Truest (22 page)

Laurel and I crowded before the mirror in her room, assessing ourselves and each other as she did my eye makeup for the street dance, which was starting soon. “Your hair is
perfect
,” I whined. “Mine doesn't do anything I want it to.” Her room smelled like hair spray, and she had music from
Swan Lake
playing on her iPod dock.

“Oh, whatever!” she said, her hand absently tousling the loose curls she'd put in. “You're gorgeous, West. There. Done. Your eyes look like black holes I'm going to fall into.”

“Is that a good thing?” I asked.

She shoved me in the shoulder. “You dork. Take a look.”

I usually didn't wear any makeup, but Laurel had put eyeliner and mascara on me, and now my lashes looked about eight miles long and perfect. Laurel had been conservative
with me—her own eyes were covered in thick, gold-glitter eye shadow that perfectly matched the highlights in her hair.

“What are you going to wear?” she asked.

“This,” I said, extending my hands to show her my most basic of outfits—a pair of jeans that had been lying on my bedroom floor for the last month or so and a T-shirt.

Laurel frowned, then looked through her closet. “Here, try this instead.” She handed me a dusty pink button-up that was light and sweet and pin-tucked with lace. When I put it on, she nodded her approval.

For herself, she chose a pair of the palest blue jeans and a low-cut white cami, along with this sleeveless denim top that she wore open.

“You look
incredible.
”

Her cheeks flushed. “Shhh, don't. Hey,” she said quietly, “so . . . when Trudy comes back, we're still going to hang out, right?”

“Durr,” I said, rolling my eyes and grinning at our reflection in the mirror.

She smiled softly. “I owe you, West.”

I frowned. “For what?”

“For everything, but especially these last couple of weeks. I feel like myself—really like myself—and happy, like I'm walking on a rock instead of in a moon bounce. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn't—not exactly.

“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you before . . . before the summer is over. And while I'm still me.” Suddenly her smile slackened, and she looked at me and said, “Who knows how long it will last?”

“Knock that off,” I said. “You've turned a corner, Laurel.”

“I hope so,” she said. Then her voice changed again. “West, you hottie! Silas isn't going to be able to take his eyes off you tonight!”

There were police barricades on one end of Elm Street and, on the other, a stage set up with huge speakers hanging from the top of the framework. My family had been there before dark, but the carnival games and cakewalk were long over, and a different crowd was out. The Mean Green Pub had a station on the street full of kegs; you had to have a special stamp on your hand to show you were twenty-one, but it was ten p.m. and already dark out and no one was paying much attention to that: tons of kids were getting wasted under the trees that lined the street. I watched Laurel and Whit each pound a drink or maybe two and then stop to talk with Elliot, who sat as if enthroned on a nearby front porch with some of his football teammates, one whose house it was. I saw Elliot glance around—presumably for me—but I ducked into the crowd of people dancing on the street, pulling Silas along behind me.

A mediocre band played covers. Silas faced me in a T-shirt that (somewhat) appropriately said, “Hold Me Closer, Tony
Danza,” dancing like a goof, awkward and clumsy—and somehow it was the most adorable thing ever. This tall, lanky boy, all arms and legs and
eyes.
His were electric.

Laurel and Whit had found us in the crowd and were dancing nearby, his hands resting low on her hips. Laurel looked so natural and so beautiful that I couldn't help but laugh at the wide gap between her and her twin, the gangly but gorgeous boy whose fingers were intertwined with mine. When the song slowed, I put my arms comfortably around Silas's neck and looked up at him. “Laurel seems good tonight,” I said.

He nodded toward his sister; she was playing with the long hair at the base of Whit's neck and laughing at something he was saying. “She's having a blast,” Silas said. “I haven't heard her laugh like that since she was thirteen.”

Tiki torches lined the street, staked into people's yards. The sun had set, and the street was packed. The air felt warm and thick with humidity, and I thought I might have heard some thunder far off. I worried it might rain but soon forgot about the weather when Silas settled his hands on my hips, his fingers resting on the skin where my shirt had ridden up.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” I whispered, my head feeling cloudy.

“I'm thinking that it's been an incredible summer,” he said softly, then he leaned down, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “Because of you.”

Then I was up on my tiptoes, pressing my lips against his,
my hands on his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the thin cotton. It was so warm in the crowd. “Let's get out of here.”

We retreated to the church bell tower and climbed the staircase holding hands, giggling and stopping every few stairs to kiss. Up at the top, I turned on the camping lantern while Silas leaned into the window ledge. When I joined him, I saw that Jody Perkins had ridden his mower out to Elm Street, the purr of the motor inaudible above the more distant music.

The feel of Silas's bare arm against mine was electric, sharpening my senses into cold steel: I knew what I wanted to happen next.

Thoughts raced inside me:
Will Silas want it too? Is it wrong? We're in the frickin' church bell tower! What would Dad say if he knew?
Angrily, I shoved the last question off. Dad didn't—wouldn't—know. He never asked me about myself anymore, and he didn't know me well enough to see it on my face. Right? I looked at Silas, still gazing out the window, the breeze lifting his hair off his face. He was so beautiful. My cold steel sharpened to a point:
this was exactly what I wanted.

But I kept thinking how he had put the brakes on recently.
What if he doesn't want me—like that?
What if I embarrass myself? Warm and a little dizzy, I took a deep breath, my back against the tower wall beside the window Silas leaned over. Awkwardly, I shoved my hands into my pockets—and there was Trudy's gift. My insides churned, a slow, deep, yawning sensation. And Silas was completely unaware.

Or maybe he wasn't. He stood up tall and looked down at me, and there was conflict in his eyes. And intensity. I wondered if my eyes had the same hungry look as his. The noise from the dance was drowned out by the sound of my pulse hammering in my neck behind my ears. My heart slammed against my chest. He was standing
so close.

“West?” he asked softly, and his voice cracked.

Yes,
now
, I thought, then put my hands on his chest, stood on my tiptoes to kiss him, and felt his arms go around me. But his response was different than usual. This kiss was deeper, somehow more desperate—as if the end of summer was so much more than just that. Silas took the lead, pressing me against the wall with his body, his hands at my waist, fists curling in the hem of my shirt. In his shadow, I felt like a wire about to snap.

An alarm exploded inside me when his cold hands slipped under my shirt and touched my bare stomach: fear and guilt—but pleasure too. I gasped a little against his mouth but then kissed him harder, encouraging him, and felt his hands move from my hips, up and over my rib cage, to my breasts. He looked at me, and I nodded, and he started to unbutton my shirt.

“Dammit,” he said when his fingers worked clumsily at a button without success. I reached for the buttons, trying to help him out. “No,” he whispered. “Let me.”

Silas had a look of fierce concentration on his face, and it was so adorable that I leaned forward and kissed his ear, letting
my lips linger there, barely grazing his skin. “You're not making this any easier,” he mumbled through a grin as he finally finished with the buttons. He peeled the shirt off my shoulders.

We kissed again, then Silas pulled his shirt up and over his head. I laid a hand on his bare chest—his heart was pounding just like mine. “Should we, like, lie down?” he asked.

It was a ridiculous question, but I was grateful to have direction. We climbed onto the mattress, and he leaned over me, breathing heavily. I slid out of my jeans as he watched; in only my underwear, my thoughts raced with insecurities. But Silas stared at my body, swallowed hard, and pressed his knee between my legs. “You're so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he placed a gentle hand over my heart so that he could feel it race, just as I'd felt his; it rose and fell quickly with my chest, and Silas's eyes moved to meet mine. They were serious, unblinking. After a few moments, he leaned in and kissed the hollow of my throat so gently that I got goose bumps. Then he locked eyes with me again and reached around and unclasped my bra, so easily that I whispered in panic, “Have you done this before?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slightly; his voice was low, quiet, making his whole body hum like a cello string.

“With Beth?”

“No, shhh,” he said again, and relief rushed me, and as I lay before him, vulnerable and shaky, I noticed that he was still trembling too. Silas ran his fingers from my shoulder down to
my hip, so lightly, barely touching me, as if he were afraid. I felt afraid, too: Silas, the boy who had chattered incessantly all summer long, was silent, and it felt so strange, so foreign.

“It's just me,” I whispered, breathless, and he laughed a little, ducking his head in this bashful way, and I laughed too. It was so sweet, so endearing that my heart swelled like a balloon. “I love you,” I said softly, reaching up to touch his face.

“I love you, too,” he said, no pause, no hesitation, and the words were like a cradle. And then Silas leaned into me, one arm on either side of my head, kissing a trail from my mouth to my jaw to my throat. “Damn, you smell good,” he breathed into my neck. “Like brown sugar. West, I don't have . . . I wasn't . . .”

I reached over to the pocket of my jeans and pulled out what Trudy had left for me. Silas looked from the condom wrapper back to me, and for a brief moment, I worried that he was going to stop this runaway train. His eyes searched mine, looking for . . . I didn't know what. I was looking in his for a decision.

“You sure?” he asked so quietly I barely heard him, and I could only nod; he pursed his lips, exhaling long and slow, and unbuttoned his jeans. He tried slipping out of them, but he tripped over them awkwardly and kind of
fell
back on top of me.

“Ouch,” I said.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It's okay.”

We were clumsy and quiet and it hurt, but I didn't cry. I felt this strange dichotomy: pain, yes—but also joy that lapped at me like I was lying on a beach and it was rolling in with the tide. I felt small beneath his strong body, loved the weight of it crushed against mine, the feel of skin against skin, the roll of his hips, the tiny noises he made, the way he smelled salty and sweet like sweat and sandalwood.
I love you
, I thought.
I really do.

After, Silas lay propped on one elbow, making circles on my stomach with his finger, his touch so light it gave me goose bumps. He leaned over, his breath hot on my bare skin, and kissed the invisible mark he'd drawn, his lips like this strange, delicious, searing burn.

Outside, it had started to rain—soft and almost musical, and still somehow warm. Summer's last hurrah, met with applause.

Silas and I lay facing each other, a blanket spread over us, and he whispered, “Sorry I hurt you,” and I said, “I'm not,” and leaned in toward him. We stayed that way, foreheads together, whispering until we were silly with exhaustion. In a way, it was good—being that tired—something to break the solemnity of the evening. It felt like we were Silas and West again, goofy and talkative, just undressed.

“Tell me what you're thinking about,” I said for the second time that night.

“I don't know,” he said. “You. Naked.”

I laughed. “At least you're honest.”

Silas grinned. “You?” he asked.

“That school starts in four days.”

He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Mood killer,” he teased. He looked into my eyes with a soft expression on his face and stroked my hair in a way that made me feel beautiful even though I was a sweaty mess. “Want to go to the homecoming dance with me?”

“Only if you promise to do the boy-band dance,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

“And ruin
any
chance of making friends?” he asked with a laugh.

“It's all a part of my wicked plot to keep you for myself,” I said.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he said, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You think I'm yours now, hmmm?”

“Mmm-hmmm . . . aren't you?” I asked quietly.

“Since you showed up on my doorstep,” he said, and kissed me, and it felt like we were the only people awake on earth. “I'm sure Laurel took the car home,” Silas said then, reaching for his cell phone and seeing that it was after two a.m. “What was your curfew tonight?”

“One thirty,” I said.

“Mine was one,” he admitted as he ran his fingers lightly along my arm. “We're gonna be in trouble.”

“If they're asleep, they won't even notice,” I said. “Besides, what will they do? Ground us for the rest of summer? School starts in
four days.
”

As we both groaned and laughed again, a series of sirens sounded in the distance, and I raised my eyebrows and said, “Ooooh, someone got busted. You knew someone would with all those kegs there tonight.”

Silas was frowning, his dark eyes troubled.