Perfect. Part 13

Wish I Could Say I've fallen for the perfect girl, but that would be a lie. Or at least a gross exaggeration.

There's a lot about Jenna to love.

The way she looks, of course, all curves and frothiness.

Cotton candy. Or c.u.mulus clouds.

And when she turns her focus on you, brother, you are king and she is part lady-in-waiting, part concubine. You want to put her up on a pedestal, as long as she's naked. We have gotten naked a time or two, and Lord help me, that girl has shown me things most grown women would blush at.

All that stuff goes in the plus column.

In The Minus Column Loitering beneath the sweet fluff, the wide-eyed faux innocence, is something hard. Maybe even just a little bit scary. A fallen angel, perhaps. A creature of the heavens, surviving in earthly shadow.

I don't see that part of her very often.

Just a b.i.t.c.hlike snap at someone she might consider compet.i.tion.

A misplaced remark, revealing under- belly. But never directed at me. At least, not yet. There's something else, too. Something harder to define.

It has to do with the way she can s.h.i.+ft between demanding total attention to turning herself off to the rest of the world. Blanking out everyone else completely. Even me.

It's A Small Price To pay for spending time with her.

Because, despite her few shortcomings, I think I'm in love with her. It sure feels that way when I'm with her.

I never want to let her go. She even has me trying new things-crazy things I'd never do on my own.

Today we're going to the Ultimate Rush Thrill Park at the Grand Sierra Resort.

Not sure what the rush is in miniature golf and b.u.mper cars, but we'll see. First Sat.u.r.day in March, the sun is out but the air is still pre-spring crisp, so when I pull up in front of Jenna's house, I'm not expecting to see her dressed the way she is. Then again, it is Jenna, so why am I surprised that she has chosen b.u.t.t-clinging shorts and a low-cut sweater that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination?

At least she brought a very small, very tight leather jacket. "d.a.m.n, girl, you sure you're going to be warm enough? Kind of chilly out."

She s.h.i.+mmies into the pa.s.senger seat.

Smiles. Yeah, but you know how to keep a girl warm.

I can't help but admire what her push-up bra is pus.h.i.+ng up. "Not sure who's keeping who warm, but let's go."

The Ultimate Rush Is more than a little obvious as soon as we pull in and park.

I've driven past the Grand Sierra a few times, and for some reason I never really looked at what these tall white towers were. Namely, truly frightening thrill rides, especially for someone like me, who is not especially fond of heights. "I thought we were playing peewee golf and driving go-carts." A scream pulls my eyes past the winds.h.i.+eld just as the backward bungee jump yanks a couple in a small cage some seventy feet into the air. "Uh... that doesn't look fun."

Sure it does. And just in case you need some liquid courage, I brought this. It will keep us warm, too.

She pulls a flask out of her purse, offers it to me. Cinnamon schnapps. Careful. It's got a little bite.

Alcohol and backward bungee jumping?

Sounds like a bad combination to me. "I don't know..."

Come on, she purrs, taking a sip herself before urging the flask into my hand. It will take the edge off.

Slow burn the edge off is more like it.

Cinnamon schnapps is like cinnamon cough syrup. Thick and too sweet, despite the signature Red Hot flavoring.

Liquid flame trickles down my throat.

"Lord, girl." It comes out a raspy whisper.

And I can feel a sticky smolder creep into my empty stomach.

Yet I help myself to another nip before handing back the flask.

"Your mama should have named you Delilah."

Huh? She takes a long pull and doesn't even cough as it goes down. What a girl. A crazy, soon-to-be drunk girl. "You know, as in Samson and Delilah?" The rumble in my belly tells me I really need to eat.

Jenna shakes her head. Samson is, like, in Greek mythology, right?

We studied that in fifth grade. She smiles.

"Actually, the story is in the Bible and...

oh, never mind. You hungry? I am. Let's get food and then..."

Two people on a giant rubber band slingshot past the window, shrieking.

It doesn't look fun either. "Then we'll see."

Jenna Knows A good burger restaurant inside the Grand Sierra. We have to walk through the casino to get there. I hook my arm around her waist, claiming her. Not to mention keeping her a little more steady on her feet. She rocks slightly, exaggerating the sway of her hips.

Heads turn and every old pervert in the place looks at me with envy.

Jenna puffs up on the attention. Did you see that guy? I thought his eyeb.a.l.l.s were gonna pop out of his head.

I should feel proud, right? So why does my face flush, fever-hot, and blood roar in my ears? "Do you have to shake your a.s.s like that? Those dudes probably think you're a hooker." Immediately, an apology springs to my lips. But, schnapps or just because it's her, Jenna couldn't care less. Hey, you got it, flaunt it.

She's so cute, I don't want to argue and spoil the day. But I really do wish the only guy she played flirt with was me.

Instead she flaunts her way to Johnny Rockets, exposes five-star cleavage to get us a better table a little quicker.

If it wouldn't be too, too obvious, the host would probably walk backward, to better enjoy the view.

Our order is taken in record time, although the waiter lingers, making suggestions, awash in Jenna's sensual aura.

When we're finally sort of alone, I can't help myself. "That kind of attention could get a girl into trouble."

Her Smile Dissolves And her eyes ice over. She is silent for several seconds, then opens up. A girl can get into trouble without doing a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing. Better to know what you have and how to use it to get what you want.

At least then, you're in control. You have the power. I never want to be powerless again. She doesn't offer anything else, and though I know there's a lot more, I'm not really sure I want to hear the rest anyway. She leans forward, and my eyes are drawn to the inhale- exhale in the deep scoop of her sweater.

That makes her smile again, and I can't think of anything to say. Thank G.o.d our food arrives.

Post Burgers And Fries The day has warmed even more, and it feels good to walk in the suns.h.i.+ne, holding Jenna close.

I'm glad I brought plenty of cash. Each attraction is a separate cost. The big ones are major. "Holy c.r.a.p.

Twenty-five dollars each to lose our lunch?

Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, I don't mind paying...."

I look up at the rubber band thingie. Jenna laughs. Let's start with the go-carts, see how we feel. She, of course, outdrives me, and somehow I'm not amazed when she convinces me to spend fifty bucks to try the slingshot.

We climb into the cage, and as they strap us in, I wonder if I am more afraid of the ride or of my girlfriend.

Cara

Am I More Afraid Of taking a chance and learning I'm somebody I don't know, or of risking new territory, only to find I'm the same old me? There is comfort in the tried and true.

Breaking ground might uncover a sinkhole, one impossible to climb out of. And setting sail in uncharted waters might mean capsizing into a sea monster's jaws.

Easier to turn my back on these things than to try them and fail.

And yet, a whisper insists I need to know if they are or aren't integral to me.

Status quo is a swamp.

And stagnation is slow death.

Sunday Mornings I usually sleep in, but today I wake from a weird dream about trying to extricate myself from quicksand.

I can't quite shake the dread, so I haul my b.u.t.t out of bed, force my blurry eyes to look out the window. What a stellar day- sun-washed, brittle blue sky.

No hint of wind. Maybe I'll go for a run. Now that I'm finished cheering, I need regular exercise or I'll turn into a big tub of nerves.

I dress in sweats, a long-sleeved tee, my favorite running shoes.

The house is quiet when I go downstairs. Guess no one but me had bad dreams last night. I swallow a power bar, a gla.s.s of water.

Stretch a little, head out into the cool bra.s.s morning. I swing onto the bike path that snakes through our neighborhood. The sun slips warm fingers through my hair, and I try to outrun the demons nipping my heels.

Sean. Conner. Dani, who called yesterday and asked when I was going boarding again. She wants to see me. I had almost convinced myself our connection was all in my head. That our kiss was a test.

One I failed. Then came her call and the husky promise of her voice.

I push myself faster, engage overdrive, tugging in air scented with wet sage. At the three-mile mark, I turn around, slow to catch my breath. Jog until my muscles start to relax. As the old song says, "I feel like I'm a cog in something turning."

Down The Home Stretch I approach the Sanderses' house and slow even more. In the driveway is a moving van, and now I notice the FOR SALE sign staked in the lawn.

Men hustle in and out, carrying boxes and wheeling furniture-laden dollies.

I watch for a minute, absurdly feeling like I am somehow responsible.

No. Not me. And not Conner. This is my mother's doing. Well, okay, Emily Sanders has to take some of the blame, but it bothers me that my mom not only got her fired, but also strong-armed her into selling her house and moving away.

That is wrong on so many levels.

The most messed-up thing about it is that Conner's warped need started the whole thing. Yes, it takes two to dance. But somebody has to lead.

I Run Home Blow through the door, down the hall. Mom and Dad are drinking coffee. At the same table, even.

It's all so civilized, so domestic, I can hardly believe it and almost forget what upset me to start with.

Almost. "What have you done?"

I glare at Mom, and she responds with an amused stare. I'm sure I don't know what you mean.

And are you dripping sweat on the tile? She is always so measured, sometimes I wish I could make her yell. But I can barely get her to frown. "How did you manage to make the Sanderses sell their house?"

We have a restraining order in place. I pointed out the obvious- it would be easier if she and Conner simply never came face-to-face.

And anyway, their divorce is no doubt imminent. It's just as well they think about how to divide things up when the house does sell.

G.o.d, she is smug. "Oh, so you talked them into getting a divorce, too? Awesome, Mother. Who knew you could be so persuasive?"

She levels me with her eyes.

I had nothing to do with that.

It was Emily Sanders's extremely bad judgment that got her into this mess. No husband in his right mind would stay with a woman like her. Isn't that right? Directed at Dad, who dares not say a word unless it's the exact word Mom wants to hear. Dad shrugs, goes back to his paper. And all I can do is quit dripping sweat on the tile.

I Turn The Shower Hot I feel dirty, and not from my run.

Nothing Mom said was totally wrong, but I just can't get it out of my head that she has taken the Sanderses' tattered lives and made sure they could never be sewn back together again. And I think she would do the same to me, if I ever gave her a reason.

All she cares about is being right.

Winning. And taking out anyone who might tarnish her sterling reputation. No wonder Conner went to such an extreme. If you're going to make a statement, make it a big one, not that I'd dream of taking on Mom. Now that is crazy.