Chapter 17 Bird #2
I can’t stop myself from going to sit down next to her. When she turns back from the window, she seems surprised to find me so close. She’s inhaling and trying to fan the smoke away from my face. “Sorry,” she croaks, before blowing the smoke out the window again.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Um, I—I was w-wondering…” I take a breath, apologize for my stupid stutter. “Sorry.”
“No, what?”
“I was wondering,” I repeat, “if I could try.”
She coughs, choking on the smoke or her laugh, I don’t know which. “You’re serious? You wanna try this?” she asks, holding the joint out toward me.
I nod.
She passes it to me, our fingers touching for the briefest moment.
I keep my eyes on her, watching me, while I bring it to my lips. I inhale and pass it back to her, wishing I was brave enough to press my mouth to hers. But I’m not that brave. I exhale the smoke out the open window instead.
She takes a couple of tokes and passes it back to me, saying, “It’s better if you hold it in your lungs longer.”
“Okay,” I whisper. This time I hold it longer, but then I cough. A lot.
She giggles for only a second, but tells me, “That happens to everyone.” She lets her hand dangle out the window and smiles at me as she leans her head against her arm.
I inhale again and hold it, not as long as before, and I don’t cough this time.
When I pass it back to her, she sits up and shakes her head. “I’m good.”
I take one more and tell her, “I’m good too.”
She pinches off the glowing cherry and blows it out the window, then gently places the remaining half of the joint inside an old Altoids tin like she’s tucking it into bed.
I laugh at the thought.
“Oh good,” she says, standing up to close the window.
“What?”
“You’re giggly. I was hoping you’d be giggly-high.”
“I am?” I ask, laughing again. “I don’t really feel that different.” Except I am noticing how long it feels like it’s taking for me to speak, to stand, to follow her to the bed.
“You are.”
“You’re not giggly-high,” I point out, as we sit down across from each other.
“No, but I’m happy.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder for just a moment, smiling. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“You don’t mind if I sleep over?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Your parents won’t mind?”
“My parents won’t notice.”
“They should,” I say, even though I don’t quite know what I mean by that. “They should notice you.”
She does giggle a little at that. “Yeah, maybe.”
I look down at my jeans and platform boots and fringy macrame top that’s even less comfortable than the stiff thrift-store blazer I’m wearing as a jacket. “You don’t have anything I could use to sleep in, do you? Wait, did I already ask you that?”
She laughs hard this time, like she’s letting something go. “No, you didn’t, but yes, I do.”
I follow her over to her dresser, where she pulls T-shirts out, one after the other, like she’s pulling tissues from a box. I find myself laughing at that, too, and when she asks, “What?” I can’t even find the words to answer.
“It’s—just funny. I—I can’t explain it.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling. “Here, how ’bout Xena?” She holds out a faded, oversized black tee with Xena the Warrior Princess screen-printed in an equally faded yet fierce battle stance. Couldn’t be less me, but I take it, hoping it fits.
“Thanks. Um, where should I…”
“Oh, I’ll turn around. There’s a screen thing over there,” she says, covering her eyes with her hand, pointing toward a folding bamboo divider.
I go with her Xena shirt, thinking she’s being overly dramatic for fun.
But then I watch as she makes her way over to the bed again, eyes still closed, arm stretched out in front of her, feeling for anything she might bump into.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her as I walk around the edge of the divider. “I’m behind the screen, okay?”
“Okay,” I hear her call back.
I nudge my boots off and step down three inches, bend over and stuff my socks inside, happy to have my feet on the solid floor.
I fold my shirt and jeans over the top of the screen and take an extra second to flatten down my hair—it’s gotten bigger and wilder as the night has gone on.
I go back and forth for what feels like forever, standing in my underwear, pulling my bra straps down, then up, down, then up.
“Jesus,” I whisper to myself, eliciting a tiny laugh from the back of my throat.
Just take the fucking bra off. I wouldn’t keep it on if I was spending the night at Kayla’s.
This is different, though. Because the truth is Jessa is not just my friend.
When I said it earlier, to Mack, it felt like a lie and it was.
“Bird? You all right over there?”
“Yeah. I’m—yeah.”
I’m taking too long. This is ridiculous.
I take my bra off, and quickly pull the shirt down over my head, stretching it a little so it falls at my thighs.
The length of a short skirt. Shorter than any skirt I’d ever wear, but still.
At least it covers my underwear, which are comfy cotton and decidedly unsexy.
I can feel that little buzz fading already; I don’t want it to be gone yet.
I can see why people would want to keep doing it over and over—pills, smoking, booze, other stuff—just to keep that light floaty feeling.
When I come out from behind the screen, Jessa’s sitting up in her bed, already changed into a sweatshirt and flannel pants. I tiptoe over, and when she sees me—my bare thighs, specifically—she closes her eyes again.
“Oh, Bird! Sorry, did you want bottoms—pants or shorts or something?”
“Um, yeah. Okay, sure.”
She jumps out of her bed, shielding her eyes as she goes back to her dresser. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking.”
“I’m not worried.”
She doesn’t look at me, though. And for a second, I really wish she would. She rifles through her drawers, holding up multiple pairs of gym shorts and then tossing them aside.
“Anything’s okay,” I tell her.
She holds out a pair of Umbros that look very similar to every other pair she discarded. “Here, how’s this?”
I take them from her outstretched hand, and she doesn’t take her eyes off the ceiling while I slip them on. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head while she walks back to the bed. “No, why?”
“Well, you’re avoiding looking at me, like I’m…” My brain flips through all the things I’m most afraid of her thinking: like I’m ugly, gross, weird, unwelcome, uninvited, delusional. “Like I’m making you uncomfortable or something.”
She looks up at me once she reaches her bed. “No, I just didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“So, neither of us are uncomfortable?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay.” I walk over to her bed and sit next to her. “Glad we cleared that up.”
She sinks down into her pillows and stares at the ceiling. So I do the same. We’re quiet for a long while. I let my hand brush against hers. When she doesn’t move it away, I curl my fingers around hers. “I’m here if you want to talk or anything,” I say.
She squeezes my hand, whispers, “Thanks.”
I turn on my side toward her; her eyes are open, still trained on the ceiling.
I run the back of my hand across her cheek and lean in to kiss the little scratch inside the blooming bruise.
She doesn’t move and she doesn’t say anything.
I lay my head down on my own pillow and take my hand back—she’s not interested.
I can take the hint, and it’s fine. I haven’t truly embarrassed myself yet.
But then she tilts her head to look at me. My heart sparks. She reaches out and lets her fingers glide so softly along the palm of my hand. My heart catches fire.
I prop myself up on my elbow and inch closer, watching carefully to see if she backs up or flinches or looks away, but she doesn’t.
I start to lean down over her and a strand of my hair falls loose across her face.
She smiles and moves it back over my shoulder.
I kiss her cheek again and I feel her hand go to my neck, her breathing getting faster.
I let my mouth float over hers, trying to be brave—braver than I was with Kat over the summer—to do what I felt.
To do what felt right. To do what feels right, now.
I press my lips against hers, soft and slow, just once. I let some space between us, and as she opens her eyes I whisper, “Are you still comfortable?” God, my voice is trembling so badly. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so scared of an answer in my life.
She nods, and bites her lip, which just makes me want to bite her lip.
I kiss her again. This time I press harder, enough for my lips to part hers, and as our mouths open I can feel the warmth of her, taste her, kissing me back, pulling me toward her.
Her hands are soft in my hair and on my face; steady on my skin as they travel up my back, under her shirt; strong as they pull me down on top of her.
Just the feel of her breathing between our kisses, the small sounds she’s making, are flooding my stomach, my thighs, my everywhere, with heat.
She plants kisses down my neck with her hands on my hips, then pushes me onto my back.
She kisses me hard and sweet and her hand trails up my stomach, just skating the outline of my breast. And now my hands find her hips and her butt and my legs part to let her come closer and the pulsing deep inside me is too much and I don’t want to stop I don’t want to stop I don’t want to stop.
I pull my hands between us and bring them under her shirt, up the soft skin of her stomach, until my palms fit so absolutely perfectly over her breasts. She gasps, letting her head fall against my chest, pressing ever closer to me, and she feels so good I wish I had the words to tell her.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Bird?”
“Yeah?” I let my hands float down her sides to rest on her back. She raises her head to look at me, and oh god, she has never looked more beautiful.
“Are we going too fast… I mean, should we maybe slow down?”
“We can, yeah. If you want to. Do you?”
She laughs, and says, “I don’t really want to, but maybe that’s why we should.”
“I don’t really want to either. But we should, um, probably—”
“Yeah, okay.” She shifts her weight off me and we kiss once more, softer, slower, calmer.
We lie side by side again, and I place my hand on my chest, trying to feel my heart, make it slow down too. “Wow,” I whisper. “I really liked that.” Because I can’t quite bring myself to say, I really like you.
Jessa laughs and buries her face in my shoulder—embarrassed, adorable. I put my arm around her and she settles in with her head tucked into my neck, her hand lying along my sternum. “I really liked that too,” she says.
I’m smiling as I close my eyes.
I wake up at some point in the night to a car door closing outside.
Jessa rolls out of my arms but doesn’t really wake up.
I take this moment to look at her in the darkness, by whatever light is coming in from the window.
She’s so pretty without even trying, so beautiful even though I can tell she tries to hide it.
I need to make sure I tell her that when she’s awake.
But for now, I lay my head on her chest and feel her arms fold around me, let myself fall asleep to her breathing.