Busted

by Antony John

  In the silence that follows, I watch Abby wrap a stray curl behind her ear. It’s a motion as familiar to me as the sound of her voice, and for a moment I can almost convince myself that nothing at all has changed between us.

  “Hey, Abby … ”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry for what I said the other night … You were right, I didn’t have the balls to tell the guys no, even though I know I should’ve.”

  I must look depressed, because Abby stands behind me and massages my shoulders.

  “It’s never too late,” she whispers.

  “So Spud, any progress?” beams Brandon.

  “Dude,” nods Spud.

  “Can we see something … anything?”

  “Dude,” warns Spud.

  Brandon sighs, accepting that this is Spud’s final—and only, it would seem—word on the matter. He turns to face me and I take a deep breath.

  In my dreams I’d visualized this moment, the one when I fill the guys in on Taylor’s measurements. I’d look straight at Zach, invoke the name “Taylor Carson” with delicious emphasis, give them her numbers, and then provide a detailed account of the circumstances under which I came to uncover those numbers. And all the while Zach would be squirming, knowing that I’d one-upped him.

  But that was before the date actually happened. The reality is that I’ve been repeatedly reliving Taylor’s blistering attack, and it’s as much as I can do to say the numbers for her and Kayla without flaking out.

  The halfhearted smattering of applause quickly fades. I notice there are fewer of us now. Most of the football team has drifted away and I’m not sure why.

  Brandon looks confused. He turns to Zach and cocks an eyebrow inquiringly.

  “What? So I dumped her,” grunts Zach.

  “Oh yeah? Well, now she’s auditioning for the role of Mrs. Mopsely.” Brandon claps me on the back. “So you went to second with Taylor, huh? Zach dates her for a year and gets nowhere, but one date with you and she’s ready to give it up.”

  I ought to tell him that he couldn’t be more wrong, but I just can’t.

  Meanwhile, Zach stares at me with festering hatred. “And what about Abby?” he quips. “I don’t see her numbers. You must have had her a ton of times by now.”

  “No,” I say, loathing Zach for dragging her name into the discussion.

  “Oh, come on. I mean, she must be so desperate for it she’d bed anyone. Do you want one of us to take care of her for you? Because if you’re not up to it we’re here for you, just like Brandon said. You know that, right?”

  “I don’t need any of you to take care of her, as you put it. When I find out her … her dimensions, I’ll tell you—”

  “Her dimensions? You make her sound like a boat. Which I guess is pretty close—”

  “Just leave her out of this!”

  “Ooooh, look who’s getting all moody.” Zach waves his hands back and forth like he’s Homer Simpson. “Is it that time of the month, Kevin?”

  “Screw you.”

  Zach smiles. “Know what I think? I think the reason you haven’t got Abby’s scores yet is ’cause she’s a dyke. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  “And I heard you’re an ignorant jerk. Go figure.”

  “That’s not a denial though—”

  “Yeah, it’s a denial. ’Cause I’m seeing her on Saturday, if you must know.”

  Zach shuts up, but he continues to smirk shamelessly. And then I notice that Brandon’s laughing too, which annoys me a whole lot more.

  24

  Eyup,” grunts Abby’s dad as he wrestles the front door open.

  Richard, as he insists on my calling him, is short and red-cheeked like an animated garden gnome. He’s also pretty toasted.

  He winks conspiratorially. “Don’t tell the missus, but I’m pretty toasted.”

  “Really?” I gasp, like this hasn’t happened the three previous times I’ve attended curry night.

  “’Fraid so, mate. Slaughtered, I am. Wankered, wasted, and generally whammed. Good stuff, though,” he adds, waving an empty pint glass in front of my face. “Fancy one?”

  “Sure.” I try to say it as nonchalantly as possible, but it still feels weird to be in a house where the British drinking age is in effect.

  “Pick your poison, son.” He waves an arm in the direction of the sideboard; it’s swamped by dozens of beer bottles, all with lewd or lascivious names.

  I look for one I recognize but I must seem completely lost, because he wraps an arm around me paternally and points at the first bottle. “Tasty little laugh and titter, this one.”

  “He means it’s a good bitter,” translates Abby, sliding over to join us. “Your typical amber-colored beer, full-bodied, low alcohol content.”

  I look admiringly at her and, well … she looks really good. I’m not even sure why. Maybe it’s the hair, still slightly damp and rippling over her shoulders.

  “Did you do something to your hair?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I washed it,” she says, stifling a laugh.

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  “And this little number is a corking salmon and trout from Scouse country,” says Richard, continuing from right where he left off.

  “Which means it’s a fine stout from Liverpool, in the north of England,” Abby explains. “It’s dark, rich, smooth, and you’ll be wasted before you finish the first pint.”

  “I’ll have one of those, thanks,” I say, rather liking the sound of that.

  “And I’ll have an Old Thumper,” chirps Abby.

  I figure I’ve misheard her. “A what?”

  “An Old Thumper. It’s another strong ale.” She winks. “I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’re going it alone this evening.”

  Richard decants the beer into pint glasses with as much care as he can, but he’s so far gone it doesn’t go too well. Several generous droplets tumble onto the hardwood floor and are quickly claimed by Beckham, Abby’s alcoholic beagle.

  “Don’t worry,” Abby reassures me. “You know that Beckham’s used to it. His tolerance is legendary.” She lowers her voice. “Although I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on Dad at the end of the evening.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She frowns. “He has a habit of pouring the leftover beer into Beckham’s bowl. Sometimes we don’t see the poor thing again until Wednesday.”

  Beckham looks up at me plaintively. I think he’s actually using doggie telepathy to tell me to drop some more beer, and I burst out laughing.

  “Don’t give him any,” Abby teases me. “I know what you’re thinking.” She intertwines her arm with mine and we walk into the dining room, where about twenty Styrofoam containers jostle for space on the table.

  “Ready for a shit in a hurry?” Richard chortles.

  “Richard!” gasps Abby’s mom, Samantha, also red-cheeked.

  “What? A shit in a hurry means curry. It’s perfectly kosher Cockney rhyming slang, Sam.”

  “I don’t care,” warns Sam. “We have a guest, remember? Hello, Kevin, how are you?” She gives me a bear hug and kisses both cheeks as Abby sniggers in the background.

  “Good, thanks, Samantha.”

  “Call me Sam. You’ll find it easier to manage as you make your way through that there beer.”

  “You’d better Adam and Eve it,” agrees Richard.

  “He means you’d better believe it,” says Abby.

  “’Cause that’s wicked strong stuff, Kev. One moment you’re nattering away without a care in the world, the next moment everything’s gone totally pear-shaped.”

  I wait for Abby to translate, but she just crosses her eyes and shrugs. We both laugh. It’s only when we stop that I notice our legs are touching un
der the table.

  We stay that way for the rest of the meal.

  “You two can leave the table if you want,” says Sam. “You know what Richard’s like … won’t stop until everything’s been eaten. And then he’ll spend the rest of the weekend moaning about his curry bottom.”

  “Too much information, Mom,” groans Abby.

  “Ha! If you think that’s too much information, imagine what it’s like having to deal with it!”

  “Aaaaargh! Way too much information, Mom.”

  Abby grabs my hand and pulls me away playfully. We run upstairs to her bedroom, and she leads me over to the window.

  “That’s where you stand when we talk,” she says, pointing next door.

  I squint at my own room and realize that I can see straight into my closet. I really need some new clothes.

  “You really need some new clothes,” she says.

  “Hmmm.”

  We’re still holding hands, and I don’t want to let go.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about your drink? Do you want me to go get it for you? Or I could get you a new one, ’cause there’s plenty left … ”

  Abby’s babbling, and since Abby never babbles it can only mean she’s nervous. And I think I might know what she’s nervous about. She blinks a few times as I gaze at her, then swallows hard.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks,” I tell her, because if I’m right, I want to be sober.

  Neither of us moves for a moment, so I lean forward and kiss her cheek hopefully, expectantly. I can hear her swallowing, or maybe that’s me. My pulse races. Abby doesn’t respond at first, but then she turns her head slightly, her cheek nudging against mine. I smell the almond scent of her hair, feel the softness of her skin. And her head continues to turn. And so does mine.

  I close my eyes the moment her lips brush against mine. It feels like we’ve still got miles to go, and for once I don’t want to hurry the journey. Even when our lips come fully together I don’t open my mouth until Abby does, and the lightning-strike of tongue-against-tongue leaves me breathless.

  Slowly, gently, our bodies join as well. I can feel her chest against me, the warmth of her body next to mine. For a good long while this is everything we want, everything we need, and we dwell in the perfection of the moment.

  Even when the connection breaks, we part easily. Abby takes a deep breath and smiles—a wide smile, an honest smile, and I notice that her skin creases from the corners of her mouth up to her nose. The creases are deep because she spends so much of her life smiling, which seems like a really good thing.

  “Wow. Where did you learn to kiss like that?” I say.

  She places a finger on my lips. “It’s best not to ask a girl a question like that.”

  We come back together with mouths open and ready. Her tongue brushes back and forth against mine, dancing with an intensity that seems new and electric. She wraps a hand behind my head, pulling me closer, even though we can’t get any closer. Only I know exactly what it is she wants to feel, so I forget about Paige’s sensitive approach and Kayla’s palette of full-on techniques and just do whatever feels right.

  For a moment I’m aware that it’s the first time I’ve been kissing without thinking about the fact that I’m kissing, which makes it even better. And we don’t part after a minute, or two, or three. I can’t even say how long we remain where we are, kissing by her bedroom window like it’s the only thing in the world that really matters.

  Without awkwardness, Abby pulls back and smiles. She links her fingers with mine and leads me over to the door, which she closes and locks.

  I swallow hard. “Won’t your parents—”

  “They like you, Kevin. They trust you. And they, um … aren’t like most parents.”

  I think I know what she’s saying, so I just nod and follow as she leads me over to her bed. She lays down and pulls me on top of her and immediately we’re kissing again. I run my hand through her soft hair, following the contours of her ear, the nape of her neck, the curve of her shoulder. As if on remote control, my hand carries on down until it reaches her bra strap; a moment later, it cups her breast. A barely audible sound seems to emerge from somewhere deep inside her, and while I’m no expert, I’m fairly certain it’s a really good sound.

  Abby opens her eyes, and for a few seconds she simply watches me, smiling like she needs me to know this is okay, this is shared. She reaches up and touches my face, exploring me through the delicate motions of her fingertips, then reaches down and unbuttons my shirt. She runs her fingers over my chest and slides my shirt off surprisingly smoothly. When I hesitate to reciprocate, she guides my hands to the buttons on her own shirt, breathing heavily as I fumble to remove it. Her skin is so soft, so smooth, so pale. I’ve never felt so utterly turned on.

  She rolls us over so I’m underneath, then kisses my chest. I brush my fingers across her breasts again, and she reaches back and unclips her bra. It falls onto my chest.

  “You can touch them,” she whispers.

  I nod dumbly, tracing the contours of each breast with a single finger. I can feel her watching me, and for a split second I can’t help grinning. I’m afraid it’ll ruin the atmosphere, but Abby just grins back, laughing her gentle, throaty laugh. And that’s when it hits me … making out with Abby feels as naturally comfortable as talking to her. There’s no awkwardness between us, just a craving to know each other completely. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.

  Sensing my distraction, Abby runs the back of her hand across my face, then presses herself against me, kissing me forcefully. I kiss her right back and we tangle our bodies together. When I finally open my eyes, Abby’s face beams down at me.

  “Hey, you,” she says.

  “Hey, you.” I’m beaming too.

  She lies down beside me, rests her head in her hand. She’s too beautiful for words.

  “Thank you,” I say finally, even though it feels wrong to break the perfect silence.

  “For what?”

  “For this.”

  She nods, and the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “So what exactly is this?”

  I watch her to see if she’s teasing, but that would be too easy. This time she actually wants me to say it, to spell it out and make it real.

  “This is … us,” I say. “And I like us. I like us more than I like just you and me.”

  Abby smiles. “Good, ’cause I like us too.”

  I don’t want to move. I don’t want to speak. I just want us to stay where we are, forever. But then Abby looks away.

  “Just give me a moment, okay?” she whispers, biting her lip.

  As I nod, she gets up and walks into her bathroom. It seems an odd time to need to pee, but I’m in such a blissful mood that even impromptu trips to the toilet can’t spoil the moment.

  I hear her flick the light switch, and a cupboard door creaks open. Then I notice her bra beside me on the bed and pick it up. It’s really fancy, with surprisingly soft lacy borders. There’s no padding at all, which makes me wonder what size it is—a 36B, I’d guess. I turn it over and squint at the label on the strap, trying to make out the numbers in the semidarkness.

  “What are you doing?”

  I freeze, then drop the bra and look over my shoulder. Abby stands beside me, still topless, her skin glowing in the low light.

  “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.”

  She’s crying. I’ve never seen her cry before, but now I can see the tears running down her cheeks as though attempting a desperate flight from her eyes. I can’t breathe.

  “You were looking at my bra.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You were looking to see what size I am.” She bites her lip as her face crumples. “
It’s true, isn’t it?”

  I don’t want to lie to her, so I just nod.

  “How could you do this to me? How could you do it to me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Kevin,” she hisses, her features wrought with pain. “Please, whatever you do, don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not patronizing you,” I insist, suddenly grateful that she doesn’t know about the Book of Busts. “I just don’t understand why—”

  “I know about the Book of Busts.”

  Crap. At least she doesn’t know about the dates.

  “And I know about your dates with Paige and Jessica and Kayla and Taylor.”

  Big crap. At least she doesn’t know about them comparing notes.

  “And I’ve heard them comparing notes on you, laughing at you, saying you were so useless they even had to teach you how to kiss and how to touch them. And I’ve kept telling myself they’re wrong, that you’re kind and sensitive and talented and interesting, that this … this new version of you is nothing but an act. I knew if only I could get you alone you’d be yourself again, because you’d never betray me. But now I … ” she chokes and the words won’t come out “ … now I realize I’m no different than the others—”

  “No, no. You’re wrong. You are different.” I shuffle along the bed, trying to put some distance between myself and the offending bra. “I’d never add your … size to the book. I’d never do it. Not to you.”

  “That’s not the point, Kevin. The point is that during the most wonderful evening of my life, you had to go and check my bra size like it actually means something. For a few minutes there you made me feel special … sexy. Now I just feel slutty … God, I can’t believe you’ve made me feel this way.”

  I’m breathing fast and my mouth is dry, but I manage to find the words I’m looking for. “Please, Abby. You have to believe me—I never meant to look. I don’t know why I did. I mean, I think … I think this last week I’ve begun to realize that I might … I kind of might … love you.”

  Abby picks up my shirt and hands it to me. “That’s beautiful, Kevin. That’s so touching. You think that you kind of might love me. Wow.” She turns away and shakes her head, then faces me again with a look of utter disdain. “Just for the record,” she chokes, “I know that I love you, and I’ve loved you for almost a year. So pardon me if I say that that isn’t as complimentary as you’d like it to be.”