This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far beyond the both of us.

“Elsie,” he mouths when he comes. He seems to retreat into himself, to dig deep into his head to deal with the shocking pleasure of it and avoid losing his mind, and all I need to do is hold him tight to remind him that yes. I’m here. With him.

I’m here.

It’s downright terrifying, what this could be. What I want it to be. It makes me tear up, and then it makes me sob, and then it makes me clutch at Jack for dear life, the splotch of his semen sticking to his shirt and my stomach, pooling in my belly button. To his credit, he doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. He doesn’t beg for explanations. He just holds me close, both arms wrapped around me, even when my tears morph into giggles, like I’m some crazy, unstable girl who doesn’t know what to be or what to feel.

Wait. That’s exactly who I am.

I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Then I cannot stop. The movie is over, “15 Step” by Radiohead bafflingly plays during the black-and-white end credits, and I’m laughing again.

“You’re ruining the moment.” His lips curve into my throat, winded like he just finished an Olympic race.

“I’m so sorry. I just—”

“What?”

“Just wondering if you still think it’s ‘too soon.’ ”

He slaps my butt. I yelp and then keep on laughing.

“Yes.” He maneuvers back and angles my head so that I’m looking at him. “It’s really soon. But the only person who can slow us down is you, so . . .”

“So what?”

He pushes a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear. His eyes are worried, and warm, and empty of everything that’s not us. “Be gentle with me, Elsie. That’s all I ask.”

OceanofPDF.com

From: [email protected]

Re: Thermodynamics Essay

Doctor Hannaway, ma’am, it’s been 23 hours, have you graded my essay yet?

Saturday’s a daze.

I shuffle around my room gingerly, full of distant stares and hands stopping midaction, like I cannot remember what I opened my closet for, how to squeeze the tube to get the right amount of toothpaste.

It’s a first. I sense that some paradigmatic shift has happened within me, but I cannot justify it. Jack and I did a bunch of things that high schoolers today would barely consider a quarter of first base—so what? I try to cognitively reframe last night as two adults having casual fun, but my head is full of aggressive, intrusive, embarrassing thoughts that make it hard to concentrate on grading. As though the sheer nature of grading didn’t do it on its own.

“When did you get back last night?” Cece asks when I emerge in the kitchen. As usual, she’s engaged in a mix of activities: teaching Hedgie an obstacle course, listening to an audiobook on the women of the Plantagenets, making oatmeal.

I try to recall what the clock in Jack’s car looked like when he dropped me off. The red numbers blinking at me in the dark, as if to say, You should go. And Jack leaning over the armrest for a kiss, then pulling me into his lap. Whispering, Not yet. “Around one.”

“A record.”

“We watched a movie,” I tell her, to avoid saying, I think I had the most soul-shaking night of my entire adult life, and it didn’t even involve cheese.

“What movie?”

“Um . . . a vampire movie.”

“Oh my God. Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens?”

“. . . Yeah.”

“Lucky you.” She sighs. “Did you make out before or after Count Orlok awakens?”

“We didn’t—” She points at my neck, and I turn to catch my reflection in the microwave. Dammit. “During.”

She nods knowingly. “It’s a horny movie, isn’t it?”

I remind my brothers that if they go to jail for killing each other, their future lives will contain very little Dana and very copious amounts of toilet wine. In response I get called a bitch (Lucas), ordered to get a fucking life (Lance), and told, unceremoniously, “Humph” (Mom).

“They did agree to not run over the other if they meet at the farmers’ market, so there’s that.”

“Glad to see you’re doing your part for the family, Elsie,” she says.

I think I’m forgiven. Because I did what I was told. There should be relief in that, but while Mom goes on about that Comic Sans inspirational quote my aunt posted on Facebook that may or may not be shade, I picture practicing honesty. Mom, stop. This is messed up.

I don’t do it, though.

I often meet with Dr. L. on Saturdays, and I’ve been dying to discuss George’s offer with him, but he’s out of town. Instead I have lunch with Cece (a quinoa bowl—I snap a picture and send it to Greg, who replies with seven face-palming emojis in a row) and then spend the afternoon at the science fair, manning the UMass Physics Club stand alone because none of the students who were supposed to help showed up. I freeze my ass off, wonder if I should be worried about the group of kids who keep begging me to teach them how to build a catapult, then imagine doing this next year, all over again.

Then I imagine making my life about what I want.

When I get a text from Jack, my brain stops working.

JACK: Greg invited us to dinner. Want to go? We can stay in if you prefer.

He talks like his Saturday nights belong to me, even though this thing with us only just started, and my heart skips too many beats.

ELSIE: I’m at UMass doing unspeakable things till late. But I could join when I’m done.

JACK: Perfect.

I think of the word honesty a lot before adding:

ELSIE: I’d like to spend the night afterwards.

The reply takes a long time to come, and I find myself picturing answers. It’s too fast. Let’s get back on track. Take it slow.

But something has shifted. Maybe on the windowsill. Maybe when he nipped my chin after buttoning up my coat. Maybe in the parking lot, the moment he grabbed my hand and pulled me back into the car, telling me that I couldn’t leave without telling him the ending of the movie. Do they go to college? Does Edward ever see a dermatologist? Who wins the golden onion?

His reply takes a long time to come, but I’m not surprised when it does.

JACK: Good.

•   •   •

By the time Greg opens the door, I’ve worked myself up to a state of panic.

“I thought coming empty-handed would be rude,” I blurt out, “so I grabbed this. Because it was cheap, but not the cheapest.” I hand him the bottle of red wine like it’s a hot potato. “I didn’t notice the name until I got on the bus, and . . .”

Greg looks down at the label, which proclaims “Ménage à Trois” in a sexy, flirtatious font. He snorts out a laugh.

“I swear, this is not a proposition.”

“Noted.” He hugs me, at once new and comfortingly familiar. “I’ll put this orgy invite in the fridge and go finish the food. Make yourself comfortable.”

I claw out of my anxiety pit, take off my coat, then make to follow him into the kitchen, when—

Jack.

For no reason whatsoever, my heart jolts and I cannot breathe. Maybe there’s something wrong with my cardiopulmonary health—is my entire body joining my pancreas and crapping out? Does nothing inside me work anymore? But really, it’s not important. I don’t care. Jack doesn’t care. He stands just a few feet from the entrance, arms crossed, chestnut eyes full of warmth and amusement as he murmurs, “Looks like you and Uncle Paul have something in common, after all.”

“I . . . He . . . It’s a misunderstanding.”

His mouth twitches. “When you said you wanted to spend the night, I didn’t think you meant here.”

I groan, covering my eyes with my hand. And when I feel Jack’s heat, I know he has drifted closer, and I let myself sink into him.