The First Time: Ryan's First Time

Part 1

The first time Ryan had sex, none of the terms he knew seemed to fit: not make love, certainly not slept together, not bang, or hump, or even fuck.

He had no idea what to call it.

The moment he stepped into his house late that afternoon, Ryan knew it was a mistake. Empty beer bottles pockmarked the living room, and one of the couch cushions, wet and stained, jutted out of the seat, exposing a snarl of broken springs underneath. The window fan whined, and on television a talk show host prattled loud, humorless jokes.

Even over those noises, though, Ryan could hear the other sounds. Thick and guttural, they bled through his mother's bedroom door. It had been weeks since he had last heard them, but he knew exactly what they meant: Dawn had found a new man, and had brought him back here, to their house.

To their home.

To her bed.

Several sharp slaps sliced the fetid air, and a moan tangled in some sticky, satisfied laughter. Ryan froze. He clenched everything—teeth, muscles, eyes—against all the images that those sounds conjured and his skin began to prickle then chafe, abrasive and brittle, so easy to tear. For a moment he stood without breathing. If he waited, motionless, the shame and anger might abate, leaving behind nothing but arid resignation.

Really, he knew, he should be used to this by now.

Opening his eyes, Ryan scanned the chaos in the living room. Automatically, he picked up an overturned bottle. He set it upright on the coffee table, grimacing at the feel of the glass, clammy with condensation, beer foam, and sweat. Drying his palm on his jeans, he retreated one step toward the door. Then he stopped, debating.

The smart thing to do—the only thing, really—was to leave. But Trey was supposed to come by later, and Ryan had promised to be waiting outside with a bag of belongings that he'd forgotten. To get it, he'd have to pass his mother's bedroom, go into his own, rummage through the debris Trey had left in his wake the last time he'd stormed out of the Atwood house, and finally retrace his steps, furtive as a thief.

He could do that. He could move quietly, invisibly, disturbing no one.

Ryan had a lot of experience in keeping quiet.

Just as he toed aside a discarded undershirt, Dawn's voice leaked into the living room, making him pause again. "Fuck, that was good," she slurred. "Gimme a cigarette, huh, hon?"

Ryan heard the bed creak, the sound of bare feet smacking the floor, the nightstand drawer scratching open and shut, some muttered profanity, shuffling steps. Clues, all of them. He should have pieced them together, preparing himself, but somehow he didn't. So he had no time to escape or even avert his eyes when a man shouldered the bedroom door open and slouched out toward the kitchen, one hand scratching his naked groin.

The man lumbered to a stop at the sight of Ryan, piercing him with a poisonous glare. "What the fuck?" he snarled. "Who the hell are you?"

Ryan couldn't force words past the sour clot that formed in his throat. His gaze plummeted, fixing on his feet as they stumbled a half-step backwards.

The man advanced. Ryan could tell because he felt the floor move, heard an uneven board groan under the alien weight.

"I asked you a question, you little shit. What the hell are you doing in here?"

Ryan's eyes flashed, flaring light and then dark with silent invective.

"What are you, a fucking retarded or something? Answer me!"

"I live here," Ryan gritted at last.

"Like hell you do," the man retorted. "Dawn didn't say nothin' about no kid."

At that, Ryan jerked his chin up, his expression blazing. "I live here," he repeated. He enunciated precisely, emphasizing each word. "And you're in my way." Trying not to look below the man's mottled face, not to inhale the hot stench of smoke and booze and sex, Ryan started to sidle toward the hall.

The man's brows bristled together and he growled a warning. "Where the fuck you think you're goin', boy?" he demanded.

"To my room. In my house," Ryan replied. He ducked past the man, but as he did, he muttered a terse, bitter, "Asshole."

It was a mistake. Another one.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him around and slamming him hard against the wall. "What did you call me, you little shit?"

"Nothing." Ryan bit the word, spat out two distinct syllables like drops of acid.

"The hell you didn't." In one movement, the man cuffed Ryan's cheek, while his forearm locked like a vice across his throat. He leaned in, eyes narrowed to malevolent slits, breath putrid and suffocating.

Panicked, Ryan clawed at the sweaty wrist, elbow, fingers, anything he could reach. When the man didn't release him, he kicked out desperately, his sneakered foot striking bone.

"Goddman!" the man bellowed. "You fucking little--"

His furious yelp summoned Dawn to the bedroom door. Her eyes were bleary, blue smudges in her flushed face, and she clutched an unlit cigarette in one hand while the other plucked at the neckline of her dingy slip.

"Frankie?" she mumbled hazily, and then, as she started to focus, "Oh, God. Oh, hell. Ry? Frankie? Hon, let him go, okay? It's . . . he's my kid. C'mon, Frankie. Back off, you're hurting him."

"Your kid?" Frankie's arm dropped, but the unyielding weight of his body kept Ryan trapped against the wall. "Fucking hell. I thought he was some sonofabitch thief. You didn't tell me you had no kid, Dawnie."

Dawn bit her lip and shrugged, attempting an innocent, ill-fitting smile. One shredding strap slid off her shoulder. "Yeah, well," she stammered. "I guess maybe I didn't. C'mon, Frankie. Let him go now, huh?"

A garbled snort erupted from one side of Frankie's mouth. Skewering Dawn with a disgusted glare, he ripped himself off Ryan and stalked back into the bedroom.

Ryan leaned over, hands gripping his knees, sucking in shuddering breaths. His eyes clamped shut, trying to blot out memories of the man's naked flesh, the coarse coils of dark matted hair, the sneer that reduced Ryan to an intruder in his own home. When his mother touched him, one finger skimming his bruised cheek, Ryan flinched.

"Don't," he warned. "Just . . . don't."

It took two tries to push his body upright, but as soon as he could, Ryan ducked away from Dawn. Her hand, that had hovered above his shoulder, not quite daring contact, fell futilely to her side.

He didn't need her, Ryan told himself desperately. He could stand unsupported.

He would prove it.

Slowly, he limped into the kitchen. Dawn padded barefoot behind him. She watched Ryan moisten a washcloth, scrub it over his arms and his neck, every bit of exposed skin, before rewetting it and pressing it to his face.

"Shit, baby, I'm sorry," she murmured plaintively. "I just . . . I lost track of time, you know? Forgot you'd be home. You okay? Hey, you're okay, right, kiddo? You're not really hurt?"

Ryan wondered if Dawn even knew what that question meant.

Her thumb brushed under his chin and he jerked away. "Ry?" she wheedled. "Don't be like that, baby. Hey, Frankie knows you now. It won't happen again, I promise. Forgive me? Please?"

Ryan risked one desolate glance at his mother. His last hope had shattered long ago, but each time Dawn apologized, he dredged up a shard, searching her face for some new expression, some awareness, any suggestion that this time would be different.

It was never different.

Dawn looked the way she always did, wounded and sheepish, yet still sure of absolution.

Why not? Ryan thought. She always received it.

He crumpled the washcloth in his fist, his skin catching on the coarse fabric. "You didn't even tell the guy you had kids, Mom?" he asked tonelessly. "Trey and me—we don't even exist?"

Peering furtively over her shoulder, Dawn shuffled closer and rubbed Ryan's arm in apology. "Don't be mad, baby," she pleaded. "It's not like you think, honest. Guys like Frankie—they're not so crazy about an instant family, that's all. I woulda told him about you once he got to really like me."

"Yeah. Sure you would."

"I would," Dawn insisted. "Whaddya think? I'd keep you and Trey a secret forever?"

"That guy won't be here forever," Ryan mumbled.

As soon as he heard the words, he knew how they'd sound. Instinctively, he braced himself against the edge of the sink.

Dawn's lips drew back, baring her teeth, and her eyes glinted dagger-sharp and dangerous. "Hey!" she hissed, nails biting into Ryan's bicep. "What the hell are you sayin', Ry? I can't keep a man?" She took several ragged breaths as Ryan winced and pulled away. When she spoke again, her voice was ragged with hurt. "God, it's like you've turned into Trey or somethin'. I thought at least you loved me, baby. You always used to think I was beautiful."

Ryan hid himself behind his lashes. He was so tired of this. In the weeks since Trey had moved out, leaving them alone, Dawn seemed to tug at him constantly, her fingers pinching, plucking his arm, pleading for reassurance. Always wanting . . . something. And lately he had so little to give.

"You are," Ryan said. The words emerged rote, too insubstantial to support the weight of truth, so he tried again. "You are beautiful, Mom," he repeated more forcefully. "That guy? Shit, he's an ass. You don't really want him, do you?"

Dawn lifted a fistful of hair and let it drop, her mouth twisting unhappily. "I don't know. Maybe not him exactly," she conceded. "But, hell . . . somebody, Ry. And Frankie's here. He likes bein' with me—that's somethin' anyway. Sometimes you just have to settle for not bein' alone. You know?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Shit, no," Dawn sighed, "of course you don't. No way you could know that at your age, baby." Absently, she hugged Ryan close, one finger tracing slow patterns on his back. He caught his breath. When he was little, that was the way she always used to lull him to sleep. Sliding her hand under his t-shirt, Dawn would write his name and hers and Trey's and his father's over and over, invisibly, gently, until Ryan's eyes drifted shut, soothed by the tender contact, the certainty that his entire family was engraved on his skin.

Only now he realized: it had all been a lie. None of that false security withstood the light of day.

He tensed, his muscles tightening under Dawn's touch. "Don't, Mom," he whispered.

"Whaddya mean?" Dawn roused herself, squinting at Ryan blankly. "Don't what, baby?"

"Do that. Call me that." Ryan squirmed out of her grasp. His words collapsed in the air, hollow, almost inaudible. "I'm not a baby. Not anymore. Not for a long time now."

"No?" Dawn blinked. Her arms dropped limply to her sides and she inclined her head, staring at Ryan with bewildered loss. "Huh," she breathed finally. "No, I guess you're not."

Frankie's impatient voice bellowed from the bedroom. "Dawnie! You comin' back here or what?"

Instantly, Dawn's expression changed. "Yeah!" she yelled, licking her lips. "Be right there, hon!" Lowering her voice, she confided hungrily, "Listen, Ry, Frankie's waitin' for me. You think you could maybe . . .?"

"Disappear," Ryan concluded. He forced the word between his clenched teeth. "Yeah."

Dawn smiled, her mouth loose and wet, her eyes unfocused. She patted the air beside his shoulder, missing him completely. "That's my best boy. It won't be for long," she murmured vaguely. "You go--I don't know, have fun or somethin'."

The phrase mocked Ryan as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

Have fun or something.

How was he supposed to do that exactly? He had two dollars and thirteen cents in his pocket, decrepit sneakers that pinched his feet, and a bike with a broken back rim. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. All he could see in front of him was a scarred sidewalk, broken like every promise his mother had ever made.

It taunted Ryan, reminding him that even if he tried, he couldn't go far. In the end, he would just have to come back again.

At a loss, he turned toward Theresa's house. The sun blinded him for a moment, but then he found her, framed by her bedroom window. Her hair spilled forward in thick, careless waves as she glowered at something she seemed to be writing. While Ryan watched, she chewed her pencil, then threw it down in disgust and stuck out her tongue at her paper. His mouth curled around a silent laugh, imagining the colorful invectives that would follow.

Almost as if she could feel his amused gaze, Theresa looked up. Her scowl transformed itself into an embarrassed smile and she beckoned eagerly

Ryan ducked his head and shrugged.

Lifting her chin imperiously, Theresa furrowed her brows and nodded once. Her lips formed the single word, "Come."

In spite of himself, Ryan grinned, gratitude warming him, washing away the stain of revulsion that clung to his body everywhere Frankie had touched. He vaulted off the porch, covering the yard in four strides, and arrived at Theresa's door just as she did.

"Ryan!" she caroled, catching his hand. "Have you done the math homework yet? God, I hate algebra--" Abruptly, she sucked in her breath, her smile dissolving in a flare of anger and concern. "What is this? Who did this?" she demanded, touching his discolored cheek.

Ryan forced himself not to wince. "It's nothing," he claimed.

"It is not nothing," Theresa argued. Then she sighed, shaking her head. "But I know you won't tell me. Come inside, Ryan." Lacing her fingers through his, she backed through the door, pulling him along insistently. Her eyes glinted dark and demanding, daring him to defy her.

Just inside the threshold, Ryan stopped. He took a slow breath, filling his lungs with the heady aroma of Theresa's home: spices and welcome and cleanliness.

It always amazed him, the contrast between her house and his own. So many things were similar: thrift shop furniture, a large TV dominating the living room, the low ceilings and uneven floorboards. But something essential marked the place as distinct, something ineffable that Ryan sensed but couldn't explain.

Sometimes he thought wistfully that he could almost remember that atmosphere in his own home a long time ago. Back in Fresno, back when his family was intact, before it had broken and begun to decay.

Never in Chino, though.

Maybe, really, never at all.

Realizing that Theresa was swinging his hand impatiently, Ryan roused himself.

"Atiende!" she chided. "Come back, Ryan! You're disappearing again."

"No I'm not," he assured her. "I'm right here . . ."

"Good. Just stay here then. I'll get us something to eat."

Ryan nodded and glanced around, frowning when he realized that they weren't alone. "Hey, Turo," he murmured.

Theresa's brother shifted in the recliner. "Hey, Ry," he replied absently. The commercial ended and he peered up from the TV. "Shit, mi amigo," he chortled, pointing at Ryan's face. "Somebody got you but good. So what does the other guy look like?"

Ryan flushed with shamed memory. His fist pulsed convulsively, but he didn't answer.

From the kitchen, where she was arranging a plate of cookies, Theresa called, "The other guy is a stupid hijo de puta. If you want to know what one looks like, mi hermano, you can borrow my mirror. Just try not to break it with your ugly-ass face."

Arturo rolled his eyes. "Watch out, Ry," he advised in a loud whisper. "She's been evil all day. I think it must be that time of month. You know." He smirked meaningfully, but Ryan just stared at the floor. He didn't respond.

"Turo! Cállate!" Theresa halted in the doorway, her face flaming. "It is not!" Glaring fiercely at her brother, she slipped an arm around Ryan's rigid waist and steered him into her bedroom.

"Keep the damn door open!" Arturo shouted.

"When you keep your stupid mouth closed, maybe!" Theresa retorted. She slammed her door viciously and spun around, hoping to catch Ryan in a smile, but he had dropped into a chair. He was breathing hard, his face shuttered, eyes blank.

Quietly, Theresa set the tray she was carrying on the dresser and leaned back against it. "Let's see," she mused. "Trey's not around, so . . . it must be your mama?" Her voice throbbed with concern.

The room filled with Ryan's silence.

"She's not worth this," Theresa whispered sorrowfully.

Ryan's eyes flashed then, lightening in an overcast sky, distant and dangerous.

"Ah, no. I don't mean it like that, Ryan. I don't mean your mama is worthless. I mean . . . she shouldn't make you feel this way." Crawling onto her bed, Theresa nestled against the pillows and patted the dusky pink quilt. Her fingers curled in invitation and she tilted her head, miming a wordless, apologetic plea.

Ryan hesitated. Then, wearily, he sank down next to her. Underneath him, the springs gave a rusty sigh, and Ryan reflexively echoed the sound. He pushed his back flat against the headboard and hugged his knees to his chest. "She never even told the guy that she had any kids," he muttered. "He thought I was breaking in to rob them or something."

"Oh," Theresa breathed. Comprehension lengthened the word and gave it texture. "And that's why . . .?" Her thumb skimmed his cheekbone just beneath the vivid bruise.

Ryan nodded. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Pretty much. You know, Theresa, sometimes I think . . . Trey and me, we just get in her way. All she wants to do is . . . Never mind. My mom would be happier without us around, that's all." His lips quirked bitterly. "Well, shit, Trey isn't really around anymore, is he?"

Theresa crooned something incoherent but vaguely comforting. She scooted closer, resting her hand on Ryan's leg, peering up so that he had to meet her eyes. "Your mama, Ryan? I promise, she does love you. She's just unhappy. But that's not your fault."

There was a tiny hole in one knee of Ryan's jeans. He stabbed his thumb into it, pinching a few loose denim threads between his nails. "I know," he claimed.

"Do you?"

Swallowing, Ryan turned his face away.

"Do you?" Theresa repeated. She pressed a palm against his uninjured cheek, one finger tracing the line of his brow.

Ryan ducked his head, shrugging. The bed shifted with his change of weight. It rolled him against Theresa, throwing them off balance so that his mouth parted and grazed the inside of her wrist. Instantly, both of their bodies stiffened, surprised into unexpected intimacy.

For a breathless moment they froze, suspended by sensations: warmth, and confusion, and fearful yearning. Then simultaneously, they jerked apart. Ryan's skin burned, and from the way Theresa flinched, he thought that hers must feel scalded too. He watched guiltily as she clambered off the bed and busied herself at the dresser, rearranging the contents the tray.

She began to prattle, the words rushed and stumbling. "These are just plain old butter cookies, Ryan, because that stupid, greedy Turo ate all the chocolate chips. Well, not all. When I took out the bag, there were just four little-bitty ones left in the bottom. Why would anybody put back a bag with only four chocolate chips? Honestly, my brother makes me so crazy sometimes."

Theresa kept her back to Ryan, but he could still see her in the mirror. She seemed to be hiding, face averted, gaze lowered so that her lashes shadowed her cheeks. Her fingers fluttered around the cookies, nudging them closer and then prodding them further apart. Ryan was used to a Theresa who defied the world. This girl was a stranger. Her body shrank, shy and uncertain, and her mouth moved nervously when she finished speaking, pink tongue darting out, then retreating.

Ryan realized with alarm that his own was doing the same thing.

He clamped his lips closed and hugged his knees tighter, drying his suddenly clammy palms on his jeans. When he peeked again at Theresa, he noticed for the first time that her thin, lacy t-shirt didn't quite meet her shorts. Above its waistband, a line of skin flirted, creamy and exposed, whenever she reached forward.

Ryan forced his eyes away. He wanted to roll off the other side of the bed, to duck out of sight, pretending to tie his shoelace or pick something off the floor, anything so that he could crouch down until the throbbing between his legs subsided.

Except.

He couldn't move.

He could scarcely breathe.

The little air Ryan found felt sharp, shards of glass that lodged in his throat and cut his voice into jagged shreds.

"Theresa . . ." he began. And stopped. Her name tasted foreign on his tongue. He wondered if he was even pronouncing it right, wondered what he wanted to say anyway.

Bracing himself, Ryan prepared to try again when the moment shattered.

Ryan's First Time Part 2

"Hey! Theresa! Ryan!" Arturo yelled. He shoved the door open and slouched against the frame, studying them with slit-eyed suspicion. "I'm goin' out. Mama will be home in about an hour. And you two--" his finger sliced the air between them, "better not do anything while you're here alone. Understand what I'm sayin'?"

Theresa whirled around. With relief, Ryan realized that he recognized her again. "What?" she retorted. "You mean anything like talk? Or breathe? God, Turo, do you practice being an ass or does it just come naturally? Wait—I already know the answer to that question."

She glared at her brother, and he scowled in response. Stalking over to the dresser, he grabbed two of the cookies. "Remember," he warned, looming over Ryan, "I know you Atwoods. Trey—shit, I've seen him in action."

Ryan's lips tightened. "I'm not . . ." he began.

"Yeah, maybe not yet, baby brother," Turo scoffed. "But don't even try to pretend you're different where it counts. You just keep your hands—and everything else—to yourself."

Stuffing both cookies in his mouth, Arturo pressed his index fingers together and aimed them at Ryan's groin.

"Estúpido cochino! I hope you choke on those cookies! Out! ¡Vete! Right now!" With a hiss of disgust, Theresa flattened her palms against her brother's back and began to push him out of the room.

"Eh . . . Don't think you're so much, muchachita. I'm goin' because I feel like goin' that's all," Arturo protested. He looked over his shoulder and grinned wickedly. "And you behave too. You think I haven't noticed how you act when that one comes over?" Batting his eyes, he simpered coyly, "Oooh, come in, Ry-an."

Theresa unleashed a furious torrent of Spanish, giving Arturo a final shove. Only after the front door slammed behind him did she pivot slowly, and even then she avoided meeting Ryan's eyes.

"Just, please, don't listen to Turo. Like ever," she murmured, "I'm sorry, Ryan. He's just . . ."

"Teasing, I know."

"Not just that. I mean . . . the rest of it." Blushing, Theresa bit her lip. She turned to her desk, straightened a stack of notebooks, picked up a plush toy rabbit, patted its nose and set it down, before darting a glance at Ryan. Her eyes glistened, liquid and lost.

"Hey, no, Theresa, it's okay. Turo's your big brother," Ryan said softly. "He wants to protect you. I get that."

"But he doesn't have to protect me," Theresa demurred. She flushed again, her voice faint and tremulous. "Not from you anyway."

"Why don't we just . . . pretend Turo was never here?" Ryan suggested.

Theresa's face brightened with relief. "Turo? Turo who?" she countered innocently. With an impish giggle, she retrieved the tray from the dresser, balancing it between the two of them as she sat back down on the bed.

Ryan glanced at the cookies. His lips parted, then curved into a small lopsided smile. Theresa had fanned blue and white napkins, cloth ones, around the perimeter of the plate, alternating the colors and aligning their edges as precisely as if she were serving royalty.

Not just the boy next-door, with his constant bruises, torn jeans, and haunted eyes.

But Ryan. A person she valued. Who deserved to be treated as someone special.

"This looks . . ." Pausing, Ryan scanned his mental dictionary, but he couldn't find the exact word he wanted. "Great," he concluded futilely.

"You think so?" Theresa stroked the rim of the dish. Her fingernails, Ryan noticed, were the same fragile, translucent pink as the glass. "They're just cookies."

"No, really. It's great," Ryan repeated. "Thanks." Bobbing his head gratefully, he reached for a cookie just as Theresa did, and their knuckles bumped in the air above the tray. "Sorry," he stammered. "You first--"

Theresa scooted back, snatching her hand away. "No, you. I was getting it for you anyway."

Ryan took a deep breath. "Okay," he agreed. Spreading a blue napkin over his knees, he raised the cookie to his mouth. He could feel Theresa watching, her gaze dark and intent, as he bit down and chewed carefully. A few buttery crumbs clung to his lips and he slid the tip of his tongue around, trying to collect them all.

Theresa's eyes widened and she inhaled sharply. "Milk!" she exclaimed, scrambling off the bed.

"Mmm . . ." Ryan swallowed, confused. "What?"

"We need milk. I'll be right back."

"Theresa, wait. We don't have to have milk."

She paused, clinging to the doorframe, as if she needed something to hold her erect. "Yes, we do," she insisted, and spun out of sight before Ryan could protest again.

He counted the seconds that she was gone: eighty-two of them, time enough for him to finish his cookie and select another one, centering it on a white napkin that he placed neatly next to the pillow.

"Chocolate milk!" Theresa caroled, reappearing with a glass in each hand. "At least Turo didn't find the cocoa too . . ." She stopped at the sight of the bed and her voice softened. "Ryan? Is that for me?"

Ryan nodded, suddenly self-conscious.

"Oh. Thank you." Setting her own glass on the nightstand, Theresa handed the other one to Ryan. Her knees dipped in a near-curtsey, and she eased onto the edge of the mattress.

"You'll fall," Ryan warned. "Here." He picked up the napkin-wrapped cookie, making room next to him.

Demurely, gracefully, Theresa slid closer. She stretched out her legs, crossing her bare feet at the ankles. Staring at her own lap, she took a prim bite of her cookie, then a sip of her milk as Ryan drained his own glass.

They had done the same thing so often before.

Sitting in companionable silence, sharing snacks on Theresa's bed in the sultry early evening heat: it had almost become a private ritual. But this time, for some reason, it all felt unfamiliar and freighted with expectation.

At least to Ryan.

Fading sunlight simmered on every surface. It burnished the furniture, the floors, Theresa's skin, even Ryan's own, with a rich, golden glow. Ryan's clothes chafed, tight and heavy, as though he had outgrown them, and the quiet, usually so comfortable, churned with conflicting echoes:

Dawn and Frankie moaning behind her door.

Theresa's laughter.

Trey's tales about his own sexual prowess

The whisper of fabric against skin as she moved.

His raw taunts about Ryan becoming a man.

Theresa's gossamer sighs.

Arturo's warnings.

The lilt of her voice whenever she said Ryan's name.

Ryan shifted uneasily. He wanted real sound to drown out remembered ones, but the radio was out of reach, and he couldn't risk moving. Desperately, he searched for something, scanning the room for inspiration. To his alarm, danger lurked everywhere. Ryan's gaze ricocheted off all the hazards, the rumpled coverlet, the simple crucifix on the wall, Theresa's glistening thighs, her rosy breasts, rising and falling under scallops of eyelet lace.

With no other recourse, he finally focused on Theresa's face, just as she drank the last of her milk and replaced her on the nightstand. Ryan couldn't help it. Relief and a dizzy sense of normalcy made him laugh out loud.

Theresa's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is so funny, Ryan Atwood?" she demanded.

"You. You have a moustache."

"I don't!" Theresa protested, scrubbing her mouth. "Mi abuela, now she has a moustache. Mine is chocolate milk, and you know it, Ryan. Besides, you have one too."

"Yeah?" Ryan licked his upper lip. "Maybe I did. But now I don't," he declared with satisfaction.

Theresa giggled. "Yes, you still do. Half of one anyway. Right . . . there." Delicately she traced a line above the right side of Ryan's mouth, holding up her stained finger as evidence. "See? You are so much messier than I am."

"Really? We'll see about that." Grinning wickedly, Ryan lifted his glass, dunked her finger in it and used it to draw a new mustache on Theresa's face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with delighted fury. "That is not fair, Ryan Atwood. You get that off me right now, every bit of it." She grabbed for her napkin, but before she could reach it, before he quite knew what he was doing himself, Ryan caught her wrists, clasping her hands between his.

"Okay," he whispered. "Since you asked. . ." Slowly, deliberately, he licked all traces of the chocolate away, simultaneously lifting Theresa's hands to his mouth.

She gasped, and in that instant everything changed. Two of Theresa's fingers parted Ryan's lips, then his teeth, and he sucked them inside, lapping them with his tongue. Her other hand slipped off his knee, skidding between his thighs. It landed at the base of his zipper, slowly curving to cup the growing bulge underneath.

"Theresa," Ryan moaned. "Don't. I mean . . . Please, it makes me want . . ."

"I know," she whispered. Wonder and fear thickened her voice. "Me too."

Ryan tensed, holding very still, resisting his body's impulse to push, to insist. "You're sure? Because if you're not . . . we don't have to . . . unless you're sure."

Theresa nodded. She leaned close, vanilla-scented hair veiling them both. "I'm sure," she murmured. "Only . . ." Her head dipped, half-smothering the next words against his chest. "It's my first time, Ryan."

Ryan threaded his fingers through her curls and shifted slightly, so that his hips lifted as his other hand slipped under Theresa's t-shirt. "Mine too," he admitted, the two words rolling together. Rubbing his thumb over one nipple, he coaxed it to erection.

"Really?" Theresa shuddered, catching her breath, as Ryan traced swirling patterns over to her other breast. "You haven't . . . I mean, with Mica? Or anybody?"

"Not. This. So . . . you'll tell me if anything . . . you know, hurts?"

Theresa nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Ryan echoed. "Okayokayokayokayokay." He half-chanted the words, a litany that was both question and promise. "So can I . . .?" Grasping the hem of her t-shirt, he waited until Theresa nodded again, then slid it over her head and dropped it to the floor. His fingers shook. They felt large and clumsy, and it took him two tries to unhook the thin lace of her bra.

Theresa made a small, mewing sound. Her head fell back as Ryan buried his face against her breasts. He licked first one, then the other, before nipping at them gently and sliding his mouth down the fragile hollow between her ribs.

All at once, everything accelerated, surging in a rush of heat and moisture and urgent flesh. Ryan fumbled with the button on Theresa's waistband, finally tearing it off in his haste to push her shorts down. Instinctively Theresa shimmied them loose and kicked them away, bracing herself against the inside of Ryan's thighs. His knees opened, making room for her to crouch between them. Feral grunts formed in the back of his throat as Theresa pulled off his t-shirt, then reached down to yank impatiently at his zipper. He pushed onto his elbows, about to roll over so he could straddle her, when his erection burst free. Swallowing convulsively, eyes burning like blue-black flames, Theresa reached out. As though approaching an animal that might be wild, she touched the head with one wary finger. Then, slowly, she began to stroke, circling from the tip to the base and back up again.

Something flickered in Ryan's mind then, some stinging, insistent awareness that made him stiffen, wrenching himself away.

"Stop. Theresa! Oh shit," he groaned. "Shit, we can't . . . I don't have . . ."

"What?" Theresa rocked back on her heels, staring at Ryan incredulously. "Wasn't that what you wanted? I thought . . ."

"No, I do . . . it's just . . . I didn't expect . . ." Ryan's fist slammed into the mattress. "Fuck! We shouldn't do this without . . ."

"Oh!" Theresa's eyes widened with stunned comprehension. "Wait, Ryan," she ordered breathlessly. "I'll be right back."

She vanished in a flash of milky skin and tangled curls.

Sixty-two seconds. Ryan counted, cursing silently, hands fisted around folds of the coverlet, until Theresa reappeared, holding a silver packet.

"Turo doesn't even bother to hide them," she explained shyly. "Do you want me to . . .? I mean, should I . . .?"

Ryan shook his head. "I'll do it." His voice grated with embarrassment, gratitude and need as he tore the edge of the package and rolled the condom—ribbed and bright blue—down his length.

"Maybe you should . . ." Theresa hooked a finger through one of Ryan's belt loops and tugged lightly.

"Yeah?"

She bobbed her head, licking her lips. "Please? I will too . . ."

Ryan sucked in his breath. He slipped off the bed, automatically shucking his jeans and shorts as Theresa stepped out of her panties. For a moment, they just stood looking at each other. Then, as though a switch had been thrown, it began again, the tempest of movement, limbs tangling, hands grasping, importunate mouths finding each other.

Ryan wasn't sure how they got back on the bed, but suddenly Theresa was beneath him. Her arms were wrapped tight around his neck, her legs open, and she was sobbing out choked little sounds, like begging, like thanks. Everything was wet—the fingers he dipped between her thighs, his shoulders and throat, where her tongue lapped voraciously, the tip of his cock, already leaking. He positioned himself, trying to move carefully, slowly, one small lucid corner of his mind cautioning him: "Theresa. Theresa."

A sound ripped from her mouth, like parchment tearing, as he entered her, and Ryan felt her flinch, then clutch him desperately.

"Don't," she moaned, and his stomach clenched.

"Don't?"

"Don't stop," Theresa whimpered. "Please."

"Okay? You're sure?"

Theresa's nails raked his back, pulling him into her. "I'm sure," she gasped.

"Okay." Ryan surrendered himself to his own body, the last of his control lost. "Okayokayokayokayokay." He panted with each thrust until the words garbled together, building to a crescendo in one sharp, inarticulate cry. Theresa arched up to meet him, fingers gouging his shoulders, burying a scream against his throat.

With a shuddering breath, Ryan collapsed, rolling to his side so he wouldn't crush Theresa under his weight. He couldn't find his voice for a minute, and when he finally did, it was husky and midnight-dark, belonging to someone he didn't know.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Theresa closed her eyes, opened them, smiled tremulously and nodded, just once.

"Wait," Ryan said. "I'll be right back." He turned aside, removed the condom, tied it, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he carried a damp washcloth and a towel. Theresa scooted up to a sitting position, holding out her hands, but Ryan shook his head, and began to sponge her clean, throat, arms, breast, stomach . . .

Theresa squirmed, giggling, and Ryan laughed with her. He stopped abruptly when he reached Theresa's thighs. Recoiling, he stared at the coverlet, rumpled, and ruined, and accusing him with its mottled red stain.

"There's blood," he said tightly. The words sounded strangled, and Ryan twisted the cloth he held into an unyielding knot.

Theresa stroked his arm. "I know," she whispered, sliding to her knees on the bed. "It's all right, Ryan."

"I forgot." Ryan swallowed hard, gritting his teeth. "I'm sorry . . . I forgot it would be like this for you. God, Theresa, you should have told me to stop . . ."

"I didn't want you to stop." Cupping Ryan's face, Theresa forced him to look at her.

He blinked, wondering at her expression—amused and wise and shy all at once. "Then I didn't . . . it didn't hurt?

"It hurt," Theresa admitted. His eyes darkened with guilt and she added hastily, "But not the whole time." Burrowing closer, she kissed a tender line down Ryan's throat to his chest. "Some of it felt . . . good."

"Yeah?"

Theresa pulled away just enough to nod and smile. "Really good."

Ryan slid back on the bed and pulled Theresa onto his lap, angling them so that the bloodstain wasn't in view. It reminded him of things that shouldn't be in this room, in this moment, with them. Shame and violence and despair—things he was determined would never touch Theresa. Not if he could stop them.

"So how good exactly?" he prompted, nuzzling her neck. "Really, really good?"

Theresa sighed happily. "Really, really, really good," she murmured.

"Good enough to maybe do it again sometime?"

"Definitely."

Kissing Theresa's shoulder, Ryan eased them both back against the headboard. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, feeling the air begin to cool around them.

"So . . . this changes everything, doesn't it?" Despite his attempt to prevent it, a note of farewell seeped into Ryan's voice.

Theresa peered up at him, curious and concerned. "I don't know," she replied thoughtfully. "Only if we let it, I think. We're still friends. Forever friends. But Ryan . . . I'm glad it was you."

Ryan traced the line of her cheek down to her chin, lifted her mouth for his kiss. "I'm glad it was you too."

Reality was insinuating itself into his consciousness. He couldn't block any of it out: the forgotten throbbing of his damaged cheek, the bang of his own front door as it slammed, Frankie's voice yelling, "I said I'd call you tomorrow, Dawnie! Fuck, whaddya want from me, bitch?", the clock, ticking off seconds until Theresa's mother returned, until Ryan had to go home, until Trey came to gather his belongings and dissect both their lives, until . . . until . . .

Inevitably, he would have to face it again, the hopeless predictability of his life. But, Ryan thought, this was real too: Theresa cuddled, warm and content in his arms.

He would hold her and this moment as long as he could.