Free Althea and Oliver by Cristina Moracho

never heard before. Now he’s panting, too, their legs intertwined against the tree, their identical heights putting them exactly at eye level.
    â€œOliver,” she whispers in a raspy voice. “Maybe we should go back to my house.” Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy.
    He nods.
    They untangle themselves, Althea smoothing her ruffled hair and skirt. Taking her hand, he breaks into an easy jog, which she, of course, turns into a race. She slows down to let him keep pace, then pulls away again, laughing while he chases her with no chance of ever catching up.
    The charge home is quick, too quick, and suddenly they are standing in front of her house. The haze is lifting from his vision. Though his usual lucidity has not yet returned, he is abruptly aware of what they are about to do, what Althea is offering him as she starts up the path to her door.
    â€œWait,” he says.
    â€œWhat? Oh, you’re right. We should probably go in the back.”
    â€œNo, just—just wait.”
    â€œWhat?” she asks, irritated.
    Oliver can only shake his head.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Her words slur together like ice cubes melting in a glass. “Come on.”
    It’s her impatience that betrays her. Sensing his reluctance, she’s realizing that the moment under the tree has passed. She’s trying to seize what’s left of her chance to get this thing done, because once it’s done they can’t undo it. To her this is some kind of first step, a necessary catalyst that will set off a series of reactions and completely transform their relationship. To him it’s just an experiment, the test of a curious hypothesis. That’s exactly the reason he is glued to the sidewalk, refusing to follow her down to the basement and at last make proper use of that old couch. If he goes inside with her, then what? Is he going to wake up as her boyfriend just because he got drunk and made out with her under a tree? Isn’t it better to disappoint her now, before, than to do it in the morning?
    â€œI’m not—” He pauses. “I’m not ready.”
    She tucks her fingers inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt, thumbs poking through the holes in the cuffs. Her shoulders come up around her neck as if she’s trying to retract her head, turtle-like. “That doesn’t even mean anything, you know. What are you, cupcakes in the oven, waiting for the timer to go off? Are we sitting at a red light, waiting for it to turn green?”
    â€œAl, I’m sorry—”
    â€œWhy did you even let it start, then?” She raises her voice, heralding the return of the irascible Althea.
    â€œI was drunk,” he says.
    â€œAre you fucking serious?”
    â€œThat came out wrong.”
    â€œYou know what? Go ahead. Stick your head a little further up your ass. If you have trouble, I can help.” Turning to enter her house, she laughs abruptly. “Oh my God.”
    Oliver is wary of her sudden change in mood. “Now what?”
    â€œWe left the bathtub running at Jason’s.”

chapter three.
    ON HER WAY to school Monday morning, Althea brings her car to a perfunctory halt in front of Oliver’s house. He isn’t waiting for her outside, so she taps the horn, just long enough to elicit a loud, squawking honk. The customary next step is to ring the doorbell continually until he emerges, breathless and annoyed. Reaching for the release button on her seat belt, she hesitates, stifling a yawn. She had barely slept the last two nights, thrashing around on the couch, alternately cringing at the memory of Oliver’s hand up her skirt and wondering if he might come over and do it again. She lay awake for a very long time imagining him slipping into the basement to apologize for his unbelievably stupid comment about only kissing her because he had been drunk. He would explain that he had been afraid or not ready or whatever—she played out every