The Best Laid Plans(92)
He takes a long time to answer, like even now the words are hard for him to admit. “It’s not a race, Collins.”
“Are you sure?” Because that’s how it’s felt so far—like high school is one big competition and I’m the one losing.
Just then, I feel a heavy arm on my shoulder, the familiar smell of aftershave and tobacco that once made me so giddy, and I know that it’s Dean. Andrew’s expression hardens and he stands up a little bit straighter, and I bristle, because there it is in action: there’s the overprotective brother.
“What are you two fighting about now?” Dean asks, and the question makes me sad. Andrew and I have disintegrated so much—our friendship is so strained—that Dean assumes we’re probably fighting about something. And even though Dean is the reason for it, it’s my fault really. I was the one who couldn’t be honest with myself, who couldn’t be honest with Dean. I was the one who decided to risk my friendship with Andrew instead of telling Dean the truth. I’m the one who messed everything up.
“We’re not fighting,” Andrew says. Even though he’s admitted his secret to me, I can tell he still doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Oh thank God,” Dean says, his tone flat and sarcastic. He nuzzles his face into my neck, tickling my skin with his nose. “It’s getting pretty boring here. You want to head up to the room?”
I know I should answer Dean, but I can’t look away from Andrew. His cheeks are red from our fight, and he’s breathing hard. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and he looks, suddenly, so young, like the little boy I used to tell everything to.
And all I want to do is comfort him, even though I’m the reason he’s upset in the first place. I want to leave everything behind—leave this ballroom, leave Dean, leave Prescott, and just be with him, just hold on to him and never let him go. But it’s too late for that.
I know suddenly what his grand gesture is going to be. I know why he and Danielle got a room tonight. He’s going to tell her he loves her and then he’s going to sleep with her for the first time. His first time.
So I have to let him go.
I turn around and face Dean, placing my hands on either side of his chin and pulling his face toward mine. Then I kiss him like there’s nobody else around—like we’re already up in the room. I kiss him like it’s a promise. When I pull back, I can see his pupils have dilated.
“Yeah, let’s head up to the room,” I say, my voice scratchy.
He begins to lead me away and I let him, following him toward the exit. I don’t want to look back at Andrew, but I can’t help it and at the last second I turn and look behind me, afraid of what I’ll see on his face.
But he isn’t there anymore. I don’t know when he left. Maybe it was a long time ago.
THIRTY-TWO
THE ROOM IS beautiful. It’s everything you’d expect in an old hotel—dark wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, a red carpet and plush armchair, a fireplace with a coat of arms over it like we’re no longer in Vermont but in some European castle far, far away. Best of all (though it doesn’t feel that way right now) there’s a giant four-poster bed.
Dean heads directly for the bed, pulling me with him. The sheets feel like they’re made of butter, like you could melt into them. It’s like we’re in a movie—this is exactly the moment I wanted it to be. It’s exactly the right time.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Dean kisses me and I kiss him back but then pull away and slide a few feet away from him, so there’s a respectable space between us on the bed.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I say, because I need to fill the silence.
“No problem,” he says. Then he breaks into a smile and I can see the joke forming behind his eyes. “I’ll come with you all night.”
I try to laugh, but I feel a bit dizzy and the sound doesn’t come out quite right. I can still hear the thumping bass of the music coming from downstairs, but everything is muffled. Dean reaches over and takes my hand in his and I remember when that feeling, his skin on mine, was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I want that feeling back.
“Are you having a good time?” I ask, trying to stall.
“I’m having a good time now,” he says. “Now that we’re alone.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, resting his warm palm against my cheek. “This is what prom is about, isn’t it? You and me? It’s not about that other shit. That other shit is what we have to deal with to get to this.”
“That other shit—those are my friends.”
“Are they, Keely? Are you sure? You’re better than that.”
Sometimes it feels like Dean is telling me things he wants to be true, not things that actually are. What makes me any better than the other girls at school? Why me, Dean? Is it just because I’m a challenge?
An image flashes through my mind of Andrew and Danielle dancing downstairs, wrapped up in each other, his hands gripping her like he’s scared she’ll float away. That’s what Andrew wants. So this is what I want. It has to be.
And maybe it’s better like this. I wanted to get my first time out of the way with someone I didn’t have feelings for. Now here we are. The girls who have it right are the ones like Ava—who sleep with whoever they want just because they want to. You can’t shame girls for liking sex just because you don’t, Andrew said to me once. And he’s wrong, because I can like casual sex too. So what if he’s about to have a moment, if he waited for the girl he loves? I’ve waited long enough.