Random (Going the Distance) (10 page)

The quiet from the backyard suddenly alerts me to the fact that Henry must be on his way in. Rushing, I click out of the program and clear the history, shaking as guiltily as if I’d been cruising porno sites. I shut it down just as he comes in the back door, carrying something under a thin white dishtowel. “Made you something, sweetheart. You almost ruined the surprise, but I got it done.”

Guilt snakes through my gut, but I’m also wary. His taste can be really amazing or exactly the opposite. “Really? Show me!”

With a flourish, he yanks away the dishtowel to display a dragon very much like some of the ones in the backyard, only this one is just a foot and a half tall. He holds her by her base—I’m not sure why I think it’s a she, maybe her slanted eyes, made blue with chips of marbles. Her outstretched wings are studded with split pearlies that catch the light. Her belly is burnished copper.

“Henry! She’s beautiful!” I take her carefully from his hands and, like many of his pieces, there is substantial weight to her.

“You like it?”

“Are you kidding?” I give her long snout a kiss to prove it. “I’m going to put her on the table in my living room.”

“I know you don’t want too much clutter, but I wanted you to have something I made.” He dives his hands into his overall pockets. “Just…well, for love, I guess.”

Putting the dragon down on the floor, I give him a fierce hug. “Thank you, Henry. I’m so touched. I love you, too.”

He pats my back in that awkward way he has, then steps back. “What would you say to a cheap lunch somewhere? I’m famished.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be greedy. I’m already borrowing money.”

“You know I like to feed you, kiddo.” He winks. “I can afford a hamburger.”

My stomach growls, and he hears it. We both laugh.

“That settles that.”

Chapter NINE

A
fter lunch I stop at the grocery store and buy milk, powdered milk in case this drought lasts a while, 20 packages of ramen noodles in various types (10 for $1, happily), a dozen eggs, ghetto cereal in bags, and five pounds of potatoes. That’s something my mom taught me, that potatoes will get you through anything. I waver over butter, but it makes everything seem so much more luxurious that I spring for a pound of cheapo margarine, too. I calculate it will all cost just under $16.

As I’m heading for the cash register, a tired-looking man in a flannel shirt limps along the aisle and I think of Henry. He’s so good to me. I should make him some cookies. Impulsively, I add a pound of sugar, cheap chocolate chips and another pound of margarine. That takes me to just over $20, and I’m done.

Something about carrying the supplies into my little house, putting them away, makes me hum under my breath. For dinner tonight I’ll have a baked potato and maybe bake some cookies.

I bring in the dragon and rearrange things a little in my super tiny living room to find the best place for her. On shelves in front of the windows are my plants, the begonias and coleuses and wandering Jew and a glossy, healthy Swedish ivy that I’m particularly proud of. The dragon seems as if she might like that spot, with sunshine and greenery all around.

I’m trying not to think about Tyler. Or about Keiran Pears who runs a winery and might be my dad. My phone has been completely silent all day, and when it rings in my pocket I jump about a foot.

Tyler Smith’s name shows on the screen. I feel a little shaky when I answer. “Hey, Tyler.”

“Hi, Jess.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. “You called me, remember?”

“Right. Sorry. I guess I wasn’t—” He stops. “I guess I’m wondering if you’re free.”

“As in right now?”

“As in is that guy your boyfriend?”

“No.” I sink down onto the couch and put my feet up. “We broke up two nights ago, but he’s having a little trouble with the idea.”

“Ah.” I can hear music playing in the background, something folksy or bluesy or something. “And you? How are you feeling about it?”

I have no idea what comes over me, because I’m not usually that bold, but I say, “Tyler, I kissed you. I wouldn’t have done that if there had still been anything going on between him and me.”

“Not all women feel that way.”

Women. Not girls. I think of my stocked-up pantry and try on the word.
Woman
. Yeah, I’m turning into a woman. Especially if a
man
wants to talk to me. Kiss me. “Well, it’s not like I have a ton of experience, but I try to treat other people the way I hope they’ll treat me.”

“You haven’t had a lot of boyfriends?”

“Three,” I say. “How about you?”

A low chuckle comes through the line. “Boyfriends? None. But girlfriends…more than three.”

I prop my bare feet on the arm of the couch, liking the long tanned look of them. I should paint my toenails. “How many more? Like ten?”

“Maybe.”

It’s my turn to smile. “Twenty?”

“I don’t remember.”

I laugh. “You’re the one who started asking the questions.”

“True.” He sounds rueful. “How old are you, Jess?”

“Nineteen. Twenty in August.”

He’s quiet on the line. “You’re younger than I thought.”

“How old are you?” I remember he said he’d had a phone like mine in high school.

“Twenty-five.”

“Oooh, old!” I wiggle my feet. “I guess I can’t call you Rich
Boy
anymore.”

His laugh is luxurious in my ear. “You seem older than twenty, Jess. Seriously.”

“I’m an old soul. My mom always said so.”

“You can’t even drink yet.”

I make a noise. “Of course I can. I have a really good fake ID.”

“Not the same as being legal.”

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. “Dude, again.
You
called
me
.”

“I know.” He’s quiet. “You know why, too.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you. That kiss was…” He pauses. “Amazing. You know it was. I’ve gone over it a hundred times.”

I close my eyes and I’m transported back in time, with my back against the wall and the rain pouring around us and his tongue brushing over my lips, his mouth succulent, his body hard. “Me, too.”

“I have to work tonight, but do you want to do something tomorrow? I’ll let you borrow my computer if you want.”

I’m thinking of his mouth, the taste of it, and his skin under my fingers. I’m thinking of his mesmerizing eyes and how much I want to kiss him some more. “When do you have to work today?”

“At five.”

I glance up at the clock on the wall. “That’s two hours. You want to come over to my house for a cup of tea?”

“That might be dangerous.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, “but I’m coming over anyway. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The instant he hangs up, I leap off the couch and shed the crummy old t-shirt I’m wearing and the sweaty bra I had on to do all the shopping and work and everything else, and run into the bathroom to wash my neck and torso and underarms just in case I might have had sweat on me anywhere, then dash back into the bedroom. I have exactly one nice bra, thin lace and underwire that’s too scratchy for everyday. I put it on, and for a second I look at myself in the mirror. I’m not ready to get that hot and heavy with him, but maybe an older guy will expect that we’re going to have sex now that I invited him to my house?

I stare at myself, wishing my boobs were bigger, that I had some kind of cleavage, but I don’t really. Even the underwire only gives me a little lift, but the white lace is nice against my tan, and I tug on a white v-neck shirt that doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard. My jean shorts are still fine and my legs are shaved, and I unbraid my hair, letting it free over my back and shoulders, and by the time I get this done there’s a knock on the door.

Rushing toward the door, I stub my big toe on the leg of the couch. It feels like somebody smashed it with a hammer, and I yelp, hopping around in a circle. For a second I stand there blinking back tears, trying to get it together, and then swing the door open.

He’s standing there, hands loose in his pockets, the three-day edging of beard on his chin catching the late afternoon light. I forget about my toe as all the molecules in my arms and legs and belly surge toward him, making the top of my head tingle, and I can’t think of anything to say. His expression is more serious than I’ve seen it before, and I’m suddenly wary, remembering that he’s way out of my league.

“Hi,” I say, finally.

“Hi.”

We’re both just standing there, looking at each other. He looks at my clothes, or maybe my body and my bare legs, and I feel suddenly shy. Can he see the lace beneath the t-shirt?

“Dude,” he says finally. “
You
invited
me
.”

The smile spreads over my face slowly, and I step back from the doorway. He pulls open the screen door and steps inside, his gaze going to the room behind me, and I glance at the pressed lace curtains, the plants and books on the shelves. “This is so different than it is outside,” he says.

“It’s old, you know, but I like the walls.”

“It’s really nice, Jess. Do you live here by yourself?”

I nod, feeling awareness creep down my neck and shoulders as I think of my bed, just twelve steps into the other room. That’s not what I want, not yet, but maybe that’s why he’s here. Maybe he thinks I invite everybody over.

“Do you want some tea?” The kitchen is the other direction from the bedroom, and it’s so tiny we’ll have to crowd around the table.

“Sure.” Is that amusement in his voice?

As I move toward the kitchen I realize that my toe is sticky and take a quick glance at it. Blood is covering it, pooling beneath it. “Crap,” I sigh. “Hold on.”

Lifting up my toe, I penguin-walk on my heel to the kitchen, and get a rag from a drawer and run cold water into it, then bend over and wrap my foot in the cold compress. “Sorry,” I say, feeling a blush on my face. “I stub my toes all the freaking time.”

“Such language.” He says ironically, and moves into the doorway, filling it up, and I realize his shoulders are very broad.

“I
can
swear like a sailor, unfortunately. My mother really didn’t like it when people swore. She said it made them look ignorant.” I straighten, leaving my poor toe wrapped for a second. “It’s not very ladylike, is it?”

“Do you want to be a lady?” His expression is hard to read, and I study it for a second, trying to decipher the slight turn of his lips, the brightness in his eyes. Should I be offended that he doesn’t think I’m a lady now?

“I don’t know what I want to be.”

“Are you in school?”

Kneeling, I pull the rag away and find the toe has stopped bleeding. “No,” I answer, and feel the usual sting over it. I wish I could answer yes. “Give me a second. I’m going to get a Band-Aid.”

He nods, and I limp into the bathroom, thinking this is not going at all like I thought it might. It feels like there’s a balloon of awkwardness between us now, and I don’t know how to get around it. I wrap the stupid toe in a big bandage, wash my hands and dry them, and head back into the kitchen, two feet away. Tyler is standing in the doorway to the living room, his gaze fixed on the floor. He looks sad.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He lifts his face. “I don’t know.”

I frown, cocking my head quizzically, and in two seconds he’s crossed the small space between us. He cups my face in his hands. “That,” he says. “That expression, that way you tilt your head. It haunts me.”

My heart shivers with anticipation and I raise my hands to his wrists, spreading my fingers over the light hair on his forearms, feeling the sinewy tension in the backs of his hands. I lift my eyes to meet his intense gaze and find it boring into me, peeling away all my defenses like he can see all the way into the very center of me.

His fingers move on my face, delicately touching my cheekbones, the line of my jaw. “Your face is like something painted by one of the Pre-Raphaelites, like you walked out of the 19th century with those crazy eyes.” He shakes his head faintly. “I could look at you for days, never blinking. It’s giving me this restlessness…”

It’s kind of wild, the intensity in his voice, but no one has ever said anything like this to me. I like the way it burns across my skin. I can’t think of anything to say that would match his words, so I just drink in the lines of his face, looking at his mouth as if there’s never been another mouth in the world. The lower lip is full, the upper cut into a perfect bow. Above it, whiskers glisten softly, and I want to touch my tongue to the prickles, trace that line of lip and taste the texture. When he speaks, I can see his tongue moving.

“Jesus, you are beyond beautiful,” he says, and leans in, very slowly, to kiss me. He has to bend, and I lift my chin at his urging, but just when I think he’s going to kiss my mouth, his lips land instead on my cheeks and my nose and my chin. I close my eyes as the butterfly kisses move over every inch of my face, tracing lines one way, then another, fluttering over my eyelids and the edges of my brows and the perimeter of my lips. The only parts of me connected to the world are the places his mouth touches me, where his hands curl around my neck, where my hands clasp his wrists. The rest of me is floating in the air, shimmering like dust motes.

At last he kisses the corners of my mouth and finally, finally, finally, leans into me, pressing my back against the wall, his mouth into mine. I make a sound, and his tongue slips between my lips, coaxing mine into his mouth. We fit ourselves more closely together, tongues curling, darting, sliding. Slowly, slowly, he caresses my tongue, and, encouraged, I taste his in return. I flick my tongue over his mouth, gauging the tenderness of that lower lip and letting myself suck on it a little. He makes a quiet sound.

That’s all it is for a long time. Kissing. Kissing. Kissing. Tongues, lips, breath. I’ve never kissed anyone for so long in my life, and I like it.

But it’s creating a painful heat in my groin that’s hard to ignore. My body is beginning to throb with the need to be touched, end to end, every inch, and my fingers crave the feel of his skin, not just his shirt. Against my belly, I can feel the fiery press of his arousal.