“He’s my best friend’s boyfriend! And he’s one of my best friends. There is nothing going on.”
You shake your head. “Baby, you trust people way too much. You don’t know how guys think—”
“Why can’t you just trust me?” I growl.
“It’s not you I don’t trust, it’s them.”
“This is bullshit,” I say.
I move to get out of the car but you grab me then and pull me against you, rough. I push you away, my palms against your chest, but your grip tightens, bruising.
“Gavin, stop—”
You kiss me so hard our teeth hit and you force my mouth open and then I taste you, cinnamon and cigarettes. I keep trying to push you away, but you hold me tighter and somehow I’m kissing you back, my palms against your cheeks. You sigh, your grip loosening. I love you, I love you, you say when we come up for air, and I don’t know whose tears are on your face, mine or yours, because we both start sobbing and I climb on top of you because I need to be close, I need to remember what we have, and this—you inside me, a part of me—is the only thing that makes sense.
What happens is not tender. It’s punishing and fast and it feels so good. You burn through me, a fire scorching everything in its path. When it’s over we’re both slick with sweat and I’m sore and bruised.
“So that’s what make-up sex is like,” you murmur against my neck. “Maybe we should fight more often.”
I lean my forehead against yours. “I hate fighting.”
“I know. Me too.” You sigh. “This whole college–high school thing is harder than I thought it would be. It kills me, not being at school with you. I feel like I’m not a part of your life and it drives me nuts.”
“You are the biggest, most important thing in my life,” I say.
“Promise?”
I nod. “Promise.”
You run your hands through my hair, twisting the locks around your fingers. “I’m sorry. About everything.”
“I know.” I slide off you and back into the passenger seat, searching for my underwear. “I have to get home. My mom’s going to be pissed I’m so late.” I grab my bag, then open the door.
“Grace?”
“Yeah?”
“Nobody in the world loves you as much as I do. You know that, right?”
I nod, kiss you once more, then get out of the car. I don’t know what just happened. I’m shaking and I’m scared and confused. I do know that I used to feel safe with you—and I don’t anymore.
TWENTY-FIVE
Every year, Nat, Lys, and I have a Christmas sleepover at Nat’s house where we exchange gifts, watch Love, Actually, and eat Christmas candy. This year, we’re buying one another books, even though Lys doesn’t read unless it’s for class (we put it to a vote and majority ruled). Nat and I have extra fun shopping for her.
We get her a torrid romance novel (The Flame and the Flower—classic historical romance) and a picture book (I Want My Hat Back because she’s morbid and when she read the book to Sam, the ending made her laugh so hard she cried).
Lys gets me the Kama Sutra.
“Weirdo,” I say, laughing as I swat at her with the book.
Nat gets me a fancy edition of Leaves of Grass because she knows how much I love Walt Whitman.
She gets an annotated Anne of Green Gables from me and Fifty Shades of Grey from Lys. Nat, of course, is scandalized.
“Did you buy our books at an actual bookstore? Like, you had to hand them to someone?” I ask.
Lys grins. “Oh, yeah.”
Soon, she’s twisting her body into all kinds of weird shapes as I read the directions out loud from the Kama Sutra like it’s a naughty game of Twister.
“Ohhh,” I say, “this one’s called The Lotus Blossom. Sit backward on top of your partner and wrap your legs around his waist—”
Nat plugs her ears and starts singing “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” By this point I’m rolling on the floor, tears streaming down my face as Lys turns into a contortionist. She cries out as she topples over and she laughs so hard her face turns bright red. Lys has the best laugh—it’s like a baby’s belly laugh. It comes from somewhere deep inside her, an endless well.
We eat pizza and drink way too much Pepsi. We paint our nails bright red and dig into the dozen cookies I snuck out of the Honey Pot and I seriously almost pee my pants when Lys pretends to give a candy cane a blowjob.
It gets late, that hour when it’s time for confessions. I take a breath and tell them what you called me—bitch, slut—I tell them how you were watching me while I was at work.
“What. The. Fuck.” Lys stares at me. It’s weird seeing someone with so much rage on their face wearing flannel pajamas with rainbows all over them.
“He actually said those things?” Nat asks.
I nod. “He didn’t mean it, but—”
“That is so not an excuse,” Lys says. “I could seriously chop off his dick right now.”
“Um. Don’t?” I say.
Nat leans forward. “This is serious, Grace. That was exactly how my dad used to be with my mom before she left him. And after the name-calling came the hitting.”
“Gavin would never hit me!”
I tell myself the bruises on my arms from that night in your car were an accident—you didn’t mean to hold me as hard as you did. You just didn’t want me to go.
“Yeah, my mom used to say that, too.”
“And don’t think we’ve forgotten how insane he was at the bowling alley,” Lys adds.
“Or how you ditched the cast party to hang out with him,” Nat says.
“Okay, that’s old news now. I told you, he knows he screwed up,” I say. “He wouldn’t be like that if Summer hadn’t been so—”
Nat raises a hand. “Hold up. It doesn’t matter what went down between him and Summer. Even if she did screw around on him, that doesn’t mean he gets to treat you as though you’re her.”
“There is, like, no excuse for saying that shit to you,” Lys says.
I know they’re right. I think I told them because a part of me knew all this, but needed to hear it.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say.
“Do what Matt said you should—break up with his ass,” Lys says.
I shake my head. “He doesn’t mean to be like this.” They just look at me. “I love him. Like, so, so much.”
You beautiful, sexy, talented, stupidly crazy boy. My enigmatic, fucked-up rock god. I can’t give you up. I won’t.
“Grace. He called you a slut,” Nat says. “I get that you love him. I do. He’s an amazing person. But his jealousy, the watching you—it’s scary.”
“Creepy,” Lys adds.
“Besides,” Nat says, “not to be harsh, but you guys are probably gonna break up once you move to New York. Long-distance relationships don’t last, everyone knows that. I mean, do you guys have a plan?”
I can’t look her in the eye, so I study my nails, rubbing my thumb over each finger.
“Yeah, we do,” I say, soft.
“And…,” Nat says.
I finally meet her eyes. “I’m staying in California.”
She stares at me. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I didn’t apply to NYU. Just schools around LA.”
Lys looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Russian. “But … New York is … what?”