A Very Large Expanse of Sea(51)

Navid said, “You have fifteen minutes. You’re welcome,” and nudged Ocean into my bedroom.

Ocean was smiling, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed and laughed at the same time. “Your family is funny,” he said. “Navid dragged me up here because he said he wanted to show me the bench press in his room. Is that even a real thing?”

I nodded. But I was kind of freaking out.

Ocean was standing in my bedroom and I had not been prepared for this. Not at all. I knew Navid was trying to do me a favor but I hadn’t had a chance to tidy up my room, to make sure I didn’t have any bras lying around or, to, like, I don’t know, make myself seem cooler than I actually was, and I felt suddenly concerned that I had no idea what it would be like to see my bedroom through someone else’s eyes.

But Ocean was staring.

My small, twin bed was in the right hand corner of the room. The comforter was mussed, the pillows stacked precariously. A few pieces of clothing had been thrown haphazardly on my bed—a tank top and shorts I’d worn to sleep. My phone was plugged into its charger, and it sat on the little bedside table. On the opposite wall was my desk, my computer perched on top, a stack of books sitting next to it. There was a dress form in another corner of the room, a half-finished pattern still pinned to the body. My sewing machine was on the floor nearby, and an open box full of all my other supplies—many spools of thread, pins and a pincushion, envelopes of needles—sat beside it.

In the middle of the floor was a small mess.

A handful of Sharpies were lying on the carpet next to an open sketch pad, an old boom box, and a pair of my dad’s even older headphones. There wasn’t much on the wall. Just a few charcoal pieces I’d done last year.

I’d scanned the whole space in a few seconds, and decided it would have to do. Ocean, on the other hand, was still staring; his assessment was taking a lot longer. I felt anxious.

“If I’d known you’d be coming in my room today,” I said, “I would’ve, um, made it nicer.”

But he didn’t seem to hear me. His eyes were locked onto my bed. “This is where you talk to me at night?” he said. “When you’re hiding under your covers?”

I nodded.

He walked over to my bed and sat down. Looked around. And then he noticed my pajamas, which seemed to baffle him for only a second before he said, “Oh, wow.” He looked up at me. “This is going to sound so stupid,” he said, “but it’s only just occurred to me that you must take your scarf off when you get home.”

“Um. Yeah,” I said. I laughed a little. “I don’t sleep like this.”

“So”—he frowned—“when you’re talking to me at night, you look totally different.”

“I mean, not totally different. But kind of. Yeah.”

“And this is what you’re wearing?” he said. He touched the tank top and shorts on my bed.

“It’s what I was wearing last night,” I said, feeling nervous. “Yeah.”

“Last night,” he said quietly, his eyebrows raised. And then he took a deep breath and looked away, picking up one of my pillows like it might’ve been made of glass.

We’d been on the phone for hours last night, talking about everything and nothing, and just the memory of our conversation sent a sudden thrill through my heart. I didn’t know exactly what time it was when we finally went to bed, but it was so late I remember only a weak attempt at shoving my phone under my pillow before happily dissolving into dreams.

I wanted to imagine that Ocean was thinking what I was thinking: that he, too, felt this thing between us building with terrifying, breathless speed and didn’t know how or even whether to slow it down. But I couldn’t know for certain. And Ocean had gone quiet for so long I started to worry. He didn’t move from my bed as he scanned my room again, and my knot of nervousness grew only more wild.

“Too weird?” I finally said. “Is this too weird?”

Ocean laughed as he stood up, shook his head, and smiled. “Is that really what you think is going through my mind right now?”

I hesitated. Reconsidered. “Maybe?”

He laughed again. And then he glanced at the clock on my wall and said, “Looks like we only have a few minutes left.” But he’d come forward as he spoke. He stood in front of me now.

“Yeah,” I said softly.

He stepped, somehow, even closer to me. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of my jeans and I almost gasped and he pulled me tighter, pressed the lines of our bodies together and he leaned in, rested his forehead against mine. He wrapped his arms around my waist and just held me there, like that, for a moment. “Hey,” he whispered. “Can I just tell you that I think you’re really, really beautiful? Can I just tell you that?”

I felt my cheeks warm. He was so close I was sure he could hear my heart pounding. Our bodies seemed soldered together.

I whispered his name.

He kissed me once, gently, and lingered there, our lips still touching. My body trembled. Ocean closed his eyes.

“This is crazy,” he said.

And then he kissed me desperately, without warning, and feeling shot through my veins with a searing, explosive heat. I felt suddenly molten. His lips were soft and he smelled so good and my mind had filled with static. My hands moved from his waist and up his back, and, in an accidental, unrehearsed movement, they slipped under his sweater.