“Excuse the mess.” Brianna indicates the single rinsed cereal bowl in the sink.
“These your parents?”
Brianna confirms that, yes, the athletic gray-haired people on a trail in an Oregon rain forest are her parents. She stands in the middle of the tile floor, wringing her hands, then, all at once, rushes at him and clamps her mouth on his.
Amadeo backs up in surprise, thumping his elbow against the doorknob, and the shock of pain makes him gasp, which she seems to take as encouragement. Brianna’s kisses are fierce and involve a lot of assertive tongue.
He cups her face and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but she bites her bottom lip and doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, almost with impatience, she takes his hand and leads him to the bed.
Brianna clutches herself as, grinning, Amadeo unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it onto the braided rug, kicks his feet out of his khakis. Shirtless, he’s as muscled as she’d imagined, his skin smooth and brown and taut, and his masculinity gives her a thrill—an illicit thrill, because as a feminist, shouldn’t she interrogate her attraction to this kind of masculine display? The tattoos are a surprise: the bloody red heart above his own heart, the line of thorns encircling his bicep. She finds them alarming and appealing in equal measure. Last, he removes his socks. Brianna herself is now wedged up against her bureau, arms clamped around her middle, nearly paralyzed with nervousness. She tries to slow her breath, but it’s bunched high and shallow in her chest. She has no idea what to do.
“Can I?” he says, and steps toward her, lifting her dress over her head, exposing her newest blue cotton underpants and her red satin bra.
Amadeo’s erection pushes against his boxers, angling toward her. He must see her doubtful expression, because he drops a hand to cover it, looking a little dashed.
This isn’t going well—self-consciousness is spreading between them like a contagion. But Amadeo saves the situation. “Hey, come here.” He wraps his arms around her and rubs her back vigorously as if she’s cold, and together they fall onto the bed. Brianna gives a short giggle of relief, then kicks herself under the covers.
It’s a Thursday evening, not quite a weekend, not quite a date night, but close enough that Brianna is considering this a date, which is, in fact, what she texted to her friend Sierra not one hour ago: oh gotta run, date tonight! She has, as yet, opted against answering Sierra’s insultingly incredulous reply: ???!?!?!?!?!!!??! Then, You’re not gonna tell him you’re a virgin, right???
The scene that ensues is without the gentle insistent urgency of a sex scene in a Merchant Ivory film. No soft candlelight or slow kisses or close-ups of smooth, indistinct body parts, no slow inevitable easing together, murmuring and rocking as one until the breathless culmination. Instead, a lot of effortful thrusting, their rhythms off until Brianna stops her bucking altogether. She shuts her eyes and tries to set her expression to one that looks simultaneously relaxed and engaged.
When he finishes, he drops onto her, his breath hot on her cheek, as if he’s fallen into a narcoleptic sleep. Brianna rubs his arms uncertainly, and finally he raises his head and rolls off her.
“How was it?” he asks. “For you?”
She’s glad for the thick blue twilight that has filled the cottage and that now shields her face. Words feel almost impossible to utter. “Great.” Through the window, the trees are black lace against darkening sky. After a while, because it seems strange that they aren’t talking, she says, “Did you know that heterosexual men are naturally more attracted to women who are ovulating?”
He sits up, switches on the bedside lamp with its yellow embroidered shade, and regards her with alarm. “I used protection. You’re fine.”
“I know that,” she says, blinking into the light.
He gestures to the limp, tied-off condom on the bedside table, next to her book and water glass. “I always use protection.”