“My grandpa actually gave me twenty bucks and a pat on the back. Mom said I get my fighting skills from my father,” I say, pointing to my colorful face.
Our hands drop their connection as she takes a few more steps out of the garage while still facing me. Her bag looks heavy at her side, so I reach toward it, insisting on carrying it for her. The sky is a greenish-type of gray. The sun is about to set completely, so the glow must be coming from a full moon buried underneath. It’s supposed to rain again through the night, but it’s cold enough to form ice so who knows what we’re getting. It makes the air feel humid, though, and every breath I exhale forms a cloud.
The heat in Eleanor’s house is a welcome reprieve, and I drop her bag inside the door and rub my arms to work the chill away. She pauses near the stairs as I move toward the sitting room sofa.
“You’re not coming up?” she asks.
“Oh, I . . . your privacy and all that stuff,” I say, the chill completely melted now. My body temperature jetted up to a thousand at the mere thought of going up to her room.
“I want you to see my room. You know, not through video chat or when you’re carrying me to bed drunk off my ass?” She laughs, blushing at the memory.
“See your room,” I repeat her offer, as if I have to consider anything in this decision. I push my hands into my back pockets and glance up the stairs before taking a step toward her. “Sure, yeah. Let’s see what photocopy pictures of me are taped on your wall.”
“Ha!” Her laugh is bold and loud as she climbs the stairs.
“Wow, it wasn’t that funny. I mean, you could have a picture of me up there,” I say, my pulse picking up speed with every step.
“I could. That is true,” she says, leading me toward her room. She pushes the door open and the first thing I see is a half-naked man flexing his abs in a poster on her wall. He’s the lead singer from some band I don’t recognize, but his image is massive.
I point to it and squeeze the back of my neck with my other hand. “That’s not my best picture. I can’t believe they even decided to use that one for promos. Let me get you a better one,” I joke.
She spins on her heels as she walks backward toward the center of her room. If I have won Eleanor’s heart in some way, I’m convinced it must be the way I make her laugh. It’s my best gift, and nobody makes a sound quite like her when she does.
I lean against the edge of her door while she toes off her shoes and kicks them to the side. She lifts one leg and tugs her sock off, throwing it by the abandoned shoes, and as she pulls off the other, she glances up at me with a look that has me realizing we are home alone.
“Where’s, um, Morgan,” I say, swallowing down a thousand-pound rock made of teenaged boy hormones.
“My grandparents drove back today. They’re up north, near Woodstock. My parents and Morgan went with them. They knew I had cheer, though, so . . .”
“So, it’s just you.” My voice cracks in the middle of this short sentence. It makes Eleanor smile on one side.
“Well, I mean, you’re here,” she says, tossing the second sock off to the side.
I lick my lips because, honestly, I think I might be drooling.
“And that guy. He’s here,” I say, pointing to the poster man. My self-deprecating humor earns me another raspy laugh. I’m literally clawing at the denim of my back pockets while I try to meld against the wood of the door.
Eleanor’s eyes flit to the open floor between us, then flutter their way up my body until our gazes lock. She tugs her hair free of the tie that’s been holding it up and shakes her head enough to let the waves cascade down her arms. Her flexibility is a wonder in and of itself as she reaches behind her back and tugs her uniform zipper down her spine slowly until both sides fall open and she’s left hugging the blue and gold material against her chest.
“Jonah?”
“Uh huh?” My mouth doesn’t move with the words; it just hangs open in awe.
“Think you could close that?” She points to the door I’m attempting to fold in half with my weight.
“Uhm.” I swallow again. Those knots form fast. “Sure,” I say, turning to push the door closed behind me. I turn back as she lets her shirt fall to the floor, leaving her in a sports bra and a very short skirt.
Her eyes bore into mine, but I can’t not follow the trail her right hand makes down the front of her body to the side of her skirt where a single zipper holds it on her hips. She pinches the zipper between her thumb and index finger and pulls it down the length of her hip until the fabric falls down her thighs, her knees, her ankles.
“Elle,” I say, trying to keep my head on straight in the face of pure temptation. I keep telling myself this is no different than seeing her in a swim suit, which I have before, several times. But I’m a liar because this . . . this is different.
“I didn’t fight that guy just so you would . . .” I say my fear out loud, laying bare my reservation for giving in. I never want to be the guy who takes advantage of her.
She steps close enough to touch her hand to my cheek and my eyes lift to meet hers.
“Jonah, it wasn’t much of a fight,” she says, winking to take the edge off her joke. My shoulders shake with my uncomfortable laugh, but I do feel better about
