Page 56 of Fade into You
“Oh, I’ll turn around. There’s a screen thing over there,” she says, covering her eyes with her hand, pointing toward a folding bamboo divider. I go with her Xena shirt, thinking she’s being overly dramatic for fun. But then I watch as she makes her way over to the bed again, eyes still closed, arm stretched out in front of her, feeling for anything she might bump into.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her as I walk around the edge of the divider. “I’m behind the screen, okay?”
“Okay,” I hear her call back.
I nudge my boots off and step down three inches, bend over and stuff my socks inside, happy to have my feet on the solid floor. I fold my shirt and jeans over the top of the screen and take an extra second to flatten down my hair—it’s gotten bigger and wilder as the night has gone on. I go back and forth for what feels like forever, standing in my underwear, pulling my bra strapsdown, then up, down, then up. “Jesus,” I whisper to myself, eliciting a tiny laugh from the back of my throat.Just take the fucking bra off.I wouldn’t keep it on if I was spending the night at Kayla’s. This is different, though. Because the truth is Jessa is not just my friend. When I said it earlier, to Mack, it felt like a lie and it was.
“Bird? You all right over there?”
“Yeah. I’m—yeah.”
I’m taking too long. This is ridiculous. I take my bra off, and quickly pull the shirt down over my head, stretching it a little so it falls at my thighs. The length of a short skirt. Shorter than any skirt I’d ever wear, but still. At least it covers my underwear, which are comfy cotton and decidedly unsexy. I can feel that little buzz fading already; I don’t want it to be gone yet. I can see why people would want to keep doing it over and over—pills, smoking, booze, other stuff—just to keep that light floaty feeling.
When I come out from behind the screen, Jessa’s sitting up in her bed, already changed into a sweatshirt and flannel pants. I tiptoe over, and when she sees me—my bare thighs, specifically—she closes her eyes again.
“Oh, Bird! Sorry, did you want bottoms—pants or shorts or something?”
“Um, yeah. Okay, sure.”
She jumps out of her bed, shielding her eyes as she goes back to her dresser. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking.”
“I’m notworried.”
She doesn’t look at me, though. And for a second, I really wish she would. She rifles through her drawers, holding up multiple pairs of gym shorts and then tossing them aside.
“Anything’s okay,” I tell her.
She holds out a pair of Umbros that look very similar to every other pair she discarded. “Here, how’s this?”
I take them from her outstretched hand, and she doesn’t take her eyes off the ceiling while I slip them on. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head while she walks back to the bed. “No, why?”
“Well, you’re avoiding looking at me, like I’m…” My brain flips through all the things I’m most afraid of her thinking:like I’m ugly, gross, weird, unwelcome, uninvited, delusional.“Like I’m making you uncomfortable or something.”
She looks up at me once she reaches her bed. “No, I just didn’t want to makeyoufeel uncomfortable.”
“So, neither of us are uncomfortable?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay.” I walk over to her bed and sit next to her. “Glad we cleared that up.”
She sinks down into her pillows and stares at the ceiling. So I do the same. We’re quiet for a long while. I let my hand brush against hers. When she doesn’t move it away, I curl my fingers around hers. “I’m here if you want to talk or anything,” I say.
She squeezes my hand, whispers, “Thanks.”
I turn on my side toward her; her eyes are open, still trained on the ceiling. I run the back of my hand across her cheek and lean in to kiss the little scratch inside the blooming bruise. She doesn’t move and she doesn’t say anything. I lay my head down on my own pillow and take my hand back—she’s not interested. I cantake the hint, and it’s fine. I haven’t truly embarrassed myself yet.
But then she tilts her head to look at me. My heart sparks. She reaches out and lets her fingers glide so softly along the palm of my hand. My heart catches fire.
I prop myself up on my elbow and inch closer, watching carefully to see if she backs up or flinches or looks away, but she doesn’t. I start to lean down over her and a strand of my hair falls loose across her face. She smiles and moves it back over my shoulder. I kiss her cheek again and I feel her hand go to my neck, her breathing getting faster. I let my mouth float over hers, trying to be brave—braver than I was with Kat over the summer—to do what I felt. To do what felt right. To do what feels right, now.
I press my lips against hers, soft and slow, just once. I let some space between us, and as she opens her eyes I whisper, “Are you still comfortable?” God, my voice is trembling so badly. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so scared of an answer in my life.
She nods, and bites her lip, which just makesmewant to bite her lip.
I kiss her again. This time I press harder, enough for my lips to part hers, and as our mouths open I can feel the warmth of her, taste her, kissing me back, pulling me toward her. Her hands are soft in my hair and on my face; steady on my skin as they travel up my back, under her shirt; strong as they pull me down on top of her. Just the feel of her breathing between our kisses, the small sounds she’s making, are flooding my stomach, my thighs, myeverywhere, with heat.
