I trace my fingertips up her back, following the line of the zipper—she’s not wearing a bra and I almost forget to pace myself—and then I pull the straps down over her shoulders and the dress falls to the floor.
I sweep her onto the bed and my lips trace her jawline. She tastes like the faintest hint of salt, and the spicy scent of her perfume tricks my senses into thinking she also tastes like cloves and vanilla. I slowly kiss every inch of her neck, working my way to her mouth.
I want to screen-capture this moment and live in it forever. No retouching necessary.
When my lips finally meet hers, she moans against my mouth. It’s such a turn-on that I can affect her this way.
She curls her hands in my hair and our kissing deepens. I take it all in—the arch of her back, the smoothness of her skin, the taste and urgency of her lips, the cadence of her breathing. I savor everything.
? ? ?
I’m drifting off to sleep, wondering what’s going to happen when an entire country separates us.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her breath hot against my chest.
“I thought you were asleep.”
She shakes her head and reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers. “What’s wrong?” she asks again.
“I don’t know how I’m going to live without you.”
She lifts her head so she can make eye contact. “Let’s not think about it yet.” She smiles, but there’s a sadness in it. I pull her close and she rests her head back down on my chest.
? ? ?
Everything changed after that night.
The Stanford coach called me up and asked me to join the summer football camp they offer for high schoolers looking to get a leg up before applying next year. He wants me to be on top of my game by the time training starts up in August. He told Coach he’s really hoping to start me. Of course I said yes. The downside, and it’s a major downside, is that I’ll have to leave about a week after graduation. Needless to say, Jordyn wasn’t happy about it, but we agreed that it was the right thing for me to do.
Jordyn’s been busy working on her mixed-media art projects. She’s trying out all sorts of new techniques before she gets to her dream school.
When we are together, I sort of feel like she’s always somewhere else. I think I probably come across that way too, like we’re trying to slowly adjust to being apart while we’re still together. And the thing is, and this makes me sad. . . . it feels right.
After that night I thought being away from her would be the end of my world, but I’m starting to realize there’s so much more out there that I’m going to discover. Even if we try to stay together, with texting and FaceTime and everything, by the time we actually see each other in person again, we’ll be different people. And maybe those two new people won’t be such a perfect fit for each other. Or maybe they will. I don’t know. The idea of ever falling out of love with her appeals to me about as much as being locked in a room alone with my dad.
Is it better to acknowledge what we have now and let it stay perfect in our memories? Or push it and risk it all falling apart? I don’t know. I really don’t. All I know is that when I see her again, I want to be happy about it.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The hum of the stadium crowd fills me with that certain thrill—the one I used to feel before a big game. Of course, it’s the same stadium we played in, so that might have a little to do with it. I think about the last real game I played here, Mom screaming from the stands.
“You ready for this?” Jordyn takes my hand.
“Absolutely,” I say.
“You thinking about your mom?”
“How do you do that?” I smile at her. She’s got her graduation cap pinned at a jaunty angle, eyes shining. “What am I going to do when—”
She cuts me off with a kiss. Nothing inappropriate, but it’s slow and wonderful. My heart thumps heavily in my chest.
We’re interrupted when Mrs. Ortiz announces that it’s time to line up alphabetically.
I’m smashed between Philip Black and Fernanda Blades. The sun is scorching and the black gowns aren’t exactly helping things. By the time we take our seats, I’m sweating my balls off. Philip Black—at least I think it’s Philip, though in all fairness it might be Fernanda—forgot deodorant this morning.
When it comes time for my row to make the crawl up to the stage, I find myself wondering about Dad. I hate the bastard, but it feels so damn lonely not to have family when each time a name is announced, the family of that kid cheers wildly. Not that Dad would have ever come to this, and if he had, he would most definitely not have cheered. But . . .
“Tyler Nathaniel Blackwell,” the announcer calls right as my foot hits the stage.