Prince Charming

by S. Celi

  She rolled her eyes. “Some people have said that.”

  “Well, even if you don’t believe them, you are.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Why don’t you give us a chance? You might like it.”

  She stood so close to me now, and that familiarity of her washed over me as the whole world fell away from us. Nothing else counted, nothing else existed beyond the two of us. Her eyes seduced me, her mouth invited me in, and her steady breath promised me that if I made the leap, I’d find more inside her than I ever wanted.

  Before I knew it, my mouth found hers for a hard, fervent kiss. This kiss was about more than just sex. This kiss was a promise. It was a statement from me to her, and from her to me. We didn’t have just one late night hookup after a bad night at prom. We had much more than that.

  “Let’s go outside,” she said in a breathy voice, as she broke the connection. “It’s a really nice night.”

  MOMENTS LATER, WE took a seat on the overstuffed wicker couch on the patio. It faced the garden and small pool in the back yard, and a privacy fence surrounded the perimeter. Out here, we were just as alone as if we were inside. Off in the distance, I heard the occasional rumble of a car engine rolling down the street.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” Laine said.

  “I don’t?”

  “No.”

  She sank back against the pillows as I perched on the edge of the sofa, angled at her. I didn’t touch her, even though I was desperate to. Desperate. Instead, I held my body rigid, and my elbows rested on my knees. As I stared at her, I tried to process what had happened in the kitchen. I still tasted that sweet bubble gum flavored lip-gloss, and I was dying to taste it again.

  What did I have to do to make that happen?

  “No one knew that Evan had an anger problem,” she said. “I never told anyone. And I think I was the only one who saw it—until prom night.” She turned her head, and focused on something out in the yard. “So stupid.”

  “How many times did he hit you?” I swapped the word “fucker” for “he” right before I spoke.

  “Come on, Geoff—”

  “No, Laine. How many times?”

  She laughed once without humor. “Other times? What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. That time at prom wasn’t the first time. Even I could tell that.”

  She shut her eyes as if that would make whatever she had to say next easier. “One other time.”

  “One other time?” I narrowed my eyes at her as I thought about our conversation on the sidewalk outside of The Syndicate on the night of the prom. “One other time?”

  She must have heard disbelief in my voice, because when she opened her eyes, she looked away. She picked up a stray leaf from the mess of pillows next to her and crunched it with her fingers. “Okay. Three other times, besides that. But it wasn’t like that. Not like it was that night at prom. He was just so drunk, and he went over the top. And now he’s dead, and I just feel so—”

  “He shouldn’t have hit you. Ever.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Doesn’t mean he was a nice guy. You can still be a bad person after you’re dead.”

  “I know, but you have to understand something, Geoff. Evan was my first love. My first . . . everything. He was a great boyfriend in the beginning, but he changed this year, after he got into Ohio State. Like, he thought he was invincible or something. And then with the divorce . . . he wasn’t the same guy at all.”

  “It’s not your fault he died.”

  “Isn’t it?” She sniffled, and her voice broke a little. “I should have stopped him, or told someone. I could have told one of the teachers he’d hit me; that would have stopped him from ever getting in the car. And now everyone thinks that I’m a horrible person because I didn’t stop him, and because I wasn’t with him when he died.”

  “No one thinks that,” I said. “No one. They don’t blame you.”

  “I hear what people are saying.” She sniffled again, and I thought I saw the beginning of tears in her eyes. “They talk. About him. About me. That’s all they talk about right now at school.”

  “I haven’t heard anything.”

  She answered me with another rueful laugh. “You’re not listening. That’s the problem. Jesus, Geoff . . .”

  How could I convince her? She carried this pain around like a backpack weighted with stones.

  In the soft light from the porch she reminded me of a glassy, delicate, fragile angel. I wanted to hug her, tell her she didn’t have any guilt when it came to Evan’s death. I reached out and took her hand, pulled her up off the pillows and closer to me. She didn’t fight me, and, before I knew it, I’d wrapped my arm around her waist. My breath came out heavy and hard in my chest. “You aren’t the reason he died.” I touched my forehead to hers. “He died because of himself. His own stupidity. Not yours.”

  “God, a car wreck like that—I just can’t—” She broke off, and tucked her head against my shoulder.

  “He did it to himself. No one made him get in the car drunk, turn it on, and drive. He did that.”

  “I thought I loved him once, and I’m not kidding about that. I really did.” Her words were muffled against my shoulder. “Now I just feel so bad.”

  “Everyone does.”

  “I could have stopped him, even after he hit me. I knew he was drunk.”

  “This isn’t your fault, Laine,” I whispered, as I gently pulled her head away from my chest so I could see her eyes again. God, she was so damn hot, even when she cried. “But the way he treated you—that wasn’t love. I just wish you would see that for what it was.”

  I couldn’t control myself any longer. My lips found hers, and I kissed her. Just once, and just enough to remind myself that the kiss against the fridge hadn’t been some kind of crazy dream that would leave me disappointed when I woke up alone in my bed. It might not have been appropriate, but I did it anyway, and when I broke the kiss her expression told me she liked it, too.

  “You deserve someone better than that, Laine.”

  “I used to think I had it all figured out,” she mumbled. “But I don’t.”

  “Me neither.” I gave her a small smile. “But I think that’s okay. We’re only eighteen.”

  “Eighteen. Wow.” She chuckled. “Just kids.”

  “But legally adults. I just don’t feel like one.”

  “I still can’t believe I turned eighteen last December.”

  “Well, then,” I said against her mouth. “I turned eighteen in November. I’m older than you, so you have to listen to me.”

  We kissed again, deeper and slower this time. I tried to savor it, as my lips and tongue explored her mouth. She moaned, and I knew then that she wouldn’t fight me. The pace of our kisses quickened, and seconds later I was on top of her, furiously kissing her lips, mouth, jaw, nose, cheek, whatever I could find. I wanted every part of her at all at once, and she seemed the same way, pulling me harder against her hips as she moaned my name. We stretched out on the couch, her legs wrapped around my hips, and the pillows fell away from us as our bodies locked in a hard embrace.

  That wasn’t the only thing that got hard.

  “I want you,” she said after she broke away, panting.

  “You do?”

  “Yep.”

  “But what about—”

  She held up her hand to stop me from talking. “Forget about that. I just want you.”

  “I want you too,” I said against her ear. “I always have.”

  “Not just like that, Geoff. I want you now.”

  I held myself above her. “Right here? Now? On the patio?”

  “Right here.”

  I cocked my head, unsure I understood what she meant. “Wait. You mean right now?”

  She giggled, and moved her hand down to the hem of her shirt. She moved out from under me, and then pulled off the shirt. All I saw was a red lace bra.

  “Yes. On the patio. No one wi
ll see us. Mom won’t be home for at least an hour.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do you still have that condom in your wallet?”

  My breath hitched, and my eyes lost focus. The only thing better than having sex with her at a fancy hotel would be having sex with her, right then. Sex right now, on this patio, would mean more. It would mean she didn’t regret prom night, that I didn’t have some kind of bizarre lottery luck that only struck once. I couldn’t believe this. She didn’t feel weird about prom night, or, if she did, it didn’t bother her enough to push her away from me for good.

  “Yeah, I have a condom in my wallet,” I finally managed. My nerves got the best of me, and I snickered.

  “Good deal, Geoff.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m glad you came prepared.”

  “Well after Prom night . . .” I shrugged. “I figured . . . but then I didn’t know . . .”

  “Geoff.” She interrupted me.

  “What?”

  “Shut up,” she demanded. “Kiss me.”

  Who was I to turn her down?

  FRIDAY, MAY 10TH

  WHEN YOU SPEND the night before the AP English Language exam having sex with the hottest girl in school instead of studying, it’s impossible to do well on the test. All you do is relive every moment of it in your head. Every kiss. Every time your lips grazed her boobs. The shiver she had when your mouth traveled down her flat stomach. Every time you touched her clit. The warmth you felt when you slid inside her. The way she said your name. How it felt to come inside her. The delicious thrill of the afterglow.

  At least, that’s what happened to me.

  I wrote it into the test. The words for the multiple choice questions danced on the page, until every one of them looked like questions for a sex test in Maxim. The essay portion was even worse. I had to read and then reread every question in the book, afraid I’d start writing an essay about how awesome Laine looked naked. I’d never been happier to have an eraser on the end of my pencil, and by the end of the test, I wondered if anyone else felt the sexual charge in the room. She sat four rows away from me, and glanced at me every few minutes. Sometimes, she smiled. Being in the same room with her was torture—delicious, sweet torture that left me gripping the desk, and clenching my pencil so tight that I broke two of them during the first hour.

  I would be lucky to get a three on this exam. Very lucky. I had to get a three to get three hours of college credit at UVA, and a five to get the chance to have six. Earlier in the year, I’d planned on studying so hard I’d get a five on all the tests. I even told people I’d get those grades, because I suffered from overconfidence. I used to care so much about stuff like that, but it didn’t matter that day, because suddenly I had Laine Phillips. School wasn’t everything. Not anymore. She was.

  And apparently, Laine wanted the rest of Heritage High to know.

  “Can I sit with you guys at lunch?” she asked Nathan, Josh and I, as we walked out of the classroom after class. Drained and disillusioned from the test, I didn’t hear her at first. In fact, Nathan’s mouth dropping open was the only way I knew she’d said something at all. He stopped in the hallway around the corner from Mr. Langston’s classroom, and we halted with him.

  “You want to sit with us,” Nathan replied, making both a question and statement. “Us.”

  “Sure.” Laine had a crazy smile on her face, and she hooked her arm into mine. Josh snickered as she looked from him to me. “Is that okay?”

  “But why?” Nathan still had the quizzical look on his face, but I didn’t blame him. He didn’t know much about what happened after prom, so Laine’s question had to surely come as something of a shock.

  “Why not? I mean, Geoff and I are—”

  “Um . . . yeah. It’s fine.” He frowned, shifted his backpack on his shoulders, and looked at me as if I had just won $200 million bucks in the lottery. “Are you sure you want to . . .”

  “Nathan. Come on. It’s fine. She can sit with us,” I said, growing bolder every second Laine’s arm stayed linked with mine. “Whatever.”

  “Is it all right that Allison is going to sit with us, too?” Josh asked. He sounded like a courtier asking permission from the Queen of England, and I had to hold back my laughter.

  “Allison. Allison Nichols?” Laine asked. “Sure. She should sit with us. Why not?”

  I jerked my head in the direction of the cafeteria, aware that this was going to cause a stir in that jungle. Honestly, I couldn’t wait for that. Already, I was getting looks from some of the underclassman who’d noticed that Laine had her arm linked with mine. Evan, be damned. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a nice thing to think right at that moment. I just couldn’t help myself.

  Laine made me forget my manners. Among other things.

  “Come on.” I clasped my hand in hers. “Let’s do it.”

  The six of us sauntered in the cafeteria about five minutes later. Josh had picked up Allison and her angst at her locker on the way, so the six of us made a spectacle as we walked through the wide double doorway of the lunchroom, and down the steps to the lunch line. Kids stopped what they were doing. They stopped eating. They stopped talking. They just stared at our group, as if we were some kind of social science experiment gone very, very wrong. Silence covered the room for about fifteen seconds, and then all the kids resumed what they were doing at once.

  Strange.

  “Well,” Allison said, as we filed into a single line for the food, “now they know.” She nodded at Laine. “Hope you enjoyed that.”

  “Oh, I did,” Laine said, still holding my hand. “I’m sure everyone will have something to say about this.”

  “Especially because of what happened with Evan.” Allison leaned up against the wall, and crossed her arms. “I mean, did you love him, or anything?”

  Laine’s face fell. “Yeah. I thought I loved him, but I don’t. I was . . . well . . . I was wrong.”

  “Wrong.”

  “It wasn’t love,” Laine told Allison. “It was something else, I think.”

  “I’m sad that he died,” Allison said. “But he wasn’t a really super nice guy.” She shrugged. “He always treated me like trash. I know you’re not supposed to say bad things about dead people, but it’s true. That’s how he was.”

  I gawked at Allison for a second. It was the first time I’d heard some else verbalize just how I felt about Evan.

  “That’s okay,” Laine said, as she reached for a tray. “I miss him, of course, but he wasn’t very nice to me, either.”

  “What line are you getting into?” I asked her. “Salad bar or hot bar?”

  She didn’t even look, just kept her eyes on me. “Hot bar. After that test, I’m hungry for pizza.”

  SATURDAY, MAY 11TH

  BLAKE, BRUCE AND I sat in a semi-circle around the kitchen table. Instead of the usual housework and chores, David had given me the day off to study for the three AP tests I had coming up the following week. The only caveat to the whole thing was that while I studied, David expected me to make sure Blake and Bruce spent their Saturday morning studying, too. While I had major tests that would determine how much time and money UVA would take from me in the next four years, they had finals, too. Both of them needed to do well. Their grades had improved quite a lot because of my tutoring, but their averages still rested on their test scores.

  They were not happy about this.

  “So what do you want us to do next, Professor?” Bruce asked me, with a voice dripping in sarcasm. He had just made the last flashcard of terms for his government final, and a huge pile of cards with info on Congress, Supreme Court cases, famous presidential decisions, and more, and they all lay in front him.

  “Now that you have the cards, you need to study them,” I said calmly. I didn’t look up from the AP European History study app on my iPad. I knew when he wanted to bait me into a fight, and his voice sounded like he wanted to do just that.

  “Study them how?”

  I looked up. “Review the
m, go over the facts, and test yourself.”

  “Review them, go over the facts, and test yourself.” Bruce mimicked me in a baby voice as he shuffled the cards through his hands. Blake didn’t say anything, preferring to watch the two of us play out whatever happened next.

  “You know, you don’t always have to be so rude,” I said in a quiet, even voice. As I talked, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Once I pulled it out of my pants, I read a text message from Laine on the front screen.

  Laine: R U studying?

  Me: Yep

  Laine: Me too. Bored. Wish I was with you.

  Me: Soon

  Blake’s voice pulled me away from what I wanted to type next. “Who’s that, Geoff?”

  “No one,” I said, tossing the phone down. “And you know what? I’m not the one who’s rude. That’s you. And you’re the one who needs my help.”

  Bruce laughed, and continued his shuffling. He handled the stack of index cards like a dealer in an underground poker game. “Oh, let me tell you, you piece of shit. I don’t need your help.”

  “Your grades need my help.”

  Blake giggled, and Bruce shot him a withering glare. “Shut up.”

  “Shut up?”

  “Yeah, shut up, you pissant.” He looked from me to his twin brother, as if he wanted backup from Blake. On cue, Blake nodded vigorously.

  “Why all the hate?” I asked Bruce, bringing his focus back to me. “Seems like you’ve been drinking a lot of haterade lately.”

  “Nope.” Bruce let the gentle rhythm of the cards break up his words. “Wouldn’t call it haterade. I just don’t like what I see. And Evan was our friend.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh please, don’t start with this bullshit. Somebody dies, and everyone starts running around saying they were friends with the person.”

  “We were friends,” Blake replied.