“Your mom isn’t going to show up this time, is she?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Then I can do this without being killed.”
She kisses me hard. I kiss her hard back. And suddenly we’re letting our bodies do the talking. We are inside the doorway, inside the cabin. But I’m not looking at the room—I am feeling her, tasting her, pressing against her as she’s pressing against me. She’s pulling off my coat and we’re kicking off our shoes and she’s directing me backward. The edge of the bed kicks the backs of my legs, and then we are awkwardly, enjoyably stumbling over, me lying down, her pinning my shoulders, us kissing and kissing and kissing. Breath and heat and contact and shirts off and skin on skin and smiles and murmurs and the enormity revealing itself in the tiniest of gestures, the most delicate sensations.
I pull back from a kiss and look at her. She stops and looks at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says.
I trace the contours of her face, her collarbone. She runs her fingers along my shoulders, my back. Kisses my neck, my ear.
For the first time, I look around. It’s a one-room cabin—the bathroom must be out back. There are deer heads on the wall, staring down at us with glass eyes.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s a hunting cabin my uncle uses. He’s in California now, so I figured it was safe to break in.”
I search for broken windows, signs of forced entry. “You broke in?”
“Well, with the spare key.”
Her hand moves to the patch of hair at the center of my chest, then to my heartbeat. I rest one of my hands on her side, glide lightly over the smoothness of the skin there.
“That was quite a welcome,” I tell her.
“It’s not over yet,” she says. And, just like that, we’re pressed together again.
I am letting her take the lead. I am letting her unbutton the top of my jeans. I am letting her pull the zipper down. I am letting her remove her bra. I am following along, but with each step, the pressure builds. How far is this going? How far should this go?
I know our nakedness means something. I know our nakedness is as much a form of trust as it is a form of craving. This is what we look like when we are completely open to each other. This is where we go when we no longer want to hide. I want her. I want this. But I’m afraid.
We move as if we’re in a fever, then we slow down and move as if we’re in a dream. There’s no clothing now, just sheets. This is not my body, but it’s the body she wants.
I feel like a pretender.
This is the source of the pressure. This is the cause of my hesitation. Right now I am here with her completely. But tomorrow I may not be. I can enjoy this today. It can feel right now. But tomorrow, I don’t know. Tomorrow I may be gone.
I want to sleep with her. I want to sleep with her so much.
But I also want to wake up next to her the next morning.
The body is ready. The body is close to bursting with sensation. When Rhiannon asks if I want to, I know what the body would answer.
But I tell her no. I tell her we shouldn’t. Not yet. Not right now.
Even though it was a genuine question, she’s surprised by the answer. She pulls away to look at me.
“Are you sure? I want to. If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I want to. I … prepared.”
“I don’t think we should.”
“Okay,” she says, pulling farther away.
“It’s not you,” I tell her. “And it’s not that I don’t want to.”
“So what is it?” she asks.
“It feels wrong.”
She looks hurt by this answer.
“Let me worry about Justin,” she says. “This is you and me. It’s different.”
“But it’s not just you and me,” I tell her. “It’s also Xavier.”
“Xavier?”
I gesture to my body. “Xavier.”
“Oh.”
“He’s never done it before,” I tell her. “And it just feels wrong … for him to do it for the first time, and not know it. I feel like I’m taking something from him if I do that. It doesn’t seem right.”
I have no idea if this is true or not, and I’m not going to access to find out. Because it is an acceptable reason to stop—acceptable because it shouldn’t hurt her pride.
“Oh,” Rhiannon says again. Then she moves back closer and nestles in next to me. “Do you think he would mind this?”
The body relaxes. Enjoys itself in a different way.
“I set an alarm,” Rhiannon says. “So we can sleep.”
We drift together, naked in the bed. My heart is still racing, but as it slows, it slows in pace with hers. We have entered the safest cocoon our affections can make, and we lie there, and we luxuriate in the wealth of the moment, and gently fall into each other, fall into sleep.
It is not the alarm that wakes us. It is the sound of a flock of birds outside the window. It is the sound of the wind hitting the eaves.
I have to remind myself that normal people feel this way, too: The desire to take a moment and make it last forever. The desire to stay like this for much longer than it will really last.
“I know we don’t talk about it,” I say. “But why are you with him?”
“I don’t know,” she tells me. “I used to think I did. But I don’t know anymore.”
“Who was your favorite?” she asks.