Puddle Jumping

  Not to be confused with The It I was touching while we were naked.

  It was the first time we’d been that way. The first time we’d actually put our hands on anything other than over the shirt and pants and stuff.

  So I, once again, had to stop it from going further than we were ready for. I mean, I don’t know if he was ready or not. I wasn’t. It was when he realized we’d been so close to doing something major that he jumped off the bed, his eyes wide and hands in his hair again before he bee-lined for the bathroom.

  I think a cuddle would have been better than falling off the mattress as he slammed the bathroom door.

  But it is what it is.

  We stayed in separate rooms that night. I figured maybe it would be best to have our space. He seemed to agree. It was easy between me and Colton when it came to things like that.

  Opening presents with his mom and dad wasn’t nearly as awkward as I thought it would be. And their gift to me made me blush and smile because I knew what it was for. They had purchased two tickets to the Museum of Art in downtown Philly. All access, or whatever they were. Year round. Every exhibit.

  One part of me was thrilled.

  Another part of me gave Mrs. Neely the side eye because I thought maybe she was relieved not to have to go all the time herself.

  Though, I’m sure after years of listening to the same facts about painters, it could have gotten a little old for her.

  Not me, though. Everything about Colton was magical and I wanted as much time as possible to soak him up.

  My parents returned that evening and I left Colton’s house feeling lighter than air. As soon as I got there, our painting went up on my wall.

  Due to what had happened in the guest room Christmas Eve, I had a brief thought that maybe I needed to talk to someone about birth control. Because if we had gotten that close as fast as we did, who knew if the actual thing would happen if we got carried away.

  I tried to get the courage up to talk with my mom about getting put on the pill.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  By the fourth time I started to open my mouth to ask, I got so flustered I just ended up leaving room and I swear I heard my dad say something about ‘freaky teenage girl hormones’.

  He had no effing idea.

  I went to Harper. And Marissa. Even Quinn. Because, with as cool as Mrs. Neely had been about sticky towels and things, I wasn’t about to ask her about condoms.

  Harper was predictable, wanting to know about the experience itself but I was embarrassed to tell her I wasn’t prepared for the actual act because touching him had freaked me out. Why had she never told me that the skin moved?

  She should have told me that, at least.

  Marissa was way more helpful.

  “Wait. You said he won’t wear gloves on his hands because of his ‘sensory’ issues, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  She shook her head like I was as shallow as they came. “So, if he won’t wear rubber gloves on his hands, what makes you think he’ll wear one there?”

  Why the hell didn’t I think of that? He was my boyfriend. I knew enough about his ‘specific nature’ that condoms, much like gloves and balloons, were probably not going to be something he would touch, or allow to touch him. Especially in that very sensitive . . . region.

  I was screwed without being screwed. A virgin looking for birth control for sex that wasn’t going to happen yet.

  Inevitably, I had to go to Quinn. She had some hook-ups at the Planned Parenthood office and she also did some volunteer work at the hospital twice a month. I guess . . . she never really said . . . but I think she stole samples. She had essentially taken a year’s worth from the hospital, handing them over to me like it was no big deal. I just needed to remember to take them every day.

  I noticed weird things within the first month. My skin looked amazing. Also, I was a cranky, crazy bitch. Like being a teenage girl wasn’t bad enough. Lastly, my boobs were huge.

  No joke. My bunny slopes turned into Mount Vesuvius practically overnight. I had to buy new bras but used the excuse my old ones were just ratty. My mom never even asked. I just told her up front they were gross so she wouldn’t pry.

  Colton certainly didn’t seem to mind the changes in my body. In fact, he would become so engrossed in my chest I would have to steer him in another direction to be able to proceed with anything else.

  We spent a lot of time studying and my GPA went up a whole point. So did Harper’s. I guess it rubbed off on her, too. But I think it freaked her out because she was used to being the pretty girl and the easy girl, but she never thought about being the smart girl.

  In time, she started to see herself as more than a pair of boobs in heels and I think hanging out with our group of friends made her a little more discerning with the guys she hooked up with.

  Well, that and one of the girls on the Pep Squad got Chlamydia on her cheek because she laid the wrong way in a tanning bed and everyone started rumors about Chlam-eyes and Chlam-face. So who knew how many degrees of separation there were and if you’d somehow end up with it, too?

  * * *

  I worried about graduation. Because Colton was so much more acclimated at that point, and having to start something new could have been harder on him than most. It was only a few months before he was supposed to turn eighteen, and he’d already started to blend in more, while still standing out for being gorgeous and smarter than most of our classmates thanks to his tutors and his focus.

  I found that, while Colton couldn’t always catch on to my attitudes through body language or certain phrases, much less sighs and annoyed huffs, he could pretty much get what kind of mood I was in by paying attention to the music I would listen to. It was just another way we could communicate without talking about stuff, because, well, we’re teenagers and terrible communicators to begin with which only meant another hurdle to overcome.

  On the drive to school, I could play certain songs and he would perceive I was in a good mood or a cranky one. The good ones were always from him, so he never had to worry about that. But he was always a little unsure of what to say or do if I was upset about something. School. My parents. Homework. A little fight with Harper. He found it strange, like whatever was making me irritated or moody was just unnecessary. Sometimes it helped to put things into perspective. Sometimes it made my head hurt. Sometimes I would get exasperated over it all.

  But then I would talk to my other friends and I realized that pretty much all boys are like that. None of them really get why girls are upset over petty and stupid drama, so it made me feel like maybe our relationship was as ordinary as they came.

  That was, until that horrible day in February.

  You know which one I’m referring to.

  That one.

  I loathe it.

  I think Valentine’s Day is when my cynicism started to rear its ugly little head.

  V-Day. Heart Day. Love Day. St. Valentine’s Day.

  Don’t those two words alone just make you want to cut a bitch? Like, as if it’s not bad enough the mascot for the day is a baby in a diaper with wings and a weapon . . . it’s a day when the entire universe is pretty much required to purchase pink and red Dollar Store gifts and proclaim their love for everyone . . . everywhere. So, that morning I was playing some angsty girl rock when I went to pick Colton up because I just knew school was going to be an explosion of flowers and candy and I was going to be the Valentine’s Day Gretchen Wieners, sitting in class while Glen Coco got sugar cookies and carnations handed to him, and I didn’t.

  My old boyfriend hadn’t made a big deal last year, but we had exchanged cards. It just wasn’t the same because I was actually in love with Colton.

  I’m not the girl who falls in love and gets excited over girly things and wants flowers or public declarations of love. But . . . maybe with Colton I did want those things.

  Because I thought I couldn’t have them.

  I was
bracing myself for it.

  Imagine how surprised and guilty I felt when I knocked on his front door that morning and he met me with a bouquet of wildflowers. Pink . . . blue . . . purple . . . held tightly in his fist and pretty much pushed into my face as soon as I walked into the foyer.

  “These are for you.”

  I mean, it was obvious Mrs. Neely had purchased them. Colton looked like he had no idea why he was handing them over to me anyway. Wooing and courting were my area, not his, so I didn’t take any offense. As girls, we always have these ridiculous expectations anyway. It’s no wonder guys are so confused all the time.

  Sheila hugged me and wished me Happy Valentine’s Day before presenting me with a red envelope that held dinner reservations at Taste, this super upscale restaurant downtown inside of the museum. I knew it would probably mean we would get the food to go, but the thought was still there. The heart . . . Mrs. Neely’s heart . . . was still there in the gift.

  She tried so hard to overcompensate for what Colton didn’t get. As did I.

  We bent and bent and bent until we were pretzels because we loved him.

  “Dinner at six,” she whispered and gave me a smile. “You’re welcome to come back here and watch a movie if you’d like. Rick and I will be going to dinner, too, but our reservations aren’t until eight or so. We’ll be home late.”

  And there it was. Like she was telling me, without telling me, that we would have the house to ourselves for a while.

  But that she would definitely be coming back.

  Mrs. Neely was the coolest mom on the planet.

  I thanked her and she kept the flowers for me to pick up later in the evening and, suddenly, I was really, really into the Valentine’s Day spirit.

  Colton smiled from the passenger seat and took my hand as he always did. “Are you happy with the dinner tonight?”

  “I am.”

  “And you liked the flowers.”

  “I did.”

  He nodded and leaned back to relax a little in the seat. “Will you stay over?”

  I laughed a little and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure your mom would be okay with that. But I’ll definitely stay for a while.”

  “I’d like that.”

  My parents had been good about me spending the night with Colton over Christmas, but this would be a whole separate issue that I wasn’t willing to push.

  Valentine’s Day was rapidly becoming my very favorite day of the year. And I was pretty sure I wanted to finally go all the way with him that night.

  In the span of a day, all of it had been decided. It was going to happen.

  I raced home from school, stopping just long enough to drop Colton off at his house with a quick kiss before rushing to my room to grab my clothes, leaving a note for my parents that I had dinner plans, then hauling ass to Harper’s to get ready. I was a sweaty mess, full of nerves and excitement, only half listening to her as she talked me through it all. She was giving me weird pointers and telling me things I couldn’t comprehend because I’m more of a visual person and some of the stuff she was describing sounded like they couldn’t physically be accomplished with gravity working against us.

  By the time she was done with me I looked . . . well, I looked really, really pretty.

  Harper gave me a hug, smacked me on the ass and sent me on my way, yelling “Good luck!” as I drove off.

  In my head, I was moving toward my destiny.

  But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, as I would find out firsthand.

  Colton looked amazing, so that wasn’t an issue.

  I was in a dress for God’s sake. That wasn’t the problem.

  We enjoyed the ride down to the museum together, listening to music and holding hands. I’d ask questions and he’d respond. We talked. In my mind, I kept trying to plan out exactly how things would go for the rest of the evening. But that was probably where it started to unravel. Anything my mind could have come up with would not have been what Colton would have been thinking as soon as we cleared the doors to the museum.

  We arrived early enough to start our walk through the exhibits, milling through the larger than usual crowds. Because, apparently, other people thought looking at art on Stupid Cupid’s Day was fun, too. Of course, they were pretty much old people. Like, at least thirty-five or older, and they were drinking and conversing, causing more noise than usual.

  It didn’t bother me, of course. I was with him. And nothing ever mattered when we were together except each other.

  Ask me anything about art. Impressionism. Surrealism. Contemporary. Avant-Garde. I’m pretty sure I could tell you enough to warrant an eye roll and cause you to mutter that I’m a snobby know-it-all. But I paid attention to what Colton talked about. I tried to see as clearly as he did the things that fascinated him. And at times, he could become so focused it was as if I were blending into the background instead of being by his side, but I didn’t care.

  Because the only thing I was that passionate about . . . was him.

  You call it obsessive, I call it being devoted.

  We walked for a bit and discussed certain pieces, until someone recognized him. See, being in a museum with a locally famous artist, you don’t always get to lay low. And with the amount of people around that night, I was surprised he hadn’t been accosted earlier. That knowledge did nothing to ease my frustration when the time came for our reservation and Colton was still talking art to a handful of adults who were hanging on his every word.

  I tried to interrupt but there was no real way to do it. Eventually, I had to step in front of him, feeling stupid and small, unimportant and immature as I relayed I would go to the restaurant alone and wait for him. Which is exactly what I did. And as I waited and waited and waited at the table for him to arrive, I realized I was having Valentine’s dinner . . . by myself.

  It hurt. A lot. But I didn’t want to be the girl who cried into her overpriced pasta.

  No. Not me.

  Instead, I counted all of the good things we had. I tried to envision what the rest of the night would be like. Unfortunately, after half an hour, I knew it would be no use to wait any longer – and the waitress said she might need the table, so I ordered his food to go and walked it to the car myself before going back inside the museum to find him.

  He was in the exact same spot. Alone now. Staring at one of three pieces from the Van Gogh exhibit: Starry Night.

  “I was looking for you.” I tried not to sound upset, and hoped I had succeeded.

  Finally, he acknowledged me. “I’ve read this was Van Gogh’s way of portraying hope. Hope from escaping his hell on earth; being trapped in his body as it began to recede. An escape from his mind as he stayed in an asylum. Those clouds . . . they’re representations of freedom. Heaven. A cure for his illness.”

  His fingers rose to point.

  “The brush strokes are impeccable. The majority of the print is from memories of his childhood.”

  I just stood as still as possible, taking in the meaning behind of each of his words.

  “And what would you paint from your childhood?” I asked, simply a whisper, forgetting about being put-out from dinner, and now completely entranced by him.

  He looked over at me with that smile. Slight. Meaningful.

  “You.”

  Blood rushed up to my face and I gripped his hand in mine, asking him quietly if we could go back to his house. I felt alive . . . so freaking alive and excited to get back to his place. I didn’t care about anything that had just happened. Just like that.

  The night was chilly, but clear, and I vividly remember looking up at the stars, my chest swelling and filling up to the point of almost bursting because I loved him so much. I loved him with a physical ache in my chest.

  Love? Sometimes it’s so big it hurts.

  Once back at the house, I put the food in to reheat because I figured we would need the energy for what I had planned later on. And while we waited, I skimmed his channels for a movie to
watch or order. Settling on one that looked romantic in an odd way, I set it up and plated the food, making us a little picnic on the floor. My bouquet was sitting right off to the side of us and I liked the way it felt. It was just right.

  But the movie? The movie was probably the second worst thing of the night.

  I honestly had no idea what it was about. I’d barely heard of it and none of my friends had ever said anything about seeing it. How was I supposed to know?

  It wasn’t until we were halfway through finishing our food that it dawned on me that the lead character had Asperger’s.

  By then Colton was fascinated, his attention fixated on the movie, his brow creased as he watched. I was swept away in the female lead’s part of the story. At times she was cold, and at times she was irritated. But I saw a lot of myself in her, and it was . . . odd. Our food went cold and neither of us spoke as the film progressed, but I could feel the tension in the room begin to rise.

  “I can turn it off . . .” I started but Colton just shook his head, transfixed.

  “I’d like to finish it.”

  I felt like I was holding my breath the entire time and pushing back tears because these people were older . . . and . . . there was no Hollywood ending. Just reality. The reality of loving someone who may never, ever be able to love you back in the same capacity.

  But Colton could, right? We were different. We had to be. He could explain things so clearly and show his affections in other ways and there was nothing that would make me ever quit loving him. I was sure of it.

  The credits rolled and I sat in stunned silence, because there wasn’t a happy ending.

  There was no happy ending.

  None.

  I needed that happy ending.

  The silence was overwhelming as I cleaned up the dishes and loaded the washer.

  “I’m going to get ready for bed.” Colton disappeared to his room to start his routine and I debated on whether or not to follow.