Chapter Fifteen #2
As I scrub the smells of onion, garlic, and bell pepper from my skin, I can’t help thinking how funny it is that Jasmine comes off as the most dauntingly sophisticated seventeen-year-old girl on the planet, but when it’s only us, she’s somebody else entirely.
She’s playful and warm and has the patience of a saint when she’s teaching me about exposures and light meters and how to get the best angles in selfies.
She’s like her dad in her excitement to get me to try new things, and like her mom in how much joy she gets from fashion, makeup, and styling.
Yesterday, she finally pulled me into her closet and demanded I let her give me some things she never wears, things she swears are too small, and before I know it, I’m wearing an entirely new outfit from earrings to anklet.
(Her having dinky-size feet like mine was too much to hope for, unfortunately.)
And later at night, especially nights when Mom and Declan are at events, or traveling to meetings, or even nights where Mom passes out early and Declan locks himself in his suite, far away from the rest of us … those nights show me something else entirely.
We inevitably end up in her bed, curled around one another and playing with each other’s fingers or giving each other chills until one of us finds an excuse to place a kiss on the other.
It’s agony, waiting until I can figure out how to get away with it, or waiting for her to, waiting, waiting, waiting until we can explain it away with sleepiness or drunkenness or just wanting the other one to feel and taste how amazing this new lip gloss is.
I’ve started to think about them in advance, how I might excuse dropping a kiss on this one spot on her neck that always elicits this tiny noise that makes my toes curl. It isn’t quite a moan and it isn’t quite a growl and as soon as I hear it, I’m out of my mind for the rest of the night.
Maybe tonight we can pick up where we left off.
If I can get a dab of guac on her throat, I can watch her close her eyes as I lick it off.
Hear that sound she makes as I lick again for good measure.
And again. Maybe I gently suck at her throat, the way I did the other night.
Judging by the way she pressed against me, by the way I can still feel the pressure of her fingertips below my waist, the way I could just barely hear her begging me to do it again …
Images come to mind of sliding off her shirt—for easier access to that spot, of course. Of taking mine off, which only makes sense. Who wants a rough cotton shirt against your skin when someone else’s skin feels so much better? And her skin is so soft, scented with that peach lotion, and—
I don’t even realize what I’ve been doing until my nails scrape the tile of the shower, trying to find something to hold onto while my body shudders around my fingers.
I grasp the indentation in the wall meant to hold soap and promise myself that I’ll think about how messed-up this is later, after I’m done feeling so, so good.
True to my word, I feel like a mess when I dry myself off after the shower.
I don’t know how else to describe it because I don’t feel gross, exactly—it’s not like I think there’s anything wrong with masturbating (or, let’s be real, like it’s my first time), or with finding a girl attractive.
I just feel confused. And guilty. This is how I think about Chase; it isn’t how I’m supposed to be thinking about Jasmine.
It isn’t how she’d want me to think about her.
God, if she knew what’d happened, she’d probably never touch me again.
I wish I was okay with that.
I’m supposed to be okay with that.
It’s something we do for fun, not something I think about in the shower or feel down to my bones. It’s not something we do with intention.
But isn’t that what you were just doing, by thinking about how to make it happen? my brain nags. You were trying to plan it, and the whole point is that this is a thing that only occasionally happens between you two.
Except it’s not occasional.
When did it stop being occasional?
It’s too much. It’s messing with my brain. I already have my shower rotation all worked out, and it fully involves a certain number fourteen football player. There isn’t any more space for those kinds of thoughts. Chase has been serving me just fine for years now.
Anyway, nothing’s going to happen tonight.
All our friends are coming to the boil, as are Declan’s, and knowing my mom, she invited some of her new Russian friends.
The house and beach will be packed, and maybe somewhere in there will be a new guy to entertain myself with—someone who makes sense, who’ll be a perfect placeholder until I’m back in Chase’s orbit.
I feel firm in this plan as I go full country girl, tying a sleeveless gingham shirt (thanks, Jasmine) under my boobs and pairing it with cutoff shorts.
I’ll have to cover up once the evening hits, but for now, I look cute and summery and up for a good time.
I style my curls exactly how they taught me to at Seaside and add only the tiniest touch of makeup since I’ve yet to find an affordable mascara that stays true to the word “waterproof” when faced with parties on the beach.
I’m putting in the gold hoops my mom bought me for my sweet sixteen when my mom walks in. “Oh, Larotchka. You look so cute. Someone you’re trying to impress coming tonight?”
“I hope so,” I say with a smile. “But you’re still in your work clothes! People are gonna start showing up soon.”
“I know, I know.” She drops her bag on the bed and fans herself. “I can’t even think about what I’m wearing until I take a shower. They say New York summers are bad, but this heat is unbearable.”
“Missing your dreamy winters of twenty below zero?” I tease her.
“Ha ha,” she says, pronouncing the h’s with the hard Russian kh. “Clearly you have your father’s sense of humor.”
She always does that, brings him up strictly for the sake of crafting insults. I’ve gotten so used to it that I barely notice. But tonight, my head swimming with confusion about romance and relationships, I have a thousand questions about him and them that I know she’ll never answer.
Then again, he was a he, so how much would it really help?
Before I can ask something coherent, she slips into the bathroom for her much-needed shower, leaving me to collapse on the bed with a self-pitying groan.
We’re only messing around. I know that. I’m eternally obsessed with Chase Harding, and I assume Jasmine is still hooking up with Carter, in those rare instances where I lose her at parties or on the beach. It’s not that I think there’s more happening, it’s just …
Just what?
That’s your problem, Shannon would say. You can’t accept a “just.” You think you can, but you always need to know what’s past that, and sometimes, there’s nothing.
Maybe talking to Shannon is exactly what I need.
She may give way too much advice, and sometimes it’s downright bad, but not always.
Sometimes it’s exactly what I need to hear, enough that I hear it even when she’s thousands of miles away.
I light up my phone to check the time and do a quick calculation to see if it’s too late to call.
It’s about one in the morning in Paris, which is sort of on the border of acceptable, but what would I say? Hey, Shan—I’ve been hooking up with this girl and I’m confused about what it means? How would she know, without knowing Jasmine?
Maybe imaginary Shannon’s advice is right, though. Sometimes “just” is exactly that. Jasmine and I are just having fun. It’s not even like things are happening intentionally; they just happen when we’re doing other things. What could be more “just” than that?
Satisfied, I do one last touch-up of my makeup, take a selfie, and pick up the newest Clementine Walker book. Who needs tough love when you can escape into pure fluff?
Half an hour later, the boil is in full swing, and guests are swarming the gingham-covered tables piled high with jumbo shrimp, crawfish, sausage, crab, and corn.
The air smells salty and briny and spicy and sweet, and my mouth is watering, even though I’m secretly scared of the crawfish and their freaky heads.
“Are you coming or what?” Jasmine calls from the table where she’s sitting with Keisha, Brea, Derek, and Owen, glass bottles of colorful wine coolers dotting the cloth in front of them. “Where have you been?”
I’d gotten too wrapped up in my book, which is embarrassing since I’d already read it once this summer.
I only looked up from it because Gia FaceTimed me from cheer camp, which she does every week to show me what I’m missing by dropping off the squad, and by the time we hung up, everyone was here and the food was out of the pots and on the table.
“Friend called” is all I offer as I grab a plate and sit my butt in one of the white plastic chairs, my eyes roving hungrily over the selection.
Sausage is an easy choice—you don’t grow up the granddaughter of Tolya Bogdan without kolbasa being one of your major food groups.
I glance at my mom and see she had the same idea.
Declan is sitting next to her and laughing as he gestures to the other food.
“You’re missing some damn good crawfish,” says Keisha, plucking one from the pile and cracking it open so quickly I can’t even see how she’s doing it. “They don’t make ’em like this in DC. Best part of coming here for the summers.”
“And that’s from someone who doesn’t even eat it right,” says Derek, picking up one of the bright red creepers, twisting it, and—oh God, is he sucking something right out of the shell?
“Drinking the juice is so gross.” Brea wrinkles her nose. “Keisha eats it the normal way.”