We Are Not Okay. Natália Gomes
His fingers graze my lips. Inside I explode.
His hand reaches behind my neck and scoops a handful of my hair. Tipping my head back slightly, he kisses my neck.
I grip the edge of the bed, clutching a handful of the floral quilt cover. My other hand slides up his torso, over his navy T-shirt, and up to his head. I pull him in closer and feel a churning in my belly. When his lips find mine again, the butterflies disappear.
Everything about him is familiar but new at the same time.
He brushes a stray strand off my face and loops it between his fingers.
I don’t know where his other hand is until I feel it on the belt loop of my jeans, then it’s on my stomach.
My body lurches. I don’t like his hand there. He must feel that loose saggy skin around my middle, the curve of my belly after a big meal, the fat.
I scoot my body to the side, away from his hand.
‘Are you OK?’ he whispers.
If I draw attention to it then he’ll be thinking about it, like me. I’ll be unattractive to him. Disgusting. So I just nod and then pull him in again so he forgets what just happened.
He presses harder against my lips, then slides his hand back over my stomach but this time he moves it before I have a chance to. He’s moving it upwards though and now it’s at the edge of the cardigan around my shoulders. He shimmies it off my shoulder and I shift my weight slightly to let him bring it down around my elbows. My green vest with the lace scalloped trim is exposed. It’s really a PJ top – well, one half of a shorts set from Next that I got for my birthday one year. It’s not supposed to be a top. He’s not supposed to see it. But he is. And I’m letting him.
Outside, rain beats hard on the window pane, pushing its way into our space, our moment. The wind cries and howls. It wants in. And for a moment – a brief fleeting moment – I think I want out. But then that thought passes or is forced out of my mind because I don’t want out. I want to be here with Steve. With my boyfriend. I’m just scared. It’s moving too fast. I’m not ready. But he is.
I stretch out my hand awkwardly, my arm still caught in the fabric of my cardigan, to tap on the music on my phone. I’ve created a playlist for us with all of our favourite songs but also some new ones. I hope he likes it. I spent time working on it last night, probably when I should have been finishing my physics homework but this seemed more important to me.
It is important.
What we have is important.
I love Steve.
But I can’t reach my phone without moving my body out from under him and I don’t want to do that. Not just yet. But then his hand is suddenly under my vest, under my bra, and I have to.
Because that’s it. Right there. That’s my ceiling. He just hit it.
My hand cups his and I push it off my body back down to his side. He tries again. So I move the hand away, again.
And again.
And then again.
‘Steve,’ I finally say, sitting upright. I slide my body out from under him and press my spine against the headboard.
He sits up too and kneels on one leg. He sighs deeply and I wish I could give him exactly what he wants, be exactly what he needs. But I can’t. At least not now. Not tonight. My parents are going to be back any minute, I’m wearing jeans, I can’t remember the colour of my underwear let alone whether it matches my bra. Although I’m ninety per cent sure it doesn’t. Maybe even ninety-eight per cent.
I’ve thought about it. Of course I’ve thought about it. I’m seventeen years old. What seventeen-year-old with a boyfriend hasn’t thought about their first time? But I haven’t prepared. I need time to prepare. I need my playlist. I need candles, the curtains closed, the dirty laundry basket out of that corner, the coffee mug from breakfast off my dresser, that bronzer stain by my mirror gone, half a stone vanished from my midriff, this spot on my chin completely obliterated, and preferably knickers that aren’t from Primark and that my mum didn’t buy me for Christmas last year.
But I can’t tell him that.
So instead I scrunch up my face and hope my cheeks aren’t burning as red as I think they are. Which they probably are.
He sighs even deeper, even louder. ‘Not tonight then?’ he finally asks, looking up at me.
I lightly touch his left cheek feeling the stubble sharp against my fingertips. ‘Not tonight.’
He takes another deep breath and again I wonder what he’s thinking inside. Is he getting sick of waiting? Is he getting bored with me? Does he still fancy me?
I lean in and wrap my arms around him, pulling him in again. When our lips part, his face has relaxed a little and the lines around his eyes are now almost completely faded from his skin. He looks less tense. He brushes another strand off my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers linger over the silver and pearl studs in my earlobe, before dropping heavily to the bed. ‘OK.’ He swings his legs off the bed and puts his face in his hands, leaning over. Away from me.
I’ve disappointed him.
I hate doing that, but I keep doing it. Why?
I swing a leg around him and lay my head gently on his back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper in his ear.
‘It’s fine, Soph, really. We’ve got plenty of time. And it’ll happen, right?’
Lifting my head, I wrap my arms around him and interlace my fingers at his stomach. I pull him in closer. ‘Of course it’ll happen.’ I playfully press against his belly until he squirms.
He laughs and wriggles away. He runs a hand through his hair and then turns to face me. He places a hand on my cheek. ‘Soon, yeah?’
I push my cheek further into his palm and press a smile onto my face even though I don’t feel it inside. ‘Yes, soon. I promise.’
He kisses me again, quickly and briefly this time. Then leans back over the bed.
‘You’re leaving?’ I ask, watching him shove his feet into his trainers.
‘Yeah, your mum and dad will be home soon anyway. And