up to their own room, their own four-poster bed. I can see him now—pulling her down the hallway, both of them giddy and laughing. He’s pushing her up against the wall because he can’t wait until they get to the room. Andrew always did like kissing girls against the wall. I’ve seen him do it so many times at so many parties, so why wouldn’t he be doing that now?

  I can see him fumbling with the key to the room, Danielle clucking impatiently, then taking it herself, opening the door and pulling him into the dark, stripping off the layers of his clothes until he’s all skin.

  I reach for Dean’s belt buckle and work it open and then he lifts his hips and pulls down his pants, kicking them into some corner of the room. Once they’re off and we’re in just our underwear, he rolls his body onto mine and lies down, pressing me into the mattress.

  My mind flashes to the last time I was in this position, a boy on top of me pressing me into a mattress strewn with flowers; how I felt more alive than I ever expected to feel with a boy who was just a friend, only a friend.

  Dean reaches out toward my underwear and I pull away from him.

  “Let me get a condom.” I sit up, feeling light-headed at the rush of it, and bend over to find my purse.

  “You brought a condom?” he asks.

  I reach into my purse and rummage around, cursing myself for not cleaning the junk out of it before I took it to prom. It’s still littered with old tissues, gum wrappers, and ticket stubs from movies I went to see months ago, and somehow the condom has gotten lost in the mess.

  “If you can’t find it, no biggie,” Dean says. “I’ve got a bunch.”

  “I’ve got it.” I dump the purse upside down onto the bed, and everything tumbles out, a tube of lipstick that my mom made me bring, my phone, a cracked pair of sunglasses, and the little square wrapper. I reach out for it but my hand stops on something else—a white cardboard square, rough around the edges. I flip it over and my breath hitches. It’s a card, one I don’t remember getting, one I must have been carrying around in my bag and never noticed. It has a Ninja Turtle drawn on it in Sharpie, a bunch of silly cartoon hearts. And then, in Andrew’s scratchy writing: Happy Birthday. I love you more than pizza.

  It’s just like the valentine he sent to Danielle so many years ago, back in middle school. The one she didn’t understand. What is this doing here? When did he slip it into my bag? Why hasn’t he said anything? Did he make this for me?

  “Did you find it?” Dean asks, coming up behind me and resting his head on my shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say, closing my hand around the card. I don’t want him to see it, because even if I don’t understand it, it’s wonderful and private and mine.

  I love you more than pizza.

  It doesn’t add up—none of it makes sense. Danielle doesn’t like Ninja Turtles, or pizza, or climbing trees, or riding her bike. She doesn’t like skating on the lake in the winter, sledding down the big hill at turbo speed. She’s not the one Andrew calls when he’s upset, not the one he lies with in the hammock in his backyard, looking up at the stars. Maybe she’s the one he kissed at a New Year’s party, but she’s not the one he made sure to spend the night with, not the one whose room he ended up in. The pieces don’t fit. I can’t forget the way he looked at me when he told me he was in love, the way he held my hand, how I thought for that brief moment that maybe he was going to say my name.

  “I have to go,” I say, stuffing everything back into my bag. I stand up and step into the circle that my dress has made on the floor, pulling it up and over me so quickly that I’m already dressed before Dean makes a move to stop me. If there’s a chance—if there’s one small chance Andrew could love
me back, how can I possibly go through tonight without finding out?

  “What the fuck?” Dean says, springing off the bed.

  “I have to go,” I repeat, heading toward the door.

  “You can’t just leave,” he says. “You promised.”

  “Well, I changed my mind,” I say.

  “You can’t do that,” he says.

  “Actually,” I say, hand on the doorknob, “I can do whatever the hell I want.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he says.

  “This whole thing is bullshit,” I say, the truth of it making me laugh. “You and your pretentious shirts, and your motorcycle, and your movie references. It’s like you’re not even a real person. You’re just trying so hard to be this cool guy. Well, I don’t want someone cool! I want . . .” I think back to what Hannah said to me in the dressing room. “I want someone whose weirdness matches my weirdness!” I throw open the door and then stop suddenly, filled with the need to tell him the truth. “And just for the record, I am a virgin.”

  And then I’m running out of the room and to the elevator. Because I need to find him. I need to ask him about this card—need to find out if it’s a mistake, if it’s a joke, if it means nothing at all. I’ve been so in my head, so close to the situation that I haven’t been able to grasp the cold, hard truth until now. Because the truth is: I don’t want to have sex with Dean.

  As soon as I think it, I feel suddenly free, like a heavy weight has been lifted off my shoulders and I might just float away. I always thought Dean was out of my league, that I had to pretend to be a better version of myself to impress him. But the realization that comes to me suddenly makes me laugh with relief: Dean isn’t too good for me. I’m too good for Dean. I don’t want a guy I can’t be myself with; who made me so insecure I felt like I had to tell a lie.

  And I can still be the adventurous Keely—the one who breaks the rules, who drinks whiskey and rides on the backs of motorcycles—without him. I just have to let go, to learn to take a risk, to tell Andrew how I feel before it’s too late.