Magic Minutes

by Jennifer Millikin

  “I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m stupid, I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, it’s okay.” I pull my hand away and surreptitiously wipe it on my jeans. She wouldn’t have seen me even if I’d waved it in the air in front of her, because now she has a forearm thrown over her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I tug at her fingers, making her arms flop down. Her eyes open, peering at me through copper lashes. In them I see embarrassment and frustration, but also relief.

  “It’s just…” She tries to push herself up, and I moved aside quickly to give her space. I’d give her anything right now. She’s not the only one feeling embarrassed. Did I misread her signals? Was I pushing her to a place she didn’t want to go? The thoughts nearly crush me.

  When Ember’s upright, she folds her legs beneath herself and bites at her bottom lip. Red blossoms onto her cheeks as she opens her mouth. “I’ve never done that before. I’ve never done anything before.”

  Her words sink in. “So you’re a—”

  “Yes,” she answers. “And obviously you’re not,” the words rush from her mouth, and when she realizes what she’s said, she slaps a hand over her lips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Then Ember does something I didn’t imagine my strong, fierce, and bold girlfriend could do. Tears dribble over the lower rims of her eyes and glide down her face. I pull her against me, and she cries softly against my chest.

  I don’t tell her, but I’m crying on the inside too. I wish I were as inexperienced as she is. I wish I could give her my first time.

  She lets me soothe her only for a minute. When she sits up, she wipes at her cheeks, and her eyes are bright and wide. “I thought I was ready. I’m kind of sick of being a virgin, you know?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll know when you’re ready.” A dark thought crosses my mind, and possession snakes through me, curling my insides. “I want to be your first, though, Ember.” The thought of someone else being inside her, earning a place in her memory as her first time, makes me see red. And I’m not a violent person.

  Ember slices through my internal outrage with peals of laughter.

  “What?”

  “You,” she says, and offers no more.

  “Me, what?”

  “You’re being possessive. I kind of like it. Of course you’ll be my first, unless you’re planning to break up with me tomorrow. Then no deal.”

  “Ember. Mine.” I pound my chest with a fist and growl the words. “Ember belong to Noah.”

  I grunt, and she laughs again. I grunt two more times, she calls me a caveman, and I knock her back onto the bed. Through trial and error, I’ve learned the only place she’s ticklish are her thighs, so I squeeze the tops of them, making her howl with laughter. Between her loud laughter and my prehistoric grunting, we don’t hear anyone come home until the bedroom door flies open and her mom and sister are standing there, staring at us.

  Ember laughs even harder at their faces, but I sober quickly, thinking of what they could have walked in on instead.

  Later, when I’m in bed, trying hard not to think about Ember’s body and her physical readiness again, my phone pings with a text from her.

  I can’t imagine anyone else but you being my first. I want that memory.

  Lifting my chin to the ceiling, I mouth two words.

  Thank you.

  8

  Ember

  If the way I’m feeling right now is any indication, I’m not as confident and self-accepting as I think I am.

  I like these pants. Made of stone colored linen, they cinch at my waist. A stretch of the same fabric wraps around my waist and ties into a pretty bow, the remaining fabric hanging down to my upper thigh. My fitted tank top is white, and I chose it for two reasons. One, white looks great against my hair color. Two, it’s my favorite color. The color of innocence, light, and goodness. And virginity. Something I almost lost a couple nights ago.

  The words keep going had been right there, dangling off the tip of my tongue as I trailed it over his bobbing Adam’s apple, but I didn’t say them. I know what I want. I knew it then, too, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the hugeness of the choice that made me put on the brakes? Right now, meeting his family feels as overwhelming as nearly handing out my v-card.

  “What do you think?” I ask my mom, walking into her line of sight and blocking the television. Sky sits beside her on the sofa, her head tipped back and her mouth open. She makes soft sleeping sounds with every exhale.

  I turn in a circle and stretch my arms out, so I look like a revolving T. I’ve added three beaded bracelets to my right wrist—one black, one gray, and one lemon yellow. I like yellow with white. It’s happy.

  “Nose ring?” Mom asks in a quiet voice, setting her knitting project down in the middle of a row and looking up at me. There’s hope in her eyes, and as much as I hate to dash it, I have to.

  Poking the tiny fake diamond with my pointer finger, I shake my head. “It’s me. It’s who I am.”

  She sighs. I’ve heard that sigh so many times, including last September when I came home with the tattoo Noah thinks is beyond sexy. “Fine, fine,” she mutters, holding up her hands.

  Nodding to Sky, I ask my mom if she has plans tonight.

  She glances at the sleeping person beside her, and her lips twist into a half smile. “This is it.”

  Suddenly I wish I were staying here with them. I could change into my pajamas and take my position on my mother’s left side. We’d turn on a cheesy 80’s movie, and giggle about how bad it is.

  “I got my outfit at Bradley’s Exchange,” I blurt out. My eyes fall to the floor, to where my toes peek out from the tan wedges I borrowed from my mom’s closet. I’m not embarrassed to be admitting this to her. I’m mortified that I care where I got my outfit. I don’t care about those things, right? I think the nerves have me feeling other things that don’t fall in line with my beliefs.

  It doesn’t matter how much money Noah’s family has. Kindness can’t be bought. I’ve believed that ever since fourth grade when I saw some older popular girls bully someone in gym class. Those girls all came from money, but their behavior was cheap. Brand-name clothes eventually go out of style, but decency never will.

  “Never mind,” I add quickly. “Forget I said that.”

  Mom beams. “That’s my girl.” She pulls her knitting from her lap and sets it beside her. The scarf she’s making Sky unrolls and nearly reaches the floor. She’ll make my scarf next. Every year she makes Sky’s first. Don’t ask me why she starts in the spring. It’s not like they take that long. It’s also not very cold here, but on the days when it’s cold enough to wear a scarf, I find myself thankful to have one.

  Mom stands, holding open her arms. I allow her to fold me into her scent. She smells of tropical-flower shampoo and lemon-scented cleaner.

  “I feel like I’m releasing you into the lion’s den, Ember.”

  I make a face and step back. “Why?”

  She shakes her head and rubs her fingers over her tired eyes. “No reason. Don’t worry about it. I’m just a silly mom nervous for you, that’s all.”

  I laugh and step back. Noah will be here any minute to pick me up. “Everything will be fine,” I assure her. Not that I believe it.

  “Wake me up when you get home, okay?” She looks over at Sky, who hasn’t moved an inch even though we’ve been talking a few feet from her. “Just looking at her makes me tired.”

  I smile and say nothing of the ten hours of manual labor my mom put in today.

  “Mom, I—” I’m cut off by a knock at the front door.

  “Knock ‘em dead, honey.” She smiles at me mischievously. “Slay.” She’s trying to keep a straight face but she can’t. The giggle breaks through.

  “Slay?” I ask, throwing the word behind me as I open the door for Noah. There is nothing worse than a parent using popular slang in an awkward way.

  “Slay?” he repeats, laughing. “Did we
slay our outfits?” He’s in a white dress shirt and tan slacks. Oddly similar to mine.

  Leaning his head in the door, he waves at my mom.

  “I think we slaughtered them. No originality at all.” I blow my mom a kiss and close the door behind me.

  “Couples who stay together for a long time start to look alike.” Noah takes my hand as we walk down the stairs.

  “Three weeks, though? What will we look like when we’re old and wrinkled? Twins?” I scrunch my nose at the thought.

  Noah pauses on the bottom step. He plants his feet and turns to where I stand on the second step. “Speaking of old and wrinkled”—he snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me flush against him—“my grandmother is coming for dinner tonight.”

  “So?” My fingers lightly stroke the back of his neck and trail through his hair. I love touching him like this. It’s intimate. Comfortable. A month ago, I would never, ever have said I’d be in this position at all, let alone with Noah Sutton. “I’m great with old people,” I tell him. It’s true, they love me. I talk with them in the drugstore all the time. Last week a sweet old woman couldn’t find her purse, and I located it next to the condoms. For real. Nestled right there between ribbed for her pleasure and magnum-size boxes. I couldn’t make up a story like that if I tried.

  The apprehension seeps from Noah’s wary eyes. “She’s not a normal, sweet old lady. She’s awful.”

  I frown.

  “I’m serious, Ember, and I’m afraid I’m tossing you into a shark’s tank. An ancient, ill-tempered, white-haired shark.”

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “I’m not, and I wouldn’t blame you if you faked an illness to get out of tonight.”

  My hands fall away from Noah’s neck, and I cross my arms. It’s awkward, because of how close he’s standing, but I keep them there. “I am not faking an illness, but I am starting to think maybe you don’t want to introduce me because of me and not her.”

  Noah rolls his eyes. “I couldn’t be prouder of my girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” I’m smiling. I’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend before.

  Noah unfolds my arms and steps in to kiss me. “Do you have a problem with labels?” he asks against my lips.

  I’ve never thought about it before, but now that I think about it… No, I don’t.

  “Nope.” I kiss him lightly. He kisses me back, then smiles as he steps away.

  I laugh and jump down the two steps, forgetting for a moment that I’m wearing wedges. I land safely and tug Noah’s arm until he follows me to his car.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” He eyes me as he shifts into reverse.

  I nod. Bring on the predators.

  I’m not scared.

  Lions, sharks, and rich families, oh my.

  Well, crap. I was warned.

  Noah said shark, but I was picturing one of the more benign sharks. Like the kind I’ve seen on Shark Week. Maybe Sand Tigers, with their ferocious sharp teeth that have never tasted human flesh. Or Whale Sharks, which survive solely on zooplankton. Gentle giants.

  The shark in front of me is a well-honed killing machine. Without any type of conscience, I’m certain. Those wrinkles don’t fool me. She’s shrewd enough to know better, wizened enough to feign being senile. The sweet spot.

  I was nervous to meet his mother, but I shouldn’t have been. Johanna is nothing compared to his grandmother. Where Johanna is quiet and watchful, Mrs. Rosenthal is outspoken. And racist. And xenophobic. Noah warned me just before we walked into his house. I feel bad for her. What a crappy way for a person to spend her days.

  Noah’s dad is the total opposite. Derek is friendly and kind—and carrying the entire dinner conversation.

  “Ember, have you applied to any colleges?” He looks genuinely interested.

  “I have.” I pause to wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin before replacing it on my lap. “Six, actually.” Halfway through rattling off the list, Mrs. Rosenthal interrupts me.

  “You’ll have to go on scholarship, I’m sure.”

  Johanna’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound at the table. Derek and Noah wear different expressions of shock. Bulging eyes, open mouths. Mrs. Rosenthal’s head bobbles on her neck, and she takes a tiny bite of food.

  “Probably,” I nod. “I imagine I’ll also have to take out student loans, and work my way through school. It may take me longer than four years.”

  It’s hard to keep a straight face, but I manage it. She’s not pleased to hear about my station in her twisted world, and I’ve just sunk in the dagger a little further.

  Johanna changes the subject, and Noah’s grandmother has very little to say after that. She may have even nodded off once while Derek was telling me about the vineyard.

  After dinner Noah asks me to take a walk with him. Johanna tells her mother it’s time to go back to the independent living facility. On their way out the door, I hear Mrs. Rosenthal gripe loudly about my hair color. “It’s just so red,” she squawks. “Like her—”

  They’re out the door before I can hear the last word. It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t need to hear the disparaging remark.

  Noah’s cheeks are the color of my hair. “I am so sorry,” he murmurs.

  I shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. I like my hair.”

  We step onto the dark back porch and Noah pulls me into his arms.

  “For the record, I love your hair.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with getting scholarships and student loans. I can’t believe she said that.” I feel him shake his head. “Actually, I can, but how did she even think to say something like that? She doesn’t even know you.”

  I chuckle against him. “I almost told her I was going to become a circus clown and start a homemade soap-making business, but I didn’t want to give her a heart attack.”

  “I wish you had.”

  “Noah!”

  He turns to the backyard and grabs my hand. We head down the steps and into the grass.

  “Come on,” he says, the moonlight shining down on his face as he looks back at me. “I want to show you a spot I like to go to be alone.”

  He leads me away from the house. I look out, taking in as much as the landscape as I can in the darkness. My eyes adjust quickly, and I see acres of grass and, beyond that, vineyards. It’s so vast, it’s dizzying. If I’d grown up here in all this space, it would’ve been hard to convince me to come inside.

  “Here,” Noah says, helping me up onto a wooden picnic table. “This is my spot. It’s quiet out here. Problems don’t exist when you’re sitting on this table.” He slides his arm around my back, and I curl into him.

  The night is quiet, and so are we. Noah’s fingers brush my hands, bumping over my knuckles. He flips my hand over and traces designs on my palm with his fingertip.

  At the sound of an owl, I startle and watch it leave its perch in a tree. “I didn’t even know it was there,” I whisper. The owl flies until it disappears from our view.

  Noah takes a deep breath, and my head rises and falls against his chest.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Thank you for putting up with my grandma tonight. And my mom.”

  “They weren’t that bad.” I’m stretching it a bit, and we both know it.

  Noah laughs softly, and my head bumps along with it.

  “I don’t think your mother likes me.” I bite my lip. Noah told me she was cold, but it’s more than that. A feeling in my gut that hasn’t let up since she first cast a glance at me.

  “She doesn’t like anybody.”

  “Did she like Kelsey?” Noah’s silence is all the answer I need. I groan and look up at him.

  “Stop, stop, please.” He pushes his hair away from his forehead. “My mom knows Kelsey’s mom. They’re friends. My mom doesn’t know your mom.”

  I laugh, just a short sound. “Can you imagine our moms being friends?”

  Noah grunts. “Not in a mil
lion years.” He leans back until he’s lying on the table. “Come here.” He motions with his hand.

  I lie down on my side and put my head on his chest, right onto the warm spot it was in before.

  “Don’t worry about anything but us, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree, my voice small. Normally I wouldn’t care who likes me, but this is different.

  “We’re magic, Ember. Say it with me.”

  I look up at him. The tree towers behind him, it’s long branches drooping down. The moonlight filters through the leaves, casting iridescent arcs that dance over us.

  “We’re magic,” I whisper.

  And I believe it too.

  9

  Noah

  Three days doesn’t seem that long a time to ignore someone. But, according to my dad, who’s using his firm voice and standing in my bedroom doorway right now, any time spent ignoring my mother is too long.

  “She wasn’t nice to Ember, Dad.” Why am I telling him this? He has eyes, he was there.

  He sighs and looks over his shoulder, then steps inside and shuts the door. Coming to a seat in my desk chair, he looks at a picture of Ember that I leaned up against a soccer trophy. She hates the picture, but I love it. I took it last week with my phone, when the wind was so strong it made her hair swirl around her. She laughed and closed her eyes, just as I captured the moment. I had printed it out that night.

  “What happened last Saturday night wasn’t your mom’s fault. She can’t control her mother’s mouth any better than you can control hers.”

  “It wasn’t just grandma. I mean, yeah, she sucked.” I sink down onto my bed. “But Mom didn’t even try to get to know Ember.”

  Dad tips his head back until it’s supported by the back of my chair. “She doesn’t mean it,” he says to the ceiling.

  “She could at least try. I know she liked Kelsey, and Ember’s not anything like Kelsey, but she makes me happy. Can’t that be enough for Mom?” I punch the pillow beside me.