I grabbed her by the waist and replanted her in her own seat. Then I gripped the steering wheel and thought about my great aunt Ina. Aunt Ina was sixty-seven years old and she had warts … gross … nasty … protruding — warts. I thought about her chins and her cankles and the hair that grew out of her arm wart. Aunt Ina seemed to do the trick. I felt slightly more in control.
Olivia huffed in the seat next to me. “Why do you always do that? I was having fun.”
I kept my eyes closed and leaned my head back. “Duchess, do you want to have sex?”
Her answer came quickly. “No.”
“So what’s the point of doing that?”
She paused to think. “I don’t know. Everyone else messes around. Why can’t we just … you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” I said, turning to look at her. “Why don’t you inform me what exactly it is that you have in mind?”
She blushed. “Can’t we just compromise?” she whispered this without looking at me.
“I’m twenty-three years old. I’ve been having sex since I was fifteen. I think I am compromising. If you’re asking me to feel you up like I’m a fifteen-year-old boy, I’m not going to do it.”
“I know,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry — I just can’t.”
Her voice pulled me out of my selfishness. It wasn’t her fault. I’d already waited a year. I would wait another — I wanted to wait. She was worth it.
I wanted her.
“The thing with messing around is — you slowly work your way toward sex. It starts with hands and then mouths and then before you know it you’re doing all three, all the time.”
She blushed.
“Once you start, you don’t stop. It’s a slow decline toward sex. So, if you’re really not ready to have sex, don’t start doing the other stuff. That’s all I’m saying.”
I opened the bottle of water that was sitting in my cup holder and took a sip. The car wash rattled around us, strips of soapy rubber slapping the metal. I felt those slaps.
She climbed back into my lap. God, I hope she can’t feel my erection. She put a hand on each side of my face and pressed her nose against mine. Her nose was cold. This was the softer side of Olivia. It was the side that caused me to want to stand over her like a dominating Alpha male and bare my teeth at anyone who came near her.
“I’m sorry, Caleb. I’m sorry I’m so messed up.”
My hands went back to her waist. “You’re not messed up, you’re just sexually repressed.”
She giggled. It was so girly and soft. When a woman made that sound, I couldn’t help but smile.
I looked down at her toned legs. All I would have to do was unzip my pants, she was already right-
“You’re going to have to go back to your seat.” My voice was gruff.
She scuttled back looking guilty.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as the dryers came on. I watched the drops of water shimmy across the windshield until they disappeared. What had I gotten myself into? I’d fallen in love with someone I couldn’t fix. My coach called me a fixer. It started my sophomore year when I saw a couple of the freshmen on the team struggling with their game. I worked with them on the side until their defense improved. Coach always used my side projects as starters. My junior year I had ten guys come to me on the side and ask for private practice sessions. I don’t know why, but I was good at it. Now, my need to fix things had transferred onto the women I was attracted to. I thought back to my ex-girlfriend, Jessica. She had been perfect, until…
I clenched my teeth. Maybe that’s why things hadn’t worked out between us. She was too perfect. Olivia was so beautifully broken. The hairline cracks in her personality were more pieces of art than flaws. I loved flawed art. Michelangelo’s statue of Lorenzo with its warped base that rose to accommodate his foot, the Mona Lisa’s missing eyebrows. Flaws were seriously underrated. They were beautiful if you looked at them just so.
I knew I was lying to myself by thinking I could fix her. But, it was too late. I didn’t know how to let go. She broke the silence first.
“I wish I knew what you were thinking,” she said.
“There’s always the option of asking me.” I put the car in gear and pulled forward. She watched my hand on the stick shift — she always did that.
Car wash — over. Pounding need to be inside of her — not over.
“I feel like you’re always trying to sneak into my mind. You’re like Peter Pan — always climbing in windows and causing trouble.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Did you really just call me Peter Pan?”