Ace Lawrence is standing a couple feet away from where I sit on the stoop of my Kissimmee Airbnb. It’s spring break of my senior year of college and Ace and I are smoking Newport 100s. I’m still on my second but I’ve lost track of how many Ace has smoked since we stepped out here. His Coke & whiskey sits next to my tequila & lemonade in matching red Solo cups.
At this point, I’ve known Ace for seven years. I met him at a conference when I was thirteen, sitting on a bench flirting with his friend, who I’d danced with the night before. Ace was seventeen then.
“Remember when we met?” I ask him. I’ve got a cigarette in one hand and am swirling a finger in my drink with the other.
“Sure I do,” he says, winking. “You were on that bench with Jack. I came by and I was like, ‘Damn, she’s hot.’”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
Ace is twisting an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
“We’ve known each other a long time,” I say.
It’s his turn to say it: “Whatever.”
Yesterday, when the eight of us arrived in Kissimmee, I’d taken a shower and then let my college friends know I was taking the car to see a friend.
“Yeah, a’ight,” one of my roommates had said. “You go see your ‘friend’.”
Ace’s parents’ condo in Orlando looked like all other condos in Orlando. He met me by my car and walked me to his condo, all the time talking about nothing, like we always did.
The thing about Ace and me was that we never had to say what we were doing. We wanted each other, and then we didn’t talk about wanting each other. We called that honesty.
This sort of shamelessness was something he’d taught me the spring after I’d turned sixteen, pressing his mouth against mine in a hotel pool in front of friends and parents of friends who I’d known my entire life. It was electrifying, the kiss as much so as the feeling of shameless freedom. It seemed to at once say I want you and Who cares — to me, to him, to the people around us.
When we entered the empty condo, his family at Disney for the day, I dropped articles of clothing all the way to his blow-up mattress on the floor.
“We can use my parents’ bed,” he said.
“Fuck it,” I said.
We had sex on the kitchen counter instead.
After, wrapped in a giant sweater that belonged to Ace’s father, I stepped onto the balcony with Ace, withdrawing cigarettes. He cupped his hands around my cigarette as I lit it and I simply watched as he struggled to light his own.
“This is where you return the favor,” he said.
“Nah.” It was my way of showing him I cared every bit as little, perhaps even less, than he did.
I’m folding laundry and the TV’s on and my husband is saying something about his latest video game obsession. There is a pause that tells me that it’s my turn to say something.
“That sounds neat,” I say. It’s not what I mean, exactly. It’s simply what comes out.
He huffs. “See, you really aren’t paying attention.”
“I am, I am; I’m sorry.” I turn the TV off and look at him. He starts to turn away. “Nick, wait. Tell me again.”
He picks up the marker-stained pair of size 4T jeans in the laundry basket, rubbing the stain with his thumb. “I was saying that League is getting toxic again. It’s like when I was in college.”
I nod. “Why don’t you quit playing then?” It is the sort of question I ask when I already know the answer.
“You know that’s not gonna happen.”
I shrug. “Well, you know what they say about insanity.” I smile a little, a playful offering of banter.
“League is not insanity.”
Right, no banter then. “Sorry.”
I pick up the clothes, examining the stretched-out neck on the 18-months onesie. Our daughter will need the next size soon.
“Don’t worry about it,” my husband says. He puts our son’s jeans back in the clean laundry basket and heads upstairs. I turn the TV back on and go back to folding. I fold his T-shirt last, smoothing the collar before placing it in the pile.
An indoor-outdoor hotel pool is a hell of a thing for teenagers at an early-March conference in Chicago. I’m wearing a string two-piece, the first time I’ve worn a bikini so revealing, and the temperature is a balmy 34°F. I’m standing right inside the doorway to the indoor part of the pool, staring at my phone while waiting for my best friend to show up. I feel a hand on my hip and jump.
Ace’s lips touch my ear as he whispers, “Nice swimsuit.”
He’s never been so close —in fact, no one has ever been so close to me, save my most recent ex-boyfriend— and it takes every bit of self-control I have not to shiver or squeak or run away.
Instead, I smile. I turn just my head, so he has to be the one to pull back a couple inches. I can do this. I can play it cool.
I raise an eyebrow. Just a little, just enough, I hope, that it seems playful and not insane. I drag my eyes down Ace’s torso to the swim trunks that rest on his hips. “No bikini for you?”
Ace grins. “Oh, you gonna be fun this year, Yamamoto?”
“I’m always fun.” I pretend to pout. I catch my best friend sliding silently behind Ace into the pool, giving me a subtle thumbs up. Her mom waves to me from behind her and I pretend not to see.
“Right, sure,” he says. He waves to someone over my shoulder. “Yo, Mike! We doin’ cannonballs?”
Mike’s head appears between us, glancing from me to Ace and Ace to me. “You settling down?” he asks Ace, nodding his head at me.
“Never gonna happen,” Ace says. “But your dancing days with Yamamoto here are over.”
I roll my eyes. Mike rolls his eyes. Then: “You and boy-o break up?”
“Yeah.”
“Cannonballs?” Ace asks, pointing to the door to the outside pool. Mike nods, and they start toward the door together. “Coming, Yamamoto?” he asks without looking back.
“Right, sure.”
Outside, it is insanely cold. I remind myself that I knew this, that this is a tradition these boys have had since they were 10, that I am also going to tough this out and jump in the pool in a minute.
The count starts, Ace and Mike and their group of friends counting up and hollering each time someone gives up and jumps in. Before I know, it’s just me and Ace with five boys yelling the count from the heated pool. It’s so freaking cold. I can feel my damp hair freezing, and wrapping my arms around myself is starting to feel more like a hazard than a method for keeping warm. I made it this far. I can jump in now, right?
My cannonball is less of a ball and more of a small splash, but the warmth of the water envelopes me and I am so grateful to be out of the cold that I almost don’t want to resurface.
When I come up for air, there’s already a hand on my waist, holding me steady in the 5 feet of water that is as deep as I am tall.
“Hey,” I start to say but then Ace’s mouth is on mine and all I can think about is the way the taste of chlorine and tobacco and menthol mix with his taste, how this must be what it feels like to be drunk.
When Ace pulls away, he’s grinning. I look over his shoulder, see my best friend’s mom staring and whispering with other moms.
“What if they tell my mom?” I ask, though I already know what Ace will say.
“What if they do?” Of course. He says it like the question has never occurred to him. “So?”
I stare at him, horrified, but his hand is still on my waist and my body is pressed against his now and I can do it. I can be cool.
“Who cares what they say?” His lips are at my ear again, and this time, I shiver. If he asks, I’ll blame the cold.
I know everyone can see us. That’s the worst part, and also, somehow, the point.
I kiss him.
It’s our son’s 5th birthday party, and our 19-month-old is splashing happily in the baby pool while the birthday boy races through an inflatable obstacle course with a water slide. Nick is chasing our nephews around with the hose while they attempt to crush him with water balloons. Exhausted from the set-up, I’m taking a break on the back step, canned margarita in hand.
Someone — probably a mom to one of our son’s friends — comes and sits down beside me. I nod at her, and she motions at Nick.
“It’s great that he’s so active with them,” she says.
“He’s amazing,” I agree.
The woman beckons to my t-shirt. “Florida State?” she asks.
“Yep.” I nod again. “Accounting.”
“Oh, isn’t that what your husband does, too? Did you guys meet in college?”
“No,” I say. “I met Nick after.”
“Gotcha,” the woman says. She smiles. “I have a much younger sister — she’s a sophomore over at BU. Who knows what she is studying, but she’s having a blast.” She smiles. “College is a wild time, huh?”
I smile. “Sure.”
“Oh, was it not like that for you?” She sets her drink on the step and looks at me. “No wild college stories?”
I give her a little laugh. “No, nothing too exciting.”
Nick waves. He points at the hose and begins to turn it toward us.
“Don’t you dare,” I shout, but I’m smiling and before long, I’ve wrestled the hose from his hands and it’s his turn to get drenched.
“Can I get your phone number?” Mike asks. We’re sitting on a wooden bench, and I am so, so aware of the mere inches that separate us. It was only 12 hours ago that I was at my first-ever dance, my body pressed up against Mike’s. It was only 12 hours ago that I met Mike.
“Sure,” I say, and I reach out to put my number in his phone. While I’m typing numbers and letters — do I put my whole name? Just my first? — I feel Mike shift and I look up. He’s dapping up another guy, same age, except I know who this is. Everyone at the conference knows who this is. The older girls always tell us to watch out, they say his charm is irresistible, but he also has a reputation for never taking things seriously. Last year, one girl called him “the conference bicycle” and I didn’t understand that at twelve, but at thirteen, the memory and understanding of it turns my cheeks bright red.
“Who’s this?” Ace asks. He offers his hand and I fumble Mike’s phone from my right to my left so I can take it.
“Hi,” I say. “You smell like smoke.”
He laughs and there’s something about the laugh that puts me at ease, something about the smile that makes it seem like there’s a joke that’s just between him and me.
“That’s Hina,” Mike says, and I realize I never answered the question. I can feel the heat on the back of my neck but also in the hand that Ace is still holding.
“Hina, huh?” he says.
“Yamamoto.” I say it like it’s the rest of an answer, and I use the completeness of it to pull my hand out of his.
He tilts his head. “Hey, Yamamoto.”
Mike clears his throat.
“Mike bothering you?” Ace asks.
“As if. I was getting her number,” Mike huffs. “Some best friend you are.” I look at Mike, but he doesn’t even really seem annoyed. Maybe this is just how it is when you’re older.
You up?
My phone lights up and the screen says it’s 1:06 AM. I’m trying to do work —it’s my third week at my first job and already I’m overwhelmed— but if I’m being honest with myself, I stayed up in case he texted.
yea, I write back, and I leave off the H on purpose.
Wanna talk? ;)
I do want to talk, but that isn’t how we work, so I reply, about what?
You know.
do i?
My phone rings. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice is breathless. “You get another boyfriend?”
“No.” And then: “Why?”
“You’re only coy like this when you’ve got a new boyfriend.”
“No boyfriend,” I say. “Not that that’s ever stopped this anyway.”
He laughs. “True.”
It’s silent, but we’re good with it.
“Switch to text?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He smacks his chewing gum. “Photos first?”
“Yeah.”
“You look nice.” Nick’s standing in the doorway to our room, his yet-unpacked boxes of clothes stacked to his left. “Going out tonight?”
“Yeah, old friend,” I say, turning in front of the mirror. I think this top is fine.
“From — where did you say? Georgia?”
“Florida.” I open the blush but then close it. Who am I trying to impress?
Nick’s arms encircle my waist. “I’ll unpack while you’re out. Sorry it’s taking so long.”
“It’s only been two months.” I laugh, turning to face him, and brush a hair out of his face. I make a serious face. “But you better unpack. You finally moved in — it should look like it.” I grin. “Kidding. Take your time.”
I kiss Nick quickly on the cheek and grab my phone and keys. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Have fun,” he says.
The bar is nice but not too nice. The cocktails they mix here are strong, and the prices are good, but the atmosphere is more divey than sophisticated. This is where Ace and I met up when he was in town last year, too.
I sit at the bar and order a tequila lemonade. My back sticks to the chair, so I lean forward and rest my elbows on the bar. It’s 8:07 PM, but Ace has never been on time.
My phone buzzes. Hey, his text reads. Got caught up, catch you next time I’m in town?
Whatever, I type out, but I erase it. All good, I send.
I’m driving my son to preschool, Sesame Street songs blasting from the speakers. We’re on our fourth listen to Bert and Ernie’s rendition of “Wheels on the Bus” when my phone rings.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, catching my son’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Let me take this, and we’ll get right back to the song.” He pouts but nods. “Hello?”
It’s a new number, but it’s the same voice. “Hey.”
“Oh! Oh, hey. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to say happy birthday.”
“Huh?” I glance at the mirror and see the pout turning into a deep frown. “Can I call you back?” I ask at the same time that my son cries, “I want the song back!”
“Who’s that?” Ace asks, but as the yelling continues, he says, “Yeah, yeah. Just wanted to say that.”
I hang up, put “Wheels on the Bus” back on, and turn on my blinker. My birthday was two months ago.
Whatever.
Maya Furukawa's work has previously appeared in Jurist, The Write Launch, and The Bangalore Review. She works as the Assistant Director of Upper School at a college-preparatory school in Washington, D.C., and resides in Silver Spring, MD, with her family and a small menagerie of pets.