Page 42 of Every Thought Taken

Not even thirty minutes into the movie, soft snores spill from her lips. Every other minute, I inch away from her on the bed. When I reach the edge, I slowly swing my legs out from the covers and rise from the bed. I let the movie play and cover any noises I make on my way out.

Stepping into the hall, I twist the knob, close her door, and exhale the breath I am holding. After a few deep breaths, I pad over to the next door, push it open, creep in and quietly close the door behind me.

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dark as I tiptoe across the room. A foot from the bed, Anderson extends his arm in my direction, inviting me to lie with him. I ease onto the bed and snuggle his side. He covers us with the sheet and blanket, wraps me in his arms, and molds me to his frame. We lie like this, unmoving, for who knows how long.

Eyes closed, I listen to the steady rhythm of his heart. Feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. Inhale the distinct blend of campfire and earth that always reminds me of him.

And then his hand moves. Fingers coasting over the cotton of my tank top along my spine. His lips press and remain against my hair. His fingers trail up to the nape of my neck and massage the muscles at the base of my skull. I tip my head back and kiss his throat, the hard line of his jaw, and his chin until I reach his lips.

The kiss starts slow. Soft and innocent. Warm with a hint of temptation.

Then his tongue sweeps over my lips and I open up. Invite him in. Shift on the bed to press my breasts to his chest and change the angle of the kiss. His hand trails down my spine, over my hip, and stops at my knee, hooking it up and over his leg.

With that single move, the kiss goes from paced to frantic. Our hands clasp and grope and feel parts we have yet to explore. Arms banded around my middle, he rolls onto his back. Pins me to him with a hand in my hair and one on my lower back. My arms bracket him like parenthesis, my fingers in his hair, curling and lightly tugging at the strands.

His hands drift down and grip my hips as he rocks his. The feel of him, hard beneath me, has me gasping and breaking the kiss. And then I am on my back. His lips are on my throat, the curve of my neck, my shoulder as he pushes the strap of my shirt aside.

“Is this okay?” he whispers against my skin.

Is this okay? Are we ready for this? The next step—sex—is a big deal.

Every nerve in my body is on edge, antsy. Doubt wriggles its way into my mind for a split second. Makes me question whether or not now is the right time. We are young yet mature. Sex for us isn’t the same as it is for people our age. Anderson isn’t just my boyfriend. He is my best friend. Someone I trust and love.

I mentally shake my head at the last word.

Love?

Maybe.

Bringing a hand to his face, I stroke his cheek with my thumb. Eyes on his, I lift off the mattress and press my lips to his. The kiss is tender and too brief.

With a nod, I say words I never thought possible at sixteen. “I love you, Ander.”

His eyes dart between mine, searching. Fingers toying with loose strands of my hair, his eyes glaze over as he swallows. “Love you too, North.”

When his lips meet mine again, his kiss feels different. More powerful. Exhilarating. Alive.

In the dark hours of a late-June night, we give in to our unbreakable connection. Express our love in a new way. With clumsy moves, muffled sounds, and sweat-slicked skin, we become each other’s first in a new way.

CHAPTER24

ANDERSON

Has the world always been this bright? This colorful? Undoubtedly, someone will argue today is no different than any previous day. But I beg to differ.

Walking the halls of the English quad, my eyes roam rows of lockers and peers as they swap textbooks or folders or check their hair before the next class. I meet the occasional glare or curled lip as some look up, but their callous disposition and cruel hearts don’t faze me as I pass. Not today. Not this year.

I have no false ideas about friendship with any of my classmates. No assumptions they will change and become bigger or better people. Plain and simple, they are trashy humans. Fixing the way they think doesn’t happen overnight. It takes a grand act to correct such malice and disrespect, like the loss of a loved one. A deed outside of their control that shifts every future step forward, like a car crash or fall that leaves them less whole than before.

In the past five-plus years, I have put up with their bullshit. Let them push me around, call me names, degrade and humiliate me in front of my peers. Clothes stolen during gym class. Head shoved in toilet bowls while they flush and laugh and carry on as if their actions will never bear consequences. Whispered words harsh enough to slice skin and leave scars no one else sees. The outstretched foot as I walk to my desk in the classroom or locker in the hall. Ugly words written in Sharpie on bathroom walls.

I don’t know what tipped the first domino, what one thing made theAnderson Bully Brigadecome to life, but I refuse to let them knock me down anymore. Refuse to be the scapegoat for whatever hurt wounds them that they choose to pass my way.

This year is different. This year, hope and love and a need to kick back are on my side.

“Oh, look,” an all-to-familiar voice says. “Someone let the psycho come back.” He crumples a sheet of paper into a tight ball, throws it across the room, and hits me in the temple as I reach a desk and sit. “Another year, another round of fun.”

When it comes to Charles Bates, I never engage. I let him blather on with all his fake and brutal words. Let him spill falsehoods with his imaginary pitchfork and garner groupies to join his attack.

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