“Is this okay?” It was some sort of action movie. The cover featured a sports car midexplosion.
Claire nodded. She didn’t care what they watched—she was too hyperaware of Matthew sitting next to her. As casually as she could, Claire left her hand, palm up, on the cushion between them. The rough nub of the fabric felt good against the back of her itchy hand. Matthew shifted like he was just changing positions, but when he settled back, he was at least six inches closer to Claire than he’d been before. His arm was stretched across the back of the sofa, behind Claire but definitely not touching her.
Claire’s breath caught, and Matthew looked over at her. She wanted to move closer, to be touching him. But wasn’t he supposed to make the first move?
Oh my God, this is so stupid. I don’t care who’s supposed to start things. Claire scooted over and leaned into Matthew. He stiffened slightly and Claire’s heart froze in her chest. Oh, crap. Crapcrapcrap. She started to sit up, to pull away.
“Not a chance.” Matthew wrapped his arm firmly around her shoulder.
Claire didn’t think he could see the enormous smile that spread across her face.
Score one for the rule breaker.
While cars flashed by on the television and police sirens blared from the surround sound, Matthew traced a pattern on Claire’s shoulder with his fingertips, which made her shivery in a distinctly not-cold way. The movie—which she hadn’t really been watching, anyway—became just a blur of images on the screen. All she could focus on was Matthew’s touch.
When the closing credits popped up on the screen, Matthew turned his head toward her. “Claire?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
His face was inches from hers. In the dim light, his eyes flashed. “This is okay?” His voice was low, beckoning.
Claire swallowed hard. “It’s very okay,” she whispered.
“Good.” He leaned toward her, his mouth hovering close enough to hers that she could feel the heat of his skin.
The door creaked open at the top of the steps. Claire pulled away from Matthew, but he caught her hand, keeping her close. The look of pained frustration on his face was so obvious that Claire had to fight back a giggle.
“Claire?” Matthew’s father called down. “Your—er, someone is here to retrieve you.”
“We’ll be right there,” Matthew shouted back. He looked at Claire, and a slow smile spread across his tanned face. “This is the only day in a month he’s been home. Next time, he’ll be bugging some reporter, instead of us.”
“That sounds … better.” Next time! He said “next time”! “Or we could hang out at my house. Lisbeth’s not, like, overly invasive, or anything.”
Matthew glanced up at the open door and sighed. He reached over and traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “I’ll call you, okay?”
Claire floated out to the car.
“I told you nine on the dot,” Lisbeth said. “The sun’s already set.”
Claire looked out at the streaks of pink and orange spread across the sky like fire. “I know,” she sighed. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Lisbeth snorted. “Ahh, young love,” she teased.
“So, how were your plans?” Claire shot a meaningful look at Lisbeth.
“Successful.” Lisbeth picked a fragment of dead leaf off her sleeve. A little smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She obviously wasn’t going to say any more about it.
“Well, good for you, Miss I-have-a-private-life.” Claire rolled her eyes and turned up the volume on the car stereo. She scratched her hands against the fabric of the car seat, and wished they were home already.
Late that night, Claire tossed and turned in bed. Her ears and the backs of her hands were driving her crazy, even though Lisbeth had coated them with Calamine lotion after dinner. She dozed fitfully, waking with a start as the door of her room swung open. Her mother crept in, shutting the door behind her. Claire sat up in bed and blinked at the long mane of fine black hair that hung loose and wild around her mother’s face. Her mom never wore her hair down—it was always up in a sleek bun, so that it wouldn’t get in her way when she worked.
“You’re up,” her mom said as she lowered herself onto the bed.
Claire nodded. “I guess I had too much Diet Coke,” she said. “And I’m itchy.”
Her mom smiled, picked up Claire’s hand, and pressed it between her cool palms.
“I’d forgotten about the itching,” she said in a faraway voice.
Claire frowned. “You—what?”
Her mother let go of Claire’s hand and pushed back her hair.
“Oh, chérie, I’m not even sure where to begin.” Her mom sighed, staring out the window at the wide expanse of moonlit lawn spread out below. “Now that you’re sixteen, things—things are going to start changing. I—I have been waiting a long time to discuss this with you.”
Claire felt hot blood rush into her cheeks. Oh, God, she thought, she wants to have The Talk. Ew. What does she think happened at Matthew’s, anyway?