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I close my eyes, leaning my head back against his shoulder. “Holy shit.”
He smiles against my skin as he presses a kiss to the top of my shoulder.
I turn, still in his arms, to rest my hands on his hips and take him in. He’s flushed like he’s the one who just climaxed in the stage manager’s booth, and there’s a delightful brightness to his smile. His boxers still cover his boner, and even as I eye it, ready to reciprocate, he zips his jeans, tucking himself away.
“Hey, what if I wanted to return the favor?” I ask and reach for his jeans.
He takes my hands in his. “Then you can do it another time. But I like to take things slow, and I have a feeling you don’t let yourself receive as often as you give,” he says, taking a seat on the stool but staying close enough to me that he can keep holding my hands.
“Yes, I do. I love to receive,” I say. And it’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. I generally feel obligated to reciprocate as well, especially with men. Ian might be one of the first men to reject my offer.
He raises his eyebrows at me, seeing through me. Seeing the things I’m not saying.
Seeing me.
He looks at me in the way that scares me, and it takes me a second, but I realize something that scares me even more. What I’m seeing in Ian’s face is a mirror, his desire reflecting my own. Hisfeelingsreflecting my own.
“You hungry?” he asks, and I nod, but it’s hard to tell if I really am hungry or if the ache I feel deep in my gut is a knowing that I’m in way too deep with Ian and that even if I did run, it might be too late.
I thought I could vent my feelings for him by being physical, maybe release some of them like a balloon losing air, and I see now it’s done the opposite of what I wanted. Somehow, thisexperience has brought us closer, and the instinct to get out feels near impossible to resist.
If it were anyone else, I’d grab my things as quickly as I dropped them and say an even quicker goodbye. I’d text him tomorrow and call it a day on this, whatever it is, and go through all my levels of sadness as I mourn what could have been.
But I’m still his scene partner. I still have to see him at rehearsal. I can’t leave yet, and now I fear I’ve made an uncalculated error.
What scares me the most is there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to leave at all. The small voice asking if this time we can stay, because maybe Ian is a safe place for us to land.
It should feel like a promise. Like hope, like joy.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like a threat.
15
JADE
“And though she be but little, she is fierce.”Act III, Scene II
“Hey.” Mac pops his head into my room, where I’m finishing the final touches on my eyeshadow—forest-green and gray, our school colors. “What time is Ian coming over?”
“He’s not,” I say. “He’s with his dad. We’re meeting them at the tailgate.”
At rehearsal two nights ago, Ian invited me, Jessie, and Mac to hang out with him and his dad at the homecoming weekend tailgate. He said his dad and his college buddies do this every year and go all out with a big tent, a grill, and “more beer than four grown men over the age of fifty should be drinking,” according to Ian. Mac has been itching to spend more time with Ian since we went bowling three and a half weeks ago, so he was an instant yes. Jessie hates the sports games and insisted a day to herself would be nice, but she decided last minute that she needed a break from studying. I think she just got a little FOMO.
“Oh, right. When will you be ready?” Mac asks. “Your makeup looks good, by the way.”
“Thank you. Give me, like, five minutes.”
Mac gives me a thumbs-up and disappears.
I’ve opted for a simple look: silver eyeshadow on my lid, with the dark gray on the edges covered over with a tasteful green and silver glitter. I didn’t even do lashes today, so it’s practically a natural look.
I make a few finishing touches and examine my work. Green eyeshadow usually gives “working my shift in the Emerald City,” but I think I’m making it work. Glitter makes it more fun, and the silver makes it brighter. Less “Oz nightlife” and more “hot girl goes to a football party.”
I throw my leather jacket on over my black floral corset. Paired with my straight-leg jeans and black ankle boots, I look hot. I don’t dress for anyone but myself, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want Ian’s eyes on me. If I didn’t want him thinking about what’s underneath the outfit.
Between the extra rehearsal and the impending Thanksgiving holidays, exams, and the performance ofA Midsummer Night’s Dream, we haven’t seen each other much in the ten days since that day in the booth. I know I could have invited him back here after a rehearsal or gone to his place, but getting physical with Ian again is a one-way ticket to Feelings Town, and I don’t really want to move there. The cost of living is too high.
