Dylan Rhodes is finishing her last year of high school at St. Mary's, a notorious, private Christian school in the middle of nowhere. Previously having been expelled from her last 3 schools for misbehaviour, vandalism and misconduct, Dylan is prepar...
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TONIGHT HAS BEEN different. A change in atmosphere. 'The Graduate' came to an end, and I'd realized I'd missed most of its ending. Impassive, I start to get up. In the midst of my movements, I almost knock over three empty beer bottles on the floor of Tristan's bedroom. Tristan, stretched across his bed, sits up at the sudden sound of glass hitting wood ringing through his room. He meets my eyes. "I'm going to grab some snacks- do you want anything?"
"Nah," Tristan says lazily, "I'll grab it myself." There was a flicker of something unfamiliar in Tristan's eyes. Something that had mostly been unobtrusive. I ignore it, and walk into the kitchen. It's quiet; Tristan's parents work in corporate and spend their weekdays in the big city. Tristan said they come home weekends, but something in his eyes told me that wasn't true. I open several cupboards, rummaging for the perfect snack. A bag of chips will do. I hop onto the marble countertop of Tristan's kitchen and dig my hand into the bag. Tristan promptly emerges from the doorframe; his hair a mess, and clothes wrinkled. He still maintains a semblance of charm. Whilst I make a head-start on the chips, Tristan reaches for his to-do list.
He crosses 'The Graduate' off the list, then goes to grab another beer. With two cold beers in his hands, he turns to me. "Want one?" I contemplate the offer.
"I think it's safer if I don't," I decide. A frown begins to take shape on Tristan's soft features. He's visibly reading into my words. Deliberating the connotations, and possibly even over-thinking the consequences.
"Safer for you or for me?" he asks. There's a pause.
"Both." Tristan lowers his eyes, setting down both beers on the counter. There's a kitchen-island separating us. I'm still positioned on the counter, when a sudden wave of conviction washes over me. "Come here," I say. Tristan's eyes shoot up. He stares at me for a second.
"What?" he asks, as if having heard wrong.
"Come here," I say again, "I want to show you something." Tristan runs his tongue across his bottom lip, hesitancy and confusion playing in his eyes, before he moves towards me. I'm perched on an elevated counter; this equalizes our height. Our eyes are aligned. Tristan swallows, then pauses in front of me. "Have you ever counter your freckles?" my eyes flicker across the surface of scattered-freckles across Tristan's cheeks. The beer has made them rosy. Mine too, probably.
"No one's ever asked," Tristan responds.
"Did you know, you have one stray freckle," I raise my hand to brush the tip of my finger against a freckle right next to Tristan's left eye, "right here." Tristan is now only a breath away and there's a tension, hovering between us. Tristan then slowly places his hands, on the counter, directly besides my legs. He exhales. I can both see and experience the thought-process unravelling on his expression. His eyes flicker between my eyes, and my lips. Yet, he just lingers in front of me. He does not lean, nor make any indication to advance. I realize he's waiting for my consent. He's waiting for me to make the first move.
I hadn't registered how unnaturally fast my heart was beating, until I somewhat felt it ramming against my chest. Tristan bows his head a little. Almost pleadingly. I sigh. When Tristan looks up for a second time, I kiss him. In an instant, Tristan's hands are no longer besides my legs, but on my hips ad I instinctively tighten my legs around Tristan's waist as he leans into me. When my actions have synchronised with both my thoughts and the reality of my consequences, I pull back.
"I can't." Both breathing heavily, Tristan rests his forehead against mine.
"I know," he mumbles. I gently run my hands through the bottom of his curls, then lean away from him. There's a raw sense of disappointment, maybe even frustration, tracing Tristan's features.
"Just because I can't, doesn't mean I don't want to." Tristan sighs. He takes a step back and rests his arms behind him on the kitchen-island. He's out of breath and his hair is a mess. But, he still raises his gaze to meet mine.
