Saving June (22 page)

I’ve thought about what it’d be like to kiss Jake over the past few days, way more than I’d care to admit. But I don’t even have time to register the firm press of his lips against mine, without breath, before he pulls back. His face freezes, eyes wide with
oh shit
written across them. Maybe I’d be offended if I wasn’t so sure that my own expression matches his perfectly.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he blurts out. “I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “you really are.”

I grab the collar of his shirt and tug him back to me. He makes a muffled sound of surprise in the back of his throat, hesitating for a heartbeat before his mouth opens against mine. Suddenly we’re kissing for real—clumsy at first as we feel each other out, but then I shift forward into his lap, fall against his chest and tip my head down, and it’s like two puzzle pieces snapping into place.

He tastes exactly the way I thought he would, of cigarettes and citrus and salt. The ocean. And he kisses like I
thought he would, too, hard and hot and urgent, and way better than anyone I’ve made out with before. Not that there’s a long list or anything, just a few sloppy hookups at parties I can count on one hand with guys who used too much tongue and didn’t know what to do with their hands.

Jake knows
exactly
what to do with his hands. One cups my jaw while the other wraps around my back to pull me in flush against him. I grab at his neck, and one of his legs accidentally knocks into the bag of clementines. A few roll out across the floor.

He falters for a second like he’s contemplating reaching for them. I shake my head, mumble against his lips, “Leave it,” because I don’t want him to stop, and then he’s pressing back, hands moving down to fit around my hip bones. He uses them to push me to my feet.

We stumble through the door to his room, never breaking contact, and he shoves me up against the wall, kisses me as hard as he can. I think I’ll float up out of my body, being kissed like that, but he anchors me down with his hands pinning my wrists to the wall, his hips pressed against mine.

I push back, break my arms from his grip so I can wrap them around him, pull him even closer. God, I love his mouth, love his hands. I’d climb inside his skin if I could. We kiss like we’re drowning, gasping and desperate.

“Wait.” Jake breaks away first, leaving both of us out of
breath. For a second I think he will pull back completely, say something like,
We can’t do this, it’s not right, I’m sorry,
but instead he grins and says, “How about some music?”

He moves to the CD player on the dresser. I stand behind him, pulling his jacket off his shoulders as he flips through his collection case. I don’t want to stop touching him. I can’t get enough now that I’ve started.

“One-track mind much?” I say into the back of his neck.

“Hey, the sound track is vital. It sets the mood.”

This feels more like us. It’s easy to slip into this comfortable back-and-forth banter with him, helps to ease the anxious ache in my stomach. But I’m still nervous, because I know what this is leading up to. What I want to do with him.

“I’m sure.” My sarcasm has to be predictable at this point, but it’s my most reliable defense mechanism for a reason. “So what do you have in mind?” I ask. “ABBA’s
Greatest Hits?
“

Jake laughs. “Tempting, but I’m thinking something more along the lines of—” He pauses. “Hold on. I found the perfect choice.”

I try and peer around him to see his pick, but he jams it into the player and presses Play before I can sneak a look. The first track cues up and answers my question anyway. The beginning riff of “Touch Me” by the Doors blasts out, startling me into laughter. Jake turns and serenades me,
his arms wrapped around my waist, swaying us back and forth in time to the music. I sing along until the sight of his exaggerated facial expressions breaks my voice off into laughter again, and then I’m laughing into his mouth.

As we kiss, my hands creep underneath his shirt and up his taut stomach. The muscles there tense, his grip on my waist tightening. When I slip a hand beneath the waistband of his jeans, Jake jerks back and stares at me with his mouth parted.

“Do you have—” I start, and then stop. Okay, new rule. If I’m not mature enough to talk about sex, I’m not going to be having it. My heart is beating so hard it could burst out of my chest and go flying across the room at any moment, but I suck it up, grit my teeth and tip my chin upward to look him square in the eyes. “Do you have protection?”

He blinks in confusion, and then I see it click in his head, and then he just looks kind of bowled over. Like all he expected was for us to make out against walls and go our separate ways. Normally that would be more than enough for me, but tonight…I don’t want to be alone.

I want to be with him.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the wallet on the nightstand, “I mean—I do, but—is that really what—”

I cut him off. “Yes. I want to.”

“Harper,” he says, struggling for words. “We don’t—we don’t have to. I don’t think—”

It’s kind of sweet, and at the same time kind of condescending, that he’d try to protect me from myself.

I roll my eyes. “Of course we don’t have to,” I say impatiently. I yank his shirt up over his head, discard it on the floor and take a moment to appreciate the sight of him shirtless. “No one
makes
me do anything. I don’t let them. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I reach out and put my hands on his bare chest, steer him to the bed, where I push him down on the mattress and straddle him awkwardly. Some fumbling ensues, and then my shirt is off, and I am kissing Jake again, our knees knocking, legs caught in a clumsy tangle. His hands hover before eventually settling over my ribs. They move up my back, over my bra, thumbs rubbing across my shoulder blades, and then around to my front, lower, lower—

I pull away and say, “I’ve never done this before.” The blood rushes to my face. If he laughs, or pushes me off in disgust, I don’t know what I’ll do. Punch him in the head before crawling into a corner to die of embarrassment, probably. My heart flutters in my chest like a spastic hummingbird.

An expression I can’t place passes over his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” he says.

The knot in my stomach reappears with a roaring
vengeance, twisting painfully. I try to keep the hurt out of my voice when I ask, “So is it because you’ve suddenly become a noble defender of womanly virtue, or because you just don’t want to?”

He must’ve detected it, though, because he shakes his head fervently. “Are you crazy? Of course I
want
to. Believe me. I just. I want you to be sure.”

“I am,” I promise. “I’m a big girl now. I know what I want. I want you to—”

He cuts me off with a kiss before I can finish and rolls me onto my back. Behind us Jim Morrison has moved on to singing about running to L.A. Yes, sometimes the melodies are repetitive, but I can’t deny that his voice is like liquid sex. And the song—the song is fitting, when I stop to think about it, which I don’t for very long because the way Jake kisses me and the places his hands roam are incredibly distracting.

He lifts his mouth from mine as he unbuttons my jeans with tentative deliberation, looking to me for permission. “You okay?”

I nod shakily. It’s so hot I can hardly breathe, and still I shiver like crazy all over, like someone’s tossed me into a tub of ice.

Jake draws back to look me in the eye. “You’re sure?”

I don’t want him to stop, I want him to keep going, I don’t want to have to think about it. It’s like running: if you don’t stop, you don’t have time to think. It would be
so much easier if he’d just do it, get it over with, instead of all this talking.

I want this. I want this. So why do I feel like crying?

“Yes,” I say. His skin is so hot, like there’s a furnace under it, and my arms and legs feel like Jell-O. I put my hands in his hair, pull him down into another kiss, breathe into his mouth. “Yes.”

I want this, and Jake—I don’t have to ask him twice. He presses his mouth to the curve of my jaw, my throat, my collarbone, kisses a line down my stomach. I arch off the bed and into his touch, stare up at the stained ceiling that swims in my vision, and all around me hear the music, rising, rising.

Sex is not something June and I talked about. Ever. I don’t know if she ever did it with Tyler or not—I would’ve bet good money she was waiting for prom night, so he could book a hotel room and make love to her on a bed strewn with rose petals, surrounded by candles or some sappy shit straight out of
The Notebook.
But then they broke up and June didn’t even go to her senior prom because she was too upset about the whole mess.

I can’t imagine her having a first time like mine—then again, if you’d told me a month ago my sister was going to kill herself, I would’ve laughed in your face, so what do I know?

When I wake up the next morning, there are five blissful seconds where I don’t remember anything at all. Not about what happened with Jake, or about June, or even
where I am. But then I stretch and roll over onto my side, and the thin starched sheet slides over my sticky bare skin, and that’s the moment I open my eyes, lift my head off my pillow and realize I’m naked. And in Jake’s room.

And, oh yeah, did I mention
naked?

Last night filters its way back into my consciousness in bits and pieces, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle—Laney in the bed, me throwing up in the toilet, the clementines, the king of clubs, the crying, the kissing, my back pressed against the motel room wall, Jim Morrison’s heavy, raspy baritone echoing in my ears.

I rub my eyes and let my head fall back on the pillow. Jake’s side of the bed is empty; the CD player lies mute. I wonder where he went. Maybe he wanted to distance himself, make it clear this was a one-time deal. We didn’t talk about it, after; we just lay there, sweaty limbs tangled together under the sheets, my head cushioned on his bare shoulder while we listened to the record on repeat until we fell asleep.

I have no idea how he feels about all of this. Maybe he regrets it so much he can’t stand to see my face. Probably couldn’t wait to get away from me as fast as possible.

Asshole.

I fight back a wave of anger and embarrassment and dress as quickly as I can, snatching the closest articles of clothing off the floor—which happen to be Jake’s boxers and a baggy T-shirt with the acronym CBGB across the
front. Whatever that means. It doesn’t matter, I just need to be covered enough to get into my room, where I can do a quick change, hopefully before Laney wakes up and gets a clue.

And then I open the door, and there’s Jake, leaning against the outside railing and smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing that silly hat of his again, and he looks over his shoulder when I come out, a small smile curving his lips. My stupid heart betrays me by doing this weird flippy thing in my chest that feels like fifty million butterflies ricocheting off each other.

“Hey,” he greets me.

I step up next to him. “Hey.”

I keep a little distance between us, bending over the railing and staring down at the parking lot below. I try to compose what I want to say in my head, but the problem is, I still haven’t sorted out how I feel about things myself.

I like Jake, I do, but it’s complicated, like everything else. Last night was probably a bad idea. At the same time, I don’t feel bad about it, or like I have anything to apologize for.

Jake nudges his elbow against mine. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, and at the same time I blurt out, “This doesn’t mean I want to have your babies.”

We stare at each other for about ten seconds in awkward silence.

“Okay,” he says slowly, smiling with his mouth closed, like he’s holding back a laugh.

“I mean, I don’t want you to think…” Is there a nonlame way to phrase this? Doubtful. “I’m not going to get all clingy and weird,” I explain, “and want to, like, carve our initials into birch trees inside a little heart and start planning our wedding or whatever.”

“In that case, I guess I need to call the Radisson and cancel the booking for the reception,” he replies. His smile softens. “It’s okay, Harper. I get it. I don’t expect anything.”

That’s what I want, isn’t it? No expectations. No pressure.

So why do I feel so disappointed?

Jake says, “We can talk about it more later, if you want,” and drops a quick kiss on my forehead. “Go pack. We should get on the road as soon as we can. It’s going to be a long day.”

I don’t know what constitutes as “later” in Jake’s mind—we don’t discuss it after we’ve checked out of the motel, or on the drive to the nearest Denny’s for breakfast, and as soon as we get there, he ducks into the bathroom, leaving Laney and me alone in a side booth. If I really wanted to I could follow him and force him to have this conversation, except, what is there to say? And if I figured out what I
did want to say, is it something I’d want to confront him about in such close proximity to a urinal?

I don’t think Laney suspects anything. She was still sleeping when I crept into our room, and she’s acted normal all morning. Maybe a little quieter than usual. It’d be selfish of me to worry her with my crisis when hers is so much more critical than mine. She’s gotta be a level red on the personal-crisis color scale.

Between the three of us, we have enough fodder for a year’s worth of Lifetime made-for-television movies, easy.

Laney pulls a newspaper out of her giant handbag and smiles at the waiter as he sets a big-ass pot of coffee and three glasses of water on our table.

“So what’s new in the world?” I ask, pouring myself some coffee. I don’t really like plain coffee, except for the smell. But today I feel older than ever. I can act like an adult. I can drink plain coffee if I want.

Laney quirks an eyebrow from behind her newspaper. “Let’s see…war, famine, disease. One of the Olsen twins is in rehab again. The usual, it would seem.” She flicks past a page, feigning surprise. “Oh, wait, listen to this:
‘Harper Scott has sizzling one-night stand with Jacob Tolan.’”

My hand jerks, and coffee spills all over the tabletop. Jesus.

I gape at her stupidly. “You—you know?” Seriously, does she have a sixth sense for these things or something?

“Pick your jaw up off the floor. It’s not exactly a state secret, what with you coming into our room wearing his underwear this morning,” she says, pointing to me with her spoon. “Yeah, that’s right, I was awake, you thought I wasn’t, but I totally was. I can’t believe he wears Looney Tunes boxers.” She rolls her eyes. “So tell me. How was it? Good? Bad?”

“Um.” I grab handfuls of napkins from the dispenser and mop up the spilled coffee, stalling for time, hoping she might change the subject on her own. But she doesn’t; she just keeps her eyes on me. “It was. I don’t know.” I shrug. “It just was.”

She leans in over the table, grinning wickedly. “Was it, like, super-romantic Kate-and-Leo-in-the-back-of-the-
car-in-Titanic
sex, or take-me-now sex, like when Clark Gable drags a protesting Vivien Leigh up the stairs in
Gone With the Wind,
but it’s obvious she’s secretly totally into it?”

Of course that’s what Laney would want to know.

I crumple the napkins in my fist and sigh. “I am so not talking about this.”

“Come on! A girl needs
details.
I’ve always shared details with you, when you’ve asked.”

“I never ask for details. You share them willingly. In fact, if anything, you force them on me when I’d rather not hear. I’m not a fan of the overshare.”

“Okay,” she says, and sits back. She eyes me carefully. “Just tell me—are you okay?”

I toss the soppy napkins aside and say, “I hate when you ask that.”

“I know you do. Are you okay?”

“Yes.” I look up and meet her direct gaze. “I mean. I’ve been better. But last night…” I can feel myself blushing red. “Laney…your first time. Was it…good?”

“No,” she replies bluntly. She spins the spoon around in her fingers. “Memorable? Yes. Good? No. Not in any sense of the word.”

I don’t get it. If she didn’t enjoy it, what made her want more of it? Dustin Matthews was her first, but not her last. I’m certain of that much. I think there are some things about Laney I will never understand.

Now it’s her turn to change the subject. “So,” she says, “what about Jake?”

“What?”

“Are you in love with him?”

Love? No. Definitely, absolutely, positively not. What happened last night was just two people missing the same person, combined with some serious raging hormone action. A weak moment. I don’t regret it, but it isn’t like we’re in
love.

You cannot be in love with someone you’ve really only known for barely a week, and on top of that, someone who drives you crazy most of the time. No matter how goodlooking
and charming and interesting and understanding he may be. Not even if he’s the one person who makes you feel like yourself.

Right?

It’s a straight shot to San Francisco off of the Pacific Coast Highway. The drive will take most of the day, but we all feel reenergized from the sabbatical in Huntington Beach. Being in California in itself is a shot in the arm, too; all of us chat more over the music, point out different sights along the way.

Things are going swimmingly, in fact, until Jake cuts across three lanes, gets off the I-5 north and onto the 46.

I look from the map to Jake and back again. “You’re going the wrong way. We’re supposed to stay on I-5 until—”

“I know. This is the last detour.”

“Detour? Haven’t we had enough of those already?”

“Trust me. It’ll be worth it.”

It takes everything I have not to pester him the whole way about what, exactly, we are doing on this detour. It’s hard to stay annoyed when Jake turns on the music, though. Seriously, who can be in a bad mood during a Beach Boys song? It is impossible. Even Laney isn’t immune to the infectious beats; she hums along in the back as she flips through a fashion magazine. I prop my bare feet out
of the open window and swing them to the tune, the salty ocean-shore air rushing in through the van.

I feel pretty content, all things considered. I figure if anything I should be receiving a medal of some kind for holding my shit together this well. My sister is dead, my best friend is pregnant and I’ve just lost my virginity to a guy I hate. Sort of.

Well,
hate
is a strong word, one I usually reserve for expressing my feelings toward, say, P.E. class and FOX News. I don’t
hate
Jake. Sometimes I am annoyed by, frustrated by and irritated by him. And confused. I am pretty much always confused by him, by what he says and how he acts. Sleeping with him has only made things that much more complicated.

But I also enjoy him, erratic behavioral patterns and all. I like that he isn’t too cool to openly geek out over ABBA, and that he is so passionate about music, that he gives as good as he gets and doesn’t back down from a good argument. He makes me feel safe, without being overbearing, and at the same time totally stripped bare, forcing me to confront the things I want to keep locked up inside.

But maybe that’s better. You can only cover a bullet hole with a Band-Aid for so long. Maybe I need to bleed out.

Maybe I need to stop with the lame metaphors.

The detour turns out to be a town called Cholame.

“Cholame?” Laney gasps and sits up, eyes bugging out of her head. “Shut up. Seriously? This is Cholame?”

I don’t see what the big deal is—this place makes Grand Lake look like a metropolis in comparison. But then Jake explains that this is where James Dean died after crashing his Porsche.

I squint out the window. “On this road? Right here?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “They realigned the intersection back in the seventies, and the crash site’s on private property. You can see it from the road, though.”

Laney’s reaction suddenly makes sense. Dead movie star, prime of life—how many times has she made me watch
Rebel Without a Cause
and
East of Eden?
James Dean is one of her favorites. The only thing that could top this would be flying to whatever island Grace Kelly is buried on.

Jake pulls Joplin into the parking lot of a small café, where someone has constructed a memorial. The monument is built out of steel planks wrapped around a tree, surrounded by a Japanese rock garden and plaques inscribed with quotes by people like Elia Kazan and Lord Byron and James Dean himself. No one is around except for us. I snap a few Polaroids, then step back with Jake while Laney reads each and every inscription.

“How’d you know where to find this place?” I ask.

“I stopped here once, with my brother. It’s pretty easy to find. All you do is shoot straight from—”

“Wait, when were you in California?”

He looks at me funny. “I was born here. Well, not
here—
Echo Park.”

“I didn’t know that.” Dumb response—of course I didn’t know that. How could I? Jake hasn’t volunteered the information up until this point, and I’m not a mind reader. I glance at Laney and ask Jake, “So why’d you choose this for our last detour?”

“I figured she could use some cheering up,” he says. “Life’s hard enough, you know, without…” He trails off with a light shrug. “I thought it might get her mind off of things.”

I look at him for too long after that, and wonder why, exactly, Jake has to keep doing this—has to keep having these moments of saying or doing exactly the right thing, throwing my perception of him all off-kilter. Moments like these make me want more from him than I have ever wanted from any guy—or even just another person, period.

It scares me, makes me itch to either run away screaming or push him up against the nearest tree and kiss him until I can’t breathe.

Jake catches me staring and wrinkles his nose. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

To keep him from asking more questions, I swipe the fedora off of his head and shove it onto my own. He laughs, trying to steal it back, and we end up wrestling for it until Laney turns around and gives us a pointed look, one hand on her hip.

“Sorry,” I gasp out, breathless from laughing so hard,
“sorry. Please, continue with, uh, paying your respects. Ignore us.”

“We’ll behave now,” Jake assures her in a low, growly voice. A voice that makes me blush. He stands close to me, shoulder pressed against mine. I blush harder.