Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser

goose bumps rising on my arms, I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in Sasha’s ear, “Let’s get out of here.” I pull him far away from the lake houses.
    I’m thinking of warmth, of his arms around me, of our bodies colliding somewhere out of our grandparents’ vision. Our usual spot—the first place we kissed—is the creek. Behind the willow trees, blankets on us, no one can see what we’re doing. We’ve never made love, but we’ve come close. He’s never pressured me, always said he wanted to wait and make it special. I used to agree, giddy at the idea of the first time . I imagined planning a date and circling it with a big pink heart on my calendar. There would be music and flowers and stars above us. Right before we did it, he would lean in real close and whisper, voice full of feeling, “I love you so much.” It would be this special summer moment, like all those songs about romantic summers.
    Then I met Ethan.
    I didn’t forget Sasha or what we had planned. I just thought of Ethan as my school boyfriend. I never thought of sleeping with him. I liked doing a special cheer for him at halftime, my fingers pointing at him. I liked the gaggle of cheerleaders following me, staring at me, like I could spread my magic The Couple fairy dust on them. Maybe I should have left more magic for myself.
    “The grandparents are at some Bingo-athon,” Sasha says now, stopping at his cottage. “Kyle’s at the arcade.” He extends his hand to me, like I’m still a princess, and I follow him inside, pulling at my bathing suit along the way.
    “I’ve missed you,” I say, falling onto the bed. He tosses a T-shirt and shorts my way and turns around while I change, like seeing that would be too intimate.
    “Me too.” He gets on top of me, and he feels stronger than before, or maybe I’ve just forgotten. I like his muscular chest weighing me down, his chiseled arms pulling me closer. His hands go under my shirt and I pull him closer to me. Then he kisses me deep and pulls my clothes off, and I panic.
    Not that he hasn’t seen all of me before, but his moves and kisses feel more urgent than I remember, his hands more insistent, and I think, Our first time can’t be like this. Katya and Sasha’s first time is supposed to mean something. I don’t want this right now.
    He’s panting but can tell I’ve become a statue. He pulls back. “I’m sorry. It’s just been so long. I want you so much.”
    He lays his head on my chest, mumbling more apologies, telling me he’ll wait until whenever I’m ready. He wants everything to be perfect.
    When Sasha talks like this, it’s so easy to forget that this body of mine has already done it. And there weren’t any stars out that first night. Chris didn’t even have glow-in-the-dark ones on his ceiling. That first time wasn’t real, anyway. The other time with Chris wasn’t, either. Those times weren’t perfect. They weren’t with Sasha.
    We start kissing again. This time he’s more gentle. This time I’m the one who pulls him to me. I want him, too. I want his weight, his arms, his body imprinted on mine to block out the others. I move my hand to him to finish him off, and he tugs at my hair.
    “You’re so beautiful,” he says when I’m under the covers, in his clothes again, goose bumps gone.
    “You too,” I say, running my finger along his eight-pack. I trace shapes on his abs and chest, asking him to guess what I’m drawing. We always play this game after. Usually, he guesses wrong.
    “A heart?” he tries, after I’ve drawn a cat.
    “You think I’m that boring and predictable? That girly ?”
    “I like girly,” he says, getting on top of me again, kissing me deep and hard on the mouth, pulling the shirt over my head once more.
    I’m digging my nails into Sasha’s back and pulling at his sweat shorts when the door opens and Kostya walks in.
    “Shit, asshole. You don’t bother knocking?” Sasha yells, throwing a blanket over me.
    I freeze again.