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I look at the crowd of drunk, promiscuous teenagers that surrounds us and scoff. I spend five days a week running from this crap, and here I am being dragged to it on a Saturday night, when I should be lounging at home with a book. Patrick grasps my hand and leans closer to speak to me over the noise of the crowd.
"Let's find somewhere quieter," he practically yells. I nod and follow as he leads me through a swarm of future Playboy Bunnies that are dancing to the hip-hop song being blasted over the speakers. We go up the winding stairs until we come to the dimly lit second floor, which apparently serves as the location of the only bathroom in the house, a fact made evident by the line of three or four people outside the door, the very first person banging on the door with their fist and demanding that the occupant hurry.
Patrick knocks on one of the doors that align the hallway and opens it when there is no response. He closes it behind us as I observe the room we now occupy. Its obviously not regularly occupied by anyone that lives in the house, but instead it looks like a place for guests. It's tidy; the mint green floral bedspread is smoothly made, with the throw pillows arranged admirably, and the beige carpet looks as if it has never been walked on.
"Peace and quiet," I whisper into the silent room. He smiles at me and takes a seat on the bed, ruining the tidiness of the patterned bedspread. I turn on one of the bedside lamps, which dimly lights the small corner of the room, and then take a seat beside him. We're quiet for a moment before I turn to look at him as if to ask what we do now. Feeling my gaze, he looks over at me. Neither of us seem to feel the need to speak. The space between our lips begins to diminish and I can't wait for our lips to meet. My heart races and when our lips finally do meet our eyes simultaneously close so we can enjoy it. I feel his tracing the contour of my back. My hand is contently placed on his neck, which is so hot that for a moment I am afraid it will leave a burn on my fingers. I handle him like I handle my heart: quietly guarded. Even that doesn't keep me from being swept away like a stone lost in the waves.
The kiss is gentle, but captivating, a mixture of sweet Root Beer and salty ocean water. With a kiss like this we didn't need to find a quiet place, because the entire world, drunken noise and music and all, would have faded into the background anyway. Slowly, he guides me down to the lying position, the transition so natural that I don't even notice it has taken place.
Suddenly, I snap out of this sensual trance and open my eyes. The intensity of the moment has washed away; reality is slowly coming back into focus. His hand is at my waistline, working to blindly undo the button on my jeans. I turn my head to avoid is lips. He continues, moving down my neckline.
"Pat," I breathe slowly. No response. "Patrick."
"Mhmm."
"Pat, stop," I say, trying to sit up. He's on top of me now, so consumed in what he is doing that he barely notices I'm speaking. I feel the fabric separate as the button comes undone. "Patrick, stop!" I say more urgently. This time I seem to break the trance and he stops and looks at me questioningly, almost as if he is slighted by my interruption.
"What?"
"What do you mean 'what'?" I involuntarily snap at him, "What are you doing?"
He narrows his eyes at me as if I am a puzzle he is trying to solve, all the while looking increasingly aggravated, "What are you so pissed about?"
I can tell by the sudden softening of his expression that I look distraught. I quickly move from the bed.
"We should go now," I mutter. I stand up, re-buttoning my jeans quickly, and awkwardly walking to the door.
"Kat, wait," he says, standing up and walking to where I stand. I turn, my hand still on the knob, ready to open the door and let the noise of the party flood in. "I got carried away."
"I noticed," I retort. I avert my gaze for a moment and then look back up at him. His stare isn't accusing, like he thinks I'm overreacting or like I am wrongly putting blame on him for something; he seems eager to make me feel better, like he feels guilty. My anger slowly melts away and I am left with very little to say. I can't honestly say that I think just one of us is to blame since I didn't exactly lead him to believe that I was totally against the idea of going further tonight than we previously have.
"I thought we were on the same page with where it was going…."
I don't say it, but I know in my mind that we were both on the same page for a few short minutes, before I snapped out of my delusional mindset and realized the depth of the situation I was about to get into. I swipe a stray strand of hair behind my ear and set my gaze on him. "This just isn't the time or place," I say quietly.
I have a hard time falling asleep as I think about the foregoing evening. I'm starting to think that I'll never have this all figured out. Every time I think I do, something happens and the doubts flood back into my head. It scares me how Patrick can just make me lose all of my inhibitions and nearly do something that in the past has only brought regret. It scares me that I didn't catch myself right away.
The truth is, I have my life all planned out before me, and have since I was five. Graduate high school with honors, go on to an ivy league school, save the earth, be a notable women's rights activist--all in the plan. Have a boyfriend who doesn't even have a plan for the next week of his life, let alone the rest of it--not in the plan. His lack of planning for his life doesn't bother me nearly as much as the lack of short-term planning. He doesn't know what he wants; what if today I am what he wants and tomorrow I'm not? What would have happened if I had slept with him tonight? What would come of it? A simple "Have a nice life, baby," or would things have just stayed the same? I didn't want to take the risk.
It's like I know where he stands, but at the same time I get mixed signals that make me doubt that this could work. Neither of us have really told each other how we feel because it's just implied by the way we don't get disgusted by making out or holding each other's hand. I'm assuming he has the same motive behind his silence as I do; we don't want to put ourselves out there and end up hurt or disappointed, but in all reality, if neither one of us want to take that risk, then are we really dedicated enough to this relationship to make it work? But upon second thought, actions say more than words, and have I really done anything to convince him of my dedication? He's never worked for a relationship before, probably because he never saw a need to, so maybe just the fact that he has put forth so much effort toward getting to know me and making me want him should clue to me that he plans to stick with this for more than a week. After all, if he is going to work so hard for something then it better last long enough to be worth the time, right?
