A Quiet Kind of Thunder(63)

At first he is tentative, applying only the slightest amount of pressure (oh my God), and I can feel his nervousness in his kisses. I think about moving my own hand down and showing him, but I want this first time to be a moment of discovery that we share. So instead, I put my hand on him, just as tentative, just as nervous. He is hard, I can feel it, and oh my God oh my God this is a penis, this is a hard penis and I am about a millimetre of denim away from touching it for real.

And when I do – inching down his zipper, sliding my hand inside his boxers – it’s nothing like I expected. Despite its ‘hardness’, it feels oddly soft, the skin warm against my hand. I have no idea what I’m meant to do so I take it on instinct, cupping my hand round what I assume is the shaft and sort of . . . pumping it. I hear Rhys’s breath catch in his throat, his hand stills between my legs. About thirty seconds later, he pushes his head into my neck to stifle the noise he makes and suddenly my hand is covered in something hot and wet. It’s quite gross, to be honest. But good. That’s good, right? That means he . . . well. He got there. But, oh God, my hand is still just hanging around in his boxers. Am I meant to do something else? Is that the end?

I decide the best thing to do is just to pull out my hand smooth and fast, like that magic trick where the magician removes the tablecloth without knocking over all the crockery. And of course he doesn’t even notice, because now he’s lying on his back with his eyes closed, breathing hard, a broad grin on his face. I grab a tissue from my bedside cabinet and surreptitiously wipe at my hand. No one ever said this kind of thing would be so messy.

Rhys’s eyes open and he smiles at me, his face softer than I’ve ever seen it. I drop the tissue on the floor – needs must – and scooch closer to him. He cuddles me against his chest and I snuggle in, a wave of total happiness washing over me. I am in love with this boy, with his warm smile and kind eyes and his expressive hands that will one day do to me what I just did to him. And he is in love with me.

Jokes Tem made when I told her about my very first hand job

‘You’re a handy girlfriend to have.’

‘It sounds like you handled it well.’

‘It must have been hard for you . . .

. . . but well done for getting a good grip on it.’

‘Sounds like it was a bit touch and go.’

‘Would you call it a seminal experience?’

‘I can’t think of any more. PENIS!’





On Tuesday, Tem surprises me by turning up on my doorstep after 8 p.m., carrying a bottle of wine and a bag of mini doughnuts. The sarcastic bounce from the weekend has completely gone, and now she’s doleful. It doesn’t suit her, and I’m instantly worried.

‘I have woe,’ she says. She lets out a loud sigh. ‘Serious woe.’

I’ve already walked Rita, and I don’t fancy the long trek to the park, so Tem and I go into my garden and sit under the crab-apple tree. She opens the bottle, sips directly from the rim and passes it to me.

‘Where did you get this from?’ I ask, shaking my head and passing it back.

‘Oh fuck, I forgot you don’t like to drink,’ she says. ‘Are you sure you don’t just want a few sips? With me?’

‘Wine is disgusting,’ I reply. ‘No thanks.’ I watch as she lifts the bottle again, then reach out to take it from her. ‘OK, that’ll do for now. What’s up, then? Why the woe?’

‘Have a doughnut.’ She ignores my question and waves the bag under my nose. ‘I got custard ones, like you like.’

Obediently, I reach in and take one. I can feel the sugar, rough under my fingers in the dark. ‘Why do you always bring me food?’

‘Because I like you,’ she says.

I smile. ‘You know I’d want to hear about your woe even if you didn’t bring custard treats, right?’

I watch her face break into a smile, slightly crooked this time, as if it’s being weighted on one side. It’s not the full Tem smile I’m so used to, and it worries me.

‘Hey,’ I say softly. I reach out and put my sugary fingers on her knee. ‘What’s up?’

She’s quiet for another few moments, but I let the silence stretch out between us, letting her take her time.

‘I’m failing,’ she says finally. ‘At college.’

‘Oh,’ I say out loud, vocalizing my surprise. This was not at all what I’d expected her to say. In fact, I’d been so certain I’d hear the word ‘Karam’ I don’t even know what to say.

‘Yeah.’

‘Failing . . . what exactly?’ I ask carefully.

She shrugs, not looking at me. In the fading light, I can see a frown on her face. ‘The NVQ. We get like a mini-report thing in January so we can track our progress, and . . . well, mine’s just not that great, really. A distinct lack of progress. Mum called Dad and everything.’ Tem’s dad is in the Royal Navy, so he’s away from home for months at a time. ‘Mum Called Dad’ is Tem shorthand for ‘This Is Bad’.

I still don’t know what to say. ‘So what does that mean?’

‘That I have to try harder, I guess? I don’t know. It’s not like I’m slacking off on purpose or anything. It’s all just . . . hard. I thought that once I was studying something I was actually interested in it would be easier to concentrate. But it’s not. I start looking at sciency stuff and I just zone out.’