Forgotten

Page 24

“Making friends tonight, huh?” Luke says with a sympathetic smile. He is holding my coat open for me.
“Let’s go,” he says, once I’m wrapped and ready.
He grabs my hand, and we rush through the wind toward his minivan, away from it all. In the bitter darkness, my mind wanders to a question that, according to my notes, I’ve been hoping to answer: Did I change anything with Page, or is she headed down the path toward embarrassment and heartbreak, courtesy of Brad from math?
Even though she clearly has it out for me, I silently hope that somehow Page’s fate will be different from what I saw those months before. However nasty she may be, no one deserves that pain.
27
“You’re sure she’s not home?” Luke whispers as he eyes the front of my house from the driver’s seat of his van.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I reply at normal volume. “Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know,” Luke whispers. He looks at me and flashes a huge, cheesy grin, turns back to the house, and says, “I feel like she can hear me.”
“She’s not home!” I yell, to prove the point.
“Where is she?” he asks.
“She’s at a movie,” I answer flatly.
Suddenly, I’m nervous. Luke and I have been dating for several months. Does he expect something? Do I?
Knowing that I could obsess to death about this, I decide to go for it and leap out of the van. Before I slam the door behind me, I turn to Luke and ask: “Are you coming or what? I need a grilled cheese.”
He laughs and kills the engine, then follows my lead. We’re inside the warm entryway in no time, removing our jackets and shoes. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I just kept going, removing my dress….
“She left all the lights on. Are you sure she’s not coming back soon?”
“Luke! What are you so afraid of?” I playfully shout at him. He’s looking back toward the living room to make sure that my mom isn’t there.
“Sorry, I know I’m being crazy. I just doubt your mom would want us here alone together this late at night.”
“Okay, first of all, are you from the fifties or something? And second of all, it’s not that late. It’s only…” I glance at the ornate wall clock mounted over the piano in the adjacent room. “It’s not even nine o’clock. My curfew is midnight. And, third of all, even if she doesn’t want us here alone, she’ll never know. She’s at a movie!”
“What time will it be over?” Luke asks.
“Ten thirty.”
“Fine, I’m leaving before ten thirty.”
“Fine,” I say, grinning.
“Fine,” Luke says gently. He’s standing over me now, finally calm, rolling up the sleeves of his untucked white dress shirt. The look of him makes my breath catch.
I take a step forward so our faces are just inches away. Before I think too much about what I’m doing, I stretch up on tiptoe, take Luke’s face in my hands, and plant a firm kiss on his soft lips. He doesn’t pull away; instead, he bends down slightly, low enough that I don’t have to stay on my toes. He wraps his arms tightly around my waist, and I feel his strong palms press into my lower back. My hands move to the back of his neck. I lose track of time and place and just let go and enjoy the increasingly heated kisses.
My heart races, and the thought of shedding clothing comes to mind again. I lean into Luke, and, lip-locked, the two of us stumble backward, until his back thuds into the closed front door. I smash against his chest and it feels like warm marble. He moves his hands into my hair and I breathe heavier as I keep kissing, kissing, kissing him.
The five phones connected to the landline scream in unison and scare Luke and me apart as if we’ve been caught by some chastity alarm. Realizing the source, and feeling silly both for being startled and for the hormone surge, I nervously laugh, and he joins in.
I take two steps backward, trip over my shoes, and fall to the floor, which sends me into hysterics. Unable to breathe, I roll into a ball of embarrassment, and Luke joins me on the floor, sitting at first, then lying and staring at the ceiling.
The phones finally stop ringing. I manage to compose myself.
“I love your laugh,” he says once I’ve calmed down.
“Thanks, I love to laugh,” I reply.
“I know. That’s one of my favorite things about you. Remember how spastic you were on our first date? It was cute.”
Good to know, I think to myself.
“Tell me more,” I say, as perfectly comfortable on the Persian rug as I’d be lying on a couch or a bed. We are head to head, with our bodies at angles: if someone observed us from overhead, they’d see a V.
“Mmmm, you want to know the reasons why I love you?” he asks casually, as if he’s said those words to me before. But if I’m remembering my notes correctly, this is the first time.
My heart is threatening to break free from my chest, but I present a calm exterior. “Yes, a list, if you will.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle.
“There are too many reasons to have a complete list, but I’ll name a few.”
“Please, go on,” I say, attempting to remain steady when I feel like bouncing. I hold my breath.
“Well, there’s the obvious. You’re beautiful.”
“Yes, obviously,” I reply flatly, masking the fact that my stomach just did cartwheels.
“I love your hair. This sounds crazy, but when I first saw you in that ridiculous outfit with your long red hair flying out all over the place, I just wanted to touch it. It’s soft, and it always smells good. In fact, hold on….” Luke leans over and buries his nose in my hair. He takes a deep breath, then returns to his back.
“Ah, the best,” he mutters.
“You are a total weirdo,” I joke. He ignores me.
“Let’s see… what else? I love you because you’re the type of person to befriend a new guy on his first day of school. Oh, and speaking of friends, I love that you haven’t given up on Jamie, even though she’s mad at you and not being very cool.”
“She’s worth it,” I say in her defense.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. You’re not into cliques and all that crap. You’re mature.”
“Right. What did you say about laughing fits?”
“Well, yes, there are those. Most of the time, you’re mature.” Luke pokes me in the ribs and grins before facing the ceiling once again.
“What else?” I prompt him. “This is fun!”
“Let’s see,” Luke says, folding his left forearm behind his head. He looks to the wall where his painting leans. “I like that you don’t think it’s strange that I like to paint ears.”
“I do, a little. But I like strange,” I say. “What else?”
“I don’t know, London,” he says, rolling to his side to face me and propping his head on his hand. “I think it’s just the whole package. I can’t pick you apart. I just love all of you. I think I always have.”
I wonder what he means by “always” as he brushes my face with his hand and we are quiet for a moment. It doesn’t sit quite right, but, not wanting to ruin the moment, I say, “I love all of you, too.”