Faith.
Adrenaline flows through my system, raising the hair on my arms while warning bells clang in my brain. I fight the urge to relaunch myself at him and force myself to take another step back. I can’t let my attraction for him control my actions. I need to gather myself before I lose all willpower.
When he asked me about PDA, my mind shifted to Dimitri. I had this crazy idea Everest and the others followed us from the restaurant, ready to take pictures and turn me into some sideshow freak again. In my new home. Where my anonymity equals peace.
Then he kissed me and every thought splintered into white noise.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.” Everything. I made myself a promise not to do this. “I’ve got to focus on school.”
He takes a step toward me. “And you think I will fracture your concentration?”
Without a doubt. “That’s not really the point. You need—”
“To kiss you.” He takes another step toward me and asks softly, “Will you let me kiss you again?”
I nod because Sinjin makes me forget why I’ve sworn off men. His mouth is magic, not sloppy like Dimitri’s. Carbonation bubbles under my skin, fizzing and spreading throughout my body. I force myself to overcome the need to writhe and press my body tight against his—absorb the impact when all the planes of his athletic build push against mine. My softness against his strength. His right hand captures mine, and his left palm moves from my cheek to the back of my head. He’s holding me like I’m precious.
Our kiss plays soft and insistent. He breaks contact, raises our joined hands, and presses his lips against my wrist.
His mouth sends shock waves through me.
Caleb meets my gaze. “I’ve never lost my sense of place before. You make me forget.” He leans down and rests his forehead against mine. “I should get you back.”
I nod in agreement. This was a first for me, too. Unlike Dimitri, Sinjin didn’t try to cop a feel. He didn’t try to push his erection against me in a parody of sex or in demand for attention. This kiss signifies a beginning, not a race to some random finish line. Sinjin is so damn likable. He treats me like I’m someone he cares about. It scares the shit out of me because this isn’t real. It can’t be.
Reality revels in humiliation and feeds on despair.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he tells me.
“What?”
“I can almost see those brain cells at work. Calculating odds. Adding to your growing list of cons in the against column.”
He draws my wrist to his lips again. “Let’s talk about the reasons why you should relax around me.”
A shiver works its way up my arm to curl around my neck and tug at my scalp. I take a deep breath and pull his hand forward so we can start walking again. I need to lighten the mood, and I hope he’ll get this reference because it doesn’t work when you have to explain.
“Peter Falk would give us both the thumbs-up right now.”
“As you wish?”
The laugh bubbles out of me. “I didn’t think you’d recognize it. How do you know 'The Princess Bride'?”
“Well…” He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, looks a little embarrassed. “I had a girlfriend in eighth grade who loved that movie. Shelley made me watch it with her as part of some kind of compatibility test she put me through after we’d been hanging out for a couple of weeks.”
We cross another intersection. “And did you like the movie? Pass her test?”
“I did like the movie. No, I didn’t pass. She didn’t pass mine, either.”
I’m intrigued. “Your test?”
“Well, kind of. I mean, fair is fair. She used the movie to analyze our staying power.”
I stop, stare at him. Incredulous. “Staying power?”
“Her words. You think I thought that up? To my friends, that phrase meant something else entirely.”
That makes me snort. “Go on.” I nudge him forward again.
He says, “So I asked the same of her.”
I’m getting a glimpse of Sinjin circa eighth grade. “I am agog. Pray tell.”
He snorts out a laugh. “What does that mean?”
Crap. How embarrassing. Sometimes I did this with Kirsty. We’d speak as though we were in nineteenth-century England where heaving breasts, being agog, and saying things such as pray tell, were the norm. Not so much in the twenty-first century. “Sorry. Language lapse. I was channeling a character from Pride and Prejudice. It means I’m eager to hear the rest of your story. Now spill.”
“Got it. Once we watched the movie together, she asked me to name my favorite character. I told her Fezzik.”
“Andre the Giant’s character?”
He squeezes my hand. “Yeah. Then she told me my favorite character should have been Westley or Inigo Montoya.”
“Why? Fezzik was loyal and funny and a main character. Did she want you to identify with the hero instead?”
“She tried to get me to change my mind. Sadly, that’s when I realized we had zero staying power. The cuteness of Shelley wasn’t incentive enough for me to switch to Westley as my favorite character.”
I drag him forward again. “Hmm. Better stay away from Eight Nights of Sin. Wouldn’t want a repeat.”
He swings our joined hands. It’s the first time I’ve held hands with anyone since crossing the street with Dad as a kid. I’m giddy and cautious at the same time.
He says, “Ha! Let’s get back to your original statement and that appealing comparison you made. Do you think our kiss rates in the same league as Buttercup and Westley’s?”
I pretend to think about it. “Their kiss beat the top five kisses of all time. We might have registered somewhere in the top twenty.”
We enter the southern corner of campus and move toward my dorm. We pass in front of the administration building and financial aid center. Twenty-six steps up to the top where four columns act as plinths for reproduction statues of famous Romans—Marcus Aurelius, Cicero, Augustus and Catullus—have watched over countless Gladiators.
We cross the grassy, open space of the quad and stop in front of the double entry doors of my dorm building.
Caleb pulls me close. “I love a challenge. Top ten remains in reach. A chance to improve myself and better my numbers.” He rubs his lips against mine and kisses me softly. “Sunday at eleven sharp, Lacerna.”
A half hour later I get a call from Beau. “Just because I’m a guy, do not think for one minute I’m not interested in the instant replay?”
I move my textbook off my bed and set aside my laptop to settle in for a chat while Charlene showers down the hall. “You want the evening fed to you line by line?”
He tsk-tsks. “Faith, what am I going to do with you? I need the traditional date dump. Bullet points, highs and lows, mating rituals you may or may not have engaged in.”
Beau keeps me snorting with laughter at his pithy comments throughout my retelling of my evening with Sinjin. I tell him about our plans to hang out on Sunday at the beach.
“The beach is a good choice for an all-day outing. Close enough for a quick extraction call.”
It’s like he read my mind. “I’m waiting, expecting Sinjin to morph into a prick. Unfair of me to anticipate it, to know a part of me is holding back. But I don’t want to be flattened by another jock.”
He pauses. I listen to his long-suffering exhalation. “I was joking. I don’t imagine him revealing his inner jackass this soon. Not every member of my gender acts like a tool at their first opportunity.”
“Sure, if you want to use logic against me. I know that. But, I can’t help the fact that my nerve endings are tingling, waiting for the moment to send the pain alert to my brain.”
“Give him a chance to pass or fail on his own. Don’t wait for or anticipate the screw-up. Relax and enjoy your time together. If he meets your expectations of male-induced fuckery, I am a phone call away. Ready and willing to meet then kick his ass for you.”
I’m so damn lucky Beau is my friend. “Who says I can’t kick his ass on my own?”
“I’ll hold your coat and cheer you on. I will also be on standby to hold him down if you want to kick his gonads into his throat.”
I love Beau. “Deal. Coffee tomorrow?”
“Philz at nine thirty, bright and early.”
“Will your sister join us? I want to meet her.”
“No, Olivia has the early shift at the clinic tomorrow.”
“Bummer. See you then.” I drop my phone on my bed and reach for my laptop. I’m no longer in the mood to study.
My phone pings. The mountain emoji appears with the following text:
What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?
Me: A penny?
I get the thumbs-up emoji in reply.
Short conversation.
Since Charlene isn’t back from her trip to our third world showers, I open my magazine app. I haven’t read my mom’s latest article. After years of ripping out her articles from Teen Beauty to keep my interest private—the e-version offers me a cloak of secrecy.
I click the link to load her page. She has a new byline picture. Her hair now looks long enough to hit her waist. Hair extensions or has she grown her own hair out? Something about the picture seems off to me. Maybe it’s the fact that she generally wears her hair no longer than shoulder length. Mom’s in her early forties; perhaps this was her misguided attempt at turning back the clock? Strange.
Dear Chloe, someone had written. I’m a plus-sized girl, and the guys who want to hang out with me just want sex. When I do what they ask, they make me feel desired, like we have a connection, but they never call again. The times I said no, I didn’t get a call back, either. Same result, different actions. Signed, Confused in Connecticut.
Ouch. You’re better off alone. I almost click out of the site, because I’m afraid to read my mother’s response, but my eyes scan the text. Dear Confused, Plus-sizes fall under a negative weight classification no matter how you tip the scale. Being overweight puts your health, specifically your heart, at risk, and I’m not just talking about being dumped by potential boyfriends. You must understand that a lack of discipline at the table and in bed creates a vicious circle of promiscuity and self-loathing. In other words, stay away from the carbs and off your back. Once you learn to like yourself again, your path will be clear to you.
Her reply is downright nasty. My head pounds with pressure and pain. I’m seething for this girl from Connecticut. I want to reach out, find her, and tell her she’s perfect just as she is, no changes required.
This bullshit hits me hard and way too personally. My brain accepts the fact, and yet I can’t calm down. I need to forget the article so I can get some sleep, but I want to pick up my phone, call Mom, and tell her off. I pace my room, thinking, You bitch, you mean-spirited, vainglorious bitch.
Determined to make a difference I grab my laptop and post a comment. First time ever. Dear Confused, ignore Chloe. She’s wrong and vicious, too. Here’s what I think. Don’t ask advice from someone who has never had to deal with weight issues. And I include all weight issues—whether you’re plus-sized or under-sized and can’t see it. I know what it feels like to confuse sex with intimacy. It doesn’t make you a slut. It means you were lonely and trying to connect with another human. My advice for you is to remember that you’re perfect as you are. Any guy who can’t see that is blind and unworthy of your time. Find ways to get happy in your own skin. Join a club. Volunteer. But, please don’t waste time on people who don’t get you or who aren’t good for you. Signed, Faithful in Cal.