Beautiful Graves(10)

“I’m sure.” I tear the condom wrapper open with shaky hands, hoping I haven’t damaged the actual product.

I reach between us and roll it over him clumsily. He is bracing himself on top of me, his sculpted arms two columns bracketing my shoulders. We both watch my unsure fingers with fascination. It takes me four attempts, and even though we are both frustrated, neither of us says anything about it.

“Is it rolled all the way?” I ask.

“Feels good to me. Are you ready?” He catches my gaze. His eyes, dark blue with silvery dots, are his best feature.

“Yes.” I’m already quivering. “I’m ready.”

He presses home. For the first few seconds, we just hold each other, staring at one another. I think we’re both stunned.

“Is it always like that?” I whisper.

He knows exactly what I’m asking, because he shakes his head and says, “No, Ever. It’s never like that. This . . .” He dips his head, kissing the shell of my ear. “This is heaven. This is worthy of death.”

Our bodies get in sync. We move to the same soundless song. I’m tingling everywhere. Joe’s skin is a blanket of goose bumps. We’re lost in each other in what feels like forever. A gust of wind sweeps my hair across my face, and he blows it away, kissing me again and again and again.

“I think I’m coming,” I say. That’s a first. With a guy, anyway. But the friction feels so good, and he is hitting just the right spot inside me.

“Oh, thank fuck.” He drops his head to the crook of my neck, picking up speed. “So am I.”

We collapse in each other’s arms just as the sun peeks from the flat blue line of the Atlantic Ocean. Everything is pink, orange, and quiet.

That’s when we realize that there are no more thumps of music and chatter coming from the distance.

The party is over.

And so is my time with Joe.



“Sixteen-hour flight, huh?” Joe buttons his Levi’s. “That’s rough.”

I hate this. The small talk. This is my first dose of reality since I’ve met him again. And the reality is that I just had sex with a total stranger who saved me from drowning. Someone who is about to become a stranger yet again, in five minutes, after we’ve said our goodbyes.

“No big deal. I have my Kindle and my earbuds.” I shrug.

This is the part where I should suggest we exchange emails, or numbers, or Instagram handles. Anything. Have I learned nothing from the past two weeks? I’ve felt homesick toward this guy like he was a place, and now I’m going to let him walk away, just like that?

But something stops me. Pride? Fear? A combination of both?

I push my dress down my waist and collect the upper half of my hair into a messy bun.

“When’s your flight?” Joe shoves his feet into his sand-filled Chuck Taylors.

“Two in the afternoon. We’ll only have an hour once we get to El Prat Airport.”

“That’s plenty.” He flings his backpack across his shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m not worried.” I check my phone in my purse for missed calls. Sure enough, Pippa called me eleven times.

Mom sent a message. Miss you! See you home soon. I’m making your favorite casserole. x

I look up and smile at him tiredly. A part of me can’t wait to leave so I can finally cry, and a part of me doesn’t want to leave this spot. Ever.

“Well.” I salute him. “It’s been real.”

“Wait.” He tugs a Polaroid camera from his backpack, aims it at my face, and snaps a picture. It slides out of the camera’s mouth, a white block of indistinguishable shadows.

“Okay, that was creepy.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. I’m an axe murderer.”

“Now that you mention it, you do have that look,” I tease him.

He waves the picture back and forth, holding it by the edge. “I’ll walk you.”

Walk me? Why? Am I now incapable of walking a straight line by myself? My hackles hike up the more my mood goes down. I’m mad. Mad at my cowardice. Mad at the opportunistic Joe. Only I know he is not really opportunistic. He didn’t take advantage of me tonight. We hit it off and enjoyed a night of no strings attached. Pippa is right. Why must there be more?

“Don’t worry about it. I can see Pippa from here.” I point to the cluster of girls standing on the edge of the promenade, laughing as they rub at their own arms, braving the morning chill.

“Sounds good,” he says.

Sounds good? It sounds terrible. Stop me, dammit.

“So, uh, bye.” I turn around quickly, before he can see the tears in my eyes.

“Bye.” I hear his voice as I trudge my way to the boardwalk.

The first tear rolls on my neck, disappearing between the valley of my still-sore breasts. The second follows closely behind. I want to turn around. To run back to him. To lie and tell him I’d be okay if he wants to have his fun in Europe, as long as he comes back home to me in four months’ time. I realize it’s not even my pride I’m concerned about. It’s the fear of rejection that stops me from telling him how I feel. It’s pure unadulterated heartbreak. At least now, as I walk away toward the rest of my life, there’s a tiny part of me that still believes we stand a chance. That maybe he’ll look for me and somehow find me. I clutch onto this hope like a lifeline.