The start of any relationship is really la la la and happy-happy, right? I mean, I’m a teenager for God’s sake. And so is he. So, there are hormones involved and all kinds of crazy things adults never really tell us about . . . at least not in words we can understand.
I can go from ecstatically happy to massively insecure in the span of a second. I can go from feeling completely at ease with Colton, to wondering if I’ll do anything right ever again.
It’s hard to be level headed when I can barely control my thoughts, much less my impulses.
Teenage girls are stupid.
I can say that because I am one. And I know we’re all competitive with one another, even if we pretend not to be. We totally are.
Every damn day I walked into school I was aware that the blondes with the perky boobs and the bubble butts get the guys. I was aware my best friend is one of them. And I was painfully aware that I am skinny, but jiggly, and the definition of average-brown-hair-brown-eyed girl.
But when Colton talks to me or looks at me, I feel really special. Prettier than I’ve ever felt before in my life. I figured the other bitches in school would see that, too. I assumed they would know, since we held hands all the time, and drove to and from school, walked to class and ate lunch together: Colton and I were, ya know . . . together.
Apparently, I was wrong.
The simple fact that neither Colton nor I had actually said we were boyfriend and girlfriend made people think maybe we weren’t. We hadn’t kissed or anything, and I guess a lot of people . . . girls . . . saw me as just some sort of friend or something. Friends who hold hands?
As Colton would say, “Whatever.”
He’d gotten better at chiming in with little things here or there that would catch us all off-guard at the table. Unprompted.
Girls were suddenly trying to talk to us during lunch, but couldn’t quite get a grasp on Colton’s reactions or silence. It made Quinn laugh to no end, and Sawyer sat back with a shit-eating grin on his face because he could tell I was like a tiger about to pounce every time one of them came over. Marissa would usually interject and talk the girls’ ears off and they’d eventually make an excuse to walk away.
Anyway. We got the announcement about the Girls’ Choice Dance and all the girls in the school suddenly got lobotomized or something because half of them were crying about having to ask a boy out and the other half were making lists. Those that didn’t have boyfriends, that is.
I hadn’t really been paying attention to what was going on, oblivious to gossip sessions around me for a couple weeks, thinking it was obvious to everyone I would be asking Colton to the dance, when I heard the first rumor.
No less than three girls had vocalized their intent to ask him.
Now, you have to remember I was the only girl to have spent copious amounts of time with him alone. With his family. Learning how he ticked. So, I definitely had the advantage there. It was almost like I wanted to see these other girls crash and burn when they asked him to take them to the dance.
But another part of me didn’t even want them to get the satisfaction of asking.
I had a mini panic attack because I wasn’t sure if the dance would be too loud. Too crowded. Too much stimulation.
Would it even be worth trying to go?
One look at him as he came out of class that day answered every question I had in my head. Of course it was worth it.
Like that crazy bitch from Kill Bill, it was like I could see girls were approaching from everywhere, and it appeared they were all coming at us at once in some sort of race against time to get to him first. Right in front of my effing face.
“Colton?” I grabbed onto his hand tightly and turned his back toward the locker, getting his attention focused only on my face. “I want to ask you a question.” He nodded. “Take me to the dance next weekend.”
He tilted his head to the side and frowned. “Lilly, that was not in the form of a question. A question is a request that ends with a question mark. What you just said was a statement.”
“Will you take me to the dance next weekend?” My heart was about to jump out of my throat wielding a sharp knife to cut the Achilles tendons on the approaching bitches’ feet.
But Colton was just staring at me.
“I’d like you to take me to the dance. Please?”
He chewed his lip. Blinked a few times. Appeared thoughtful.
And right at the moment the first girl made it to us, he gave a shrug. “Okay.”
Triumphantly, I whirled around and mouthed, ‘Too late’.
I was stupidly giddy for the rest of the day. I was victorious.
And then I remembered I hate to dance.
No matter. I would go with Colton and we would be together in public and it was really all that mattered.
Harper let me borrow a dress and I let her do my hair and makeup before driving over to meet him so our parents could take our pictures. Parents are so weird about that kind of stuff anyway, and my dad was giving him the sly eye while the moms ran around taking pictures and talking about how cute we were. And all the while, Colton . . . more handsome than ever before in a suit . . . a black suit and white shirt . . . hair meticulously combed, blue eyes wide . . . never stopped looking at me.
He didn’t need to say he thought I looked nice. I saw it in his face.
The red dress I wore made me feel pretty. Colton’s stare made me feel downright beautiful.
By the time we walked through the doors of the gymnasium, music blasting and lights popping from camera flashes and little disco balls hanging from the ceiling, I thought my hand would fall off. Colton was squeezing it so tightly; I swear my fingertips were turning black.
Yet, he endured. I made sure to walk him through the crowd of sweaty dancers and by the tables of kids who thought they were too cool to be there. We waved at our friends but continued walking because Colton was seriously experiencing too much stimulation, so I did what I figured would be best.
I pulled him outside to the white tent behind the building. It was lit with pretty white lights and the girls who decorated had hung Japanese lanterns across the ceiling. It was cute. It was cheesy. It was romantic in a funny way, and I couldn’t help but smile as I led him out there where the music was lower, the lights were softer, and only one other couple was hanging out, drinking soda.
I turned and looked up into his face, moving my arms up to his shoulders and started swaying a little. Just side to side. I’m a terrible dancer, but these things are special and I wanted the memories with him.
He was stiff, as usual, but I didn’t mind. His hands didn’t really know where to go, so I placed them on my hips and rested my cheek against his chest, just closing my eyes and inhaling how amazing he smelled with his shirt starched and some kind of deodorant that smelled like lickable-boy.
He seemed too quiet and I wasn’t really sure what to do about it. I was just as nervous as he was, you know?
I lifted my head to see him staring down at me and I could only offer a shy smile and a laugh. “Colton?”
“Yes?”
I tightened my linked fingers around his neck. “Tell me about Monet.”
So he did and it was music to my ears. To my heart. He talked so passionately about the things he loved and I ended up resting my head against his chest to hear him speak through his sternum, all low and rumbling.
Bass and baritone laced between heartbeats and short breaths.
Suddenly . . . he stopped.
My head shot up and I looked at him, curious as to why he went silent. Of course I asked because that was how it had to be.
“Why’d you stop?” My throat was all dry because of the intensity between us. Like the air had suddenly gone thin and was replaced with pure energy.
He looked at me and then away a bunch of times and somehow I just knew what was about to happen, but my brain and hormones were off kilter and I just stood there like a moron waiting for him to speak.
Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned forward, his forehead kind of pushing mine back as he breathed quietly outward onto my face. I closed my eyes and just let it happen.
He kissed me.
Warm and soft. Gentle at first until his lips had acclimated to mine. It wasn’t like any kiss I’d ever experienced before because my knees felt nonexistent and I wanted to fall, taking him with me in a pile on the ground so I could curl into him and never let go.
He was shaking and then grew more confident as I parted my lips and caught his in between mine.
We both pulled away at the same time. I must have been bright red and he, I know, he was flushed, all hard breathing and starting to sweat a little from the tension. But I didn’t care. He’d totally kissed me. And it was amazing.
I didn’t even mention the fact he was pretty much feeling up my left boob with his thumb. I just moved a little and maneuvered it away so I didn’t draw attention.
“We should do that again,” he mumbled and looked away into the white lights above my head.
I just held him tighter while I whispered, “Any time.”
* * *
I’ve said it before but it bears repeating: Colton is very literal. I told him he could kiss me anytime. He did just that. It was cool on the one hand because he wasn’t one of those guys who was an a*shole and had to look out for his appearance in front of others. It was a drawback on the other because sometimes he did it without warning, like in the middle of a conversation.
I often wonder if there’s judgment directed at me because of the physical relationship I have with him. If there’s a stigma attached to me that I’m taking advantage of him.
I’m not, if you’re wondering.
Like I said, no matter what a doctor once said about him, he’s still a teenage boy. And that’s pretty standard across the board, if you catch my drift.
What I’d like to really stress about this is when you love someone, their differences fall away. I don’t look at him and see anything but him, and how sweet he is. I know how my stomach erupts in excitement when he simply holds my hand. How my heart reacts when we kiss. I know, above anything else, that when we’re together, it’s because we both want it. Not because of any other reason.
The one thing I wish I could explain to people is he’s not what they think he is. Words he’s been branded with could never describe him. He’s not special. He’s extraordinary. To me.
And I feel like I am, too, when I’m with him.
* * *
I was glad we had gone to the dance together because it was basically a back to school thing, being only six weeks into the year. The next dance was Homecoming, and I’d learned Colton was going to be attending the opening of one of his shows that night, so he wouldn’t be able to make it at all. Mrs. Neely invited me to join them and the decision was easy to make.
One night after I ate dinner with his family, we went up to the art room and I took a look around at some of his newer pieces while he cleaned up from dinner and changed into some clothes that could be ruined if paint flew. I really loved the way he looked in his painting clothes. He was at ease. Comfortable.
The art room above the garage was his safe place and I still couldn’t believe he trusted me so much to let me in.
That he was going to trust me to watch him work.
I wandered through the room looking at the canvases when I remembered he had that one painting in the corner that had been trashed. It wasn’t there anymore so I continued to walk the outer walls and move the art around so I could see them more clearly. My attention was on some of the more abstract ones and I was flipping through them carefully when I stopped cold.
I was staring right into a perfect replica of my face.
“Holy shit on a stick.” I probably said it louder than intended because I heard Colton’s feet pause in the hall before they came to rest behind me a foot away.
“I couldn’t get the eyes right,” he’d said quietly and I turned around to look at his face, completely and utter flattered and breathless at what I held in my hands. “The other one. I couldn’t get the eyes right. That’s why I broke it.”
“It’s perfect,” I whispered and turned to look back over at the picture. “You made me look really pretty.” The words were hard to say but they were true. He’d captured something with his brush I’d never seen in myself through the reflection of a mirror.
“I believe I got the symmetry correct this time.” His feet shuffled a little on the carpet.
After a moment, I turned back to him and offered a smile, unsure why there were tears in my eyes. But he noticed them and looked a little caught off guard.
“Did it upset you?”
“No.” I wiped the ridiculous tears away and shook my head.
“Is there something I should do?” It was that question that made my heart crack down the middle and I started crying for real, just overwhelmed with all the feelings I was experiencing and not quite sure of them myself. “Lilly?”
I had finally gotten up the nerve to ask the question I wanted the answer to “Am I your girlfriend?”
“Of course.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
His answer made my heart soar and I just sort of stepped forward and blinked up at him . . . and asked him to kiss me.