All I can think is that this is how it’s supposed to feel, like I’m all his and he’s all mine. I tuck my hands under my head and he does the same, both turned inward, eye to eye. I watch his brain work, taking in every centimeter of my face and I let him. Relish the feeling of his eyes on me, let him claim every part of me, every limb, every cell.
“Promise me.” He bites his lip, a seriousness filtering into his expression as he searches my eyes for something. “Promise me I can always come back to you. That no matter what, we’ll always be us.” There’s something layered in his tone, and I feel it in the subtle dip of my stomach, the slight retraction of his face from mine—this deepunderstanding that that kiss came too early, that neither of us can possibly be ready at fourteen for this amorphous thing tethering us.
I fight the urge to cry for the second time tonight. Not because he doesn’t want me the way I hoped he did, but because anything beyond what we already are to each other puts us in dangerous territory. A gray area where someone could easily get hurt. The only thing that’s become clear to me tonight is that I almost ruined the best thing I have left.
3
Grant
I do a final sweep of my apartment, making sure that every inch of it is immaculate before Gen arrives. I can feel my nervous energy buzzing all around me and I force myself to keep moving, only briefly stopping to check if she canceled. I realize she hasn’t when the only notification on my phone is from that number.
She left a voicemail this time, and I delete it before it can start autoplaying, not needing to hear my birth mother’s voice right now. Or ever, for that matter. Hopefully the next time Connie calls, she’ll get the message.
She’ll call Sloane if she hasn’t already, I realize, irritation prickling the back of my neck. But she’s not my problem—hasn’t been since she let us get adopted instead of growing up and choosing us. I take a deep breath and shake her off.
My palms feel clammy with sweat as I set it back down. Wiping them on my gray sweatpants, I look down for a second too long and immediately wonder if I’m too casual. Gen did say she was coming from dance class and my sisterused to swear—as disturbing as it was—that gray sweatpants on a man were the ultimate thirst trap.
On second thought…I move into my room, grabbing a pair of dark washed jeans and throw them on. Not that I think Gen is the type of girl to be tempted by a pair of sweatpants, but temptation isn’t really the goal. I need to slow her down, get her to think clearly about what shethinksshe wants to do. She shouldn’t be shaking off her virginity because of some asshole.
Not to mention, that summer pick up game has been haunting me since Jean called me over the other night. It exploded into my memory and I felt it all over again: the annoyance, the anger, the resentment. At first it was the idea of Will seeing her talk to me that got me over there. Once Iwasthere, it was the rush that came from being so close to her that had me agreeing to her insane question.
But tonight is about reversing course. Sleeping with Gen is a bad idea, whichever way I spin it, regardless of how tempting she is, and especially because of that idiotic bet. I push the memory of that day in the locker room out of my mind and open the fridge, pulling out an onion and a tomato for the risotto my mom’s been making me since the moment she adopted us. I know I can get her to see sense over a meal.
“They say the way to a man’s heart is his stomach but the way into a woman’s pants is knowing how to cook.” My sister’s jovial voice plays in my head and I can practically see the look my mom would shoot her as I dice the onion in front of me. I know Sloane would simultaneously be roasting and lecturing me on the fact that it’s really not up to me, in terms of what Gen decides to do with her virginity. And she’d be right, it isn’t up to me, but I do feel like I owe it to her to not take advantage of the situation.
There’s that familiar pang, the one I get when I think about my mom and twin sister and the knowledge that their conflicting points of view would somehow steer me in exactly the right direction.
I finish chopping the onion and tomato and throw them in the cast iron on the stove. I hear a light knock on the door just as I’m second guessing the dark washed jeans. I freeze, spatula in hand. My heart beats so fast, it feels like it’s going to explode.
Why am I so nervous?
Quickly, I wipe the counter and skim my eyes over the space. Everything has been scrubbed clean and there's a table set for two. I look at the candles I set in the middle of the table and run over to blow them out, moving them to the counter so Gen doesn’t suspect I contemplated whether or not she would find lit candles romantic. Because, again—not the goal, not the plan.
I crack open the door and force myself to beam at her.
Do I look like a serial killer right now? Am I trying too hard?
I tone down the smile.
“Hi,” she says, her voice small, and I sense that maybe she’s nervous, too. The butterflies that have suddenly materialized in my stomach seem to triple in quantity as I wonder where the fuck they came from.
“Hey,” I breathe out, allowing myself to take her in.
She came from rehearsal, just like she said she would, and this version of her has me realizing she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s wearing leggings with a light pink leotard underneath that hugs her curves and a light gray hoodie halfway zipped up, her hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her curls frame her face in a way that insinuates she was in a rush and seeing her so casually undone sends something electric through me. I subconsciously reach outand brush a curl behind her ear and the way she tenses under my touch before relaxing into it has me smiling.
She’s definitely nervous.
I look down into her deep hazel eyes and a blush creeps up her neck, pink faintly spreading across her cheeks. She bites her bottom lip, filling me with what I can only describe as a primal urge to grab her around the waist and pull her inside, but then she gives me this shy smile that I haven’t seen before and it’s like she’s illuminated by light.
“Hi,” she says again, laughing softly as her smile grows. I open the door wider so she’ll finally come in and even the way she moves is attractive—like she’s floating on air. I’m sure it's just engrained in her from the years she’s spent at the ballet but it’s a wonder to behold for the average person. She peers around, clearly taking in the place, and I see her body still as she spots the table for two and the pot of risotto on the stove.
“Grant,” she scolds, like I’m a puppy who just chewed up her shoe.
“Gen,” I say back, not hiding the smile in my voice as I make my way to the stove to stir the risotto.
“This was supposed to be casual.” She crosses her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow at me and I chuckle.
“Since when is dinner with a friend not casual?” I give her a knowing look.
