Select (Select #1)(63)

“Julia,” he said, pausing, and then he swore under his breath.

Instead of making a move to leave, like I was dreading, he bent his face to mine and kissed me softly. It took only a few seconds for the kiss to change. It deepened, and everything—two weeks of barely seeing each other, this awful night, our intense physical attraction to each other—began to find an outlet.

“Come with me,” I panted a few minutes later. John and I were in the entryway. Out in the open. Even though we were all alone, my instinct was to take him to the most private part of the house.

I led him through the kitchen to a back hallway with a pantry and a small wet bar and down some stone stairs.

“A wine cellar?” John looked at the hundreds of bottles of wine—useless to my father in a matter of months. I violently pushed the thought of the June departure from my head. Through the two small windows, you could see the rain sheeting down. The lights from outside combined with the moonlight lit the room just enough.

“Is this okay?”

“It’s perfect,” John said.

It could have been awkward at that moment, but the inevitability that hung in the air gave us confidence and momentum. There was a table below the two windows, and John must have already made a plan in his head as he led me to it. He picked me up and sat me on the table, my knees moving to either side of him as he stood in front of me.

Minutes went by. We’d stopped kissing, both breathing hard. We got to the point where John carefully held my face and looked me right in the eye. “Are you sure?” I tried not to think of any other girl whom he’d asked the same question.

“Positive. I want to.” It was more than physical attraction. I wanted to know John as well as I could, even if he wasn’t what I was supposed to want. I didn’t want to miss this.

I wanted badly to make fun of him when he reached into his back pocket and pulled a condom out of his wallet. That would come later, when I questioned him about whether he always had it there or he thought tonight would be the night. I could have looked into his mind, tried to see what he was feeling, but I gave him space. Especially right now. I refrained from saying a word, knowing enough to understand this was probably going to be the most romantic moment of my life and I shouldn’t even think about pushing it away, as hard as it was to just be present and feel it.

John, with all of his stupid experience, took over, and it was easy to stop thinking. Most of our clothes were off and we were soaked with sweat, and afterward we lay next to each other. Feeling so close to him, I rolled over and pushed my face into the crook of his neck, wondering if he could sense my smile. I’d always remember how I couldn’t stop smiling.

I propped my chin on his chest and we looked into each other’s eyes. One of John’s arms was trapped under my body and I tried to sit up to give it back to him, but he said “Not yet,” and continued to hold me close. His breath was still ragged. I rubbed my top leg flirtatiously over his leg that was tangled with mine.

“Stop!” he half joked. “I’m still recovering.” I felt such a rush, like I could do anything. I was thinking about that when John suddenly took my face in one hand so that I was looking at him.

“I love you.”





I deliberately walked in just as the bell rang.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at me as I sat down next to him in English on Monday morning.

“Hey,” I said softly. Our eyes held for a split second.

We spoke on the weekend, but it was small talk, mostly updates on how he was playing in his tournament. We didn’t refer to what happened in the wine cellar.

When he said “I love you,” my whole body had tensed, and it hadn’t been the same after that. We’d talked and kissed and lingered as we said good-bye in the drying, steaming driveway, but I’d never recovered.

All weekend I’d torn myself apart over what he’d said. It wasn’t because I worried he was becoming obsessed with me. My instinct told me that wouldn’t happen with John—his thoughts didn’t have that irrational quality—and it was only something that ever seemed to occur with Novak’s assistants. It was because I’d lied to myself that I had any control over a situation that had always been completely out of control.

As I sat next to him, eavesdropping on his thoughts, I learned he’d spent the weekend consumed with should-haves. Ultimately, he’d decided he didn’t regret saying it, and he wasn’t going to apologize for how he felt. At the same time he’d decided he wasn’t going to chase after me.

Knowing that he wasn’t sorry, that he stood behind how he felt, made it harder, because it made me want him even more.

Mrs. Bartell suddenly kneeled right next to my desk. She looked exhausted. She whispered conspiratorially, “I took my son to the doctor on Saturday, and they sent us straight to the ICU. We found out his heart is inflamed; it’s called myocarditis. Thank God we found out, because now we can give him the proper care. He should be okay.” She looked at me meaningfully and squeezed my hand. “I can’t thank you enough.” She stood and headed back to the front of the classroom.

I drew intricate circles on my paper as class started, trying to pretend Mrs. Bartell hadn’t rattled me. As class progressed I also tried to pretend I didn’t know what John was thinking. He was trying not to replay Friday night in his head, but he couldn’t stop himself. The clock said we had an hour before the period ended. He wanted to know how I would act when we had our first five minutes alone together since Friday night.