(8) My Turn to Pin Him

I decide not to go back to church for the sleepover thing. The party was boring, and I would not be missed as a chaperone. I text the one adult supervisor that I felt sick, so I went home. Patrick, his bags already packed, rushes off with the car to pick up his son.

The next day, there are three main things I worry about. The first is, of course, if my stepbrother is okay, because Patrick and Mom both went to go pick him up and still aren't back. I call Mom for an update the moment I wake up, 'cause that seems to be the right thing to do.

She doesn't pick up and only replies that she'll call me back later.

So I leave it and worry about the other two things. Thyra said "ugh" at me while we were dancing, which worries me. Was I a bad dancer? Did she not like the way I touched her? I only held her hand and nothing else because she'd been drunk. Maybe even that was a bit too much since we weren't that close yet. Maybe I crossed a boundary. I've got to fix it, or apologize. Possibly grovel.

The third thing to worry about, of course, is the fact that Jaron pressed me up against a tree and stuck his tongue down my throat. And I got a boner from it. But I hadn't realized he was also drunk at first. If I had, I never would've let it happen. Did he even remember anything? What would I do if he did? What would I do if he didn't?

I groan into my pillow. Did that mean I was gay?

I definitely wasn't gay.

Eventually, as the sun rises higher and my room gets brighter, I hear the front door open. I wait for Mom to come up and find me, but it's not her. It's Dad, who must have used the spare key. He peeks into my room. "Ready to go?"

Oh, right. I was going to his place for two weeks during winter break. I'd forgotten with all the nonsense last night.

"No," I say. "Only if you put your parents in a hotel."

He smacks my back—not hard enough to hurt—and pulls the sheets off. "Indra, please. It's awkward for me to argue with you in my ex-wife and her new husband's house. Just get ready. Are you packed?"

"We can argue in the car then," I decide. I push him out, brush my teeth, and change. I look over my room and throw brushes and paints into my bag. Then I reluctantly slide into Dad's car. "Can we go back to the church first? I've got to pick something up." My dad's place was too far from the church to come by every day, so I should probably pick up the painting to work on at home. I was getting paid for it, after all, so I should make it a priority.

He replaces the spare key under the mat. "Sure."

At the church, people are cleaning up from the sleepover. I slink through the side so I won't be seen and head into the back storage room where the cut-up painting is. It's locked. Of course it is.

So I find my way back to the hall that's being cleaned up and look for last night's supervisor. Her name's Amanda, and she looks down distractedly at me, standing up on a ladder. "Oh hey. Feeling better?"

"Uh, yeah. Keys? I need something from the storage room."

"I gave them to Jaron," she says dismissively. "I think he's in the sanctuary."

Sometimes it felt like my life was being forced into seeing that idiot at every possible moment. Like an invisible hand was nudging me towards him. It's either the universe telling me that he's my true love, or karmic revenge because I committed horrible sins in my past life.

Jaron is indeed in the sanctuary, helping set it up again properly for service tomorrow. He doesn't exactly look at me, but from the way he stiffens and moves with fake purpose—in that way people do when they know they're being watched—I know he saw me. He excuses himself and leaves immediately, before I can even cross the space between us.

I assume he remembers last night, then.

I reluctantly follow him. Obviously, he notices. "What?" he says.

"I need the keys."

He stares at me like I've turned green.

"I'm going to work on the painting at home," I explain. "The storage room is locked."

"Oh." He reaches for his belt where they are. He fumbles so badly with them, hands shaking, that he can't get them off the belt loops on his jeans.

"Just walk with me," I mutter.

So he does, trailing several paces behind me, and when we get there, he can't get the keys off his belt again. It's just a large carabiner attached to the belt loops. It should be easy to remove. "Shit," he says. "Sorry, I–"

I reach for the keys and easily pull them off him. He falls silent. Doesn't tell me which key is the right one, so I just resolve to try all six, and the fourth one is the one that opens the door. I toss it back to him, then carefully step over the clutter to the five pieces of painting that Jaron and I cut up last night. I begin peeling the pieces off the wood and draping them over my arm.

When I'm done and turn back, he's shut the door. "Indra, wait," he whispers. His voice shakes, and his eyes are wide. "Y-You won't tell anyone, right? Fuck, man, I'm so sorry. I'm not—I mean, I'm not ready to come out."

Oh. So this wasn't nerves from a crush or post–first-kiss shyness. He was terrified that I was going to out him. As revenge or something. No wonder he was shaking so badly. "Dude. I'm not gonna out you. I'd never do that," I tell him.

"You swear it?"

"On God."

He bites his lip and gives a tiny, shaky smile. "Thank you. And I'm sorry. What I did was really inappropriate."

But I liked it. "It was," I agree.

He nods, but the movement is jerky. "I get if you want me to stay away."

I don't want that. "Yeah," I say.

Hurt flickers across his face even though he was the one that suggested it. "Okay."

But before he can move to open the door again, I put one hand on the knob so that he can't, and since he's already leaning on the door, we're obviously pressed against each other. "What are you doing?" he asks breathlessly.

I have no fucking idea.

I'm shorter than him by a good four or five inches, if I had to guess, so I'm probably not as imposing as him, pressing him to a hard surface the way he did to me. I am definitely not doing it as smoothly as he did last night. Maybe I look stupid like this.

I kiss him. Again.

His body reacts like this is his damn purpose in life, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other tangling his fingers in my hair. He kisses like he's done this in his dreams a thousand times and just now got the chance.

My hand flies up to grab his shoulder—not to stop him, hell no—but because I suddenly need something to hang onto. I drop the pieces of painting hanging over my arm, and we have more space.

He presses in closer, like he can't get enough, like he needs this the way lungs need air. His fingers tighten in my hair, tug just enough to make my breath hitch. He kisses me harder, deeper, like he's afraid I'll change my mind if he gives me space to think.

And I can't think. Not with the way he's holding me, not with how sure he is all of a sudden, not with the way everything is heat and pressure and him. My hands are cupping his face, and I don't even remember putting them there.

When he finally pulls away, I'm panting like a fish out of water, and he looks... fine. Flustered, sure. But fine.

"Y-You... ugh! I need to breathe!" I snap.

"Sorry."

I wipe my mouth. I don't know why. Feeling jittery, I pick up the painting again. "My dad is waiting. I have to go."

Jaron moves to make space for me to pass him. I open the door and push it, walking into the hallway. He lingers in the doorway. He clears his throat.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I just ignore it and turn away. "Okay, bye."

He does not respond to that, so I just start walking back to the front of the church where my dad is parked.

"Indra, I'm free this week," he says quickly. "Like... um, yeah. I'm free. No baseball practice. So."

I turn my head to him.

"Monday?" That was the day after tomorrow.

"Sure."

"I'll text you the address," I say.

He beams like an idiot. My stomach turns into a mess of flutters, even though the kissing and touching part is over. Stupid stomach. Doesn't even know when to react properly.

I guess I'm seeing him Monday.

In the car, my dad looks me over. "What's wrong with your hair?" he asks, "Did you brush it this morning?"

He tries to flatten my hair. I smack his hand away. I feel strange, making out with Jaron and then waltzing into the car like the angel I a. "It's fine," I say defensively, "Just the wind."

Dad shrugs. "Okay."

The 30-minute car ride is awkward. Probably only for me though; Dad seems fine. After while he says: "I'm thinking about getting a new car."

"Okay."

"What do you think I should get?" He presses.

"I dunno. You should probably ask your wife, not me."

He shakes his head. "You're so mean, Indra."

"How is that mean? I gave you a reasonable suggestion. Your new car has nothing to do with me." I was trying to draft my text to Jaron (giving him my dad's address) in my head.

"Yes it does. Kind of. Cause it means you'll be getting my old one. This one." He taps the wheel.

My head snaps up, all mental text drafts forgotten. "The BMW?"

He smiles.

"Dad! Are you serious!?"

"Yeah. You can drive it to your mom's when you head back."

"Wait but it's not my birthday."

He shrugs. "I wanted a new car. This way I can get rid of the old one."

Well, it works for me. "Okay, but you have to get it deep cleaned first. You spill crumbs everywhere. And coffee stains on the shifter. I don't like that."

He sighs, still smiling, and reaches over again to run his hand through my hair. Affectionately, this time, instead of trying to fix it. "I can't win with you," he mutters. "Sure. I'll get it cleaned first."

So today I got a two-year-old BMW with barely any miles on it and my first kiss (last night didn't count). It was shaping up to be a very good day.