Grace groans into the receiver. “What are you doing right this moment?”
I grin and sink into the couch. “Standing in my kitchen. Maybe turning on some TV.”
“What would you even watch right now?” She yawns, and then adds, “All that’s on is soft-core porn and infomercials.”
“Hey, both of those things have the potential to be interesting.” I reach for the remote and hit the power button. “And what do you know about soft-core porn?”
She laughs.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“In my house.”
“Where in your house?”
“In my dad’s den.” Her voice sounds like a cat’s purr. “Do you want to know what I’m wearing, too?”
Her words suck the air out of my lungs. “The answer to that is always yes, but you should go to bed.”
She laughs. “I miss talking to you, but I miss other things, too.”
My brain knows exactly what she means by other things. My lower abdomen aches like an unsatisfied itch. “Me too.”
Grace wasn’t the first girl I had sex with. That honor goes to Samantha Alice Jones, who I always called by her full name because it sounded so good all together. She was an incoming freshman volleyball player at Mississippi State and was down here at a camp training with her team. We met at Boucher’s the summer before tenth grade. She was white with a port-wine stain on her shoulder, wore her curly hair in two braids, and snorted when she laughed. She was from Kansas and told me she was bi.
On the other line, Grace’s breathing gets heavier, like she’s fighting to stay awake. “Shit,” she says. “I really should go to bed.”
“You hang up first,” I tell her.
“No, you,” she says.
I sigh into the receiver and she giggles. “On the count of three,” I say.
In bed, when I close my eyes, I see Grace. I see her in the moonlight of her bedroom at the vacation rental. The shadows drape across her bare skin like a robe.
Every inch of my body is on fire just thinking about it.
My eyes spring open as Hattie flips over on her back beside me. I try to remember what it felt like to have privacy.
Quietly, I tiptoe to the bathroom, which is the only place in my entire house where I can be alone with my memories of nights spent with Grace.
ELEVEN
In the morning, I go with Freddie and Agnes to the Y to swim laps again.
I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of this, and I sort of love the idea of having my own lane for this slice of time a couple of days a week. It’s my own private world, and I don’t have to worry about how good Freddie is or if Agnes is watching or if Hattie is doing something stupid or if I can pick up any extra hours at work. All I have to do is stay in my own lane.
As I’m hoisting myself out of the pool, Freddie says, “Hey, wait up. Let’s race just once. Whatever stroke you want there and back.”
“I thought you were only supposed to be racing against yourself,” I tease.
“Humor me.”
I shake my head and say, “Fine, but there’s not going to be much of a competition.”
The two of us position ourselves on the blocks while Agnes heads to the locker rooms.
Freddie counts us off. “On your marks, get set, GO!”
