Chaste

by Angela Felsted

  His shoulders slump.

  “I guess it did bother me a little,” he admits. “But just like Amy has moved on with her life, I’ve accepted that leaders make mistakes. I’m sure my father made his share when he was Bishop. Amy made a mistake with Ray, but we wouldn’t have Elijah otherwise.”

  Quinn sits next to me on the couch and passes me the baby. The warm weight of Elijah settles into my too stiff arms. The baby’s hair bristles when it brushes against my sweater. His hands, curled into tiny fists, flail up and down when he looks at me. Oh, crap—he’s going to cry.

  I freeze and get ready for the ear-shattering sound. But then he smiles and his cheeks, which have turned a delicious pink, rise up to the edges of his baby blue eyes.

  They look like his uncle’s. Not just the color, but their innocence too. When I grin at Elijah, my whole body breathes. My toes heat, my cheeks feel flushed and warm, sentiment gushes through my veins like movie theatre butter. So this is why Quinn calls his nephew a blessing.

  Quinn speaks. “He likes you.”

  33

  Quinn

  I look at this softened version of Kat and know it’s the real her. Elijah knows too. I can tell by the way he coos and smiles. Her natural touch with my nephew makes me think she’s really a gentle person, that her tough-girl attitude is nothing more than an act.

  Elijah wraps his tiny fingers around Kat’s pinky as she sings him a lullaby. Her voice is pure and deep. The look in her eyes full of so much tenderness, you’d think she believes this baby is hers. The air in the room seems to warm a few degrees, the sound of her voice to sweeten with each note and without thinking I put my feet on the floor, scooting toward her until our shoulders touch.

  Beautiful, good-natured Kat. I see her more clearly now than ever. Her song is a reflection of her nature. And even though I feel as if I’m intruding on sacred space, her voice draws me in till I can’t pull away.

  “You’re good with him,” I whisper.

  She makes a dry choking sound in her throat, the kind most girls make before they start crying. Except Kat’s eyes don’t leak any tears.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she chokes out.

  I can tell she’s guarding herself. Don’t ask me how I know. Maybe because she’s slumping, or because of the sudden weakness in her voice.

  The speech my mother gave me when I turned twelve comes into my head. “We call women nurturing but men can nurture too. The priesthood helps them do good.” That day she’d gone through a list of Jesus miracles—feeding the five thousand, blessing the children, giving sight to the blind. Then she’d pointed out his gender and asked, “Was there anyone more nurturing than God?”

  When Elijah squeals, the sound brings me back to reality. I put my arm around Kat and watch in awe as she relaxes into my shoulder. Does this mean she trusts me? There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t want to move. Not with Kat in the crook of my arm.

  My father’s footsteps echo in the other room. I hear the door open. “Is Quinn home?”

  I go stiff at the sound of Molly’s voice.

  “Sure,” says my father. “Right in here.”

  At a time like this I wish my parents were more like Kat’s. How did Kat get a mother who’ll spin elaborate stories, when my own dad won’t even tell a tiny lie? He walks into the room next to Molly, whose hair is piled on top of her head with long sticks.

  She stops short.

  “I came to warn you, Quinn” she says, narrowing her eyes at Kat, who sits up and puts space between us.

  “The boogie man hasn’t lived in my closet since I was two,” I joke, trying to keep the tone light.

  The last thing I want is another confrontation with Molly. My father has taken a seat by the window, which I find oddly reassuring. If having a former bishop listen in on our conversation doesn’t make Molly more polite, nothing will.

  “Could we speak alone?” she asks, her eyes darting from me to Kat.

  When Molly fixes my partner with a hard stare, my hands clench into fists.

  “About Kat?” I ask.

  She nods.

  I let out a breath and run a hand through my hair. It doesn’t seem right to talk about Kat behind her back.

  “Anything you can say to me you can say to Kat,” I tell Molly, making my distaste for gossip as clear as humanly possible.

  “Did you have sex with Kat?” she asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a rumor going around that you had sex with Kat. That’s why Mike punched you out last Monday.”

  Sex with Kat? Mike punching me out? “Please tell me you don’t believe that,” I plead, holding up my hands in defense.

  “Well,” she scrapes her toe along the rug. “You did get suspended. And no one can dispute you spend an awful lot of time with your physics partner.”

  “So you think I’ve discarded everything I believe?”

  She shrugs. “Your sister did.”

  If Molly had meant to say the worst thing possible, she’d succeeded. The next thing I know, Amy’s slamming the oven door and marching into the room to give Molly a piece of her mind.

  “How dare you walk into this house and judge us,” she accuses. “I’ll have you know I went through a very long repentance process. And if God can forgive me, you can let it go!”

  My redheaded ex tilts up her chin. “Says the girl who doesn’t come to church.”

  “Because of people like you!” She flings a yellow potholder at Molly. “Who look down their noses at anyone human. News flash: I’m not perfect. But even I know better than to go around judging people. Have some compassion for once in your life.”

  Ouch. I stand and put a hand on my sister’s arm. “She came here to see me,” I whisper to Amy. “I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

  “I’m sorry,” Molly cuts in. “You’re right that I shouldn’t judge you, Amy. It’s just.” She sighs. “I’m worried about Quinn. Some of these rumors are really nasty.”

  From as far back as I can remember, Molly has lived for gossip. I hold up a hand to make her stop, but she keeps talking as if she doesn’t see it.

  “For starters, there’s this rumor that Mike and Kat are together, but that she’s lying to you about it because she bet Tasha she could seduce a Mormon boy.”

  I glance at Kat, who’s gone still as stone. How I wish I could wrap my arms around her, protect her from the slander spewing from Molly’s mouth.

  “Are you listening to yourself?” I ask. “How can she be trying to sleep with me if she’s already done it? How can you believe any of this?”

  “Because I see the way you look at her,” Molly says bitterly. “The way you put your arm around her when all you claim to want is space.”

  Elijah starts fussing at the word “space,” like he hears the betrayal in Molly’s voice. Right on cue Amy crosses the floor, takes the baby and carries him to the kitchen.

  “Feel free to chime in any time here, Dad,” I say.

  I’m more than a little miffed he hasn’t said a single thing when Molly’s been tossing out the word sex like a topless blonde at beach week—not that I know anything about that.

  “I think you guys can handle this on your own,” he says, stretching out his legs and folding his hands behind his head. “Do you know what I don’t miss about being a bishop?”

  I shut my eyes. Oh, no. Here comes the spiel.

  “Having to solve everyone’s problems: money issues, sins, petty disputes that don’t matt—”

  “You’re not supposed to go out with Non-Mormons,” Molly cuts in. “Remember what Brother Parker said about how we marry who we date, well … Kat can’t even go to the temple. I doubt she’ll want you to go on a mission. Even if she waits and writes you letters every week, things will end when you get back.”

  “Slow down, Molly!” I say, holding up a hand.

  She ignores me and continues her rant. “I know you, Quinn, and you’re not about to leave this church. I
f Kat converts there’ll be heck to pay. Can you imagine the repercussions if Pastor Jackson’s daughter becomes Mormon!”

  My father’s face pales at mention of the Pastor. Granted, the man isn’t kind to our religion, but since my father isn’t easily shocked and only speaks well of others, I have to wonder what he’s holding back.

  “What is it, Dad?” I say.

  He stands and dusts off his slacks. “Nothing, I’ve got to set the table.” With that, he leaves the room.

  “Is that it?” I ask Molly, glancing at my partner still sitting on the couch.

  Molly blinks. A tear slides down the side of her face. “Mike is planning something,” she says in a too-soft voice. “And knowing him, it’s something awful.”

  My first thought is to dismiss her warning as another transparent attempt to drive a wedge between Kat and me. But then my partner gets off the couch and crosses the floor to my side.

  “Do you have any details?” she asks, putting a steady hand on my arm. For a moment I’m speechless. I can’t believe she’s listening to this.

  Molly shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

  34

  Katarina

  After Roland died, lots of people sent flowers and food. Our refrigerator was packed with casseroles, as if eating could fill the emptiness. Maybe if we ate meals as a family, it would’ve made some difference, but with my father making constant arrangements and my mother’s need to un-decorate the house, there hadn’t been time for the three of us to eat together. Not when we couldn’t even look at each other.

  This is why, when Molly leaves and the air hangs thick around us, I’m surprised Quinn’s family ignores the bad vibes and sits down together at the kitchen table.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s eat,” Amy calls as she straps Elijah into a highchair.

  Wood scrapes against the floor as I take a seat across from Quinn.

  Mr. Walker says a prayer before passing me a basket of rolls still warm from the oven. I split one in half and smear it with gobs of butter. He hands me the broccoli, a pitcher of water, asparagus and chicken with creamy white sauce. My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten anything but takeout for months and didn’t realize how starved I was for real food until I put a forkful of chicken in my mouth.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask Amy between mouthfuls.

  “My mother,” she says. “This recipe is simple. Just fry up your meat with half a cup of sour cream and some cream of chicken soup.”

  Elijah squeals like he wants to be part of the conversation. I catch Quinn’s eye before asking the next question.

  “So when do I meet your mom?”

  Instead of answering, he stares at the broccoli on his plate.

  “Quinn?” I repeat. “It’s not a hard question. When do I get to meet your mother?”

  He shrugs. “Not for awhile. She’s in Holland.”

  “Wow! What’s she doing there?” I ask, infusing my voice with enthusiasm.

  Okay, so maybe it sounds kind of fake, but only because I’m nervous. I don’t exactly fit into this sit-down-to-dinner perfect world of his.

  “You’ll excuse me, please,” he says, as he pushes back his chair and heads for the bathroom. His face has turned red and his hands are shaking. What did I do wrong?

  A few minutes later, Quinn comes back to the table and acts as if nothing happened. His father tells bad jokes, Amy groans. Elijah smashes his hand down on the food tray until Cheerios drop all over the floor.

  At the end of dinner, Mr. Walker retreats to the basement to pound on drums with one of his students. Amy bundles Elijah up in a stroller to take him for a walk. And I decide to help Quinn wash the dishes.

  “When Amy cooks, I clean,” he tells me, filling the sink with warm, soapy water. He washes the pans, and I dry them with a towel. Except for that whole Quinn-leaving-in-the-middle-of-dinner thing, his family seems … normal.

  “You have bubbles on your face,” I lie.

  He looks down at me. “Where?”

  I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek, “Here.”

  My hands slide around his neck. His soft mouth goes to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips as he loops his arms around my waist. Pushing myself into him, I urge him closer. His lips part and I tease him with my tongue, teach him to kiss in a sensuous rhythm that turns hot and hard and hungry. My body’s on fire, desperate for his mouth on my neck.

  The edge of the kitchen counter pushes into my back; Quinn knocks down a pan; and before long we end up on the living room couch where I lose myself in the heat coming off his skin, his hands, his breath, his lips on my neck. And even though I don’t plan to push things tonight, I end up sliding my hand between us and running my fingers down his chest.

  He kisses me and groans into my mouth.

  I brush his blond hair back with my hand, marveling at how his pale curls twist around my brown fingers. My lips make a trail from his ear to the corner of his mouth. I lay back and pull him on top of me. He puts an arm around my waist to bring me closer. I press my breasts against him.

  “Kat, you’re amazing,” he rasps.

  It may not be true, but I’ll let him say it. Who am I to argue with delusions of my greatness? My fingers roam down his back, stopping at the edge of his jeans. Though I’m dying to move my hands lower, I know better.

  Stupid rules.

  I scoot back for a second and notice his blue eyes glowing with lust, his messed up hair, his ragged breathing. He looks like a predator ready to pounce.

  “You want me, don’t deny it,” I say, pressing my body tight against his until I feel his arousal throb hot and hard through the front of his jeans. His rules don’t say anything about keeping my clothes on. But when I start to peel off my shirt, Quinn gets up and moves away.

  “Stop,” he holds up the palm of his hand. “One more rule: all clothes stay on.”

  I pull the front of my shirt back down, take a deep breath and try to stay calm. As he paces the room, heat rises to my cheeks. Not only have I not taken things slowly, but now I’ve spooked him into making more rules.

  My fingers are shaking. “Sorry?” I say.

  “For what? It’s not like you knew. So it felt natural to take off your shirt. This isn’t your fault. I should have thought of that rule before. You just helped me remember, that’s all.” He shuts his eyes and draws in a breath. “Sorry I got carried away.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  “Yes … I did.” He looks at his watch. “I should take you home.”

  In the car, Quinn’s nice as always. He opens my door and makes conversation, but never once does he try to touch me. Things feel stiff without our stolen glances and secret smiles. He walks me home and bends to kiss me … on the cheek. The cheek, damn it!

  Okay fine, I shouldn’t have pushed him. But it felt so good to be touched and kissed, adored like the one true love of his life that I forgot about everything else—Mike and Tasha, even the bet.

  The bet.

  I have to win the bet to keep my tough-girl reputation. If I fall for a Mormon boy, people will talk, and after what Molly said back there, it’s pretty clear that Quinn and I have no future, which means I need to keep a level head and ignore any feelings I have toward Quinn. Caring for him is a liability. If I’m smart, I’ll stop with these mushy soft sentiments. Rein in my emotions. Stick to the plan.

  Falling for Quinn will only mess everything up.

  35

  Quinn

  I go through the Wendy’s drive-through and order a frosty, anything to take my mind off the girl I just took home.

  I’m worried because when I look at Kat, nothing matters but being with her. My hormones take over, my mind fogs up and my self-control disappears. When I’m around her everything feels raw, my emotions, my instincts, my urge to rip off her clothes. I crave her like a drug.

  Is this what Amy felt like with Ray?

  Man, I’ve been a crappy brother, telling Amy to get over Elij
ah’s father instead of helping her mend her broken heart. I think back on the confrontation Molly had with my sister and have to wonder … where is my compassion?

  I walk through my door in a state of worry over what I should say to the women in my life and end up running into Amy at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Shhh,” she whispers. “Elijah’s asleep.”

  Suppressing a laugh, I point to the floor, which vibrates with the sound of my dad’s xylophone. “That kid can sleep through anything.”

  She looks at her watch. “It’s early for you to take Kat home.”

  Things got out of hand, okay? “She had homework.”

  Amy clears her throat. “I saw you through the window earlier. While you were, uh … getting acquainted.”

  Heat spreads up my neck.

  Time to come clean, Quinn. Now or never.

  “Look Amy, I’m sorry for getting on your back about Ray. I overstepped with my advice.”

  My sister sniffs and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she says.

  I give her a hug. Then I sneak into my father’s room to use his computer.

  My mother has sent me an email from Holland. I click on the message and read it out loud, “Amsterdam may have a thriving red-light district, but it also has biking lanes, good-natured people and an impressive cultural scene.”

  Though she doesn’t say it, I know she’s happy because the tone of the message is upbeat. If anyone deserves happiness, she does. So why do I want to yell at the screen?

  I hit reply and start typing.

  Mom— I know dad told you about my two suspensions, but since you’ve been gone they’re the least of my troubles. Elijah’s been sick, Amy’s been swamped and I’ve been exhausted. I don’t have to worry about hurting my hands because my cello’s been sadly neglected. My crazy physics teacher hates me. My grades have slipped, Molly’s angry at me, and this guy on the basketball team wants to kill me. Then there’s Kat. How do you know if you’re falling in love? I need your help, and I need your advice. Please. Come. Home.