by N. K. Smith
I almost can’t bear to stand so close without touching her so I take her hand and say, “Yes, please.”
We move together to her dock. I pull the player out of my pocket, then shove it back in once I realize she’s connecting her own. Soft sounds of a female singer drift out from the speakers. It’s nice to be able to hear music she likes. I should’ve thought of this a long time ago instead of just assuming she wanted to hear what I listen to all the time.
“What’s this for?” she asks once she’s turned around. She reaches her hand up to place a gentle finger between my eyebrows. “You usually don’t have this little wrinkle.”
“I’m worried.” I tighten my hold on her hand.
With the finger already on my forehead, she sweeps it down until it grazes over my cheek, down my jaw to drop to my shoulder. She keeps her fingers on my arm until they reach my hand and curl around it. “You? You never worry.”
“Almost never.”
“What are you worried about?”
“You.”
“Me?” She lifts her eyebrows. “Why me?”
“Because you saw my mom today. She’s not exactly the best argument for a smart, pretty girl like you to date me.”
Saige pulls down with her hands as she rises on her toes, brushes her lips over my lips, and then over my cheek before nuzzling my neck and shoulder. “I might judge you based on your idiot friend, but I don’t judge you based on your mom. She can’t help it, and neither can you.”
I just stand there and enjoy the feel of her comfort. There’s so much to say, but I can’t think of a way to say it. That has never happened to me before. For once in my relationship with Saige, I’m the one who can’t handle the emotions of the moment. I’m so thankful she doesn’t push me to talk. Because I’m usually so happy and carefree, most of my friends don’t know how to allow me to have downtime. It’s like they always expect me to put on a show even when I don’t feel like it.
“Who is this?” I ask. The words are familiar, and I think of an Elvis Presley song.
“Ingrid Michaelson.”
“It’s nice.” I don’t ask if she wants to; I just manipulate our bodies until we’re dancing. The way she breathes calms me a little. It’s like she’s forcing herself to remain calm, but I can feel by how her hands grip mine that she’s on the edge of excitement. I am too, though, as it’s not every day I get to dance with a girl I adore.
When the song ends, the music shifts abruptly into a fun, fast paced Avett Brother’s song. I pull back and give her a disbelieving look, but it’s also mixed with one of pride.
“I bought a bunch of them,” she says in a quiet voice, as if saying it too loudly would admit something too deep. “I kind of like them.”
So without anything further, I dance to “D Bag Rag,” without letting go of her hands. She stays still, but there’s a certain grin on her lips, like maybe she’d like to cut loose just a little. “Come on, Saigakarenina! No one’s looking but me!”
“Did you just make a play off Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina with my name?”
I have no idea who Tolstoy is, but she seems impressed. “Sure, let’s go with that!”
Whoever that guy is, I thank him because Saige starts dancing with me. I make a point not to watch her. I don’t want to make her self-conscious, so I just catch glimpses of her as we dance and move away from the shelving.
Near the end of the song, I pull her close to me, pick her up, and twirl. Her hands come to my shoulders. “I’m too heavy, put me down!”
“What?” I ask as I spin us. “Heavy? You’re perfect.”
But she’s still pushing on my shoulders, so I stop and set her down. “I’m not perfect. I have fat on my body.”
When the song changes, I let my hands drop to my sides as she takes a step away. “I don’t believe you. Take your clothes off.” I didn’t mean to say it, but there it is.
“What?”
“Take them off so I can see this alleged fat.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but her lips curve up. “You’re a brat.”
“Sometimes, but then, so are you.”
I’m ready to bring her back into my arms again, but her hands move to the bottom of her shirt, and she starts to lift it.
I hold my hands out, but she’s a little too far away for me to touch. “Saige, you don’t have to. I was just joking.”
“I know,” she says, voice soft, “but I want to. I’ve recently realize that maybe I use my insecurities to keep myself separated from others, and I don’t want you to be other, you know?”
Once her shirt is off and she’s standing there in a deep blue bra and her jeans, I’m not sure what to do. No one has ever called me shy, and I’m not easily intimidated, but I’ve always felt when it comes to sex, whether it’s the big shebang or the small, intimate steps you have to take to get there, there’s something special in it. It’s not that I’m scared or don’t know what to do; it’s that I always feel a bit. . .what is the word for it? Worshipping, but not worshipping.
Reverent. It’s humbling when someone exposes themselves to another person like this. It shouldn’t be taken lightly or for granted. It makes me feel reverent. It’s not like people go around showing me body parts that are normally covered by clothing every day, so I stand there, a bit dumbstruck, just looking at her.
She has a mole on the right side of her collarbone, and a dark patch of skin on her left shoulder – right where it begins to curve. It has to be a birthmark. The rest of her skin, the stuff I haven’t seen before, is beautiful and flawless, not that I’d say a birthmark and a mole are flaws. They’re perfect just like her.
I realize I’m staring too much and not moving enough when her arms slide across her torso. I rip my eyes away from the shiny blue fabric covering what appear to be perfect breasts, and note that she’s nibbling on her lip. I’ve handled this wrong and now she’s self-conscious.
With one big step, I’m next to her. Saige is tense and has her eyes fixed on the middle of my shirt. Carefully, I reach out and take her hands, then move them so her arms are no longer hiding her body. To give her something to do with her hands instead of shielding herself, I place them just under my shirt right before I pull it over my head.
Now we’re both topless. We’re close enough together that I can’t see her full expression, but I can sense her eyes roaming over my chest. I’ve always had a strong body, so I’ve never been insecure about how someone might view it, but right now, it unnerves me the way she won’t say anything and how she’s holding her hands perfectly still.
I take hers again because standing here feels very odd, and I lead her back to the couch. Once we’re both seated, I bring her even closer to me and whisper into her ear. “You are perfect.”
Moments like these are delicate, and I put extra care into my action as I place my hand on the naked flesh of her torso. My hand is big enough that my thumb dips into her bellybutton and my fingers curve around her side.
I trail my lips from her ear, down her jaw, to her mouth. Saige kisses me back, but it’s shaky, like she’s still worried about being half-naked with me. I know guys will never be as exposed as girls are without their shirts, but it’s something, so I take her hands and place them flat against my chest, shift her until she’s sitting on me, and deepen the kiss.
There’s something magnetic about the way my body responds to hers. Physics class comes back to me and while I’m kissing this amazing woman in my arms, I think about poles and how the opposite poles attract, while the like poles repel each other.
Saige is my opposite pole. Her magnetism pulls me to her, and it’s like meeting the other half of myself each time we kiss.
But kissing can’t last forever, especially with someone so prone to worry and self-doubt. So when Saige pulls back and away, it doesn’t surprise me, but it feels wrong. I’m okay with not kissing her, but I wrap her back up in my arms and hold her to me for a while. She made every sad and depressed feeling I had today go away. She took t
he negative and recharged my positive, and I’m not even sure she knows it.
I want to tell her I love her, but I don’t want things to get weird, so I just keep her in my arms and am satisfied when she lets me.
“Fox?”
“Hmm.” I like the feel of my lips as I hum against the top of her hair. The vibrations make the single strands of her hair tickle them.
“We’re kind of dating, right?”
I chuckle. “Kind of?”
“Well, I mean, it’s not like we go out on dates, per se, but we’re. . . we’re—”
“Together?”
“Yeah. Together, right?”
I’m pretty sure we’ve covered this at least twice, but I answer simply. “Yes. We are.”
“So, um, I guess I just think we should. . .”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, so I let go of her. She sits up and moves off me. I want to grab her back, but I don’t. “What’s on your mind? I’ll draw another picture and you can fill in the speech bubbles.”
I say it because it worked last time when she had something uncomfortable to ask, but she shakes her head as her arms wrap around her waist again. I hate that, so I get up off the couch, grab our shirts and return to her. She wastes no time pulling hers over her head, but I let mine rest on my lap.
“Spill it, Saigey.”
“I assume we’ll have sex at some point?”
I can feel my eyes widen as what she says hits me. “Wow.” Damn, what I call my stupid grin spreads over my face as I think about Saige and the word sex. I let out a slow, steady breath. She won’t look at me, so I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “I hope we will.”
I have no idea what she’s thinking because her expression gives me nothing, so I speak again. “I mean, I hope that doesn’t sound, you know, what’s the word? When you expect something you shouldn’t expect?”
“Presumptuous?”
“Yeah. That. I’m not expecting anything, but I mean, I love you, Saige, and I think maybe you feel something like that for me, and it’d be nice to. . .do something like that.” God, I sound like an idiot.
“It’s not presumptuous, Fox. You’re guy.”
I furrow my brow as I try to work out what exactly that means. I don’t like that statement. I am a guy, but I’m not like all guys.
She continues. “And I think about that stuff, too. We should talk about it before we do it.”
I feel awkward and almost embarrassed now. Females like to talk about stuff, I know that, but I’m not used to discussing sex with anyone other than my male friends. I don’t want to say anything stupid, and I’m not sure how to discuss wanting to have sex with her. Does she want us to plan it out or what?
Saige isn’t one to bring up topics lightly. When she says something, there’s a reason, and like she said, I’m a guy. The idea of having sex with her is exciting, and it would be ridiculous of me not to take the opportunity she’s just handed me to explore the topic with her.
“Alright, if we’re going to talk about it, when was your first time?”
After hearing myself ask that question, I’m hit with how awkward it would be if she tells me she hasn’t ever had sex after I just assumed she had. I should’ve thought before asking.
“I did it with Tommy St. John in the ninth grade.”
“Ninth grade? Man, you were only fourteen!” I bite back the remark I want to make about Tommy St. John and the permanent sleaze that drips from him.
“I was in my acting out, rebellious stage. It didn’t last long.” She pauses long enough to meet my eyes again. “The rebellion or the sex.”
“Ew. Tommy? I’m not sure I want to know about that.”
“Me either, but the details are stuck in my head forever. Biggest mistake of my life. Haven’t done it since,” she says quietly and quickly. I want to call her on it and ask her if it’s an admission of abstinence since then, but she doesn’t let me. “So, how about you? When and who for you?”
I realize now this may be a kind of a trap used by girls to get guys to incriminate themselves or say too much, but I remind myself that Saige isn’t that type of girl. “Natasha Stanton. Two years ago after the prom.”
The happiness I feel at thinking about her translates into a grin on my face. I can’t help it. Natasha owned my heart for a very long time. We started out at school in the same class. In kindergarten, she wore her long hair in pigtails and jump roped with the other girls, but in first grade, she started wearing her hair loose, and instead of jump rope, she’d run up and touch my arm. “Tag! You’re it.”
I was always it first, but it didn’t take me long to tag her back. Then I wised up to the fact that she wanted me to chase her. She’d laugh like a first grader would laugh, but when I tagged her back, despite her protests of “No tag backs,” her face would fall. So eventually, I’d let her win.
We didn’t start dating until I got to ninth grade. I was a year behind her in school by that time, but she never paid that much mind, even when I failed that grade and was held back again. Sure, we broke up about five times in the three years we attended high school together, but it was never because she thought I was too stupid for her, even though she was way more intelligent than me.
“Two years ago?” Saige’s voice brings me back to the present. “You waited until you were eighteen? But every girl talks about how cute you are.”
“Go on, go on,” I say and wag my eyebrows suggestively. Saige slaps my arm. It’s light and playful. I love when she lets herself relax a little with me. “Well, most girls think I’m stupid or something because of my dyslexia and being held back.” Saige’s face reddens a bit. “So most of them didn’t want to date me. Cute or not, I wasn’t boyfriend material for most girls at our school.”
“But you’re so popular.”
“Having friends isn’t the same thing. I said they didn’t want to date me. They had all kinds of thoughts about having sex with me.” At my words, Saige looks away, her reddened cheeks turning a deeper hue. “Trust me, I knew what they wanted me for and don’t think I didn’t get satisfaction in denying them. I mean, I knew sex would be great, and it’s supposed to be what all guys want, but I’m not willing to let someone think I’m just a stupid guy they can manipulate and then throw away. Besides, even when we weren’t together, my heart was Natasha’s. She was a good person and we liked each other, even if sometimes we couldn’t get along.”
“What happened?”
I’m pretty much over her now, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to talk about. My throat seems to swell up for a moment before I can get out, “She went to college.”
“Oh, yeah. Wasn’t she the one who got into Harvard or something?”
“Yeah, but she ended up going to Columbia.”
“That’s not far away. You guys could’ve—”
“Her parents thought I was an idiot and beneath her anyway, so it’s not like it was a shock when the long-distance relationship didn’t work out.” I get up and stretch, then just stand there. “I broke it off with her.”
She’d cried as we stood on the steps of Morningside Park. It was just a month after her first semester started. I’d driven into the city to see her. I spent Friday with her in the tiny apartment she shared with one of her cousins. Saturday night we went to a party, and everything was cool, but all the people around us were sophisticated and smart. Those people were her new friends, and I’d never belong.
I can be the life at every party, but this one was different. I had a decent time, the people were nice enough, and I’d chatted with just about everyone, but I couldn’t shake that feeling of the person who didn’t belong. Even after we went back to her apartment, after I carried her through the streets of New York because Natasha could never walk straight after drinking, I felt like a weight around her neck. She was going to be something great. Do something great, and I was going to be the guy she’d have to introduce to fellow captains of industry, future lawmakers, and millionaires. What would I say when they ask
ed me what I did for a living or, hell, even ask me to read or recite some numbers?
“Why’d you break up with her?”
“Sometimes it’s easier to jump ship before the ship starts to sink.”
“But didn’t you—”
I cut her off by moving in close, taking her hands, and bringing her up off the couch. I kiss her.
I did love Natasha, but I could tell there would come a point when she wouldn’t love me back.
Saige and I kiss until I can tell she’s forgotten about our conversation. I’d love to ask her more about what she’s admitted to me, but it’s been a long, tiring day, so I tell her I love her, give her another kiss, and then head home.
I think about tagging another bridge, because while I’m tired, I’m also anxious. It’s a ridiculous combination to have. I’m restless and sluggish all at once, so instead of tagging and moving closer to my goal of hitting every bridge between here and NYC, I draw the lines of Saige’s body on my wall, in my notebooks, on canvas, permanently etching them into my memory.
Chapter 15
Saige
“I don’t understand why you’re so nervous,” Fox says as he watches me toke the pipe.
I’ve already had one big hit, so this one will finish me off.
I lean back against the sofa and look up at the ceiling as I hold the hot smoke in. He’s so freaking pure. Naturally too high to get high or drunk. Fox Harrington is the perfect person all wrapped up in a visually pleasing body.
Since seeing him with his shirt off last week, his gorgeous body has featured more and more in my dreams, both sleeping and awake. In them, he’s usually bare-chested, but in some, everything’s bared. It’s strange to think like this. I wouldn’t call myself a sexual being. I wouldn’t even say I’m okay with my sexuality. I’m awkward and weird about sex, probably because my only experience with it was with Tommy St. Douchebag. I’d been stupid to do it with him, but it sounded like a good idea at the time—a good way to completely piss my grandma off. I hadn’t thought about how she wouldn’t even know unless I told her.
