Then there’s the mirrored sliding doors that open to the closet. I can’t really use the mirrors anymore, though, because I’ve covered the doors in print-outs of my artwork. I started two years ago when I wanted something tangible to track my art progress.
Jude stops in front of the mirrors and stares. For a second, I’m afraid I look narcissistic, displaying my own work the way I have, but I quickly stamp it down. Creating all those pieces has taken a lot of work and time. I’m allowed to be proud of them.
I walk over to Jude.
“I forgot to tell you,” he begins, turning to me, “I opened your present.”
My heart thuds. “Yeah?”
“I love it.”
The simplicity of the statement hits me harder than if he spent a full minute praising me.
“That’s good news. I spent last night drawing it. I wasn’t sure if it would weird you out, giving you a drawing of you, especially since we weren’t talking, but, uh…” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
Jude kisses me so quickly and unexpectedly that I don’t react until he’s pulled back. “It’s perfect,” he says, then returns to the illustration display. “You’re so talented.”
“Thank you.”
“When you’re a famous artist, that custom drawing you made for me is going to be worth a fortune.”
I punch him in the arm. “Oi, that was a gift. If I ever see it for sale, I’m going to hunt you down.”
Jude laughs, and whatever I was going to say next dies in my throat. Jude doesn’t open his mouth wide, like I do when he laughs. Instead, his mouth is only slightly parted, and his shoulders shake ever so slightly like his laughter only narrowly escapes him, and it sounds melodic, like a chime tinkling in the wind.
My mind flashes to his expression on Friday night, the hurt in his eyes after the lights turned on. It’s a relief to see him like this.
In the background, the front door opens and closes. “That’ll be my parents,” I say.
At nine-thirty, my parents head to bed and tell us goodnight and to sleep early. I watch their backs recede as they go to their bedroom, still trying to figure out whether they think Jude is just a new friend or know he’s something more.
Under the dining table, Jude nudges my foot. “Should we get ready for bed too?”
“Yes,” I say, slamming my maths textbook closed.
Jude laughs at my enthusiasm. He told me he used the excuse of studying together with his Mum, but when he dumped a pile of school books on the dining table after dinner, I was surprised, to say the least. Mum and Dad gushed and said that Jude was a good influence, which pleased me — I want my parents to like him. I wanted to please him, too, so I grabbed my books and studied with him.
I like him way too much because even answering math questions together was fun. Every time I was stuck, he’d lean over to read my working out, close enough so I could smell his hair. Afterwards, helping me, he’d look at me to make sure I understood, his hazel eyes so focused and pretty.
If he told me he wanted to sit still and watch paint dry, I would’ve said yes.
Now, we stack our books and take everything back to my room. Earlier, Dad dragged the air mattress out of the garage, and Mum pulled out fresh sheets and blankets, so I was pretty much forced to set it up. I have to remember to pack it up tomorrow in case my parents see it and notice it looks untouched.
I let Jude shower first and in the meantime, I waffle about, straightening my pillows, brushing invisible dust off the headboard and taking deep breaths.
When Jude comes out, wearing a worn shirt with the NASA logo and shorts so tiny they should be illegal, I don’t allow myself to look at him too long, rushing out to the bathroom.
My stomach is tying itself into knots. It’s not like we haven’t been intimate before, and things have been normal all afternoon. Sure, once or twice, I’ve remembered that just this morning, everything between us was still uncertain. But other than that, hanging out with Jude has felt so…natural. Effortless.
So why am I suddenly nervous?
I finish my shower, pull on my boxer briefs, and head back into the room. Jude sits on my bed, legs crossed into a pretzel, flipping through something that looks suspiciously like an Easton Grammar yearbook.
“Hey, is this you in Year 7? Because —” He looks up, and his gleeful grin slips.
“What?”
His eyes drag down, then up. He blinks a few times, clearing his vision. “You’re very…undressed.”
