Free Beware of Love in Technicolor by Kirstie Collins Brote Page B

hardly sleep together?”
     
     
     
    ***
     
     
                  Now, the only thing that came off that night were my boots. Even my belt, the one with the big silver buckle, was in place under the covers. We talked and listened to Elvis Costello. We lay with him behind me, holding me and kissing my neck. I told him about summer camp and he told me about being an only child.
                  It’s funny, but despite the way that night started out, it is one of my favorite memories from that time in my life. Somewhere around 3am we had to evacuate the building because some drunk freshman had yanked the fire alarm. I still remember the look of shock and confusion when Brett saw John and me, wrapped up like a burrito in his black comforter, milling about on the lawn.
                  I must have fallen asleep shortly before the sun came up. I woke up in an empty bed. Looking around, I saw no sign of John in the tiny room. Even his leather jacket was gone from the back of the door where he had hung it. It was 8:05 am.
                  I was confused. I found his toothpaste and, using my finger, ran some across my teeth. As I was pulling on my boots, John entered the room. He was carrying a coffee, and his jacket was bulging in strange ways.
                  Smiling, he began pulling breakfast from the confines of his leather coat. A couple of bagels, wrapped in paper napkins, two oranges, and even a couple of tiny plastic tubs of cream cheese and a plastic knife. He had smuggled us breakfast from the dining hall.
                  “Wait,” he said, reaching into one last pocket. From it he pulled a Diet Coke. He really had been paying attention.
                  I taught him how to toast bagels on his iron. We ate and talked. We hardly said a flippant thing to one another. It was quite lovely.
     
     
    ***
     
     
                  We spent the next few days nearly inseparable. On Sunday he rubbed my back and discovered I’m ticklish while we watched football on my small TV set from home. On Monday afternoon, while skipping his chemistry lecture, his hands found their way up my shirt. On Tuesday, with my shirt draped over an exposed pipe, I noted how quickly he unhooked my bra and managed to unbuckle my belt buckle with one hand.
                  “Stop me if I am moving too fast,” he would say quietly as he kissed my neck, my ears, my shoulders.
                  On Wednesday, when he slipped his fingers inside me, I arched my back and sunk my fingernails into his shoulders. He buried his head in my chest, moaned a long, low moan, and pulled himself back. He jumped off the bed, and apologizing the whole time, sat down in my desk chair, his head in his hands.
                  “What? What’s wrong?” I asked, my head spinning wildly. He came back to the bed and sat down next to me.
                  “I’m sorry, but do you know how hard it is to keep stopping myself? Do you have any idea how much I want you?” His eyes were serious, and I noticed small beads of sweat along his forehead.
                  “I never told you to stop,” I said softly, looking down at the garish purple and yellow flowers winding their way across my quilt.
                  “Greer, please don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, smoothing my hair with his hand. “I mean it when I say I want you, but I don’t want your first time to be like this. You deserve more than this.”
                  I looked around the room, with Molly’s stinky sneakers in the corner, her Texas flag hanging over her bed. I laughed a weak laugh, but felt like crying. I did not understand all the emotions that went along with sex.
                  “It would be so easy...,” he said, leaning in and kissing me on my lips. He ran his hand down my shoulder, over my bare arm. “You