by Dahlia Adler
“You come down here,” I say grumpily, still trying to process my feelings on this conversation and unsure I really want to do anything that’ll facilitate it.
“I came to Charytan,” he retorts, and I obviously can’t beat him there. “I think you can climb a few feet to meet me up here.”
Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and make my way up to the top bunk, where Dev is lazily spread out, his Hulk tee riding up just enough to reveal half an inch of golden-brown skin. I’m not sure how I’m intended to fit up there with him, and I expect that he’ll sit up, but instead he shifts over, and as I’m obviously supposed to lie down next to him, I go ahead and do that. I instantly regret it as waves of heat seem to transfer from his skin to mine, and fix my gaze on the ceiling.
“See?” he says. “Not so scary.”
“Not so scary,” I confirm, even though this is the closest we have ever been, and I am terrified.
Then there’s a hand on my cheek, and my face is turned to face Dev’s, and his fingers are still on my cheek, and I have never looked into his eyes so closely. “There’s nothing you can’t handle, Rae,” he says quietly.
This, I think. I definitely can’t handle this. The pounding of my heart is audible, even over the sound of the rain.
And then… “Reagan? Rae, are you home?”
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Dev blinks. “Let me guess. I’m going to meet your parents after all?”
I shake my head vigorously. There’s just no way. “Definitely not.” I scramble down the ladder and indicate for him to follow as I walk over to the lone window next to the beds and shove it wide open. “Come on.”
“What? This is insane. Let’s just go—”
I don’t let him finish. I know several things he doesn’t, like that my parents will instantly be suspicious of his brown skin, and it will be glaringly obvious in their expressions and in every word they say. Like that, despite the fact that they never care where I am, they would sooner make me call him a cab than let me take him to his motel, and I’m not ready to send him off just yet—not when he’s leaving for good first thing in the morning. I scramble out the window like the practiced expert I am, and left with no choice, Dev follows.
“You’re that desperate to avoid your parents?” he asks as we tromp in the mud.
“That obvious?”
He doesn’t pursue the line of conversation, for which I am grateful. Instead, we pile into the car in silence and I pull away from the house and head to our final destination of the night.
The rain has eased up somewhat by the time we arrive at his motel. The pouring has given way to a gentle patter, and the effect is softer, sweeter than the pounding had been on the tin roof of the trailer.
Not that that makes me feel better about the fact that I’m about to say goodbye to Dev for what both he and I know will be the last time. Why we’d thought it was a good idea for him to come to Charytan, for us to hang out and “be friends,” I have no idea, but in the fall, he’ll be going to KU and I will…not be.
“Gosh, it’s even more glamorous in the rain,” Dev observes as we pull into a spot in the parking lot, making his voice all dreamy.
I whack him on the arm and he laughs. “Sorry Charytan doesn’t have lovelier accommodations. Still beats living in a trailer park.”
“You underestimate that trailer park,” Dev says, unbuckling his seat belt as I turn off the car. The white of his smile contrasts even more sharply against his brown skin in the glare of the motel’s neon lights, and the raindrop-covered windshield leaves spots on his reflection. I want to reach a hand up to his cheek, recreate the moment in the top bunk, but I keep my hands in my lap, wrapped around my keys, letting the jagged edges dig into my palm in a way that’s oddly soothing given the pain I’m feeling elsewhere at saying goodbye. “No carpet to vacuum, minimal space to keep clean, constant barbecues… If you ask me, you’re living pretty sweet, Rae.”
He’s joking without mocking, and I love that about him. I love a lot about him. But he isn’t mine. It was easy to forget that at Joe’s, or lying in bunk beds, or sitting here, in the front seat of my car. But I always remember, eventually.
“Good thing I didn’t ask you,” I tease, but it comes out softer than I intend it to, and I know the thickness in my throat is audible. I hate the way my sadness slowly fills the car in the silence that follows. When I send him back, it’ll be to Sara, and the parents that he loves, and a certain future. All I’ve got to return to is everything I’m trying to escape already.
“We’re still gonna talk, you know,” he says finally, and I wish he wouldn’t. It sounds genuine enough, but it’s the kind of statement that never really is. “You’re not getting rid of me all that easily. I know I’ll never get another one of those legendary Joe’s banana muffins if you do.”
I know I’m supposed to laugh, but I can’t. I can’t do anything. This is so much worse than when I ended things with Fitz, and Dev and I have never even kissed, never done any of the talking about forever that was practically a requirement of being John Fitzpatrick’s girlfriend. I can’t get it out of my head that Dev and I are more than this, more than two people who text each other all day and do strange things in small towns. More than two people who’ve only actually hung out three times.
I’m not this girl. I turned my back on being this girl. “Forever” is nowhere I want to be at seventeen. But “never” isn’t where I want to be either. Especially when I look at Dev. Especially when I think he’s looking at me the way I think I might be looking at him.
When it becomes clear I’m not going to say anything, he sighs, rubs his face, and then grabs the door handle, clicking it open. “Come out and hug me goodbye, at least?” he says, and I can tell from his voice that he actually fears I might not, that I might just yank his door closed the instant he steps out of it and then drive off into the night. And a part of me thinks that I should, which is irrelevant because I know that I won’t.
I nod once and we both step out of the car. I’m strangely nervous at the prospect, like maybe I won’t be able to let go. Like maybe he’ll have to scream for help and bring people running from their filthy little motel rooms to pry me off him, and I’ll become this story he tells at parties later in life of this crazy girl he knew once upon a time.
I walk slowly around the front of the car, where he’s standing with his arms open, looking so cozy and welcoming in his soft scarlet hoodie that even my fears can’t stop me from diving in, nestling my head against his shoulder. I fit nicely into the crook of his lanky arm; we’re the perfect mismatch of heights for him to rest his chin on my head. Only when he squeezes me do I realize I’m shaking, and while I know the rain is a good excuse, there’s no point in trying to pass off my feelings as anything other than what they are.
“It’s been fun,” I say into his sweatshirt. “Is it weird that I’m gonna miss you?”
“Nah,” he says, lifting his hand to stroke my curls, his fingertips grazing the nape of my neck. The gesture makes me shiver just once and then any and all shaking subsides. “I have a feeling I’ll probably miss you a little too.”
I smile even though he can’t see it; my eyes are on our toes, his Adidas and my ever-present tennis shoes. “I have a feeling you will too.”
There’s a gust of wind then, and I instinctively scrunch even tighter into his arm, which leads him to squeeze me even tighter. We stand like that for a few moments until it passes, and then it’s only natural for him to let me go entirely.
There isn’t anything left to do but say goodbye, and so we do. He doesn’t promise to call or write or text, and I don’t need him to. I know he’ll want to, and I know he’ll know I want to, and maybe that’ll be enough. Or maybe things will go back to how they were, and maybe we’ll visit each other, and we’ll remain great friends.
Or something.
But for now, I’ve got to get out of there before the tears on my face become too numer
ous to be mistaken for raindrops. I give one last feeble wave and go back to my car, and when I glance back over my shoulder just before opening my door, I see he’s already disappearing into his room. I wait until the last glimpse of his bright sweatshirt passes through the doorway and the dirty tan door shuts behind it. Then I get behind the wheel and strap myself in.
Only I can’t make myself do any more than that. Here’s where key goes into ignition and gear shifts to reverse and while intellectually I know those things my hands won’t do anything but grip the keys. I’m not at all ready to say goodbye. I need to know we’ll still be friends, need to know I can freak out to him about college, or tell him when I’ve just read an incredible book, or count on him to send me the kinds of e-mails that will keep me smiling for the rest of the day. I need to have him however I can have him. And I need to tell him that while I can still do it in person.
I yank off my seat belt and jump out of the car, but my frantic movements are cut short when I realize all the doors look alike and I can’t remember which one he just went into. I know calling him to ask is pathetically anti-climactic, but it’s the only option I’ve got. I reach into my back pocket for my cell phone, and I’m just scrolling through for his number when I hear my name and jerk my head up, trying to find the source.
“Reagan?”
It’s Dev, standing in the doorway of the room next to the one I would’ve guessed. I slip my phone back into my pocket and walk up to him. “I was just about to come looking for you,” I tell him.
I expect him to say “Why?” but instead he says “Yeah,” and I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that. We stand there in silence for another few seconds, just looking at each other, neither of us quite sure what we want to say.
The quiet grows unbearable, and I know I need to break it for my own sanity. “I just—”
“Fuck it.” He sails forward and crushes his mouth to mine, burying his hands in my hair. The rest of my sentence turns into a muffled groan as I grasp his sweatshirt in both hands, using it to leverage myself onto my toes, to get myself closer, to embed myself in him so that he can’t go, can’t leave me behind, not fully, not ever. And then my thoughts register and I wrench myself away.
We’re both panting heavily when I do. “I can’t believe you just did that,” I say when I can finally breathe again.
“I can’t believe I didn’t do it before now,” he counters, cupping my face in his hands and kissing me again. My knees go slack, and I feel myself being lifted. I wrap my legs around his waist as we kiss and kiss and kiss some more, and I don’t know how such a skinny guy manages to walk all the way to the bed with an entire person twined around his torso, but the next time we part lips it’s because he gently drops me onto the mattress.
I watch, half-dazed, as he toes off his sneakers and unzips his hoodie, then thinks for a minute and pulls off his T-shirt and undershirt too. Underneath he’s all lean muscle, lanky but stronger than I expected. I rise up on my knees to pull him back to me by his shoulders, needing to know if the warmth exuded by his skin is real or just the way I’ve imagined him feeling more times than I care to admit. I want to experience him with as many senses as possible, and before I even know what I’m doing, I bite his shoulder. His responsive groan sends a shudder through my entire body.
Somewhere in the recesses of my once-functioning brain I know we shouldn’t do this. But as his hands caress my hair, my face, my shoulders, I have no idea why. When his fingertips slip underneath the hem of my T-shirt, I barely even know my own name.
We’re still kissing, but I feel him growing more hesitant, his touches gentling, and I wait for him to tell me we need to stop, but the words don’t come. Finally, because I can’t stand it anymore, I’m the one to pull away.
“It’s okay if you want to stop,” I tell him quietly, even though it isn’t, even though I want this with every fiber of my being.
He shakes his head slowly. “That’s the problem,” he says, his voice equally low as he rests his forehead against mine, his breath ghosting over my lips as he speaks. “I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to stop at all. I know that’s wrong, but…” He swallows hard. “Jesus Christ, do you even know how beautiful you are?”
My heart pounds in response. “Dave—”
“Dev,” he says, his voice ragged. “I loved it when you called me Dev.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling as if I’m going to burst. “Dev. I don’t want you to be sorry.” I won’t say Sara’s name, or remind him that we aren’t going to be together next year, but the words are growing in my vocal chords, waiting to be pushed out into the stale air of the motel room.
“I couldn’t possibly be.” He kisses each of my eyelids. “But you…”
“I what?”
He tips up my chin to look at me, and his eyes aren’t their usual sparkle; they’re smoke, and fire, and they make every inch of my skin prickle with heat. “I feel like I’m gonna break you.”
“You’re not,” I tell him, pulling back. The only way you could break me is by telling me you want to stop. In a wink I’ve yanked my shirt over my head, and his eyes go wide. “I’m tiny; I’m not fragile.”
“No,” he says slowly, his gaze unabashedly raking me up and down. “No, you are definitely not.” He leans down to kiss me, soft and sweet but with enough pressure to push me back down onto the bed. I shimmy back up to where the pillows line the wall and he climbs over me, straddling me without putting any weight on my body. “You are amazing. You know that, right?”
I’ve never taken compliments well, and I can feel myself blush, but I say nothing, instead busying myself with the task of unbuckling his belt.
He smiles when he realizes I won’t acknowledge his words, but he doesn’t move, letting my hands struggle until finally I’ve dragged his jeans down his narrow hips, revealing inches of Star Wars boxer shorts underneath.
He glances down. “Not my finest,” he says apologetically, and I laugh, as if something like the pattern of his underwear or the fact that there are a few tiny holes along the elastic is of any consequence.
“I’m pretty sure I’m wearing Wonder Woman underwear my mom bought me at Walmart,” I tell him as he takes his turn with my jeans. “It’s not like any of it’s staying on anyway.” My lips curve in a little smile. “DC-free zone and all.”
I expect a joke back, but instead I feel a twitch against my thigh. He’d looked playful before, but now, his eyes smolder, and my body instinctively reacts in response to his. From there, it’s mere moments until we’re shoving the rest of our clothing onto the floor, frantically kissing and touching each other’s lips and bodies with a fierceness I didn’t know I possessed.
In all the times I’d imagined this happening between us—and admittedly there were a few—it’d been romantic, slow, a mutual savoring of each other’s bodies. Instead, it’s fast, and frantic, and I’m shocked to realize I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ve done enough thinking for the past few months, years, lifetimes. All I want is to feel, to listen, to be.
Smooth, hot skin, damp with sweat and tasting of salt. Puffs of erratic breath—his, mine, ours. Every sense pushed to the extreme. And when Dev arches his back and cries out, I think my heart is going to leap out of my chest.
Afterward, we lie together, tangled up in the sheets and our skinny limbs, until he finally confesses that he can no longer stand the feeling of the cheap motel linen sticking to his sweaty skin. I laugh, and then we roll out of bed and clamber into the shower, cracking jokes about how we’re terrified to be alone in the filthy bathroom with God-only-knows-what climbing the walls. He washes my hair and I soap up his skin, and when we’re clean and dry we curl up around each other and I fall asleep knowing I am the happiest I’ve ever been and that will all end when I next open my eyes.
It ends even sooner; my eyes are still closed when the realization slams into my brain that I’ve just had unprotected sex. The fact that I could be so incredibly stupid as to do that afte
r everything with Fitz rocks me with a wave of self-loathing. Had I thought about him for an even a moment last night, I know I would never have let it happen, but my focus had been on Dev and Dev alone.
Lying there now, I do think of Fitz. And I think I have done a very bad thing. But I don’t really have time to dwell on thoughts; I know I need to act. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to go about doing that, but I pray that I know someone who will. Dev is still sleeping soundly when I crawl out of bed, retrieve my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans, and sneak into the bathroom to call Vic.
She picks up after a couple of rings, sounding sleepy as all hell. “Reagan? Is everything okay?” Shit. I’d completely forgotten to check what time it was before calling, and in the fluorescent light of the bathroom I can see that it’s well after four. Not the best timing even if we hadn’t spent our last conversation fighting.
“I’m sorry to call so late. I didn’t even know what time it was.”
She yawns hugely, and I can hear her shifting around. “It’s fine. Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” I say, taking care to keep my voice low. “I did an incredibly stupid thing. Well, I did a really fun and great thing, but—”
“It’s like 4:00 a.m., Rae. Spit it out.”
“I had unprotected sex with Dev.”
“You what?”
“I’m just going to assume you heard me and skip ahead to where you tell me what to do. I should pee, right? And shower? But—”
“Tia Maria, Reagan. Please tell me you don’t think any of that helps with pregnancy.”
“Sorry my parents never gave me a sex ed manual,” I retort. “Now help me! Please!”
“Don’t think you’re going to get out of telling me every detail later, missy,” she says, sounding considerably more alert now, “but first things first, you need to get a morning-after pill, immediately.”
“And what does that do?”
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes over the phone. “Makes it so you won’t get pregnant, but you have to take it pretty much right away. Where are you?”