31. Thirty-one
Thirty-one
During my reinventive shopping spree, I splurged on a way-too-expensive, jewel-toned, green dress, and the fact I don’t cringe at myself when I look in the mirror tells me it was money well spent. High in the neck, strappy across the back, and making my body look almost like it’s never housed other humans, it’s sexy in an “I’m forty with a kid here” kind of way.
In the parking lot of the gym, I check the minivan mirror. My bangs are softer now, swept to the side instead of boldly jagged across my forehead like a madwoman’s scarlet letter. The rest of my hair is down in loose waves.
If Scotty were here, I have no doubt she would tell me I’m fucking hot.
I make my way toward the old gym. I’ve been here seemingly hundreds of times since I’ve graduated—roamed these halls volunteering to help with committees and events over the years—but this is the first prom I’ve returned to. The last one I attended being twenty-two years ago with me on Camp’s arm, both of us crowned prom royalty. We were young, in love, and for a night, king and queen.
Outside, two colleagues of Camp’s check tickets, and we exchange greetings as waves of music blast out at us every time the doors open and close.
I smooth my dress.
Take a breath.
Step inside.
And, though it’s not my prom and the kids aren’t my friends, it’s like stepping through a wormhole.
A strobe light whips beams across the walls, floor, and ceiling of the old gym. After the committee selected the theme, “Kickin’ It Old School,” we took every detail back in time. Strips of ’90s color-block fabric cover the walls and hide the pushed-in bleachers. Turquoise, pink, and black accents scatter across the place, taking me back.
On one wall, photos of events showcase all the proms before. Big-haired queens from the ’80s, dapper group photos from the ’50s. There are snapshots and articles on basketball games, community voting, and fundraisers. The entire history of Ledger summed up in printed rectangles of life in this gym.
The dresses have gotten shorter and the music worse, but it’s a scene so familiar I taste it in my mouth. The quiet kids are on the sideline, sitting nervously next to dates they don’t know how to talk to, as they watch their bolder counterparts who are already dancing with heads dropped back and arms over head. And, though it’s just starting, a pile of abandoned heels and strappy sandals line the dance floor, half the girls already barefoot.
Including Lyra.
Scanning the room for Camp, my eyes catch hers as she dances with friends. I lift my hand in a wave, and she sticks her tongue out at me, hips shimmying.
“We did it, June,” Lynn, Kimber's mom, says as she approaches with an exasperated smile and fitted floral dress. “Now to just survive tonight.”
I laugh. “Hard part’s over, Lynn. And look how much they love the photo booth.” I point across the room at a line of kids waiting to get photos snapped with oversized ’90s props. When I suggested it in one of the committee meetings, I got pushback that nobody would use it because everyone has a phone. I knew it would be a hit.
“Maybe all the stress was worth it.” She reaches behind her head to pull her hair into a messy bun. “It’s hot as hell in here.”
“Teenage hormones,” I say, pouring us two cups of punch. “They’re a life force.”
She chuckles, taking a cup from me.
“I hope it’s spiked.” She takes a sip, frowns. “Damn.”
I laugh.
Lynn and I, along with other parents, spent hours upon hours planning tonight. From the decorations to the DJ to the invitations. In our hours together, I tried asking her about the divorce, but every time I chickened out. I either couldn’t bring myself to say the word or didn’t want to know the truth.
“Lyra told me about you and Dean. I’m so sorry.”
She smiles in a way that makes her mouth frown shaped. Sad-like. “Yeah. Me too.”
There’s an awkward silence as we sip our punch and watch the kids dance.
“Marriage is hard, right?”
She cackles. “Damn hard. And Dean . . .” She shrugs. “We just grew up and grew into two different people, I guess. Like we live on separate planets. And”—she nudges me, eyebrows raised—“he stopped looking at me like that a long time ago.”
I follow the direction of her gaze—eyes landing on Camp—at the same time she turns her attention to one of the supervising teachers that approaches and whispers something in her ear. “Alcohol in the parking lot,” she says over her shoulder, downing her punch like a shot of whiskey before disappearing through the crowd and out the doors, two male teachers on her heels.
I laugh under my breath, but my eyes stay locked with Camp’s as he strolls toward me.
“Mrs. Cannon. I’d say that dress is goin’ to cause some problems now that these impressionable young men know what’s hidin’ under it.”
My cheeks flush as a smirk angles across his face.
“Yes, well. It’s the risk you take when you decide to wear an overpriced string up your ass out in public on any given school day.”
He laughs under his breath, bumping his shoulder against mine. “You look beautiful, J.”
Heat races up my neck, burning my ears and drying my mouth. I drink the entire cup of punch I’m holding. The darkness is a blessed thing for hiding every emotion my fair complexion can’t.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I repeat.
“You here with anyone?”
I look at him.
“Are you here with anyone?” I echo, seemingly unable to form my own words.
His fingers interlace with mine, unexpected and abrupt. I stare at them, the lifelines of him and me having no clear beginning or end.
“I am,” he says. “If she’ll have me.”
“She’ll think about it,” I say, coy, knowing he’s just playing. Pretending.
He grins, squeezes my hand, and we’re quiet as we look to the dance floor and the teens that fill it.
I can’t decide if it was just yesterday or three hundred years ago that I was in their place. Wondering where time goes. How to make it pause or stretch a minute a little longer.
They are so ridiculous as they dance, yet so beautifully free. Untouched by the worries of the grown-up world. All that exists for them is possibility and hope and tonight.
“Alright, folks.” The DJ’s overly animated voice cuts through the air. “Let’s find out who our Ledger prom royalty is tonight.” The kids scream and clap as he plays a short clip of dramatic music, and they gather around the small stage he’s on, standing next to Gus Chambers, the principal.
Camp’s hand drops mine as he joins in the applause, and my palm tingles with the absence of him, but I follow suit, clapping with everyone else, attention going to the stage.
“Your Ledger High School Senior Prom King is . . .”—drum roll music plays—“Nick Raymonds!” The DJ shouts along with the roared response from the crowd.
I find Lyra in the mix of bodies, hearts in her eyes as she watches Nick emerge from the crowd and the principal positions a gaudy crown on his head. He smiles—at her—his mouth slightly too big for his face.
She loves him. I can see that now. Maybe not a deep love, but I see it on her face; she loves him the way teenagers do. In a true kind of way that consumes every moment of her day. Every breath, every thought, blinding her from the possibility of it not lasting forever. The way only a seventeen-year-old girl can love: with every fiber of their being.
I trust him the way you trust Dad.
I look at Camp, his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouts some baseball nickname at Nick. Watching him, smiling so big, everything I think I know rips to shreds inside of me. Where we started, where we are. I’m so confused. About everything. Who I am, how I feel, what I want.
And still, I clap. Forcing myself to be here now.
“And let’s get this king a queen, shall we?” More dramatic music plays as the gym riles up before silencing. The anticipation is palpable as Gus opens the next envelope and shows the DJ. “Your queen of Ledger, Miss Lyra Cannon!” he booms, gym wailing again.
Camp cups his hands around his mouth again, this time it’s for a loud “Woo! That’s my girl!”
I clap next to him. Fresh swell of tears lining my mascaraed eyes. She shimmies through the crowd—blue hair, blue dress—wide smile turning shy when she looks at Nick, the just as gaudy but daintier crown being set on her head. Spotlight on the two of them, she shines like a star. Like whatever is brighter than a star.
I see it as I watch her, all these years later, she’s my parallel line. A girl loving a boy, trusting him easy, believing in an unknown next.
She whispers something in Nick’s ear, he grins, nods, then she says something to the DJ who gives a thumbs-up and leans toward his mic.
“Alright, folks, looks like we’ve got some generational royalty here tonight. Twenty-two years ago in this very room, it seems, Lyra’s parents were also crowned Ledger’s prom king and queen.” My stomach drops as the entire gymnasium falls silent, turning to look at us. Camp stills next to me. “And Queen Lyra requests their presence on the dance floor.”
I gape at Camp, mouthing no ! but he just grins, says, “Don’t be a scaredy cat, J,” and once again takes my hand in his, this time dragging me to the dance floor with long strides, fist bumping players and students as we pass.
Lyra says something else to the DJ, laughing as she grabs Nick’s hand and drags him next to us. My annoyed glare morphs to a smile when the music plays the first familiar notes of The Outfield’s “Your Love.” The same song Camp and I danced to when we were the ones being crowned all those years ago.
Why should we be the only ones that get a song ? I had asked before demanding the DJ play something upbeat.
“How did you know?” I ask Lyra over the music.
“Dad!” she shouts, already bouncing to the beat.
I stare at Camp, surrounded by the baseball players he’s coached for years, including Nick, dancing like idiots, singing into the invisible microphones of their hands.
Lyra takes my hands in hers, and I do the same. Dancing and laughing. Twirling with teenagers, like a teenager. The woman I am, the girl I was.
Like a bird formation that happens because of instinct, a circle forms, Camp and I pushed to the center. Nick sets his crown on Camp’s head, Lyra puts hers on mine. I laugh, so does he. They’re crooked; we don’t adjust them.
The teachers, the parents—all the people I’ve known before I knew who I even was, there with the same ridiculous smiles as us. Bouncing, singing, laughing loud. Kickin’ it old school.
Kids at heart with our kids embodied.
Camp grabs me and twirls me, crooning out one last line about losing love tonight then stills. Standing in Camp’s arms, he holds me too close and too serious for all the playful chaos around us.
We stand like that—his arms around my waist, mine around his neck—barely swaying as everyone around us body bumps and shouts.
He bends slightly and brings his mouth close to my ear. “Don’t leave me, June.”
Four words, and my knees buckle and stomach drops. The huge gym becomes a coffin formed by a truth I can’t run from: I don’t want to. I want to love Camp to forever and back like I thought I would when I stood on a stage with a cheap crown next to him.
I can’t tell him that; I need air.
Pulling away from him, I find Lyra and force a smile as I set the crown on her head. “Congrats, Queen.”
She grins but doesn’t stop dancing.
With trembling hands, I push through the crowd, scared I might vomit.
“June!” Camp shouts, trapped in the mob on the dance floor, movements already changing to match the rhythm of the next song.
I don’t look back; I don’t stop.
I slip behind a wall of fabric.
Down a hall.
Pushing on the first door I find, I stagger inside. A damn closet for athletic equipment.
I don’t care, I go in. I need a minute. A breath. Some sort of sign on what I’m supposed to do with my life.
“June,” Camp calls from the hall, pushing the door open, letting a sliver of light cover the basketballs and football pads before he steps inside and closes the door, stealing the light and the oxygen. The smell of rubber balls and old sweat fills the stuffy air.
“Sorry. I just needed a minute.” I sniff. “With jockstraps.”
He puffs out a laugh, finding me in the dark with his hands as the music from the gym vibrates the walls.
He cups his hands around my face, presses his thumbs against the pulse points beneath my jaw. “Jungle Rules.”
The scratchy whisper of his voice drips through me like warm honey, and I don’t hesitate.
“I’m scared this won’t last. That you’ll find the next big dream, and we’ll be back to where we started.”
“No, June—”
“And I’ll disappear again. I’ll be invisible for the rest of my life because-because-because you’re you, and-and-and-and everyone loves you.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
He steps closer.
All of him touching all of me.
“Do you love me?”
Muffled voices approach the door. “Dude, I gotta piss.” Someone laughs. Another voice—a chaperone. “Not back here, boys. Out.”
Feet shuffle away; an upbeat song fills the silence.
“I love you enough to cry when you don’t come home.” He stills, not even breathing. “And I love you enough to-to-to feel like I’m going crazy when I’m not with you. And, when I imagine life without you it feels . . . terrifying. Like I have no idea how to do that. I love you enough that not telling you every thought I’m having makes me sick. Enough that I agonize daily over if I should call this whole thing off and take whatever crumbs of time you’re willing to give me.” I blow out a breath, my body vibrating with emotions—including anger. Because, damn him for doing this to me. For making me feel all this. My eyes burn, my next words strained: “Dammit, Camp. I love you enough that when I see you laughing in a boxing ring with another woman it makes me punch you in the face. So, yeah, I guess you could say I love you.”
With the final words of my confession, his mouth is on mine, holding my breath and thoughts captive with every swipe of his tongue and pull of his teeth.
My back hits the door. His hand slides from my face.
Down the line of my neck.
The curve of my breast.
My waist.
My hip.
“I need to feel you, J.”
Mouth open, I nod.
“Say it,” he says as he rubs his nose against my cheek. “I need to hear it.”
“Yes. Same. I need to feel you. I want to. Now.” It’s all choppy, my words and my breaths. My fingers are in his hair, scratching his scalp, and he moans into my mouth.
Hem of my dress in his hands, he lifts it until the fabric is bunched around my waist.
A lick on my neck; I whimper.
Fumble with his belt.
His hands stop at the bare skin of my hips. Bare skin of everything.
“Where are your panties?” he asks, voice hot against my skin.
“Home.” I made the decision to not wear them immediately after I made myself scream in the shower.
The confession makes us both move with more urgency. Breathe faster and harder.
Hands roaming my bare skin, he bites my shoulder; I yelp.
I unbutton his pants; he moans.
And he’s there, between my thighs.
All he says: “Christ.”
His mouth is back on mine, and the way he kisses me—tongue moving and teeth biting—is something as unfamiliar as it is feral.
I hook a leg around his waist, the heel of my shoe digs into him. With a nudge, he’s inside of me, stretching me until my cry fills the small space.
He pulls back, pausing, refilling with a strangled breath and hard slam.
Again.
And again.
My foot finds a shelf, toes pressing onto the edge, balls rolling off the side and bouncing around our feet. His now free hands grip my hips. Fingertips digging as his hips keep moving—his grunts and my moans falling into the rhythm of the music permeating the walls.
Pushing my back against the wall for leverage, my hips chase his.
“God, J, you feel good.”
I can’t make words. Not as he repeats the motion, not as he takes one hand and wraps a fistful of my hair into it and pulls. Hard enough it hurts in the most delightful kind of way. I know Camp’s brand of sex, and this is absolutely not it. It’s hot and it’s rough and it’s everything he’s never given me before. Everything I didn’t know I wanted.
I grind into him; he hits something deep. New. Making me scream every time he slams into it.
“You're soaked,” he grits out between thrusts, fingers so deep in my skin I might bruise; I hope I do. “You're perfect.”
I whimper my way toward an invisible edge, pushing my foot harder against the shelf.
Equipment falls around us, balls bouncing. Mouths fused, we laugh into each other.
“Camp . . .” I gasp through clenched teeth as his hips roll like waves in an ocean. It’s smooth and rhythmic and sends an extreme surge of pleasure ripping from the base of my spine to the back of my throat. Fast, fierce, and fucking fantastic.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four pumps into me later, Camp comes right along with me, emptying fully with muttered curses and shallow breaths. Our gasps and soft laughs paired with the music of prom form the hottest post-sex soundtrack of my life.
When our clothes are back in place and our breathing back to normal, the remnants of what we just did stays slick between my thighs, no panties to catch it. A filthy memento I very much like.
He grins; I kiss his mouth before he can open the door.
“I love you,” I say, breathless. “But when did you learn to move like that?”
He tugs the door open, light revealing a flush on his face and the crookedness of his tie. “If history is any indication,” he starts, free hand reaching around to my ass and giving it a squeeze. “I’d say the same time you started goin’ without panties to the senior prom, J.”
The laugh that comes out of my mouth is ridiculously girlish and giddy, and I kiss him again, so long I feel like my lips have spent the last twenty minutes in a vacuum cleaner. When I pull away, we’re both smiling, and with my hand in his, we make our way back to the prom and the two hundred teens and parents who have no idea what we just did.
“Where’ve y’all been?” Lyra shouts over the rim of her punch, a sheen of sweat on her skin from dancing.
“A walk,” I lie, the same time Camp says, “Makin’ out in the bathroom.”
I laugh, Lyra doesn’t. “Probably stealing my friends’ edibles too.”
“We still need to punish you for that,” I tell her, trying to hide my satisfied smile.
She rolls her eyes, taking another sip of punch. “What happened to your hair?”
I run a hand over it, feeling how disheveled it must look. “Um, right. It was windy.” I look at Camp; he offers no help. “On the walk. It was windy.”
Face twisted, she shudders. “I don’t want to know.”
Camp drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Your mom can’t keep her hands off me.”
I slap his chest with a laugh as she groans. “Gross.”
Nick walks up, big smile as he fist-bumps Camp. “Coach. Mrs. Cannon.”
“Nick, please. June. Or at least Mrs. Coach.”
He relaxes but Lyra rolls her eyes. “Ignore her, I think they’ve been making out.”
I mock offense but say nothing. Because, who cares? I want Lyra to see me as something other than a mom—other than a doormat for everyone else in my life—but it had never occurred to me until right now that that might also be a wife that loves her husband. That there’s something to be said for being an independent woman as much as there is for a woman that loves a man deeply, despite his flaws. Despite hers.
“Dance?” Lyra asks Nick. I see it in the way he looks at her; he loves her the same way she loves him, and my heart swells. Whatever they decide to do, they’ll learn together—at least for now. Maybe longer.
When they head toward the dance floor, I grab his arm. His serious expression matching mine.
“She trusts you,” I say.
He nods. Like he knows. His eyes flick to Camp’s then back to mine. “She told me she wouldn’t be with me if she didn’t feel the same way you felt about Coach. And him about you. She trusts you too.” He pauses, hesitating, and courage fills his eyes. “And I love her.”
The innocent look on his face and the enormity of his words pinch my throat. I nod, release his arm.
“Hurt her and I’ll bench you for playoffs,” Camp says, tone playful.
Lyra calls Nick’s name, I dip my chin, and he’s gone.
I lean against Camp. “There she goes.”
“There she goes.”
And the rest of the night goes like that—Camp and I either right by each other or stealing knowing looks when we aren’t. Looks that say, I know what those hips are capable of are met with I know you’re not wearin’ any panties . But the looks I feel the most, the ones that feel like they are getting into my bloodstream and changing what I’m made of and how my body operates are the ones where he’s telling me he loves me.
After dancing and laughing and giving Lyra and her friends one too many hugs goodnight, Camp and I come home.
I sleep in the bed; he does too.