“This is why I like hanging out with you, Kuusk,” he says, smiling at her.
She doesn’t respond, choosing instead to savor the moment and not bungle it with one of her awkward, overthought retorts.
They drive until they reach a red-shuttered farmhouse in the middle of a meadow, where cows are mingling languidly and the air smells of Edelweiss. There’s something charming about the way the place has been preserved in time, nestled in the shadows of the Jorat forest. The name of the restaurant, Auberge de Chalet-des-Enfants, is painted on a wooden sign out front. In spite of the November chill, people are eating outside under a canopied patio.
Magnus orders for her—beer fondue for two and a bottle of Chasselas—which is thrilling. She doesn’t drink wine when she’s out with friends, only beer, and it feels wonderfully grown-up, something her parents would do.
“My mom loves Chasselas,” he says, lighting a cigarette. She notices his knee bouncing under the table. Every so often, it hits the table and their glasses shake.
“Are your parents together?” she asks him.
“No. My mom’s remarried. She lives in Stockholm with her new family. I spend the summers with my dad in California.”
“When do you see her?”
“I don’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “I used to go home for Christmas, but I can’t stand my stepfather and their kids are assholes. I go to Gstaad now with the school.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
“Is it?”
She can’t tell if his response is bravado or genuine indifference. “It must bother you,” she says. “Never seeing your mother?”
He shrugs. The fondue shows up and he looks relieved. It’s sublime and they’re both happy to eat for a while in silence. “Don’t pretend your life is The Cosby Show,” he says, looking up at her.
“I never did—”
“Most of us don’t wind up at the Lycée because we’re wanted,” he says.
She looks down at her plate, stung. He’s right. The chasm between Kersti and her family has become even more palpable since she’s been in Lausanne. Her three sisters are inseparable. They look the same, dress the same, finish each other’s sentences. They even speak their own language, which their mother calls “Estonglish.” They’re twenty-three, twenty-four, and twenty-six. They all still live at home, although Jutta is engaged to her boyfriend, Rasmus, and will probably move out after her wedding. Kersti has nothing in common with them. When Kersti goes home for the holidays, they call her Swiss Miss and exclude her from everything. Even though they’re so much older than her, she finds them immature, silly, and unworldly. She feels much closer to her friends at the Lycée. In some ways, she even feels closer to Mme. Hamidou than to her own mother, whose silent recriminations have always shone through her judgmental blue eyes.
“Don’t sulk, Kuusk,” Magnus says.
She has an urge to smack his smug face, but he returns her anger with an irresistible smile and she softens.
“How do you like the fondue?” he asks her.
“It’s delicious,” she mutters, pulling a rope of cheesy bread out of the pot.
“Wait till you taste the flan.”
He orders dessert and more wine, which alarms her. He has to drive back to Lausanne.
By the time they leave the restaurant, the sky is dark and they can see their breath in the air. Magnus can barely walk in a straight line and Kersti is afraid to get in the car. She’s drunk, but not completely incoherent. “What are we going to do?” she asks him. “You can’t drive.”
“Hmm,” he says. “What can we do?”
She’s not sure what his agenda is, but she’s starting to feel nervous. He takes her by the hand. “Follow me, Kuusk.”
He leads her to the woods and she’s so caught up in the thrill of holding hands with him, she forgets to worry about what’s going to happen next. Leaves crunch beneath their shoes as they trip over branches and rocks, leaning on one another for support. “Are you going to murder me?” she asks, half-joking but really beginning to wonder.
He laughs.
“You know, like that preppy murder in Central Park a few years ago?”
“Murder’s not what I had in mind.”
She stops walking and makes him stop and face her. “What do you have in mind?” she asks him.
“Well. We need to kill at least an hour, right?”
“Don’t tell me a hike through the woods in the dark?”
“You don’t know me at all,” he says. “I smoke too much to hike. You’re not really afraid, are you?”
The moon, just shy of being full, is throwing a fair bit of light across the night sky. “Should I be?”
“Of course not,” he says, laughing and pulling her toward him. Her heart is thrashing inside her chest. She hears some little creature scurrying nearby, but doesn’t care. She’s standing in the forest with Magnus Foley and his face is coming toward her. She closes her eyes and it’s exactly like in her fantasies: his lips on hers, soft and wet; the taste of cigarette, which somehow is a turn-on; his big hands on either side of her face, holding it in place while he kisses her. Everything happens quickly after that.
Magnus manages to find a big rock and, breathing heavily, gently eases her down onto it. He opens her coat. She squeals when she feels his cold hands on her bare skin, but when his fingers find her nipples, the squeals turned to moans. No one has ever touched her like this before, or anywhere for that matter. She’s never even been kissed.
He’s her first. Her first real kiss, her first breast touching, and finally, her first lover. He has a condom in his jeans pocket. “SIDA,” he mumbles in her ear. “We have to be safe.”
She’s too confused, elated, and drunk to protest. She’s outside of herself, experiencing it almost as a bystander. He whips off his coat and, gentleman that he is, lays it on the rock underneath her. He has his pants down at his knees almost as quickly as he has hers down. She’s grateful for the fur lining of his leather jacket. She feels warm. And there’s also the heat from his body and their heavy breathing, and from all the moving and grinding up against each other.
“Are there wolves here?” she asks him. He just laughs some more and resumes what he’s doing, which is making her feel damn good.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmurs, not really embarrassed but wanting to warn him in advance.
“Don’t worry,” he pants, kissing her on the mouth and then her neck and in her ear. His tongue feels so good. He knows exactly where to put it to make her spine arch. Her fear begins to vanish, her anxiety quiets down.