“I dare you to.” Nathan laughs, but then he lowers me gently onto his bed and kisses me again, this time slow and deep. By the time he stops, I’m out of breath and aching for him. He presses his forehead against mine. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
I bite my lip against my smile, then gasp as he starts sucking lightly at my neck. Maybe it’s because we were friends before we started seeing each other. Whatever it is, Nathan seems to know exactly what I want and how I want it. Every touch is addicting, the smell of him intoxicating. It’s weird, finding out that we’re not just compatible as friends. Shirts are flung off, jeans tugged down, and soon we’re in our underwear, and the touch of his skin against mine is so good my entire body is blushing. We’ve done this probably close to a hundred times by now, but still, when Nathan takes off my bra, he does so with reverence, his breath coming out slow and sweet as my breasts are laid bare before him.
As always, I have to fight the instinct to cover them, but Nathan is so gentle, bending down to kiss my jawline, my neck, my chest, before his mouth finds my nipple and I am lost. I forget everything—the curse, my Ma and aunts, even my own name. I bury my fingers in his hair, and there’s just me and Nathan. Everything Nathan. Nathan’s mouth, Nathan’s fingers, Nathan’s body. The first time was a bit awkward and lasted all of four minutes. But by now we’ve found a rhythm that drives all thought from my head and turns me into a being of need. And when our eyes meet, neither of us looks away until the very last gasp.
Later, lying in bed next to him, I realize something. We’ve been together for almost two years now, and he’s the first one I tell everything to—when I get my papers back, when we’re assigned terrible coursework, when the leader of the photography club says anything dumb, which is all the time. And he does the same, telling me every interesting detail about his econ classes, sharing his wildest dreams of owning a fancy hotel in the future, even telling me how much weight he’s doing at the gym. I guess the last one’s him showing off, but I don’t mind. I like that Nathan wants to impress me, because I want to impress him too. And he does impress me. Even after two years, which involves a lot of farting and embarrassing bedroom stuff （queefs, anyone?）， I still find Nathan impressive as hell. I love him. I want a life with him.
To hell with the family curse. It doesn’t matter. I’m in Oxford, England. This is where curses go to die. I almost laugh out loud at the thought. I haven’t really stopped to think about how much half-believing in the curse has weighed me down, but now I realize that I’ve always felt it lurking behind my back, felt it giving me an expiration date. But it’s stupid. Why damn the relationship when there’s nothing wrong with it? I make a choice.
When I get home, I’m going to tell Ma about Nathan. I’ll tell her everything. I’ll even tell my aunts. I’ll tell them all over Sunday dim sum, since they’re always happy when they’re eating dim sum. That’ll go over well.
5
Present Day
“Fuuuck.”
Pain. So much of it, it lurches from deep in my bones, squeezing my chest with a red fist, and then it erupts out of me in a moan, and the sound of my voice, so hoarse with pain it’s alien, brings me back. I blink. Blink again.
Right. I’m in my car. Not in England with Nathan. My car.
Light flashes at the edge of my vision. It’s my turn signal, which is making an infernal clicking noise. I reach out to turn it off, and the movement makes pain burst through my chest.
“Jesus—”
With one last heroic try, I manage to hit the turn signal switch. Sweet, blessed silence. I glance down, not daring to turn my head too much. My seat belt’s digging into my chest. With a swallow, I push myself back slightly, still unsure what’s broken and what isn’t. Moving back makes the crushing sensation around my chest ease a little. I take a small breath, then another, a bigger one. It hurts, but not too much. Ribs bruised, not broken. I release a shuddering laugh. Unbelievable. I’m okay. I’m—
I turn and barely stifle the shriek clawing its way up my throat.
Jake!
“Oh god,” I moan. “Jake—” My voice catches. Every question that pops into my head seems so stupid, so unnecessary. Are you okay? It’s obvious he’s not, not when he’s lying against the dashboard like that. Are you . . . dead? I moan again. Oh my god. I think he is. There’s blood trickling out of his goddamn ear, down his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. Somehow, it’s that small detail, the growing stain of blood on his white polo, that really hits home. He’s dead. I killed him.