When Everything Is Blue(57)

My face heats up. There are really no limits to what Chris will ask me.

“Butt sex?”

He chuckles a bit. Nothing gets Chris going like a little crude humor. “Yeah, Theo, butt sex.” He really accentuates the word butt.

I lick my lips, unable to wipe the giddy smile off my face I get whenever the topic of sex comes up between us. Feels like I’m sucking on helium. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t have a super strong connection. We only knew each other for like, a month.”

Chris is quiet for a moment, and then, “Do you want to have butt sex with me?”

I laugh, a nervous little giggle, and steal a glance. Chris looks pretty serious about it. It’s difficult to have this conversation and still pay attention to the road. “Um, yeah,” I say when I’ve recovered.

“Really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I don’t know. A couple months ago, you’d never even kissed a girl, and now you’re like this sex-crazed horndog.”

I shake my head at how quickly the tables are turned. Suddenly I’m the horny one, not him. “You’re the one who brought it up, Chris. I can’t help my hormones. And you’re still the only person I’ve ever kissed.”

“Yeah?” He sounds pleased with that.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

We drift off into silence. Chris stares out the window, and I concentrate on my driving. But the cat’s out of the bag, only in this case, it’s butt sex. He never told me how he feels about it. Chris got me to show my cards without revealing his own hand. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him, but I’m afraid he’ll say no. Or he’ll feel like he has to say yes and I won’t be able to tell the difference. Does he think I’m a slut because I want to have sex with him? Maybe he’d rather wait, but now there’s this pressure to act. We can wait if that’s what he wants. I just want him to be my first, whenever the time comes. I know him better than anyone else, and most importantly, I trust him.

When we get back to our houses, Chris tells me to come up because his parents won’t be home for a couple of hours and he wants to make out with me. He says it so directly that I stutter and blush and get really tongue-tied. I would never in a million years say something like that, even to him. I guess that’s why we work.

“Is Paloma home?” I ask him as we’re walking up his driveway. Her hours are pretty irregular. On the weekends when they travel, she house-sits and doesn’t work at all during the week. I’ve never had a housekeeper before, so I don’t know what’s normal, but ever since Chris became old enough that he didn’t need someone to watch him or drive him places, Paloma pretty much sets her own schedule and does whatever she thinks will help out the most. I think Chris’s parents feel bad about being gone so much, and they like having Paloma around to keep Chris company.

In response to my question, Chris shrugs. “If she is, I’ll shut my door.”

I follow him inside. We say hi to Paloma and tell her the food she’s cooking smells delicious. Chris asks her what’s for dinner, and she gives him the rundown of the roast chicken and sides in somewhat excessive detail. It’s this whole exchange between them. I can practically see Chris salivating over it. Paloma loves the way he eats, as does my own mother. Chris asks if she’s going to make “the flaky biscuits,” and they have this whole back-and-forth about which specific biscuit he means. I can tell they’re both loving it, Chris because he gets to go into further detail about food, and Paloma because she loves the way he appreciates her cooking. She has all kinds of pet names for him—Christiano (the Spanish version of his name), Rubito (blondie), and my favorite, Gordito (little fatty). Finally they reach a consensus on which biscuits will be prepared for tonight’s feast, and by now I’m about to beg for a seat at the table because my mouth’s watering as well.

On our way upstairs, I tease Chris about his food fetish.

“I could listen to Paloma talk about food all day long,” he says.

“You have no idea how spoiled you are, Gordito.”

He grins. “I have some idea.”

In his room, he shuts the door and turns on some music—this weird electronica I’ve dubbed “Club Mario Kart.” Maybe he wants it to sound like we’re playing video games. I don’t have time to be nervous because he heads straight for me like a shark, bumps me with his chest until I’m backed up to the edge of his bed. Once there, he peels back the collar of my shirt to inspect his handiwork.

“I still can’t believe I did that,” he says, but he seems a little excited by it. I’ve looked at the mark several times since he gave it to me, even poked at it to feel the bruise. Evidence of his mouth on my skin.

With his finger, he traces up my neck, along my jaw, stopping to turn my chin toward him. He stares at me with a look I’ve come to recognize—dewy eyes, parted lips, heavy breathing. I like the way lust looks on Chris, especially knowing it’s for me.

“The first time I saw you,” he says as he nuzzles his nose against mine.

“Yeah?” I curl my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and lean down to kiss just below his ear, breathing in his beach-salt skin, tangy with sweat. I take deep breaths, letting his scent wash over me, thrilled and amazed that this is happening and I’m allowed to do this. I’m making out with my boyfriend. The rest of the world could be crumbling outside our window, but in this room at this moment, life is fucking fantastic.