He leaves the room and I sit there clutching the dress, a smile on my face. This is so ridiculous. But I am curious to see what it actually looks like on. I climb the stairs and, in my bedroom, peel off my T-shirt and sweatpants. Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror and cringe a little at my appearance. My hair is a tangled disaster and my face looks pale, the circles beneath my eyes pronounced. I test my breath by breathing out into my cupped hand and inhale a combination of sickness and morning breath. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and then I wash my face and pinch my cheeks to try to add a little color to them.
Back in my room I put on fresh underwear and a bra and pull Madison’s dress over my head. At first I think it’s far too small—even though Madison and I are roughly the same size—but after pulling and tugging on it, I finally get it down over my body. I look in the mirror and see that some of the weird fur-feather-like trimmings have stuck to my mouth. I peel them off, spitting a little to get a piece off my tongue, and then take in the rest of my reflection. The dress clings to me like Saran wrap, showing off every curve, which I’m sure is sexy on someone like Madison, whose breasts are noticeably larger than mine, but on me it just accentuates everything I don’t have. And then the fur and the sequins, well—I can’t help it. I giggle. It is truly terrible.
“Jubilee?” Eric calls from downstairs.
“Yeah?”
“You coming down?”
“No!” I shout back. “It’s worse than we thought.”
“You have to!” he says. “You promised.”
I laugh. “I did not.”
He doesn’t respond. And then I hear a creaking sound and I know he’s coming up the stairs.
“Don’t you dare come up here!” I say, looking around the room in a tiny panic, wondering where I can hide. And then, barring that option, what I can put on over the dress. Nothing’s in arm’s reach.
“Couldn’t hear you. What did you say?” He grins at me from the door and then his eyes drop to the dress and he sucks in his breath.
“Awful, right?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there looking, his jaw a little slack, his chest heaving from his jaunt up the stairs. My body starts heating up under his scrutiny and I’m afraid I’m turning a thousand shades of red, which seems to be my default setting around him.
“Eric?” I say, my throat dry.
“You,” he says, taking a step toward me, “are so . . .” He takes another step. He drops his head, shakes it. Mumbles something under his breath. Then he meets my gaze again and takes three more slow, pensive steps until he’s right in front of me.
I lift my eyebrows in surprise, at both his half declaration and his close proximity. “You like it?” I say, my voice a whisper.
“No. God no,” he whispers back. “The dress is dreadful.”
I laugh and he grins at me. And then he reaches his gloved hand tentatively up to my face. “But you . . .”
I don’t know what comes over me in that moment, but instead of dodging his hand, jerking away, I lean toward it, putting my cheek in his palm like a desperate, feral cat in need of petting. He spreads his fingers like a starfish, threading them in my hair, his thumb stretching under my chin, and I wish more than anything I could feel the warmth of his skin on mine, but I know the knit of the glove is as good as it’s going to get. I close my eyes, willing my rapid heartbeat to slow. I swallow, the action burning my raw throat.
“Jubilee,” Eric says.
“Yes?”
“Open your eyes.”
I look at him. Into his olive-green eyes that are moving closer with each suspended second. He’s going to kiss me. I know he is and I’m powerless to stop it. Because I want it, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my ridiculous, lonely life. I want to feel his chapped lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, the heat of his breath. I know it would kill me. I’m as sure of it as I am my own name. But in this moment, I’m sure of something else—I would gladly die.
But then, at the last second, he stops, his face inches from mine. And he holds my gaze as his gloved thumb brushes over my bottom lip. I fight the urge to close my eyes, to give in to the sensation of the thousands of nerve endings firing in rapid succession, as he slowly rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth. And then it’s gone, and my lip feels bare, exposed, as his hand travels down from my cheek to my neck, his fingers trailblazing a path on my skin.
He gently traces my exposed collarbone, his thumb resting in the hollow just above my chest. And all I can hear are the suddenly audible inhales and exhales of breath—but I can no longer tell if they’re his or mine. And then his hand leaves my neck, slowly journeying lower, over the fabric of the dress, his fingers outlining the edge of my bra until—finally, as if I was always aware that this was the destination—his hand is on my breast, cupping it in his palm. His thumb brushes the two layers of fabric covering my nipple and I suck in my breath. That’s when I know with utter confidence the heavy exhales are his, because I’ve stopped breathing altogether. My head feels light, like it may float off my body at any second, and my kneecaps are feathers, incapable of bearing the weight of my body.
“Eric,” I whisper. Or maybe I’m just thinking it. Rolling his name around in my mind like a hard candy on the tongue. Savoring it.
And then a muffled chiming tone floats up through the air. It starts like the buzzing of a mosquito and then gets incessantly louder. We both freeze. “I, uh . . . I should probably get that,” he says, his voice husky.
I swallow and force my head to give a little nod. “Yeah,” I say.
He moves his hand from my breast and takes a step back, digging into his pocket for his phone.
He talks for a minute, but I’m not paying attention to his words. I can’t process anything except what just happened. And I can’t even process that.
When he brings the phone back down, ending the call, I look at him.
“That was Connie,” he says. “Aja’s ready to go home. Apparently his iPad died and he forgot the charger. Connie offered to go get it for him, but he said he wanted to play on his computer anyway, and there was no talking him out of it. She said she’d be happy to take him and hang with him there, but I should probably . . . I think I should—”
“No, of course,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “You should go. Be with him.”
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, gloved hands hanging by his sides innocently, as if they weren’t just changing my entire worldview a few moments earlier.
He clears his throat. “Come with me,” he says.
“To your house?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you’re feeling up to it.” He grins and adds: “I think I’ve got a pack of ramen in the cupboard I could make for you.”
I consider this, how I’m feeling. There’s my sore throat and cough, of course, and then there’s the fact that my entire body is ever-so-slightly trembling—but I know that has nothing to do with my cold. And I also know that the only place I want to be tonight is wherever he is.
“OK,” I say. “Just let me change.”
“Yes,” he says with a soft chuckle. “You should definitely change. I’ll wait downstairs.”
ON THE WAY to Connie’s, I find myself staring at Eric’s profile—his square jaw, his arms, his hands on the steering wheel—and playing the short event in my room over and over again like a skipping record. I wonder what else would have happened if the phone hadn’t rung. And I wonder if Eric’s thinking that, too.