Spontaneous (15 page)

R
emember earlier how hugs were the last thing I needed? Now they were the first thing. As soon as I saw my parents, I ran to them and grabbed two armfuls. And we sobbed. And we said breathy
I love you
s. We did all the things a family does when it's been apart for what seems like years, but was really only a little more than a week.

“Graduation,” Dad said. “Together, we make it to that point, and we're in the clear. Graduation.”

“Where'd you get that?” I asked.

“There was a lot of talk along that fence,” he replied. “This started when senior year started, so it makes sense that it will end when you graduate.”

“Well, if you haven't noticed, school's out,” I said. “Permanently, it seems. No cap and gown in my future.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” he said. “There are murmurs about restarting classes for at least some kids. Gears are moving.”

“The school is wrecked,” I said. “The—”

Mom put a hand on my shoulder, kissed my cheek, and said, “Let's not worry about murmurs. For now, how about we close Covington Kitchen? Hang out. The three of us. Spend all our time together.”

As appealing as it sounded at first, it was a plan destined to fail. A keen sense of your mortality can make you crave a lot of things, but those things rarely include endless evenings on the couch with the family. I loved my parents, so very much, but I loved them because they weren't always there.

“The Kitchen has to stay open,” I assured her. “You'd be antsy and broke without it. I'd be bored and annoyed. Whoever is left in town would be pissed. And for what? So we could sit around watching Netflix?”

They nodded.

“You've always been so honest with us,” Dad said.

“Well,” I said. “I might as well keep the honesty train rolling then.”

“Meaning?” Mom asked.

“Dylan is coming over tonight. By that, I mean he's spending the night in my room. Because I don't see the point in having him sneak in and, honestly, I don't know how much time we have left.”

Dad stared at me for a moment. “It's Thanksgiving. You do realize that right?”

“It'll be after dinner,” I said. “You'll be conked out anyway. From the trypto-whatever in the turkey.”

“Is this something his mother is aware of?” Mom asked.

I shrugged. “If they have the awesome kind of relationship that we do, then I'd guess she is.”

“I see,” Mom said.

Dad stood up, kissed me on the forehead, and left the room.

“I'll take that as his approval,” I said.

Mom hugged me hard and whispered, “We're so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For you having to live this way, in this world. I know we're supposed to tell you it was harder when we were younger. But that'd be bullshit.”

R
ather than climbing through the window, Dylan rang the bell. Dad stayed in the family room watching a football game, either as a silent protest or a grudging acceptance that I was a grown human being who likes things that grown human beings like.

Mom hovered by the kitchen door as I pecked Dylan on the cheek and invited him in. “I'm so glad you're safe and healthy, Dylan,” she said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“I'm thankful to be here, ma'am,” he replied.

“You didn't drive, did you?” she asked. “Because that would be dangerous.”

“No, ma'am,” he said. “My board is on the porch.”

“It's a long way to skate,” Mom said.

“A few miles,” Dylan said. “But I've got strong legs.”

That's when I realized that I'd never been to Dylan's house. I knew where it was, but I'd never actually been there or met any of his family. Suspecting what I did of his brother, I wasn't entirely
sure I wanted to. Now that's a Thanksgiving dinner where every “pass the gravy” has subtext.

“Well, if you need a ride back,” Mom said, “let us know. We'll get you home whenever you want. Even if you want to go early. You can take some leftover turkey with you.”

“That'd be awesome,” Dylan replied.

Mom watched us for a few more moments, then cleared her throat, but instead of saying anything else, she slipped into the kitchen. I sympathized with all the emotions she must have been feeling, but I was feeling plenty myself. As soon as she was gone, I did more than peck Dylan. I kissed him on the lips, deep and long, then grabbed his hand and pulled him toward my room as I said, “Come on. I wanna show you something.”

In my room, with the door closed, I showed him something. I lifted my top. I wasn't wearing a bra, which gave him a full view of my soft and supple, gravity-defying, perfectly natural 36 Double-Ds.

Ha! Hilarious.

If you believe that's what they look like, then go ahead, you poor dear. All I will tell you is that in reality, they are far less spectacular. Though Dylan's reaction didn't indicate that. He stopped breathing for a second and reached forward slowly like he was about to touch a Deathly Hallow. I pulled my shirt down at the last moment, hopped on the bed, and patted the open patch of mattress next to me.

“A preview of what's to come,” I said. “I know I'm being a horrible tease, but let's wait until my parents go to bed. It'd be weird to imagine them going about their evening while we . . . go about ours.”

“Got it,” he said. And then he sat on his hands to show he was willing, if not entirely able, to wait.

“I've been on an honesty kick,” I told him.

“A good thing.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But if we're taking things another step, if we're taking things all the way to the end, then there can't be any walking on eggshells anymore. I'm getting stuff out there. And I want you to do the same.”

He pulled out a hand and placed it on my knee. “Of course.”

“Right now,” I said, placing a hand on his hand. “I showed you my chest. Now I want you to get something off yours.”

He looked me in the eyes, then laughed awkwardly and replied, “Wait. This was your idea. I'm not sure I know what you're getting at but—”

“The triplets,” I said, and the words spilled out of me. “They're not yours. I don't know if it's blood tests, but there's proof that you aren't the father.”

“I . . . wait . . . how?”

I kissed him on the forehead, softly. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the cheek. Finally the lips. A whisper of a kiss.

“And that makes me so relieved,” I told him. “Because it means I have you all to myself. That's a selfish thing to say, I know. And I realize you might not have wanted to know the truth. You might have wanted to live in some sort of paternal limbo or something. But
I
know the truth and I couldn't keep it to myself. It's better this way. Trust me.”

“Who told you?” he asked, not smiling, not crying, not doing much more than staring straight ahead.

“Jane,” I said, as I leaned in and wrapped my arms around him, placing my chin on his shoulder and closing my eyes. “And hey, if your brother is the father, and if he and Jane had some fling behind your back, well then fuck him and fuck her. If he did it as revenge for something you posted on his Facebook way back when you were a little kid, then fuck him even more. And fuck her even more. Fuck everyone. Because again, what it ultimately means is that you can be with me. Truly. Completely. Without strings. That is a great thing.”

All I could hear were Dylan's quivering breaths. And then, “So we're being honest?”

“We are now. And forever.”

“She was Warren's girlfriend.”

“What?”

“She was with Warren first. Well, the whole time, actually. They had to date in secret, because he was twenty and she was sixteen. But if she was gonna be at our house all the time, then she needed a cover for her parents. I became her cover. I think I was a beard. Only I was a beard for a girl who was dating my brother.”

“Wait. You were never together?”

“We were and we weren't. We started pretending we were together and then after a while, we sorta were.”

“And you slept with her? In the fields behind the silo?”

“We did . . . things.”

“Things?” I asked, making my fingers into male and female bits and pantomiming some hanky-panky.

He shook his head.

“You are aware of how babies are made, aren't you?”

He nodded and said, “I didn't lie to you. I mean it got to a point that could be considered
something
. And anything is possible, right? I mean, I never . . . what I'm trying to say is that Jane was always Warren's girlfriend, even though certain things happened. Things I set into motion. It was supposed to be pretend, but I made it more than that. Because that's what I selfishly wanted. So I'm the villain in all this. Have been since day one.”

Villain. I looked him square in the eyes, trying to see what he saw in himself, and I said, “Fuck 'em, anyway. So you're a villain? There are worse things to be.”

“Like what?”

“Boring.”

The corner of his lip inched up, a wee bit. “True . . . ,” he said.

And I replied, “Lemme show you something else.”

L
ying on the bed, my head on Dylan's chest, one of his arms wrapped around me, I said, “I'm going to embarrass myself now.”

“No. You could never do that.”

“Oh boy,” I replied, as I lifted my phone. “Just you wait. I'm going to read you something. All I want you to do is close your eyes and focus on the words.”

I couldn't see if he followed my instructions because I was looking toward the foot of the bed. But I trusted him. Completely. Which was a good thing in theory, but revealing a secret side of myself—my
artiste
side, if you will—was now far too easy. Believe it or not, a girl can often benefit from being a little uncomfortable.

I opened a file on my phone. I hadn't looked at it in months, but I'd read it so much in the past that I basically had it memorized. It was the beginnings of what, once upon a time, I thought would be my masterpiece.

“‘Xavier Rothman had more feelings than he knew what to do with,'” I said in my reading voice, which was a notch deeper than my speaking voice.

“Who's Xavier Rothman?” Dylan asked.

“Shh!” I said. “It's . . . this is something I wrote. Listen.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“‘Xavier Rothman had more feelings than he knew what to do with. He had his own feelings. Which were plenty. He was seventeen, after all. But he had other people's feelings too. He had his grandmother's feelings, God rest her soul. He had the feelings of Karen Vilner, God rest her soul too. He had the feelings of David Abrams, God rest his soul as well.'”

“That's a lot of souls God is resting,” Dylan said.

“Shh!”

“Sorry.”

“‘Ever since his seventeenth birthday, Xavier had a power. Whenever he touched someone, he took all their feelings. He absorbed them, sopped them up like he was a paper towel and their feelings were a spilled beverage. Then the people died. Because you can't live without any feelings. Xavier discovered his power before he did too much damage. It was a good thing he wasn't exactly a huggy person. It was a bad thing that he was in love. With Veronique. And he could never touch the only person he wanted to touch in the first place.'”

I set the phone on Dylan's stomach and took a deep breath. It was the only time that I'd shared that with anyone. I had a lingering suspicion that it was a steaming pile of terrible, but I was using it to prove a point.

“Is there more?” Dylan asked.

“Not much,” I said with a sigh. “And that's all you need to hear.”

“It's a short story?”

“A novel. The beginning of one. It's called
All the Feels.
I never finished it.”

“Catchy title,” Dylan said, though I could tell he didn't believe that.

“I read it to you because you said you're a villain. Xavier thinks he's a villain too. You know, on account of the whole touching-people-and-killing-them thing?”

“Yeah, that'd make a guy feel a tad guilty.”

“It's a metaphor,” I said. “In case that wasn't obvious. Or maybe it's an allegory? Point is, Xavier is wrong. No one should feel guilty about having feelings. Especially the intense feelings inspired by other people. So you had feelings for Jane. You couldn't help it, right?”

“Right.”

“And now you have feelings for me,” I stated. “Even stronger feelings. Feelings you will never, ever be able to help.”

Dylan paused, then said the words slowly, clearly. “I love you.”

Even though trusting him wasn't an issue at this point, I felt the need to tell him to “say that again.”

“I love you,” he repeated. “I love you, Mara Carlyle. I love what you say. I love what you think. I love that you have opinions. I
love that life happens when you're around. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. Of all our kisses, this one was the best. It made my body tingle and his tremble, and for a moment, I was sure that this would be the end. Because sometimes life is that cruel and that poetic and that stunning.

But it wasn't the end. It was something closer to a beginning. For exactly like Xavier stole people's feelings, Dylan stole mine, drew them out of me like venom from a wound. For the first time ever, I said the words to someone other than my parents or Tess.

“I love you too.”

Then I fell back on the bed and opened my eyes.

W
e didn't talk about what was going to happen next. We lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening, searching for an opening. When the sink upstairs had stopped running, and the house had fallen silent except for the gurgling of our tummies, I made another move, grabbing his hand and putting it under my shirt. The tips of my nerves were buzzing, sparking, firing. I flinched and I shivered.

Good God, did I want him.

“I'm on the pill,” I told him. “But there are condoms under the book on the nightstand and I still think we should use them.”

“You're okay?” he asked, and he kissed me right between the eyes. “Now's okay?”

“Is it okay for you?” I asked, which was a better question than “Are you ready to become a man tonight, young virgin?”

He was a virgin. That fact was just dawning on me. He said he'd
only been with Jane, and if we were going to be technical about it, he hadn't really
been
with her. Which isn't a shocking thing on its own. Most kids I knew were virgins. It's simply that I had assumed the contrary for so long that it was hard to picture him any other way.

Until, that is, his hand was on my stomach, and he was nodding his approval, looking so goddamn nervous. I kissed his neck below the patchy stubble. Three times. To calm him. To assure him. Then I guided his hand down to my waistband and tucked his fingers under the elastic. He reached the other hand over and fumbled with the lamp, almost knocking it to the floor before finding the switch and flicking it off. There would be no helicopters to interrupt us now, no phone calls from FBI agents, no soul-crushing headaches.

Only the lips, pecking, kissing, falling together. Only the pawing over the lumpy and the smooth. Only his stubble scraping at my cheek and my hair falling across his neck and face, tickling his nose and making him squirm. Only my tongue on his lobe, then in his ear, making him squirm even more. Only his hands—slightly cold, but nicely cold—peeling off my top and his fingers running over my breasts and down to the slightly smaller folds of flesh below my ribs. Only my nipples in his mouth and his nipples in my fingertips. Only the rolling away, the spines arching, and then easing back straight. Only the kicking down of covers. Only the struggling with his belt and laughing and me asking if it “required a key.” Only the tugging at the pants, the synchronized wiggle to free ourselves. Only his mouth, exploring my thighs, and that
stubble again, now pressing against my hips. Only the draft across my hair as my panties shuffled into the tangle of sheets. Only his lips, exploring, and my fingers on his scalp, and me saying, “Just a little bit, not too much.” Only him taking a breath and asking, “How do you like it?” Only me thinking, “Who the hell knows, I don't do this all that much myself,” and only me responding, “However feels natural.” Only the stopping, only him motioning with his chin toward the dresser, only me nodding. Only the crinkling of the condom wrapper and the smell of the condom, sharp and not unpleasant, but not anything like the smell of a person. Only me bending forward and kissing his stomach and him holding the condom up to the moonlight streaming through the window to determine the direction of the roll. Only cupping him and helping him slip it on. Only his hands on the pillow, only his arms straight, only the pause as he lingers above. Only my fingers repositioning him and me telling him, “Slow at first.” Only the tension. Only the easing in. Only a little, and then a little more. Only the opening up. Only the flood. Only the quickening. Only the teeth and the nails. Only the creak of the bedframe that wasn't loud, necessarily, but still, was it too loud? Only me checking the door to make sure it was locked. Only me suddenly not caring about what's loud and what's locked. Only him saying, “Is that too much? Am I—?” Only me interrupting and assuring, “Keep going.” Only the slipping out. Only the rush to get back in. Only the slipping out again. Only the rush to get back in. Again! Only the clutching. Only the clenching. Only the held breath. Only the waves and the throbs and the squints and the puffs and
the gasps and the gulps and the falling apart. Only the kisses on the neck. Only the knowing, the fearing, the
loving
that it could have all ended right then and there in gloriously messy fashion, but it didn't, even if it nearly felt like it did. Only the giggling and the relief.