I’m deciding how I feel about this moment, whether it scares me or what, when he gets down on his hands and knees and starts to crawl over to me. “You’re beautiful.” He says it so simply, like it’s a fact that he needs to say. He stations his body over mine, and then propping up on his elbows he outlines the brim of my nose with his finger. “You have these freckles… I’m actually pretty mesmerized by them.”
“By my freckles?” I ask, because it’s the first time anyone’s ever said anything about them.
He nods, pressing his lips together as he studies me through the dark. “I… I think about drawing them all the time.”
My hands are at my sides and my hair fell out of the braid a long time ago and it’s a tangled mess around my head. I’m not sure if I can let him draw me, whether I can pass over that moment to him. Just thinking about it is frightening, especially since I told him I’d play the drums for him, and I think I actually meant it.
“You’re lips are soft, too.” He grazes the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip, sighing, and then he moves his hand up to my hair and tangles his fingers through it, tugging at the roots a little. It feels so good, and my eyelids start to grow heavy. “We should try to get some sleep,” he whispers, and I nod, knowing if I don’t go to sleep soon, pulling away from him is going to be harder.
He shifts his body off me and I pivot to my side, flopping my arm out and feeling around for my sleeping bag, ready to pass out.
“Shit,” he mutters, lifting the sleeping bag off the ground, and peering beneath it. “I think Tristan left one of the sleeping bags in the trunk. I’ll go get it.”
I flip back over and grasp onto his arm, his muscles constricting underneath my fingers. The music is still booming outside, and there are a lot of people shouting near the tent. “Wait, don’t leave me.”
“Nova, I’ll be right back,” he promises. “Or you can come with me.”
“I’m too tired.” I yawn, covering my mouth with my free hand. “And I don’t want to be left here… what if something bad happens?”
I must have pushed the right button because he gives in easily after that, settling back down on the floor on his side.
“You can use my sleeping bag,” he says, reaching for a pillow. “And I’ll use Tristan’s until he comes back.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll move to the floor.”
“Won’t you get cold?”
He suppresses his laughter as he fluffs the pillow and tucks it underneath his head. “Nova, it’s like seventy degrees in here. I’m pretty much sweating.”
“But the floor’s hard.” I rotate to my side onto the sleeping bag and Styrofoam padding. “You can just… you can just share with me.”
It takes him a second to respond. “Are you okay with that?”
I nod and then realize it’s too dark for him to see it. “Yeah, I’m perfectly fine.” My voice is unsteady though, replicating my nerves. I flip the sleeping bag open and climb in it, wiggling back until I’m at the edge, almost ready to fall out the other side.
He remains motionless, looking like a statue in the dark. A perfect statue, one carved of marble but that has small nicks and chips in it, and I want to figure out what put them there. I can’t hear him breathing, and when he puffs out a loud breath, I realize that he wasn’t breathing at all.
He scoots to the side and then, with a small amount of reluctance, lies down beside me, bringing the pillow with him. There’s quite a bit of space between our bodies, at least as much as possible with us both being in the sleeping bag. I debate whether to leave the space there or reduce it and irrevocably come to the conclusion that I’ll regret later if I don’t get close to him. Or at least I think I will, anyway.
I inch my body forward, until I feel the heat emitting from his skin. He holds perfectly still as I rest my forehead to his chest, right against his heart, which is pounding, rock solid and zealous. I can’t tell if he’s scared or excited or what. Then he fixes a finger under my chin and tips my head back. I stare into his eyes, which I can barely see, but feel that they’re on me.
“Nova,” he says in a strained voice. “Can… would it be okay if I kiss you?”
I’m not sure if he’s in the same place as I was the last time I asked him that. Either way, I elongate my body and arch my back, so I can reach his lips with mine.
Do I want this?
I brush them softly across his, closing my eyes as his breath eases out and he starts kissing me again with so much fervor I nearly melt. His body ends up on top of mine, and my hands are on his chest, feeling the outlines of his muscles as I drown in his body heat. It’s getting hot and I’m panting for air and everything seems to be moving in fast motion and my thoughts are having a hard time keeping up with what’s going on. Then suddenly he’s sitting me up and ripping my shirt off over my head, and I stop breathing altogether. His dark eyes drink me in, and my body quivers as he reaches around my back for the clasp of my bra. There’s a fleeting moment where I think about shouting for him to stop, that I can’t go any further tonight, but it passes in the blink of an eye as he unhooks my bra. It falls off my chest, and I sit there exposed to him in the heat and the moonlight. My head is racing, searching for numbers or structure, but I can’t find it.
“You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, and he breathes deeply as he lowers his weight onto me, laying me back down. He supports himself on his arms, placing one on each side of my head, and I open up my legs so he can situate himself between them, and my thoughts speed up as adrenaline courses through my body. It becomes too much, to the point where nothing makes sense and I can’t really tell if I want this or not.
What do I want? Landon? Him? Something else entirely. I don’t know anymore.
I’m trying to figure out if I want to stop him, but then I notice how unsteady his hand is as he touches my breast, stroking my nipple, and kissing my neck, as he grinds his body against mine. It calms me down that he’s nervous, which is kind of twisted, but makes sense when I really rationalize it.
“Quinton,” I groan, as my n**ples harden under his touch. I start writhing my h*ps against him and his hardness, and it makes my body wake up from a very deep sleep. I feel myself climbing so I high, I swear to God I’m going to drift off into the stars. I keep moving and he moves with me, completely in sync. This song is playing outside, one I’ve never heard before, but know I’ll never forget because I’ll never forget this moment. It’s one of those. The kind that gets branded into your mind and you can’t get rid of it, even when you want to.
After we kiss for an eternity and our bodies are quivering with adrenaline and we’re sweating with passion and overwhelming need and exhaustion, we break apart. I put my shirt back on and then we lay on our backs, neither one of us talking as we stare up at the tent ceiling gently flapping with the breeze. I should feel guilty, but for some reason I feel numb, and through the fogginess of my thoughts, I wonder how I’ll feel in the morning. Landon was the only guy I’d ever done anything with. And now I’m here with Quinton, and he’s alive and nothing makes sense anymore.
Gone. And just like that my head is filling with numbers, only they have no rhythm and I can’t get them to connect. I clutch at my head, trying to breathe as noiselessly as possible.
“So what do you think about the band playing?” Quinton asks.
“They’re okay,” I reply, the numbers floating from my head as I listen to the vamped-up version of one of the band’s more delicate songs, and my heart starts to beat rhythmically again. “But I like the softer version of it.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” he confesses, turning his head toward me.
“Wow, I can’t believe you just admitted that to me,” I say. “You know I can’t be friends with you now.”
“Is that what we still are?” he wonders. “Friends?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, sliding my hand down my face, to my neck, then finally resting it on top of my chest. I count the beats of my heart each time it hits my palm. I think about Landon’s and my friendship and how much we knew about each other, yet there was still so much stuff we didn’t. “It feels like we barely know each other… but I want to get to know you.” The overenthusiastic beat of my heart floods my mind as he stays silent.
“How about we play your little game of twenty questions again?”
“When did we play that?”
“In my room… back when… back when we were high.”
I thrum my fingers against my ribs. “Isn’t that a dangerous game? One where we both… where we both end up crying.”
He reaches over and threads his fingers through mine so our hands are entwined on top of my heart. “We’ll keep it light.” He caresses the top of my hand. “Besides, it really wasn’t the questions, was it?”
No, it was your eyes and that damn song.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “You go first, though.”
“What’s your favorite vacation place?” he asks without missing a beat like he had it planned out the whole time.
Not a light subject at all, but I answer anyway, because my mind is too weary to conjure up a lie or dodge around it. “It was actually a road trip. Back when my dad was alive, we’d go on one each summer. My favorite was the one when I was eleven, though… right before he died. He took me to every carnival he could find. It was fun.” Laughter escapes my throat. “I ate way too much cotton candy at one of them and ended up puking on the tilt-a-whirl.”
He sketches a heart on the back of my hand. “Nova… how did he… how did he die?”
I yawn, zoning in and out of reality. “He had this heart condition. He didn’t know he had it. We were actually out riding bikes up on these mountain trails and then suddenly he tipped over and he didn’t get up. At first I thought he hurt himself… but then, the look in his eyes… he knew he was going to die and he was scared. I ran back for help and everything, but it was too late. By the time I came back, he was gone.” I’m starting to choke up, because I’ve only talked about what happened with Landon, my mom, and therapists. I suck in a loud breath as the bitter burn of beer stings at the back of my throat. “I’m sorry. Here we’re supposed to be playing a light game of twenty questions, and suddenly I’m babbling about death.”
He slides his hand away from mine, up my chest and to my neck. Pressing his fingers to my jawline, he forces me to look at him through the dark. “I asked you the question after I told you we could make it light. I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him, but it feels like the biggest lie.
“My mom died,” he discloses in a subdued voice. “When I was born.”
“I’m so sorry.” I scan his face, but it’s too dark to tell what he’s thinking, but I wish I could tell what’s going on inside of him. Does it match what I look like—what I feel?