Chaste (23 page)

“Feel free to chime in any time here, Dad,” I say.

I’m more than a little miffed he hasn’t said a single thing when Molly’s been tossing out the word
sex
like a topless blonde at beach week—not that I know anything about that.

“I think you guys can handle this on your own,” he says, stretching out his legs and folding his hands behind his head. “Do you know what I
don’t
miss about being a bishop?”

I shut my eyes.
Oh, no. Here comes the spiel.

“Having to solve everyone’s problems: money issues, sins, petty disputes that don’t matt—”

“You’re not supposed to go out with Non-Mormons,” Molly cuts in. “Remember what Brother Parker said about how we marry who we date, well … Kat can’t even go to the temple. I doubt she’ll want you to go on a mission. Even if she waits and writes you letters every week, things will end when you get back.”

“Slow down, Molly!” I say, holding up a hand.

She ignores me and continues her rant. “I know you, Quinn, and you’re not about to leave this church. If Kat converts there’ll be heck to pay. Can you imagine the repercussions if Pastor Jackson’s daughter becomes Mormon!”

My father’s face pales at mention of the Pastor. Granted, the man isn’t kind to our religion, but since my father isn’t easily shocked and only speaks well of others, I have to wonder what he’s holding back.

“What is it, Dad?” I say.

He stands and dusts off his slacks. “Nothing, I’ve got to set the table.” With that, he leaves the room.

“Is that it?” I ask Molly, glancing at my partner still sitting on the couch.

Molly blinks. A tear slides down the side of her face. “Mike is planning something,” she says in a too-soft voice. “And knowing him, it’s something awful.”

My first thought is to dismiss her warning as another transparent attempt to drive a wedge between Kat and me. But then my partner gets off the couch and crosses the floor to my side.

“Do you have any details?” she asks, putting a steady hand on my arm. For a moment I’m speechless. I can’t believe she’s listening to this.

Molly shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

34

Katarina

After Roland died, lots of people sent flowers and food. Our refrigerator was packed with casseroles, as if eating could fill the emptiness. Maybe if we ate meals as a family, it would’ve made some difference, but with my father making constant arrangements and my mother’s need to un-decorate the house, there hadn’t been time for the three of us to eat together. Not when we couldn’t even look at each other.

This is why, when Molly leaves and the air hangs thick around us, I’m surprised Quinn’s family ignores the bad vibes and sits down together at the kitchen table.

“Come on, guys. Let’s eat,” Amy calls as she straps Elijah into a highchair.

Wood scrapes against the floor as I take a seat across from Quinn.

Mr. Walker says a prayer before passing me a basket of rolls still warm from the oven. I split one in half and smear it with gobs of butter. He hands me the broccoli, a pitcher of water, asparagus and chicken with creamy white sauce. My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten anything but takeout for months and didn’t realize how starved I was for
real
food until I put a forkful of chicken in my mouth.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask Amy between mouthfuls.

“My mother,” she says. “This recipe is simple. Just fry up your meat with half a cup of sour cream and some cream of chicken soup.”

Elijah squeals like he wants to be part of the conversation. I catch Quinn’s eye before asking the next question.

“So when do I meet your mom?”

Instead of answering, he stares at the broccoli on his plate.

“Quinn?” I repeat. “It’s not a hard question. When do I get to meet your mother?”

He shrugs. “Not for awhile. She’s in Holland.”

“Wow! What’s she doing there?” I ask, infusing my voice with enthusiasm.

Okay, so maybe it sounds kind of fake, but only because I’m nervous. I don’t exactly fit into this sit-down-to-dinner perfect world of his.

“You’ll excuse me, please,” he says, as he pushes back his chair and heads for the bathroom. His face has turned red and his hands are shaking. What did I do wrong?

A few minutes later, Quinn comes back to the table and acts as if nothing happened. His father tells bad jokes, Amy groans. Elijah smashes his hand down on the food tray until Cheerios drop all over the floor.

At the end of dinner, Mr. Walker retreats to the basement to pound on drums with one of his students. Amy bundles Elijah up in a stroller to take him for a walk. And I decide to help Quinn wash the dishes.

“When Amy cooks, I clean,” he tells me, filling the sink with warm, soapy water. He washes the pans, and I dry them with a towel. Except for that whole Quinn-leaving-in-the-middle-of-dinner thing, his family seems … normal.

“You have bubbles on your face,” I lie.

He looks down at me. “Where?”

I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek, “Here.”

My hands slide around his neck. His soft mouth goes to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips as he loops his arms around my waist. Pushing myself into him, I urge him closer. His lips part and I tease him with my tongue, teach him to kiss in a sensuous rhythm that turns hot and hard and hungry. My body’s on fire, desperate for his mouth on my neck.

The edge of the kitchen counter pushes into my back; Quinn knocks down a pan; and before long we end up on the living room couch where I lose myself in the heat coming off his skin, his hands, his breath, his lips on my neck. And even though I don’t plan to push things tonight, I end up sliding my hand between us and running my fingers down his chest.

He kisses me and groans into my mouth.

I brush his blond hair back with my hand, marveling at how his pale curls twist around my brown fingers. My lips make a trail from his ear to the corner of his mouth. I lay back and pull him on top of me. He puts an arm around my waist to bring me closer. I press my breasts against him.

“Kat, you’re amazing,” he rasps.

It may not be true, but I’ll let him say it. Who am I to argue with delusions of my greatness? My fingers roam down his back, stopping at the edge of his jeans. Though I’m dying to move my hands lower, I know better.

Stupid rules.

I scoot back for a second and notice his blue eyes glowing with lust, his messed up hair, his ragged breathing. He looks like a predator ready to pounce.

“You want me, don’t deny it,” I say, pressing my body tight against his until I feel his arousal throb hot and hard through the front of his jeans. His rules don’t say anything about keeping my clothes on. But when I start to peel off my shirt, Quinn gets up and moves away.

“Stop,” he holds up the palm of his hand. “One more rule: all clothes stay on.”

I pull the front of my shirt back down, take a deep breath and try to stay calm. As he paces the room, heat rises to my cheeks. Not only have I not taken things slowly, but now I’ve spooked him into making more rules.

My fingers are shaking. “Sorry?” I say.

“For what? It’s not like you knew. So it felt natural to take off your shirt. This isn’t your fault. I should have thought of that rule before. You just helped me remember, that’s all.” He shuts his eyes and draws in a breath. “Sorry I got carried away.”

“But you didn’t—”

“Yes … I did.” He looks at his watch. “I should take you home.”

In the car, Quinn’s nice as always. He opens my door and makes conversation, but never once does he try to touch me. Things feel stiff without our stolen glances and secret smiles. He walks me home and bends to kiss me … on the cheek. The cheek, damn it!

Okay fine, I shouldn’t have pushed him. But it felt so good to be touched and kissed, adored like the one true love of his life that I forgot about everything else—Mike and Tasha, even the bet.

The bet.

I have to win the bet to keep my tough-girl reputation. If I fall for a Mormon boy, people will talk, and after what Molly said back there, it’s pretty clear that Quinn and I have no future, which means I need to keep a level head and ignore any feelings I have toward Quinn. Caring for him is a liability. If I’m smart, I’ll stop with these mushy soft sentiments. Rein in my emotions. Stick to the plan.

Falling for Quinn will only mess everything up.

35

Quinn

I go through the Wendy’s drive-through and order a frosty, anything to take my mind off the girl I just took home.

I’m worried because when I look at Kat, nothing matters but being with her. My hormones take over, my mind fogs up and my self-control disappears. When I’m around her everything feels raw, my emotions, my instincts, my urge to rip off her clothes. I crave her like a drug.

Is this what Amy felt like with Ray?

Man, I’ve been a crappy brother, telling Amy to get over Elijah’s father instead of helping her mend her broken heart. I think back on the confrontation Molly had with my sister and have to wonder … where is my compassion?

I walk through my door in a state of worry over what I should say to the women in my life and end up running into Amy at the bottom of the stairs.

“Shhh,” she whispers. “Elijah’s asleep.”

Suppressing a laugh, I point to the floor, which vibrates with the sound of my dad’s xylophone. “That kid can sleep through anything.”

She looks at her watch. “It’s early for you to take Kat home.”

Things got out of hand, okay?
“She had homework.”

Amy clears her throat. “I saw you through the window earlier. While you were, uh … getting acquainted.”

Heat spreads up my neck.

Time to come clean, Quinn. Now or never.

“Look Amy, I’m sorry for getting on your back about Ray. I overstepped with my advice.”

My sister sniffs and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she says.

I give her a hug. Then I sneak into my father’s room to use his computer.

My mother has sent me an email from Holland. I click on the message and read it out loud, “Amsterdam may have a thriving red-light district, but it also has biking lanes, good-natured people and an impressive cultural scene
.
”

Though she doesn’t say it, I know she’s happy because the tone of the message is upbeat. If anyone deserves happiness, she does. So why do I want to yell at the screen?

I hit
reply
and start typing.

Mom— I know dad told you about my two suspensions, but since you’ve been gone they’re the least of my troubles. Elijah’s been sick, Amy’s been swamped and I’ve been exhausted. I don’t have to worry about hurting my hands because my cello’s been sadly neglected. My crazy physics teacher hates me. My grades have slipped, Molly’s angry at me, and this guy on the basketball team wants to kill me. Then there’s Kat. How do you know if you’re falling in love? I need your help, and I need your advice. Please. Come. Home.

The moment I finish, I know it’s selfish. After all she’s done for me, how can I ask her to put off her dreams? Still, I sit there and stare at the words as my fingers hover over the send button. Just one click, that’s all it’d take.

Then I remember the last meal she cooked us, chicken with sour cream, cream of chicken soup and tears. She looked so sad. Now she’s happy. I press delete and write a new message:

Mom, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. As long as you’re happy, everything’s great.

36

Katarina

After feeling Quinn’s lips on my cheek instead of my mouth, I’m not in the mood to deal with my parents. When I open the front door to step into the house, I hope they’ve gone back to their usual pattern of ignoring me. But alas, I walk into the kitchen and see my father sitting at the table, both hands holding a cup of coffee. I curse under my breath. Figures I’d walk into an ambush. The room is so quiet I can hear my own footsteps.

“He’ll take you away, Kat,” my dad warns.

“From God?”

“You’re already saved. Why would you want to mess with that? I hope you know that boy is brainwashed. Everything from his mouth is a lie.”

I think about how nice Quinn’s family is, about Amy’s warm rolls and melted butter, Elijah’s laugh, the way Mr. Walker’s face went white at mention of my father.

“What did you say to Quinn’s dad?” I ask.

“Are you questioning me?”

“I want the truth.”

Obviously there’s a history there, one Quinn’s father won’t talk about. I spread my palms on the table and feel the wood grain below my fingers.

His voice turns cold. “I told Quinn’s father the truth. That he’s doing Satan’s work and God will hold him accountable.”

Now there’s some information I won’t tell my lab partner anytime soon. Hey, Quinn, you know how our parents don’t get along? It’s because my dad condemned your dad to hell.

“And what, pray tell, did Mr. Walker do to earn such a delightful speech?”

“Watch your tone, Kat.”

“What I don’t get is the double standard. You don’t tell Catholics they’re all damned to hell.” I purse my lips together and stare up at him.

He looks down at his cup of coffee and runs his finger along the top edge, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Of course not, but Mormons are blind followers. Do you think I’d bother telling them the truth if I didn’t care? They’re our brothers and sisters, and we love them.”

My father is an important man. He packs stadiums, counsels presidents, preaches the redemptive power of love. When I was a girl, I believed every word from his mouth was gospel. If he thought trying to change another person was a way of showing love, I would’ve believed it because my father taught God’s will. Now, as I look into his steady gaze, his lifted brows, his fingers joined together like a steeple, three words come to mind: he doesn’t understand.

“Quinn isn’t going to hell,” I say. “There are certain things I just know. Like that good people don’t burn for eternity for believing in a different version of God.