“Nothing. I . . .” I choose my next words very carefully. “I just don’t want to go all the way. Not tonight. Okay?”
Now he looks like a little kid who’s opened his Christmas present to discover a sweater. “But why not?”
“I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. Sorry,” I tack on, and then hate myself for apologizing. I’m not supposed to be sorry. But I am.
Leo’s frowning, but he says, “All right. I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it, obviously.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Silence builds between us. A new song starts pouring out of the speaker, a song I know this time, a slow song by The Weeknd called “Earned It.” Over Leo’s shoulder I read another inspirational Michael Phelps poster. You can’t put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get.
Leo puts the condom on the bedside table. “So what do you want to do?”
I wouldn’t mind making out some more, but that could send a mixed message. Besides, my lower half is starting to ache, a tight but heavy, decidedly unpleasant feeling, like period cramps. I try to smile at him. “I don’t know. Maybe we could watch something?”
“Sure,” he says dully. “Whatever you want.”
2
“I thought you were staying at Lucy’s tonight,” Pop says when I come into the kitchen later.
“I just wanted to be home.” Things were awkward with Leo, so awkward that I finally said I wasn’t feeling well—which wasn’t really a lie—and he insisted on walking me to the train station.
“You’re my little homebody,” Pop says now with a smile. Like that’s cute.
My five-year-old sister, Abby, is sitting at the counter coloring while Pop makes dinner. “What’s a homebody?” Abby asks.
Pop continues dicing a stalk of celery. “A homebody is someone who loves to be home more than anywhere else.”
“I like to be home,” Abby announces. “But I also like to go places. Today we went on an African safari. I made a batik.”
It takes me a second to realize that Abby is talking about the day camp she goes to during the summer, since Pop works nights at El Camino Hospital in Mountain View, and Mom works days at Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto. Although to say that Mom works days is inaccurate. Mom works all the time.
Speaking of which: “Where’s Mom?”
Pop keeps chopping vegetables. “She said she’d be home in time for dinner. It’s family night, you know.”
“I know.” Normally I would stay and help him finish making the salad, but that could lead to conversations like “How was your day?” and I don’t want to go there. So I grab a carrot and flee upstairs to my room. I close the door and go straight to my desk, where I take out my journal and art pencils and begin to sketch Leo.
I can still see him clearly in my mind’s eye. That expression on his face when I said I didn’t want to go all the way. The way his eyelids lowered, not squeezing into a squint or a glare, but dropping like protective shutters over his eyes. His eyebrows angled up at the inner edges, pressing together, causing two small bumps to appear in the space between them. The discontented downturn of his mouth.
My pencil practically dances over the paper, capturing that look. It takes me ten minutes, and the moment I finish I know it’s one of the best sketches I’ve ever done. It illustrates the moment perfectly—the feeling in it, the tension. Strange how the worst experiences can lead to the best art. But that’s life, I guess. Beauty in the pain.
I pick up the carrot I stole from Pop and crunch on it miserably. Clearly I’ve made a huge mistake here. Why didn’t I want to have sex? Was it the I love you bit? Do I believe, deep down somewhere, that to “make love” you need to be in love, and I don’t love Leo enough for that? Do I love Leo? I’ve never considered my feelings like that before: either love or not love. I like Leo. I love being with him. I’m attracted to him. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Or was it the unshaved legs thing? The holey underwear? The sports bra? Am I so uncomfortable in my own skin that the idea of Leo seeing me naked is more than I can handle? I know I have body issues, but am I really that self-conscious?