The Before
I feel…different.
Of course I do. I’m exhausted and euphoric at the same time. My body’s sore too. Muscles slowly readjusting. Sweat cools on my skin as my breaths even out into a steady rhythm.
The difference is more than just physical. Something else has changed inside me. I can’t explain it. Minutes pass before I even have a name for it:
Fearlessness.
Like I could leap off the steep cliffs of Shoreline Park. Plunge into the rolling waves of the Pacific.
Like the thing I just did was awkward and exciting and brave.
All I want is to soak this moment in. Stare up at London’s bedroom ceiling. Let my brain wander.
What else has changed? How does it feel? How does he feel?
The empty spot on the bed next to me is still warm.
Seconds after we finished, London waddled into his bathroom.
It was cute to watch. But now I miss him.
Even though his scent lingers on his pillows and his UCSB hoodie hangs over his desk chair and every inch of this room is organized in a way that is purely London…
I want the real thing.
And I don’t wait long.
The bathroom door creaks open. Bare feet pad on the hardwood floor. He pinches my still-naked hip.
Standing over me with tousled hair and his smile weirder than ever, London says, “Get up.”
My brow furrows. “Where am I going?”
Dread curdles in my stomach. It claws at my thoughts. Is he kicking me out? Was that it? We had sex and now…he doesn’t want me around?
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 the Notes 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.
London did everything to make tonight perfect. And I feel bad for wanting more from him. For wanting to just…go with my feelings.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve told you about my plans. I was just—I wanted every minute of our first time to be perfect,” he says with a shyness that stings.
“It was, London.” I kiss his shoulder. “This is great!”
It’s everything I wanted, right?
Silence wedges between us. I watch him bite the inside of his cheek, thinking. Summer-streaked hair falls across his jaw. Pale light glosses his tanned chest. A fine dusting of dark hair starts from under his navel, dipping into his boxers.
He has changed, physically. But what else?
Finally, he beams. The face of the boy I love. “It was great.” He kisses my cheek, then turns back to his phone screen. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, August. And we can skip around the list. Wanna start with food and a movie?”
I nod. Ignore the small disappointment still churning in my belly. There will be other times to lie around in his bed—or mine—staring up at the ceiling, just existing.
There will be so many more moments between London and me.