Holy. Shit.
I can’t believe I let myself go this long without experiencing that. That was, hands down, the best, most exciting time of my life. That was…well, indescribable. I want to experience that again and again for the rest of my life.
Whoa…slow down! You’re getting ahead of yourself, Iz.
So what if we live in different states and only have a few more days together? Who cares? I’m going to enjoy this as much as I can until I can’t anymore.
It takes several minutes for my still ragged breathing to return to normal. When it finally does, I roll onto my side, leaning on my elbow, and trace my finger along the trees painted into the flesh of his left forearm. I’ve seen his tattoos before and studied them when he wasn’t looking, but never close enough to see all the detail of the trees that go from wrist to elbow. Where the trees end, there’s an endless mountain range that’s covered by clouds on his shoulder.
The details put into this piece of art are incredible. I make a mental note to ask Dean where he got this done. I may have to visit the artist before I head west.
“I don’t know about you, but that was the best sex I’ve had.”
A cocky grin forms across Dean’s face. He locks his hands behind his head like he’s the most confident man in the world, bringing his art with him. I sulk.
“Glad I didn’t disappoint Ms. Powell.” He side-eyes me and I pout. He kisses my puffed-out lip before he whispers in my ear. “And that was the best sex I’ve had, too.”
Satisfied, it’s my turn to roll onto the bed and mimic his earlier pose. With my naked body still exposed, Dean peppers my skin with kisses. He lingers at my breasts, flicking his tongue out every few seconds and applying the softest suction, apparently ready for round two.
“But you know,” he says, “that doesn’t get you out of telling me why you don’t wanna go to the dance.”
Just like that, my happiness drains from my body.
Sex wasn’t a way to avoid telling him, although I hoped it would be an added perk. I want to tell him…I really do. I’m just worried about how he’ll look at me after. Even without other people knowing, they look at me differently. But it’s not fair to keep Dean in the dark after what he told me about Olivia.
I curl up against his side, hoping it’ll make this easier. With his arm draped across my shoulder, I guess there’s no better time than now.
“The abridged version is that I had an unpleasant experience with an ex at a party.”
“And the full story?”
“The full story is that my freshman year of college, I was dating this guy named Blake. It wasn’t a super great relationship. Like I didn’t think he was my forever person or anything, but we had fun. Things progressed, and I ended up giving him head in the computer lab when he stayed to help me prep for midterms.”
“Well, that’s not so bad. I’m sure you’re not the first person to do that.”
I continue, ignoring him.
“I gave him head, then we went to a party together at his frat house. While we were there, Blake must’ve told people about it and said I was easy or something. I spent the rest of the night dodging guys who were trying to get me to sleep with them. I was stupid enough to follow one guy upstairs when he said I could use his bathroom instead of waiting for the one downstairs.
“I ended up in his bedroom. I fought him as best I could when he shut the door and tried to get me to…you know, but he was a football player and I was just a computer nerd. He easily had more than a hundred pounds on me. Hitting him did nothing.”
Dean tenses beneath me, wrapping his arm tighter around my body.
“Did he…?”
I shake my head.
“The door opened before the guy could do anything. When I saw it was Blake, I was so relieved. I thought he’d put the dude in his place or something. That he’d take me back to my dorm and tell me he’d never let anything like that happen again. But he didn’t. He shut the door again, and they took turns passing me between the two of them. they crying for them to stop. They didn’t care, though. They wanted to take advantage of me.”
“Iz, please don’t tell me they did anything to you. Kissing and touching you is bad enough, but please don’t say what I’m worried you’ll say.”
I finally look up at Dean. His jaw is clenched, and his nostrils flared. I put my hand on his arm and feel his body shaking beneath me.
“No, Dean. Nothing else happened that night. Suze must’ve seen me go upstairs and broke things up. We went back to the dorm. The whole time, she was apologizing for interrupting what she thought was a threesome. She thought I was crying because I was embarrassed that she walked in on it. At the time, I was saving myself for marriage like a good little Christian girl. When I told her what happened, she said I should go to my advisor and fill out a report or something. That was the last time I talked to Blake.”
“Good. I hope he got what was coming to him.”
I stay silent, unwilling to share the rest of the story. I justify it by telling myself Dean only asked why I hated parties. That’s the reason. What happened after that isn’t something he needs to know.
“We don’t have to go,” Dean says, breaking up the silence. “We can have a date night in. I’m willing to try and make another fire. We can grill some chicken or cook some nachos or something. My buddy back home said he made nachos over a fire once and they were the best he’s ever had—”
The only way I know to get Dean to stop talking is to kiss him. So I do. Nothing like before. Just a slow kiss with my palm pressed against his cheek that lasts long enough for him to be quiet.
“We can go to the dance.”
“We really don’t have to—”
I kiss him again.
“Are you listening to me? We’re going to the dance. I think it’s about time to replace those old, bad memories with new, good ones, don’t cha think?”
I feel Dean stretch his arm behind me, reaching for something just out of his reach. Still laying horizontally across the bed, I assume he’s grabbing the blanket at the foot of the bed to wrap us up. The next thing I know, a half-wilted red rose tickles my nose.
“Dean,” I say, laughing and trying to shake free from the flower. “What’re you doing?”
“Just bear with me.”
He stops using the flower like a paintbrush against my face and backs off the bed, pulling his pants on. I sit up, following his movements, and pull his T-shirt on over my bare body.
“Isobel Powell,” he says, shifting his weight so he’s balancing on one knee. My stomach drops. I never thought I’d see someone down on one knee in front of me. It’s utterly terrifying. Everything slows around me, swirling into a dizzying tunnel vision. He can’t possibly be proposing. Sure, the sex was great—amazing even—but he just can’t. That would be ridiculous. I want to run over to him and pick him up from his spot and scream at how stupid he’s being. That no one would ever want to marry me after finding out what happened. “Will you go to the dance with me?”
I feel my shoulders drop at least an inch. Of course, he isn’t proposing. Why was that the first thing my brain went to? Oh, right…probably because no sane man would ever get down on one knee unless they were proposing.
“I’d love to,” I say, taking his offered rose. “But what will I wear?”