Freddie stands, and I watch his hazy silhouette move in the early morning shadows. He opens his closet door and reaches for a shoe box on the top shelf. When he returns, he sits on the edge of the bed right next to me. I watch as he puts on a condom in front of me with expert precision, and I guess if I had one of those things, I’d want to make sure I knew how to properly protect it, too.
“They don’t really show that part in the movies,” I tell him. I guess it’s a moment that should be awkward, but it’s not.
He turns to me. “You’re sure? You can change your mind whenever you want.”
“I know I can.” My heart doesn’t pound with nerves. My fingers have stopped shaking. I am sure.
Freddie lies back with his head toward the foot of the bed, and I curl my body against his. He kisses me gently, and even here with the two of us completely naked, his kisses make my stomach feel like it’s full of feathers.
When he braces himself above me and asks me to say yes once more, it’s not a nod or a grin, but a firm confirmation. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m sure.”
Afterward I slip on my underwear and borrow a T-shirt from Freddie. He yanks his sweatpants back on, and the two of us stand in front of his window overlooking the backyard with January sunlight streaming in. He kisses my forehead. My cheeks. My nose. My earlobes. My eyelids. My legs feel weak, but not in the same way they do after a morning of swimming laps.
We are the same people who chased each other across my sandy Mississippi beaches summer after summer and that we’re the same people who were so heartbroken just months ago.
I was so scared that by having sex with Freddie, I would lose part of myself—part of my identity. Instead, I’ve embraced another facet of myself. Life isn’t always written in the stars. Fate is mine to pen. I choose guys. I choose girls. I choose people. But most of all: I choose.
After a moment, we pull the curtains shut tight andcrawl into his bed with the sheets wrapped around our shoulders.
Freddie falls asleep with his arms coiled around my waist and his forehead buried in the crook of my neck.
THIRTY-TWO
We sleep in late. Later than I ever have before. And when we wake, even though the world outside is cold—well, cold for Mississippi—Freddie’s room is hot with sunlight waiting to be let in.
Freddie makes us omelets with all kinds of ingredients I would never try on my own, like smoked salmon, cream cheese spread, capers, and fresh dill. I set the table and turn on Agnes’s radio and fill our glasses with fresh-squeezed juice. It might be lunchtime, but it’s still breakfast. It’s still our morning.
My heart is elastic. I realize it for the first time. For so long I thought there was a limit to how much love I could hold and who I could give it to. But life is so much more dynamic than that. Love doesn’t disappear when you give it away, and new love doesn’t make old love any less legitimate.
And that’s it. That’s what I’ve found with Freddie.
“What?” he asks, and turns to face me with the spatula in one hand.
I sink into a kitchen chair and press the tips of my fingers to my lips. I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud. “I love you,” I tell him again.
He holds on to it for a minute. I can see him collecting my words and tucking them away. His brow furrows.
My heart pounds in my chest so violently that I wonder if he can hear it, too. But I force-feed myself Ruth-style logic. I didn’t say I love you to hear it back. It’s fine. I say it over and over again in my head.
“I think I love you, too, Peter Pan.” And then he just turns around and finishes our omelets, like he’s said the most normal thing either of us could imagine. It’s casual, and normal and perfect.
I slowly let out the breath I was holding. I want this to be my normal—to be my every day. A world where I don’t have to worry about my dad or Hattie or our rotting trailer or my dim future stuck here in this Neverland.
Maybe I can’t have that. At least not all of it. So I take his words and I save them for the chocolate box beneath my bed.
We spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch. I put my pants back on, but I’ve already gotten too used to walking around pantless, which is a liberty I don’t have in my own home.
When Agnes and Bart finally make it back home, they’re both a little too busy to notice us. But I can feel the difference even in the way we sit, and I can’t believe there’s not some glowing sign above our heads that reads:XXX JUST HAD SEX XXX. It was like that with Grace, too.Something about having sex with someone for the first time makes me feel like the whole world knows exactly what we’ve done.
Freddie clears his throat too often and spends more time staring at the ceiling than any sane person should.
Agnes sneaks up behind us and tickles each of our necks.
We both jump a little.Oh God. She knows.
“I like having y’all two around the house,” she says.
I laugh in a short burst. “Thanks for, uh, letting us watch your TV and eat your food.”And have sex in your grandson’s bedroom.
