Cherry (10 page)

“Can you keep a secret?” she asked. Emma knew it was against protocol to talk about the pact with anyone outside of The Crew, but telling Nick felt right. She knew he'd think it sounded cool. He'd probably say it was “awesome sauce”
or something nerdy cute like that.

“Wow,” Nick said after she brought him up to speed. “That's amazeballs.”

“It is,” Emma said, smiling at his nerdy cute word choice—she was impressed with herself for calling it, “but now the girls are making a big deal about it.”

“Your girls make a big deal about everything. No offense.”

“None taken.” That was Emma's point exactly. “But the pact's not, like,
binding
or anything,” she clarified. “There's no pressure, or whatever, but I don't want to get left behind . . . I'm sure I'll figure it out.”

Nick nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Well. Hey . . . ,” he said with a chuckle, “if you end up needing any help with that . . .”

“Help with what?”

“The . . . the pact,” Nick said, suddenly turning into a ­jumble of nerves. “I've . . . you know I've had sex before. Not, um, a lot. But a few times. Probably a decent amount. And we've . . . you know, I think we kiss well, together, and, so, I just want you to know that I'm . . . I'm
here
.”

“Thanks . . . ,” Emma said, unsure exactly what he was getting at.

“I'm just saying if you ever need, like, a hand . . . or . . . or a penis . . .” Nick laughed before the word “penis” even came all the way out of his mouth, “I'm happy to help.”

“Aw,” Emma said. “No one's ever offered me their penis before.”

“Ha. Yeah. So. That's all. I'm here, and I
have
a penis . . . and that's,
like, half of the whole sex thing right there, so, yeah.”

“Nick.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you saying you want to have sex with me?”

“Mostly I'm saying, um . . . well, no pressure, but if . . . if
you
wanted to have sex with
me
 . . . then . . .” Nick finally cut the bullshit. “Yes, Emma, that is what I'm saying. I would very much like to have sex with you . . . but, now, looking at your face, we should probably just. . .”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Okay. That's what I . . . can we just please forget I said any of that?”

“No,” Emma said, feeling as calm and confident as she had in a very long time. “I mean:
yeah
as in yes. I would very much like to have sex with you, too.”

EMMA
didn't believe it was actually going to happen . . .

. . . until she heard the doorbell ring.

Her parents had a weekly Saturday night date night. They were always out of the house and on their way to the movies or some charity function or something by 7:00 p.m. at the latest. Nick had been over to her house at least a dozen times before, mostly to work on the yearbook or other assignments for class. He had met her parents quite a few times. but this time, since he was coming over for a very specific and completely non-school-related purpose, Emma felt like it made sense to avoid any unnecessary or potentially awkward parental interaction by telling Nick to come over at seven fifteen.

He rang the doorbell
exactly
on time.

She opened it.

And he was standing there.

And that was it.

She knew it was going to happen.

Yesterday, before Emma had left the yearbook room, she'd told Nick that she would have the house to herself all night and that he could come over and they could watch a movie or whatever. They both knew that the “or whatever” clearly meant “have sex,” but it was just
a little bit
too awkward for Emma to actually say out loud. It occurred to Emma that if it was too awkward to say out loud, then maybe it would also be too awkward to
do
in real life, but she decided not to dwell on that thought. Especially since there were so many other more important questions to take its place, like: (1) Would it hurt? (2) Did she have a condom? And (3) When was the last time she'd shaved her legs? The answers were: (1) Hopefully not. (2) Nick would bring one. And (3) Absolutely no clue.

Emma made sure to shower that afternoon and shave her legs, armpits, and bikini line. Then she tried to figure out what to wear. Normally, she was a jeans and hoodie kind of girl, but that outfit seemed rather casual for the occasion. Emma reminded herself that one of the upsides of sleeping with Nick was that it
would
be casual.

But still.

There was a fine line between being laid-back and being lazy, and even though she definitely didn't want to
obsess
about this moment or stress about it . . . she still wanted it to be significant. Ultimately, Emma decided to just be herself and wear her favorite dark blue jeans and her softest, most perfectly worn-in purple hoodie. It felt right, so Emma went with it.

Nick had apparently also showered and shaved since the last time Emma had seen him. She appreciated the effort, as well as the fact that he also seemed to be hanging out in the space between “casual” and “significant.” He showed up wearing too much aftershave on his baby face and too much gel in his hair, but he had the perfect mixture of sweetness and nervous excitement in his smile.

“Are you hungry?” Emma asked as she led him inside her house. Mostly the question was just a way to fill the silence.

“I ate dinner at home, but if you're . . .”

“No, I ate too.”

“Okay. Cool.”

And then there was more silence.

“I was thinking I'd make some popcorn,” Emma said after another moment.

“Yes!” Nick said enthusiastically. Making popcorn seemed like a safe warm-up activity, and, since they'd technically talked about watching a movie together, it made sense.

“Beer?” Nick asked, as they waited for the popcorn to pop.

He pulled three Sam Adams Christmas edition beer bottles out of his backpack, explaining that was all he could take from his dad's refrigerator in the garage without getting caught. “Hopefully they're still good or whatever.”

Emma took a sip, realizing that she wouldn't be able to tell if they were good or not. Beer always just tasted like beer, and she didn't particularly
like
the taste, but the ­bubbles felt good on her tongue.

Emma and Nick took the popcorn and went into the den, where there was a big flat screen TV. Apparently continuing the we're-just-here-to-watch-a-movie narrative felt good for both of them. To that end, Emma's parents had a very extensive DVD collection. Her mom had taken all the discs out of their cases and arranged them alphabetically in oversized three-ring binders. Nick started flipping through the first book, which contained all the A–G movies.

“What do you want to watch?” he asked before looking up and catching Emma's eyes. He seemed to know what her look meant. “You don't actually want to watch anything, do you?”

All Emma wanted to do was kiss him.

She wasn't sure exactly how many times they'd kissed before, but she knew they'd made out on four or maybe five different occasions, which made her wonder how many kisses there were in a make-out session: a hundred? A thousand? She had no clue. Emma realized that they'd never really planned any of their kisses before. They were always drunken or spontaneous, usually at a party in an upstairs bedroom or a guest bathroom or something. One time they made out for an hour on the trampoline in Layla's backyard. Emma couldn't help but think that out of all the hundreds (thousands?) of kisses they'd shared, this very next one would be the most important one of all . . . and so now, thinking about all that, all Emma really wanted to do was put her lips on Nick's lips and stick her tongue in his mouth.

That was it.

That was literally all she could think about, as if that one thought was filling her entire head and pushing everything else to the edges of her skull. The one kissing thought was so strong and overwhelming that she was worried it might
ultimately
pop all the other thought bubbles inside of her and somehow smush her brain up against her skull and destroy her entire capacity to function.

Emma shook her head no.

“Do
you
actually want to watch something?” she asked back.

Nick shook his head no too.

Clearly, Nick had come over (with beer and lube), planning to have sex. But judging by his quickening breath and the sweat on his forehead, he was still nervous about it . . .

Weirdly, Emma
wasn't
nervous.

Excited?
Sure
.

Awkward as hell?
Always
.

But not
nervous
.

Emma tried to tell herself that was a good thing, and she almost managed to believe herself too. Then, she looked at Nick again and absentmindedly licked her bottom lip. Suddenly, she was extremely aware of the all blood flowing through her body, especially the part that was pulsing past her hips and up between her legs like a not so subtle reminder that she had hormones and hands and boobs and a vagina, and they were all demanding attention, all at once.

Emma's lack of nervousness, combined with the foam
at the bottom of her beer bottle and all the buzzing in her body, pushed her head forward until her lips slipped onto Nick's lips and her tongue pushed into his mouth, and finally all of the thinking stopped and the bubbles and biology just took over and that next, first kiss, the newly crowned most important one, was the perfect combination of sloppy and sweet. It was casual but also special all at once . . .

. . . and the next ten, twenty,
one hundred
–something kisses that followed soon after were similarly enjoyable. And the best part wasn't
just
that Nick knew exactly what to do with his tongue, which he did, or that he knew
exactly
how hard to press his lips against hers, which he also did, but that Nick's kisses seemed to have the ability to listen to her kisses. They knew when to speed up or slow down, pushing harder or softer, always perfectly in rhythm with Emma. And then Nick pulled back, catching Emma's eyes, as if to ask, one more time,
Are we really doing this?

Emma smiled back at him.
Yes, we really are
.

The next two, five, ten-ish minutes felt like they happened all at once.

Emma and Nick moved off of the floor and up onto the couch.

Nick's kisses moved to Emma's neck and then onto her chest.

Emma's bra came off.

Nick's pants slid down.

Her hands moved to his waist and then between his legs.

She got up to turn off the lights, but, then again, Emma might've done that before any of the kissing even started . . .

Even as it was all happening, she couldn't quite remember the order.

It all felt like a series of jump cuts, moving from one moment to the next. From fumbling to closeness to nakedness. It was all cold and hot and the whole thing made her want to giggle and cry at the same time, not because she was happy or sad, but because she was entirely, completely, 100 percent in the moment. She was so
in
her body and
out
of her head—a rare feeling for a champion overthinker like Emma—that she did everything she could to embrace it. And she could tell that Nick was appreciating all of it just as much as she was, in the same way she was, and the truth was that it was actually way more special than casual, which felt like a good thing. And then Nick pulled away for a minute to put on a condom. He opened the packet with his teeth, rolled it on rather quickly, and then squeezed some lube on top of it. As Emma watched him from the couch, feeling naked and exposed, she greatly appreciated the fact that he'd done this before.

Then he climbed back on top of her with a big, boyish grin on his face. Emma made sure to take a mental picture of him and the muddy green glint in his eyes, and his accidental half-Mohawk, and the palpable glow that seemed to wrap around his entire face, his entire being. . .

And then, finally, without much fanfare he slid inside her.

“Pushed”
was actually probably a more accurate word.

It didn't hurt.

Not really.

Or, not exactly.

But it wasn't all that comfortable, either.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. She nodded. She was. Nick pulled out a little and then slid back inside, slowly at first and then faster, finding a rhythm . . .

It was all sort of sudden and mostly clumsy.

As it was happening, Emma kept having the urge to remind herself that it was, in fact, happening.

This
, she kept thinking.

This is sex, and this is real, and it's all really happening.

Emma was losing her virginity right now, at this very moment.

And then the moment ended, just as quickly and awkwardly and sincerely as it had begun.

And that was it.

LAYLA
did not expect it to happen quite so fast.

Obviously, the whole point of the sex pact was to actually have sex, but Emma's sexie more or less came out of nowhere.

“What's a sexie?” Zoe asked as they waited in line at The Bigg Chill.

“An after sex selfie, a sexie,” Layla explained.

“Oh, is that what we're calling it?” Alex asked.

Yes it was. Layla was very proud of her new name.

After Nick left Emma's house last night, not too long after they'd had sex, Emma snapped a picture of herself and all her postcoital afterglow and sent it to The Chat. She added a text message saying that she
nailed it
.