Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

“That’s more like it. I’m used to being one of two things: a Prescott or a player.”

According to your mother, it’s one and the same. But I bit my lip to keep from saying that out loud, and pushed him away. “Trust me here, the last thing Lucky needed to see right now was me getting cozy with a guy.” Especially a guy like George. “She’s going through a rough time.” I walked past him to the door of the kitchen, but Jenny was long gone, and now the hall stood empty. I stared at my reflection in the diamond-dust mirror until George came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I had to admit it: Those two people in the mirror looked good together.

“And regardless of how she treats you, you’re going to help her?”

He didn’t know the half of it. If my hunch was correct, Jenny didn’t simply disapprove of us, she was telling our secrets to her barbarian boyfriend. Funny that she’d been put in charge of rooting out whoever was selling the patriarchs out on secretsofthediggers.com. “That’s what we swore to do, Puck. She can judge the rest of us, but right now, I’m going to be her friend.”

He looked back at the stairs. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your prior engagement, however ill-advised I think it is. I make a habit of not going out of my way to be nice to people who don’t return the favor.”

“So a lot of people are nice to you, then?” I teased.

“And in return, I’m excessively nice to them.” He leaned toward me and put his mouth near my ear. “The next time I see you, Bugaboo, we are picking up where we left off. No more waiting.”

I’d heard a similar sentiment earlier today. Funny, from Micah, it had been the most despicable threat. From George, the most delicious promise.

It was a promise he didn’t get a chance to fulfill for quite some time. Okay, several days. Okay, two. But, trust me, when you’re waiting to have George Harrison Prescott’s hands on your body, time passes very, very slowly. (Especially given that it had also been two days since Jenny had spoken to me. She’d disappeared from the tomb, and failed to respond to seven e-mails and three voice mails. And those were just from me—who knew what the rest of the Diggirls had said to her after hearing my account of the coffee shop confrontation? According to reports, she wasn’t returning any of our calls. It was indeed possible our concern had spooked her.)

And so it happened that one evening I was sitting at my favorite study spot, the window seat in the tomb’s Grand Library, looking out at the moonlit courtyard. Connecticut was shuddering into fall, which meant lots of dismal, gray gloom transitioning us from verdant summer into the fiery brilliance of New England’s peak. Today’s weather was the sort I’d come to associate with New Haven. It spit rain all day, and the ground slushed with the results, soaking shoes and socks and the flares of everyone’s jeans and making them rethink that after-dinner section up on Science Hill or the screening at the Film Studies Center. I could feel the dampness as I sat there, legs crossed beneath me, a middle volume of the tomb’s leather-bound set of The Golden Bough open on my lap. Time was running out to find a thesis topic, but I kept getting distracted. The rotten evening was the perfect chance to dig in, uninterrupted.

Ever since Monday, being present at the tomb usually meant an automatic conscription into Josh’s latest campaign to appease the patriarchs and find the traitor before he caused a permanent break between the club and its most devoted supporters. We hadn’t gotten much further in our search, as Jenny’s efforts had turned up zilch, and everyone seemed too devoted to the cause to be responsible for the leak.

However, I happened to know that Lydia had taken advantage of the storm to trap Josh in her room for the evening. Bless her. The miserable weather and Josh’s efforts would keep everyone else away as well.

But clearly, I’d underestimated a certain man’s persistence.

The chandelier flickered to life above my head and I looked to the door to see Puck with his hand on the switch. “Ah, you are here after all.” I hadn’t even heard the front door open.

The sudden pounding of my pulse signaled: This is it. But I could play it cool. “Did Lydia tell you where to find me?”

“Not exactly.” He smiled and crossed to me. “Lydia said she thought you’d gone to the library. Her boyfriend said he was sure you were having a grand old time.”

“And then, no doubt, he sent you over here to conduct an investigation.”

“Precisely. I think there was something about strip-searching anyone I found inside.” He sat beside me and tapped the book in my lap. “What are you doing here so very late at night? No life?”

I checked my watch. It had gotten late, hadn’t it? I was surprised that even Lydia and Josh were still awake. They’d usually “gone to bed” long before this hour. And let’s not question why it took so long for George to come looking for me. “Studying. I take classes, you know. Or you would, but you opted out of Branch’s Shakespeare.”

“I decided the Nabokov seminar was more my style.” He tilted his head. “ Bugaboo, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul, Bugaboo. The tip of the tongue taking a trip down the palate to —well, burst, actually— at last, through the lips. Bug. A. Boo. ” He leaned in to kiss me.

“Gross,” I said. “Humbert was a pedophile.”

“A damn eloquent one. Besides,” he said, and nibbled on my lower lip, “you’re legal.”

Can’t really argue with that. I smiled and kissed him in earnest. “What are we doing?”

“What we should have done a damn long time ago, ’boo.”

“What, and lay our private doings open to the society during my C.B.?” I teased, scooting down on the seat so he had an easier time reaching me. Man, this boy could kiss.

“Mine or yours,” he mumbled, kissing down my jawline to my neck. “It’s all going to come out eventually. And I don’t care. Spend the night with me.”

“Okay.”

Simple as that. Because when a guy like George Harrison Prescott is this determined to hook up with you, when he walks through the rain and quotes ecstatic literature and kisses you like he hasn’t seen a girl in years—well, there’s only one acceptable answer. And that’s to accept. Not to overthink it, not to weigh the options, not to determine where this fit into the scope of your orderly C.V., and definitely not to start figuring out exactly where you would fall on his lengthy C.B. This wasn’t about my friends, or my future, or anything else but what I wanted…now. Within these walls, he was neither the reluctant legacy nor the school’s most infamous heartbreaker, but rather, an infinitely charming fellow Digger, fellow Prescotteer, and the guy I’d wanted to tap ever since I laid eyes on him.

George Harrison Prescott: accept or reject? No contest.

I stretched my legs out and tangled them with his as he fought for leverage on the slim window seat. Beyond the lead-veined window there was nothing but private courtyard and wintry dying garden and moonlight, and we were alone in the tomb of Rose & Grave, which is as good as being alone in the world. Here we were, set off five minutes from the rest of the population, separated from the students of Eli by our society names and the secrets we shared.

“It’s not as cold out as I thought,” I said.

“Huh?”

I bopped him on the nose. “Your skin. It’s not cold.”

“I bundled.” And then he began to unbundle me, starting with the scarf around my throat.

I loved this moment of hooking up with a boy, when you haven’t yet relinquished all sense of rationality, but you’re not by any means acting like you would in front of your parents. Our clothes were on, but we were horizontal; we weren’t completely mussed from making out, but my skin was flushed and he was removing his glasses and laying them on the table to my left. I’d seen George without his trademark glasses before, of course, but never from an inch or two away. I thought his copper-colored eyes were gorgeous before, behind the matching copper frames. Without them, and staring into mine, those eyes would have taken my breath away if I’d been able to breathe in the first place. Men should not get the kind of genetic advantages bestowed upon this boy. Or at least not without a big warning sign tattooed on their foreheads.