Chapter 4: The Walk to the Car

We leave the diner together.

The bell on the door rings behind us. Outside, the cold hits my face. It feels sharper now after the warmth inside. My body tenses up. I pull his hoodie tighter around me. My fingers have disappeared inside the sleeves again.

Eli notices. "Still cold?"

"A little."

"The car is not far. Campus lot. We can cut through the park."

The park. At night. With a man I just officially met two hours ago. My mother's voice is in my head again, loud and clear. Never walk through a dark park with a stranger. Never get in a car with a man you do not know. Never, never, never.

But Eli is not a stranger. Not really. I have been watching him for six weeks. And he has been watching me.

"Okay," I say. "The park."

We start walking. The street is empty. The stores are dark. The only light comes from the streetlamps and the neon diner sign behind us. Our footsteps echo on the sidewalk. His are heavier than mine.

We walk side by side. Not touching. But close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his body. He still does not have his hoodie. He gave it to me. His arms are bare under his t-shirt. He must be freezing, but he does not complain.

"Are you cold?" I ask.

"I told you. I run hot."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it is true."

We enter the park. It is small. Just a patch of grass with some trees and a walking path. During the day, students sit here on blankets. They read books, eat lunch, play music. At night, it is empty. The trees block some of the streetlamp light. The shadows are deeper here.

I feel my heartbeat pick up a little. Not because I am scared. Not exactly. It is something else. Something I do not have a name for.

I have never done this before.

Not walking through a park at night. That I have done. But walking through a park at night with a man who looks at me the way Eli looks at me. A man who drew me for six weeks without saying a word. A man whose hoodie I am wearing right now, whose smell is wrapped around me like arms.

I have never let a man this close.

In high school, I was the smart one. The focused one. The girl with the big dreams and the bigger books. Boys did not look at me the way they looked at other girls. Or maybe they did and I just did not notice. I was too busy. Too driven. My grandmother used to say, "Baby, you got plenty of time for boys later. Right now, you got work to do." So I did the work. I got the grades. I went to college. Then graduate school. Boys were never part of the plan.

And now I am twenty three years old. A virgin. Never been kissed the way they kiss in movies. Never been touched the way women in books get touched. Never felt a man's hands on my body. Not because I did not want to. But because I never met anyone who made me want to stop everything else.

Until now.

Until this strange, quiet man with his sketchbook and his tired eyes and his pencil bump on his thumb.

I do not know what to do with this feeling. It sits in my stomach like something warm and heavy. It spreads lower when he walks close to me. When his arm almost brushes mine. When he turns his head to look at me and the streetlamp catches his face.

"You are quiet," he says.

"I am thinking."

"What about?"

#About what your hands would feel like on my skin. About whether you kiss soft or hard. About why my body feels like this when I barely know you#.

"Nothing," I say. "Just the cold."

He does not push. That is one thing I am learning about him. He pays attention, but he does not push.

We walk a little more. The path curves. The trees open up and I can see the campus lot ahead. It is mostly empty at this hour. A few cars spread out across the blacktop. The lights on tall poles make everything look pale and still.

"Which one is yours?" I ask.

"The blue one. Near the back."

I see it. An older car. A Honda, maybe. Dark blue. A little worn around the edges but clean. He walks to the passenger door first. Opens it for me. Holds it open.

I stop.

I look at the open door. Then at him. Then at the door again.

My mother's voice. Never get in a car with a man you do not know.

But I do know him. I know he draws strangers. I know he plays piano badly. I know his father wants him to be practical. I know he takes his coffee black, because he did not add anything at the diner. I know he smells like laundry soap and pencil dust. I know he gave me his hoodie without me asking.

I know his name is Eli.

"Hey," he says. His voice is softer now. "You do not have to. I can call you a taxi. Or we can wait and see if another bus comes."

"You said the 10:50 was the last one."

"It is. But I can wait with you anyway. Just in case."

He means it. I can tell. He is not rushing me. He is not pushing. He is standing there in the cold without his hoodie, holding a car door open, telling me I do not have to get in.

Something in my chest loosens.

"No," I say. "I want you to drive me."

I get in the car. He closes the door gently. I watch him walk around the front to the driver's side. He moves slowly. Not in a hurry. Giving me time to change my mind.

He gets in. Starts the engine. Warm air begins to blow from the vents. The car smells like coffee and paper. The back seat has a few books on it. Architecture books, big and heavy. A rolled up poster. A hoodie that matches the one I am wearing.

"So," he says. "Where do you live?"

I give him my address. He types it into his phone and sets it on the dashboard. The map lights up. Twelve minutes away.

"Twelve minutes," he says. "If you want music, there is a radio. If you want silence, that is fine too. If you want me to pull over at any point, just say so. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You should text your friend. The one you said you would send my license plate to."

Right. I forgot. I pull out my phone. Take a picture of his license plate through the windshield. Then I send it to my best friend, Amina. I type a message.

Getting a ride home from Eli. Pencil Boy. If I disappear, this is the car.

Amina replies within seconds. WHO IS ELI. PENCIL BOY FROM THE BUS STOP? ARE YOU CRAZY? CALL ME THE SECOND YOU GET HOME.

I smile and put my phone away.

"Done," I say.

"Good. Now your friend will not have to hunt me down."

"She still might. She is very protective."

"I would expect nothing less."

He pulls out of the parking lot. The car moves smoothly. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee. I watch his hand. The same hand that drew me. The long fingers. The pencil bump on the thumb.

I wonder what that hand would feel like on my cheek. On my neck. On my waist.

My stomach does the flip thing again. And something else. Something lower. A warmth. A pulse. My thighs press together without me meaning to do it.

I am glad it is dark in the car. He cannot see my face. He cannot see the way I am looking at him. He cannot see the things I am thinking.

I have never thought these things before. Not about anyone. Not like this.

When I was younger, I wondered if something was wrong with me. My friends talked about boys. About crushes. About wanting to be kissed and touched. I listened and nodded and pretended to understand. But I never felt it. Not really. I thought maybe I was just different. Maybe my drive for school was stronger than my drive for anything else.

But right now, sitting in this warm car with this quiet man, I understand. It was never that I did not want it. It was that I never met anyone who made me want it.

Until now.

Eli turns onto my street. The houses are small and close together. Students live here mostly. Old porches and overgrown yards. He slows down, looking for my number.

"This one," I say, pointing.

He pulls up to the curb and stops the car. Turns off the engine. The silence rushes in.

We sit there for a moment. The street is dark. My porch light is on. I should get out. I should thank him and give back his hoodie and go inside and call Amina and go to bed.

But I do not move.

"Thank you," I say. "For the pie. And the ride. And the hoodie."

"You are welcome."

"Your hoodie. I should give it back."

I start to pull it off, but he stops me.

"Keep it," he says. "For now. You can give it back next Wednesday."

Next Wednesday. The bus stop. Our bench. He is already planning to see me again.

"Okay," I say. "Next Wednesday."

I open the door. The cold rushes in. I step out onto the sidewalk. My boots feel unsteady under me. Or maybe I am just unsteady. My whole body feels different. Awake. Like something was asleep for twenty three years and is just now opening its eyes.

"Goodnight, Nubia," he says through the open door.

"Goodnight, Eli."

I close the door. He waits until I am on the porch, until I have my keys out, until I unlock the front door and step inside. Then he starts the engine and drives away.

I lean against the closed door. My heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears. My body feels warm all over. My face is hot. My hands are shaking a little.

I walk to my bedroom. Take off my boots. Take off my sweater. I am still wearing his hoodie. I do not take it off.

I lie down on my bed. Stare at the ceiling. Think about his hand on the steering wheel. His voice saying my name. The way he looked at me when he said next Wednesday.

My phone buzzes. Amina.

Are you home? Are you alive? Who is this man?

I type back. Home. Alive. His name is Eli. He draws pictures. He gave me his hoodie. He took me for pie.

PIE? You hate going out late. You never talk to strangers. What is happening?

I stare at her message. I do not know how to answer. I do not know what is happening. I only know that something is happening. Something new. Something I have never felt before.

I type back. I do not know. But I think I like him.

You THINK?

I know.

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Finally she writes. Tell me everything. Do not leave out a single detail.

I smile. I roll onto my side. I pull his hoodie up to my chin and breathe in the smell of him. Laundry soap. Pencil dust. Something warm and clean.

Then I start typing.

But even as I tell Amina everything, there are things I do not say. Things I keep for myself. The way my body felt when he looked at me. The warmth that spread through me in the car. The way my thighs pressed together without my permission. The fact that I have never felt this before. Not once. Not ever.

The fact that I am twenty three years old and a virgin. And that for the first time in my life, I am thinking about what it would be like not to be.