Page 7 of Yours

Three

Darcy

Idon’t see Brian for two days. I told myself I needed to stay away from him. Every time he dropped by to visit my dad, I found some errand I had to run or slipped away to my room upstairs. Everything felt so raw that night. My body was working against me—sayingyeswhen my brain saidno freakin’ way.

His words ring in my head, working their way under my skin. That gleam in his eyes when he snapped the towel against my backside, like he’d been waiting to do that all night. And then suggesting I play the naughty schoolgirl. That did it. I imagined myself in one of those short, plaid skirts and him beckoning to me from his teacher desk. His eyes shine dangerously as he rubs his hand up the inside of my thigh, slowly, to where I’m soaking wet.Such a naughty girl, he growls.

I’m tortured by this because what if this is the kind of woman my mom was? Am I turning into a slut like her? In my deepest fantasies, there’s a man like Brian, older, more experienced, having his way with me. I get so shivery thinking about it sometimes I can’t sleep.

Then, I actually have to go to Brian’s house because there’s some paperwork my dad needs signed and I have to be at the bank first thing in the morning. It gets later and later because I can’t decide what to wear, or how to do my hair.Get a grip!I want to yell at myself.He dropped you like a ten-foot putt when you told him you’d never been touched. It’s like I flipped some kind of switch. Why haven’t I let a guy just screw me already? Then I would have been the confident, experienced woman he thought I was.

Because it hasn’t felt right, that’s why. I get all nervous and conflicted, or the guy kisses like he’s an explorer and my mouth is a new planet. None of that happened with Brian. I get a shiver remembering his kisses—demanding, his tongue sliding into my mouth to swirl and flick against mine. There’s something he does to me, something I haven’t felt with anyone else. It’s intoxicating, but dangerous.

But I’m screwed because now he doesn’t want me.Why did I have to tell him I was a virgin?

Angry at myself for getting worked up about nothing, I settle on a pair of leggings and my college hoody. I glance around my room at the discarded clothes—it looks like a tornado passed through here. With a sigh, I slip into my converse sneakers and hurry down the stairs, snatching the papers and my keys as I pass the kitchen table.

I’ve never actually been to Brian’s apartment, but I know where it is. I see his truck parked on in the small lot, so I know he’s home. Butterflies take flight in my gut, circling up inside my throat so that I nearly choke. After a long breath, I step out of my car, paperwork in hand, ready to drop these off and flee. Maybe I’ll go home and watch a movie, or read, though I know my mind’s too worked up for a book right now.

He answers the door, looking surprised. I could melt—he’s shirtless and barefoot, a pair of jeans riding perfectly on his lean frame. His chest is lean and muscular and his arms look strong enough to pin me down. I nearly gasp out loud as this thought hits my brain.

“This is a nice surprise,” he says, grinning. He steps back from the door.

“Uh, I just came to get you to sign these,” I say, shoving the papers at him.

He takes them from my hands, giving each a quick scan. “Sure,” he says. “Come in and I’ll take care of it.”

I step inside, my body feeling stiff and frozen. He leads me into the kitchen where a countertop faces the fridge, range, and sink.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, pulling open a drawer and fishing around for a pen.

I shake my head. I see a half-empty beer on the countertop next to a thick book open halfway. I’m instantly curious about what he might be reading.

“You sure?” he asks, pausing at the fridge. “This might take me a minute,” he adds, looking down at the papers.

“Okay,” I finally say. I’m not much of a drinker but a beer now and then tastes pretty good. Most of my classmates rage like the apocalypse is coming, but I’ve never been like that.

“How’s your pop today?” he asks, which is silly because he was just at our house that morning. I know because I barely slipped out the back door in time.

“Better,” I say, the relief flooding out of me. “He wants to come back to work next week.”

“That’s great,” Brian says, sounding just as relieved. “As long as he’s well enough.”

“When I go back,” I say, tentative. “You’ll look after him, won’t you? Make sure he’s not smoking cigars, eating junk food?”

“Of course,” Brian says.

I nod, feeling more at ease now. “Thank you.”

“When are you heading back?” he asks, his eyes watching me with a different sort of look, one I can’t read.

“Sunday,” I say, which is three days away. My dad should be okay by then. I think of how hard it is to make up missed work—I had a sinus infection last year that kept me out of school for two whole days. I was buried for weeks trying to catch up.

Brian nods, his hand still frozen on the refrigerator door. Then, he remembers and opens it to pull out a beer. He pops the cap with a tool from a drawer and sets the bottle on the counter in front of me.

As he turns to the paperwork, signing and scanning, I take my beer and drift to the open book and skim the words. I’m not 100% sure, but it looks like economics, or maybe business math.

“See? You’re not the only one with your nose in a book,” he teases, coming to stand next to me. I notice the pile of papers stacked neatly at the edge of the sink counter, ready to go.

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