George is different on the way back to the room. Quiet, calm, like a balm has been soothed over his soul. I’ve never been so proud of him—of anyone, maybe. I know how hard it’s been for him to find faith in himself. In his skills.
The attendant at the front desk simply nods as we walk through the lobby and head to the room. The nagging sense that we’re breaking the rules by being alone, that we’re too young, too…something, lingers as we take the elevator. But my heart pounds as I get a glimpse of the future, one not that far off, where we no longer have supervision, where we’re responsible for school and work and everything in between.
Our bodies. Our souls.
The instant we’re in the room, George assures me he’s thinking the same. He presses me to the back of the door, our chests against one another’s, and he says, “All the adults in my life would kill me for the thoughts running through my head all night.”
I look up at his handsome face. “What kind of thoughts?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“I’m out there, selling art, getting notice from these buyers—even a gallery owner, but most of my thoughts were on you, how amazing you look in that dress, how much more amazing you’ll look with it off, how I want to get back here to spend as much time as I can in that bed with you.”
“Interesting, I was thinking the same thing about you. Except the dress part.” I touch the cool metal of his belt buckle and the muscle in his jaw feathers signaling restraint. “You were great tonight, George, you’re going to kill it when you get here in the fall. I’m so proud of you.”
His eyes hold mine and they simmer like molten lava. Tired of waiting, I push up on my toes, brushing my lips to his. He responds in kind, eagerly. His hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, down my arms. I touch his chest, his waist, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt. When you live like we do, where there’s limited time alone, kissing like this is a luxury. I don’t want it to end—I don’t want him to rush through it and I keep him focused, using my tongue, my breath and lips.
His hips push into me hard—he’s hard—but uncharacteristically, he takes his time. Something has transformed in George since we’ve arrived here, and the results make my blood thrum.
Maybe it’s the fact we have time. Or that real adulthood is around the corner. Or the taste of success that he finally had today. When he takes my hand and leads me to the bed, I follow, riveted by the person in front of me. His body and soul. When he moves above me, taking control, there’s no desperation—not like the first time. There’s just the two of us and it feels so good.
16
Starlee
My mother needs burlap.
Or rather, my grandmother does. I think. Something has gone awry with the wedding planning, but the week after George’s art show I’m coaxed into driving my mother three towns over to a general store that may have what she needs.
Burlap.
“This isn’t the first wedding in Lee Vines,” Mom says as we cut through the Sierras, “so there’s already a bit of infrastructure that we need—like the archway. I found it back in the storage building.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll just use the regular vendors for chairs and any other rentals. I think Tom already has enough tables and Sierra had a stockpile at the coffee shop for when they did festivals and things.”
“Good, good.” In situations like this, I find myself falling back into old patterns, letting my mother take control. It’s fine. I don’t have many opinions on weddings and stuff. I also know, from experience, that when she’s focused on something her attention is not on me—and right now I’m perfectly fine with that.
“I’ve also made an appointment for us at a boutique in San Francisco for dresses.”
I glance over at my mother. “Seriously? We’re going all the way to San Francisco for a dress?”
“We certainly can’t find anything around here,” she mutters, scrolling through her To-Do list on her phone.
The GPS leads me to a small shopping plaza and I park the car. The store is massive—kind of a catch-all for everything. My mother could probably get everything she needs from in here. She gathers her notebook and tape measurer—all her gear to make this a successful mission. She enters the store and I realize I’ve left my phone in the car.
“Go in without me,” I say quietly. “I forgot my phone.”
My mom is already deep in the rows of supplies.
It only takes me a minute to find where it fell between the seats and when I stand, I see a woman with long dark hair that falls in waves down her back walking across the parking lot. I do a double take.
“Sierra?”
She pauses and looks my way. A flicker of emotions crosses her face. There’s a moment of hesitation—a beat—before she exhales and says, “Starlee, hi.”
“Hi,” I say, crossing the parking lot and embrace her. A well of emotions erupts as I reconcile seeing her out here—just a few towns away. Has she been this close the whole time? Does Dexter know? “How are you?”
She looks thin. Pale. But it’s winter and we all kind of have that same desperate-for-summer skin.