That night, I lie in my bed thinking about everything that happened over the past twenty-four hours. About how I almost lost it all, even myself. But how I fought for it, and how much I’ve gained because I did.
Most surprisingly, I realize that I might actually understand Lucy Keating better than I ever thought I could. Because now that I know what love is, now that I know I might be able to hold it close, I understand just how painful it would be to lose it. I don’t blame her for wanting to change things for me. If I look deep inside myself, I wonder if I might have done the same thing.
My phone buzzes under Napoleon’s butt, and he growls in his sleep. This is the first time he’s ever slept in my bed, and I’m just going to let it happen.
The text is from Elliot, and it’s a song. The same one he sent me when we were fighting, that I never listened to. This time I press PLAY.
I know I’ve heard this song before, but I guess I’ve never really listened. The most beautiful strumming hits my ears first for the intro, followed by the first verse and chorus, Van Morrison singing the words “sweet thing” over and over. This is a true love song.
AB: I like this.
EA: It reminds me of you.
I put a hand in front of my face, glad he can’t see me blushing. And then come these words:
And I shall drive my chariot down your streets and cry
“Hey it’s me, I’m Dynamite, and I don’t know why”
I know what he means, because right now I feel this way, too. Like I could jump the hedges and run screaming through the streets, yelling that everything is awesome, because it is. Because I have Elliot.
EA: Let’s listen together.
AB: How?
The next thing I know, there is a small crack against my window. I go look out and Elliot is standing on my front lawn, throwing pebbles.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Is this romantic enough for you?” he whisper-shouts, opening his arms wide. I am grateful, for once, that my dad is sleeping in his lair, and my mom sleeps like a rock. Suddenly, it starts to rain.
“Where did you learn how to do this?” I whisper back.
“I was pissed that Lucy didn’t think I was enough. I Googled classic teen romance. A lot of stuff from the eighties comes up,” he says. “Now let me in. I’m soaking wet, and I want to listen to ‘Sweet Thing’ with you.”
I nod my head with a smile, and Elliot uses the first-floor porch and a drain pipe to help him climb up the side of the house.
After he hauls his body through the window of my bedroom, we stare at each other for a moment. This is happening. I realize I’m shaking a little bit, and I’ve never been more nervous. I love it and hate it at the same time.
“You’re wet,” I say, and go to grab a towel from the bathroom. When I get back, Elliot’s shirt is off. I pause in the doorway.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yup,” I squeak. Keep it cool, AB, I say to myself. I walk toward him with the towel, and like a pony ready to have his mane combed, he leans his soggy, wild head of hair toward me.
Laughing softly, I put the towel over his head, rubbing against his skull. Then I pull it down around his shoulders, and continue to gently dry his limbs. Every cell in my body is whirring around and around, and I haven’t met his eyes. When I do, they are half closed, but they are watching me.
“Hey, Annabelle,” he says.
“Hey, Elliot,” I say and swallow.
And then he takes the towel out of my hands and lets it drop on the floor. And he puts his hands on my face and kisses me.
We kiss and kiss and kiss, and end up tangled on the sofa.
“I’ve been trying to get you on this couch with me for years,” Elliot’s crackly voice says, and I flick his shoulder playfully.
“You had a funny way of showing it,” I say. I’m on top of him, staring down at his face, and let my fingers trace along his hairline. When they reach his ears, he purrs.
“I was working the long game,” he says simply, and I start giggling. We both laugh, and Elliot shifts so I am facing him, tucked into his chest. And his breath starts to come more evenly.
We lie there, curled up into each other. The notes from “Sweet Thing,” which I put on repeat, crash over us in waves as violins join the rhythm of the guitar. I don’t know if this makes sense, but this song sounds like falling in love.
“It’s perfect,” I say, letting my whole body relax. I rest my head against him and I think, This is not a sure thing. There are no promises here. But I’m seventeen years old, and the only place in the world I wanna be is on this couch, with this guy, listening to this song over and over again. And maybe tomorrow it will all be different. But I don’t care.
27
Thanks for Being a Part of My Story
“WAKE UP, Annabelle,” someone says. I open my eyes to find Sam standing above my bed, his wetsuit draped over one arm. I can’t see much, but I can see that it’s barely light out.
“What do you want?” I grumble.
“You’re graduating high school today. So we’re going surfing,” he tells me. “Right now.”
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Six A.M.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” I ask.
“That’s exactly why we need to go,” he says, stepping back to take a look around my room. Clothes, books, and other kinds of junk cover every surface. “What the hell is going on in here anyway?”
“Like you should talk,” I argue, sitting up in bed. “Your room looks this bad after you clean it.”
“Yeah, that’s me we are talking about,” Sam says, picking up a few empty cans of Diet Coke and tossing them in the trash.
“Maybe I’m trying something new.” I shrug.
“Well, stop,” Sam says. “It’s gross.”
I stay where I am, looking at him stubbornly.
“Don’t make me carry you out,” Sam says. “You know I will.”
The problem is, he absolutely will. So with an eye roll, I heave myself out of bed to put on my swimsuit.
As we head for the beach, the sun coming up, I lean my head back against the seat of my brother’s car and close my eyes.
“If you’re doing this because Mom and Dad asked you to,” I say, “you really needn’t bother.”
“I’m not,” Sam says, his eyes on the road.
“Well, if you’re doing this so you can talk to me about Elliot, or the divorce, just don’t,” I say eventually. It’s hard to get the words out. This is unfamiliar territory for us, and also, I really don’t feel like talking about it.
“Wasn’t planning on talking about Elliot” is all Sam says. “Just wanna take my little sister surfing like the good old days.”