on the mattress, filling up such a large amount of space without even trying.
I sat awkwardly on the other side of the bed, struggling to keep myself from remembering our brothers’ graduation party and how once—very briefly—I’d felt Donovan’s big body up against mine. How I had been temporarily sandwiched between his hard torso and a hotel-room wall...
Weird to be so close to him, having that whole scene play out again in my memory, like a movie of someone else’s life. Focusing on the feelings hurt too much, though. There was always that low, jagged ache whenever I remembered my early attraction to Donovan (a.k.a. the “older mystery man” that I’d been so drawn to back then), or whenever I let myself inhale for a split second the happy silliness of summertime. The lusty, breezy freedom of it. I couldn’t help but associate those feelings with the trauma that came later.
But when I just let myself get caught up in the mental motion-picture screening of that night, it was a different experience. Easier. I could be detached from that former me, from living in a time and an emotional state that no longer existed, because it was as if I’d just been an ordinary character in an ordinary film.
And that ordinary character had been gazing at Donovan all during the grad party.
Admittedly, I’d felt a lot like an actress that night. For one thing, I wasn’t remotely as reserved as usual, thanks to being away from home and, also, being a little buzzed. At one point, the bourbon and the careless abandon of summer made me kind of bold, and I walked up to him when he was alone in the kitchenette part of the suite.
“Hey, Donovan,” I murmured, standing much closer to him than I ever would have normally. But I was nearly a high-school junior then. I thought I was almost cool.
“Aurora,” he whispered, watching me with a rare inquisitive look as I smiled at him and leaned against the mauve-colored wall. That glint of interest in his gaze gave me courage.
I reached out to stroke his chest—firm against my fingertips—and I grabbed a handful of his t-shirt because I liked the sensation of it. It was deep red, newish and much softer than I’d expected. Somehow, it made sense to me in that moment to tug him close, my fingers letting go of his shirt’s front and reaching all the way around him. Caressing his back and pressing him to me. I raised my head to kiss him and noticed he was holding his breath.
For a second, he let me touch his lips with mine. Just that one single time. Then he stepped away, abruptly, and with an apology.
“Been drinking,” he said, glancing to either side of us, not that anyone else was looking. “Sorry.”
At first I didn’t know if he’d been talking about my drinking or his. I sort of laughed. “ Everyone’s been drinking. Half the people in the other room are passed out.” I shrugged. “Nobody’s, um...watching us.”
I knew Betsy was making out with some townie in the hall. My brother was on the sofa—a blonde sprawled languorously on top of him. Jeremy was smoking weed with a few people in the bathroom. I could smell it. Hear them laughing.
“You’re too young,” Donovan said simply.
I was almost sixteen then and, in my expert opinion, at least as mature as a twenty-nine year old. He’d just turned twenty-one and had to be going on about thirty-five. But I liked older men. Well, specifically, this man. He was just five years older, really. And, anyway, if he had a point, I wasn’t about to admit it.
“We’re both young and inconspicuous,” I stated. “I like it that way, Donovan.”
He squinted at me. “Hmm. You don’t want to be the center of attention, do you?”
“No. Not usually. I’m an observer. I watch people. I know you know that.” I grinned at him, feeling the strange high of being so direct and honest with someone I was attracted to. Someone I desperately wanted to touch again with my fingertips, my palms, my arms and more. I inched
I sat awkwardly on the other side of the bed, struggling to keep myself from remembering our brothers’ graduation party and how once—very briefly—I’d felt Donovan’s big body up against mine. How I had been temporarily sandwiched between his hard torso and a hotel-room wall...
Weird to be so close to him, having that whole scene play out again in my memory, like a movie of someone else’s life. Focusing on the feelings hurt too much, though. There was always that low, jagged ache whenever I remembered my early attraction to Donovan (a.k.a. the “older mystery man” that I’d been so drawn to back then), or whenever I let myself inhale for a split second the happy silliness of summertime. The lusty, breezy freedom of it. I couldn’t help but associate those feelings with the trauma that came later.
But when I just let myself get caught up in the mental motion-picture screening of that night, it was a different experience. Easier. I could be detached from that former me, from living in a time and an emotional state that no longer existed, because it was as if I’d just been an ordinary character in an ordinary film.
And that ordinary character had been gazing at Donovan all during the grad party.
Admittedly, I’d felt a lot like an actress that night. For one thing, I wasn’t remotely as reserved as usual, thanks to being away from home and, also, being a little buzzed. At one point, the bourbon and the careless abandon of summer made me kind of bold, and I walked up to him when he was alone in the kitchenette part of the suite.
“Hey, Donovan,” I murmured, standing much closer to him than I ever would have normally. But I was nearly a high-school junior then. I thought I was almost cool.
“Aurora,” he whispered, watching me with a rare inquisitive look as I smiled at him and leaned against the mauve-colored wall. That glint of interest in his gaze gave me courage.
I reached out to stroke his chest—firm against my fingertips—and I grabbed a handful of his t-shirt because I liked the sensation of it. It was deep red, newish and much softer than I’d expected. Somehow, it made sense to me in that moment to tug him close, my fingers letting go of his shirt’s front and reaching all the way around him. Caressing his back and pressing him to me. I raised my head to kiss him and noticed he was holding his breath.
For a second, he let me touch his lips with mine. Just that one single time. Then he stepped away, abruptly, and with an apology.
“Been drinking,” he said, glancing to either side of us, not that anyone else was looking. “Sorry.”
At first I didn’t know if he’d been talking about my drinking or his. I sort of laughed. “ Everyone’s been drinking. Half the people in the other room are passed out.” I shrugged. “Nobody’s, um...watching us.”
I knew Betsy was making out with some townie in the hall. My brother was on the sofa—a blonde sprawled languorously on top of him. Jeremy was smoking weed with a few people in the bathroom. I could smell it. Hear them laughing.
“You’re too young,” Donovan said simply.
I was almost sixteen then and, in my expert opinion, at least as mature as a twenty-nine year old. He’d just turned twenty-one and had to be going on about thirty-five. But I liked older men. Well, specifically, this man. He was just five years older, really. And, anyway, if he had a point, I wasn’t about to admit it.
“We’re both young and inconspicuous,” I stated. “I like it that way, Donovan.”
He squinted at me. “Hmm. You don’t want to be the center of attention, do you?”
“No. Not usually. I’m an observer. I watch people. I know you know that.” I grinned at him, feeling the strange high of being so direct and honest with someone I was attracted to. Someone I desperately wanted to touch again with my fingertips, my palms, my arms and more. I inched
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