My Last Continent: A Novel(61)
WE’RE AT A winery in the tiny town of Rocheport—Chad and me, his friends Paul and Heather—less than half an hour from the university. The trees are on fire, bursting in shades of red and orange, and we’d arrived this afternoon, with enough light and warmth in the air to walk through the historic little town and around the vineyard, where we’d settled in to sample the wines.
It was supposed to be an afternoon getaway, but now, having just opened a fourth bottle as the sun sets over the Missouri River in the valley below, I’m wondering when we’ll get back to Columbia. And, to my own surprise, I don’t really care.
Chad and I have been sleeping together for about a month, and this is the first time we’ve gone anywhere beyond a mile of campus. Chad is a grad student in the print journalism program, a few years older than I am. We’d met in our photography class a couple months earlier, at the beginning of the semester. I’d registered for the class because it fulfilled an art requirement; he did it to learn enough to photograph his own stories. I was instantly drawn to his unshaven, dog-eared good looks; he doesn’t have the polished, preppy look and attitude so many of the undergraduate guys have. He’s smart and ambitious, which I like—and, as a budding journalist, he’s always picking fights with local politicians about things I care about, like logging in the Ozarks, though I sense for him it’s more about getting a good story than actually changing the world. Chad writes for the local newspaper, reporting on everything from city council meetings to local art lectures, and he’s been inviting me along to some of the cultural events—film screenings, dance performances, readings by visiting writers. Though I might insist to Pam that I don’t have a boyfriend, I’ve enjoyed the chance to experience a world outside of dirt and birds and sweat.
Before Chad, my sex life had been limited to a boy from Science Club in high school and a few short-lived, drunken flings with fraternity guys. But with Chad, I discovered the liquid-body pleasures of sex, the addictive and all-consuming nature of it. Being desired was, for me, an unfamiliar sensation, an exhilarating one, and it didn’t matter that we didn’t have much of a relationship outside the bedroom. We’d see each other in class, and we’d go out on the occasional photo shoot together, and all of it led to the same place—the tiny room in his apartment, which he shares with two other grad students who are never around.
And Rocheport, despite being a last-minute plan, feels like a step forward for Chad and me—spending the day with another couple, in a romantic spot. After class that morning, Chad had mentioned it casually, suggesting it might be a good place to get some photos—the river, the vineyard—and it would only take a few hours. I’d looked at him in the autumn morning light, wanting to touch the hair at the back of his neck, to feel the curve of his cheekbone under my fingertip, and within an hour we were climbing into the back of Paul’s car.
It wasn’t long before I relaxed in a way I rarely allow myself, letting the day unfold, enjoying the unscripted moments. Chad’s arm around me as we walked through town. The effects of the wine, which smoothed away my concerns about having skipped a class that afternoon. The sensations of experiencing a part of life that I’ve never known and that was so remote it felt almost fictional—as if we were playing the roles of ourselves years into the future, grown-ups on a weekend getaway. And as the fourth bottle is opened and poured amid our laughter and slurring voices, I know we won’t be going home tonight.
When Chad excuses himself to find the bathroom, I get up, too. Though I’ve only had a couple of glasses, I rarely drink and find myself wavering, grabbing his arm for support.
“I take it we’re not going back tonight?” I say.
“Yeah, no way Paul can drive,” he says with a laugh. “We’ll stay in town. It’s on me.”
“So you planned it this way.” I squeeze his arm, pleased.
He squeezes back. “It was Paul’s idea. Don’t tell Heather.”
He hadn’t thought of me at all. I drop his arm. “I hope he doesn’t mind getting up early,” I say snappishly. “I have to be at work at six-thirty tomorrow.”
He laughs again. “Don’t worry so much.” He puts his arm around me. “Let’s just have some fun.”
Back at the table, Chad raises his glass toward mine, as if to make sure all is copacetic between us, and I clink my glass against his. By the time I finish the glass, my head is pleasantly spinning, and it no longer matters that this overnight wasn’t Chad’s idea; we’re here, together, and that’s enough.
We make it back to town, where the guys had gotten rooms at an inn that used to be a schoolhouse. In the four-poster bed with Chad, I let go of all lingering thoughts; it’s just us and the soft cool sheets beneath our bodies, the slight creak of the bed as I take in the heat of his body and sink deeply into the warmth of my own. We’ve never spent a whole night together, and I soften into the curve of his arm before falling asleep.
The next morning, I wake with a headache. Chad is sprawled on the other side of the bed, his back to me, and I doubt he’ll move for hours. It’s almost seven already, and my headache sharpens as I remember. Pam.
There’s a phone on a little desk across the room, and I wrap myself in one of the inn’s robes as I dial Pam’s number, catching her in the office.