On the way out of the city they talk about their plans for Thanksgiving. It’s early October and he is on a break from school, and she isn’t, but still lives in the city. He’d offered to bring his car back for the weekend, so they could go away. Gavin is driving. They’re going to his family’s house, and also he doesn’t like when she drives. Lizzie prefers to look out the window. They are twenty-one and eighteen, and he likes that she is young. 

 

Gavin pulls up to the house, rocks crunch beneath the wheels as he drives on the gravel circling the lawn, and parks. The music switches off, and Lizzie is watching the house, which she’d only seen in pictures. It’s big, white, and the door is guarded by large pillars. She didn’t want to leave the city, which she hadn’t told him. He’d brought it up on their last night at the end of August and kept bringing it up after that. They’d been in her childhood bed, naked, and his fingers were folded into the divots of her ribs, her legs twisted around his. Their limbs were stuck in twists like licorice. He kept kissing her head, asking questions, and she was wiping the sweat from her neck with the pillowcase. They were both a little drunk, warm. 

 

Gavin doesn’t remember it like that. He remembers they split a bottle of wine at dinner and his hand cupped her knee on the train home. They’d discussed wanting to be together uninterrupted forever, so they settled on at least a weekend. When they got to her house, they mapped out their getaway in between kisses. She wanted to lie on top of the blanket, and he worried she’d be cold. Gavin said, If you want, we can go under the covers. Even their toes were touching then. Lizzie said, Up to you. And Gavin said, Why don’t you just say what you want? He said, I’m always guessing.

 

Lizzie said, I’m sorry you feel that way. 

 

Don’t apologize. 

 

Okay. 

 

Every time I tell you something like that you just apologize, he said. 

 

Every time you criticize me?

 

It’s a bad habit. 

 

Lizzie propped herself up a bit, so she was lying on her side, holding her head in place. She drew gentle circles on his chest with her other hand, her fingertip barely sweeping his skin. 

 

Will you tell your family the plans? she asked. What if they want the house?

 

They’ll be happy for us to use it.

It’ll be one of the last warm weekends.   

 

She combed her fingers through her hair, yanking through the knots, and twisted it into a bun then let it fall and returned her back to the bed. It was an old duvet, with a pattern of dark pink flowers.

 

They won’t mind, he said. They’ll be glad we’re together.

But what if they want it? 

Don’t get angry. 

I’m not angry, she said. It’s strange, that’s all. You don’t think about what they might want. 

 

It’s one weekend. 

 

We are so different. 

She turned her head and looked up at the thin cracks in the ceiling. Her eyes traced the ruptures above them and Lizzie wondered what it might make it collapse. He turned his head and grabbed her face so her eyes would meet his, touched his nose to hers. 

 

He said, What are you doing?

 

Nothing.

 

You’re very pretty, Gavin said, and he whipped his body on top of hers. She was tired, so she lay there while he parked kisses and dropped gentle bites around her body. 

 

Gavin spent the night after that, and before she fell asleep, Lizzie had to get up to pee. It would be their last night together for a while and she worried he’d fall asleep while she was in the bathroom. She climbed over his body. When she got to the bathroom she saw her eye makeup was smudged and her hair was in knots again. Lizzie pulled the bottle of face wash from the cabinet and before she pumped it into her hand, she tugged at her skin and wondered why Gavin loved her. Scrubbing the gel around her face and splashing cold water to wash it away, a little crept into her eye and made them tear. She rubbed a towel across her face and began to cry. Her eyes continued to sting as she rubbed different creams into her skin. 

 

Gavin’s family lived in a big house across from a big park in the city and Lizzie first saw it on a Friday night when she was in high school, three years ago. She went to pick up her sister from the party, so together they could go home, and Gavin opened the door. It was often like this — Lizzie making sure her sister made it home, and to school. Lizzie was wearing a white tank top and she’d put her cardigan on before ringing the bell. 

 

Oh, she said. I’m just waiting for Olive. 

 

He swallowed the last sip of his beer and looked at her. 

 

My sister. 

 

You can come in, he said, If you want.

 

Lizzie saw, then, Olive looking at herself in the foyer mirror, wiping the smudged mascara from beneath her eyes and fixing the lipstick smeared around her kissed-lips. Olive came running to the door, Sorry, sorry, sorry, she made eyes at her sister.

 

Gavin, she said, As always, a pleasure, she smiled and fluffed his hair like it was a puppy’s. 

 

Goodnight girls, he said as they began walking, Goodnight Lizzie. 

 

She turned around and saw him standing in the door. 

 

Lizzie still remembers the house like that, the stillness of his body in the doorframe. A lot of people really love him. He is good at most things and before they were dating Lizzie had heard he’d aced his SATs. They had been in a history class together and sometimes Lizzie had dreaded speaking around him, always finding herself wanting to say something he didn’t already know. 

 

Gavin gets out of the car and opens the trunk, then begins carrying the bags to the door. Lizzie gathers their trash — hers, a large coffee cup and a lollipop stick, and his, a Red Bull can, apple core, and the crust of a pastrami sandwich. She watches him through the car window, opening the door and handling the alarm, while she sits in the car with the bag of garbage in her lap. 

 

When they go inside Gavin fills a large glass with ice and water and stands at the sink while he chugs it, then refills it and chugs again. The cabinets in the kitchen are a pale gray-green with brass hardware. Lizzie flips through the pages of the newspaper that’s been left on the counter, from late August. She is laughing as Gavin goes through glasses as though he’s never quenched thirst, then reaches out her arms and opens and closes her hands, like clams, asking for some. Gavin sets his cup on the counter, grabs her fingers and places them on his shoulders, then takes her waist in his hands and begins to dance. He is leading their movement and singing.

 

Dum da da dum da.  

 

They dance for a few moments, like that, Lizzie almost limp in his arms. 

 

I was asking for the water, she whispers. 

He kisses her across her face and she tugs at his ears. Gavin turns away and refills the glass. Now there is only ice in half of it, and she can’t tell if she is thirsty, but drinks it anyway.