The Best Laid Plans(93)
Dean uses our clasped hands to pull me closer on the bed and I let him, leaning over to kiss him like it’s everything that I want. His breath tastes like champagne and risotto, and the smell of his aftershave wraps me up. I’m trying to find the feeling I once had while kissing him—trying to find the swoop in my stomach. But it isn’t there. His tongue is just a tongue—slimy and wet. The stubble on his face feels scratchy against my cheek.
It’s funny how things work out, how everything flipped upside down and in the end I still got what I wanted: sex with a guy that didn’t have to mean anything at all. It turns out the Plan wasn’t such a bad idea after all; I just had the wrong guy in mind to do it.
Dean deepens the kiss and pulls me against him, threading his hand through my hair and pulling just a bit, just enough that I know he’s into this. My eyes are closed and I let myself pretend for just a moment that he’s Andrew instead, let myself envision the honey color of his hair, his smattering of freckles, his green eyes. I haven’t kissed Andrew since I realized I love him, and I get light-headed at the thought of it.
Dean moves his hand down the side of my neck and then to the zipper at my back, trying to get it loose. I reach back and help him, because I want this too. I slide down the zipper and then stand up so he can peel the green dress off me. We leave it in a pool on the floor. Dean unbuttons and takes off his shirt and undershirt, and then I’m looking right at the tan muscles of his chest and they’re mine if I want them, and I do. I run my hands down him, and he sucks in a sharp breath as I reach the V of muscle above his belt. He’s so beautiful—his dark eyelashes, the hard edges of his cheekbones. I could cry because I should want this so much—anyone would want this.
I wonder if Andrew and Danielle have left the ballroom yet, if they’ve wandered up to their own room, their own four-poster bed. I can see him now—pulling her down the hallway, both of them giddy and laughing. He’s pushing her up against the wall because he can’t wait until they get to the room. Andrew always did like kissing girls against the wall. I’ve seen him do it so many times at so many parties, so why wouldn’t he be doing that now?
I can see him fumbling with the key to the room, Danielle clucking impatiently, then taking it herself, opening the door and pulling him into the dark, stripping off the layers of his clothes until he’s all skin.
I reach for Dean’s belt buckle and work it open and then he lifts his hips and pulls down his pants, kicking them into some corner of the room. Once they’re off and we’re in just our underwear, he rolls his body onto mine and lies down, pressing me into the mattress.
My mind flashes to the last time I was in this position, a boy on top of me pressing me into a mattress strewn with flowers; how I felt more alive than I ever expected to feel with a boy who was just a friend, only a friend.
Dean reaches out toward my underwear and I pull away from him.
“Let me get a condom.” I sit up, feeling light-headed at the rush of it, and bend over to find my purse.
“You brought a condom?” he asks.
I reach into my purse and rummage around, cursing myself for not cleaning the junk out of it before I took it to prom. It’s still littered with old tissues, gum wrappers, and ticket stubs from movies I went to see months ago, and somehow the condom has gotten lost in the mess.
“If you can’t find it, no biggie,” Dean says. “I’ve got a bunch.”
“I’ve got it.” I dump the purse upside down onto the bed, and everything tumbles out, a tube of lipstick that my mom made me bring, my phone, a cracked pair of sunglasses, and the little square wrapper. I reach out for it but my hand stops on something else—a white cardboard square, rough around the edges. I flip it over and my breath hitches. It’s a card, one I don’t remember getting, one I must have been carrying around in my bag and never noticed. It has a Ninja Turtle drawn on it in Sharpie, a bunch of silly cartoon hearts. And then, in Andrew’s scratchy writing: Happy Birthday. I love you more than pizza.
It’s just like the valentine he sent to Danielle so many years ago, back in middle school. The one she didn’t understand. What is this doing here? When did he slip it into my bag? Why hasn’t he said anything? Did he make this for me?
“Did you find it?” Dean asks, coming up behind me and resting his head on my shoulder. “What are you looking at?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, closing my hand around the card. I don’t want him to see it, because even if I don’t understand it, it’s wonderful and private and mine.
I love you more than pizza.
It doesn’t add up—none of it makes sense. Danielle doesn’t like Ninja Turtles, or pizza, or climbing trees, or riding her bike. She doesn’t like skating on the lake in the winter, sledding down the big hill at turbo speed. She’s not the one Andrew calls when he’s upset, not the one he lies with in the hammock in his backyard, looking up at the stars. Maybe she’s the one he kissed at a New Year’s party, but she’s not the one he made sure to spend the night with, not the one whose room he ended up in. The pieces don’t fit. I can’t forget the way he looked at me when he told me he was in love, the way he held my hand, how I thought for that brief moment that maybe he was going to say my name.
“I have to go,” I say, stuffing everything back into my bag. I stand up and step into the circle that my dress has made on the floor, pulling it up and over me so quickly that I’m already dressed before Dean makes a move to stop me. If there’s a chance—if there’s one small chance Andrew could love me back, how can I possibly go through tonight without finding out?