by H. S. Valley
He obviously isn’t expecting to talk when we get there, because he pushes me up against the closed door and kisses me before I can say anything. My confidence ratchets up a notch as his fingers slip under the edge of my waistband and I really, really want to see what comes next if all of this has got so comfortable so easily. There’s far less of the awkward fumbling I had with Lizzie; he’s so sure of himself, even if I’m not, and he doesn’t seem hampered by anything so trivial as emotions. Only thing is, I hadn’t expected peppered kisses down my neck to be part of our arrangement, and yet … that’s happening. It tickles.
‘I want to have sex,’ I say, and his lips freeze where they are. ‘If you do.’
‘What?’ He pulls back. He looks nervous. ‘Now?’
‘No, like. I dunno. Whenever.’
He rolls his eyes at me, and I ask him if he’s done it before and we end up having a tiny argument about what I mean before he admits to what he has and hasn’t done. I’m surprised, a little, but my assumptions were based on his implications, and bravado is a part of him I’m familiar with. He and Blake hadn’t gone the whole way, apparently. He knows what to do, technically, but hasn’t done it either. It feels like a big thing, deciding we both want to. A mutual first that’s probably a bit too monumental for someone you’re not really going out with, who plans to leave you sometime soon. It changes the way I feel about touching him, and we sit in silence for a while on the shitty old couch, my eyes tracing scratches in the glossy paint of the Camry.
‘We don’t have to do it,’ he says after a time.
‘I want to know what it’s like.’
‘Yes, but if it’s going to make it weird between us, is it worth it? I’d rather carry on as we are than have some hideously awkward attempt be the last thing we do.’
‘Are you scared?’ I ask, surprised to find myself thinking he might be.
‘No, I’m appropriately wary.’
‘We can talk about it some more. I usually feel more scared about things when I can’t be really honest about them.’
‘I see your recent visits to the school counsellor have worked wonders.’
‘You don’t have to be a dick about it,’ I say, not willing to talk about Dr Peters and how many wonders he actually did manage to work.
‘Fine then, Te Maro, go ahead, lay your every thought on the table.’
‘I’m worried it’ll hurt. For whoever’s … you know.’ I feel my face heat.
‘According to the brochures, to avoid discomfort, one should ensure they have adequate time, water-based lubricant and trimmed fingernails.’ He holds his hand out to me, palm down. His ring is more intricate-looking close up, almost delicate. ‘I can promise the first and the third. Apparently lube is your department.’
His nails are, indeed, extremely short, and I wonder if they’re always like that, or if he’s been thinking about all this stuff as well. I hold my hand under his so our fingertips are aligned. His fingers are longer than mine, but slimmer, and I don’t hate the thought of them. He pushes into the delicate webbing until he’s holding my hand, and it shifts the mood of the whole conversation.
‘Lube was the Year 10 Health curriculum’s department – remember our very informative sessions with the school nurse?’ I say, and let our joined hands sit against my thigh. ‘All we have to do is relax.’ I look around the room, realising our missed opportunity. ‘Do you think there’s any alcohol stashed in here?’
‘There was …’ Elliott’s other hand is busy with the fraying edge of the cushion. ‘But at the beginning of the year I was … not in the best place. I don’t want to do it drunk, anyway.’
‘I’m not suggesting drunk, just … more relaxed. And not with your vile port.’
‘We can buy something else more relaxing, then, if you’d prefer?’ he says. ‘Next time we go into town. Manaia’s eighteen. Though I don’t fancy trying to buy condoms in front of her.’
‘I have some,’ I say, and the agreement feels more solid now that we’re talking logistics. My gut flares with anticipation. It feels like a weird sort of sexual Christmas, and now that it’s real I suddenly don’t know how I feel about it. I say it out loud to see what it’s like. ‘Cool. So, we’re gonna do it.’ The fizz of anticipation rolls over in my stomach. ‘When should we …?’
‘Manaia said she had an essay due that she hadn’t started, so I doubt she’ll be free today before the shops shut, and the liquor store isn’t open on Sundays.’
‘OK. Next weekend, then, I guess?’
Elliott nods. ‘And what’ll we do right now?’ he asks, looking at me like he knows exactly what. ‘You made me sit through the most awkward conversation in the world, so you owe me.’ He gets up off the couch and turns to stand in front of me.
I think he’s going to stay there, looming, but instead he comes forward to straddle my lap like the first time we were here. This time I grab his hips and pull him flush against me. He kisses me, and it’s too easy to slide back into the rhythm of him and forget where we are. I daydream about what we’re going to do later, and he bites at my neck, and the flood of endorphins makes us bold, or forgetful, and it goes way too far considering we might get caught in here. Eventually, we bundle a happily gurgling Meggan out of her cushion nest and sneak back into the corridor.
We find Manaia in the lounge surrounded by half-done English homework and manage to arrange a trade: I’ll sit down ‘immediately, for the love of God’, and help her with her essay, and she’ll come into town with us this afternoon. The week I thought I had between me and massive lifechanging events evaporates into proverbial dust and robust discussion. My nerves ratchet up a notch, but Elliott looks completely unbothered so I guess I’m suffering alone.
Manaia and I spend an hour sitting in front of the heater, drawing thematic parallels between Whale Rider and Hunt For The Wilderpeople while Elliott lies on the floor beside us, one hand keeping hold of Meggan, the other glued to his phone. He’s browsing Reddit, and keeps interrupting to lean over and show me things, or read out idiotic comments, and it’s worse than when we were with my friends. Clearly, he’s more than comfortable being affectionate with me around Manaia. I wonder what she’ll make of it: the familiarity of his socked foot digging into my side or the back of his hand resting on my knee while he wiggles his phone at me.
He’s not acting like a friend with benefits, he’s acting like a boyfriend. Maybe that’s the way he wants it – one hundred per cent like it could be, but on a fixed schedule. But what about his insistence that no-one should know? Why bother with that if he’s going to be like this? A week ago I was thinking we could avoid anything remotely romantic, hoping our feelings wouldn’t catch on to what we were doing. Instead, he seems to have some sort of ability to turn them off and on at will, and no regard for whether I can do the same.
CHAPTER 15
YOU GOTTA KNOW
Our second excursion into town together is much the same as the first, his hands everywhere, except that he also refuses to let me pay for the hipflask of rum I ask for, insisting it’s a gift. He simply hands over his debit card and Manaia comes back with my rum and a fancy-looking 40oz bottle of whiskey. He even buys me a Coke at the petrol station when he decides that I ‘look thirsty’. He gets one for Manaia too, but it’s not enough to divert her furtive looks. I can only hope her loyalty to him extends to not publicly speculating on what we’re up to, because she’s not stupid and I don’t know what her shining a light on our arrangement will do.
She seems especially smirky when Elliott decides I should summon a fantail, and marvels a little too much at my ability to do so, even though I can’t coax it down to my hand since I have nothing to feed it. It just flits about our heads for a bit, then buggers off back into the forest. I can’t tell if her gaze is assessing my magic, or assessing the way Elliott is treating me. Eventually I decide that’s his problem. Even if I’m confused by it, I’m enjoying someone being really nice to me, after Lizzie. And if I say something about how ob
vious he’s being and he decides to dial it back, I might actually miss it.
Thinking about being alone again makes me needy, and all the walking makes me tired, so once we’re back home and out of Manaia’s earshot I suggest an early night. His expression says a lot. I spend the hours between then and dinner trying not to think about what might be coming and what a big step it is for the both of us. I fail. Both Silvia and Manaia keep throwing sly glances our way and I can’t even remember what normal behaviour looks like for me, so I probably act extra weird. I don’t eat much. My stomach is in knots. Elliott looks completely relaxed, but he’s stopped touching me now and it’s the only indicator that he’s on edge as well.
After dinner, back in the lounge, we wait until Silvia’s at the loo, then turn in with a declaration of being exhausted by our trip into town and the whole parenting malarky. Sam says, ‘Are you still not sleeping through the night?’ and I can safely say that, no, we aren’t, because whenever we’re awake at the same time, we tend to get distracted. If there was any chance Elliott’s Minder skills could cause inhuman horniness, I’d assume it was him making me avoid my friends and lie about where I’m going. Just like now.
This time, though, at least we’ve planned it for a reasonable hour. The door is locked. Meggan has had a bath, a bedtime story and a lullaby, and is making tiny little snoring sounds. If you think about it a certain way, we’re nailing this assignment. We have the happiest fake baby in the class.
On the other hand, we’re also subjecting her to an awful lot of adult activity playing out right by her bed.
‘So,’ Elliott says, taking off his jumper and shoes, then loosening all the extraneous buttons on his shirt. ‘Are we doing this now?’
He’s nervous. It’s comforting, because all the easiness of the week has just shattered into tiny pieces and I’m not feeling a hundred per cent confident myself. Maybe fifty-five per cent, at a stretch.
‘Only if we want to,’ I say, and I still don’t know if I do. ‘We planned for next week, so it can wait. Meggan and Leda and a bunch of the other eggs are still alive and well. Assignment’s not over.’
‘True,’ he says, and shrugs. ‘Though, anything could happen between now and next weekend.’
‘How about,’ I say, ‘we try the first bit, and then after that, make a decision on the whole –’ I make a vague gesture with my hand. ‘The main event bit.’
‘That seems sensible.’
‘And talking about it, telling the truth, will make it less scary, remember. Even if it’s weird to say it out loud.’
‘Yes, Dr Te Maro. Let’s just have a drink, shall we?’
‘I think you should call me Tim,’ I say, because if it’s going to be awkward anyway, we should start with something small. ‘I feel like we’re past surnames.’
He looks a bit spooked, even by that, and I wonder if the name thing was one of the parts helping him switch his feelings off. I also wonder if it’ll be a bedroom thing only. It might be a bit telling for those on the outside – he’s only ever called me Te Maro. Manaia would probably read into it if he called me Tim in front of her, even though she calls me Tim already. Girls seem to have different rules.
‘I guess I can try,’ is all he says, muttering an incantation over our mugs, still stained with port from last time. ‘You’re having rum, I assume?’
‘I’d like to try your fancy-pants whiskey, if you don’t mind? See what a dollar a shot tastes like.’
‘I doubt your palate is sophisticated enough to discern any difference from common bourbon. But by all means, let’s try it. Who knows what your mouth is capable of?’ He smiles to himself as he looks around for the backpack that we smuggled in this afternoon, heavy with our two bottles of illegal alcohol.
I roll my eyes. ‘Thanks,’ I say, and wonder if he’s purposely honed in on the one thing I’m even less confident about or if he’s just trying to lighten the mood.
‘Fortunately, you know what you’re doing with your hands, at least,’ he says. A compliment, almost. My shoulders relax slightly. ‘I assume that decides who’s doing what. Unless that’s something else you think we should awkwardly discuss?’
‘It doesn’t necessarily dictate who does what. But if you want me to do the prep and, um … be the insertive party … I can. I’ve done it before. Once. Almost.’
‘Makes sense that one of us should almost know what we’re doing.’
‘Cool. There’s, um, an incantation, for …’ Honestly, just kill me now. ‘Internal cleanliness. Mareko explained a few things after we, um, hooked up.’
‘So it’s a family trait, the lecturing?’
‘It wasn’t a lecture, it was just advice – like an oral guidebook.’
‘An oral guidebook? You’d think you’d be better at that then.’
‘Shut up, I tried.’
‘Shall we start with the incantation then?’ He leans over and slides the large whiskey bottle out of the backpack. ‘Or shall we start with the underage drinking?’
‘I need an empty shell, hang on.’
Testament to our increasingly weird magical education, he doesn’t question that, just pours a measure of whiskey into each mug and takes a sip while I fossick around in a box of extra mea looking for something appropriate to help focus my energy.
I come up with a small kākara, which seems oddly well-named for what I’m doing with it. ‘Can I?’ I gesture at his belly.
‘Sure,’ he says, and lifts up his shirt, which is both distracting and unnecessary, but it’s not like I’m going to pass up a chance to touch him.
His skin is warm and smooth, and the tiny hitch in his breath soothes my ego in just the right way. I close my left fist around the white seashell and let my right hand slide down and spread out until my fingertips are just under the waistband of his jeans. ‘Ready?’
‘Do you need a hand?’ He offers me his open palm – an offer of his own magic. I hesitate.
Does he fully understand what he’s doing? Letting someone draw on your power is pretty intense. I’ve shared with Sam and Silv before, and Mum and Dad when they were teaching me how to do stuff. Once or twice with Lizzie. Silvia and I experimented with blowing things up, mostly. Sam daisy-chained on to us once and we turned a dead stump into a pile of splinters. But we were friends. Even considering the physical closeness of mine and Elliott’s relationship, it’s not a given that we would ever share magic. It’s not insignificant that he’s offering, but who knows what it means, coming from him. It’s easy to lose knowledge when the magic skips a whole generation – especially for complex social customs like this.
I decide I don’t care either way; I’ve felt the very edges of his magic and I want to know what it’s like to get inside it. No-one needs to know we did it.
‘OK.’ I lay my fist in his hand and his fingers close around me like an anemone.
I feel the familiar tingle, and then, immediately, he lets himself go. The thrum of his magic surges, twining around my own, dancing over my bones, strong and soft and strange. His magic is more than I expected – fuller, denser, more … shiny. That, I guess, I could’ve expected.
I take a breath and focus on the shell in one hand and the depths of his belly with the other. I hold the idea of both in my mind and recite the incantation Mareko taught me. I feel the pulse in my hands and Elliott twitches under me, startled.
‘Wow,’ he says, and lets go of my hand. ‘Seems that worked.’
‘Yeah.’ I feel his absence in more than my skin. ‘Do you want to do an, um, exterior one, or should I?’
‘Something else Mareko taught you?’
‘Just seems sensible. Clean.’
‘Then go ahead.’ He offers his hand again, and I put the shell in my pocket and lay my palm down against his.
Superficial cleaning is easier; it’s a natural inclination and rarely needs a mea. It really doesn’t need any extra power either, but it looks like we’re ignoring that. I’m more than happy to touch his magic again, and that�
��s … new. Sharing power before has always been an exploration of magic, of our capabilities. It never felt like an exploration of each other. Not like this.
I slip my hand off Elliott’s stomach, back over his hip, into the dip of his lumbar. His hand tightens around mine. He lets go of his magic again and it swirls through me, waiting for me to do something with it, and I – I really like it. I let my hand slip lower and he shifts towards me, supplicant. We’re not even doing anything and already my heart is pounding. I whisper the incantation and he sighs against my shoulder. He doesn’t let go of my hand.
It’s good we did this now, the cleaning stuff. It seems naive to have thought I’d have the mental capacity to perform any magic effectively after we’d started. Even simple incantations require having blood in useful places, like my brain, and right now it’s enthusiastically starting to flow somewhere else.
‘All done.’ I step back, releasing him. I feel heavy.
‘Well, that was an experience.’ He pours himself more whiskey.
‘It’s important to be prepared,’ I say, and unzip my hoodie and chuck it on the bed; it feels warmer in here, all of a sudden. I beckon him forward. He comes to me slowly, without meeting my eye. ‘You OK?’ I ask.
‘Fine.’ He hands me my drink and sips at his own. ‘Stop treating me like I’m fragile, Te Maro.’
‘Call me Tim, would you?’ I take a sip, remembering to hold it in my mouth to taste it better.
‘Fine, Tim,’ he says, watching me drink. ‘What do you think of the whiskey?’
‘It’s nice,’ I say, and he snorts.
‘You’ll have to come up with a better adjective than that, or you’ll owe me a dollar for every mouthful.’
‘It’s very nice.’
‘That’s still a dollar.’
I take another sip and hand my cup back to him. The vapour is filling my nose, making it tingle. ‘Fragrant.’