Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(51)

Maybe next time.

She smiles at me, and I smile back before pushing her farther into the couch cushions and following her down. We kiss again as our hands continue to explore, and finally—finally—I move my hands down to the waistband of her pants.

I undo the first button before she freezes.

I freeze too. “Is this okay?” I ask softly, trailing kisses over her chest.

She doesn’t say anything, and I pull back to look at her face, keeping my hands lightly stroking her arms, her sides … trying to figure her out.

She licks her lips. “I, um … I want to, I do. It’s just …”

I give her a quick kiss for encouragement. “Yeah?”

“I don’t have a lot of experience with this.”

I give her a little smile. “I’m oddly pleased to hear that.” And I am. I like the idea of Stephanie being … mine.

“You want to talk numbers?” I say teasingly, even though I’m half dying.

She licks her lips but doesn’t answer, and I realize I need to tell her that I’m not exactly experienced myself. It’s humiliating to admit, but I don’t have a lot of notches in my own belt. Olivia and I lost it to each other when we were sixteen. And unlike Olivia, I believe in fidelity.

“Well, is it less than one?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “Because that’s about the extent of my experience.”

She doesn’t answer, and the uneasiness doesn’t leave her face. Which doesn’t make sense, unless …

Holy hell.

“Stephanie, are you a virgin?” I say it as casually as possible, letting her know that either answer is okay.

Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I put a finger under her chin to force her to look at me. “What about David?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Never got that far.”

A little alarm bell is going off in my head. “What about the guy from high school? You said you guys were good before he …”

There it is. The terrified-rabbit look.

My hands still for a second in rage before I gather her toward me.

“Stephanie, that night when the bastard put something in your drink … was that your first time?”

Please say no. Please tell me the bastard didn’t rape you.

I’m so prepared for a black-or-white answer that it doesn’t occur to me that there’s a potential gray zone.

Her eyes find mine, and they’re filled with tears. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”





Chapter Seventeen


Stephanie


“You do know we’re only going to be gone for a couple of days?”

I glance over my shoulder. Ethan’s leaning against the door jamb of my bedroom, wearing blue plaid shorts and a coordinating blue polo. I swear to God, he’s more color coordinated than any of my girlfriends from high school.

I turn back to the bed, where I’m setting all my clothes into piles. It’s a blatant visual representation of the last couple of months: brightly colored piles for fake Stephanie, black piles for old Stephanie.

I fold a pair of freshly washed black pants and set it in the old-Stephanie pile. I frown a little as I realize I’ve stopped thinking about my old stuff as the real-Stephanie pile. Before meeting Ethan, I was so sure about who I was. But the thought of going back to the way I was—skulking around campus, studying film so I don’t have to interact with people …

It’s lost some of its appeal.

Ethan wanders into the room like he owns the place—which he does—and picks up a tiny pink thong with two fingers, raising an eyebrow. “Thought you didn’t like pink.”

I snatch it back. “Go play with your own underwear.”

“Not nearly as interesting,” he says as he inspects a pair of green polka-dot boyshorts.

I don’t bother to stop him, sensing that it’ll be a losing battle. Ever since that night on the couch, the mood between us has alternated between easy and loaded with sexual tension.

I’m still not sure what the hell happened. But I’m definitely sure how it ended.

To borrow his friend Andrea’s words, we definitely did not consummate.

He sits on top of the pile of clothes I’ve just finished folding and looks at me. He doesn’t say a word. Just studies me.

“What?” I snap.

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?” I’m not proud of playing dumb, but sometimes it’s reflexive.

“You know what.”

I take a deep breath and spend way too much time folding a pale yellow cardigan so I won’t have to look at him.

“I wrote an email,” I say finally. Quietly.

“Good.” His fingers brush along the back of my hand, and I take a long, shuddering breath.

“What if he doesn’t write back?”

I meet Ethan’s eyes then, and they hold the same gentle understanding that was there when I told him my secret.

That I don’t know whether or not I am a virgin.

I didn’t mean to tell him, or anyone. But then I got lost in his kisses and I wanted—needed—him to know.

And then I started talking …

The real kicker is that I didn’t want to go to that stupid party in the first place. I wanted to stay in the hospital with my mom.