Page 89 of Find My Way Down to You
It took a while for us to reach this step. From brief kisses to deeper ones. From not jumping every time his hand touched my thigh. From not blushing whenever either of us got a boner while making out. From me wanting in silence to telling him I was ready.
We’re sixteen. We’ve been dating almost two years. Should this have happened sooner?
Why did I wait this long?
London’s green eyes crinkle. “Well—”
He reaches for his phone. The playlist he made is still going. Harry Styles fades as London flops onto the bed. He opens theNotes app. A pretyped checklist pops up.
“First, a shower would be good,” he narrates. “Then hydrate. After, we’ll change clothes”—he points to two sets of neatly folded clothes on his dresser that I didn’t notice before—“and head downstairs for a movie and some grub.”
Laughing, I hide his screen with my hand. “London, come on.”
“Umm, I’m not finished.”
“You’re serious?”
The thick knot between his eyebrows says he is.
I soften my expression. “What’s the rush?”
It’s just after nightfall. On weekends, my parents give me a later curfew. His parents are out of town until tomorrow evening.
Napa Valley. One of their rekindle-the-romance getaways, he explained this morning.They’re probably getting divorced after I start UCSB.
He said it so casually. Not for the first time. In the past, he’s always shrugged it off, changing subjects. Like he doesn’t care. But I’ve seen the tension around his eyes every time he brings it up.
He never wants to talk about it, so I don’t press him.
“Can’t we stay in your bed?” My fingers trace the hair on his thigh.
He raises his phone. “But what about my list?”
“We can do all of that too. Just later.”
“Why not now?”
“Because” is all I offer.
His eyes narrow, like it’s not enough. And I wish I could just say it:
Because I want you to hold me. Because I don’t want everything to be a list. Or a plan. Because I don’t know if you liked what we did as much as me. Because I love you even more now.
But that glowing bravery is turning into a dim-flickering ember with every second that ticks by.
I stare at him, fighting a frown. This moment changed me. Has it not done the same for him?
Swallowing, I whisper, “London—”
He silences me with a thumb to my lower lip. It’s swollen, bitten raw. From the nerves and then the minutes of pain and then from bliss.
His smile is like sunshine. Bright, clear, luminous. “August, I planned this all out for us.”
He did. It’s obvious now.
Inviting me over an hour before sunset. Leading me upstairs. The low lighting in his bedroom. Marigold petals on the floor. Curated playlist softly humming in the background.
Kissing me—slow and purposeful—until I wasn’t trembling when our clothes came off. He bought the condoms. Asked all the right questions before. And during. He set the tone and pivoted when I was clumsy and uncertain, and soothed the strangeness of what we were doing until I felt confident enough to meet his eyes.
