These are real clothes, not secondhand or Walmart clearance rack bullshit but real new ones I bought at an actual mall with Daphne this morning: a flowing blue dress that makes my eyes stand out, and new bikini underwear, you know, just in case. Daphne tried to convince me to buy a thong, but I told her she could shove that idea up her ass crack with the thong she was probably wearing.

Looking in the mirror, I kind of hate me. And I’m jittery, appraising the most insignificant details in an exhaustive way, like I’ve swapped personalities with someone who gives a fuck. For the first time since graduation, I’ve blown my hair dry, using a fancy product of Daphne’s. I’m wearing mascara, lip gloss, and even a few brushstrokes of blush. The mascara highlights the contrast between my blue eyes and soot-colored hair, which now shines like onyx. In this incarnation of myself, someone like Garrett might actually desire me.

But this is not the real me. Underneath the new clothes and carefully applied makeup is the dull, scraggly girl I’ve always been. My father would stare and tilt his head from side to side, hemming and hawing as if trying to figure out the best way to break the news to me, the best way to get me ready for the real world. Then he’d say, “It’s not that you’re ugly, sweetie, it’s just that you’re not beautiful.”

Once, when I could no longer maintain my stoicism and began to cry, he said, “You know, you’re actually very pretty when you cry. See how your face flushes?” He took me by the shoulders and turned me to the mirror so I could see for myself just how pretty I looked.

He wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t stop Liza from whispering, “He’s the ugly one. Ugly on the inside,” once he left. My father never bothered Liza. It was like she didn’t exist.

I sigh once more at the mirror, this false version of me, and smooth down the fabric of the blue dress while Daphne spritzes me with a soft, floral fragrance from her collection. She’s looking at me funny, like she’s trying to read my mind. “What’s wrong? Are you not excited?”

I shrug. It’s not that I’m not excited; it’s that I’m too excited. I shudder every time I remember the polite, feathery feel of Garrett’s fingertips on my skin as he pulled me into the water with him. All week I’ve been trying to push him from my mind, studying and practicing extra hard as if busyness can breed indifference.

I meet him downstairs on the front steps of my dorm. The sun has already set, but the dusky half-light only accentuates his flawlessness.

“Oh,” he says. “You look…stunning.”

He’s surprised. He sees that I’m just a made-up version of myself, not the usual, drowned-rat me. If the real Malory were displayed alongside Garrett in a museum, it would be a study in contrasts.

He leans toward me and whispers, “Just say thank you.”

I do, and we walk over the lawn and across the street toward his neighborhood, making small talk about the week’s classes. I confide in him about my Twentieth-Century Europe quiz, how I’m sure I bombed it, and he assures me I did better than I think. A couple of times I think he’s going to take my hand, but every time he brushes my fingertips with his, he pulls back again. I’m so affected by this boomerang touch that I could almost believe he’s doing it purposefully, intentionally teasing me.

His is the fifth house in on the right—I’ve counted so I won’t forget—and I take a mental snapshot of the place. It’s a small house, old, with wood siding and a bare, neat yard. No garage, only a sturdy-looking lean-to carport sheltering a black Toyota FJ Cruiser that I assume belongs to Garrett. Everything is tidy and clean. No cobwebs or rotten leaves building up in the corners, no tools or trash cans or piles of detritus lying around like in most people’s carports. Aunt Bonnie’s carport was so loaded with junk, there wasn’t even room to park under it.

We’re standing at the foot of the cement driveway. “Do you have a roommate?” I ask him.

“I prefer to live by myself.”

“It’s more expensive though, right?”

He shrugs. “It’s worth it to me.”

What a luxury to be able to think that way.

We enter through the living room, where the oak floors are clean and shiny—gleaming, actually—and the furniture, trendy and spotless. A massive TV is mounted over the entertainment center, with an L-shaped sofa opposite, and against the adjacent wall is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf bursting with books. And it’s freezing in here. He must have the air set at sixty-five.

“You like to read?” I tip my chin toward his book collection and hug my arms around myself, trying to friction away my goose bumps.

He nods. “Do you want something to drink? I have water, a couple of different types of soda, beer, wine…”

“I’ll take some wine.” I’ve tasted wine a whole three times in my life, but Garrett makes me feel like I should be a wine drinker, like I should learn to be the kind of person who has a discerning palate.

We turn a corner and pass through a small dining area to get to the kitchen, which is just as spotless as the living room. The white cabinets are old and a bit rickety-looking, but I attribute that to the house being a rental.

“Did you clean for me?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

He chuckles as he twists the corkscrew into the top of the wine bottle. “No.”

“Your house is always this clean?” I think of the various homes I grew up in, the trailer with the banging screen door, the women’s shelter we stayed at for a while with Mom, the cramped two-bedroom apartment where Mom died, Aunt Bonnie’s. Garrett’s house is ten times cleaner than every one of those places.

“Does my cleanliness bother you?” He pulls the cork free with a satisfying pop.

I look around the kitchen in search of a crumb, a coffee drip, a stray dirty dish. Aren’t guys supposed to be pigs? And why is it so cold in here? “I love clean. Clean is my favorite thing.”

Except that I’m not sure I belong here.

“Good,” he says. “Because I hate filth.”

He hands me a glass of wine and I take a sip. It warms me the second it hits my throat, and the warmth spreads when it lands in my stomach, sending tendrils of relaxation curling through my body like vines. “Yum.”

“Help me chop?”

I take another sip of wine and set my glass on the counter. “Sure. What are we making?”

“Linguine with shrimp. You like seafood, right?” He opens the plain white refrigerator—no magnet clutter, of course not—and pulls out a couple of produce bags. “Here, you dice the mushrooms and parsley. I’ll get the other stuff going.” He pulls a cutting board from one of the lower cabinets and a chopping knife from a drawer and slides them both down the counter toward me.

I smile to myself. This feels so…domestic. I’ve never cooked with a guy before. Garrett seems like he’s done this plenty of times though, and imagining another girl in the spot where I’m standing ignites a little fire in my belly. Jealousy. I picture myself angrily stomping out the flames. Obviously Garrett can get any girl he wants, but his prior romantic life is none of my business.

The knife is sharp, making an easy job of the chopping. I have two neat piles ready to go by the time Garrett’s minced garlic into a pool of simmering butter, making the room smell positively delectable.

He wipes his hands on a towel and surveys my work. “You’re no stranger to the kitchen, are you?”

“Nope.”

I don’t want to tell him I had no choice. I learned to cook those five months Liza and I lived completely alone before the authorities figured out our dad had run off. I wish they’d never found out; that was five months we didn’t have to live with Aunt Bonnie. She can’t cook for shit.

He sneaks a peek at me from where he’s filling a pot of water at the sink, but doesn’t press for details.

I lean a hip against the counter. “So what made you decide to go into law?”

“Same thing that made you decide to double major in economics, I’m sure.” He sets the pot on the stove and turns on the gas burner.

“Financial security?”

“Exactly.”

I look hard at him, wondering if I’ve gotten him wrong. Maybe he hasn’t always been as neatly pressed as he is now, everything all lined up and perfect. Maybe he had to scrape and claw a little too, like I did. “What was your childhood like?”

He shrugs. “Normal. Absentee father, like I mentioned before, but that’s not a big deal. And my mother and I were a good team until she got sick.”

“How is she doing now, with you all the way down here?” My wine glass is empty. Garrett holds out the bottle to offer more and I push my glass forward so he can refill it. “I get the impression you took care of her,” I say.

“Ah, but see, I didn’t. My mother is strong, she manages on her own. She can’t, nor does she want to, depend on me for everything.”

“That makes sense.”

Your mother could never survive on her own without me. I blink away my father’s ugly words.

“I want to help her, not enable her. It’s a fine line.”

“I suppose it is.” I sip my wine. I wonder how I would have turned out if I hadn’t been forced to be self-sufficient, to fight for every scrap of goodness in my life.

We eat at the little square table in the dining room, and though the food is delicious, I find myself unable to enjoy much; my stomach is a dense knot, and my throat’s too tight to swallow comfortably.

Garrett notices, of course. “You didn’t like it? You’ve hardly eaten anything,” he says, gesturing at my plate.

“It’s perfect. I think I’m just a little…”

He stares at me, waiting, and the seconds stretch out like centuries.

“…nervous,” I finally say.

“Nervous?” He gives me a tiny smile, barely enough to bring out his dimple. “About what?”

Another couple of centuries pass. “You? You make me a little nervous.” I go to lay my fork down and it hits the edge of my plate at a weird angle and starts to slip, and when I try to catch it I bang the prongs and it goes flying like I’ve just launched it with a catapult. “Fuck.”

Garrett’s eyes are shining. “I like that I make you nervous.”

We clear the table and share dish duty, me washing while he dries and puts away. Afterward, I drain the sink and scrub it until it shines; I don’t want him to think I’m a slob.

“Oh…your dress,” he says.

I look down at the wet spot spreading across my lower abdomen. Dammit.

Garrett opens a drawer and gets a fresh dishtowel to press against the fabric, absorbing most of the wet. His hands are on me, moving slowly, and suddenly even with two layers of fabric between his skin and mine, it’s too much to bear. I clutch at his arms and pull myself against him, knowing even as I’m doing it that it’s too forward, that I’m not being graceful and I’m making myself look desperate. But he’s out of my league, and I’m going to lose him as soon as he figures that out. I want to take what I can before he realizes he’s too good for me.

Our faces are inches apart and I’m still clinging to his arms and staring up at him, my breasts and hips and thighs mashed hard against his body. He hasn’t moved. His arms hang loose at his sides as he considers me, his face blank, the dishtowel still dangling from his right hand. Shit, he thinks I’m insane. My cheeks heat and I start to pull away, but then he tosses the towel on the counter and grabs me by the waist, drawing me back into him.

My heart is slamming so hard in my chest, there’s no way he doesn’t feel it. I want to kiss him, but I’ve already been too forward, and besides, his hands resting on my waist like this, almost indecisively—it’s about the most intense thing I’ve ever felt. Is he going to push me away or possess me? I can’t breathe with him touching me like this.

“I can’t breathe,” I choke out. Fuck, I’m an idiot.

“Good,” he says, and his hands tighten on my waist. He leans down, lays his lips on mine—soft, slightly open, unbearably restrained. Where is his tongue?

I move my hands to his neck, to the back of his head, pushing my fingers through his ridiculous Superman hair. He’s still holding back with his kiss, always like he’s teasing, like he did with his hands earlier when we were walking, but I don’t care; my tongue is in his mouth, I’m invading him now, shamelessly, and a triumphant moan escapes me when I feel his erection pressing against me through his crease-free pants.

Now I wish I’d listened to Daphne and worn a thong.

He wants me, and when his tongue finally comes licking into my mouth, I moan again, louder, and then his hands grip my waist tighter and he lifts me onto the counter. Jesus, I need him. When I fucked the guy at the party I was pushing something away, purging a noxious, suffocating energy. This—this is a carnal, self-serving greed; not a pushing away but a gathering in. I spread my legs, wrap them around Garrett’s hips and draw him into me, grind against his hardness, and then suddenly he’s yanking at the neckline of my dress, pulling it down over my shoulders so it pins my arms against my sides. My breasts are exposed and I’m sure he’s just ruined the dress by stretching out the neckline, but I’ve never cared less about an article of clothing.

“I knew you’d be like this,” he says, and he kisses my neck with soft, hungry lips, then trails his tongue down my chest, takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. I lean the back of my head against the upper cabinet and arch my back, pressing my naked breasts out, offering myself to him. Every cell in my body sizzles like I’m being electrocuted by a low, almost imperceptible current. I’m pulsing between my legs, wetting myself.

His hand slides up under my dress until his knuckles brush against the crotch of my underwear. He’s still at my breast but I can feel his mouth curl into a smile as he discovers how wet I am. He stops kissing me and uses both hands to pull my underwear down and off, then shoves the skirt of my dress up around my hips and presses his hips between my legs. I’m wetting the front of his pants now—I am the dirtiest thing in this house.

He reaches a hand down and toys with me, slides his fingers over my wetness and teases me until I’m panting and bucking against him, desperate for him to put his fingers in me.

I’ve still got my head pressed against the upper cabinet, still with my arms pinned at my sides, and I’m staring into Garrett’s face, biting my bottom lip at him while his gaze flicks up and down my body, his thick lashes like black picture frames around his ice-blue eyes. His fingers are attuned to my whimpers, every movement a tease; and when he finally dips a finger deep into me, he pulls it out before I can fully enjoy it. My god, he is merciless. He is deliberate with his torments, alternating feather touch and deep-plunging fingers, building me up until I’m shuddering and moaning and almost ready to cry because I just want him to fucking let me have it already. I crane my neck to kiss him again but he pulls his face back and shakes his head back and forth, slowly.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “Please.”

“You like it?”

“You know I do,” I say through my teeth. I want to grab him and pull him to me, but I can’t with my sleeves down around my arms.

“Beg.”

My heart is going crazy. My clitoris is pulsing so hard it’s hurting. Even my toes are flexing, pointing in desperation. “Okay.” I’m panting. “Please. Please, give it to me.”

He gives me a sated half-smile and slides his fingers in deeper, thumbs my clitoris. I feel a quickening, a flexing in my whole body. His fingers slow.

“Please. Please don’t stop.”

“Then keep begging.”

“Fuck me. Please. Jesus.”

The more I beg, the more he gives me. “Yes. Oh god, Garrett, fuck. Fuck me. God.” I might as well be a worm on a hook.

And then I’m coming, spasming around his fingers, and he’s smirking at me, drawing out my orgasm until the throbbing becomes painful and I pull my legs together and now instead of begging him to fuck me I’m begging him to stop.

I’m still trembling, not quite come down yet, but I want to give back to him. I reach to untuck his shirt, and he blocks me with his arm and moves quickly to the sink, squirts some soap into his palms and washes his hands.

I’m still sitting spread-legged and naked on his counter, arms pinned to my sides, panting like a dog.

Garrett dries his hands, comes back over to me and slides the neck of my dress back over my shoulders so that my breasts are covered and my arms are no longer pinned. Then he pulls the skirt of my dress down and presses my knees together like he’s reminding me to sit like a lady.

“But—you don’t want to—” I’m still trying to catch my breath.

“Not on our first real date,” he says, smiling. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything you might regret.”

I blush so hard that my ears hurt. What he just did to me—what I let him do to me—was way more intimate than any sex I’ve ever had. I just…surrendered myself to him. I begged. I feel exposed now, vulnerable. The coldness of the house envelops me again, and I begin to shiver.

Garrett snakes his arms around my waist and dips his mouth to my neck. “Did you like what I just did to you?”

I nod, but I can’t stop shivering.

He kisses me softly, just under my jawline. “Well, that’s all I wanted.”

I lift my arms and drape them around his neck like a layer of lace, light and tentative. I’m afraid he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t; he leans into me and lets me embrace him.

“There’s plenty of time for all that,” he says. “This is only the beginning.”

My shoulders relax, and we stay like that for a few minutes longer, holding each other, until my trembling finally subsides.

It’s not until I’m back in my dorm room that I realize I’ve left my underwear on the floor of Garrett’s kitchen.