Autoboyography
Page 20
Or a bumper sticker.
With the carpet finally pulled free, Sebastian stands and throws it over the side, where it lands on the tarp with a whack and a plume of dust. Using the back of his arm, he wipes his forehead.
It feels like a crime the way I have to force my eyes away from his torso.
Looking around us, he surveys the damage. “Still. Old or not, this is a pretty nice boat.”
“Yeah, it is.” I push to stand, climbing down onto the driveway. Both of my parents are still gone, and inviting him in seems tantalizingly criminal. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
Sebastian follows me through the garage and into the house. In the kitchen, I open the fridge, grateful for the refrigerated air on my face, and survey what we have. Dad is at the hospital and Mom and Hailey are shopping.
I’m grateful, but also acutely aware that we’re alone.
“We have lemonade, Coke, Diet Coke, Vitaminwater, coconut water—”
“Coconut water?”
“My mom likes to drink it after she works out. Personally, I think it tastes like watery sunscreen.”
Sebastian steps up behind me to peer into the fridge, and my breath catches in my lungs. “It’s a wonder they don’t put that on the package.” When he laughs, I can feel the way it moves through his chest.
I am not okay.
He clears his throat. “Vitaminwater is fine.”
I pull out two bottles and hand him one, pressing the other against my face when his back is turned.
“Your dad’s a doctor?” he asks, taking everything in. I watch as he untwists the cap and puts the bottle to his lips for a long drink. My heart beats in time with each swallow . . .
. . . one
. . . two
. . . three
. . . and I’m pretty sure I don’t breathe again until he does.
“Yeah, up at Utah Valley.” I turn back to the fridge, hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “You want something to eat?”
Sebastian walks toward me. “Sure. Do you mind if I wash my hands?”
“Yeah, good call.”
Side by side, we stand at the sink, lathering our hands and rinsing them under the tap. Our elbows knock together, and when I reach across him for the towel, my hip bumps into his. It’s just a hip, but my mind goes from hips to hip bones to what’s in between in a fraction of a second. My perving is nothing if not efficient.
Realizing I can’t just stand there at the sink and think about his hips, I hand him the towel and return to the fridge. “Sandwiches okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I pull out lunch meat and cheese and whatever else I can find and snag plates and a few knives from the dishwasher. Sebastian has taken a seat on one of the kitchen stools. I slide the bread across the counter toward him.
“So how’s the project coming?” He untwists the plastic bag, placing bread on the plates.
“Project?”
He laughs, leaning forward to meet my eyes. “You know, the book? For the class you’re in?”
“The book, right.” The lunch meat is new, so it requires a little of my attention to open, which means I get at least ten seconds to stall. It’s still not enough. “It’s great.”
He lifts a brow, surprised. “Great?”
Everything I’ve written lately is about you, but it’s cool. No need for things to be awkward between us.
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, unable to come up with anything more articulate under the weight of his attention. “I feel pretty solid.”
Sebastian rips a piece of lettuce off the head and places it neatly on the center of his bread. “You going to let me read more?”
“Yeah, totally,” I lie.
“Now?”
My answer comes out too sharply: “Not yet. No.”
“You could come by after school next week, and we could look through it.”
A mouthful of water seems to solidify in my throat. With effort, I swallow. “Really?”
“Sure. How about Friday?”
It gives me nearly a week to edit the book. “Okay.”
“Bring me the first few chapters.” His eyes twinkle.
I have just over five days to triage my book. Change the names, at the very least. Maybe take this book out of diary territory and into novel territory.
Lord, give me strength.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, passing the bag of chips back and forth and finally cracking open a few caffeinated Cokes—so scandalous!—when Sebastian stands, walking over to a photograph stuck to the fridge. “That’s a great picture,” he says, leaning in to get a better look. “Where was this? This building is insane.”
It’s a photo of me the summer after tenth grade. I’m standing in front of a towering, elaborately constructed church. “That’s the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona.”
Sebastian blinks over to me, eyes wide. “You’ve been to Barcelona?”
“My dad had a big conference and brought us along. It was pretty cool.” Moving to stand just behind him, I reach over his shoulder and touch part of the photo. “It looks different on each side. Where I’m standing is the passion side, and it’s simpler than the others. And in these towers”—I point to the stone spheres that seem to stretch into the clouds—“you can take a lift to the top.”
“Your expression.” He laughs. “You look like you know something the person taking the picture doesn’t.”
I look down at him, so close I can see the freckle he has on the side of his nose, the way his eyelashes practically touch his cheeks when he blinks. What I want to tell him is that I’d made out with a guy on that trip, only the second guy I’ve ever kissed. His name was Dax, and he’d been visiting with his parents. We snuck off during a dinner with a bunch of the other doctors and their families and kissed until our lips were numb.
So yeah, I guess I did know something the person taking the picture didn’t know. But I told Dad and Mom about Dax a few months later.
I want to tell Sebastian that he’s right, if only to see his reaction when I explain why.
“I have this thing about heights,” I say instead. “And nearly lost it when my parents explained we had tickets to go to the top.”
Lifting his chin, he looks up at me. “Did you go?”
“Yeah, I did. I think I held my mom’s hand the entire time, but I made it. Maybe that’s why I look a little proud.”
Sebastian steps away, sitting at the counter again. “We drove forty miles to Nephi once,” he says. “I think it’s safe to say you win.”
I cough out a laugh. “Nephi sounds pretty cool.”
“We visited the temple in Payson and watched a handcart reenactment along the Mormon trail. So . . . yeah.”
We both laugh now. I cup a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Okay, maybe you’ll win the next one.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says, grinning at me over the top of his Coke. His smile dumps endorphins into my veins.
“Maybe when we get the boat finished we can take it out.”
He sets his can down next to his plate. “You’ve done that before?”
“I mean, I’ve never pulled the trailer by myself, but I’m sure I can handle it. You could even come when we go to Lake Powell in July.”
Sebastian’s face falls for a fraction of a second before his standard perfect persona slips back into place. “Sounds good.”
With the carpet finally pulled free, Sebastian stands and throws it over the side, where it lands on the tarp with a whack and a plume of dust. Using the back of his arm, he wipes his forehead.
It feels like a crime the way I have to force my eyes away from his torso.
Looking around us, he surveys the damage. “Still. Old or not, this is a pretty nice boat.”
“Yeah, it is.” I push to stand, climbing down onto the driveway. Both of my parents are still gone, and inviting him in seems tantalizingly criminal. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
Sebastian follows me through the garage and into the house. In the kitchen, I open the fridge, grateful for the refrigerated air on my face, and survey what we have. Dad is at the hospital and Mom and Hailey are shopping.
I’m grateful, but also acutely aware that we’re alone.
“We have lemonade, Coke, Diet Coke, Vitaminwater, coconut water—”
“Coconut water?”
“My mom likes to drink it after she works out. Personally, I think it tastes like watery sunscreen.”
Sebastian steps up behind me to peer into the fridge, and my breath catches in my lungs. “It’s a wonder they don’t put that on the package.” When he laughs, I can feel the way it moves through his chest.
I am not okay.
He clears his throat. “Vitaminwater is fine.”
I pull out two bottles and hand him one, pressing the other against my face when his back is turned.
“Your dad’s a doctor?” he asks, taking everything in. I watch as he untwists the cap and puts the bottle to his lips for a long drink. My heart beats in time with each swallow . . .
. . . one
. . . two
. . . three
. . . and I’m pretty sure I don’t breathe again until he does.
“Yeah, up at Utah Valley.” I turn back to the fridge, hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “You want something to eat?”
Sebastian walks toward me. “Sure. Do you mind if I wash my hands?”
“Yeah, good call.”
Side by side, we stand at the sink, lathering our hands and rinsing them under the tap. Our elbows knock together, and when I reach across him for the towel, my hip bumps into his. It’s just a hip, but my mind goes from hips to hip bones to what’s in between in a fraction of a second. My perving is nothing if not efficient.
Realizing I can’t just stand there at the sink and think about his hips, I hand him the towel and return to the fridge. “Sandwiches okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I pull out lunch meat and cheese and whatever else I can find and snag plates and a few knives from the dishwasher. Sebastian has taken a seat on one of the kitchen stools. I slide the bread across the counter toward him.
“So how’s the project coming?” He untwists the plastic bag, placing bread on the plates.
“Project?”
He laughs, leaning forward to meet my eyes. “You know, the book? For the class you’re in?”
“The book, right.” The lunch meat is new, so it requires a little of my attention to open, which means I get at least ten seconds to stall. It’s still not enough. “It’s great.”
He lifts a brow, surprised. “Great?”
Everything I’ve written lately is about you, but it’s cool. No need for things to be awkward between us.
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, unable to come up with anything more articulate under the weight of his attention. “I feel pretty solid.”
Sebastian rips a piece of lettuce off the head and places it neatly on the center of his bread. “You going to let me read more?”
“Yeah, totally,” I lie.
“Now?”
My answer comes out too sharply: “Not yet. No.”
“You could come by after school next week, and we could look through it.”
A mouthful of water seems to solidify in my throat. With effort, I swallow. “Really?”
“Sure. How about Friday?”
It gives me nearly a week to edit the book. “Okay.”
“Bring me the first few chapters.” His eyes twinkle.
I have just over five days to triage my book. Change the names, at the very least. Maybe take this book out of diary territory and into novel territory.
Lord, give me strength.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, passing the bag of chips back and forth and finally cracking open a few caffeinated Cokes—so scandalous!—when Sebastian stands, walking over to a photograph stuck to the fridge. “That’s a great picture,” he says, leaning in to get a better look. “Where was this? This building is insane.”
It’s a photo of me the summer after tenth grade. I’m standing in front of a towering, elaborately constructed church. “That’s the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona.”
Sebastian blinks over to me, eyes wide. “You’ve been to Barcelona?”
“My dad had a big conference and brought us along. It was pretty cool.” Moving to stand just behind him, I reach over his shoulder and touch part of the photo. “It looks different on each side. Where I’m standing is the passion side, and it’s simpler than the others. And in these towers”—I point to the stone spheres that seem to stretch into the clouds—“you can take a lift to the top.”
“Your expression.” He laughs. “You look like you know something the person taking the picture doesn’t.”
I look down at him, so close I can see the freckle he has on the side of his nose, the way his eyelashes practically touch his cheeks when he blinks. What I want to tell him is that I’d made out with a guy on that trip, only the second guy I’ve ever kissed. His name was Dax, and he’d been visiting with his parents. We snuck off during a dinner with a bunch of the other doctors and their families and kissed until our lips were numb.
So yeah, I guess I did know something the person taking the picture didn’t know. But I told Dad and Mom about Dax a few months later.
I want to tell Sebastian that he’s right, if only to see his reaction when I explain why.
“I have this thing about heights,” I say instead. “And nearly lost it when my parents explained we had tickets to go to the top.”
Lifting his chin, he looks up at me. “Did you go?”
“Yeah, I did. I think I held my mom’s hand the entire time, but I made it. Maybe that’s why I look a little proud.”
Sebastian steps away, sitting at the counter again. “We drove forty miles to Nephi once,” he says. “I think it’s safe to say you win.”
I cough out a laugh. “Nephi sounds pretty cool.”
“We visited the temple in Payson and watched a handcart reenactment along the Mormon trail. So . . . yeah.”
We both laugh now. I cup a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Okay, maybe you’ll win the next one.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says, grinning at me over the top of his Coke. His smile dumps endorphins into my veins.
“Maybe when we get the boat finished we can take it out.”
He sets his can down next to his plate. “You’ve done that before?”
“I mean, I’ve never pulled the trailer by myself, but I’m sure I can handle it. You could even come when we go to Lake Powell in July.”
Sebastian’s face falls for a fraction of a second before his standard perfect persona slips back into place. “Sounds good.”
