“Fred!” I run after him, the coolness of the night air cutting through my thin cardigan, my heels clacking on the sidewalk. “Wait.”
“Hey.” He turns around, eyes going round. “I was just going to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, but I…” I reach him and stop to catch my breath. I smile at him. “I really like you, Fred.”
“I like you, too.” He seems puzzled, but it doesn’t matter. He likes me. I like him.
“Then kiss me.” The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and my heart is booming in my chest.
“Madeline…” he mutters. “You’re a beautiful girl.”
I bite my lip, grin. “Thank you.” I place my hands on his chest. He’s thin and willowy, like the artist he is. I know that, but somehow it feels weird to be touching him. I pull my hands away. “Will you kiss me?”
“You’re so sweet. I can’t do that. We need to take our time. I’d feel awful if I rushed you.”
Rushed me?
Bewilderment turns into anger, and then into confusion, because as I look at his lips, at his clear eyes, I see another face—dark stubble, broad cheekbones, dark eyes that crinkle at the corners with a smile.
I jerk back, my heels scraping on concrete. “You weren’t rushing me. I’m the one who asked you for a kiss.”
“We’re not ready, sweet.” He shoves a hand through his short hair, licks his lips. “Neither of us.”
“Why not?” I swallow hard. “Is there someone else?”
“What? No!” He’s the very picture of bewilderment. “Of course not. Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks. Let’s take it slow.”
“Slow, huh?” I’m disappointed, so disappointed my eyes burn. “I know how to kiss, you know. I’m not a child. I’ve kissed and been kissed before. And it’s not as if I’m asking you for sex. I mean…” What the heck. “I’m not a virgin, Fred.”
And blurting that out should feel liberating, should feel right, but it only makes me feel like a slut. For wanting a kiss. For telling him he’s not my first, even if my first isn’t worth remembering. I might as well be a virgin, for all the experience I have, and that stings so badly.
Maybe he realizes that, because he sighs and takes a step forward. “I really like you, Madeline.” He takes my hand. “It’s nothing you’ve done, okay? What’s the rush?”
He sounds so perfectly logical that in spite of my earlier anger at him, in the car, and my still burning cheeks, I back down.
“Okay. We’ll wait.” Like lovers in an old movie. Jesus. “I’ll go back inside. Leave you to your call.”
He nods and then unexpectedly he leans in and gives me a quick, chaste kiss—a light peck I barely feel. His lips are dry, cool.
I stare as he turns away, pulling out his phone. “See you back inside.”
Right. This kiss, this peck, is somehow even worse than his refusal to kiss me. I don’t know why, can’t pinpoint the problem. What do I feel? Is it anger?
I turn and head back to the party.
Fred thinks I’m a virgin, totally ignorant of sexual matters. And what’s worse is that he’s not far from the truth.
But he won’t do it, won’t kiss me, or have sex with me. Isn’t that what a girl does with her boyfriend, apart from having coffee in arty coffee houses and discussing music and dance? Maybe we don’t go out to dance or to the movies—because Fred doesn’t care about such things, and frankly I never even had the time—but I’m pretty sure kissing and sex are on the table. I’m nineteen, not nine. Holding hands and giving each other pecks is definitely what I did when I was nine.
Jesus.
Nearly blinded by frustrated tears, I stumble back inside. I must be doing something wrong. I obviously don’t know the right moves, the right things to say. If I was experienced, would he have said no? Would he have worried about hurting me and rushing me?
Suddenly I wish against all hope Seth were here.
Which makes no sense at all. No sense why I would be thinking of him even as I’m stomping in anger and confusion away from my very sweet boyfriend.
And it doesn’t matter, because as I push my way between people, and as the music rises around me like a storm, I see him.