A knowing gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Silence of the Lambs flashbacks?”
“One hundred percent.”
chapter nineteen
Outside, the sky is full, a deep ocean blue overrun with tiny, glimmering silver fish. The air is so sharp it takes a few breaths for my body to adapt, to clear out the dry indoor air. Two steps off the back porch, and Andrew’s hand comes over mine, fingers threading between as if he’s done it a thousand times.
“We never get skies like this at home,” I say.
“I forget how much I love it up here until I’m outside at night, and then it’s like whoa, yeah, it would be hard to give this up.”
A tiny strangled noise escapes me, and I turn it into a cough. “Maybe try to convince your parents to keep it?”
His quiet pause tells me that he probably won’t do that. “I just want them to do what works for them, you know?”
I reach up, running my free hand through my hair. The strands that come away are wound around and around, and I finger-flutter them away.
“You have so much hair,” he says quietly. “It’s so pretty.”
“It’s a pain. You should see my brushes.” The deep brown is all Mom, but its sheer density is from Dad’s side of the family.
“Think of all the birds’ nests you’ve helped build out here,” Andrew jokes.
I laugh, but as we move forward through the darkness, over snow that is illuminated blue and so cold we can walk across it without sinking in, a fear hits me like a brick of ice.
“I just want to say,” I begin, “before we get to the Boathouse, that if this ever feels weird or wrong, please just don’t stop talking to me. I promise I’ll be okay if you decide this isn’t what you want to do, but I wouldn’t be okay if you ignored me.”
“Do you really think I would do that?”
In truth, no. I can’t imagine it. “You’re right.”
“And why are you assuming I’m the one who’ll change his mind?”
“I’m just trying to protect us and our families. It feels so good, but I know it’s a huge deal.”
He bends when I say this, brushing his mouth over mine. It feels like the next sentence in the conversation, the unspoken Trust me, okay?
We’re at the Boathouse now, and he turns, reaching forward and pushing the squeaky door open to reveal the dark hollow space. I’m not really sure why, but seeing the Boathouse tonight with Andrew, under these circumstances, makes the cold blackness tantalizing rather than eerie and uninviting. Yes, it’s freezing in here, but I know in that far corner there is a pile of sleeping bags, and in a few minutes, I will be cuddled inside them with Andrew pressed all alongside me.
What if we have sex?
The word—sex—flashes into my head, buzzing fluorescent and neon. Only a matter of hours ago, I discovered what it felt like to kiss him. But here we are, no longer children, friends our entire lives. If the intensity between us is anything like it was in the closet and pantry, and with over a decade of pent-up lust trapped beneath my skin, I don’t know how we’ll keep from ripping all of our clothes off as soon as we lock the door.
The door seals shut, and Andrew reaches past me, turning the dead bolt. The click echoes once, contrasting with the staccato of my heartbeat.
“Come on.” He leads me to the back of the room and turns on the little lamp in the corner, illuminating a cone of space with a soft yellow glow. “Ta-da.”
When he steps back, I see he’s arranged the pile of sleeping bags on the floor, and it takes me only a few seconds to realize it’s because the cot is really only wide enough for one body. But by zipping the flannel-carcass sleeping bags together, he’s made a cozy little bed for two. There are pillows propped against the wall to lean against, if we want. He’s even brought a couple of bottles of my favorite sparkling water out here from the kitchen.
I must have hearts in my eyes when I look at him. When did he even do this?
“You said you didn’t have beverages.”
“I said I don’t have any nightcaps,” he says, grinning, “but I do know what you like.”
I’m trying to keep my brain from doing it, but a tiny flash works through, of the handful of guys in my past who would be hard pressed to remember how much ice I like in my drink or name one of my favorite anythings, let alone procure it for me.
Without any careful calculation—only gratitude and want—I move right up against him. My arms go around his neck and there’s no hesitation on his end, either; my God, it’s like an explosion in reverse, a melting. His arms pull me in, and his mouth comes over mine with a laugh-moan of happy relief. This feeling is sunshine. There’s no pause like there was in the closet, no careful consideration of who might find us. Here, there’s only the heat of his smiling mouth, the tiny relieved exhale.
Andrew turns us, pressing me against the wall. Playful and sweet and light Andrew is washed away in the shadow of the man in front of me who smiles still, but it’s dark and exciting. His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush to him, letting me feel that he’s still just as hungry for this as I am.
We move to the floor. My shirt is slid up and over my head. I finally get to push that soft flannel off his shoulders and run my hands down his arms, feeling the smooth definition there, the bunching of tension in his back as he hovers over me, pressing just where I want him.
The neon sign is back. Sex. Sex. Sex.
We’ve been in the Boathouse for maybe four minutes, and we’re half-undressed. It’s not that I’m surprised, but . . . I don’t want to be stupid.
“Andrew,” I mumble against his mouth.
He pulls back, and even in the dim light I can see the worry on his face. “What?”
Do I say it? Or do we figure it out as we go? But honestly, that’s never a good idea. The heat of the moment is a real thing, and we are right in the middle of it. “This is awkward, okay, but I don’t have . . .”
He waits for me to finish the sentence, but suddenly it feels too presumptuous. Too fast. We just have our shirts off, Mae, settle down. “Never mind.”
“Don’t have what?” he presses. He shifts forward slightly, leaning into that distracting heat between my legs.
“Um. Not that we are going to. I mean, of course we probably aren’t. But if one thing leads to another, and—”
There’s a smile in his voice. “Maelyn Jones, are you thinking about birth control?”
I don’t think I could be more mortified.
“Like I said,” I say immediately, “I’m not saying we’re going to go there, we just got here, but I like to be—”
“Safe.” He drops the teasing voice and squeezes my hip with a gentle hand. “I’ve got it taken care of. Don’t worry.”
Andrew bends and it’s sweeter now, less frantic, like we’ve let out some of the pressure by just saying the possibility out loud.
The air in the Boathouse seems colder than the air outside, but in the zipped-together sleeping bags it is toasty warm. Andrew wrestles briefly with my bra, which I find both reassuring and endearing, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere over near his cot. His mouth is a trail of heat down my neck, over my chest, tiny bites and kisses.