It’s beautiful. Powerful. Like an ancient ritual, it takes me out of my body. Makes everything and anything seem possible. Makes me want to try.
At some point, Fred taps my arm and gestures that he has to go. I watch his pretty mouth form words, and all I can think of is that anything is possible. That it’s up to me to make it so.
So I follow him as he turns to leave, pushing between people, out onto the street. His blond hair catches the light of the streetlamp, the halo of an angel, and the beat of the song still vibrates through me, setting the rhythm of my heart like a war drum.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
“Fred!” I run after him, the coolness of the night air cutting through my thin cardigan, my heels clacking on the sidewalk. “Wait.”
“Hey.” He turns around, eyes going round. “I was just going to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, but I…” I reach him and stop to catch my breath. I smile at him. “I really like you, Fred.”
“I like you, too.” He seems puzzled, but it doesn’t matter. He likes me. I like him.
“Then kiss me.” The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and my heart is booming in my chest.
“Madeline…” he mutters. “You’re a beautiful girl.”
I bite my lip, grin. “Thank you.” I place my hands on his chest. He’s thin and willowy, like the artist he is. I know that, but somehow it feels weird to be touching him. I pull my hands away. “Will you kiss me?”
“You’re so sweet. I can’t do that. We need to take our time. I’d feel awful if I rushed you.”
Rushed me?
Bewilderment turns into anger, and then into confusion, because as I look at his lips, at his clear eyes, I see another face—dark stubble, broad cheekbones, dark eyes that crinkle at the corners with a smile.
I jerk back, my heels scraping on concrete. “You weren’t rushing me. I’m the one who asked you for a kiss.”
“We’re not ready, sweet.” He shoves a hand through his short hair, licks his lips. “Neither of us.”
“Why not?” I swallow hard. “Is there someone else?”
“What? No!” He’s the very picture of bewilderment. “Of course not. Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks. Let’s take it slow.”
“Slow, huh?” I’m disappointed, so disappointed my eyes burn. “I know how to kiss, you know. I’m not a child. I’ve kissed and been kissed before. And it’s not as if I’m asking you for sex. I mean…” What the heck. “I’m not a virgin, Fred.”
And blurting that out should feel liberating, should feel right, but it only makes me feel like a slut. For wanting a kiss. For telling him he’s not my first, even if my first isn’t worth remembering. I might as well be a virgin, for all the experience I have, and that stings so badly.
Maybe he realizes that, because he sighs and takes a step forward. “I really like you, Madeline.” He takes my hand. “It’s nothing you’ve done, okay? What’s the rush?”
He sounds so perfectly logical that in spite of my earlier anger at him, in the car, and my still burning cheeks, I back down.
“Okay. We’ll wait.” Like lovers in an old movie. Jesus. “I’ll go back inside. Leave you to your call.”
He nods and then unexpectedly he leans in and gives me a quick, chaste kiss—a light peck I barely feel. His lips are dry, cool.
I stare as he turns away, pulling out his phone. “See you back inside.”
Right. This kiss, this peck, is somehow even worse than his refusal to kiss me. I don’t know why, can’t pinpoint the problem. What do I feel? Is it anger?
I turn and head back to the party.
Fred thinks I’m a virgin, totally ignorant of sexual matters. And what’s worse is that he’s not far from the truth.
But he won’t do it, won’t kiss me, or have sex with me. Isn’t that what a girl does with her boyfriend, apart from having coffee in arty coffee houses and discussing music and dance? Maybe we don’t go out to dance or to the movies—because Fred doesn’t care about such things, and frankly I never even had the time—but I’m pretty sure kissing and sex are on the table. I’m nineteen, not nine. Holding hands and giving each other pecks is definitely what I did when I was nine.
Jesus.
Nearly blinded by frustrated tears, I stumble back inside. I must be doing something wrong. I obviously don’t know the right moves, the right things to say. If I was experienced, would he have said no? Would he have worried about hurting me and rushing me?
Suddenly I wish against all hope Seth were here.
Which makes no sense at all. No sense why I would be thinking of him even as I’m stomping in anger and confusion away from my very sweet boyfriend.
And it doesn’t matter, because as I push my way between people, and as the music rises around me like a storm, I see him.
Seth.
***
He’s seated in an ugly orange armchair, the walking stick propped by the side. He’s staring at the crowd, his gaze distant, his cheeks lightly flushed. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the logo of Damage Control, a coiling snake on the front. The soft material stretches over an impressive chest and broad shoulders, the short sleeves snug around thick biceps.
Damn, I hadn’t realize he was so strong.
It’s warm in here, I decide, sweeping my hair over one shoulder and slowing to a halt. And I shouldn’t be staring at Seth—at those ridiculously long lashes, that full mouth, the studs glinting in his ears, the shiny dark hair that grazes his brow.
Why can’t I look away?
He shifts in his chair as the song ends and relative quiet spreads. Bending slightly over, he reaches down to massage the muscle above his knee. His movements are slow. He seems…
“He’s exhausted,” someone says somewhere to my right, and turning I see Evangeline, Micah’s girlfriend, and a wild-haired girl I don’t know. “Just look at him, Kayla. Concussion, can you believe it? After all he’s been through this year. It’s awful.”
No doubt who they’re talking about. They glance in Seth’s way, then look quickly away once more.
“The guy needs a break,” Evangeline goes on, sipping at her beer. “He lost his job when he broke his leg, and Micah’s scared he’s spiraling.”
“The boys wouldn’t let anything happen to him,” Kayla says. “They look after their own. See how they came through with Jesse. And Micah.”
“Yeah. I’m just worried.”
Now so am I. But another song begins, the music engulfing their voices, and when I turn back toward Seth, he’s gone.
I stare for a long moment, uncomprehending, until I see him at the makeshift bar, a long table loaded with bottles, leaning against his walking aid. He’s really tall, and boy, that muscular back is so sexy.
Okay, what? I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp, realize nobody would hear it anyway, and will the music to drown out my strange thoughts.
I’m not attracted to Seth. I don’t want him that way. I want Fred.
As if summoned, Fred comes at me through the crowded shop, smiling. Whatever had him stressed earlier seems to have been resolved.
Yet whatever happened between us outside, that almost kiss that wasn’t really one, is still hanging between us. At least I feel it. I feel embarrassed, inadequate. Lacking.
Must be only me, though, because Fred, if anything, is even more touchy-feely than usual. I squawk in surprise when he grabs my hand and pulls me to him, then wraps an arm around me.
“Hey, Madeline. Shall we go?”
“Go? So soon?”
“The guys I rehearse with? They’re going to another place, quieter and with good wine. You’ll like it. Much better than this loud party.”
“I like it here.”
He stares at me in silence, the music dying around us as another song comes to an end. “You sure?”
I nod and look away from his wounded expression—only to find Seth’s eyes locked on me. He’s watching us, his bottle of beer forgotten in front of him. His eyes are pitch dark, and his hand is fisted on the bar, the knuckles white.