Marianna Baer - Frost

“Isn’t telling her not to do something the worst approach?” I said. “The more you tell her not to be with Whip, the more she’ll push it with him. Right?”

“That’s your assessment?” David said. “Reverse psychology. Very tricky.”

I took my hand off his arm. “Don’t be such a jerk. I’m just trying to help. If you want to know the truth, I don’t really feel like being in the middle of this sibling drama. But I don’t want to see you getting all upset at each other, either, especially when you might just be being overly protective.”

David looked out toward a bell clanging in the fog on the water.

“She likes to do the unexpected,” I said. “It’s too obvious for her to date some artistic, emo guy.”

“I don’t need you to tell me about my sister,” David said.

“Then why do you ask me about her all the time?” I pushed by him and opened the bar door, my eyes burning. Before going inside, I said one last thing in his direction. “Do what you want. Go down there and beat him up. That should help things.”

“So you think I should just do nothing?” he said. He sounded not mad, but genuinely upset.

“David,” I said. “You know that Celeste survived three years at Barcroft without you. I think the best thing you can do is to leave her alone and concentrate on your own life.”

He stared out at the low clang-clang-clang of the bell. The neon sign cast a soft, red glow on his face.

“What happened to all of that energy?” I said. “The energy that was going to go toward something other than worrying about her?”

“The energy?” he said, looking back at me.

“Yeah. In the car, remember? Where’d it go?” I tilted my head. “If you find it, I’ll be inside.”

WE ALL STUMBLED INTO the Parker-Whites’ town house sometime after two a.m. Celeste disappeared up the elevator immediately, alone. Whip had gone back to Manhattan.

“Hungry, hungry, hungry,” Abby said. “How can I be so hungry?”

We moved en masse to the kitchen. Usually, I’d have been psyched to raid the pantry, but my stomach was too tied up to eat much. After our little … conversation outside the bar, David hadn’t gone to find Celeste and Whip; he’d come inside right after me, and had sat close and apologized and touched me in the ways that are socially acceptable in public—hand on knee, arm across shoulders, foot on foot. It had all been suggestive of more to come, and now here I was, confronted with a whole night in front of us, and nothing stopping us from spending it together.

Eventually, Viv and Cameron went upstairs.

“Want to watch a movie?” Abby said.

“Nah,” I said. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

David stood up and stretched his arms over his head, showing his stomach. “Me too.”

“Your loss,” Abby said.

Should I follow David to his room? I wanted to just as badly as I didn’t want to. We padded up the stairs next to each other. When he turned off to go to his room on the third floor, I hesitated a minute.

“So,” I said. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it is New York. Right? City that never sleeps?” He raised his eyebrows in an expectant look. An adorable, expectant look.

“I’ll be right down,” I said, sounding more sure than I felt.

I was sure about one thing, though. I wasn’t going to his bedroom wearing his mother’s dress.

I stopped in the bathroom first, and Celeste was asleep—or pretending to be asleep—by the time I went in the bedroom to change. As I slipped into my tank and boxers (Would he expect lingerie?) the words I’d tried to banish from my mind nagged at me: he’ll hurt you; he’ll hurt you. By the time I tiptoed down the carpeted stairs, the Indian food and beer and those stupid words churned in my stomach.

David had left the door to his room ajar. He lay on the bed—a full size—propped up against pillows, reading. He only had a small table lamp on, so the room was mercifully dark. I was embarrassed not to be wearing a bra, and I knew I looked tired and not especially pretty. And I should have showered. He was probably expecting a clean girl in a nightie.

Walking toward the bed was like walking into a final exam I hadn’t studied for. Not a final, I told myself. A mini-quiz. Because it’s not like we were going to go all the way or anything. He wouldn’t assume that. Right? I wasn’t planning on waiting until marriage, but I wasn’t planning on doing it tonight either.

“Hey.” I perched on the opposite side from where he lay.

“Hey.” David put the book on the bedside table. He was wearing striped boxers and a white T-shirt.

I placed my hands on the bedspread to wipe off some of the clamminess.

“Why don’t you sit up here?” He patted the pillows next to him.

I slid over. I could feel a deep seismic rumbling in my body. Shaking on the molecular level. I’d never been in a bed with a guy before. Not like this, at least.

I swallowed to try and get some wetness in my mouth. “I’m kind of … kind of nervous,” I said, figuring he’d notice anyway.

“That’s okay,” he said. “So am I.”

“You are?”

“Sure.”

But I knew he wasn’t, at least, not nervous like I was. So nervous that all I could think about was being at home, safe in my room, or better yet, safe in a deep, dark closet. I started thinking of what excuse I could possibly make—cramps, my period, demonic possession—to get out of there. I swallowed again.

He reached over and gently took off my glasses, placed them on the table. He brushed the hair away from my face. I moistened my dry lips. I could feel my pulse throbbing even in my palms.

Then David’s lips were on mine. Soft, sweet, fuller than they looked. Gentle but insistent as they moved. Oh, kissing! It had been so long, I’d forgotten the intensity. Warmth poured through every cell of my body. His hand held the back of my head. I touched his shoulder, firm and alive under the soft T-shirt. I slipped my fingers up inside the sleeve, touching his smooth, smooth skin. He must have showered; he smelled like citrus and grass and … boy.

Kissing harder, now. I recognized the flavor of natural cinnamon toothpaste. And then his tongue. Darting. Tasting. The bright green toothpaste I used probably caused cancer. What? Don’t think about that now! I tried to stop thinking and let myself enjoy the kissing, as I had been a minute ago. But then I felt David’s hand inching its way closer to my breast. And then it was on my breast, the side of my breast, pressing against it, moving slowly. And I lost track of the kissing and wondered how hard he would have to be touching me to leave bruises like the ones on Celeste.

Stop it! Think about the kissing. Or the touching. Not about his sister. But then I didn’t want to think about the touching either, because he’d moved the hand underneath my tank top and was playing with my breast, swirling his fingers around it, cupping it, kneading, needing . I was glad we were on our sides so that his second arm was trapped underneath him. It was so intense, his hand, like it couldn’t get enough of what it was doing. Images of Celeste with someone’s hands kneading into her darted into my brain. Hands pressing too, too hard. Hurting. David was going to hurt me.

“Relax,” he said. “Is this too much?”

I realized that I was shaking, quite noticeably. Like a stray kitten out in the cold.

“Um, yeah. Maybe. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He reached down and pulled the covers up over me. “Turn on your side.”

“I am on my side.” Even my voice was shaking. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I’d never had a reaction like this before, had always loved fooling around. If anything, I’d had to force myself to stop before I’d gone further than I wanted, because it felt so good.