It’s been almost two months since he first moved in and in that time, I’ve become strangely attached to him. I yearn for the sight of him walking to and from his apartment. The other day, we arrived home at the same time and he held the gate open for me. I chanced a quick look at his face as I passed his outstretched body, my world nearly bottoming out when the sun caught his sooty black lashes and guarded blue eyes. I wanted to run inside, steal my mom’s watercolors, and immortalize his face on canvas. I didn’t, because I know my artistic limits—I think I’m just about the only person in history that Bob Ross would give up on. Instead, I flopped back on my bed, squeezed my pillow to my chest, and daydreamed about him for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t such a smart move. I ended up accidently falling asleep, which allowed my conscious dreams to morph into sleepy fantasies.
We have less day-to-day interaction than I would have predicted. Apparently, law school keeps you busy. My mom routinely invites him over for dinner, but he rarely accepts her invitations. Now, after my ill-advised midnight visit to his apartment, his appearance in our dining room has dropped off altogether. I suppose he’s purposely avoiding me, and I wonder why. First of all, neither of us is guilty of doing anything wrong. Even if we were to do something “wrong”—the thought awakens butterflies in my stomach—it wouldn’t even be illegal. I looked it up, and the age of consent in Louisiana is 17.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. More than anything, I’d just love to hear his unfiltered thoughts about me. He’s an adult man, but he’s not so far removed from being in high school. With that kind of perspective, I’d at least like to know what he thinks of me, if he finds me attractive at all.
“You need to go.”
The memory of his strained words reignites my imagination. In my reveries, he’s burning with the restrained urge to kiss me, to sneak up to my room late at night when my parents are asleep. I flush thinking of how many times I’ve gone over this particular scenario. There have even been a few desperate moments when the floorboards in the hallway creak and I bolt up in my bed, anticipating that he’s about to gently knock. Sometimes in my fantasies, there is no knock—he doesn’t bother asking if he’s allowed to come in, too caught up in his need. Those fantasies are darker and I hold them close to my heart. I’m scared that I shouldn’t be thinking such things. I should probably stop reading the romance books Rose gives me.
Rose says half the girls in our grade have already had sex, but I can’t believe it. I’ve never even been kissed, but Rose has. She tells me everything she does with the boys she dates, and I take it in with hungry ears. It all sounds scandalous and wrong. I swallow all the questions on the tip of my tongue. How does it feel? Aren’t you nervous when he touches you there? Aren’t you scared that you’ll get caught?
I can hardly imagine letting Beau touch me beneath my underwear, let alone kiss me there. Rose says it feels good, that some guys treat it like an art form, but I don’t believe her. I can’t imagine ever being able to relax enough to let it feel good. Sometimes in the shower, I close my eyes and let my hand trail down my body. I skim along the groove of my thigh, getting closer to brushing across the sensitive skin between my legs, but I always chicken out, too prudish, too scared I won’t like it—or worse, that I will.
Maybe I’ll be more inclined to experiment now that I have more…specific inspiration, but what if I find that my hand isn’t enough, or that the brush of my fingers will always leave me wanting more? What happens when I find that Beau’s touch is the only thing that will sate me? What then?
SHUT UP! I urge my brain. It doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid crush on the first older guy to ever give you the time of day. You don’t need to turn into a masturbation philosopher over it.
Guard your heart, Beau said.
Okay, but how?
And from what, exactly?
THE SATURDAY I’M due to tour the LSU campus, I’m sitting at our kitchen island, scarfing down my cereal as quickly as possible. The day has been fully planned for weeks. I’m heading up to Baton Rouge with Rose and her parents. We’re going to tour the campus, tailgate before the LSU home game, and then stay the night in a hotel near the stadium.
They’re due to arrive any minute.
Even though my parents are still pushing me toward the Ivies up north, they agree that I should consider all my options. If I attended LSU, I would get in-state tuition (something my parents should care about) and I’d only be an hour away from home (yet another thing they should care about), but my mom insists that she doesn’t want to hold me back just to keep me close. She went to school up north, away from her parents, and she says it was one of the most important things she did for herself. It gave her room to grow and cultivate her passion for art.
My mom’s voice carries into the kitchen before she appears in the doorway, concern written across her features. Her hazel eyes meet mine and she frowns. “No, of course, Catherine. Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out. I hope Michael heals up quick. Okay. Yes. I’ll tell her. Speak soon. Bye.”
“Was that Mrs. Delacroix?” I ask.
She walks over to the island and grimaces like she’s about to give me bad news. “Apparently Rose’s little brother took a little spill on his bike this morning. They’re taking him in now for x-rays to make sure nothing is broken.”
“Oh no!”
“She doesn’t think it’s too serious, but they’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“I hope he’s okay.”
She nods in agreement, and then she broaches the next subject. “Unfortunately, that means they won’t be taking you and Rose to tour LSU today. Apparently Rose is with them at the hospital right now.”
Crap.
Of course.
I furrow my brows. “There’s no way you or Dad could take me?”
“We have that charity luncheon. I’d skip it, hon, but I’m one of the co-chairs.”
It shouldn’t be a big deal. There are a hundred other weekends I could go for the tour, but still, my heart sinks. I glance back down at my cereal, wondering if it’s worth even asking if I could drive myself. I have my license and I’m an okay driver, but my parents have already said they aren’t comfortable with me taking a road trip that far by myself. I think they’re being overprotective, but I’m not going to go down that road right now. They aren’t going to budge.
She sets her phone down on the counter and taps her finger beside it for a few seconds before her eyes widen and she whips around. “You know what? Beau is headed toward Baton Rouge to visit his mom today, so let me ask if he’s up for dropping you off.”
“Mom—”
I don’t even have the chance to intervene before she’s headed out the back door, coordinating my transportation like I’m a child. I want to tell her not to bother since there’s no way he’s going to say yes.
Except he does.
Apparently, it took all of five minutes for my mom to convince him and concoct a game plan. I’ll be going with Beau to visit his mom and after, he’ll drop me off at the rally point for the LSU tour. After the charity luncheon, my parents will meet me in Baton Rouge and we’ll still attend the LSU football game and stay the night. I’m getting everything I wanted; I should be happy. I should be, but I’m too nervous to think about happiness at the moment.
I’m sitting in the cab of Beau’s truck as far from him as the bench seat will allow. We’re heading down I-10, a few minutes outside of New Orleans, and he hasn’t said a word to me since I hopped in back at my parents’ house.
It’s clear that he’s less than enthused to have me with him. I don’t know why he bothered saying yes, unless my mother somehow bribed him. I remember the lawn care-rent arrangement, and the thought makes me cross my arms a little tighter over my chest. What if she paid him?!
“Are you cold?” he asks, glancing over at my cutoff jean shorts before reaching for the air conditioning.
“Oh! No, I’m okay.”
He nods and lets his hand fall back to the steering wheel.
Another few minutes pass and I sneak peeks over at Beau as often as possible. Like a grade-A creepazoid, I’ve found that I can covertly stare at his faint reflection in the glass of the windshield, and it just appears as if I’m supremely interested in the passing scenery. He’s wearing a Tulane Law t-shirt and my favorite—pardon me, his favorite—pair of jeans. The dark denim hugs his muscled thigh every time he presses down on the clutch to shift gears.