Meant to Be

  I stumble to my booth in a daze and untether the boats from beneath the tunnel.

  Maybe my summer of love is still a possibility. A violent prickliness erupts from the space occupied by Hendrix Cutter’s Name, and I angrily scratch it.

  When does this thing fully heal?

  As a result of last night’s rain, the temperature today is far more bearable than yesterday. Instead of sitting inside at lunch (and bristling every time Adam speaks, for fear of innuendo), I grab a quick sandwich and take it to the wall of the Devil’s Dinghies for a painting lunch. Keely works the ride as I add fresh color to some naked devil butts. Halfway through my break, Luke joins me on the grass. “Seems like just yesterday.…” He stares at the grass wistfully. I smack him playfully on the arm.

  “Speaking of yesterday,” I begin, dipping my paintbrush in white to add a glint to the round devil buttocks, “I talked to my mom—”

  “About us?” he asks, disbelieving.

  “No.” I’m annoyed by his fixation with us and sex, but I persevere because I miss talking to someone on a daily basis now that Lish is tied down. “About me moving to Australia.”

  Luke looks confused. “I thought you were going to college.” He finds a paintbrush and starts painting a pitchfork.

  “I am. Maybe. Someday.” I realize that our avoidance of talking about the “future” means he has no idea about my plans. “But I really want to go to Australia first. And I thought my mom was totally against it, but she was actually semicool about it. It was a huge relief. Then she told me this really sad story about her MTB, but I won’t go into that.”

  I wait for Luke, my boyfriend-ish-but-not-labeled person to congratulate me or commiserate with me on choosing my path for the future or ask more about my mom, but his forehead crinkles and his mouth remains closed.

  “Hello?” I press. “Great big life things happening here.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It’s just that Australia’s really far away.” He paints, speaking to but not looking at me.

  “One of its finest selling points, one might argue.”

  “I guess.” Luke does not seem to be sharing my enthusiasm.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he answers. Luke has obviously not read the Savannah Merlot novels.

  “Tell me,” I prod, with an affectionate nudge to his shoulder.

  “It’s just … don’t you want to see where this goes? You know … us?”

  Us? The concept has crossed and crisscrossed my mind over the years, and certainly over the last month, but … us?

  My chest itches again, and I smack Hendrix Cutter’s Name hard. It’s annoying how the scar acts up at the most inopportune times.

  Keely yells from the booth, “Break’s over! My turn!” I’ve never been so grateful for her presence.

  “Can we talk about this later?” I smile caringly so as not to bruise his gigantic heart. It’s not that I don’t want an Us. For whatever reason, that chemical reaction in my brain is not fusing like it should with Luke Jacobs.

  It’s not because I have another boy’s name on my body. Is it?

  CHAPTER 28

  This is stupid.

  I have crushed upon Luke Jacobs for years. He even has this new and enlarged physique that should be catapulting my crush status into complete dominating obsession. Hell, I’ve slept with the guy. I have seen him naked. He has seen me naked.

  He is funny and cute and apologizes and pays for food, and he has those kaleidoscope eyes and floppy hair.

  I should totally be head over heels, heart, and mind burning with desire for him.

  Then why aren’t I?

  Maybe I’m trying too hard. You can’t force love. It has to happen naturally, like aging wine and moldy cheese and those disgusting sprouty things that pop out of the eyes on potatoes. Just because I crave Lish’s MTB-level passion with Luke Jacobs doesn’t mean it’ll automatically happen. Maybe I need to get to know him better. Love isn’t merely about being attracted to someone and laughing when they joke about the size of meatballs at a restaurant. No, love is … hell, I have no idea. I’ve never actually been in love. I thought I loved Jared Mason, but looking back it was just simple high school crushing. I am much older and wiser now and, yes, still technically a teenager. But I can vote and by many state laws already be married, so it’s different now. Or it should be. Why am I not in love?

  Maybe it’s not that I’m trying too hard. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Luke has sent me sweet texts and paid for my dinners, and what have I done for him? Aside from, you know, the sex thing. I will now attempt my hand at romantic poetry. What rhymes with Luke?

  Exactly the moment I have this thought, a child stumbling off the nearby Ghoster pukes onto the concrete.

  Thank you, vomiting child, for your masterful timing and gift for rhyme.

  Forget the poem. I am going to will myself to be in love with Luke. What’s not to love about him? After work we’ll hang out, have way-better sex, cuddle, and my brain will figure it out and love will ensue.

  Damn, I’m romantic.

  The day ends, and I mosey up to Luke flirtatiously. It feels unnatural even though I’ve used the same method numerous times with him in the past. Perhaps it feels redundant to be flirtatious when I know he already likes me, the whole why-buy-the-cow-when-you-get-the-milk-for-free theory. Wait, am I the cow in that theory? Leave it to a cow analogy to make me feel gassy.

  “Hey.” I provide him with the ubiquitous greeting and slide my arm around his waist so we’re side by side. Comfy. Sturdy. Protective. These are all adjectives I’d use to describe how Luke feels right now. I will not mention how with his arm around my shoulder I am directly in line with his armpit. If I loved him, then this is a feeling I’d enjoy. A scent that draws me in, not repulses me.

  Trying to be in love is a lot of work.

  “Want to get something to eat?” I ask, maneuvering my way out of the pit. He quickly draws me in for a face-in-his-chest moment and breathes in my ear, “My mom and Rick are at a wedding in the city tonight. Want to order pizza and watch a movie?” He kneads my lower back with his fingertips, and my stomach flutters.

  See? I like him. I had a physical reaction to him touching me. Or maybe I’m nervous because ordering pizza and watching a movie is obvious code for that whole penis-in-vagina thing again. Not that that’s a bad thing. I just want it to be a really great thing. And to be madly in love with him. That’s not asking too much, is it?

  Before I overthink the hell out of every nanosecond of our evening, I take a deep breath and try to be cool. “Sounds good.” I nod.

  We walk hand in hand to our respective cars, the idea being for me to follow him back to his house so I can drive home from there. Luke kisses me slowly and deeply, and I tell my mind to shut up and enjoy the damn kiss. I let out a contented sigh, but I’m not certain if it was genuine or for show.

  If I keep this up, I’m going to start monitoring each breath I take. I’m already spent.

  Alone in my car, I text my mom to let her know I’ll be home late. My foot on the brake, I quickly tap out a text to Lish:

  Going to Luke’s tonight. We already had sex once. Need to talk to you. I’m off work tomorrow. Are you?

  Luke’s car begins moving, and I shift my car into drive to follow. Ten minutes of skipped turn signals and speedy yellow-light maneuvers, and we arrive at a white ranch-style house. My phone rings, Luke’s number, and I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. Park behind my car, in case my mom gets home early.”

  “Okay.”

  Luke pulls into a widened section of driveway to the side of the garage, and I pull in after him. My heart races with anticipation, but I don’t know what of. We’ve already eaten together. We’ve already had sex, in public no less. What left is there to feel nervous about?

  The inside of Luke’s house is neat and modern with lots of hard surfaces like marble and wood and steel. We walk through the livi
ng room to the kitchen, which overlooks a large and wooded backyard. Squirrels scamper up bird feeders, plants bloom heartily in a fenced-off garden, and a compost bin sits in a far corner.

  “Nice backyard,” I note. Luke slips up from behind to encase me in his sturdy arms. Watching the squirrels rapidly stuff their cheeks while being held by Luke Jacobs is something I could get used to. It feels normal and reassuring. I congratulate myself on that reaction.

  “You hungry?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Where do you want to order from?” He begins devouring my neck in kisses, and I realize he wasn’t talking about food.

  I try to alleviate my brain of all thought, to let the nerve endings encasing my body react to the pleasure of an attractive human being doing sexy things to them. His hands quickly slide up my shirt and knead my breasts, and I melt into the sensation. I lean back into him and reach around to rub the back of his head. Whatever he’s doing is working, and a warm and tingly feeling glows between my legs. As I turn around to kiss him, I take off my shirt and bra haphazardly. I know it’s fast, but the slower I take things the more time I have to think and ruin it all. Luke rips his t-shirt over his head, and the skin-to-skin contact beneath our frantically kissing lips is delectable.

  Luke works at the buttons on my shorts. My brain provides annoying commentary of something my mom once warned me: Don’t have sex right away because once you have sex, that’s all you have. All that good stuff that came before gets pushed aside for the final act.

  Not wanting my mom’s words to ring true (or, really, be in my head at this moment. Who wants to hear their mom’s voice when they’re getting naked with someone?), I guide Luke’s hand into my undies. He grins against my lips but doesn’t quite get the glaring neon sign of a message: LET’S NOT HAVE SEX YET. EVER HEARD OF FOREPLAY? Oblivious, Luke starts to pull down my shorts with his other hand. I stop him with a hand on his wrist, and then use my other hand to move his fingers inside the thin cotton material of my underwear. He strokes between my legs as we kiss, and I bring my hand to the front of his shorts to rub him over the fabric. There is something about being touched in this way while still wearing clothes that drives me mad. The sensation is so delicious that I am barely able to return his kisses.

  Abruptly, Luke pulls his fingers out of my pants and says, “I’ll be right back.”

  He clumsily runs upstairs, and I am left reeling at the kitchen counter. What happened? That was good stuff. Seconds later, Luke is back with a condom packet.

  My breasts must be distracting him from the incredulous look on my face because he has no idea I was so close to coming but completely thwarted by his need to get a condom at that precise moment.

  I’m about to read him the riot act, or at least shove his hand back into my pants, when he consumes me with his strong chest and arms and murmurs into my ear, “You are beautiful, and I am pudding.” Mmmm. Pudding. Luke and I stumble to the couch, entangled and groping as we walk. Our remaining clothes drop off, and soon Luke is inside me once again. It feels good, yet no euphoria builds. He’s heavy, but somehow I manage to sit him up. Maybe a different position is what I need. I straddle Luke and try again. The shitty fact is that once my tingling has died down, it’s double the work to build it back up. We’re clapping again at a soft rock concert, and Luke is pure white boy. I’m frustrated that our bodies aren’t working together when I want them to, and that frustration takes over any part of my body or brain that needs to be relaxed enough for an orgasm. Then Luke comes, and pulls out, and leaves to rid himself of the condom in the bathroom. Not quite as speedy as all that, but far too quickly for me to have a grand finale.

  Once again I am left orgasmless. I consider relieving myself in the bathroom, but that seems odd with a guy right here and, frankly, I’m not that much in the mood anymore.

  We get dressed. We order pizza. We watch a movie. Luke cuddles with me on the couch, and I lean into him, sleepy from the physical activity.

  After the movie, I tell him I’m tired and should go.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay?” He kisses me tenderly, and I reciprocate because his lips are there.

  “I told my mom I’d be home by midnight,” I lie.

  “You’re not working tomorrow, right?” he asks.

  “Nope. You are, though?” I hope the relief doesn’t come through in my voice.

  “Maybe we can hang out tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll see. I might be getting together with Lish. It’s been a while.”

  “Text me,” he says. I nod.

  In my car, I look at my phone and see a welcome text from Lish.

  No work tomorrow! Travis is working, so let’s play!

  Thank God.

  Happy and looking forward to tomorrow as I drive home, I sing along to embarrassing music on the radio that I tell everyone else I hate.

  My house is dark when I arrive, so I’m quiet as I step into the shower. As I’m sudsing up, it occurs to me that maybe I can’t have orgasms anymore without my MTB. Maybe that’s something that happens at eighteen that no one talks about. So I test the theory. An elaborate love story between me and Captain America blossoms in my mind. The hot water, the bubbles, Chris Evans … I come quickly and with scant effort, and when I turn off the water I’m worried maybe I may have awoken my mom.

  Theory disproved. Maybe I should call the sex scientists. Maybe I’ll even get a stipend.

  I stretch on a nightshirt and peer over at my laptop. My initial plot was to check Luke’s Chapbook page again, to see if there are any new incriminating posts from Adam. But I realize I don’t even care, and instead of Luke’s page I am involuntarily typing those letters again.

  H-e-n-d-r-i-x C-u-t-t-e-r.

  Still there is the amazing drawing of his name. My eyes wander over each letter, taking in the shapes of people. I continue to be blown away by this.

  On the side I note that Hendrix has several open pages, those anyone looking at Chapbook can see. One of them is a page entitled WHO I AM.

  My hand doesn’t wait for my brain to decide and clicks it.

  The screen looks like a yearbook signature page, covered in scribbles and doodles. Various words have been written, then scratched over, then written again.

  My Work

  My Band

  My Sister

  My Dog

  My Hometown

  I learn he has a sister named Pippa (which makes me wonder if he’s British), his dog’s name is Blue, and his hometown is Brunswick East, wherever that is.

  The section of the page I’m really drawn to, though, is the bottom right corner. There it reads in scratchy block letters: My Girl, with a drawing I assume he did of a lovely blonde with braids and blue eyes.

  My head weighs heavy, and my heart aches. I am unable to control the tears that pool and fight to spill over.

  Hendrix Cutter has a girlfriend.

  CHAPTER 29

  A cackle on my phone awakens me from a very bizarre dream the following morning. There were carnival rides and clowns, and everyone was naked except for me in a paisley muumuu and platform shoes. It was very difficult to run, as it often is in dreams, my too-tall shoes sticking to the ground from leftover drips of snow-cone juice. I have heard that very little content in dreams is actually telling of anything, but it’s the feeling the dream gives you that has meaning. If I were to look deeply at my dream, I would uncover the sensations of being trapped and out of place. If I merely skim the dream analysis surface, I could say I work too much and probably am a little perverted.

  I check the text that I assume is from Lish, and see it’s from Luke.

  Can’t stop thinking about last night. You were incredible.

  If I were to analyze my feelings at this moment, words spring to mind like disenchanted and heeby-jeebied and Can’t delete this from my phone fast enough. Should I feel this way about someone who’s supposed to be my not-really-but-kind-of boyfriend (not to mention a person with whom I’ve sexed twice)?

  I sen
d a message to Lish to get the day moving, and drown myself in the shower to cleanse me of any residue the text from Luke left behind.

  Uncle Jim scrambles eggs at the stove as I pop into the kitchen. “Morning,” he mumbles. Coffee spits into a pot in the coffeemaker, and I grab two mugs from the cabinet to pour us both a cup. His for drinking, mine for sniffing.

  “Morning,” I reply, handing him the steaming mug. “What’s Savannah doing today?” I sit at the table to watch the master cook.

  “Gallivanting with twin bodybuilders,” Jim says, then shakes his head with a small laugh at how ridiculous that sounds.

  “Of course,” I affirm.

  “I’ve been thinking of sending her to Australia,” Jim tells me, dividing eggs onto two plates with a spatula. “Savannah Down Under. Think of the trouble she’ll get into there.” He presents a plate of eggs on the table in front of me. “I thought maybe you could do some research for me. Be my local correspondent. You know, when you go.” Uncle Jim sits across from me and looks at me intently.

  It’s the first time anyone’s acknowledged that I will be going to Australia. Hell, I still haven’t turned it into reality in my head. I only just got up the courage to get my mom’s approval; I’m not quite at the I’m-really-going-to-move-to-another-country stage.

  “You’re going, you know. You made a decision. A choice. A really good one, by the way, and I admire you for it. That is why I want to give you something.” Uncle Jim slurps his coffee and cringes. “This is terrible.” He takes another sip. “Where was I? Oh yeah. This is the moment where I should produce an envelope with a plane ticket inside. But seeing as I have no idea when you want to leave or even where you want to land, let’s just pretend I’m giving you an envelope.”

  Uncle Jim theatrically mimes passing an envelope across the table.

  “That’s a really big envelope,” I note.

  “It’s for dramatic effect. Let’s imagine I had a massive plane ticket printed up just for the occasion.”

  I pretend to read the fake giant envelope.

  “I’m serious about buying your ticket, Agatha. Save your money for when you get there.”