“What’s the matter?” I shout across the space between us. She looks at the ground, then the sky, then her hands. Everywhere but at me.
“Don’t want to say goodbye!” She hollers back finally.
“Okay. Don’t. Just go.” I hunch my shoulders, bracing myself. Maybe it’s better this way.
A look I’ve never seen before flickers across Holly’s face. She looks distraught. I’m about to go to her when she bursts into motion, running toward me at full speed, slamming into me, arms tightening around me. Before I can respond she disengages again and starts walking backwards away from me again. I watch her helplessly.
“You know I love you, right?”
I nod, my throat closing up as she retreats.
“I’ll call when I get in.” She blinks rapidly, then turns and runs off.
“Love you too,” I whisper.
When she does call me it’s late and she’s crying so hard I can hardly understand what she’s saying. I clutch at my phone like it’s a lifeline.
“Holly? Slow down! What did you say? Where are you? Are you safe?” I’m freaking out imagining the possibilities, well aware that she’s thousands of miles away now. Way out of my reach.
“He broke up with me!” she wails.
I go still. “Ravi?” I ask, though it’s obvious. I just don’t know what to say.
“By voicemail! I got off the plane and there was a message from him—saying sorry but he found someone else. Two years together and I get a brush off by phone!” She hiccups.
That douche! I still don’t know what to say.
“Someone more compatible!” She drags in a loud breath. “Noah, is that code? It means I’m bad at sex, right? It means he thinks I’m frigid just because I can’t come with him.”
TMI! TMI!
“Holly,” I start, desperate to comfort her and desperate to stop this line of conversation.
“It means no one will ever want me!”
Bloody hell! I bang my head backwards against the wall behind my bed.
“Holly, that’s not true.” I try to sound calm and rational while managing my fury at that asshole and my frustration at my fate.
“I gotta go.” She sniffs loudly. “I’m in an airport bathroom and my folks are waiting for me at the baggage claim. I had to call you and I wanted to pull myself together—but I’m a mess!”
“Holly,” I say for the umpteenth time. I’m floundering too.
“Thanks, Noah.” She interrupts whatever cliché I was about to offer. “I’m so glad I have you!”
She hangs up before I can say anything else. I look at my phone and see it reads “Holly 3 min 26 seconds.” That’s all it took to upend my careful balancing act. I’ve been waiting all semester for Holly to be free and now that she finally is we’ve got three months and the width of a continent between us.
Awesome.
12
Holly
Admittedly, I’m someone who is often blindsided by something I should have seen coming. Of course someone with my coloring would look ridiculous with Goth-dyed hair and of course it wouldn’t stay straight. Of course I’d get into Stanford even with my mediocre grades because my parents are alums and serious donors—and I had counted on not getting in so I wouldn’t have to fight with them about going to Carlyle in New York.
I should have seen the break up with Ravi coming too. I should have broken up with him myself. I didn’t think our “relationship” was so great either. I wasn’t in love with him, but I was used to him. And I didn’t want to deal with being single. It can be pretty convenient to have a long-distance boyfriend you never see.
When I first got home I moped, avoiding my parents and the brother who’s still at home and my high school friends. And then after a few days I realized that the break up hardly made any difference in my life. So I talked to Ravi one last time, I made plans to go out with my old gang, and I started looking for a job. My dad had already set me up with a cool internship at a start-up incubator (there are benefits to being an O’Neal in Silicon Valley, for sure), but it doesn’t pay and my parents have always insisted on us earning our own pocket money.
My dad has a classic tech entrepreneur backstory: working-class high-school drop out, obsessive coder, founded an early internet security company and sold it ten years later for megabucks. We live well, but we kids never got an allowance or expensive stuff. My brothers scooped ice cream and parked cars at fancy restaurants. I waited tables and tutored. That just feels normal by now.
“PaloTech is hiring tech support,” Jimi says, as he pours coffee one morning. A lawn mower rumbles outside as I sit on a high stool, swinging my legs and tapping on my laptop. Jimi is the youngest of my three older brothers and he’s okay. Except that he changed the spelling of his name after Jimi Hendrix. He’s graduating from Stanford next week and only home until his job at Google starts.
I shudder and keep scanning listings. “I just can’t do it. I can’t listen to the same problems and ask the same questions over and over all day long: are you sure your computer is plugged in? Have you tried turning it off and on again? The people who work those phone lines must be saints.”
“Why aren’t you coding? There are plenty of freelance jobs around and they pay good money.” He leans against a kitchen counter.
“Ick. Boring!”
“If you don’t want to code why are you a computer science major?” He sounds baffled.
I shrug because I have no idea. That’s another battle on the horizon that’s likely to blindside me. That I don’t particularly want to be a programmer. And programming is our family business. All of my brothers work in “the industry.” They all went to Stanford and they all still live in the area. It’s a little claustrophobic, which is why I had to get away for college. Like I said, at least I know what I don’t want. And now I can clearly put Ravi on that list too.
“You think day camps are still hiring for the summer?” I wonder out loud. I think of Noah’s marathon and how tempting it sounds to spend my summer in a pool, coaching. Just sun and water and bodies instead of flickering screens. I have a vague unsettled feeling that our lesson plan never quite came to a satisfactory ending.
“Ugh, kids! No idea.” Jimi makes a face just as my father shuffles into the room in his usual sweatpants and flip flops.
“I’m thinking of raising chickens,” he announces to no one in particular.
“Cool, Dad.”
“Sounds good.”
Jimi and I respond at the same time. We’re used to this routine—our dad comes up with projects all the time but that doesn’t mean we’ll get chickens any time soon. Honestly, I think he doesn’t have enough to do. He “consults” and he’s on all kinds of advisory boards, but he should get out of the house more. My mom at least makes jewelry now. She worked at Hewlett Packard for decades, took an early retirement package, and left with tons of vested stock.
“You okay about Ravi?” my dad asks, sitting next to me. His phone beeps and he checks it with a glance, dropping it on the table between us.
“I…”
His phone beeps again and he checks it.
“I talked to him and we’re….”
His phone beeps again and he picks it up, scrolling through several alerts.
I try again. “We….”
“What?” My dad’s eyes are still on his phone and Jimi has wandered out of the room. He flicks a switch and puts it facedown between us. “Sorry.”
“I’m fine,” I say finally, hopping off my stool. The phone vibrates on the table and we both look at it. “I should get going. Carolina works at a day camp. Maybe she can help me get a job teaching swimming there.”
“Okey doke, sweetheart.” Looking relieved, he picks up his phone again as I clear my plate.
“I’m bored,” I complain to Noah one night. I’m teaching swimming at a local YMCA and I’m halfway through the internship, which mostly entails filing and fetching. It’s all fine. I see my friends but we don’t have that m
uch to talk about. Most of them stayed in California for college.
“There’s no one to talk to here. All my old friends seem to be declaring for pre-law. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess. But it seems so boring.”
I look forward to these late night calls with Noah all day. I shift my bare legs under the covers and scoot lower into the pillows so I’m as comfortable as possible.
“I miss you,” I add glumly. “This is like that hellish week we spent apart over spring break but twelve times as long.” We’re already six weeks into it, but who’s counting?
“Yeah, I miss you too. At least that week you still had Ravi.” He sounds tired and I start worrying about him.
“Not really,” I answer absently. “I mean, we weren’t having sex. Noah, are you getting enough sleep? Eating enough?”
“Wait, why not?” He ignores my questions and interrupts me.
I frown, wishing I could see his expression or just reach out for the tiniest contact. Just touching his hand would reassure me that’s he’s okay, that he’s there.
“I told you. Sex was never a big deal. For me,” I amend. “Maybe it was a bigger deal than I realized for Ravi. Maybe that’s why he broke up with me. Isn’t that how guys are? You’re a guy—what do you think?”
“What do you mean, guys!” Noah snorts. “We’re not all alike!”
Too true! Noah is unlike any guy I’ve ever met or imagined.
“You’ve got a point. You’re definitely not a representative male. You’re more like a female brain in a hot male body.”
He makes a choking sound. “Hot?”
I laugh hard. “And I thought you’d focus on the female brain part!”
“I don’t believe brains are gendered. As you can imagine, that was a regular topic of dinner conversation when I was growing up—what with shrinks for parents and a twin sister.”
“You’re a controlled experiment!” I exclaim. “But don’t avoid my question. If we were going out would you break up with me because we weren’t having sex?”
“We’re not having sex and I still hang out with you, mirabile dictu! So no, of course not.” The words come out in a rush.
“Meer-ah-bill-ay what?”
“Latin. It means ‘wonderful to say.’ Vergil uses it when miracles happen.”
“Okaaaay. But we’re not going out. Boyfriends expect sex, right? If we were going out and I wasn’t interested in sex what would you do?” I know I’m making him uncomfortable but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Talk to you!” Noah exclaims. His voice gets urgent and I can almost see him throwing up his hands. “I don’t understand why this isn’t the obvious answer to every relationship problem!”
I’m smiling from ear to ear as he continues because he’s such an amazing guy.
“And try things and watch you and listen to you and ask you what feels good!”
I can’t help a sharp intake of breath but I don’t think he hears me.
“I’d want to know what you like and what you don’t like and everything in between and it would be….” He trails off, his breathing audible, and I know just when his embarrassment hits.
“I want that,” I say quickly in a low voice, before he can say anything. “I want a new lesson plan.” I clutch my phone, my heart thumping and my blood racing.
“Holly.” My name sounds like a groan and it gives me shivers.
“I want to tell you what turns me on and I want you to tell me what turns you on and I want to learn how to feel good.”
I’m opening the floodgates and heat is rushing through me.
“I’m more turned on right now than I’ve ever been in my life.” It’s true and I don’t understand it. I wish Noah were here with me so I could pull him toward me, but I also wonder if the distance isn’t making this possible, making it feel safe. Because this is Noah and I trust him more than anyone. Ever.
He makes a strangled sound that I can’t decode and I hear rustling motion. I close my eyes and picture him lying on his bed in his dorm room, his long lean frame stretched out and relaxed. His expression confused and wary, his mouth parted, his eyes dark. My hand inches down my stomach. I’m dimly aware that this could crash and burn but I keep going.
“Noah!” I allow my longing for him to surface in my voice. “I really want to touch myself now, okay?”
I’ve just leapt over a cliff and now I wait on tenterhooks, my fingers tracing the edge of my panties, my legs parting. I’m overwhelmed by new feelings but I want him with me.
“Okay,” he says finally on a raspy exhale. I close my eyes in relief and let my fingers explore.
“I’m wet,” I whisper. “I want you to touch yourself too.” Because now I’m in free fall.
He groans. “Tell me—”
And I do. I tell him exactly what I’m doing and how it feels and it feels insanely good. Soon we’re both panting and mumbling broken instructions. I can hear his pleasure rising and that turns me on big time. I can’t believe how much I want him, can’t believe what we’re doing, but I can’t resist and now I’m racing him to a finish line.
“Noah—I want you to come. Now!”
He makes a sound between a laugh and a gasp. “Bossy!”
I smile, feeling giddy, but it’s no time for joking. “I’m going to come. Just. Like. This,“ I manage shakily. “And you—”
Then feeling overrides speaking and my whole body shudders with pleasure as I revel in the broken, gasping sounds coming through the phone.
13
Noah
Are things really awkward now?
Holly texts me this the next morning and I have no idea how to respond. Yes! Of course! Duh! Or No, not really. I have phone sex with my best friends all the time! The truth is something in the middle, I guess. It’s weird but not weird because I’ve been fantasizing about sex with Holly for months.
Which brings me to the other awkward question she asked before we hung up: “So does this mean we had sex?” I didn’t know the right thing to say then either so I had to be honest: “Feels like it.”
I’m shelving books in the library, thinking about what to text back when she writes again.
It felt soooooo good!
And a bubble of happiness fills me because that’s so Holly and I love how she rushes in wherever I fear to tread. I knew she enjoyed it—remembering those breathy sounds she made when she came is making my brain seize up—but it’s so like her to just say so. She’s so bold! Bossy, I said last night, but I have to admit I like it. So I reward her.
You’re turning me on. In the *library*.
LOL! Later!
I can picture her amusement but I still wish I could see it in person. I sigh and get back to work, feeling pretty confident about that later.
So it’s strangely un-awkward between us. Go figure. Maybe it’s because we can’t see each other (no FaceTime! No video! No way. Because that would be awkward, we agreed awkwardly). Or maybe it’s because we’re apart and this is all we have so we grab it with both hands (ha, weird metaphor here).
Whatever it is, we fall into a pattern of texting about all kinds of stuff during the day and then talking about all kinds of stuff at night, especially sex because “officially” the lesson plan is to figure out what feels good. We’ll be talking about something general and somehow, at some point shift to us specifically.
“Are male nipples as sensitive as female nipples?” she asks one night and I take a deep breath because I like where this is going.
“Don’t know. We’d have to do some research.” My voice is already sounding husky and I hear her breathing hitch. One weird thing about this thing we’re doing is that it makes us so tuned into sounds. I never thought sounds were particularly erotic before, but I was wrong.
“Hmm. My nipples are really sensitive. Some bras are too much sometimes. Like if they have any texture like lace or silk…or demi-cups that don’t quite cover me.”
“Holly! Too much, too fast!” I interrupt desperately. S
ometimes her rushing is a problem.
She giggles. “Okaaay. I’ll backtrack and say that over the course of our lessons I’ve been getting the impression that you’re into breasts.”
I groan and drop my head back against the headboard. I gaze longingly at my hard on but if I get started now it will be over way too fast. And if I start before Holly I’ll hear it from her. I have to smile at that.
“Not breasts in general. Your breasts.”
Because we’re in a truth-only zone. It makes me lightheaded to be so honest with her, with myself—it’s both liberating and terrifying. And somewhere in my brain I understand that this truth-zone extends only as far as these beds and our phones. By some unspoken agreement, we don’t talk about the future.
“Really? These old things?” She’s laughing now, damn her! “They aren’t too full? My nipples aren’t too pink? And, let me check—yeah, they don’t stick out too much through my tee shirt?”
“Take it off! Please!”
I hear more low laughter and the rustle of her clothes against her skin. This game is the best and worst ever.
“Done. And to go back to our research, they’re very sensitive to the touch of my fingers…mmm…even very very slight.”
I swear I can hear what she feels just through her breathing. Mine accelerates.
“Now you!” she commands. And I obey, whipping off my tee shirt too.
“Okay, okay!” I grumble. I’m not interested in my nipples when hers are on offer! I touch them experimentally. “Oh. Yeah. Actually they’re sensitive.” Huh.
Holly makes a sexy little humming sound. “Feels good?” And I can’t believe her. How sexy her sweetness is or how sweet her sexiness is—or something. My brain is rapidly going to mush.
The Lesson Plan (Extra Credit #3) Page 6
