Snark and Stage Fright (7 page)

While a string quartet played during dinner, an electrified band provided more danceable stuff afterward so Michael’s aunt Viv and uncle Reg coaxed all the young people out onto the floor. I am a hideous dancer—at least I assume so because I don’t think I could bear to watch myself do it—but Michael is surprisingly good for someone who is often a little stiff. Catalina danced right beside us the whole time and she had what I imagine were actual club moves, these shimmies and turns that were like a less risqué Beyoncé video. I felt so hopeless beside her I decided to just amp up my ridiculousness by doing a bad version of the twist with two of Michael’s six-year-old cousins, who thought it was hilarious and really threw themselves into it. We were practically drilling ourselves into the floor we got so low, and Michael laughed and joined in as his grandmother shook her white head and scowled at me.

When the music slowed down, he took my hand and Catalina pouted a little before accepting an Endicott cousin as her partner.

“How am I doing?” I whispered as we started to sway in rhythm with each other.

“I’d say you are behaving exceptionally well tonight,” he said.

“I meant how am I doing as a dancer. But I am glad you noticed that I managed to avoid insulting or coldcocking anyone so far. And I really like your cousin Peter. And Danny. Oh, and Margo.”

“So you’re finding at least some of my extended family to be perfectly human—even likable, after all?”

I nodded against his shoulder.

He chuckled and rested his chin on the top of my head. “Remember our first dance?” he asked.

“When you tried to warn me about Jeremy Wrentham. Your grandmother was glaring at me just as hard then.”

He laughed a little, and I could feel it rumble up through his chest against mine. It felt good. It felt lovely to just sway there together under all the little twinkle lights and the candles. With the lights and all the white flowers, the room seemed to be glowing.

“She still hasn’t forgiven my dad for marrying my mom,” he said.

“Is that what your mom meant last night when she said that thing about the rich being different from you and me? From her and me, she meant?”

“Yep. My mom is woefully middle class by birth.”

“But she’s an artist. Doesn’t that count as being cultured, at least? And she’s the most elegant person I know.”

“I agree,” he said.

“Your grandmother approves of Rose’s wedding, though, and Sterling. He’s from ‘good people’?”

Michael laughed again. “His name is Sterling Bancroft Whittaker the Fourth and he works for JP Morgan Chase, so yeah, I think he passes. But just barely.”

I looked up at him and he was looking down at me and he touched his lips to mine and held them there for a moment. I felt an electric shock run up my sternum, but I demurred. “I don’t think we should have any PDA on the dance floor, not after last night. I don’t want a crowd gathering around us worried that I’m going to deck you, too.”

“I’d like it if you were a little more shameless with me.” He laughed.

I tossed my head and said as lightly as I could, “Your tongue and I have already been formally introduced, if you recall,” and that produced a kind of growl from deep in his throat that made me shiver.

“Let’s go,” he whispered into my neck. My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and the top of my throat. “Let’s go now.”

I nodded, startled by his urgency, and as the song ended, he smiled and announced to anyone who happened to be listening, “I could use some fresh air,” and soon we were outside walking down a path toward the town beach. He stopped at the crooked, rickety fence made of wire and skinny little gray wooden posts that separated the sand from the scrubby grass and the parking lot. I looked out at the day’s last beachgoers in the twilight, families and older people and a couple of teenagers in board shorts and T-shirts, and asked with mock alarm, “Mr. Endicott, what do you take me for? What do you plan to do with me at a public beach?”

“I have a few ideas,” he purred and kissed me so hard I had to steady myself but I didn’t want it to stop. It felt so good to feel his body so close to mine and to know and feel how much he wanted me, still, after all the things that had happened.

“I just want to be alone with you,” he urged in a newly husky voice. “Somewhere. Is that okay? I mean, after last night, with Forrest, you don’t feel … I don’t know … ”

Three kids zoomed by on bikes so fast that their wind blew my skirt a little.

“This isn’t the place,” I whispered.

“But don’t you? Want to be alone with me, I mean?” he asked and his eyes looked at once determined and pleading.

“Yes,” I assured him, because I did, more than anything I have ever or will ever want in the world.

“Maybe on our beach, tonight?” he sighed into my hair.

“Definitely,” I promised.

We went back to the reception and danced some more. I didn’t even object when Catalina cut in on us.

When we got back to the bungalow after the reception, however, it was pretty clear that all of his cousins and other guests were going to continue celebrating on the beach well into the night. And Catalina seemed to have nominated herself as chairwoman of the party committee.

“Come join us,” Catalina pleaded, pulling Michael’s arm as he stood resolutely on the porch of his parents’ beach house. She even added, “You, too, Georgia. Please.” Before I could object, Megan and Charlie both grabbed my hands and soon Michael and I were pulled down to the beach by the force of the family’s goodwill. Someone had lit a small bonfire and his cousin Jack was playing the guitar and there was champagne and glasses and lots of laughing. Megan and Catalina felt the need to describe what we’d missed at the rest of the reception when we’d ducked out and exactly how beautiful Rose’s dress had looked as she took off on her honeymoon to Capri. As they argued for about ten minutes over whether Rose had worn a Monique Lhuillier or custom-made Vera Wang gown, I looked over at Michael. He took a seat on some driftwood and we both settled in for a different kind of fun than we’d anticipated.

After an hour or so, we gave up hoping that everyone would get tired and leave the beach to us. We went inside the house instead and snuggled up on the denim-covered couch, half-watching an old episode of
The Big Bang Theory
and listening to the celebration that was going to outlast us. Later, we went upstairs, brushed our teeth together, and made big frothy smiles at each other in the mirror. He put his arms around my waist from behind and began kissing the back of my neck in ways that sent prickles of pleasure up and down my spine. I felt my limbs melt but came back to reality when I jumped at the sound of a firecracker going off outside.

“You Endicotts like to party,” I said.

“It’s kind of hard to ignore, isn’t it?” he agreed with a sigh. Then he walked me to my room and paused at the door to kiss me good night.

“You looked really beautiful today,” he said, tugging at the belt of the patterned kimono-style bathrobe I had borrowed from Tori and asked, “Can I at least see your pajamas now? I didn’t even try to sneak a peek this morning and the suspense is killing me.”

“Are you sure you can handle an onslaught of sexiness?” I asked. He nodded solemnly so I looked up and down the short hallway and then flashed him. He groaned in disappointment.

“A PETA T-shirt and boxer shorts? Seriously?” He leaned his head against the doorpost, deflated. “
That’s
what I’m missing?”

“Yes. So cheer up, baby. You’ll sleep better now, right? Though there are a few holes in, um, strategic places in this shirt, actually.”

He brightened. “That shirt just got a whole lot sexier. Where are these strategic holes?”

I kissed the tip of his nose and opened the door to my room, saying, “I’ll leave that to your imagination,” and when I shut the door behind me I heard him say on the other side, “You’re killing me, Georgia.”

At least tonight I was frustrating him in a good way.

As I hugged my pillow to my ear, I wondered, despite teasing him about the strategic holes in my T-shirt, if I was really ready for him to see me in much less than that. He’d seen me in my bathing suit, of course. And a bra. But never naked. He’d never seen my body in all its dubious glory. And once he saw it, he wouldn’t un-see it. Once we were naked together, once we had that first night together, we wouldn’t be able to go back to hanging out in the evening and watching a sitcom on TV.

Could we?

Fearing I’d start to hyperventilate with a new worry, I grabbed the kimono I’d left hanging on the bedpost and held it to my nose. I could still smell him on it, a heady blend of toothpaste, some guy-style deodorant, and Michael.

Best smell ever. If I could bottle it, I’d make enough money to buy everyone on the Cape. And then evict them.

I fell asleep thinking about that.

6 
More Than a Little Awesome

The next morning, Michael and his parents slept in later than I did. Apparently, on the Cape, I was a “morning person.” I took advantage of the cooler air after a late-night rain and baked banana muffins, knowing it wouldn’t heat up the house. After breakfast, we all got dressed and drove to Provincetown, the place that forms the fist on the bent arm that is the Cape; Michael’s mom had a meeting with someone who owns a gallery there. Michael and I walked around P-town and looked at everything. P-town is known for being gay-friendly, and I don’t want to sound like an unsophisticated noob, but I have never seen so many men in tiny, tiny shorts in one place. Many of the bars and restaurants advertised nightly drag and when, as we sat at a rooftop café overlooking the green water, Michael told me he’d been to one last summer, I almost fell out of my chair, squashing the seagull below who was scarfing up fallen oyster crackers.

“It’s true,” he insisted, as he wiped mayonnaise from a lobster roll off his lower lip. “I went last year with some of my cousins and Forrest Ritter. I guess they let us in the bar because we were with a famous guy. Or maybe they never card. Anyway, Forrest kept saying, ‘some of these guys are good lookin’ chicks,’” he finished with a laugh.

“Wow. Now I can’t even pretend to have been flattered by his attention.”

Michael grinned and dowsed his French fries with more malt vinegar, saying, “No, you definitely can. He was right. Some of those guys
were
awfully realistic. There was a Christina Aguilera that would have fooled her mother. Very hot.”

I shook my head, smiling. “You’re just full of surprises.”

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, saying, “I’m a complex guy.”

“What else do you find hot, Mr. Endicott?”

“Snarky girls with ketchup on their chins,” he said as he dabbed at the spot with his thumb.

After lunch, we looked at some of the shops and galleries that lined the main streets. I couldn’t believe how expensive everything was and not just the art for sale—even buying a cup of sorbet required a mortgage. My dad would have complained from one end of the town to the other. But when we saw the director John Waters riding his bike down the street, I clutched Michael’s arm and practically jumped up and down like a kid who’s seen Santa off-duty. Michael laughed at me, but I love
Hairspray
and
Serial Mom
, which our friend Gary had gotten us to watch one night in the rec room of his house where his punk band usually practiced. I was genuinely excited to see Waters’ tiny pencil moustache in real life and, fortunately, he just pedaled past me before I could make a fool of myself beyond simple gawking, mouth open and imbecilic as a trout’s.

“You’re so cute when you act like a little kid,” Michael teased as we walked to meet his mom and dad back at a gallery where she had agreed to show some of her stuff. I wasn’t surprised. I really like her work. It’s something I could never do. It’s very impressionistic, more like someone’s dream of a big bold flower than an actual flower. She uses such vibrant colors you feel like they’re reaching out to you. I wondered if I should ask her for painting lessons this fall, which would be a great idea if I decided to apply to art schools and not just liberal arts colleges. I would need to expand my portfolio—and tell my parents. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Michael yet.

So after we were back at the house and hanging out on the beach, I decided to tell him about my idea. I was a little afraid he would think I was just trying to avoid college math requirements, but he said without hesitation, “Then I think you should.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m just trying to avoid college math requirements?” I asked, feigning shock as I fell prone onto the towel, my eyes squinting immediately in the glare of the late afternoon sun.

He passed me my sunglasses and lay down next to me, saying, “Of course not. My mother thinks you’re very talented.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leaned on one elbow and gave me that smile that always makes me feel like my heart’s an elevator skipping floors. “And I do, too.”

I wrapped my hands around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

Much later, we walked back to the house holding hands and looking over at each other like we had this amazing secret the rest of the world would never know. Feeling so close to him, emotionally, though, perversely made me a little terrified at the idea of getting closer, physically, which I knew was the plan for the night.
Why mess this up,
a voice in my head kept screaming,
and you know you will
.

We joined his parents on the deck for dinner, a pasta puttanesca his mom made that was the best I’ve ever had and vegan cookies his dad had found at a bakery in Provincetown. We all sat around the table talking and laughing, and it was so different from the forced family dinners at my house, at which Cassie chatters like a squirrel about whatever athlete she has a crush on that week and my dad pretends he’s not paying more attention to the Blackberry hidden under his napkin. After dinner, I helped Dr. Endicott do the dishes. I don’t think my dad has washed, dried, or put away a plate in his entire life.