the happy, relieved look reflected back on his face. His mouth falls open like he’s going to say something, but he hasn’t figured out what yet. It better not be “I know” à la Han Solo. I decide to keep talking just in case. “I do want to be your girlfriend, Travis, but I don’t want to break up. Like, ever.”
“Okay, then we won’t break up,” he says.
“How can you be so sure?”
He takes my hand, pulls me to him, and kisses me. I’m up against his Les Paul and the awkward sound of my shirt against the strings comes through the amp like a first grader practicing violin, but the feel of it is intense. Sexually. Now I’ve got both my hands into that thick crop of blond boy hair, and he wraps his arms around me as I’m kissing him and sorry now, Les Paul, you’re in my way here. I grab it by the neck and Travis unhooks the strap and takes it from me, puts it safely in the stand, and comes back.
“There’s only one thing I need to be sure of,” he says, taking my hands into his. “And now I am.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You love me.” He can’t help himself from smiling as the words come out. All this happy in the band cave is putting a total cramp in my angsty rocker vibe, I think. Not sure if I can pull it off when I’m feeling so good. I’m going to have to convert Soft to a pop-and-jangle band like Yo La Tengo or something.
Travis leans down, wraps his arms around me and puts his lips to mine, soft and deep. Then he sweeps me right off my feet, carries me over to the couch in the corner of the basement, kicks a pile of Cole’s laundry to the floor and puts me down.
“I’ve never been carried by a guy before,” I say. “I have to admit that was awesome.”
“I know, right?” he says. “I’m going to start carrying you around more. It makes me feel manly.”
He stretches out next to me and as I slide my hands down to his jeans, I feel something in his pocket, and yes he’s glad to see me, but that’s not what it is. I put my hand in and pull out the band Sharpie.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“You never know when you might need a Sharpie,” Travis explains. “It’s for emergency tagging, that’s all.”
“I see,” I say. Then as dramatically as I can manage, I pull the cap off with my teeth.
“And . . . what exactly are you planning to do with that?” he asks, suspicious.
“Take your shirt off,” I say. “And I’ll show you.”
He sits up with a curious look and then pulls his T-shirt off. I push him back down on his back and straddle him. I take a moment to appreciate him in all his half-naked pale glory, laying there with his hands behind his head as he gazes up at me.
“Is it okay?” I ask.
“Just not on my neck this time, please. I work tomorrow.”
“Any other hard limits?”
“Animals, canes, Stryper,” he says. “That’s about it.”
“Canes?”
“Never mind.”
I nod in mock understanding, and yeah, no, this is still not quite right. So I pull a bandana out of Cole’s laundry pile (it’s clean, people) and blindfold him with it, and wow, now there’s a hard-on if ever I felt one.
“I want to surprise you,” I say.
“You already have and I heartily approve,” he says, shifting under me.
Before I lean down to draw on him, I just look at that smile, those lips curved in salutation as if to happiness itself, and then I have to lower my own down to greet them in a light, soft kiss. He tries to kiss me harder, but I pull away and start to draw.
“That tickles,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “Now don’t move or you’ll mess up my art.”
He laughs and I get to work, drawing a large, ornate cartoon heart right over his, incorporating the nipple and everything, complete with angel wings and a halo like some terrible tattoo somebody might get while drunk down the shore. If I were better at drawing, I’d probably find a way to work a guitar in there, too, but I am about as good with a Sharpie as I am at Taekwondo, which is to say not at all. I finish it off with my own name in bubble letters inside the heart, complete with an apostrophe