“And I’m going to shut up now, I truly am, except to say that groping hands and glazed eyes aren’t what a girl wants. She does, however, want to feel pretty. Pretty, and admired, and … seen.”
“I’ll do my best,” Charlie said.
“Make Wren feel special,” Tessa said. “That’s all.”
Wren already is special, Charlie thought. I hope she knows that. I hope I make her feel that way.
“I’m done now,” Tessa said.
“Okay,” Charlie said. “I mean … thanks.”
She gave him a spontaneous hug. “You are a good guy, Charlie.” She stepped back. “What are you going to do when she leaves for Guatemala?”
Charlie’s gut tightened.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up, not tonight.” She sighed. “I, personally, wish she wouldn’t go, but I think she’s pretty set on it. And she’s been told no so many times that I guess I’m glad she’s standing up for herself. I am glad she’s standing up for herself.”
“She won’t be gone forever,” Charlie said.
“A year is a long time, Charlie.”
He didn’t need her telling him that.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Can I say no?”
She pursed her lips. “No?”
He half laughed.
“Why aren’t you going with her?” she asked.
“To Guatemala?” he said. He rubbed his face. He’d love to go to Guatemala with Wren, but he couldn’t drop everything and follow her. Not that that kind of logic, or any logic, would make sense to Tessa—and maybe it shouldn’t make sense to him, either.
He sighed. “Because I’m going to Georgia Tech,” he said.
“So?”
So? So that was his plan, just like Project Unity was Wren’s plan. It was a big deal that he’d gotten in. Gotten a scholarship. It was a big deal to Chris and Pamela that he was going.
“Never mind,” she said. “I just wish one of you could change your plans.”
Charlie looked past her at her backyard. What he didn’t tell her, and hadn’t told Wren, was that, at the end of June, he’d filled out an application to Project Unity. He hadn’t heard back yet. He’d also applied for a passport.
The problem was that Charlie couldn’t imagine leaving Chris and Pamela and Dev.
Then again, he couldn’t imagine being without Wren.
After leaving Tessa’s, Charlie went to P.G.’s house. At a stoplight, he flipped open his phone and pulled up the picture Wren sent him on “the bad night,” as he thought of it. It had been a bad night, but the picture of Wren was wonderful, and he’d never deleted it. How could he?
“My man, good to see you,” P.G. said when Charlie arrived, clapping Charlie on the back. He ushered Charlie into his enormous house. “What’s up?”
Charlie asked P.G. if he could borrow his iPod dock, and P.G. said, “Hell yeah, buddy, although I’ve got something better than a dock. I’ve got a couple of things better than a dock. Follow me.”
“Whoa,” Charlie said when he stepped into the Barbees’ finished basement. He’d never been down here before. The walls of the back room were lined with redwood cabinets, and when Charlie approached them, he discovered that some of them were refrigerated. He heard no refrigeration hum, but he felt the cold radiating from within.
P.G. came up next to him and turned an ornate key that protruded from a lock on one of the cabinet doors. Charlie gathered that the key wasn’t to keep P.G., or anyone else, out. It was simply to keep the door latched. When P.G. swung the door open, Charlie whistled.
P.G. grinned proudly. “You came to the right guy, I’m telling you.”
“This isn’t an iPod dock,” Charlie said.
“Nope. But it’s for Wren, right?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
“Bro, it’s me,” P.G. said. “I’m in love with Tessa. Tessa is Wren’s best friend. You don’t think I know?” As they trooped up the basement stairs, he threw more questions over his shoulder. “What else can I help you with? Cheese? Salted caramels? Chocolate-covered figs?”
“How about the iPod dock?” Charlie said. “And, uh … maybe your iPod?”
“I’ve got an old one you can have, my friend. One sec.” He jogged upstairs and returned with an iPod, a charger, and a small black speaker, all of which he gave to Charlie. “The speaker’s charged. The iPod isn’t. I haven’t used it in years, and really, I don’t want it back. Just go to Settings to activate the Bluetooth connection. Cool?”
“It’s great. I’m not keeping it, but thanks.”
“You know how to load songs?”
“I think I can manage.” With his free hand, he reached for his pocket. “Thanks. Seriously. And, uh, how much for the—”
“Charles,” P.G. said, putting his hand on Charlie’s forearm. “You insult me.”
“Seriously, P.G. Let me pay you.”
“Your money’s no good here. I’ll tell you what you can do, though.”
“Sure, name it.”
P.G. dropped his slick act and grew earnest. “Treat her well, bro.”
Charlie nodded. “Will do.”
house, like a real date. Well, it was a real date. The realest of dates. Wren’s stomach held a thousand tiny wings, and she hadn’t been able to eat all day. She had managed to paint her toenails and take care of other basic hygiene needs, and she’d taken special care with her hair, drying it with a round brush to accentuate the curls she knew Charlie liked.
She’d bought special lingerie, too. At a real lingerie store, not Victoria’s Secret. The bra was made in France and called a “demi cup,” which meant that it pushed her breasts up and showed a lot of cleavage, basically. It was sheer for the most part, with a pattern of purple and deep pink leaves scattered ingeniously to barely cover her nipples. The straps of the bra were thin and elegant, and French lace adorned the edges. She chose matching panties to go with it, and both the bra and panties seemed to weigh nothing in the crisp paper bag the saleslady had placed them in. When Wren had carried her purchases from the store, it was as if she were carrying tissue paper and nothing more.
As she was getting dressed, she paused to admire herself in her full-length mirror, wearing nothing but her new lingerie. She turned to one side and then the other. She tried to see herself the way Charlie would see her, and it excited her. She loved being looked at by Charlie. The way his eyes darkened. The way his appreciation—and vulnerability—shone through.
Heat spread up her body. Her nipples hardened, and her breathing changed, and when she imagined not just his eyes on her, but his hands, his mouth, she grew suddenly and undeniably wet.
It embarrassed her, but she didn’t want to be embarrassed. Should she be embarrassed? No. She should be … she should be excited, which she was, and thrilled, and aroused. Her body’s response to the boy she loved was a good thing. It was bodies being bodies.
But it was more than that. It showed the strength of her connection to Charlie, because she’d never felt this way, or even close, when thinking about any other boy. This—her flushed cheeks, the ache pulsing inside—this was Wren wanting Charlie and knowing that Charlie wanted her.
She was dizzy. Relax, she told herself. Put your clothes on, and go downstairs. Charlie will be here any minute now.
She did, and he arrived right on time. Wren’s father opened the door for him—hello, hello, come in—but Wren shot him a secret smile, and he smiled back. It was his reserved-Charlie smile, but it calmed Wren’s nerves.
For far too long, Charlie made small talk with her parents. He complimented Wren’s mom on the cheese straws she’d made, and he asked Wren’s dad questions about certain pieces of furniture her dad had shown Charlie on other occasions.
“Well, we’re out of here,” Wren said after letting her dad ramble on about an eighteenth-century corner cabinet. “I’ll be back by dawn. Don’t wait up.”
“Wren,” her mom scolded.
“Teasing!
Mom, I’m teasing.”
Charlie smiled uncomfortably. Wren knew that Charlie had a jokey relationship with Dev, but not so much with Chris and Pamela. Though she knew he’d lay down his life for any of them, which sometimes killed her in a small, uncomfortable way she didn’t like to dwell on.
“Charlie will have me home by midnight,” she assured her parents. “Right, Charlie?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He did the man-to-man thing and turned to Wren’s dad. “Yes, sir.”
Wren went to Charlie and linked her arm through his. “Bye! Love y’all!” Then she dragged Charlie out of the living room and out the front door, which she pulled shut behind her.
“Thank God,” she said.
Charlie grinned. He took Wren’s hand and started for his car, but Wren stayed put, pulling Charlie toward her. She took two steps backward so that her spine was pressed against the front door. From there, her parents couldn’t see them even if they looked out the window.
She placed her hands on Charlie’s shoulders and rose onto tiptoe. “First, this,” she murmured into his ear before giving him a quick kiss.
She pulled away, watching Charlie’s expression go from surprised to pleased.
His eyes darkened, and she shivered. He gave her a longer, fuller kiss, and then he led her to his car.
When they reached the park, the sun was almost fully down. The sky was a purplish blue. Wren unbuckled her seat belt and reached for the handle of the door, but Charlie placed his palm on her thigh.
“Wait,” he said.
He got out, walked around the car, and opened her door for her. He extended his hand, and when she took it, he helped her out.
“Such a gentleman,” she said.
She expected to go with him to the trunk to get the army blanket. Instead, he walked past his car, over the curb, and onto the open grassy area that led to their ditch.
She went with him but said, “Don’t we need …?”
He smiled and squeezed her hand. Her jitters came back. She felt unexpectedly shy, and she didn’t speak again until they reached the ditch. At the bottom of the incline, a blanket lay waiting, but it wasn’t the scratchy green wool one. It was chocolate brown, thick and plush. A picnic basket held down one corner. A bucket filled with ice held down the corner diagonally across, and jutting from the ice was a bottle of champagne.
“Charlie,” she said. Her throat tightened, and she felt as if she might cry. She let go of his hand and slid her arms around him. She pressed up close, her cheek against his chest, and soaked it in: the night, the trees, the chirp of crickets. Charlie’s scent. The warmth of his skin through his shirt. His muscles.
A breeze lifted her hair, and Charlie put his arm around her. He felt solid to her in a way that no other person was. Wren understood something then. Not with her mind but with her body. She was meant to be with Charlie—to be with him in all ways and in all meanings of the word—because he made her feel alive. Maybe he brought her to life.
But enough waiting, enough wanting. Wren untangled herself from Charlie and started down the hill. She looked back at him, and when she lost her footing and almost slipped, he lunged forward and steadied her. She laughed, giddy with the glory of this boy, this man, her love.
The picnic basket held cheese, crackers, and sliced peaches that Wren knew came from the tree in Charlie’s backyard. Tucked by the peaches were an iPod and a speaker, which Charlie pulled out. He pressed a few buttons, and Harry Connick Jr.’s rendition of “Our Love Is Here to Stay” filled the air.
“Oh, Charlie,” Wren said, settling on the blanket and folding her legs beneath her. He sat beside her. She stroked his cheek.
He took two champagne flutes from the basket. “Champagne?” he asked.
“Wow. And yes, please.”
He handed the glasses to her and pulled the bottle from the bucket of ice. A drop of water landed on Wren’s thigh, below the hem of her soft, clingy sundress, and Charlie ducked and licked the coldness off. Something wonderful and private fluttered inside her.
He pulled the foil from the top and undid the wire cap, all with great seriousness, then grasped the cork and twisted. He’d worn a soft black T-shirt, which Wren knew he’d chosen because it was her favorite, and the movement of his muscles beneath the fabric was delicious.
There was a muffled pop, and Charlie opened his hand to show her the cork, and she nodded happily. She found him amazing. She hoped he knew that. Even such a small thing as opening a bottle of champagne … When Charlie did it, it was with grace and confidence. It undid her.
Her jitters were practically gone. She felt a little shy, but that was all right. She and Charlie sipped their champagne and nibbled on peaches and talked about nothing and everything.
“You are so gorgeous,” Wren said out of nowhere. He’d been telling how he’d been on the chess team when he was younger, which was sweet and adorable, and, without meaning to, she told him how gorgeous he was.
She giggled and said, “Sorry.”
“Sorry? Why?” Charlie said.
“Well, because … I don’t know.”
“Don’t be.” He took her glass and refilled it. She expected him to hand it back to her, but he held it just out of her reach. “You don’t need to apologize for telling me what you think, just like I don’t need to apologize for telling you what I think, which is that you should take off your dress.”
Wren’s pulse quickened. “You want me to take off my dress?”
“I do.”
She breathed, or tried to. Her body tingled. She rose to her knees, took the bottom of her sundress in her hands, and pulled it over her head. The night air made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The night air also made her nipples hard, or maybe it was the way Charlie was looking at her.
“You are beautiful,” he said. He brought her champagne glass to her mouth, and she took a sip. Then he moved the glass down her body, charting a course between her breasts and over her tummy.
“Is it cold?” he asked.
She nodded.
He lifted the glass back to her breast, pressing the coldest part to her nipple. He watched her face.
“Yes, cold,” she managed. She took the glass from him and placed her other hand along the length of his jaw. “But no more champagne, not for me. Is that okay? It’s good. It’s delicious.” She was babbling. Agh.
“It’s just, I don’t want to be—”
“Shh,” Charlie said. “It’s fine.”
“I just want us,” she said.
“That’s all I want, too,” he replied, his voice dropping.
He set his glass on the ground, past the edge of the blanket so that it would be out of harm’s way. She put her glass beside his. She had to stretch out on her hands and knees—well, one hand, two knees—to do so.
Charlie fanned his hands over the back of her panties. “God, I love your ass,” he murmured.
She was both thrilled and mortified. She was on her knees, and he was behind her, and when she shifted to move back beside him, he didn’t let her. Instead, he ran his hands over and under her panties.
“Oh,” Wren said. “Um …”
Charlie pulled her back to him, and she turned toward him. They were both on their knees, and he put one hand at the base of her neck and kissed her while his other hand skimmed the side of her body and the curve of her hip.
“I think your shirt needs to come off, too,” she whispered. Her face flamed, because he’d had his shirt off before, but she’d never been the one to say “take it off.”
He leaned back, and she helped pull his shirt over his head. She touched his ribs. His abs. She placed both hands on his chest. He was so gorgeous. So warm and hard and real.
He trailed his fingers down the strap of her new French bra. He reached the lace and lightly skimmed it. With both hands, he scooped up her breasts, running his thumbs over the swell of them and making her nipples even harder. They poked visibly through the sheer fabric—Wren glanced down a
nd saw—and Charlie said, “Leaves?”
Wren’s mind was foggy. Then she said, “Leaves. Yes. On my bra. Do you like?”
He dipped his fingers under the lace, sliding the fabric of the bra off her breast and anchoring it beneath, so that it pushed her flesh higher. He did the same to the other breast. “I like this better,” he murmured, bowing his head and sucking first one nipple and then the other.
Wren couldn’t think. It was all sense and touch and heat and shivers. Oh my God, she thought, and she moved beneath his touch, following his hands with her body.
He fiddled with her bra. It took him a moment to work the clasp, and she smiled as she kissed him.
She was wet.
She was scared, but she wanted him inside her.
Her fingers found his jeans. She undid the button and pulled down the zipper, drawing away to check his expression.
“Baby,” he murmured.
“Can we …?” She pushed down on the waist of his jeans, not sure how to get them off him. Why had she never gotten his pants off him before? She’d wanted to, but she’d been shy, but now—aggh. Why wasn’t there a guidebook for this stuff?
He helped, and in the moonlight, she drew in her breath. Boxer briefs. Black and tight. Muscular thighs, so different from her softness.
And in the front. Erect and long beneath his boxers. His dick. Tessa had taught her to call it that, dick and not penis, because penis was a silly word. And this, the solid length of Charlie’s dick, of Charlie …
She’d wanted to touch him there many times, but she’d been scared. She was still scared. Her heart pounded, and she hooked her thumbs beneath the band at the top of his boxers—but no. They wouldn’t … they were stuck, caught by the tip of his dick. She bit her lip and used her fingers to pull the waistband up and over him. She tugged them to his knees and didn’t know what to do next.
But okay. Wow. She bent and took him in her mouth before she realized what she was doing. And then …
Really wow, and really strange. Not bad, but really, really strange.
He moaned, and Wren moved up and down. Her hair swung. She was doing this, and part of her couldn’t believe it, but part of her could, especially since he clearly liked it.