Planets moved in their orbits. Dawn broke in the United Kingdom. A car door slammed like a typewriter key.
I looked up at his face. He was already looking at mine.
When was the last time the man who’d just f**ked me wanted to see my face after he came?
Neither of us blinked or seemed to breathe. He was still inside me, soft now. I didn’t know what to do. They usually pulled out immediately, or I disengaged and started looking for my clothes. I couldn’t move, trapped under him.
He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.
Oh god. Please don’t say something cheesy. Please don’t talk.
He leaned in and kissed me.
I could deal with this. I closed my eyes, kissed him back. An aimless, unhurried kiss, not wanting anything from him now. As he kissed me he pulled out, gentle. I made a little sighing sound. He tucked his dick into his fly, leaving the condom on. His eyes moved over my body but now, opposite of earlier, they lingered on my face.
Panic.
He was looking at me like he knew me. Not in the Biblical sense—obviously we were past that—but in a you-are-more-than-a-quick-fuck sense.
I sat up, forcing myself to reach casually for my clothes. Underwear up. Bra on. I couldn’t get into my shorts without almost kicking him in the face, which made him laugh, and grab my leg, and rub his cheek against my calf. I tried not to let the prickle of his stubble send fireworks through my nervous system, but you try arguing with dopamine receptors.
The car smelled like bleach and sweat, that magical sex musk that isn’t so magical after it’s all over.
How the hell was I going to get out?
The pony stared at us lugubriously from the dashboard. Jesus. Little f**ker had watched the whole thing.
“Maise.”
My spine crackled when he said it. I pretended to find something interesting in the side mirror. “Yeah?”
“Just trying it out.”
Would it be too rude to open the door right now?
Fingertips grazed my forearm, the fine peach fuzz there. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Maise.”
I turned to him. I guess that’s all he wanted—to say my name and get a response. He tilted his head, that otherworldliness shimmering in him. God, he was a beautiful man. And he was so nice to me. And I had to get out of his car before I choked.
“Hey,” I said with forced cheer, “I’ve got an idea.”
His eyebrows rose hopefully.
“I’m going to see if there’s anyone left to bribe at the Gravitron.” I made myself smirk. “You should get cleaned up. Meet me there?”
I’m a pretty good liar. Key skills: eye contact, confidence, not caring about the outcome.
But here was the problem. Somehow, in the two or three hours since I’d met him, Evan had gotten to know me well enough to see through the bullshit. Maybe he heard some undetectable crack in my voice, saw a furtive glint of desperation in my eyes. Because instead of joking or blushing or anything normal, he looked at me like I’d just said I never wanted to see him again.
Nevermind that that was exactly what I was saying.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Key skill: followthrough.
“Great,” I said, and leaned in to peck his cheek.
He grabbed my jaw, holding my face still. My heart thumped like a vampire kicking his way out of his coffin.
Evan just looked at me. He ran his thumb over my mouth, my cheek, as if he was memorizing them, knowing it was the last time he’d see them.
I didn’t have the heart to give him a fake kiss. I lowered my head and got out of the car.
My bike was chained to the cyclone fence behind the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was quiet inside save for a few drunk carnies messing around with the strongman hammer. I swung onto my seat, wincing at the sweet burn between my legs. God f**king dammit. I had to stand to pedal out of the tall grass and dirt, and of course every push reminded me of what I’d just done and how good it had felt and how bad I felt now.
Yeah, I hook up with older guys. And then I leave them, before they can leave me.
Thanks for the abandonment issues, Dad. Fuck you very much.
When I reached the blacktop my eyes were blurry. It was just the wind. Really, it was.
—2—
Mission: Remake Myself.
The movie cliché is to cut off my hair. Well, f**k that. Not too many Irish girls can boast about dark silky tresses.
I’m also not going to buy a whole new wardrobe (broke), get a pet (can’t support a dependent), a boyfriend (see previous), or a makeover (Mom’s whorepaint inspires me to stay au naturel).
What I am going to do:
Delete all the numbers in my phone. No more skeezy geezers, no more high school skanks who think talking to me means we’re friends, or that we are even in the same genus.
Apply for college. This has nothing to do with Evan asking me about it.
Face my fears, at least one per month. I’ve already done my duty for August. In September, I’ll tell Mom she has a drug problem. If I make it to October, clowns.
Get a job. Don’t expect Mom to give a flying f**k that I want to go to college, or to have any idea what I’ll need.
Stop using men. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
Maybe see that psychologist again. Or one who doesn’t have such a bunny fetish.
Live, instead of numbing myself to life, like Mom.
Stop thinking about Evan.
They made me register for classes late because O’Malley technically starts with an O, not an M. Which meant everything I wanted to take was gone by the time I sat down with the registrar.