In a Holidaze

“Um. Not that we are going to. I mean, of course we probably aren’t. But if one thing leads to another, and—”

There’s a smile in his voice. “Maelyn Jones, are you thinking about birth control?”

I don’t think I could be more mortified.

“Like I said,” I say immediately, “I’m not saying we’re going to go there, we just got here, but I like to be—”

“Safe.” He drops the teasing voice and squeezes my hip with a gentle hand. “I’ve got it taken care of. Don’t worry.”

Andrew bends and it’s sweeter now, less frantic, like we’ve let out some of the pressure by just saying the possibility out loud.

The air in the Boathouse seems colder than the air outside, but in the zipped-together sleeping bags it is toasty warm. Andrew wrestles briefly with my bra, which I find both reassuring and endearing, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere over near his cot. His mouth is a trail of heat down my neck, over my chest, tiny bites and kisses.

It’s like wanting to hit the brakes and the gas all at once; I want to go faster, feel him moving in me, but want to savor every second of this because it’s so many of my lifelong fantasies come to life and he’s perfect, like he read the Guidebook on Mae’s Body and is determined not to miss a bullet point. I’d had no clue that Andrew felt anything but big brotherly feelings toward me until today, but, with my very simple invitation to explore an us, he’s on board. Totally. It’s almost as though he’s been waiting, too. He’s had fantasies of his own that he’s finally able to bring to life. Which is completely surreal.

He disappears beneath the top of the sleeping bag, and with a combination of kisses, dexterous fingers, and determined hands, he manages to unbutton my jeans and get them down my legs and shoved to the bottom of the sleeping bag.

I can’t see him, can only feel his mouth on my knee, my thigh, the smallest press of his mouth between my legs and, good God I might die, I don’t think I have ever wanted something more in my life, like I would sacrifice anything just to feel the direct, heated press of his kiss there—

Andrew scrambles up my body, crawling in a panicked flurry, and takes a deep gulping breath of air once he manages to emerge from the sleeping bag. “Holy shit.” He sucks in another breath. “I have never been that close to death.”

It’s a combination of shocked laughter and mortified cry that escapes me.

Obviously everything down there is terrible and horrifying? Why has no one ever told me the truth?

I clap my hands over my face. “. . . Are you okay?”

“I’m great. I wanted to—but I couldn’t hold my breath—” He gasps, inhaling again deeply. “It is so hot in that flannel sleeping bag, there’s, like, no air.”

I burst out laughing, dropping my hands. “I was making a mental deal to sacrifice all of our loved ones if it’d keep you going, but it isn’t worth your death by suffocation.”

He bends, leaning his forehead on my bare shoulder. “I accuse Mae, in the sleeping bag, with her vagina.”

I completely lose it when he says this, and he’s shaking with laughter, too. Honestly, laughing with Andrew while I’m naked might be the best feeling I’ve ever had. He slides to the side in the giant double sleeping bags, propping his head on his hand. With the fingers of his other hand, he draws little circles on my stomach, my chest, my neck.

I like looking at him in this light; with the way it’s angled across the room, it makes him a perfect combination of angular and soft. Sharp jawline and cheekbones, the gentle bow of his lips, his impossibly long eyelashes.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?” he asks. “You’ve got this doe-eyed, innocent Gidget thing going on.”

I laugh. “That’s an awfully old-man thing to say, Mandrew.”

“No, listen,” he insists, pushing up and hovering over me. “I used to watch reruns of Gidget when I was home sick, and I’m not kidding, I think Sally Field was my first crush.”

“Is that weird?” I ask. “I can’t decide.”

“Not weird.” He bends, kissing my jaw. “She’s a babe. Even in her seventies, she could get it.”

“Did you know Tom Cruise is almost sixty?” I ask.

He looks mildly concerned. “Do you have a thing for Tom Cruise?”

I scrunch my nose. “Definitely not. I just think it’s funny that he looks eternally forty.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Did you know Christopher Walken is almost eighty?”

I laugh. “Why do we even know these things?”

“We’re the good kind of weird?” His mouth moves up my neck.

“But is it bad-weird,” I say, “that I’m naked and we’re talking about Christopher Walken?”