Seeing my dad sitting on the sofa in our living room shouldn’t be strange, but it is. Everything from his suit and tie to the way he announces he’s going to get a glass of water—as if waiting for someone to grant him permission—makes him seem out of place.
He comes back and sets the glass on the coffee table. Then, a beat later, leans forward and slides a coaster underneath.
His gaze flickers from the TV, which is playing an episode of Great British Bake Off, naturally, over to me. “Have you been giving any thought to what college you want to attend?”
What kind of question is that? I want to respond. Like, No, Dad, I haven’t given any thought to the biggest decision of my life, but thanks for the reminder.
Since Webster and I didn’t end up going anywhere after school, I spent that time studying my pros and cons list. I even plugged the graduate stats for all my options—including a third school in Ohio I have no interest in attending—into Bayes’ theorem to see which school was most likely to get me into a vet program. And then the stupid Ohio school came out with the highest probability, even though it finishes last in literally every other category. So that was decidedly unhelpful.
“Yeah,” I finally say to Dad. “I keep going back and forth about it.”
Dad nods, sends me a sympathetic smile like he can tell how stressed the topic makes me. “You’ve got time.”
Everyone keeps saying that—I keep saying it to myself, too, but pretty soon it won’t be true anymore. And I’m terrified of choosing wrong. Of that one decision causing a domino effect of life choices I can’t undo.
I keep trying to visualize myself at both schools. Going to pre-med classes with Holland. Maybe even partnering up in labs.
But then it’s just as easy to picture going to MSU—and I don’t mean for my daydream to automatically include Webster, but there he is. Living in the same dorm as me, coordinating rides home for the holidays.
“So what are you and Holland up to tonight?” Dad asks next, snapping me back to the present.
“Not sure,” I tell him. I hug a velvet throw pillow to my stomach and pick lint off the front. “We might go to that arcade that opened up near the mall.”
“Sounds like fun,” he says, but his voice grows distracted as Mom comes down the stairs.
It’s been only the past week or so that I’ve noticed a difference in the way Mom talks about Dad. Saying things like, He’s made such an effort lately. Which I guess is evident in the tie. The fact he made a reservation at her favorite Italian restaurant.
Mom beams when he tells her this, and I know I should be happy they’re getting along. Part of me is. But something I can’t quite define twists deep in my gut. Guilt, maybe. Because his name has been caught in my throat since this afternoon, since Mom told me she had a date tonight and I immediately pictured a BMW parked in our driveway, wondered if she was seeing David from work.
Because I’m pretty sure my dad still has no idea about that night, and I’m partly to blame.
“Have fun tonight, kiddo,” Dad says as he pulls me into a side hug and pecks the top of my head.
“You too.” I smile and shove my hands in my pockets, still hovering near the couch.
“We won’t be late.” Mom pulls on her coat and wraps a scarf around her neck. “Oh, and your father and I were talking about having a family dinner this weekend.”
“I can grill,” Dad says enthusiastically. “And maybe you could take care of the dessert? Your mom says you’ve gotten really good at baking.”
“Sounds good,” I tell them, already mentally cataloging the pie recipes I could try.
“And why don’t you invite Holland?” Mom says.
My smile grows tight on my lips. Forced. But it’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? Asking Holland to attend a family dinner when this is the first time my parents have gone out together since the separation. “Holland’s pretty busy with basketball,” I tell them, even though the season is technically over. “But I’ll see if he’s free.”
I move around the couch, herding them toward the door. Desperate for them to leave before Holland gets here—I don’t want them to put him on the spot.
Finally they go, and I try to get back into the show, but I’m too wound up to care about creme pat. I let it play in the background, my mind all over the place.
I keep thinking about that night I walked in on my mom and David from work. Maybe she wasn’t lying—maybe it was nothing. But if that’s true, why would she have asked me not to tell my dad? And if I tell him now, will that ruin any chance they have of working things out?
The doorbell rings, and I leap off the couch and race to let Holland inside. As soon as I open the door, he starts apologizing for being early. “I was over at Webster’s, but he had to leave for a date, so I figured I’d just come over.”
I plant a kiss on his mouth—his perfect lips that are never dry and always a split second late to react to mine, like he’s still surprised I like him.
His hand slides into my hair. He twists a lock around his finger, then breaks the kiss to smile at me. “Missed you, too.”
I did miss this. Ever since my fight with Reese, I’ve been so lonely. And I missed the way his smile takes over his whole face and how kissing Holland makes me forget about everything and everyone else, if only for a few moments.
“I’m glad you’re here now,” I say as I close the door behind him. “I was just watching TV and thinking about baking something. Would you be up for that?”
“Baking?” I nod, and Holland makes a face. “I don’t know if that’s really my thing.”
“Well, have you ever tried?” I say with a laugh. “We can start with something simple. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m just...not that into desserts, I guess.”
“Okay. It was just an idea.” I shrug. “What do you want to do tonight, then?”
Holland gestures toward the door, his car in the driveway. “Maybe we could go see a movie?”
“Or...” I raise an eyebrow. Grab his hand and tug him toward the stairs. “Since my parents are out...we could stay here for a while.”
Because I need more of Holland’s dizzying kisses. Need his touch to blot out everything else on my mind.
He answers with a crooked grin and lets me pull him upstairs, where he releases my hand in favor of taking a self-guided tour around my room. I follow his gaze as it tracks the photos of me and Reese taped to the door of my closet, cringe as he notices the puppy-themed calendar hanging above my desk. But of course he just comments on how cute April’s golden retriever is. When he walks past my bookshelf, he turns his head to read the spines of my old paperback romances—plus a sci-fi book I borrowed from Webster that summer and never gave back. I really should donate all of those.
Next he picks up the corsage he gave me at the Snow Ball. It’s been sitting on my desk ever since, petals now brittle and brown along the edges, its ribbon creased and bent out of shape. I feel bad I didn’t put it somewhere safer, hang it upside down so it could dry in a pretty way instead of one side getting smooshed. Then again, I’m not sure why I even held on to it this long. I haven’t kept anything else. Not the ticket stub from our first trip to the movies. Not a pair of chopsticks from the sushi restaurant we ate at on our second date. Nothing cutesy that I can stash in a shoebox, forget about until one day when we’re broken up and I feel the urge to remember the details of our first dates.
His fingers trail over the MSU sweatshirt draped over my desk chair, and for a moment I think he’s going to bring up NC State. And then I’ll have to explain to him how torn I am, how I don’t know how to quantify things like being at the same college as my boyfriend versus knowing more people at MSU or being closer to Reese’s college—all these intangibles that make the decision more complicated.
I close the distance between us, press my face against his chest, and inhale the scent of his shirt. Floral laundry detergent. It’s not a bad smell. Just sort of...generic. A bottled scent that could belong to anyone.
I’m a freak. Honestly, who cares what he smells like? My palm presses against his stomach and I can feel the ridges of muscle. The sense of smell is overrated.
Together we move to sit on the edge of my bed. He kisses me again, soft and sweet. The way he’s always kissed me. But tonight I’m not in the mood for sweet, careful kisses.
I nip at his lip. Kiss him harder. Try to show him he’s the only person I’m thinking about right now, that I’ve been thinking about him all day.
One of his hands moves to my thigh. But he just leaves it there, an inch above my knee.
Don’t get me wrong, I like that he always starts slow. Love that he never assumes we’re going to do something, even if we’ve done it before. But my mind is moving faster than we are, stuck on inappropriate subjects like what Webster might be doing on his date, or whether Reese and Kevin have had sex yet. Which is why I need Holland to touch me in a way that makes it harder to think.
We lie back on the bed together. This is the first time it’s been like this—in my room, on a bed instead of the back seat of his car. I move my hand from under his shirt and slip my fingers under the waist of his jeans, thumb rubbing over the button on his fly. He sucks in a sharp breath and I tip my forehead against his. “Do you want me to...?”
He kisses me with a renewed enthusiasm, but it’s another moment before his hand leaves my leg to help with his fly. And even though we’ve done this before, it’s still new enough my heart kicks up as my hand slides all the way under his boxers. I worry sometimes I won’t do it right, or it won’t feel as good as last time, but I relax a bit when Holland gasps against my mouth. I press my chest closer to his, and while my hand works slowly against him, his palm runs from my hip back down to my thigh. I nudge my knees apart and he gets the hint, starts rubbing at the seam between my legs.
My pants are a bit tight, so it takes more work for him to get them out of his way. I stifle a moan when his fingers first slip into my underwear.
It gets increasingly difficult to keep up a steady rhythm, which apparently is an issue for Holland, too, since at one point he stops moving his hand altogether. I lift my hips to encourage him, but when he starts up again, his touch doesn’t really do anything for me.
I try to concentrate, to shift my hips in a way that will help him hit the right spot. I don’t know how else to communicate what feels good. But he doesn’t even seem to care anymore. His eyes are squeezed shut and his head is tilted back and a moment later he grunts and pulls his hand away from me. He places it over mine instead, holding me in place as he finishes.
I wait, semi-frozen with embarrassment because even though this was the intended result of my efforts, I’m not totally sure what to do now that it’s over. Holland swallows hard and takes a few shallow breaths, then uses his free hand to reach for a box of tissues on my nightstand.
We don’t look at each other while we clean up. Then he takes the tissue away from me and gets up to toss them in the trash bin under my desk. When he gets back he kisses my cheek. “Thanks. That was really great.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Your turn.” He leans closer to me, but I’ve already zipped my pants again.
“No. That’s okay.”
He checks the clock, like he wants to make sure he actually has enough time to get me off before asking, “Are you sure?”
To be fair, maybe now that Holland’s finished, he’d be able to focus. Maybe it would be better than before. But even if that’s true, I can’t get over the fact that his hands are no longer clean, and I know entirely too much about biology to let them anywhere near my crotch.
“Yep. I’m good.” Not great, though. Because now I’m even more tense than before Holland got here, and I’m irritated by the fact that this wasn’t mutual, and I get that he’s trying to rectify that, but I also just kind of want this night to be over now.
Holland tucks my hair behind my ear and kisses my jaw and it takes everything I have not to lean away from him. He pulls back, drops his hand onto the comforter between us.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I huff and tilt my head back. Close my eyes for a moment. “I’m just kind of distracted.”
Holland’s voice is gentle and quiet. “Did I do something wrong?”
I blink my eyes open and turn my head to face him. He looks so worried. “No, of course not.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“It’s just...my parents,” I offer up, because that’s easier, safer than telling him I’m not enjoying myself right now. And it’s not really a lie—I haven’t been able to push David from work out of my mind entirely. I keep wondering what kinds of compromises or doubts are normal in relationships. How you’re supposed to know if something is a red flag or worth working past.
“It’s good they’re talking again though, right? Maybe things will work out.”
It’s the same way Holland reacted when I first told him about their separation. Always optimistic, as though this might be the best thing for them in the end.
And in this case I don’t even disagree, but something about that statement still bothers me. Because it’s so like him to think the pieces will just fall into place, things will just work out. That’s why he was so quick to brush off my fight with Reese, because he thinks we’ll just magically make up. And it’s why he has no problem picturing us together next year—he doesn’t factor in any of the issues that come with being long-distance.
“Last time I got my hopes up about them having dinner together, they got separated like...days later. They even tried to rope you into a dinner this weekend. Don’t worry, I told them you were probably too busy.”
Holland frowns at this. “I’m not too busy.”
I glance up from under his arm. “I just figured...it’s a lot.”
“Kind of sounds like you don’t want me there.”
“No! Honestly, that’s not it.” Not entirely it, anyway. “This whole situation is fucked up, you know? I just think we should wait and see how it goes before subjecting you to a dinner, that’s all.”
Holland nods, offers me an understanding smile. “I get it,” he says. “Some other time.”
But I can still see traces of the hurt in his eyes—and I can’t blame him. His I love you is still hanging over us, unanswered. And even on nights like this, when all I want is to feel close to him—even as we spend the rest of the night cuddled under the same blanket, watching TV until he has to go—I somehow feel like I’ve only managed to create more distance.
After Holland goes home, I walk back upstairs and cast out a heavy sigh as I collapse on my bed. My room is still filled with the same crackling energy as before. My chest is still wound tight. It reminds me of the feeling I got when I had a palate expander in my mouth to fix my underbite. Every week my mom would have to wind it tighter with this needle, and that pressure bordering on pain would be all I could think about for hours afterward. My whole body is filled with that kind of tension right now, and I need some kind of release.
I shut my light off and slip my hand into my underwear.
I think about Holland’s breath in my ear, about his hands on me. My brow pinches, trying to focus on that sensation. But my mind slides around: our midnight kiss, his body heat against mine at the Snow Ball, his mouth on my neck. My hand moves and my mind drifts with it, this time back to Webster’s house. New Year’s Eve. Focus on New Year’s Eve. But without my consent I’m in Webster’s kitchen. Chocolate on my lip and the way Webster stared at my mouth. Glared at it. Then the image of us at my kitchen table floods back, the way his eyes drifted down again, that same intensity in his gaze.
Because he wanted something he couldn’t have.
My breath hitches. I’ve lost control of my mind now. It’s taking me places that don’t exist, memories that never happened. The two of us in the Life Skills lab. Webster and me. Alone. And when he sees the chocolate on my lip he rubs his thumb across it. And what’s in his eyes isn’t resentment. It’s something else. Something that makes my tongue sweep down to lick the place he touched. Then he rocks closer, catches my mouth with his. It isn’t a sweet kiss. Not soft or gentle. It’s hands gripping my waist, hips rocking together, Webster hoisting me onto the counter so my face is level with his. It’s my shirt tugged off my shoulder and his mouth following everywhere his hands go. Buttons undone and hands scrambling for hair, skin, balling up clothing and tossing it aside until there’s barely anything between us, and—
My eyes shoot open. I’m panting, shaking. Moonlight stripes my ceiling, cutting through the blinds at a sharp angle.
I can’t believe I just...while thinking about Webster.
Pretty much the worst person I could have fantasized about, to be honest. But it’s not an actual fantasy. I don’t even know where that came from—it’s not like I have feelings for him. I mean, Webster...he drives me crazy, always pushing my buttons and getting under my skin.
I blink up at the ceiling. Fuck.
I might have a problem.