to give my heart away like this, to let myself fall so hard for someone I might never see again. I immediately pushed the thought out of my head as soon as it entered.
When I spoke to Mom every morning, I dropped little bits of information about how things had progressed with Sam. But no matter how much she seemed to delight in my romantic vacation, I still wouldn’t dare tell her that I lost my virginity to him or that every time I saw him, my head started singing a tiny, beautiful, terrifying four-letter word.
The following night in the garden, his hands were on my face, but I wanted them on my skin. His hands were on my chest, but I wanted him over me. His body was on top of mine in the shadows, but I wanted him moving into me. I wanted to possess him and be possessed by him in a way that made me feel nearly wild.
When I reached for his track pants, he went still, his voice unsure in my ear: “We should stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“I don’t want to either, but I also don’t want to get arrested.”
“Just . . . let’s be fast.”
In the end, we came together, frantically, behind a row of trees. And afterward, while I was staring up at our stars, he turned to look at me, saying, “It’s so crazy to think that things that I thought only lived in my imagination can be real.” He reached out, tracing my mouth with his fingertip. “But then I touch you, and it’s like every fantasy I ever had coming true.”
I closed my eyes, feeling, for the first time all day, a sense of reality closing down on us. “You can’t say things like that.”
Sam pushed up on an elbow. His hair was messy from my hands, his mouth swollen. “Why not?”
“Because it will make it that much harder when we go home.”
He didn’t say anything to this, he just stared down at me, half-amused, half something unreadable.
“When you look back at this,” I started, already hearing the unreasonable in my voice, “do you think you’ll remember it just as sex with a girl in London?”
Sam laughed, giving me a simple, “No.” He kissed me again. “I could have just sex with a girl in London if that’s what I wanted. I already told you I’m going to come see you. I like being with you just as much when we have our clothes on. That’s part of what I mean about the fantasy.”
Pulling back, I looked over at him, not entirely sure why this made me feel even more sad. No matter what my infatuated heart said, could there really be hope for us long term? Other women would eventually get this careful, attentive person, and I hated every single one of them. No matter how much bigger Sonoma was than Guerneville, there wouldn’t be anyone like Sam there.
When we stood, my legs felt rubbery. I was so physically and emotionally exhausted, I could have fallen asleep standing up, if required. Inside the elevator, Sam pulled me in against his chest. “Does your dad know you’re going to college?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I mean, I don’t really know how much Mom talks to him, but I don’t get the feeling that she tells him anything.”
“So you really haven’t heard from him?” Sam asked.
I reached up and pressed a fingertip to his comma scar. “He sends me things at Christmas. Usually something techy. He must not write anything, or Nana must take whatever note he’s written, because there’ll be a tag on it in her handwriting that says, ‘To Tate, from Ian.’ ”
“But not money? He’s a bajillionaire and—” He paused, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a small, apologetic smile. One didn’t have to be the most observant person to notice the way Nana calculated everything down to the last dime. Ian Butler might be a bajillionaire, but we were not.
“Not money. I mean, maybe but it doesn’t seem like it. But we’re doing okay.”
“Michael—a ridiculously rich Wall Street guy—wouldn’t send Luther and Roberta money to help raise me,” Sam said. “Forget presents. Sometimes I wonder whether he remembers that he has another kid.”
I thought this last part was hyperbole, but it was hard to tell. “Is Roberta still in touch with him?”
“She sends him cards on holidays.” Sam squinted, thinking. “I think they talk a couple times a year, maybe. But I