I’ve decided to take a newfangled approach to life in which I don’t think ten steps into the future and instead live in the moment. I endured four days without Ian and it sucked completely, so if I have to give him a blowjob in his shower to keep him around, so be it.
I want him. It’s obvious. What could possibly go wrong?
After our shower, I cook dinner in some clothes Ian loans me—an oversized t-shirt and baseball socks that stretch to my knees—and then we sit on his couch and watch The West Wing. The show holds 5% of my attention, the other 95% focused on Ian’s lips.
He’s aware of this because midway through the episode, he pauses it and turns to me. “We aren’t going to do anything else tonight.”
This is news to me. I was hoping we’d both at least make it to third base. I shaved my legs before coming over for a reason.
“Why’s that? Y’know, in Western society, the BJ is typically a quid pro quo sorta thing.”
He shakes his head and stands to collect our dinner plates from the coffee table. Ian is a cleaner. His house is always immaculate, and he hates how messy I am when I cook. He thinks I use every pot and pan and cutting board he has just to spite him. Little does he know, that’s only half the reason I use them.
“It’s not that—believe me, I am looking very much forward to…returning the favor, but don’t you think if we continue at this pace you might…I dunno, spook?”
“Pfft. Whatever. How about we just do a nice slow-jam make-out while R&B plays in the background?” I ask. “Spotify has playlists for every occasion.”
“No.”
“Okay, what about a light massage, oil optional, with an accompanying cool jazz playlist? I have one of those too.”
“Not happening.”
“We could just hold hands in silence? Does Spotify have a silence song?”
At that, he pauses the dishes and props his hands on the counter. I think he’s either laughing or trying to calm himself down. I can’t see his whole face, but his eyes are definitely pinched closed. Poor guy.
“I’ll make it easy for you: I’ll just get naked and you can come graze, nibble, take what you’d like. I’m like a reasonably priced Chinese buffet.”
His head whips around as if to confirm whether or not I’m stripping on his couch.
I’m not. I’m smiling fiendishly.
“Sam, we aren’t friends with benefits. I want to make that perfectly clear. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
I laugh. “Well I hate to break it to you, bucko, but we’ve already screwed up. Phone sex and a blowjob before our first date? As Shakespeare said, Shit’s fucked, yo. No point in trying to correct it now.”
He turns back around, straightens his shoulders, and now suddenly, I know the discussion is closed. “Not happening, Sam.”
Fine. I push off the couch and stomp to his freezer where I know I’ll find a pint of his favorite ice cream: Rocky Road. I’m going to eat it all just to spite him. That’ll teach him to turn me down.
I also reach for a bag of peas for my knees as an afterthought.
True to his word, Ian doesn’t touch me all night.
I have to go home and touch myself to memories of him in that shower like a horny teenager.
I think our next kiss is imminent. It has to be. The next day, I moisten my lips with ChapStick every fifteen minutes. I make sure my breath is fresh and minty. I check for food in my teeth incessantly. Nicholas tells me I look different during first period. “Glowing” is his exact word. The kid is too observant.
At lunch, I wait for Ian in the teachers’ lounge with my food laid out in front of me on the table. He walks in, talking to another teacher, and my lungs collapse. I’m gasping for breath like a lifelong smoker.
Today he’s wearing a pale blue shirt that matches his eyes. His navy slacks are new and they fit his ass too well. His hair is coffee brown and thick. These are the details causing my asthmatic symptoms.
I’m not alone.
Ashley is sitting beside me, staring at Ian like he’s a juicy lamb chop.
“God, I love when he wears blue,” she says on a soft exhale.
If I had a weapon within reach, she’d be dead and I’d be facing life in prison, but no worries—I’d hire NPR to do a podcast about me. They’d unveil my passionate love for Ian and the audience would feel bad that he didn’t go down on me last night. They’d deem the murder a crime of passion and demand a retrial. The judge would overturn the conviction on an arcane cunnilingus law and I’d end up walking free in no time. Sorry Ash.
I watch as Ian curves around the room to make it to our table. Has he always been such a strapping lad? Have I always been in love with him?
I sit up straight and stare down at my food, hyperaware that Ian and I have some ’splainin’ to do if anyone catches me staring at him with hearts in my eyes. I don’t know if it’s against the rules for teachers to date. It’s probably just frowned upon, but still, I don’t want everyone to know our business. Gossip spreads like wildfire in this school, especially if it’s as juicy as this.
“Hey there, Ian!” Ashley exclaims as soon as he pulls out the chair across from me.
He nods in her direction as he takes a seat. Our knees bump and he might as well have just put his hand down my panties from the way I blush.
“Do anything fun last night?” she asks him. “I got sucked into a Real Housewives marathon. Ugh, I just can’t resist those catfights!”
“Oh, uh, yeah, my night was fine. Nothing memorable.”
“Not a single thing?” I snap before I can think better of it.
He wipes away a smile, busying himself with emptying his lunch onto the table. “Now that I think about it, it was just one of those nights that really sucked, y’know?”
I grunt out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry.
Ashley is confused and staring back and forth between us. “Well I’m sorry to hear that. You’re always welcome to come binge Bravo with me!”
“I don’t know what that means.” He turns to me. “Sam, I brought the leftovers from yesterday. It’s a lot. Want some?”
“Yeah. Here, I don’t want my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. You can eat it for a snack before soccer practice.”
“Leftovers? So you guys were hanging out last night?” Ashley asks Ian. “What were you up to?”
“Does it have raspberry jelly?” he asks skeptically. “I thought you ran out.”
I roll my eyes and shove the sandwich toward him. “I picked some up on the way home last night because every time I use grape you groan about it for four days straight.”
“Guys,” Ashley says, tired of being ignored.
“What?” I ask impatiently.
“What were you doing?”
I shrug. “Watching West Wing.”
Ian is wearing a secretive smile and Ashley notices.
“Well that doesn’t sound too bad. What sucked about that?”
My eyes go wide with fear. Since when are we under her microscope? Oh right, since she decided to have a crush on Ian.
“Just wasn’t a good episode,” he backtracks into a lie. Any true fan knows there is no such thing. “And I stubbed my toe.”
He’s trying to help, but he’s only making it worse.
“Oh…okay. Well I hope Sam here gave you a foot rub or something…”
She knows. She knows!
I act fast.
“Do you like pretzels, Ashley?” I ask genially.
She perks up. “Love them.”
I toss the bag her way and she drops it into her purse.
Then I watch as she realizes the power she suddenly wields.
“Y’know, I like chocolate too,” she says with a smile that’s too polite. Her point is perfectly clear: give me the chocolate or I tell everyone you two were fooling around. I slap my dessert pudding cup in her hand and she gloats. “’Preciate it.” Then she turns to Ian. “Anyway, Ian, I was wondering what your plans are for this Saturday? I want to check out this new nature path near my house and you seem outdoorsy.” She wags her eyebrows. “Could be fun.”
Wait. What?