After tipping 20 percent on our record-settingly small bill, we set out into the city. The sky has gone dark, but the buildings are bright.
The wind off the bay blows back my hair, probably tangling it terribly. I shiver.
“Here.” He slips off his jacket and slides it around me.
His hand brushes my shoulder, and I shiver again, this time not from the cold. “Thanks.”
We walk around holding hands, past quiet storefronts and roaring bars. There’s something so intimate about being in a big city with just one other person. There in the anonymity of a crowd, among people from all different places talking about their own lives in all different languages, in a way you have more privacy than you do out in the country alone. In the bustle and chaos of it all, you have found someone.
We’re standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the walk sign, when I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. His five o’clock shadow scratches me lightly.
“What was that for?”
I shrug. “Just because I can.”
He smiles.
People behind us start to push forward, so we cross the street. He tries to kiss me back as we walk but gets my ear instead. I laugh, and it’s a twinkling sound I’ve never heard before.
Across from Ghirardelli Square there is a small park with a beach. We walk down to the water, the Golden Gate just visible in the fog.
“Wow,” I say.
“I know.”
I look around. We’re the only people this far into the park. I bend down and undo the tiny buckles on my shoes.
“What are you doing?”
I step out of them and sigh in relief.
“This.” I pick up my shoes and take off down the steps until my feet touch the sand.
I turn around to see Jordan still standing on the sidewalk.
“Well, c’mon, then!” I shout. The wind whips my hair back.
He rushes down the stairs as I keep walking until I’m ankle-deep in the water.
He stops on the beach to take off his shoes.
“Are you folding your socks?”
“Yes.”
I laugh.
“These are my favorite ones.” He sets them down carefully in his discarded shoes, rolls up his pants and wades into the water with me.
He steps forward and takes my hand, pulling me close, so my hand rests against his chest.
I never used to believe that you recognized life-changing moments while they were happening. It seemed like some sixth-sense bullshit, the type of thing women reading palms on the streets of San Francisco might talk about, not something I would experience.
One of my favorite scenes in literature is when Gatsby first kisses Daisy. He says no to a ladder to the heavens and kisses her instead. He ties his dreams to her, and in that way, limits them.
It’s the fatal move. Asking one person to make your life complete. To save you. It’s a dangerous game to play. But we tell the story again and again, because it’s such a beautiful delusion, that there’s a soul mate out there and finding him or her is all we have to worry about. But it is a delusion. So you resist it; you tell yourself that you have much grander ideas than dreams tied to one person. So you sit and discuss Gatsby’s stupidity in high school English. You annotate and dissect in class. And you promise yourself that your sights are set on your dream, and that there is no person who will disrupt that. That there is no way you will settle for a normal, happy life and give up your dreams for a love that fades to average.
But then here you are, having run away from your life for a weekend with a boy you have no business falling in love with, about to watch your whole life change.
Or maybe that’s just bullshit. Maybe you can’t exactly know what your choice will mean. Sometimes all you know is that there’s a beautiful, wonderful boy and you want to kiss him, so you do.
And when his lips touch mine, I know in my bones that this is a moment I will replay in my head for years to come, though whether as a sweet beginning or a what-might-have-been, I don’t, can’t, know. But F. Scott Fitzgerald was right. My dreams are tied to this boy now, and I’m either going to have to sever myself from him or watch those dreams wither away.
He rests his forehead against mine, and in the pale moonlight I can just barely see the outline of his smile.
“What do you want to do?” I whisper.
“I don’t care—I’m just happy to be with you.”
I kiss him on the cheek.
“We could go to a bar,” he says. “Or check out Ghirardelli for a second dessert, or take a midnight boat ride...”
“Let’s go back to the room,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We can’t keep our hands off each other the whole way back to the hotel. But in the elevator, the nervousness starts to set in. Mostly I’m filled with exhilarating excitement, but I’m also a little bit scared.
“Give me a second,” I say as we enter the room.
“Okay.” He sits on the chair nearest the bed and undoes his tie.
I head to bathroom, trying to slyly pick up my duffel bag on the way.
Watching myself in the bathroom mirror and the unfortunate fluorescent lighting, I slip off my dress, revealing a simple black strapless bra and bikini-style panties.
I unzip my bag and dig through my clothes until my hand closes over plastic. Pulling out the package I’d ordered online a few weeks ago, I rip through the Victoria’s Secret logo so the lacy fabric slips out.
Taking a deep breath, I set it down on the bathroom counter and look at myself in the mirror. I slip off my bra and underwear, and shove them in my bag.
It takes me a second to figure out exactly how I’m supposed to put on the red corset, but then I manage fine.
Then comes the matching thong: fabric in the front, just a single strip in the back. Ridiculous, but not really requiring an instruction manual.
Next come the black thigh-highs, which are easy enough, like socks, but they just keep going up.
But how do I attach the thigh-highs to the little plastic and metal clippie things hanging from the corset?
I reach for my phone to Google it, then remember it’s on the dresser in the other room.
I try to pry one open and it closes on my finger. Shit.
Okay, got it open. Now I just have to slip it on the thigh-high and...yes! Perfect. One down, four to go, and then the other leg.
I take a deep breath and stand up.
The little ribbon pops off the thigh-high.
I’m going to write an angry email to Victoria tomorrow. Maybe that’s her secret, how to work these goddamn contraptions.
Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck.
If I stay in here any longer, Jordan is gonna think I’m pooping.
“Jordan?” I open the door slowly.
“What’s up?”
I step out tentatively. He’s scrolling through his phone, sitting on the edge of his chair.
I look down at the ribbons swinging from my hips. I twist one of them around my finger.
“These things are supposed to clip onto the stockings, but I can’t figure out...”
I look up. His eyes seem darker than usual, and yet more alive. Like slow-burning embers.
“Wow.” The word barely escapes his lips. His phone falls to the carpet.
I smile and step toward him. When I reach him, I lean down to kiss him on the lips, slow and sensual.
“It’s like a dream,” he says when I pull away.
I can’t help but agree.
He pulls me onto his lap, kissing me again.
The hell with those stupid ribbons.