He looks down at his hands. I’ve never seen him unsure of himself, per se, but Callan looks like he might be a little lost right now. There are many factors that could lead me to being brave. Maybe the fact that I know he cares about me now and that knowledge has relieved some of the does-he/doesn’t-he panic inside me, or maybe it has something to do with the fact that it’s my birthday and Dad has gone fishing, but either way it happens. I am brave. I reach out and offer him my hand. He breaks out into a smile as he looks at my palm, and then slowly he lifts his own hand and places it into mine.
“What do you say, then?” he says, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. A deep dimple forms in his left cheek as he tries to suppress his smile. “Are you game?”
I hesitate. And then, “Okay. Sure. Sounds like it might be fun.”
Callan nods, still trying to mask the fact that he’s on the brink of beaming. He can’t hide the pleasure in his eyes, though. “I hate to say it, but I have to go soon. Mom said she wasn’t feeling well earlier. She needs me to run some errands for her. What time will your dad be back?”
“Not until late, probably.”
“Good. Then…my mom, she kind of asked if you’d like to come over for dinner. She said she wanted to meet you.” He looks so uncomfortable as he tells me this. I’ve seen Mrs. Cross leaving for work in her scrubs early in the morning sometimes. She sings as she collects the bills and circulars from the mailbox at the end of their driveway, and she sings as she gets into her beaten up Ford and drives away. She’s tall and slim, dark-haired like Callan. They have the same high cheekbones and proud forehead. She’s a very beautiful woman. Sunshine seems to shine out of her, the same way it shone out of my mother. My nerves flare up again. Meeting Callan’s mother sounds lovely but also very intimidating at the same time. What if she hates me? What if she thinks I’m too broken to date her son?
“There’s no reason to look so freaked out,” Callan says, slowly rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “I know most guys my age hate their parents, but my mom’s kind of a badass. She’s pretty awesome.”
It’s funny how he can allay my fears with just a few words. “Okay, then. That would be great,” I tell him. I walk Callan downstairs, still clutching the book he bought me to my chest, and I feel like I’m floating. It’s a wonderful feeling. Callan hugs me at the front door, and my pulse races into hyper drive. We’ve hugged before—brief squeezes goodbye every once in a while—but now our bodies align and connect, and remain connected. His arms tighten around me, his hands resting in the small of my back, and he breathes deep and slow into the crook of my neck. As of today, I’ve been alive for sixteen years, and this small collection of seconds, one stacking on top of the other, is by far the most exhilarating moment out of all of the seconds and minutes, hours and days of my short existence. While Callan holds me, my face resting against his chest, my ear pressed up against the echo of his heartbeat, I’m not worried. I’m not thinking about my father, or how I’m going to survive tomorrow or next week, or next month. I’m just here, being held by him, and it’s perfect.
Shifting, Callan leans back so he can look at me. For so long, my daily goal has been to distance myself from my body, to be outside of it, somewhere else, so I’m an observer in the pain and humiliation it has to endure. Not right now, though. This is the first time that my body has felt like a gift, and I want to be in it, fused and sealed inside my blood and bone, so I can own this moment where Callan is looking down at me like he’s just won the lottery.
Slowly, fraction-by-fraction, inch-by-inch, he leans down, his eyes sparking with what looks like nerves and anticipation. A part of me knows he’s going to kiss me, but my brain is repeating his words from up on the roof—that he wasn’t going to. Not yet. It’s only when his lips are skating over mine, barely touching my mouth that I realize this really is happening. I’ve seen plenty of kids making out in the hallways at high school, but I had no idea it would feel like this. Like time has stopped, ground to a stubborn halt, as your soul starts singing. I fall, melt, burn and fly all at once. I kiss him back, opening my mouth to him, staggered by the intensity of emotion I feel for him as he cups my face with one hand. His fingers trace a soft line below my ear, pausing at the nape of my neck, and every single hair on my body stands on end.
I curve myself into him, and Callan huffs down his nose as he carefully, gently tastes me with his tongue.
“Callan Cross, you put that girl down this instant, you hear me?”
Callan lets go of me like I’ve suddenly burst into flames, taking a giant step back, a horrified look on his face. Over his shoulder, Friday is storming through the gate at the front of the yard with a frilly yellow parasol gripped in her right hand. She looks like she’s about to commit murder. Algie tears up the path, barking and snarling, bearing his teeth at Callan.