by Nancy Ohlin
“Fine,” I mumble.
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
He hesitates, then cradles my face with his hand. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me, and my heart thrums in my chest.
Then he turns abruptly and heads for his room.
I hear his door shut and lock.
Wrong again.
Stifling my disappointment, I flick on the light switch and survey my room. The décor is 1970s furniture, flamingo wallpaper, and a huge orange bed.
The sight of the bed makes my cheeks hot. I try not to imagine Dane and me lying on top of it, our bodies entwined . . .
Stop it.
I wander over to the adjoining bathroom, which is the size of a closet. Tiny soaps, shampoos, and lotions line the sink. And then I realize: I didn’t bring any toiletries with me. I hadn’t expected to stay overnight. I can live without most of the stuff, but I absolutely need a few basic items like contact lens solution.
Sighing, I grab my key card and wallet and head back outside.
This night is turning out to be one big anticlimax.
• • •
Back from the drugstore I take out my contacts, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed. Since I didn’t bring pj’s, I strip down to my underwear, which totally don’t match: a pink lace bra and leopard panties—some combination.
For a while I skim through Love in the Time of Cholera, which I’ve already read twice by now. The first time through, I tried to imagine that I was Fermina Daza and Dane was her forbidden lover, Florentino Ariza. The second time, I switched it around so that Dane was Fermina’s husband, Juvenal Urbino, instead.
Now I’m rereading the scene where Fermina loses her virginity to Juvenal during their honeymoon. I get through a couple of sentences until I can’t stand it anymore. I bury the book under my pillow and switch on the TV.
The local news. A hockey game. A Friends rerun. Nothing interesting.
Finally, I give up and turn off the TV and lights and just lie there. The air smells like the motel moisturizer on my hands, all vanilla and lime and mint. Specks of beach sand grind between my toes.
The clock blinks at me: 1:05 a.m. Gossamer moon shadows flit across the ceiling. I picture them dancing to the wispy, watery notes of Ravel’s “Une barque sur l’ocean.” When that’s finished, I make them dance to Debussy’s “En Bateau.”
I wonder if Dane likes those pieces.
I wonder if he is still awake too.
I wonder where he learned to kiss like that. Like the way he plays Bach’s Goldberg Variations, so softly and passionately and . . .
The next thing I know, I’m getting up and putting on my dress and jacket. Five minutes later I am at his door.
Don’t knock, I tell myself.
I knock.
Dane opens the door. He is wearing only jeans. I stare at his bare chest and gulp.
“Beatrice, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t sleep.”
He rakes his hand through his hair. “You’re not wearing shoes. Why can’t you sleep?”
“Because.”
“Go back to your room, love.”
“No.”
“Listen to me, this is a very bad idea—”
Before he can say anything more, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.
He jerks back, breathing heavily. “Beatrice . . .”
“Please, Dane, I really want to.”
I kiss him again, and this time he doesn’t resist. He slips his hands under my jacket and caresses my back, pulls me closer. We stumble across the threshold, still kissing as he kicks the door shut.
Yes yes yes.
I shrug out of my jacket as we tumble onto the bed. The bright orange quilt is smooth and intact, and a Stravinsky score lies on top of it, open. I realize with a start that he’s been wide awake all this time too.
He swats the score aside. And then he is on top of me, kissing me everywhere . . . my lips, my face, my neck.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I know.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Yes, it’s more than okay.”
He helps me out of my dress. I reach behind and unhook my bra. He leans down and kisses my breasts, tenderly at first, then not so tenderly. I give a little cry.
“Sorry! Did I—”
“No, do that again. Please.”
He kisses my breasts some more. The pleasure is so intense, I can barely stand it.
I can feel him straining against his jeans. I fumble around for his zipper.
“Beatrice, I don’t . . . that is, I don’t have—”
“That’s okay. I do.”
He pulls back and blinks at me in surprise. “You brought condoms?”
“No. I bought some at the drugstore across the street. They’re in my jacket pocket.”
“Crazy girl.”
“I know. Please, do that thing again.”
He obliges. Pale moonlight spills into the room as he teases and torments me with his mouth. God, it was so not like this with Braden . . . or Andy McDermott . . . or Gil Northman . . . or anyone else in the universe, past, present, or future.
After I can’t take it anymore, he stands up and steps out of his jeans and his boxers, his eyes never leaving mine.
Dane, naked. There are no words.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks me hoarsely.
“Yes. Oh my God, yes.”
As I slip off my panties, he gets a condom from my jacket and returns to the bed. A moment later he arcs over me.
“Can I—”
“Yes!”
I arch my body to meet his and bury my face in his neck.
Yes yes yes yes yes.
THIRTY
Morning. My eyelids flutter against bright sunlight. It takes me a minute to realize that I am not in my bed at home. I am in this bed, in a motel, with Dane.
Dane.
His eyes are closed, and his chest rises and falls silently. I curl against him and breathe in the smell of his skin, which is salt and cologne, sweat and us. The last twenty-four hours—were they a dream? They were not a dream. Juilliard, Annaliese, the French restaurant, the beach . . . and what we did all night afterward.
The rest of the world seems very far away, and I’m not sure I want to go back.
“Beatrice?”
Dane stirs and rolls over. I reach out and touch his stubbly face. Even first thing in the morning on almost no sleep, he is ridiculously good-looking.
He takes my hand and kisses it lightly. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. Last night, was I . . . did I . . . ?” I stumble around for the right words. “I’ve never done that before,” I confess.
“I’m your first?” Dane says incredulously.
I nod.
He strokes my hair. “You were perfect. You are perfect.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I thought the first time was supposed to be awkward and awful, but . . .” I blush. “It wasn’t.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
He draws me closer to him and kisses my head. “Listen, love,” he says, and his voice sounds different: distracted, pensive. “Last night was wonderful. But when we get back to Eden Grove, we . . . we can’t continue.”
“What?” I pull back and stare at him. “Why not?”
“Because I’m . . . we just can’t. You know that. You’re my student, and I’m your teacher. Not to mention the fact that I’m twenty-seven years old, and you’re still a minor.”
The real world is creeping back.
“No one has to know,” I point out.
“Someone at school is bound to find out.”
“We could just meet at your house and never see each other at the school. I’ll drop out of your class, switch to another elective. You could stop coaching Braden and Lianna and me.”
“What about your friend?”
Plum. I cringe as I remember all the lies I’ve fed her.
“Plum used to tease me that I had a big crush on you. But she doesn’t know . . . I mean, I didn’t tell her . . . In any case, she thinks I’m home with my dad and brother this weekend.”
“What about your father? Won’t he mention your New York trip to her? Then she might figure it out.”
“Yeah, well . . . my dad thinks I’m in Boston with Plum.”
Dane’s eyes widen. “You didn’t tell your father you were going to New York instead?”
“No.”
“Is that wise? I know he’s not supportive of your playing the piano, but . . .”
“Seriously, he has no idea where I am half the time. He’s constantly working.”
“Still, at some point you will have to talk to him about everything. Juilliard, your music.”
“I know, I know.”
We lapse into an uneasy silence. Dane turns away from me and gazes out the window. Our view, if you can call it that, is of a wooden fence. A skinny yellow cat perches precariously on top of it, which makes me think of Cream Puff.
Dane swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches for his jeans, and tugs them on. When he gets up and walks over to the window, his shoulders are tense.
He presses his palm against the glass, and it leaves a print. He quickly wipes it away.
“Listen. I want to tell you something,” he says in a quiet voice.
I frown. Is this going to be one of those talks? I have a girlfriend. I’m married. I’m moving back to London. The real world is returning with a vengeance. I sit up straight, bunch the sheet around me, and brace myself for what’s coming.
“In the beginning I thought I was just killing time at Andrew Jackson. Helping a friend. And then I met you—” He stops.
I let go of my death grip on the sheets. Maybe it’s not bad news after all.
“Working with you, teaching you, coaching you . . . I’ve loved every second, and not just because of how I feel about . . . Anyway, it’s made me think about going back to school myself. Graduate school, that is,” he goes on.
Graduate school? Relieved, I slump back against the pillows.
“With a master’s and a doctorate, I would be qualified to teach plus coach at the college level. I’m thinking that might be a good path for me.”
“You told me last night that your parents wanted you to become a concert pianist. Have you given up on that?”
“That was their dream, not mine. I love music, and I love the piano. But the stage is not for me.”
“Oh.”
“You, on the other hand . . . I predict you’ll become one of the greatest concert pianists of your generation.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, flattered. Except . . . my generation? Why not our generation?
“Anyway, my job at Andrew Jackson will likely end after Christmas. Elena thinks she’ll be ready to return then. In the meantime, I can start filling out graduate school applications for next fall.”
What about us? I want to ask. “Wow. I’m really happy for you,” I say, plucking at the sheet.
“I’m not finished. I’ll probably be applying to a number of master’s programs, including the ones at Juilliard and the Manhattan School of Music. If you decide to apply to those schools too, maybe we’ll both end up in New York. And then we could try this for real. That is, if you want to.”
He sounds shy and nervous, like the first time he asked me to play the Schumann for him.
My heart races wildly.
Dane and me in New York City together.
All of a sudden, the thought of discussing my future with Dad doesn’t seem quite as scary anymore. Being honest with him, being honest with myself . . . it all seems possible now.
I smile at Dane. “Yes.”
“Really? Yes?”
In two seconds he is by my side, kissing and caressing me.
The world disappears again.
THIRTY-ONE
It is almost eight o’clock on Monday night when Dane pulls up in front of my house. We’re still in our clothes from Saturday, and I can feel sand in my hair and shoes. We had meant to leave the Whiterock Motel yesterday, but we couldn’t seem to tear ourselves away. We ordered in from the diner and ate our meals in bed. We went out only to take long walks along the beach; once, we even made love there under the stars.
The moon is high in the sky and casts a pale white glow on our faces as Dane draws me to him and kisses me good night. When we finally pull away, he is smiling, but his smile has a penumbra of sadness.
“Thank you for everything,” I say, meaning it.
“This weekend, I . . .” He hesitates. “I’m incredibly proud of what you accomplished in New York with Annaliese.”
“Thanks. Thank you. You helped me so much with that.”
“And I’m going to continue helping you.”
“Thank you. I’ll talk to my dad soon, I promise.”
“Good girl.”
Just then a huge SUV drives toward us, flooding the inside of Dane’s car with its high beams. Dane cringes and covers his face with the back of his hand. I instinctively slide down in my seat.
When the car passes, Dane turns to me. “Beatrice?”
“Yes?”
“I meant what I said before. We can’t see each other, at least not until you turn eighteen. It’s against the law, on top of which, it’s against school rules for teachers to date students.”
Stupid laws. Stupid rules. “I’ll turn eighteen in December,” I point out.
“And after Christmas I won’t be a teacher at Andrew Jackson anymore. Things will be easier for us then. In the meantime, we have to act purely professional, platonic, whatever the term is. I think it’s a good idea, too, what you said about dropping my class. Also, I’ll step down from coaching the trio.”
“Okay.”
We kiss again before I get out of the car. He lingers at the curb until I reach the front door and then drives off. My lips tingle, and my mind hums with happy memories of the last forty-eight hours. I’m already missing that time. How will I manage without it? I know I’m good at lying, but will I be able to pretend to other people that he’s just my teacher?
Light seeps from inside the house. I can hear voices.
Puzzled, I press my ear to the door. Is Dad home? Who is he with? I insert my key in the lock and push the door open ever so slightly.
Two people sit close together on the couch, talking and drinking beer.
Theo and Plum.
I stifle a swear. “What is going on?”
Theo twists around in his seat and smirks at me. “Yo, Bumblebee. Bet you didn’t think you’d see me here, huh?”
Plum glares at me and doesn’t say a word.
Cream Puff trots up to me, meowing and purring; I guess she doesn’t realize that my world just blew up in my face.
God, I was an idiot to think that my Theo alibi was foolproof. “Plum. Hey. What are you doing here?” I manage feebly.
Plum crosses her arms over her chest. “Really, Bea? You’re asking me to explain why I’m here, when you’re the one who has a mountain of explaining to do?”
“Yes, I know, and I’m really, really—”
“For your information, I came over to give you a bunch of souvenirs I picked up for you in Boston. College catalogs, T-shirts, bumper stickers. Cookies from Aunt Jessika. Plus, I was worried about you because you weren’t reading or answering my texts. I thought that maybe you’d lost your phone.”
“It died, and I forgot to pack my charger.” I don’t add that I was too distracted to bother buying a new one.
Plum opens her mouth, then clamps it shut again and shakes her head. I realize then that her eyes are red and that her cheeks are blotchy. Has she been crying? Did I do that?
Of course I did that. I am the lamest, most selfish friend in the world.
Theo rises from the couch and stretches. “Your adorable friend here dropped by while I was watching
the game. She told me the whole story about how I’m dying and all. She was pretty upset. Good thing I was here to comfort her.” He winks at Plum. “You want another beer, gorgeous?”
Plum tilts her head up to him. “Yes, please.”
I stare at them in shock. What does he mean, “comfort”? Are they flirting? Is my brother actually hitting on Plum?
“Theo, stop it! She’s seventeen!” I yell at him.
He ignores me and heads for the kitchen.
Plum tosses her hair over her shoulders and seethes at me.
“Can I talk to you? Alone?” I ask her.
“No!”
“I have something really important to tell you. Please.”
“Fine. Five minutes. Then I’m leaving.”
“Great! Thank you! Come with me!”
I take her hand and lead her up the stairs. Cream Puff follows at our heels. When we get to my room, I close the door and lock it so that Theo can’t interrupt us.
Plum perches on the edge of my bed and peers around curiously. It occurs to me that she hasn’t been to my house in a really long time.
“Plum, did he . . . did my brother try anything?” I ask cautiously.
“What do you mean?”
“You know he’s almost thirty years old, right?”
“And you’re in a position to be judgmental about that, why?”
“That’s different. Dane’s only twenty-seven, and besides, we’re . . . I’m . . .”
“You’re what?”
The reality of Dane and me hits me with the force of a thousand shooting stars.
“I think I’m falling in love with him,” I confess.
“Excuse me?”
“We went to New York City together this weekend. That’s what I wanted to tell you. We—” I break into a huge smile and lower my voice. “We had sex.”
“Whaaaat?” Plum gapes at me with a shell-shocked expression. “I thought . . . But I asked you, and you said you had that moment at the café with him, but that was it, and . . .”
“I know. I’m sorry. But things have been building up between us, and he’s completely paranoid about people finding out. He swore me to secrecy.” Which is kind of the truth, except that he and I didn’t have that conversation until just yesterday. “He wanted to take me to New York City this weekend to play for his teacher at Juilliard. That super-famous concert pianist. It was literally the only free time she had all fall. I played for her, and she wants me to be her student! Isn’t that amazing?”