I tell him about my art.
This is the part where I expect him to freak out. It’s not every day you meet an eighteen-year-old who designs headstones as a hobby.
“It’s less sinister than it sounds.” I lick my lips, already on the defense.
“You design headstones, not kill babies for a living.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. “But I’m sure there’s a story behind it.”
“When I was, like, eight, my cousin Shauna died in a boating accident. She was only fifteen. My mom wanted me to attend the funeral, but Dad thought I was too young. There was a lot of back-and-forth between them. In the end, they left it for me to decide. I wanted to go. Shauna and I had been close. It was the first time I’d visited a cemetery. I remember looking around and thinking, All these headstones look the same. How is that possible? We’re so different from each other when we’re alive. Why are our personalities reduced to nothing when we’re dead?
“A few months later, Mom and I went back to freshen up the flowers on her grave. Shauna had the most beautiful gravestone. It was so her it took my breath away. Her mom splurged on a real piece of art. A granite angel embracing a heart. It made me think. Personalized gravestones are a great way to pay your last respects to someone, you know? We live in a world where everything is customized to us: our clothes, our mattresses, our cars. Why not design something that’s unique? Something that represents the person who was laid to rest?”
“What do you do with your designs?” Joe isn’t showing any signs of distress. I’m fairly sure his creep-o-meter is broken. But, more than likely, this is just another way we are alike.
“I mostly keep them to myself. You have to consider people’s personalities to make gravestones for them, and thinking about the people you love passing away is . . . well, next-level psychotic. So I design them for late celebrities and stuff like that. A few people have heard about what I do through the grapevine and asked about pricing. I gave them the designs for free. I don’t know if there’s a market for what I do . . . I just know that it feels right to do it.”
Joe tugs at the hem of my dress, just for the physical connection. “People are always in the market for fucking awesome.”
“What if I’m not fucking awesome?”
“You are,” he says, sure as the morning sun. “If you were mediocre, you wouldn’t be running circles in my head.”
I think about the words from his novel.
He should’ve run after her faster.
He should have told her she was perfect.
The dull beat of the music coming from the party makes the earth quake beneath us. My body feels in tune with his, and I can anticipate the next time he’ll move. I feel his breaths in my own lungs.
“So.” His knee brushes against mine.
“So.” My elbow bumps against his.
“Did you ever use that condom?” he asks.
I bury my face in my hands. My skin is hot with mortification. I shake my head, peeking at him from between my fingers.
He tries to catch my gaze, tilting his head down. “Is that a no?”
“Why’s it important?”
“Knowledge is power.”
“It’s a useless piece of information.” I’m drunk on the idea that he cares but also embarrassed that I didn’t go through with Pippa’s dare.
“Don’t limit my fields of interest, missy. I’ll have you know it’s a matter of great interest. Books will be written on the subject. Books, I tell ya.” He shakes his fist in the air.
To this, I full-blown laugh. “This is not normal.”
“What’s not normal?”
“You. Me.” I wave my finger between us. “This.”
There’s nothing much to say, really. Which leads me to my next question to fill in the silence.
“Did you use any condoms while in Spain?”
“Promise not to be disappointed?” He sighs. I nod, but I already am. It shouldn’t feel like he’s cheated on me. It does, anyway.
“No,” he says. “I didn’t use any condoms.”
Punching his arm, I groan, “Then why did you tell me not to be disappointed?”
“To see if you were jealous, of course.”
This time, there’s no point denying that I was.
From the distance, “Boys of Summer” starts. It’s the Ataris’ cover, my favorite. People raise their arms in the air and sing. Dawn breaks above the surface. The waterline shimmers rose gold. Our time is almost up.