Consent (14 page)

Then fast-forward . . . and Dane and I are standing side by side, our hands brushing lightly against each other. How did that happen? Is ocean-time different, less linear? Or maybe everything seems less linear after drinking champagne.

I swoon a little, and he grabs my wrist.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes. Beatrice, can I ask you something?”

“Hmm.”

“Has your father forbidden you to go to Juilliard? Because it's where your mother went?”

“Um . . .” I drop my gaze. In the moonlight I can see the faint traces of the last pedi Plum gave me, which alternates pink, purple, pink, purple. I wonder what she's doing right now? She hasn't texted me in a while. Also, I think my phone battery may have died.

“I understand that the memories may be painful for him. Losing someone you love . . . it's . . . Still, I would think he would be proud that you're a pianist, that you're carrying on her tradition,” Dane continues.

Maybe I should have gone to Boston with Plum after all. Fake-smiling my way through all those college tours, acting like I really wanted to be there . . .

“Also, and not to be insensitive to your father's feelings,
but . . . you
are
an adult, or you will be soon. You should be able to choose your profession and what college you go to. And if you're concerned that he won't pay for a conservatory education for you, well, there are scholarships we can look into—”

“Mismatched earrings,” I cut in.

“Excuse me?”

“Mismatched earrings. Like, one silver and one gold. Or one heart and one moon. That was my mom's pre-performance ritual. She thought it was good luck to wear them. That's what my grandma told me, anyway.”

Dane's gaze shift to my ears. He reaches out and touches the right ear, then the left. “One diamond and one emerald,” he notes.

His cool fingers on my earlobes make me dizzy with pleasure. I want him to keep touching me like that. “One
faux
diamond and one
faux
emerald. See, I know French,” I murmur.

“I can't tell that they're fake. You look beautiful in them.”

“Oh!”

His hand drops to my cheek and caresses it. “Beatrice, I want so much to help you.
Please
let me help you.”

He is so earnest and caring and kind. I don't know what to say. Besides Grandma Min, he is the only one who has ever encouraged me to pursue my dream.

Also, I think I'm falling for him.

Overcome with emotion, I lean my head against his chest. His cashmere sweater is as soft as I imagined it would be, and I want to lose myself in it.

In response Dane wraps his arms around me and holds me close. It feels . . .
perfect.
Meant to be. We stand like this for a long time, listening to the ocean.

And then I tip my head up, and his lips are right there, first pressing against my hair, then my forehead, then my eyelids, then my lips. He kisses me . . . I kiss him back . . . we are kissing.
Oh my God, we are kissing.
We are tentative at first, and then more urgent, as though we have to fit everything, all of this, into a few precious seconds.

His mouth tastes warm and sweet and slightly salty. His body envelops mine as his hands find the low curve of my back and pull me closer . . . closer.

He pushes away abruptly. “We can't.”

“Why?”

“Because you're . . . Listen, love, this can't happen.”

“Why?”

“Because I could get into a lot of trouble. Come on, I'm taking you home.”

But he doesn't move, and neither do I. I reach out and trail my fingers down his arm. I have no idea what I'm doing or
where this is going, but it really doesn't matter. When his lips find mine again, I surrender completely.

“We should—,” he whispers.

“Yes,” I whisper back.

He takes my hand and leads me to his car.

We go to the Whiterock Motel, which is down the street from the beach. I wait in the car while Dane registers us at the front office.

While he's gone, I fluff my hair in the rearview mirror. My eyes are bright, and my cheeks are flushed. I can't believe this is happening. I've thought about him and wanted him for so long, and now, finally . . .

He slides into the driver's seat and hands me a plastic card.

“What's this?” I ask.

“It's the key to your room. It's next to mine.”

“Two rooms? But I thought—”

“I know, but . . . you need your sleep.”

“I don't want to sleep.”

“Neither do I. But it's best this way. Come on, I'll show you to your room.”

“But, Dane!”

“Please, Beatrice. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Confused, I scoop up my backpack, which contains my sheet music, wallet, and a few other random items. My only clothes are the outfit I'm wearing and my jacket. Dane is already out of the car, hands stuffed in pockets, striding across the nearly empty parking lot with his messenger bag.

I catch up to him, and we walk in silence to the end of the one-story building that has palm trees painted on it. A sliver of ocean gleams dully in the distance. Across the street are a forlorn-looking diner and a drugstore, both with
OPEN
signs.

I follow Dane to a turquoise door marked 18. He stands aside as I insert the plastic card in a slit above the doorknob. Nothing happens.

“Here, allow me.” Dane takes the card from me and inserts it. The door makes a
click,
and he pushes it open.

He waves me inside but remains stoically in the doorway. “I'll see you in the morning. We can have breakfast at that diner over there before we head for home. Make sure you call or text your father and let him know you've been . . . delayed.”

Dane doesn't know that Dad thinks I'm in Boston until Monday.

“Fine,” I mumble.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

He hesitates, then cradles my face with his hand. For a second I think he's going to kiss me, and my heart thrums in my chest.

Then he turns abruptly and heads for his room.

I hear his door shut and lock.

Wrong again.

Stifling my disappointment, I flick on the light switch and survey my room. The décor is 1970s furniture, flamingo wallpaper, and a huge orange bed.

The sight of the bed makes my cheeks hot. I try not to imagine Dane and me lying on top of it, our bodies entwined . . .

Stop it.

I wander over to the adjoining bathroom, which is the size of a closet. Tiny soaps, shampoos, and lotions line the sink. And then I realize: I didn't bring any toiletries with me. I hadn't expected to stay overnight. I can live without most of the stuff, but I absolutely need a few basic items like contact lens solution.

Sighing, I grab my key card and wallet and head back outside.

This night is turning out to be one big anticlimax.

• • •

Back from the drugstore I take out my contacts, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed. Since I didn't bring pj's, I strip down to my underwear, which totally don't match: a pink lace bra and leopard panties—some combination.

For a while I skim through
Love in the Time of Cholera,
which I've already read twice by now. The first time through, I tried to imagine that I was Fermina Daza and Dane was her forbidden lover, Florentino Ariza. The second time, I switched it around so that Dane was Fermina's husband, Juvenal Urbino, instead.

Now I'm rereading the scene where Fermina loses her virginity to Juvenal during their honeymoon. I get through a couple of sentences until I can't stand it anymore. I bury the book under my pillow and switch on the TV.

The local news. A hockey game. A
Friends
rerun. Nothing interesting.

Finally, I give up and turn off the TV and lights and just lie there. The air smells like the motel moisturizer on my hands, all vanilla and lime and mint. Specks of beach sand grind between my toes.

The clock blinks at me: 1:05 a.m. Gossamer moon shadows flit across the ceiling. I picture them dancing to the wispy, watery notes of Ravel's “Une barque sur l'ocean.” When that's finished, I make them dance to Debussy's “En Bateau.”

I wonder if Dane likes those pieces.

I wonder if he is still awake too.

I wonder where he learned to kiss like that. Like the way he plays Bach's Goldberg Variations, so softly and passionately and . . .

The next thing I know, I'm getting up and putting on my dress and jacket. Five minutes later I am at his door.

Don't knock,
I tell myself.

I knock.

Dane opens the door. He is wearing only jeans. I stare at his bare chest and gulp.

“Beatrice, what's wrong?”

“I can't sleep.”

He rakes his hand through his hair. “You're not wearing shoes. Why can't you sleep?”

“Because.”

“Go back to your room, love.”

“No.”

“Listen to me, this is a very bad idea—”

Before he can say anything more, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.

He jerks back, breathing heavily. “Beatrice . . .”

“Please, Dane, I really want to.”

I kiss him again, and this time he doesn't resist. He slips his
hands under my jacket and caresses my back, pulls me closer. We stumble across the threshold, still kissing as he kicks the door shut.

Yes yes yes.

I shrug out of my jacket as we tumble onto the bed. The bright orange quilt is smooth and intact, and a Stravinsky score lies on top of it, open. I realize with a start that he's been wide awake all this time too.

He swats the score aside. And then he is on top of me, kissing me everywhere . . . my lips, my face, my neck.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I know.”

“Are you sure it's okay?”

“Yes, it's more than okay.”

He helps me out of my dress. I reach behind and unhook my bra. He leans down and kisses my breasts, tenderly at first, then not so tenderly. I give a little cry.

“Sorry! Did I—”

“No, do that again. Please.”

He kisses my breasts some more. The pleasure is so intense, I can barely stand it.

I can feel him straining against his jeans. I fumble around for his zipper.

“Beatrice, I don't . . . that is, I don't have—”

“That's okay. I do.”

He pulls back and blinks at me in surprise. “You brought condoms?”

“No. I bought some at the drugstore across the street. They're in my jacket pocket.”

“Crazy girl.”

“I know. Please, do that thing again.”

He obliges. Pale moonlight spills into the room as he teases and torments me with his mouth.
God,
it was so not like this with Braden . . . or Andy McDermott . . . or Gil Northman . . . or anyone else in the universe, past, present, or future.

After I can't take it anymore, he stands up and steps out of his jeans and his boxers, his eyes never leaving mine.

Dane, naked.
There are no words.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks me hoarsely.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes.”

As I slip off my panties, he gets a condom from my jacket and returns to the bed. A moment later he arcs over me.

“Can I—”

“Yes!”

I arch my body to meet his and bury my face in his neck.

Yes yes yes yes yes
.

Morning. My eyelids flutter against bright sunlight. It takes me a minute to realize that I am not in my bed at home. I am in
this
bed, in a motel, with Dane.

Dane.

His eyes are closed, and his chest rises and falls silently. I curl against him and breathe in the smell of his skin, which is salt and cologne, sweat and us. The last twenty-four hours—were they a dream? They were not a dream. Juilliard, Annaliese, the French restaurant, the beach . . . and what we did all night afterward.

The rest of the world seems very far away, and I'm not sure I want to go back.

“Beatrice?”

Dane stirs and rolls over. I reach out and touch his stubbly
face. Even first thing in the morning on almost no sleep, he is ridiculously good-looking.

He takes my hand and kisses it lightly. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. Last night, was I . . . did I . . . ?” I stumble around for the right words. “I've never done that before,” I confess.

“I'm your first?” Dane says incredulously.

I nod.

He strokes my hair. “You were perfect. You
are
perfect.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I thought the first time was supposed to be awkward and awful, but . . .” I blush. “It wasn't.”

“No, it wasn't.”

He draws me closer to him and kisses my head. “Listen, love,” he says, and his voice sounds different: distracted, pensive. “Last night was wonderful. But when we get back to Eden Grove, we . . . we can't continue.”

“What?” I pull back and stare at him. “Why not?”

“Because I'm . . . we just
can't.
You know that. You're my student, and I'm your teacher. Not to mention the fact that I'm twenty-seven years old, and you're still a minor.”

The real world is creeping back.

“No one has to know,” I point out.

“Someone at school is bound to find out.”

“We could just meet at your house and never see each other at the school. I'll drop out of your class, switch to another elective. You could stop coaching Braden and Lianna and me.”