“My mom isn’t home,” Leo says as he opens the door.
That’s when I know that he wants to have sex.
“Oh” is all I can think to say.
“She’s out of town until Tuesday.” It’s Friday afternoon. He definitely wants to have sex. We’ve been dating since February (this being mid-June), kissing a lot, making out whenever we can find somewhere private to hide away. Sex is the obvious next step.
“So we’ve got your place all to ourselves,” I say giddily. I’ve been thinking about Leo all day, wondering when I would get to see him, daydreaming about the smooth warm feel of his lips against mine. When he texted that he wanted to hang out this afternoon, it was the best kind of surprise. And this, well, it feels like I’m having a sexy dream about Leo.
Only this is real.
Leo smiles, a little-kid-about-to-open-his-birthday-present type smile. “You could even—I don’t know—stay the night?”
I laugh, that giggle I hate, the one I do so often around Leo. Stay the night. Wow. How can I even pull off being gone all night? My parents will notice if I don’t come home. Pop will notice, anyway. Mom probably wouldn’t notice if I went missing for a week.
“You could tell them you’re sleeping over at a friend’s house,” Leo suggests. That’s the obvious play. My best friend, Lucy, will go for it, too; she’s so excited that I—quiet, nerdy Ada—finally have a verifiable love interest. At first they teased me that I made Leo up, this perfect boy I kept talking about. I had to practically beg Leo—who hates high school dances—to take me to prom, just to prove he was real. Ever since then my friends have been referring to Leo—popular, non-nerdy Leo—as “The Miracle.” And this—him wanting to have sex with me, not just once, apparently, but all night long—seems miraculous, too.
I nod. Laugh again. “Okay.”
His smile grows wider, kid-on-Christmas-morning level excited. “Okay? Really?”
I try to act like my heart isn’t thudding in my chest. “I mean, Friday’s family night, which is seriously sacred to my stepdad, but I can miss it. We’re going out of town next week, so we’re going to have a lot of family time, so—”
“I’m going to miss you,” he says, “when you’re in Hawaii.”
I smile. “I’m going to miss you, too.” Stupid compulsory family trip to Hawaii. “So yeah, I guess, I can stay the n—”
“So you really want to?” he asks.
“I do,” I say breathlessly. I get out my phone and text Lucy, who enthusiastically agrees to be my alibi, and text Pop that I’m having a sleepover at Lucy’s.
Have fun! Pop texts back.
Then Leo takes my hand and leads me toward what I’m guessing is his bedroom.
His house is in Santa Clara, a few train stops before San Jose. It isn’t a large house. Three bedrooms, two baths. From the street it looks tiny, especially if I’m comparing it to my own house in Redwood City. If I’m being nice—and my default setting is nice, I can’t seem to help it—I’d say it was “refreshingly minimal.” When I picture myself as an artist (like Leo’s mom, who’s a famous local sculptor) I can imagine living in a house like this.
I’ve never seen Leo’s room before. He’s invited me over a few times since we started going out, but his mom was always home. There was some unspoken understanding between them that we wouldn’t hang out in his bedroom, so we stayed in the kitchen or streamed movies on the living room sofa. Now, as we move down the hallway toward the inevitable (!!!) sex we’re about to have, I pause to look at the framed photographs hanging on the wall. Most of them are of Leo and Diana with various people I assume are relatives. I point at the photo of a toddler with something bright red—beets? tomato sauce?—smeared all over his face. “Aw. Look at you.”
He cringes. “My mom won’t take it down. She loves to humiliate me.”
“I think it’s cute,” I say.
“You’re cute,” he counters.
We come to a room crammed with tables and sculptures in various states of progression: his mom’s studio. She works with wax and clay in there and then takes it to a place in the city to cast it into bronze. I barely resist the urge to go inside and attempt to absorb some of her genius.
Leo, however, is not impressed. He tugs on my hand to get me moving again, toward a smaller bedroom at the end of the hall. His.
“Welcome.” He ushers me inside. Closes the door. “Make yourself at home.”
There’s nowhere to sit but on his bed. I perch on the edge and fold my hands into my lap, gazing around at the various posters on the walls. Most of them are of swimmers. Leo’s captain of the swim team at his school. By the look of it, he’s obsessed with Michael Phelps, and this other guy with a huge tattoo that covers most of his left arm.
I wouldn’t have pegged Leo for a posters-all-over-the-walls kind of guy.
“That’s Caeleb Dressel,” he explains almost shyly. “Two gold medals. Holds the world record in the hundred-meter butterfly.”
“Nice.” I try to seem appreciative, but it’s weird to be admiring these spandex-clad older men. I can’t imagine sleeping in here with their eyes on me. Or sleeping in here, period.
“So,” says Leo.
“So,” I say. My heart is skittering again. I’m okay, I tell myself. I’m sixteen, which I consider old enough to make a mature decision about it. Leo’s seventeen. We’ve been dating for almost five months. I like Leo, really like him. I’m curious about what sex will be like. With Leo, like everything has been with Leo so far, it will probably be great.
“Do you want to listen to some music?” He reaches around me to turn on a speaker on the bedside table. Then he thumbs through his phone to find a soundtrack for the business at hand. The first song is about (you guessed it) having sex. It’s a little cringey, how Leo obviously googled the best songs to have sex to. I hope there’s not an entire playlist of sex songs.
Leo sits down next to me. We kiss. He buries one hand in the hair at the base of my neck, cradling my head. Kissing him is always so good. Delicious. I can’t define what he tastes like, exactly, but it’s not similar to any food or drink I know. Not sweet, but spicy isn’t right, either. He tastes like Leo. Which I like.
After a few minutes he pushes me gently back onto the bed. I hang on to his shoulders. Leo has broad, muscly shoulders, from the swimming. He’s a big guy—six three, solid, which is one other reason I like him. Leo being so big makes me feel smaller, in a good way.
His mouth is on my neck now. Goose bumps jump up along my arms. I tilt my head to give him better access. He moves to my ear. I predict he’s going to stick his tongue in there. He’s done that before, and I wasn’t really a fan. I turn so he won’t. Touch his face so I can pivot him back to my mouth. Kiss him again. Again. Exploring. Trying the different angles.
He moves on top of me, his large body stretching over mine. For a few seconds I feel smothered; he’s too heavy, squashing me, but then he shifts his weight onto his arms and I can breathe again. His body against mine is familiar, but the way he’s moving is new. The bulge—that solid bump that I know is his, uh, junk, what my mom would insist on calling his penis, because Mom refuses to be anything but technical and precise about naming things—presses against my thigh.
Oh god, I’m thinking about my mother. I squirm, and Leo pulls back. His face is so red it makes his eyebrows stand out against his skin, like furry caterpillars clinging to his forehead. It’s distracting.
“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles.
“You too,” I say automatically, and blush so hard it feels like my cheeks and neck have been scalded. Leo keeps kissing me and touching me, and I’m totally into it. At least my body is. My lower half seems to be transforming into hot liquid. There’s a knot of sensation building between my legs. But the further along we get, the closer to the actual sex that’s going to be happening any minute now, the more weirdly disconnected I feel. To the point where I can almost slip out of my body and float over us. See myself from the outside.
I’m wearing a red Harry Potter shirt from last year’s trip to Orlando. It reads “9¾” on the front. It’s childish—I can see that so clearly now—and unflattering, a size too big for me, because I prefer loose-fitting clothes. Leo is pulling this shirt up, exposing my very white, not-very-flat belly, and underneath he discovers a gray sports bra, which confounds him because it doesn’t have any kind of hook or clasp. My mind whirls trying to remember what panties I’m wearing. Hopefully not the plain white cotton with the hole in the butt, which I should have thrown away months ago, but they’re the most comfortable pair I own. Shit. It’s probably those. My hair is tangled around my head. My chest heaves behind the sports bra, which is dark in places, because I’m so sweaty.
From this vantage point, the one in my imagination—seeing as how my eyes are actually squeezed shut—I know I’m not beautiful. Leo only said that to try to make me feel sexy. So I would want to have sex.
I do want to have sex, don’t I?
Yes, I tell myself. Relax. This is fine.
But then Leo’s hand is on the button of my shorts, and my upper half turns to ice. Wait, I think. Wait, and then I almost knock heads with him as I try to sit up.
He examines my face. “Hey. Are you okay?”
I swipe at a strand of hair that’s clinging damply to my cheek. “I’m good. Sorry. Can we just take it slower?”
He nods. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
“Okay.” I lean in to kiss him again. We do that for a while, and the tension in my shoulders eases. He’s very good at kissing, and I’m not so bad at it, either. It’s not sloppy or teeth-banging. There’s just the right amount of tongue involved. His arms feel solid around me. His hand squeezing my breast is good. I try to touch him, too, running my hands along his back, his swimmer’s chest. Then lower.
“I love you,” he says then, softly.
My hand stills. He’s never said that before, the L-word. Neither of us have.
He says, “I should, uh, get some protection.”
I blink up at him. Somehow I’m lying down again, although I don’t know when that happened. “What?”
He spells it out for me. “A condom.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” How responsible of us.
He gets up and goes out of the room. I wonder where he’s going for this condom. Is he ransacking his mom’s bedside table? Or the bathroom, where he has a stash for situations such as these? Has he done this before? We haven’t talked about it. We really should have talked about it. At least then I would know what to expect.
I smooth my clothes back down over myself and take a steadying breath. The gray jersey sheets beneath me smell like fresh laundry detergent. I sit up. I’m surprised, actually, by how clean Leo’s room is. There are no piles of dirty laundry like you’d find on the floor of my room. The carpet even has vacuum lines in it.
How long has he been planning this? Did he wake up this morning thinking tonight’s the night? Did he tidy up and wash his sheets and hug his mom goodbye with a secret smile because he knew he was going to get laid? When all that time I was thinking that we were simply going to a movie this afternoon, then maybe we’d go back to his house, have dinner and talk art with Leo’s mom, stream a show. Most of our relationship consists of watching various things together. And making out while his mom isn’t looking.
But this.
It’s unfair of him, springing this on me. I would have dressed better if I’d known, done something with my hair. Picked different underwear, at least. Shaved my legs.
Oh god. I haven’t shaved my legs in days.
I glance around wildly like a razor is just going to magically materialize. Michael Phelps glares down at me from the walls. One of the posters reads, FEARLESS. If you want to be the best, you have to do things other people aren’t willing to do.
And Leo just said he loved me. Was he being serious? Did he mean love the way you can say, I love peanut butter cups? Or the real way? Was I supposed to say it back? I like him, yes, so much, but could I say I love him? I mouth the words “I love you,” and it feels fake. Maybe I could mean it in the peanut-butter-cup sense. But it’s too late to respond now, anyway. He said he loved me, and I didn’t say anything, and now we’re on to the sex.
This is happening. I’m about to have sex.
Leo returns. He holds up a foil packet triumphantly. “Okay, let’s do this.”
That’s when I know I can’t do this.
“Actually, let’s not.” I stand up, eager to get off the bed.
His smile fades. “What? What happened?”
“Nothing. I . . .” I choose my next words very carefully. “I just don’t want to go all the way. Not tonight. Okay?”
Now he looks like a little kid who’s opened his Christmas present to discover a sweater. “But why not?”
“I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. Sorry,” I tack on, and then hate myself for apologizing. I’m not supposed to be sorry. But I am.
Leo’s frowning, but he says, “All right. I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it, obviously.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Silence builds between us. A new song starts pouring out of the speaker, a song I know this time, a slow song by The Weeknd called “Earned It.” Over Leo’s shoulder I read another inspirational Michael Phelps poster. You can’t put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get.
Leo puts the condom on the bedside table. “So what do you want to do?”
I wouldn’t mind making out some more, but that could send a mixed message. Besides, my lower half is starting to ache, a tight but heavy, decidedly unpleasant feeling, like period cramps. I try to smile at him. “I don’t know. Maybe we could watch something?”
“Sure,” he says dully. “Whatever you want.”