“A weighted backpack is how I keep up with my athletic gir—with you,” I kid as we climb into the front seats.
With the doors closed, shut in the small space of her car, Hannah and I arealone. Not as alone as I’d like, evidenced by a few straggling players still crossing the parking lot, but more alone than we have been.
I turn to Hannah, excited to say something—anything—without feeling nervous about someone overhearing. Only, I catch her sniffing her armpit. She locks eyes with me, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, frozen. Me, open-mouthed. Her, arm raised in the air and head dipped low.
I break down laughing. She does too, and while the release is familiar, I can’t remember the last time we let go like this together.
“Okay, so,” Hannah says, regaining her composure, “I should shower so that I’m not stinky for our first date.”
I love the way the words “first date” sound in her voice. I love the fact that she said it so casually, as if we don’t have so much baggage behind us, so much buildup to this moment. Today is simply the first time we are going out.
And I am simply more than excited.
Chapter Twenty
Hannah darts upstairs, intent on not wasting time. The wood creaks softly under her weight, and when the bathroom door closes, the shower squeaking to life, I’m left in silence.
Alone, downstairs,in Hannah’s house.
I’m relieved that her family isn’t home. I definitely wasn’t prepared to meet them today. Plus, their absence makes being here less daunting.
Her house is warm. Not temperature warm but homey warm, lived-in. There’s so much color. The banister is painted a dark berry purple and the hallway beyond the stairs is a teal color that surprisingly complements the former. The living room is a softer version of the teal and catches the shadows cast by the sunlight coming through a bay window beautifully.
A couch is centered in the living room, covered in mismatched pillows in various states of wear and tear. Blankets are strewn about as if someone got up moments ago and is about to return and curl up in front of the TV. I float over to the Ikea bookshelves flanking the TV console, overflowing with books.I lean close and find a section specifically dedicated to coffee, espresso, and tea. Probably research, since Hannah’s parents own a diner.
I’m drawn to the framed photographs on the wall next to the shelves. In my house, we have a formal photo on the mantel in the living room and a few framed black and whites along the hallway leading to the bedrooms. This wall is like a collage of memories, a collection of Hannah’s infectious smile, her sister almost always rolling her eyes, and her parents always looking toward each other.
In the kitchen, dishes are stacked in the sink, and an empty carton of orange juice and whiteboard markers are discarded on the counter. I pick up the markers and return them to the mesh magnetic holder on the fridge, next to a color-coded calendar. Hannah’s field hockey schedule in green, her sister’s robotics club meetings in pink, her mom’s schedule at the café in blue, her dad’s in orange, doctor’s appointments in gray, and an orthodontist checkup with the reminderGET THE GREEN AND PINK RUBBER BANDS THIS TIMEscribbled underneath in bright red. All the different handwriting, big and small, competing for space like inked entries on a road map of their lives.
I love it. I envy it a little too. My house is clean, like a hospital. Everything is put away, spaces are impersonal. Hannah’s house is real, charmed with clutter and history.
I’m validated by the fact that everything around the house is evidence of what I already knew. But glimpsing her world like this, actually stepping into it, not just the one we share at school,is special. More special than I ever thought it would be.
The bathroom door creaks open upstairs, immediately followed by Hannah’s voice calling, “I’ll be down in a sec!”
“No rush!” I shout back, coming back to the bottom of the stairs.
I grip the banister, as if I’m going to take the first step. But I don’t. I want to. I want to see her room, actually see the backdrop for all our FaceTime calls. But the thought of being alone with her in her room, the house empty, makes me shy.
There were a few times over the summer when we came close to… going all the way. In the moment, I wanted to. I wantedherthat way, to be as close to her as I could possibly get. But Hannah stopped us. She told me she didn’t want my first time to be in the back of her car. I always figured that was fair.
I also hadn’t given much thought to what my first time would be like, only that I didn’t see myself waiting until marriage. I understand the value of purity and I’ve had Bible study around sex, but my takeaway was more so that my virginity is something personal, something that’s mine until I decide otherwise. And the cornerstone of intimacy is love, real love, and I always hoped I might fall in love a few times before deciding to get married.
Of course, until Hannah, there hadn’t been any real prospects, no real reason to think deeper about this. I decided a long time ago that when I started having thoughts and desires that the best way to get clear about my feelings would be to pray… which I haven’t done much of lately.
Hannah appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in her usualpair of jeans with a T-shirt under a flannel. Her hair is down, still wet from the shower and undoubtedly scented with her fruity shampoo.
“Ready?” I ask, smiling.
She bounces down the stairs, stopping right in front of me, toe-to-toe. Before I fully register what she’s doing, her lips are on mine. Her breath is minty, her hair smells like apples, and her skin is warm and soft. Her hands find my waist and I twist mine into her hair.
Though brief, the kiss leaves me wobbly.
“Now I’m ready.”
I pull up the playlist Hannah and I have been gradually building on Spotify—a cozy mix of alternative and R&B. With the music playing, I open Google Maps and pull up a list I saved of places more than thirty minutes away. But Hannah rolls out of the driveway before we can pick a destination. I watch the road pass outside my window. She navigates out of her neighborhood and keeps driving.
“Where are we going?”