“Shh! No. They think we’re of age. I am of age.” He winked a little devilishly and pulled me toward the elevator bank. We ascended three stories, four, five, and then we were there. The hotel on this level was carpeted in red, its halls narrow. There were photographs on the walls: women on horseback, men leaning on croquet mallets in front of mansions. I felt my fear creeping into my throat as we drew closer.
Then Charlie opened the door and the suite spread out in front of us: a long leather couch and two pale blue crushed-velvet chairs that almost looked as if they’d been vacuumed, since their texture was mottled with uniform streaks from changes in the fabric. There was a little bar to our left; a vase full of white hydrangeas rested on its granite surface. A bowl of truffles lay in the center of a long glass coffee table, and a large wall-mount TV oversaw the whole thing. It took my breath away; and yet I was having trouble entering.
Charlie took my hand and pulled me forward. “The best part isn’t here,” he said softly. He swung me around, fast, and I laughed awkwardly. Then his arms were around me from behind, and he was walking me forward, one foot in front of the next. “It’s here,” he whispered, pausing at the threshold of the bedroom.
The bed was beautiful: king-size and covered in a fluffy down comforter. It did nothing to distill the panic that worked its way into my throat. I breathed in sharply and Charlie must have taken it for awe, because he began kissing my neck, my cheek, moving toward my lips. “I knew you’d love Montreal,” he told me. “I’ve been wanting to take you here since I met you.”
I was okay dipping a toe into Charlie’s world, but I wasn’t okay with this. It suddenly became obvious: Of course Charlie expected this. Of course this was a given. I should have realized it the second he suggested a whole weekend away. He had made all of these assumptions, and all of a sudden I was furious with him for not asking me and with myself for not anticipating the situation.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” I said, whirling to face him. “I can’t sleep with you. I’ve never slept with anyone and I’m not ready. I’m sorry. I know that’s why you brought me here, and I should have known, and I should have told you sooner, but I was stupid, and I’m sorry.” I stopped, breathing hard. Charlie stared back at me, his face a caricature. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. After the last apology he seemed to snap back to himself, like some internal rubber band.
“Hey,” he said. “Why would you apologize? You should never apologize for something like that. Hey, come here.” He started to lead me toward the bed, then caught himself and changed direction, pulling me to the long leather couch in the main room. “Sit.” He patted a spot next to him. Then he drew me into him, pulling my head to his shoulder, and I promptly started to cry.
“Hey, shhh. Aubrey, listen to me. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize any of that. I should have talked to you first. I don’t expect that. Really. I’d be happy holding hands all night if that’s what you wanted.”
“Holding hands.” I laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Holding hands is way underrated,” he said. “It’s actually way better than all that other stuff.” I raised my eyebrows at him, but he managed to look sincere. “I’m totally serious,” he continued. “You know why?” I shook my head, and he touched the tips of my fingers with those of his opposite hand, the one that wasn’t already resting on my shoulder. A tingle worked its way up my spine. “It’s better,” he said, his voice low, “because it means more. You don’t hold hands with just any girl.” Then he wrapped his fingers through mine all the way and pulled me into his chest, and I nearly stopped breathing.
“Sometimes I forget you’re a little older, I forget you’ve done things,” I started.
“None of it matters. It’s all new with you. It’s all a first with you.”
“You’re so melodramatic,” I told him, masking how I really felt: hopeful. I wanted him to mean it.
He pulled away and looked me in the eye. “Have you ever been here?” he asked, tapping his heart with one palm. “That’s kind of how it works.”
Charlie and I didn’t stay in that hotel. He said he got it all wrong, kept repeating that with a funny scowl on his face. “I’ve got it all wrong,” he kept saying. “I thought you’d like the books, the atmos-phere . . .”
“I did! I do!” I kept insisting.
But he said, “No, no, I screwed it up. It’s not something you want. I should have seen that. We’re not staying.” He was upset with himself the whole way out of the hotel, until we ordered a rental car and climbed inside it with our bags and began to drive.