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  The yelling person is an angry looking frat guy, three windows down. His bare and very pale chest glints in the moonlight. Other lights snap on along our floor and below. Somewhere, I think I hear a coyote, baying its dissent. But then I look down.

  Brendan has planted himself firmly below my dorm room, with a wireless amp and his electric guitar. It's hard to make out much else in the darkness, but I hear a wistful quality in his voice. When the song appears to end, he starts up again. It's impossible, but for a second it feels like we make eye contact. I find his eyes in the darkness, just the way he found mine in a big crowd that first night at the Ruby Room.

  You recognize love when you've never seen it before. And it's like that mumbo-jumbo suddenly makes sense. Who did I find in the darkness? Brendan. Who did I want, and who was I waiting for? Brendan. The knowledge is so deep and pure that it feels like something's clicked into place. I hear his voice reach up to me once more, and then I scream his name like a giddy school girl, or Kate Winslet in Titanic: “Brendan! Wait!”

  I briefly consider leaping out the window into his arms, before common sense—in the form of Tara— intervenes. “Take the elevator, Avery,” she says. Her eyes seem to share my magic, though. We're both on this crazy plane.

  My slippers slap against the tile of our floor, likely rousing whoever wasn't already roused by the serenade. As I wait for the elevator, heart pounding—fuck it, it's taking too long, I'll go for the stairs—a memory slips across my conscious. That morning we met on the playground. The twin brother's shaggy hair and his Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt. He'd made me laugh so hard with that stupid “if-your-hand-is-bigger-than-your-face” joke that I remember falling into the wood chips right then and there, rolling into their fold.

  “So you're the product of a broken home, too, huh?” Brendan had asked me, as his brother pivoted in another direction, in search of a soccer ball.

  “Yep. It blows.”

  “It can blow,” he'd said, the little wise guy. Even then, with the hair in his eyes. “But you know what? I can already tell you're interesting. And even shitty things don't keep truly interesting people down.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When I reach him, panting, he sets down his guitar on the grass. And it's a little bit awkward. Face to face, I'm forced to remember the reason we parted ways. Or more specifically—the leggy, buxom brunette in his room. I want to communicate my ecstasy at realizing I'm in love at the same time that I express disdain for that wreck of an evening. How to be an empowered woman who's also crazy smitten? While I'm thinking of the coolest way to pull this off, my mouth blurts out:

  “Who was she?”

  Brendan steps toward me, bringing with him that fiery man-smell. Tobacco and whiskey and something sweet and musky, mingling with the jasmine and honeysuckle that grows around our dorm entrance. It takes all my will not to flop into his arms when he comes close enough to touch me. I have missed him, I realize, so fucking much.

  “My ex-girlfriend.”

  “Ex?”

  “Yes. It wasn't as clean a break as I would have liked. When you started dating my brother, I entertained the possibility of a reconciliation.”

  “That's an elaborate way to say you were horny.”

  “Hey!” Brendan says, his eyes briefly serious. “Do you have any idea how hard that was to watch? The anointed Chase Kelly, swooping in and getting exactly what we both wanted, yet again? I don't know that you have the whole moral high ground here.”

  I bow my head, briefly ashamed. So much for Tara's rigmarole about being a sex-positive woman of the world. Is there a distinct part of me that's been thriving on the drama of being caught between brothers? Haven't I been a little evil, too, jerking these two boys around?

  “I'm really sorry,” I say, directing my words to his chest for fear of what his eyes will tell me. “I didn't mean for any of this to happen, Brendan.”

  “I didn't, either. And I'm sorry I haven't called. For a second there it seemed like a sign that you walked in on me while I was trying to leave Jenn a second time. And even if my brother bugs me, I didn't exactly want to steal his girlfriend.” He takes a step closer. “Well. Until you showed up tonight, that is.”

  “Oh?”

  “Honestly, Avery? The second I found out you were coming to SDU, I broke it off with Jenn. Before I even saw you. And you know why?”

  I just shake my head. Above us, the sleepless jock slams his windows shut, pleased with the halt in the noise.

  “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

  “You've been coy enough, Mr. Kelly. Let's have it all out on the table.”

  He smiles, with half of his perfect mouth. I drink in the pillars of his scooped shoulders. The grimy V-neck shirt, emblazoned with “The Velvet Underground” logo. The boy in front of me is not perfect, but he might just be perfect for me.

  “Because I have never gotten over you, doofus. Not since we were little kids.”

  There's the sound of clapping above our heads, and with a giggle, I look up and see Tara. Beside her is the outline of RA Jeff, naked on top but for a fedora. Seems like love really is everywhere, tonight.

  “It's you, Brendan!” I squeal, finally collapsing against him. “It's always been you. It just took me longer to see it.”

  We stumble into his bedroom, laughing. The guitar thunks against the edge of something hard, emitting a loud twang. Someone—Brendan’s roommate, I gather—rises from the adjacent twin bed. With a loud grunt of displeasure, roomie grabs a pillow and heads out into the hallway. “Sorry, Paul!” Brendan breathes at his retreat, half-heartedly, but as soon as the door clicks shut and leaves us in cozy silence, we start to chortle again.

  Then, Brendan takes my hand in his, beginning to run his fingers over my palm. He bends down to me, and our foreheads touch. I press my face upward, and am rewarded with a soft, sweet kiss that sends little electric shivers straight to my toes.

  “Come to bed,” he pleads, flicking a long blonde tendril away from his eyes. I nod, and allow myself to be led.

  Brendan sits down on the mattress and spreads his legs—an invitation. I slide into the space he's made for me, and allow him to gather me in his strong arms. His shaggy head is level with my heaving breasts. He kisses the swell of my cleavage through the thin fabric of my night-shirt, and I can feel my nipples perking. I arch my back, to provide him a better vantage.

  His hands rove around my back like caterpillars, and I find myself beginning to press against him rhythmically, sliding my hips back and forth against his taut pecs. Brendan tilts his head up and brings his hands to meet at the base of my neck, drawing me down. He kisses me deeply, with his eyes open. It's unsettling for a moment, but as his tongue presses past my teeth, beginning to make slow but assertive circles, I decide I like it. I like being so close to him, feeling so connected.

  We kiss softly for a while longer, rearranging our heads this way and that so the moonlight sliding in from between the slats of gritty blinds catches us at fresh angles. Brendan digs his fingers into my back, beginning to massage my musculature. I sigh with pleasure at the touch.

  “I want to taste you,” he says, after whole days might have passed, and his voice is strong and serious, reminiscent of the way he sings. Before I can so much as nod my assent, Brendan eases me down to sitting beside him, and brings his own body to the floor with a heavy whump. He inches his knees towards me, arriving level at my hips. With one strong, flattened palm, he presses into my chest until I'm flush against his bedspread. Despite being the country of a twenty-one year old boy, his sheets and pillows are surprisingly soft. Some kind of jersey. I let the fabric embrace me.

  Brendan nudges my own knocking knees aside with a jerk of his chin against my quivering thigh; his stubble grazes my sensitive flesh, causes me to spasm with a little premature delight. Then, he begins to kiss me. Softly and slowly, he plants a trail from the inside of one knee all the way up to the damp hollow of my pussy. With expert hands, he slides the pap
er-thin fabric of my pajama pants down from my ankles. The pants pool on the floor by my ankles, serving me up to the room.

  Brendan begins to suck on me, teeth gently rubbing against the crook of my pubis. I widen my stance, feel myself begin to sink into this pleasure. It's a dizzying thing. I feel carried to the ceiling. He places his hands squarely on the tops of my thighs, beginning to knead me in concert with his kisses. This is the first time I cry out.

  “Is it good, baby?” he murmurs into my skin, once again causing me to spasm with a tickle. I can only muster a laugh that's one part gasp. Sensing my encouragement, Brendan shifts his full lips by a few centimeters, and drags my soaked panties into his mouth. The sense of his tongue so close to my clit sends me up; I have to press my fingers hard against the sheets and bite my lower lip.

  “I want you to scream, if it feels good,” Brendan commands, intuiting my reserve. He plunges back into me, sucking at drenched cloth—and as his fingers still work my legs, his strong tongue finds purchase below the elastic. Our naked flesh touching does the trick once more, and this time, I do scream. I thrust my head backwards into the pillows, raising my hip bones to him so he can take more of me inside. In ready response, Brendan begins to lap at my puckered mound, driving his tongue back and forth in tiny circles. His fingers leave my thighs and rise to my panty-line. With more aggression than before, he rips my flimsy protection aside, easing me out of the shorts until I'm bare and utterly supine before him. I become aware of the room's chill on my naked pussy, but not for long. Brendan brings his fingers to my wet heat, and slowly pushes two inside my contracting center.

  “Brendan,” I cry to the ceiling. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God. Yes.” When I glance down at his face, I see my lover's eyes screwed up with concentration and what I take to be delight. He continues to plumb me, work me, fingers now driving up against my G-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth at an improbably faster pace. Brendan brings his other hand up from its place on my thigh, and grabs my breast through my frail t-shirt. With minimal rooting, he finds my pert nipple and squeezes my tip lightly.

  “I'm gonna come,” I hear myself pant—though words and reason are long gone to sensation. I hear ringing in my ears again, as I had at the beach just yesterday. My brow-line is drenched with sweat. My sex is awake to Brendan's body in a way it's never been to anyone's before. My breasts feel swollen, my nipples are hard as rocks. I'm already aware of how slippery my nethers have become—and they're even wetter, somehow, than they were the other day at the beach. Or in any of my daydreams. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, I am going to come...

  I tell Brendan as much, and right as I'm rising to orgasm like the crest of a wave, he withdraws, grinning. My body squirms at his vacancy. I writhe against the pillows, whimpering, wanting him bad.

  “Wait,” Brendan murmurs, neatly wiping his mouth of me. With deliberate motion, he brings his hands to his jeans, unbuttons himself slowly. I'm humping air, still dizzy with want. After much fanfare, he drops his pants and eases his erect manhood out for me. Once more I'm confronted with Brendan's perfect penis: he is straight and rigid as a post, pink perfection rising from a small thatch of golden hair. He grins at me in question, and I nod like a maniac. Then, Brendan mounts me. Brendan slides inside.

  I sigh with pleasure as he eases toward my top, filling me in a way that makes me feel as if I were empty before. I sense myself curving around him, holding him fast—and when I look up, I see that his eyes are filled with emotion. We hover like this for a moment, before he regains composure and pulls nearly all the way out. But no sooner is he almost away from me than I crave him again.

  Brendan pushes back and forth inside me, increasing his pace and rhythm. He begins to wrap his body around me, as if seeking to infuse our two vessels. He drags one hand up to my soaked hair, raking his fingers across my scalp. In response, I dig my nails onto his back. After a mere minute or two's thrusting, I find myself hovering at the tip again.

  “I'm gonna come,” I moan again, raising myself slightly so I can feel his thrusts against my G-spot. I groan. I reach a hand backward until I find the wall, where I press my sweaty palm against the cool concrete.

  “Not yet!” Brendan laughs. He pulls out again, then very quickly flips me over, so I'm lying face-down. With some surprisingly welcome roughness, he raises my hips up toward his, indicating that he wants me on all fours. I've never tried this position before. I feel my heart begin to rattle against the cage of my chest—half with desire, half with nerves.

  But Brendan's entrance from behind is slow and cautious. He places one palm on the swell of my ass, then drives deep. I'm shocked at the new ceiling of pleasure we've discovered—to the extent that I cry out. I can feel more of him, he can sink deeper...in instinctual response, I push my rear against his cock, letting him know I want it this way. Brendan reaches back up to my hair and entwines his fingers in my damp blonde tresses, drawing me back towards him. He starts to ram me harder and faster.

  “Yes,” he says, through gritted teeth. Glancing over my shoulder, I'm afforded the pleasing view of his glistening naked chest. I don't remember when he took off his shirt, but I weaken even further at the sight of his engaged six pack, the muscles involved in penetrating me. His face is twisted up with something like hunger. There is the pushing, the grunts of effort, the wet slapping sound he makes against my skin…

  “I'm gonna come, Avery,” he says. I stumble for a moment at his use of my name in such a crucial moment. Glancing over my shoulder again, our eyes meet. My spine arches in tandem with his eyebrows, and suddenly I am filled with a hot liquid. Brendan collapses over me, breathing heavily, clammy hands fumbling for my swinging breasts. He stays inside of me, remaining erect. I feel nearly as relieved and sated by our union.

  He breathes sweetly against my ear, kisses gently along the nape of my neck. The expanse of my skin feels soft and tender. Our flesh cools together. Moonlight stripes us.

  “And now it's your turn,” Brendan says darkly, laughing against the nape of my neck. His breath tickles me again, and my spine curves away from him. Reading this as invitation, Brendan presses into me again. I'm shocked he's still hard, but at the same time, I hear myself sigh with relief.

  “Yes,” I say, ordering him. “Fuck me. Fuck me until I come. Hard.” Who is this woman, with her dirty-talk? I don't pause to consider, but rather reach a hand around to grip one of Brendan's taut buttocks. His breath comes faster at my aggression, and he picks up the pace again, driving harder and faster. He brings one hand from my breast down to my clit, and begins to rub me gently as he drives inside.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice taking on the qualities of a scream. “Yes!” He pushes and pushes, rams me hard. I swell as I had before, in his mouth. I recall us on the beach, sweaty and sandy and lusty, lacking abandon.

  Our rhythm has become a blur of movement and sound. It sounds absurd, but there are seconds where I cannot say for sure where he ends and I begin. I feel the color rising in my face again, the delicious wash of feeling beginning in my belly. Brendan drags a hand down my back, up my front. He caresses my chest. He kisses my back. He pries his working fingers from my desperate clit and brings them to my mouth, where I draw them inside. I suck the taste of both of us from his prints, arch my head, and then come. I come with a shuddering flood and a great sound, drenching his cock. My thighs tense and release. And when it's finally, finally over, I fall flush against the mattress, giggling.

  We don't talk for a moment. We just breathe. It's like we've just escaped enemy fire—there is a quality of relief in our panting. Slowly, Brendan rolls away from me, leaving me briefly cold. But the absence of skin doesn't last long; he tucks his legs against mine, drapes us both with a blanket, and makes a little spoon of me.

  We fall asleep, tangled in one another. Just so.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The morning is marked by two uncomfortable, immediate realizations: 1) sometime in the night, Brendan's roommate has returned. I know this because he's snoring loud
ly, in the twin bed catty corner to us. 2) It's Monday, meaning a lecture from Her Highness Chen is imminent.

  But no sooner have I registered the unpleasantries than I take a moment to bask in their opposites. Namely, Brendan's body—as perfect and lovely as it seemed to me the night before, still wrapped around mine. His chest rises and falls sweetly, as if puffing up with pride. His sleeping expression, obscured by the flop of golden hair, is near-angelic. I don't want to wake him up because his furrowed eyebrows and smiling mouth are so endearing. Instead, I turn to him and place an exploratory finger on the tip of his nose—for no other reason than to remind myself that this really happened. We really happened.

  The rest of the previous night comes rushing in: my birthday tantrum, my talk with Zooey, my Say Anything-style serenade. There was a fairy-tale like gauze hanging over the previous evening. I wasn't entirely convinced it had all happened, and wasn't some elaborate dream.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Brendan whispers, surprising me. His eyes remain screwed closed, but his mouth breaks into an easy smile.

  “Are you for real, Mr. Kelly?”

  “I'm always for real, Ms. Lynne.”

  Across the dorm, Brendan's roommate emits a particularly gross snore. I stretch my arms above my head and rise to sitting, releasing a yawn. In the light of day, I'm struck again by how clean Brendan's dorm is. But for the musical bric-a-brac, it's pretty tidy for a teenage boy.

  “What are you thinking?” Brendan asks, finally opening his eyes. Even crusty with sleep, his gaze is all the assurance I need. His oceanic irises tell me: Yes, it was real. And so it remains. *

  We stumble to class late, hand in hand. I'm wearing an extra-long band t-shirt (for a group called De La Soul), belted at the waist with one of Brendan's guitar straps. Having not fit into any of his shoes, I'm still wearing my bunny slippers from the night before—but it's not like I really care. My hair's a mess, too, but that's actually because yours truly has been engaging in morning sex. In the communal shower. 'Cuz you gotta honor the bucket list. Mmm.