he wants to be true, not things that actually are. What makes me any better than the other girls at school? Why me, Dean? Is it just because I’m a challenge?
An image flashes through my mind of Andrew and Danielle dancing downstairs, wrapped up in each other, his hands gripping her like he’s scared she’ll float away. That’s what Andrew wants. So this is what I want. It has to be.
And maybe it’s better like this. I wanted to get my first time out of the way with someone I didn’t have feelings for. Now here we are. The girls who have it right are the ones like Ava—who sleep with whoever they want just because they want to. You can’t shame girls for liking sex just because you don’t, Andrew said to me once. And he’s wrong, because I can like casual sex too. So what if he’s about to have a moment, if he waited for the girl he loves? I’ve waited long enough.
Dean uses our clasped hands to pull me closer on the bed and I let him, leaning over to kiss him like it’s everything that I want. His breath tastes like champagne and risotto, and the smell of his aftershave wraps me up. I’m trying to find the feeling I once had while kissing him—trying to find the swoop in my stomach. But it isn’t there. His tongue is just a tongue—slimy and wet. The stubble on his face feels scratchy against my cheek.
It’s funny how things work out, how everything flipped upside down and in the end I still got what I wanted: sex with a guy that didn’t have to mean anything at all. It turns out the Plan wasn’t such a bad idea after all; I just had the wrong guy in mind to do it.
Dean deepens the kiss and pulls me against him, threading his hand through my hair and pulling just a bit, just enough that I know he’s into this. My eyes are closed and I let myself pretend for just a moment that he’s Andrew instead, let myself envision the honey color of his hair, his smattering of freckles, his green eyes. I haven’t kissed Andrew since I realized I love him, and I get light-headed at the thought of it.
Dean moves his hand down the side of my neck and then to the zipper at my back, trying to get it loose. I reach back and help him, because I want this too. I slide down the zipper and then stand up so he can peel the green dress off me. We leave it in a pool on the floor. Dean unbuttons and takes off his shirt and undershirt, and then I’m looking right at the tan muscles of his chest and they’re mine if I want them, and I do. I run my hands down him, and he sucks in a sharp breath as I reach the V of muscle above his belt. He’s so beautiful—his dark eyelashes, the hard edges of his cheekbones. I could cry because I should want this so much—anyone would want this.
I wonder if Andrew and Danielle have left the ballroom yet, if they’ve wandered up to their own room, their own four-poster bed. I can see him now—pulling her down the hallway, both of them giddy and laughing. He’s pushing her up against the wall because he can’t wait until they get to the room. Andrew always did like kissing girls against the wall. I’ve seen him do it so many times at so many parties, so why wouldn’t he be doing that now?
I can see him fumbling with the key to the room, Danielle clucking impatiently, then taking it herself, opening the door and pulling him into the dark, stripping off the layers of his clothes until he’s all skin.
I reach for Dean’s belt buckle and work it open and then he lifts his hips and pulls down his pants, kicking them into some corner of the room. Once they’re off and we’re in just our underwear, he rolls his body onto mine and lies down, pressing me into the mattress.
My mind flashes to the last time I was in this position, a boy on top of me pressing me into a mattress strewn with flowers; how I felt