Has to Be Love

by Jolene Perry

  “About the production.” I swear it’s almost as painful for him to talk as it is for me right now. “Can you look down this list and tell me if I’ve got it right? Or if another time is better, we can talk later.”

  He clears his throat as he turns his clipboard for me to see, and his eyes get stuck for just a moment too long on the right side of my face. My stomach twists again, and I look at the clipboard because it is infinitely safer than his stare.

  I get that this is weird of me, but I’m not sure the best way to go about talking to you or apologizing. I’m sorry about the other night in the barn after dinner. Things were awkward. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked about your scars. I’m sure I shouldn’t have touched your face. I’m sorry. I really want us to get along, and I need for things to not be weird because Ms. Bellings said to rely on you. And because I don’t want to offend your dad by offending you. Can the awkwardness fall behind us? Because there’s no way things aren’t weird right now.

  Heat rushes up my neck because I’m probably acting juvenile or something about that very brief situation in the barn.

  “I just want to get along. Okay?” he asks quietly.

  “That all looks fine.” I slide back and manage not to look at him, and I readjust my books and manage not to look at him, and I stand up and manage not to look at him, but then our eyes meet, and I think we’re both stuck in the moment. Not only that, but I almost feel on equal footing with this teacher who goes to my university and who wants us to get along. Are we … friends? Do I have a friend in New York? That adventure feels closer again, and I’m not ready for it to feel closer. The only reason I applied a year early was just to see … I didn’t want extra decisions.

  A corner of his mouth quirks up in a partial smile.

  In this second my world gets bigger and makes me feel smaller, and my heart races because when I start to feel how big the world is, and how many people are out there and how many places there are to see, half of me is thrilled and the other half begs to shut it out. Why did I have to meet Rhodes now? The guy who wants to travel the world and goes to my school?

  “So, we good?” he asks, his voice sounding more hopeful and back to normal volume.

  He’s serious. He actually cares about what I think. My chest does that swelling thing again. Pride? Happiness? “Yeah.” My mouth is pulling into a smile, and I don’t remember willing that to happen. “We’re good.”

  “Okay then.” He lets out a breath, and shuffles the papers, but we’re each still looking at the other. “Sorry if this is weird timing.”

  “It’s fine.” Oh crap. Elias is waiting. “See ya,” I say before spinning on my heel and walking out of the classroom.

  I suck in a breath, but I still feel weird over … whatever that just was.

  “Hey.” Elias slides his arm around my waist as soon as I step out of the room, and now the written note makes even more sense. Mr. Kennedy knew we’d be eavesdropped on, and I should have known too. But was it that big of a deal? Why didn’t he just wait until the next dinner? Or pull me aside after school? Maybe the weirdness really was bothering him.

  “So?” Elias asks.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and stare at the floor, knowing I’m about to lie. “About play stuff.”

  “Oh.” He gives me a squeeze. “That’s all? I feel like …” He trails off.

  Like what? I nearly ask but don’t because I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear his question.

  “I feel like he looks at you a lot, or …”

  I try to shrug, but I think my body just jerks weird. One conversation with a student-teacher shouldn’t affect me so fully. “I still say it’s probably my messed-up face.”

  He frowns. “It’s not messed up, Clara. You’re beautiful.”

  Elias thinks everyone is beautiful, I’m sure.

  “Are you okay?” He rests a hand on my shoulder. “You seem jumpy.”

  I’m not sure how to answer. I just stare at this guy who I’ve known since I was a kid.

  “Clara?” he asks again.

  I shake my head, wishing the action would jumble the loose parts of my thoughts together. “I really want out of here. Do you think we could get out of here?”

  His head rests to the side and his brow furrows in worry.

  I know he won’t want to skip because he never does, but maybe …“Please?”

  “Yeah … okay.” He puts his arm around me, tucking me in to his side. “We can go.”

  We’re five cars behind the stupid speaker at the McDonald’s drive-through because it’s the only fast-food restaurant in town. Despite the wait, it feels delightfully scandalous to be here instead of at school.

  One day I’ll be living somewhere with small, trendy cafés and corner vendors, and … My gaze floats toward Elias. The guy who I’m sure will wait for me if I ask him to. It’s just a conversation I’m not ready to have, and one I can put off for another year. An uneasy feeling spreads through me in a sort of spidery way.

  “The house you were designing looked cool,” I say, trying to focus on something normal, but maybe we should be pushing past our normal.

  He taps the steering wheel. “Thanks. Drawing plans for homes that small isn’t really practical up here. But it’s like when you step into a motor home and there’s not an inch of wasted space. I like the idea of that.”

  “Hmm.”

  I stare out the window at the ravens gathered at the garbage bins and listen to the complex language as they talk to each other. They used to scare me, but not anymore. Even their beady, too-knowing eyes don’t send creepers up my spine the way they did when I was a kid. So much has changed. I glance at Elias briefly, wondering what’s going to change for us as we get older.

  My small notebook rests on my leg, and I scribble a few random sentences about the birds.

  Suddenly, Elias pulls away from the speaker toward the window.

  I turn to face him. “I didn’t tell you what I want.” How did we get so far up in line?

  His brows rise a bit. “In the two years I’ve been coming through this drive-through with you, it’s been the same thing.”

  “Not always,” I protest.

  “Always.” A corner of his mouth pulls up like I’m adorable, but I don’t want to be adorable; I wanted to order.

  “No.” I can feel myself pouting, and I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t seem to stop it.

  Elias sighs. “I’m sorry then. You were watching those nuisance birds like always. You had your notebook out, and I thought I was doing a nice thing by ordering without interrupting your train of thought.” His voice turns quiet. “What’s going on with you?”

  I want him to sound irritated or angry. I want him to give me something to push against, but there’s no pushing against someone who is genuinely concerned about what I’m thinking. What’s wrong with me?

  “Why aren’t you frustrated?” I ask.

  He touches my cheek. The one closest to him. The one without the scars. I sometimes think he avoids touching that side of my face, but I can’t be sure because it just sort of happens that he’s on my left side a lot. He drives a lot. The deeper his eyes look at me and the more his hand touches my cheek and then my hair and then his fingertips slide up and down my neck, the less I think about wanting to be frustrated and the more I think about where else I’d like his hands.

  Knowing the importance of not going too far with Elias is much easier when I’m not sitting next to him. Reconciling what I believe I should do around him and what I want to do with him is a near-constant struggle.

  “I love you, Clara. If you’re having a hard time, I want to help. If that means leaving school and going to McDonald’s, then that’s what I’m going to do. If it means being patient while you deal with what you need to, then I’ll do that too.” Every breath and every part of his eyes show that he’s telling the truth. “You’ve been a little distracted over the past few days, and that’s fine, but if you want to talk, I want to listen.”

>   In a million lifetimes I could not hope to deserve this kind of devotion. And after the other night in the barn with Rhodes (the one I didn’t tell Elias about) and the crazy thoughts I’ve been having since then, I deserve a very confused or angry boyfriend. Instead I’m getting this.

  Elias’s eyes are so deep that it always makes me think of the scripture about how the eyes are the windows to the soul. Elias’s eyes have nothing but goodness in them—even down deep where I’m spiteful and petty.

  Because instead of remarking on his awesome eyes or how good he is for me, I jump into the one conversation we tiptoe around more often than any other. “At what point do you think it’ll be weird that we go to different churches?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Why are you looking for a fight today?”

  “I’m not, but we don’t always agree.” We’ve never actually fought, because one or the other of us always shrugs off the disagreement. Elias thinks my church overdoes meetings, and I know all of our forever-family stuff bothers him. He thinks we’ll love everyone the same after this life, and I can’t imagine that. At some point, if we stay together, our different views are going to cause problems. “Maybe that’s something we should start talking about.”

  Elias lets out a slow breath. “I don’t understand why you believe some of the things you do, but in the end, it’s made you who you are. And I love you.”

  He always says something like this, and I think part of him is putting off having this conversation for real, just like I’m putting off having the conversation when I tell him I might want to go to New York.

  “My house?” I ask and he nods.

  “Your shake.” Elias passes it to me with a smile. “And fries.”

  I stare at Elias for a moment, trying to shove away my totally unjustified irritation. “Thanks.” I slide down in the seat relieved that the hard part of my day is over and having no idea what comes next. Not in the next hour or … for the rest of my life, really.

  7

  My house is blissfully silent. Dad should be at work for hours more, and neither Elias nor I have anywhere to be. This is his day off at the construction company, I barely work any hours at his dad’s hardware store and lumberyard, and since he signed us out of school (our parents trust us way too much), neither of us is expected at play rehearsal.

  I wrap my arms around his neck as soon as we’re inside and slide my lips across his. Maybe this will make up for my moodiness today.

  Elias matches my soft kiss before gently grasping my arms, taking them from around his neck, and stepping away. “I don’t know, Clara.” This is how he always handles us being alone—way too carefully. Neither of us believes in sex before marriage, and both of us have watched our friends slip off that path. There are times when I definitely want to slip. I generally feel really bad about that … after Elias has gone home.

  “What?” Even though I totally know.

  He rests his head to the side, like he’s conflicted. He probably is. I don’t know that anyone could be as good, deep down, as he is. Good parents, structured life, beliefs that run deep …“This is a lot of time to be alone.”

  “You mean a lot of time to get into trouble?” I’m not sure if I’m hurt or annoyed or neither, or both.

  “I don’t think you realize how hard it is for me. How easy it would be for me to go too far with you, and I don’t … I don’t want to be that guy.” The way his weight shifts and his brow wrinkles, he looks honestly tortured.

  “How far is too far?” I ask, wondering how much closeness I can get.

  He flushes a little and looks away, moving into my living room instead of standing by the door. I immediately follow.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “Where do you draw the line? Where do you want to?” Because for me, that line is getting closer to sex every time we’re together—at least lately. Maybe if we talk, I’ll remember why I don’t want to go too far even when we’re together. And I actually feel this huge light-headed kind of relief that we’re talking about this instead of avoiding.

  He sits, folding his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “Where do you?”

  Where do I? “What? Do you want to know Mormon standards?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I think I know, but … um … yeah.” And then he swallows.

  “This shouldn’t make you so nervous. We’re not talking about having sex before my dad gets home.” And it’s not something we’ve really talked about before. Before, we’ve been polite and careful. I sorta feel like we’re moving past that now, and it feels amazing—like maybe we will beat the odds and stay together.

  “Clara.” His eyes widen and he shifts on the couch, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

  “No touching shoulders to knees and everything in between is the joke or guideline or whatever. We have youth dances at our church and we hold each other around the neck or on the waist, so the shoulders to knees thing is for under clothes, I think.” The guideline is totally for both under and over clothes, aside from where we touch to dance.

  His eyes are floating between my shoulders and my knees and everything in between and there’s an ache in wanting to be closer to him that pushes me forward.

  He licks his lips a few times as I stand in front of him. “Probably smart.”

  I kneel, resting my hands on his legs and my butt on my feet, nervous energy racing through me and tightening my insides as I rub my palms up the top of his thighs. Maybe all those energy strings will tighten further if we touch more. I’m not supposed to want him this way.

  “But over clothes …” It’s my turn to take a hard swallow. “There might be wiggle room.” There’s totally not.

  “Clara.” His voice is pleading, but I don’t know if he wants me to go away or come closer. I’m guessing he’s feeling whatever I’m feeling so I scoot closer, which pushes his knees apart a little, and I lean toward him. There’s no careful kissing before his tongue slides in my mouth. We kiss so desperately that we can’t find a rhythm. My college decisions don’t matter, my appointment in Seattle doesn’t matter, the weirdness around Rhodes doesn’t matter.

  I pull on him and he lays me down on the floor, resting his weight on top of me. This time my legs spread a little for him and he lets out a moan as we keep kissing, still frantic. As his body rocks against mine, once, gently, I realize he seriously has a hard-on, and it’s pressing into me, and I arch into him as our tongues slide together. I’m wondering if I should feel as good about it as I do, but the pressure of him feels so amazing that I find myself rocking a little with him. And even though our clothes are on and his hands haven’t run over anything they shouldn’t, I’m pretty sure this isn’t something we should be doing.

  If he asked me right now if I’d let him take me upstairs to my bed, I’d maybe tell him yes.

  My scars don’t matter.

  His hands press into my sides as they slide down to the top of my pants, and my body is screaming, Yes! There! Unbutton! More touching! Maybe I’ll get some release from all the tension jumping around inside me lately.

  His fingers slide up my shirt, just a little. And even though we’ve been together for a year and a half, this is easily the furthest we’ve gone. If not in actual touching, then in mood. Because I don’t care about breathing or eating or my dad or school or that we shouldn’t be alone in my house. I care about feeling more of him against more of me.

  My hands run up the back of his shirt, tracing my fingers over all the muscles he gets from working so hard.

  His thumbs run slightly underneath the top of my jeans, flushing every part of my body with heat.

  “Clara.” His hands hit the floor as he shoves off me, holding himself in push-up position so we don’t touch.

  His hair is disheveled, and his eyes are wild. I arch my hips up toward him and then he’s gone. He’s jumped four feet away, where he’s lying with his stomach on the floor and breathing hard, still watching me.

  The loss of warmth trips up my brain and body, rocketing m
e back into the present. It takes me a second to catch my breath, and I now have an ache I’m not sure how to make go away.

  His hand reaches toward mine, and I roll over to lie on my stomach, still staring.

  “That was …” he starts.

  My heart and breathing nearly drown out his words. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “I could have …” He trails off, but I don’t need him to finish.

  “I could have too. All the way.”

  Elias frowns, and a nagging tug in my chest says I did this to him.

  “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think of to say. I have no idea what’s going on with me. I was annoyed with Elias for being over nice, I had been staring at Mr. Kennedy in a very more-than-friend way, and now this, which sort of seems like the opposite of how I was feeling about Elias in the drive-through.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “It’s my responsibility to make sure we don’t go too far. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  I sit, letting our hands fall apart. “Why would you be more responsible than me?”

  “It’s just …” Elias sits up. “We get these lectures from our youth pastor all the time about being a gentleman, and right now I don’t feel like … I’m the guy, you know?”

  “And I’m the girl.” I’m not even sure what he’s trying to say.

  He licks his lips and stares at the carpet. We won’t discuss this any further because it would turn into an argument, and apparently Elias’s method of avoiding an argument on a subject is to avoid the subject. Though, with my unwillingness to really discuss plans after scars, maybe that’s my method of not arguing too.

  I wonder how long that’ll last.

  “We’ve been friends a long time,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “We both know we want to wait … until we’re married.”

  Unease begins sucking in my stomach because I just made Elias uncomfortable. “Yeah … we’ve always known that.”

  “I’m …” He presses both palms into his forehead as he stares at the floor. “I never thought that I’d want different.”

  “And”—I swallow hard, terrified of his answer, not matter what it is—“you do?”