Page 37 of Yours

“I know, but—”

“But nothing,” I reply, my voice firm. “There’s all kinds of pleasure in this world. Life’s too short to get hung up on worrying about what people will say or think.” I tap her forehead. “The only thing that matters is whatyouthink.”

She grimaces. “When I was growing up…”

“I know about what happened then.”

“You do?” she asks, her face crumpling.

“Yeah, but Darcy, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter!” she cries, starting to tear up again. “I don’t want to be like her!”

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. This is all tied to who her mom was and probably a whole lot tied to the fact that she left Darcy. “You’re not,” I insist. “You think just because you enjoy the way I touch you makes you some kind of slut?”

I can see I’ve hit the mark by the way she winces and looks away. I feel my shoulders tense—as much as this hurts, we’ve got to get through this. “Darcy, you are your own person. I think you’ve pushed your feelings away for a long time. I think that’s why you work so hard too, to make sure youaren’tlike her. But you’re not. You’re so far away from any of that. You’re smart, and kind, and beautiful, and sexy as hell.”

She glares at me.

“What?” I say. “Just cuz you have an incredible body makes you a tease? That’s just wrong.”

“Well, that’s what it feels like, and I hate it!”

“I don’t know what else to say except to forget those jerks.”

“I feel like I don’t belong anywhere,” she says.

“That’s because you belong with me,” I say, pulling her back to my chest. Just saying that out loud makes my stomach clench. It’s not that I don’t mean it, because I do, I’ve just never thought about anyone like this before, and it scares me.

“I missed you,” she says, tucking her hand around my waist.

“I missed you too,” I say, caressing over the curve of her hip. It’s the most perfect shape, smooth and so soft.

“I wasn’t sure about…us,” she says.

I grimace. “When you left, I went crazy.”

“You did?” she asks.

“Fuck yeah,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “But we didn’t talk about it. I didn’t want you to feel like we had to stay together or anything. I mean, you’re a young woman with your whole life ahead of you. I don’t know, we should have talked,” I say, knowing the real reason is just beneath the surface: that I didn’t want to hold her back. What if she meets Prince Charming who could give her the life she deserves? I’m just a monkey wrench taking it one day at a time in a dead-end town.

“Yeah,” she says.

Darcy

The next day, I’m making oatmeal raisin cookies when my dad calls with a message.

“Says she’s your professor,” my dad’s gruff voice says. “It sounded important.”

I sign off and call the number he gave me—my poetry professor, Dr. Atwood.

“Good,” she answers in her no-nonsense, satisfied voice. “Ploughshares wants to feature your ballad ‘Coins’ in its March issue.”

I think about this for a moment, my heart leaping pirouettes. “Wow,” I say, vaguely remembering Dr. Atwood telling the class about her former life as an editor in New York. “Thank you,” I add because surely, she made this happen for me.

“I see you haven’t yet registered for winter classes,” she says.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, feeling myself shut down inside.

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