Between Us and the Moon - Rebecca Maizel Page 0,81
On the walls are aerial photographs of the Cape Cod shoreline and what I assume are portraits of Andrew’s family. There are no lighthouses or white wood paneling like at Nancy’s house. No invitations organized in shoeboxes, linen patterns, or silver teapots. There are definitely no cupcake dresses hanging in closets.
“This house,” I say, “is great.”
It occurs to me: There are no parents here, no one telling Andrew what he can and can’t do.
Water runs in the kitchen, shuts off, and Andrew joins me on the couch. He hands me a cup.
“How many beers did you have?” he asks.
He smells like sweat and boy, which I can’t place my finger on but I think is cologne or deodorant. “You smell like boy,” I say aloud.
“Drink,” he says. I do and gulp down the whole cup of water.
“Three. Three beers,” I say.
Andrew’s kitchen is basically a fridge and stove. Above the couch is a picture of Curtis, Andrew, and a tall blond guy with a great barrel chest I haven’t seen in their group of friends before. Each of them rests a long lacrosse stick on a shoulder.
“Is that Mike?” I ask and gesture to the photo.
“Yeah,” he says. “My dad took that at the BC/Hobart game last spring. He had it framed last summer. You know . . . after.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and slide to the floor. I turn myself around to face Andrew who remains on the couch. “I’m sorry your friend died.”
“Me too,” he says quietly.
“I don’t know anyone my age who’s died,” I say.
I place the glass next to me.
“I hope you never have to,” Andrew says. He doesn’t move his eyes from the floor. I want to take away his sadness and I don’t know how.
I pull him to the floor with me and wrap my legs around his hips. Andrew lies on top of me and I kiss him, wanting him, needing him to know how sorry I am that all of this has happened and how much I wish I could take his pain away. He returns my embrace and runs his hand up my back. His hips start moving in a rhythm and I try to match it. His breathing is getting heavier. He slips my shirt over my head.
It’s off, it’s on the floor, I’m wearing just my bra, and an overwhelming urge takes over me. I want his body near me more than anything in the world. His lips are on my neck, my lips, and on my neck again. I’m fumbling for the button of his shorts and he reaches in and takes out his penis with his right hand. I’ve never seen anyone do this and all I want to do is hold him, make him feel as good as he does me. He moves his hand and I see how much thicker and larger his penis grows. I hesitate. I don’t know what to do exactly. I don’t want to be wrong.
“What?” he says gently, his breathing hard. We’re both shirtless, me in a bra and him with his khaki shorts unbuttoned. “Is it—what’s wrong?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m not . . . ready. I mean, I am, I just need some time. I want to know what to do.” My cheeks must be so red because a flush of heat runs through my chest and face.
Andrew sits up quick and buttons his shorts. “Come here.” He opens his arms to me. I lay my head on his chest. His heartbeat is familiar to me now.
“The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable,” he says.
“You don’t make me uncomfortable. Ever.”
I say something, which is so painfully true it’s a relief to say it aloud.
“It’s just that, school and science. That’s my life. I’ve never gotten so close to someone,” I say. “Not like this. I don’t want to screw it up.”
“Never,” he says.
He strokes the side of my head again and again. I could fall asleep with our skin on skin, and my cheek warmed by his body heat.
“You don’t get into MIT and track comets by dating every guy in the world.”
Half of that sentence rings true within me, half of it is the right thing to say. The other half breaks me apart a little. This lie is now in every thread of our conversation. It’s everywhere.
“Will you wait a little? For me?” I ask.
“As long as you want, Star Girl.”
My bottom lip trembles and I bite at it so it stops.