The Creeping

“No, they won’t.” I squeeze her hand. “I won’t let them.”


Zoey was right about more than Caleb: I did need her protecting me, dragging me forward, dragging me farther from the day Jeanie disappeared. And now I’ll do it for her. Now I’ll protect her from what people might say about Caleb; from what Caleb might say about her; now I’ll protect her from sideways glances and sharp-tongued whispers. I lean forward and brush her shaggy bangs from her eyes. “You are going to have the best year ever. I swear. And besides”—I wink at her—“Sam can set you up with someone for prom.”

Zoey’s mouth winds up like she’s struggling not to smirk. “I am not going to prom with Dirty Harry.”

By the time Sam and his mom arrive, Zoey’s polished off five truffles. Her lips are stained dark with chocolate and lip balm as she takes a second portion of Dad’s macaroni and cheese. I watch her closely through dinner anyway. I watch Zoey, and Sam watches me. Every gesture, every word I measure out perfectly, like it’s one of my nana’s recipes. If I’m too chatty or too quiet, Sam will worry; he’ll suspect I’m still thinking about the others. I want Sam to be unburdened from wondering.

When he kisses me good-bye on the front lawn, his mom in the car trying to give us privacy by studying the contents of her glove box, I lose it and whisper, “Sneak back once your parents are asleep.” Screw it, maybe he’ll hear me crying out in my sleep, shouting back at the nightmares, but tonight I cave to wanting Sam. He stays with the tip of his nose touching mine for a moment, grinning.

“Give me an hour,” he whispers before pulling away and heading to the car.

Zoey leaves soon after, the box of truffles tucked under her arm. An hour later, when the glow of Dad’s reading lamp from under his bedroom door goes dark, I tiptoe down the stairs and twist the lock open. Sam’s sitting on the porch with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“I’ll have to leave before your dad gets up for work,” he murmurs into my ear as we move soundlessly up the stairs.

I lead Sam into my bedroom, the door clicking softly behind us. My childhood night-light casts rainbows on the ceiling. I chart the fractured bands of light, waiting for his lips to meet mine, and then smile into their warmth.

He pulls back a fraction of an inch. “Am I hurting you?”

I shake my head and wrap my arms around his neck. My shoulder stings in protest, but I don’t care. I want tonight. I want to know what it’s like to hold Sam so close there aren’t even atoms between us. For as much as tomorrow’s uncertainty scares me, there is nothing uncertain about the way I feel for Sam.

I untwine my arms and drop down to the bed. I’m so glad Zoey doesn’t believe in buying dumpy bras and that I’m wearing something black and lacy—it even matches my stitches. I pause for only a moment. He thrusts his hands into his pockets, watching me pull my tank top over my head. I crawl backward so my elbows rest on my pillow. I try to give him a sexy come-and-get-me look, but I chew my lip, fighting back how vulnerable I feel. Other guys have seen me in my bra, so it’s not the nakedness factor. It’s that I love him. That I know exactly what I want from him: everything. He moves slowly to the bed, crawling over me on his hands and knees. An arm slips tentatively under me, supporting my head.

“Is this okay?” he asks, sliding his hand down my back, leaving a trail of sublime heat on my skin.

“Yes,” I whisper in his ear. His eyes are wide and questioning as he moves his hand to the back of my bra.

“This?” he asks, unfastening the hooks.

“Yes. Do you have a . . . ?” I’m too embarrassed to say “condom” out loud. He jerks away, so startled he almost falls off the bed. He grabs hold of the headboard just in time.

“Overboard,” I say with a giggle.

His cheeks are glowing red apples. “Stella, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m happy waiting for you. I don’t expect that,” he says.

I reach for his hand and place it on my waist. My pulse quickens. A thin strip of his skin shows between his jeans and his undershirt. “I’ve never had sex before. You were my first kiss, and I want you to be my first at this too,” I whisper. “I want it to be special.”

A grin spreads over his face as he pulls his wallet from his jeans pocket and slips out a packet.

“Do you always come prepared?” I tease.

“I’ve been carrying this around since I was thirteen,” he jabbers. “Not this exact one—not that I’ve been using them, just because they expire, you know.” A beat later. “I’ve never had sex either.” My grin is even wider than his.