Vincent is parked four blocks from the bookstore, which is unfortunate, because it’s still pouring rain when we make our walk of shame down to the first floor.
“You sure you don’t want me to bring the car around?” he asks as I follow him to the front of the shop, studiously avoiding eye contact with the woman behind the cash register (because despite the fact that there’s no way she heard what we were doing up in the attic, I have the horrible feeling that she’ll see our rumpled hair and just know).
“We’ll just walk fast,” I say.
Vincent hums. “Someone’s impatient.”
My cheeks are warm when I shoot him a warning glare. Then he offers me his jacket as we pause just inside the door to brace ourselves, and now I’m fully blushing, because five minutes ago I was kneeling on that jacket and doing unspeakable things.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist. “It’s just a little rain.”
We make it a solid ten steps down the sidewalk before a particularly fat and heavy drop rolls off a window awning and smacks me straight in the eye. I gasp, swear like a sailor, and then huff in resignation. Vincent refrains from saying I told you so as he hands me his sunflowers to hold, shrugs off his jacket, and pulls me close to his side so he can drape it over both our heads.
By the time we get to his car—an unpretentious but very large SUV—we’re both half soaked and breathless from giggling every time our hips bump.
Vincent holds the passenger door open until I’ve climbed in and folded my knees out of the way so he can shut it for me, then tucks his bouquet of sunflowers carefully on the back seat. While he waits for traffic to pass so he can duck around to the driver’s side, I rub my frozen hands up and down my thighs to try to get some feeling back in my fingers. I scan the interior of the car. It’s comfortably clean, just like Vincent’s room . . . and now I’m thinking about what we did in his bed, which makes me think about what we just did in the bookstore, and suddenly I’m not cold anymore.
Vincent gets into the car, starts the engine, taps the button to turn my seat-heater on, and meets my eyes over the center console.
“Don’t look at me like that, Holiday.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you want me to fuck you in my back seat.”
I choke on a startled laugh. “I—that’s—”
Exactly what I was thinking about.
“Look, Holiday, you know I’m down,” he says, his smile just this side of cocky. “But do me a favor and let me make your first time a little more special than that.”
I could tell Vincent about my teenage obsession with Titanic, and that I’d be more than happy for him to play the young Leo DiCaprio to my Kate Winslet and fog up the windows of his car. I could tell him that my imagination can’t decide if I want to straddle his lap and use his shoulders and my knees for leverage, or if I want him to move his sunflowers out of the way so he can drape me over the length of the seats and slot himself between my open thighs to use his weight to pin me down.
Instead of saying any of that, I fold my hands neatly in my lap.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll behave.”
Vincent looks like he doesn’t believe me for a second, but he concedes by putting the car in Drive and pulling away from the curb.
Tragically, there’s no third-act montage to get us to our long-awaited denouement as quickly as I’d like to. It’s seven o’clock and pouring rain, so the downtown traffic is stop-and-go. It’s torture. But Vincent connects his phone to the speakers and tells me to open a Spotify playlist Jabari made for him as a joke (it’s just forty duplicates of “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid and one lone Frank Ocean song) and suddenly I don’t mind that we can’t cut right to the chase.
The worst thing about romance novels is that they always end.
There’s a declaration, a kiss or a sex scene, and maybe—if I’m lucky—an epilogue that doesn’t automatically relegate the female lead to the role of stay-at-home mom, even if she spent the whole novel pursuing other goals. Right now, it may feel like Vincent and I are driving off into the sunset, but there are no credits to roll and no curtains to close.
We still have so much ahead of us.
We have everything ahead of us.
It won’t always be big moments between us. It’ll be little ones, like this—the two of us in his car, passionately debating which route will get us to my apartment the quickest while Jabari’s joke of a playlist loops in the background. And I want them. All the little moments. All the unimportant stuff suddenly feels so important.
“What are your parents like?” I blurt, mid–Frank Ocean.
Vincent casts me a quick glance, and it occurs to me that he probably didn’t anticipate seeing me today, much less getting head in the back corner of a bookstore and being grilled on his family ten minutes later.
But then he answers, very confidently, “They’re the best. Kind. Supportive. Just, like, ridiculously good human beings. My dad’s in biomedical engineering—like surgical implants and prosthetics and stuff—and my mom used to teach fifth grade, but she started a ceramics studio with some friends a few years ago, so now they all make pottery full-time. They’ve got a whole business going.”
Something in my chest tugs at the way his eyes light up.
“How’d they meet?” I ask.
“Basketball.”
I arch an eyebrow. “They’re both really fucking tall, aren’t they?”
Vincent nods. “Very. You’ll like them. And my mom will love you—not just because you’re tall, I mean. You’re just more artistic than me and my dad. She’ll appreciate having someone on her team.” His eyes cut over to me. “They’re coming up here for our next home game, actually. You can meet them.” He adds, a beat later, “If you want to. We don’t have to do a whole meet-the-family thing so soon—”
I cut in before he can overthink it. “I want to.”
Because I do. Even though I know I’ll be a nervous wreck and I’ll probably humiliate myself trying to impress the wonderful people who gave Vincent life, I want to meet them, and I want to tell them, to their faces, what a good job they’ve done of raising their son.
Vincent beams at me and reaches across the console to grab my hand.
He keeps hold of it as we sit through the rain-soaked traffic, and as we circle my block for ages waiting for street parking to open up, and as I slide my key into the door and lead him into my dark apartment. It isn’t until I trip over my backpack, which is still sitting where I shrugged it off in the front hall before I ran out to do my whole grand gesture thing, that Vincent lets go of my hand so I can smack on some lights.
And then it’s just the two of us, standing there.
In my apartment.
Where I live.
Whatever sex goddess possessed me in the bookstore has been replaced by the spirit of a middle schooler at her first co-ed dance.
“Can I take your jacket?” I ask, because that seems like something a good host would do. It’s not until I have it hooked over my arm that I remember the front hall closet is packed tight with women’s outerwear and Nina’s overflow collection of costumes she’s stolen from theatrical productions. I shuffle back and forth for a moment before draping Vincent’s jacket over the back of one of the kitchen stools. Vincent’s lips twitch, but he refrains from commenting on my hospitality.
“Wanna give me the tour?” he suggests as we kick off our wet shoes.
“Sure. This is, um, the kitchen.” I gesture toward what is very obviously a kitchen. “And this is our living room. Sorry about the mess. Nina was packing for this improv festival. Um. That’s her room. And there’s Harper’s. And mine is—mine is over here.”
“Lead the way,” Vincent says with a nod.
I wish I’d cleaned up a little before I ran to the bookstore. My bed is made, and my floor was vacuumed in the last few days, but my desk is a certifiable disaster. The entire surface is covered in stacks of notebooks, loose pens, scented candles, skincare products, makeup, and one individually wrapped tampon that I want to drop-kick into orbit. The IKEA bookshelf wedged into the corner beside it is overflowing with an unholy mix of old YA, English literature from all centuries and genres, and romance novels with varying degrees of heat. Even the corkboard hung on the wall is littered with photos and ticket stubs and business cards.
Naturally, Vincent heads right for the mess.
I’m immediately self-conscious. It’s only fair that he gets to snoop. I’ve used his bathroom. I’ve orgasmed in his bed. I can bite my tongue and let the boy look through my stuff. But that doesn’t mean I’m not dying inside.
I peel off my rain-damp cardigan to deposit it in my laundry basket, dart over to my bed to fluff the pillows and pat down the lumps in my duvet, then shift my weight between my feet and search the room for something else to fuss with. My eyes land on Vincent. His broad shoulders are bent over and his head is tilted to the side to read the spines of the books on my shelf. The sight of him like this—in my room, in a sweater and rain-speckled jeans and just his socks—is so domestic that it makes my heart clench. I want to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him here forever.
I wonder if he felt the same way when he had me in his room.
“Would you sit down?” Vincent says. “You’re giving me secondhand anxiety.”
I huff and sink into my desk chair, tucking my hands under my thighs so I can’t fidget with them anymore. Vincent raises an eyebrow as if to ask, You okay?
“I’ve never had a boy over before,” I admit. “Well, Perry Young came over to my house, but that was freshman year of high school, and my parents were there the whole time, so that doesn’t really count.”
Vincent snorts. “They chaperoned your date? Brutal.”
“It wasn’t a date. We were partners on a project for honors English. And I was a solid ten inches taller than him, so there was zero romantic interest from either end. There’s a picture of us at senior prom up there—top left corner.” I pop up to my feet and point it out on the corkboard. “We didn’t go together. It was a group picture. But, look, I’m not even wearing heels.”
Vincent brushes his fingertip over the toe of my ballet flat where it’s peeking out from under my dark-blue dress, then taps the side of the picture with the boys in it.
“Which one was your date?” he asks.
I pick at an imaginary hangnail on my thumb. “I didn’t have one.”
It’s like bumping an old bruise that I was sure had healed. But it hasn’t. The girl in the picture might be smiling, but I know how miserable she was that night. I know the hunch of her shoulders, her ballet flats, her simple navy-blue dress—floor-length, sleeves, no sequins—were all to not draw any attention to herself. To make herself smaller. And I know college has changed me for the better, but it still aches when I look at pictures of that girl and wonder how much of her fear and pain still lingers with me. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get over the need to fade into the background.
“I wish we’d gone to high school together,” Vincent says suddenly.
I don’t know why that makes my chest squeeze and my eyes sting, but it does. Me too, I think. But then I try to conjure up the mental image of teenage Vincent, and all I’m getting is Troy Bolton gallivanting around the halls of East High in a well-choreographed musical number with a basketball under one arm.
“I bet you would’ve bullied me,” I blurt. Vincent looks genuinely offended, so I add, “Not because you were a meathead asshole jock or anything. I was an insufferable English nerd with, like, two friends.”
“You still are, but I’m not bullying you for that, am I?”
He dodges my punch to his shoulder.
“All right, all right,” he says. “Here. We’ll make it even.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his phone. Some scrolling and a few taps later, he’s holding the screen up in my face. It’s teenaged Vincent, his hair longer and his body about thirty pounds leaner. His tux is just a little too small for him too. But the boy in the photo is definitely a heartbreaker.
“Fuck off,” I grumble. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“What do you mean? Look at my sleeves, Holiday. They don’t even hit my wrists.”
He’s right. It’s weirdly endearing.
“This is from your senior prom?” I ask.
“I was a sophomore, actually. I got asked by my teammate’s sister.”
The girl in the photo next to him has braces and curled hair that looks like it’s seen a little bit too much hairspray, but she’s got the confident posture and pretty bone structure of a girl who probably enjoyed high school. I sort of hate her for it. And then I feel bad, because she’s literally a child. Despite the definitely-borrowed-from-Mom stiletto heels she’s wearing in the picture, she barely comes to Vincent’s armpit.
“How tall were you?” I ask.
“In this picture? No idea. I hit six-four freshman year, though. Great for my basketball career. Horrible for clothing.”
I nod solemnly. “Pants were a nightmare.”
“See?” Vincent says, tucking his phone away. “We probably would’ve been friends.”
I shake my head. “No way. That hair and those puppy dog eyes? And you were taller than me? You would’ve ruined my life, Vincent.”
He stares at me a moment, his eyes twinkling like he wants to say something, but he just shakes his head and turns back to my bookshelf. He slides a paperback off my shelf to examine the cover. It’s an Oscar Wilde play. If Vincent noticed that it was sandwiched next to a battered copy of Twilight, he doesn’t comment on it.
“You’re not going to start reading that to me, are you?” I ask.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Vincent murmurs. He slides the book back onto my shelf before tossing me a look. “I could whip out the Shel Silverstein for you, if you’re still interested.”
“Did you really memorize one of his poems?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I memorized three.”
I let out a bark of shocked laughter. “Why would you do that?”
He smiles. “Because I knew you’d laugh just like that.”
I’m going to say absolutely ridiculous things—mushy, sentimental things that will probably terrify him—so instead of letting myself open my stupid mouth, I step forward and cup Vincent’s face in my hands. He stands still and lets me. His eyelids flutter shut as I run my thumbs up and down, tracing from his chin to the corners of his mouth to the faintly freckled skin over his nose and cheekbones. There’s some dark scruff on his jaw. I wonder what it would feel like against the insides of my thighs.
I drop my arms to my sides. Vincent takes a breath before he opens his eyes.
“My shift at the library starts in three hours,” I blurt.
He arches an eyebrow. “You’re seriously still thinking about going?”
“No. I just—” I say. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m supposed to tell my supervisor.”
“That you’re busy making out with me,” Vincent says, like it’s obvious.
“Oh? Is that all we’re doing?”
Vincent’s eyes flash with surprise, and then his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. The step he takes toward me is hungry. Primal. I’m suddenly and violently reminded of how much I enjoyed having his cock in my mouth.
“I thought you said you wanted to take it slow,” I croak.
Vincent smiles and shakes his head. “I can’t move slow with you, Holiday. But we don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can go to the house and you can meet my teammates, if you want. Or we could go to dinner just the two of us, and we can talk about our parents and our favorite songs and whatever else we want to.”
There he goes again, being nice.
But I don’t want to move slow—not when I’ve spent my whole life moving slow. I know everyone runs the marathon that is life at their own pace, and there’s nothing wrong with the fact that I’ve needed a longer warm-up than a lot of people my age . . . or that I’m about to take off sprinting when there are women a decade older than me who are still stretching. It’s not a race. It’s just a circular track we all get to share. I won’t regret listening to my gut and waiting to feel ready.
I’m ready now. Too ready, perhaps.
I grab the hem of my shirt and peel it up and over my head.
