by Hart, Staci
“Be there in ten,” he said, sounding as giddy as I was.
We said goodbye, and I hung up, sighing like a fool while Elle chuckled at me.
“I know,” I admitted. “I know. He’s just…perfect, Elle.”
“No one is perfect.”
“Well, he checks all the boxes.”
“I’m only saying that maybe you should get to know him a little better before you call him your boyfriend. You don’t even really know if you like each other.”
I gave her a flat look. “Elle, he’s gorgeous, went to Yale, recites poetry, and took me on a dream date. What’s not to like?”
“The dream date wasn’t exactly original.”
“Ugh, killjoy.”
Amused, she shook her head and pulled open the door to Besos. By the time we sorted out what we wanted, Will was strolling through the door, looking like a movie star—tall and dark and dressed in clothes that looked both casual and rich, his hair disheveled in all the right places. And then there was that smile.
He pressed a kiss to my cheek in greeting, and I introduced him to Elle, who was as amiable as always. And a few minutes later, Will bought our burritos, and we were taking seats in a booth by the window.
“So, guess who I convinced to come to the mixer?” I asked, displaying my arms to Elle in a ta-da! gesture.
He chuckled. “You too?”
Elle nodded, pretending to look defeated. “There’s no standing up to her when she gets like this.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can’t find a dress for you too. Annie will tell me what kind of costume to get,” he said before taking a bite of his burrito.
I leaned toward her. “His brother performs on Broadway,” I said, as if that explained everything.
She looked confused. “Is he also a seamstress?”
“No,” Will said with a smirk, “but he has access to costumes. I’ll let the hair and makeup artists know they’ll have two.”
I frowned, confused. “Wait, what?”
“You’re so cute, you know that?” He kissed my nose. “If you’ve got an authentic dress, your hair should match. Really, it’s nothing. My brother set it all up.”
I turned to Elle, still gaping. “Oh my God, we’re going to be like actual princesses.”
“All this for a mixer?” she asked Will.
“I don’t do anything halfway,” he answered with a wink.
“I guess not.” Elle took a bite of her burrito, but oddly, I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or not.
“How does it work, Annie, with you being eighteen in the bar?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s no big deal. They wristband everyone at the door, and since it’s a coffee shop too, the rules are a little different. But technically, I’ll be working.”
“Do you serve? Or…” he started.
“I’ll be working the door. They do this thing where everyone gets name tags, and they all pick out their favorite books along with their favorite drinks and list them with us. So if you see someone you like, you can buy them a drink and their favorite book for a discount.”
“That is genius,” Elle said.
“Cam’s brilliant. Anyway, I’ll be ringing people up.” Elle looked like she wanted to back out, and an idea struck me, one that put a wide smile on my face. “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re entertained. Promise.”
She didn’t seem persuaded but didn’t press it.
“So, what do you do, Will?” Elle asked.
“Right now, I’m between things.”
It was the same answer he’d given me, but she seemed less amused than I had been. “And what did you do before you were between things?”
“Yale.”
That seemed to finally impress her. “What did you study?”
“Literature. Just trying to sort out what I’d like to do from here, you know? I want to be sure before I commit to anything.”
Elle laughed softly. “Look before you leap? However did you end up with Annie?”
He offered a laugh of his own. “She sort of fell in my lap.”
“What can I say? You’ve got a great lap.”
“Thank you by the way,” Elle said, setting down her burrito. “I’m glad you were there to help her.”
“So am I,” he said with a glance at me.
I would have died happy if there weren’t so many things left on my list.
We tucked into our dinner, chatting all the while. And when we were through and pulling on coats and hats, he asked if I wanted to come over and watch a movie.
To which I answered with an emphatic, “Yes!”
We said goodbye on the sidewalk, and a few minutes later, I was nestled into Will as we drove through the park toward his apartment.
Will had a doorman, though he wasn’t nearly as friendly as George, and his building was just as high-end as Susan and John’s. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the splendor of the kind of luxury they lived in. I always felt a little like a fraud, as if someone would point right at me and announce to the room that I didn’t belong there.
Passing the threshold of his apartment didn’t make me feel any more like I fit in. How a twenty-two-year-old man had access to a place like this was beyond me. It was beautiful and open—no park views, but there was a great view of Madison Avenue, which felt ludicrous to even consider, never mind gaze upon with my own two eyes. The furniture was all sleek and simple, modern but with a mid-century nod.
“God, Will, how beautiful,” I said, drinking in the view.
He laughed gently as he closed the door. “I’m glad you like it. And I’m glad you’re here.”
He moved to stand behind me, his hands finding my upper arms, his nose trailing against the curve of my ear, sending a sweet chill down my back.
“Me too,” I managed to say.
“Oh,” he said, his lips almost in my hair, “I got us tickets to Hamilton on Thursday. What do you say?”
I turned around to face him, slipping my arms around his neck, though I wondered if he was asking me if I wanted to go or if he wanted me to thank him. I couldn’t do either.
Trepidation hung over me like a dark, heavy cloud. “Please tell me we can get tickets for another night?”
His pleased smile slipped into a frown. “You have plans?”
I nodded, not wanting to say with whom I had plans.
“You can’t get out of it?”
“Well, I could, but I made those plans first. Can you really not get tickets for another night, Will?” I asked gently.
He brushed my hair from my face. “I can get tickets for almost any night, sure. Where are you going?”
I almost lied. I probably should, but alas, I was the worst liar in history and knew it. “To Romeo and Juliet at the Lincoln Center. Greg got us tickets.”
Everything about his face hardened, even his eyes. Maybe his eyes most of all. “You’re kidding, Annie. Please, tell me you’re kidding.”
I shook my head.
“You know he likes you, don’t you?”
I huffed. “Not you too.”
He stepped away from me and raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. You don’t take a friend to the ballet.”
“And why not?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
“Because you just don’t. He likes you, and you’re going on a date with him.”
“It’s not a date, Will.”
“It’s a date, and I thought we were exclusive.”
“Hang on just a second,” I shot. “Because this isn’t about me going to the ballet; it’s about me going with Greg. I won’t ask you to like him. I won’t even ask you to be around him. But Greg is my friend. He was my friend before I ever met you, and he’ll continue to be my friend. Just as much as I don’t want my seeing you to be a problem for him, I don’t want my friendship with him to be a problem for you. And if it’s a problem for you, then we really do have bigger issues.”
He watched me for a second
, the muscle in his tight jaw bouncing.
“So, is it going to be a problem?”
Will let out an audible breath and unlocked his jaw. “No,” he said as he stepped back into me, winding his arms around my waist.
“Good,” I sang sweetly, trying to defuse the tension, my arms taking their previous spot around his neck.
“I just don’t like him.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want him to interfere.”
“He won’t.”
Will almost smiled. “He’d better not.” He sighed, his anger dissipating. “I’m sorry, Annie. Sometimes when I get mad, get…jealous,” he admitted, “I say things I don’t mean. Will you bear with me?”
My heart softened. “Of course,” I said on a breath.
And then he kissed me.
I was so preoccupied with where my hands were or if he was enjoying the kiss or if I was any good at it; there was really no way I could even stop to enjoy it.
He pulled back with a crooked smile on his face. “Wanna make out?”
A giggle bubbled out of me, and I nodded, feeling like I was in junior high. Except in junior high, I had been too busy reading books and playing piano to kiss boys.
Will scooped me up and carried me to the couch, laying me down. My heart almost stopped when he started climbing on top of me, and I shifted, smiling nervously, putting him on his side with his back to the couch.
And thus began my very first make-out session.
We kissed in the same emotionless way I’d felt on our date, but we persevered until our lips were swollen, and a very alarming, very hard boner was pressed against my hip. I tried to mimic what he did with his lips, tried to match him motion for motion, tried to understand what to do with my tongue, tried not to wonder how humans had figured out that shoving your tongue in someone else’s mouth felt good.
I spent at least two full minutes just puzzling through that particular discovery of mankind, but I couldn’t quite sort it out.
A couple of times, he tried to roll on top of me, but I found ways to keep myself at his side, hoping he would remain content with our scissored legs, hips pressed together. I started sweating a little and spent a few minutes obsessing about whether or not I’d put on deodorant, which I thought might have made me sweat more.
I was in the dead center of that thought—Did I put it on after my shower or when I brushed my teeth?—when his hand roamed from my hip up to my ribs, and his broad palm cupped my breast.
I involuntarily pulled back—not out of surprise that he had done it, but out of shock from the contact. No one had ever touched me like that before.
We separated with a pop of our lips.
“Oh,” I breathed.
His hand didn’t move. Well, it didn’t move away. He buried his face in my neck, his lips against my skin, his thumb brushing the peak of my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, sending a jolt of heat down my stomach, between my legs.
“Oh!” I gasped and leaned back. “Whoa!” was all I managed before hitting the ground between the coffee table and couch with a thump.
He laughed without mocking me, and I looked up at him, blushing furiously as I wished I would just die already.
“You okay?”
I nodded and tried to smile. “I, um…”
“Come here,” he said in an honest-to-God come-hither voice.
I fought the urge to run. You are a grown woman, Annie Daschle. Now, get up and get on that couch with that boy.
To which another part of my brain said, Nuh-uh, no way.
“I…I don’t think I’m…it’s just that…”
One of his brows rose. He was still smiling.
God, he’s going to make me say it. “I don’t know if I’m…ready for that.”
His smile fell at that. “Oh. Right.”
“Can we…do you want to maybe watch a movie?”
He cleared his throat and sat up, his face unreadable as he discreetly rearranged the steel pipe in his pants. “Yeah, sure.” The words were level and distant.
Shame crept over me, and I climbed back up onto the couch. “I…I’m sorry,” I said, wondering why the hell I was apologizing.
Will offered a smile I didn’t believe, but he didn’t absolve me. “What do you want to watch?”
He turned to the television and started talking about movies, but I only gave cursory answers as I tried to sort through how I felt.
Why did I feel so guilty? Should I have just gone along with it? Was he frustrated? Annoyed? Why did I feel like I’d let him down?
I agreed to a movie he said he’d wanted to see, some action flick I couldn’t remember the name of and wouldn’t remember the plot of the next morning. We didn’t speak, but he pulled me into his side, throwing a blanket over us.
As close as our bodies were, he seemed a million miles away. But once it was playing, he finally looked at me and saw me.
“Hey,” he started gently, and I looked over at him, trying for reassuring. “It’s really fine, Annie. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He seemed appeased, turning his attention to the screen as I mercilessly lectured myself.
Because had he done anything wrong? Other than seeming put out, no. He wanted what most people wanted, and if that thing in his pants was any indication, he wanted it pretty bad. All he’d done was grab my boob. Most people did that their freshman year. It was me who was different, not him.
Maybe that was why I felt so bad, I told myself.
Because I was weird, and in that moment, he had known it. And for that moment, he hadn’t been happy about it.
It was me who had the problem, and really, he didn’t have to put up with it. He could tire of me at any time. I could almost guarantee he hadn’t been with a virgin at any point in recent history, especially not one who had zero experience, not even with something so rudimentary as kissing.
I wondered how long he’d be patient. And I wondered if I could force myself to be ready for something I wasn’t prepared for. Was it like jumping off the high-dive—you just needed to go for it—or was it like learning to do skateboard tricks—something that required instinct and practice and familiarity?
I told myself again that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d stopped when I said to. And I was only imagining that he was unhappy with me.
By the time he took me home, I’d even convinced myself that was the truth.
Some Magic
Annie
I held up the quilt my nana had made for me before I was born, remembering a hundred moments in the span of a second, sparked just by holding that stitched, worn fabric.
“It feels like a lifetime ago,” Elle said quietly.
In her hand was the painting she’d done of the rolling hills, dotted with trees and spring grass that lay behind our house—our old house, the house I’d never wander through again. The painting had hung over our mantel for years and had traveled thousands of miles in a moving pod, a little window into our old lives.
It was almost as hard to bear as it was a homecoming.
Boxes were stacked around the music room where there was plenty of room to spread out and sort through them. There were nonessential clothes and boxes of filed papers. Some were filled with photo albums and some with old schoolwork. And the rest were our own keepsakes.
Elle had arranged for the furniture Daddy had made to be put in a storage unit in Texas in the hopes that someday we would be able to bring it to wherever we were. And everything else had been sold, donated, or packed up in a big wooden box to travel here.
My boxes contained mostly books with some clothes, scrapbooks, and sheet music. I pulled the old Polaroid camera he’d given me when I was little and dozens of albums I’d accumulated over the years. But I had another full box devoted to things Daddy had made.
That box I put in my room to go through another time when there were less eyes to witness.
Susan cleared an entire bookshelf for me; it went all the w
ay up to the ceiling, and I was more than a little excited to get on the ladder to add books to that topmost shelf. They were my old friends—my hardback set of Outlander and Harry Potter, stacks of Harlequin romances, piles of indie romances, the entire collection of Neil Gaiman books, which included one limited edition illustrated copy of Neverwhere, signed. In marker.
Mama came in when I was deep in the organizational throes, Mozart playing from my phone speaker and entire mind turned to the best way to order my books.
“You’re making progress,” she said as she wheeled herself over, stopping when she made it as close as she could with the maze of boxes.
I sighed happily. “It’s so good to have our things. I don’t know why, but it is. I don’t think I could ever be a minimalist. I forget things if I don’t have a touchstone to remind me.”
She chuckled. “Meg’s happy as a lark. She’s got Daddy’s old atlas split open on her bed, and she’s poring over the pages like she’s never seen them before.”
I walked over and sat in an armchair next to her. “And how about you, Mama?”
She took a breath, her fingers winding together in her lap. “I’m not quite sure how I feel. My worlds have collided—the one from before I met your Daddy and the other one, the one from before he died. The third one, I’m not sure about yet. It’s just as alien to me as it was when I woke up in that hospital bed.”
I nodded, knowing there was nothing to say.
Mama glanced at the window. “When I left here, I didn’t think I’d ever come back. And having the remainder of my life with your father here in boxes is comforting and sickening, all at the same time.”
For a moment, she sat, unmoving and quiet.
“You know,” she started softly, “when I met him, I knew. There was something about him, some magic, something in his smile and his eyes and the way his hand fit with mine, like they’d been cast together and split apart, and when they found each other again, there was a note plucked in both of us. And, after that moment, I marked my existence by the moments before and after him. So when my parents didn’t approve, it didn’t matter. There was only one thing I could do; I had to go with him. I had to be with him because I couldn’t see my life without him in it. But I don’t have a choice now either. He’s gone.”