The friendship between Sam and I continues to grow, and I can honestly say he is one of my best friends. I won't lie and claim I'm not attracted to him, because I am, but there is no point to voicing those feelings.
* * *
TWO WEEKS INTO THE new year, and Sam and I both have all of our high school credits. I enroll in college the day he enlists in the Army. Afterward, we meet up for lunch like the platonic friends we are.
“What are you going to do without me?” he teases.
“Cry myself to sleep every night.” I sigh and cross my arms. “Kidding. Sort of.”
His eyes are curious as he asks the next question. “Do you plan on dating while you're in college? Or you saving that for marriage, too?” He guffaws and slaps his leg like he's told the funniest joke known to man.
I narrow my eyes and take a large bite of my sandwich. “You're an idiot,” I mumble, my mouth full. “I'm not saving myself for marriage, just for the right person. There's something . . . I don't know . . . obscene about sharing that part of yourself with just anyone.”
“You're so selfish.” He shakes his head in a scolding manner.
“And you're a wannabe virgin-whore.”
We laugh together and then his eyes grow serious. “If you meet a guy, you have to let me know, okay? I wanna meet him so I can make sure you don't give it up to some undeserving douchebag. You deserve better than that.”
“What would you know about undeserving douchebags?”
“I am one,” he mutters, as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.
I lean forward, certain I didn't hear him correctly. “Huh?”
“I said that I'm done,” he repeats loudly, avoiding eye contact. He busies himself by piling all our garbage on the tray, then bringing it to the trash bin. “Come on, Pop Rocks, ice cream is on me.”
4
THREE WEEKS LATER, SAM enters boot camp. My mother is now diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder; a rare condition that is not well understood and is thus difficult to treat. Because I'm eighteen, I'm responsible for her health care choices. She needs constant care and supervision, so after touring several full-time residential facilities, I finally settle on one that appears to be the best. The employees look happy, it doesn't smell of urine or feces, and the ambience is that of a fancy hospital. There is a garden in the center, and a full schedule of activities to keep the patients busy.
I throw myself into my education, knowing full well that funds from my dad's life insurance are dwindling, and state health insurance will not pay for a facility as nice as the one I selected. I need a good income so I can continue to meet my mom's needs.
Even though Sam and I text one another often, I'm surprised at the void I experience without him. How is it possible for someone to burrow so deeply into your soul, making separation physically painful? I replay our many conversations and moments, and I mourn the loss of something that can never be mine. He has patriotically wed himself to president and country, not conforming to societal expectations. As much as I care about him, I know it's only a passing crush that will fade, like ink disappears from paper, and with time it will no longer be present.
“ . . . ever tell you your eyes are incredible? Like honey mixed with wine.” A voice in front of me interrupts my wandering thoughts. I've completely zoned out in the middle of class.
I raise my head and physically have to prevent my mouth from dropping open.
I've been in this class for months now, and I never noticed him. I tend to keep to myself, and don't make much eye contact with anyone. But he's so hot, and I can't believe I've missed seeing him. His hair is jet black, his skin is pale, and his eyes are like the blue of the ocean. He is smiling at me, and his smile reminds me of toothpaste commercials. It's so brilliant I can't help but smile in return.
“I . . . what . . . ?” I'm having a hard time believing that he was talking to me.
“Your eyes”—he brushes a lock of hair from my forehead—“they're like honey. All I can think of is drowning in them.”
“Honey? Well that would be a very sticky death.” Stupid! What a dumb response. I have an actual man flirting with me—ME!—and I go and say something idiotic.
He surprises me by throwing his head back and laughing loudly. I'm somewhat startled by his reaction, and I nervously chuckle along with him. He laughs so hard, that when he finally gasps for air, he wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.
“Sticky, huh?” He leans in close and crooks a finger, signaling me to come closer. I lean toward him. “Good thing I like to get dirty.” He winks and grins.
My cheeks heat up and I immediately drop my gaze to my notebook. He talks to me like I'm a woman, not some silly girl. I raise my chin and give him my most open smile.
“I'm Tula.” For some reason I want this man to see me as mature, instead of the awkward teenager I typically feel like.
“And you?”
His megawatt smile flashes. “Adrian Valentine.” His voice is a deep, rumbling baritone that ignites something in my core.
He reaches for my hand and I oblige, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips and brushes a feather light kiss across my knuckles.
Oh wow. A romantic. My stomach does a little flip. I could get used to this.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, ADRIAN is waiting outside the campus doors. He greets me as I walk up, then hands over a cappuccino. We chit chat as we head to our shared class, and I tentatively sip from the hot drink. I hate cappuccinos, but I do appreciate his gesture of kindness.
For the next week, we talk more, get to know one another better, and he continues to flirt shamelessly. The attention I'm getting from this gorgeous man makes me giddy, and a pleasant nervousness bubbles up in my stomach whenever I'm around him. One morning, he meets me at my car as I pull up, and we walk into the campus together. He holds doors open, casually placing his hand on my hip to guide me through.
“God, I don't know if I've ever seen a woman as lovely as you.”
My smile is so wide, and I throw a glance over my shoulder at him as he walks into the class behind me. I climb the stairs of the stadium-style classroom, and get my usual seat in the center of the middle row. Adrian sits next to me, and seems content to appraise me as he continues smiling.
“We should celebrate the start of spring break together. You're coming to dinner with me,” he says confidently. “I hope you don't already have plans, because you'll have to cancel them.”
“I don't have any plans, actually.” My tone is casual, but I'm excited at simply being asked out on a real date by a very attractive man.
“It's decided then!” His eyes brighten up. “Have you ever had sushi?”
I shake my head with a wordless no.
“Excellent! Well, you'll be having sushi tonight!”
* * *
ADRIAN TEXTS ME AND requests I dress elegantly for our date. A date! Me on a real date! I want to squeal and dance and twirl.
For hours, Solei and I tear through my closet, and I try on everything. My wardrobe is too childish, too eccentric, too gypsy, too dowdy. Nothing I own is good enough.
I end up snagging a white pencil skirt from my mom's closet, and pair it with a cobalt blue blouse. My feet are much smaller than my mothers, so I can't borrow any of her shoes. I slip into my favorite pair of Grecian style white sandals that don't look too bad with the outfit.
Solei does my hair and makeup. She keeps it simple and classic. My light auburn locks are wrapped into a side chignon with curled, side-swept bangs. Dark brown eyeliner, mascara, and a nude lip complete the look. I smile at myself in the mirror. Not too bad, I think, as I gaze at my reflection. I look grown.
Headlights move across the faded floral wallpaper in the hallway, signaling that someone has pulled up. Adrian! Solei pushes me out the door, making me promise to call her afterward, and assuring me that she'll lock the doors when she leaves.
A shiny blue Audi idles in my driveway. It's an impressive car. Adria
n gets out, grabs my hand, and puts his palm on my waist, guiding me into a slow twirl so he can check me out. I comply, absolutely loving the moment of having someone's full attention on me.
“How did I get so lucky?” he murmurs, as he leans in to kiss my cheek.
He guides me to the passenger side and opens the door. I slide in onto the blue and white leather seat, and marvel at the interior. After Adrian closes the door, I attach my seat belt and fold my hands in my lap, more than ready for my first date to begin.
* * *
“We will be having an order of tuna maki, yellow tail nigiri, the sashimi platter, and . . . why not? A toro maki. It's not every day I get the pleasure of feeding a woman as beautiful as this one.”
Adrian hands the waiter the menus. I smile in delight upon hearing his words. He's taken it upon himself to order, since I've never eaten sushi before. It's rather nice to have someone take care of me for once.
We talk while we wait, and conversation comes easy. He's an animated storyteller, extremely charming, and heaps compliments on me. It's like laying on the beach, soaking up rays from the sun. His personality is magnetic and engaging. Women do double takes as they walk by, and I feel—for lack of a better word—special, to be in the company of a man like this.
I learn that Adrian is twenty-four years old, and pursuing his degree in business management. He is slated to inherit his father’s shipping business, one that has been part of his family for several generations.
Our sushi arrives, and I nervously examine the chopsticks set before me. I have no idea how to use them. If left to my own devices, I'm likely to just stab the fish with a chopstick and eat caveman style. It doesn't matter how you get it there, as long as the food gets in your mouth, right?
Adrian saves me from myself by picking up my chopsticks. “Let's start slow. Tuna maki.” He uses the chopsticks to effortlessly lift a sliced piece of the sushi roll to my mouth. I lean forward and take a bite. He shakes his head. “The entire piece, Tula. A well-made sushi roll is bite sized, and this place is one of the best in the city.”
I lean in and do as he says. The flavor is new, but not unpleasant. Adrian teaches me to cleanse my palate in between with slices of ginger. I try a bit of wasabi on one piece of sushi, and shudder at the disgusting taste. I resist the urge to hack and spit everything out, and force myself to swallow. I'm now certain wasabi would be an effective torture method.
Adrian continues to feed me small pieces of maki, sashimi, and nigiri. His gaze is direct and unwavering; I feel slightly uncomfortable with the unbroken eye contact, and frequently lower my eyes from his stare. I'm so naïve when it comes to the ways of love, and I can only hope that he doesn't find me unrefined.
We finish eating, and Adrian excuses himself to use the restroom. I sit in silence and smile to myself about how well our date has gone. My phone buzzes and I look down to see a text from Adrian.
I already paid and have the car waiting out front for you, milady!
I grin, then gather my purse and leave the restaurant. Adrian leans across the center console and opens my door from the inside.
As he pulls away, he lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles, then flips my hand over to kiss my palm. I can't control my reaction, and squirm in my seat. He laughs softly and continues to press his lips to my knuckles with feathery light touches. His repeated kisses seem to promise so much more. If having my hand kissed by him makes me feel like this, I can only imagine how it will feel to have my lips under his control.
I don't have to wonder for long, because as soon as he walks me to my door, he slides his hand up to my neck, then engulfs me in his arms for a long kiss. I was expecting it, but it still takes me by surprise. I don't enjoy it as much as I thought I would. It feels odd, especially when his tongue slides into my mouth. But I soldier on, determined to make the most of it.
Eventually we part. He makes plans to take me out again this weekend, and I want to jump for joy. I still can't believe that this gorgeous, rich man is interested in me.
I close my door behind me, and lean against it with my eyes closed. Unbelievable. I feel like I'm floating on a cloud.
“Have fun?”
I shriek, and my eyes spring open. Leaning against my staircase is Samson. My smile is immediate, then I drop my purse and fling myself at him. His arms catch me, and he pulls me in for a hug. I haven't seen him in over two months. His hair is buzzed short, and he seems . . . bigger somehow.
“When did you get back?”
“Probably a few minutes after you left with lover boy. Solei was still here and let me in. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Consider me surprised.” I laugh. “I thought I was about to get robbed.”
“I rented some movies, you think you have enough energy to pull an all nighter? Dude looked like he was sucking the life out of your face.” He replays my make out session in a lovely solo mime sequence. I stop him when he starts air humping the imaginary woman in his arms.
“You're so gross! It wasn't even like that.”
“It was about to be like that.”
“Whatever. So what movies did you get?”
We stay up till almost sunrise watching movies and talking. If being with Adrian felt like laying in the warm sun, being with Samson is like getting sunshine transfused directly into my veins. He fills me, and warms me to my soul.
* * *
“I can't get it in.”
“Stop trying to push it in like that, you're gonna break something, you dummy!”
“It's supposed to just slide in. I think yours is broken.”
“You're such a guy. It's not broken, you're just not doing it right. You can't shove stuff in there and expect it to fit. It's too big.”
Samson cocks an eyebrow in my direction. “That's what she said.” He laughs. I love the sound of his deep, throaty belly laugh. It's free, unrestrained, and almost childish. I can't help but laugh with him.
“Okay, let me move some things.” I remove the pillows, sheets, and thick blanket. The sleeper sofa then folds up and slides back inside the couch smoothly. “See? Life lesson number one: Don't just shove things into small spaces.” I giggle.
“I'll remember that, Jedi master,” he says solemnly. He fidgets slightly, then runs his hand over his head with a sigh.
I narrow my eyes, recognizing his demeanor. “Spit it out. What are you thinking?”
“Gosh, Tula. Why you gotta see right through me all the time?” He laces his hands behind his neck and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “This is so embarrassing,” he mutters.
I can't help but notice how muscular he has gotten. Boot camp has definitely done his body good. I lower my eyes and refocus my attention on arranging the cushions back on the couch while waiting for him to talk.
“Okay, so why can't male virginity be a good thing? Why are men expected to be skilled at doing it? It's so much pressure! I'm purposely avoiding women when I go out with my buddies from base. One of the guys asked me if I'm gay! Can you believe that?”
I laugh. “You do have this pretty boy thing going on.” I wave my hand in the direction of his face.
He feigns an expression of delight and bats his eyelashes. “You think I'm pretty?” He immediately groans and covers his face with both hands. “See! Having only sisters has some major disadvantages.”
“When we were in Colorado, they told me they used to put you in dresses when you were a baby.”
“Oh, God. Did you see the pictures, too?” His face is aghast.
“There were pictures?” I say with excitement.
He grins as he recalls the story. “My dad was so thrilled to finally have a boy, that the minute he'd get home from base, he'd rush to get me, even if I was sleeping. I had to be like six months old, and my mom was really sick, flu or something, so Lily was in charge of everyone. She was only nine, but she's always been super mature and responsible.” He walks to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and starts rummaging around. “Anyway, my
dad gets home early so he can help my mom with us, and goes to grab me from my crib.” As he pulls out a pack of bacon, he starts laughing. “He finds me in a lace-trimmed, frilly red dress. Matching bonnet, too.”
I'm laughing hysterically at this.
“My sisters had the brilliant idea of capturing this moment, so we have pictures of my dad's horrified expression as he lifts me out of my crib, and of me with my drooling, toothless grin.”
“Your sisters sound like a bunch of evil geniuses.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” He shakes his head. “They loved my dad's reaction. As I got older, I started going along with it.”
“When was the last time you were in a dress, Sam?” I ask in a sing-song voice. I begin pulling out flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt to make pancakes.
“Uh, I was about nine I think.” His statement sounds more like a question. He starts laughing again, barely able to get this story out. “My sisters and I wanted to perform something for my parents, so they rigged up a sheet as a curtain, and had my parents sit front and center. The curtain dropped, and we performed 'I Feel Pretty' from West Side Story.” He clears his throat and glances in my direction. “I made my theatrical debut as Maria.”
I begin roaring with laughter. I can't even stir the pancake batter properly and have to clutch the countertop to hold myself up.
“If you could've seen my dad's face. I thought he was about to have an aneurysm. His face got so red, and he was huffing and puffing. I just remember his mouth opening and closing.” Sam flips the bacon and sighs. “We only got to the second verse, something like”—he bobs his head and mumbles incoherently to the tune of I Feel Pretty—“'I feel charming, oh so charming.'”
“You know you want to sing it.” I nudge him with my shoulder.
“Stop it.” He laughs. “So I did my pirouette—nailed it—and suddenly I'm being dragged away by my father, who is shouting, 'I'll show you charming!' and oh my God, Tula, he pulled off his belt and beat me with it. I think the worst part was that I was still in the dress.”
Embers of Starlight Page 3
