I give her a look. It’s Saturday afternoon. She knows very well where I’m going. She doesn’t like it, but she knows. “I’ll probably be home in time for dinner.”
“Wait,” she says again when I reach for the doorknob. “I need to talk to you.”
Sighing, I turn to face her. “Mom, I’m not going to stay away from Ethan just because you’re afraid of what his parents might—”
“I talked to Dr. Lemke yesterday,” she cuts in. I shut up and stare at her. “He said you want to cut back on your sessions.”
I nod, wondering what else they talked about. “Going once a week isn’t necessary anymore. Maybe we could switch to monthly or something.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise, Dara.”
“Maybe not,” I say, “but it’s my life, and I’d rather not spend the rest of it in therapy, talking about the same things over and over.”
Mom’s sigh is much longer and wearier than mine. “As for your friendship with Ethan . . . Dr. Lemke thinks it might be good for you. I’m not sure I agree with that either, but I’m willing to follow your lead and let you heal in whatever way feels right to you.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Thanks.”
She crosses her arms and watches me expectantly. I know she’s waiting for me to act thrilled and say I told you so, but the truth is, my reconnection with Ethan doesn’t always feel right. Sometimes, when I think about Aubrey and how much she loved him and leaned on him, a different kind of shame overtakes me. Is it selfish of me to want him in my life? To want him in ways I probably shouldn’t? He’s Ethan. Aubrey’s little brother, who I’ve teased and defended and treated like my own little brother since we were preteens. Sure, he’s gotten all cool and cute and tall, but he’s still the same old Ethan.
Only he’s not, really. The old Ethan didn’t give me goose bumps. The old Ethan didn’t make my breath go shallow just by looking at me.
It makes me feel guilty, enjoying these feelings, but I do.
“Okay,” Mom replies, then surprises me by wrapping me in a hug. She squeezes extra tight, like I’m about to do something brave and life-threatening, like go off to war. I don’t resist the contact. She obviously needs the reassurance.
“I’m fucking starving,” Corey announces a few hours later as he winds the cord for his bass into a thick black coil. “You think your mom would cook us up some spaghetti or something?”
Hunter shoots him a look over the top of his cymbals. “You’re always starving. And no, my mother is not your personal chef.”
“I bet we could have a personal chef, though. Someday. When we’re rich and famous.”
“Dream on.”
Ethan catches my eye and shakes his head like it pains him to put up with these boys. I bite my lip, stifling a laugh. Now that the showcase is out of the way, band practice is much more relaxed. Even Kel’s in a good mood. Julia and Noelle are both busy today, and if I’d known that before coming over I probably would’ve stayed away too. But now that I’m here, I’m glad I didn’t. The lighthearted vibe is contagious.
“Let’s order pizza, then,” Corey suggests.
Hunter puts down his drumsticks. “I’m in. Let’s go pick it up. I could use some fresh air. And a smoke.”
“I’m in too,” Kel says, collapsing beside me on the couch. He slides over until his leg is flush with mine. “What do you like, Dara?”
“Excuse me?” I glance over at Ethan. He’s kneeling in front of his amp, facing away from us, but I can see his back stiffen.
Kel blinks, giving me the full benefit of his icy-blue eyes. “On your pizza,” he says with mock innocence. Hunter’s right—this guy is utterly shameless.
I shift away from him. “Surprise me.”
He grins as if my words are a personal challenge and stands up, joining Hunter and Corey by the door. When Hunter realizes Ethan and I haven’t joined them, he turns back to look at us. “You guys coming?”
Ethan’s gaze finds mine. This is it. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at the choppy water below, and it’s time to make a choice. I can turn back right now, forgetting I was ever here. Or I can take a risk and jump.
My decision must be evident on my face, because he goes back to playing with his amp and says, “No, go ahead. We’ll stay here and clean up.”
I catch Corey’s smirk out of the corner of my eye and it makes me wonder how much they know. Did one of them see us last Friday night in the hallway? Does Ethan confide in his friends about these sorts of things? I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to.
Once the guys are gone, Ethan seems to take much longer than usual to organize his belongings. Maybe he’s weighing the same options—turn back or jump. The tension between us is palpable, and I’m honestly not sure if it’s a good tension or a bad one. It feels good, but a little scary at the same time.
Finally, Ethan places his guitar in its case and locks it, the sound of the clasps like gunshots in the small space. I watch him, aware as I always am now of the breadth of his shoulders, the clean lines of his face, the unconscious way he pushes his hair off his forehead, like he’s not quite used to having it there yet. Suddenly, I want more than anything to push it back for him, feel the soft strands between my fingers. But I’ve become so accustomed to avoiding human contact, to resisting the urge to touch, I’m not even sure how to do it anymore.
As if sensing my inner battle, Ethan turns around. His eyes flick between me and the small section of carpet between us, like he’s asking permission to cross it. When I don’t look away or make any other gesture to discourage him, he moves over to the couch and stops in front of me, still on his knees. Slowly, he takes both my hands in his and eases me toward him, so close that my legs have nowhere else to go but around his waist.
It takes me a few moments, but I eventually gather the courage to pull my hands out of his and rest them gently on his shoulders. He stays completely still, his gaze fastened on my face. But I can’t look at him, not yet, so I keep my eyes on my right hand as it slides from his shoulder to his collarbone to his chest, where it stops just over his heart. It’s pounding almost in sync with mine.
“Dara.”
I raise my eyes to his. The strain in his face matches the tone in his voice. I lean in and brush my lips along the edge of his jaw, hoping to smooth the tension away, but my touch has the opposite effect. His fingers dig into my hips, and he draws me even closer as his resolve crumbles completely.
This kiss isn’t like the first one, fumbling and tentative and awkward. I’m no expert, but even with my limited experience, it’s obvious he’s good at this. So good that for the first time in a year and a half, I forget about keeping still. My arms circle his neck and my body melts into his and all I can think about is how good it feels to be so close to another person.
Until the shed door swings open, that is, hurling me back to earth.
“Hey, E, did you want—oh, shit. Sorry.”