Boy on a Train: The All American Boy Series Read online

  Change was slow and hard sometimes. I was easing into Tate being something more than my buddy, because if this was real—as I wanted it to be—I wanted to make sure it lasted.

  Plus, I didn’t know if my overly protective dad would be willing to let Tate hang out as much if he knew we were kissing.

  Correction. If he knew we’d had one kiss.

  Just one.

  “Sure,” Dad said easily enough. “Have fun. Let me know where you’re going and when you’ll be back.”

  I nodded.

  “Popcorn, Audrey?” Dad offered me the bag.

  “No, I’m not hungry yet.”

  “Okay. Pork chops tonight,” he said, and I suppressed a whine.

  Everyone knew I hated pork chops, but they were his favorite, so several times a month we had them for dinner. Dad stuck a hand in his bag o’ popcorn and kept going down the hall.

  I glanced at Tate and giggled, figuring I’d ask Dad what was up after Tate left. Tate stifled a smile, because he knew my dad almost as well as I did. Tim Staunton surely had his quirks. Dad served in the Navy on a submarine and survived on a steady diet of popcorn and sweet tea. Twenty-five years later, his diet remained the same. Only now he worked in a firehouse instead of a submarine, and he was waiting for his years of service to pass before retirement.

  Tate and my dad got along, and I knew Tate was amused by my dad’s eccentricities. But I wondered if that amusement would change to fear if my dad found out what I wanted to do to Tate. With Tate. All over Tate. And let Tate know his opinion on those activities.

  Or would Dad accept that his daughter was growing up?

  I flipped to another flashcard. “When did the Cuban Missile Crisis end?

  Tate answered, and we went back to studying. With my dad on the prowl, we didn’t dare do anything but go through flashcards.

  Although my mind lingered on kissing.

  When it was time for dinner, Tate got up, gathered his backpack, and stood in my room, uncertain.

  This time, I wanted to take control, since he’d broken the ice and kissed me first. I rose up and was about to kiss him fast on the lips. But he held my upper arm away from him. As if on cue, my dad popped up in the hall again.

  Kiss blocker.

  I scowled. Because there was no way I’d kiss Tate in front of my dad, at least not until I felt more comfortable with that activity with Tate.

  “I’m on my way out,” Tate said to my dad. Then he smiled at me. “See you Sunday,” he whispered, and touched my nose with his fingertip. “I’ll text you.”

  I nodded watching him go, and I’d never felt more expectant or happy.

  Really, I should have known the moment Dad announced pork chops on the menu that it meant bad news. Especially pork chops coated in Shake N’ Bake, my least favorite dinner. It’d be simpler if he just gave me a pig to gnaw on rather than an insipid inch-thick piece of pale gray meat. That way it would at least be a challenge.

  I liked food with flavor. I loved anything Mrs. Lemieux cooked. I hated bland.

  But it should’ve been a sign that nothing good would come of this dinner. I should’ve been prepared.

  I wasn’t. It blindsided me.

  After Tate left, I distracted myself by reenacting our ever-so-quick kiss from yesterday and forgot to think about my dad’s behavior. Soon enough we gathered at the dinner table—Dad, my mom, and me. Dad put a chop on my mom’s plate and started to cut it. She’d been shaky and weak lately, so he’d been helping her out more.

  “Audrey.” My dad had a serious look on his face, and it made my stomach plummet. “We have something to tell you.”

  I glanced between them and noted the matching tight set of their jaws. Panic set in.

  Are they moving me away from Tate?

  Did Dad lose his job?

  Did someone die?

  “What is it?” I asked carefully, unfolding my paper napkin and putting it in my lap.

  “Mom and I went to the doctor today, and she got a diagnosis.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Besides the fatigue, she’d also had problems with her vision and with dizziness. She’d visited several doctors who had been unable to find anything. This new doctor had been recommended by her GP.

  “I have Multiple Sclerosis,” she said, her quivering hand reaching for her fork.

  I knitted my brows together. I’d heard of it, but I didn’t know anything about it. “What is that?”

  “It’s a disease where my immune system eats away at the protective cover of my nerves.”

  We’d always known my mom was tired, but we just thought it was because of her job as a nursery school teacher. Those kids were exhausting. She hadn’t been back to work since her leave of absence, not feeling well enough to last a whole day. But I wasn’t expecting this.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I found myself asking, having trouble processing her words.

  “Yes. It’s not fatal,” Dad said for her. “Lots of people live for years managing MS.”

  I let out a breath. “Okay.”

  “But she’ll need more care. And we’re going to get her a wheelchair.”

  “Okay,” I repeated, my brain whirring. I needed something to do, something to focus on.

  My dad passed me the salad, and I loaded up my plate with things other than pork chops.

  I ached to pull out my phone and research.

  My mom had always been small and frail, tiny boned like a bird. Her ring didn’t even fit on my pinkie finger. And she was precious. I was an only child of an only child of an only child. And she’d been my whole world just like I’d been hers. I didn’t want her to have to go through anything like this, even if I didn’t really know what it meant.

  But she was going to be cured. I didn’t have to worry.

  Right?

  I needed to research.

  We all chewed our dinner as silence descended on the table. If I were the type to cry, I probably would’ve, but I was determined not to, so I didn’t. After their news, I had no appetite, but I tried to eat my salad, and I pushed around the pork chop.

  “We have something to ask you,” my dad continued after a bit, and my mom looked miserable as he said it.

  Uh oh.

  “Anything,” I said. “Anything at all.”

  “Do you mind going to Merlot Valley Community College next year until I can retire? And then we can talk about sending you to New York? We’ll need help with cooking and cleaning. And appointments. I can’t take care of her if I’m at the station on shift. And I need to get in the years to qualify for the next tier of retirement.”

  My heart sunk.

  My natural reaction was to nod and agree before they even tried to convince me, because I’d do anything to help my mom, and I wouldn’t want Dad to have to do everything by himself. Plus, he had to work still, even if his hours were long shifts punctuated with periods of days off.

  But I had to think about this.

  Because New York. New York meant Tate.

  Tate.

  “I know this is a lot to ask,” my mom said gently, and her eyes welled up, and dammit, I was going to cry. I needed to head this off.

  I swallowed hard and shoved all thoughts aside. “Can I get used to the idea? Before I go changing plans?”

  “Sure, honey,” Dad said.

  “Thanks.” And I bit the pork and hid my grimace.

  My hands were steady. I glanced over at my mom. My hands were steadier than hers.

  I can figure this out.

  After doing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, I hurled myself on my bed, on the brink of tears.

  My heartbeat raced, and my mouth got dry.

  Did my mom being sick mean I’d lose Tate?

  Beating my pillow, I scolded myself. This wasn’t about me. It was about my mom. She deserved my care, and I needed to be there for her. I loved her. I’d care for her the best that I could.

  In a heartbeat.

  But it wasn’t that simple.
r />   I writhed on the sheets, running all possibilities through my brain to try to come up with a solution. Wishing everything were different. If we’d caught the MS before, then none of this would have happened. If Dad had started working a year earlier. If I were a better person.

  But I couldn’t bargain my way out of this.

  I curled up in the fetal position and let out a sob.

  I thought of Tate. Perfect Tate, who wanted to date me. Tate, with his pouty lips and generous personality and muscles and kindness.

  Tate, who filled my heart with joy.

  If I stayed home to take care of my mom, what would happen to us? I’d waited years for him.

  And now?

  Was our relationship destined to never get off the ground? Was it a broken-down train in the station, never to leave?

  If only I’d told him how I felt instead of waiting for him. If only we’d done this years ago.

  But we hadn’t.

  My chest tightened, and tears welled in my eyes.

  Cold dread came over me, because no solution was acceptable.

  God, this hurt.

  All the plans we made… New York. London. Japan.

  Maybe those were just talk. Tate lived in a different stratosphere than me. He had the ability to go anywhere and do anything. But it wasn’t like I could really do the things we wrote down. My dad made enough to live on, and he was off-the-charts frugal, but his money was nothing like Tate’s family. And I didn’t have any money.

  I’d always be George Bailey, dreaming about the round-the-world trip, but never being able to go.

  So, maybe this was a cold dose of reality. My life wasn’t dreamy or romantic.

  It had disappointments.

  And my mom mattered more than anything I was feeling. She needed my care. I’d give it to her.

  I flopped over and buried my face in my pillow.

  My tears flowed.

  They’re for my mom, I told myself. Because she’s sick.

  No, I thought. Be honest. They’re for me.

  Four

  Douchebag Advice

  Tate

  In truth, while I had no expectation of getting Audrey naked tomorrow—or indeed any time soon—my anxiety about being a fumbling virgin had overtaken the normal functions of my brain, and I needed answers. My internet searches had given me few useful pointers. I was starting to get desperate.

  It was in this vulnerable frame of mind while watching the Giants game on TV Friday night I asked my brothers, “Hypothetically, if I were to get laid, what moves do you recommend?”

  Major tactical mistake.

  About a year ago, I’d gone to a comedy club with my family, and the comedian chose my dad as his victim/target. Throughout the entire evening, the comedian would turn to my dad and make a comment like, “Isn’t that right, Al?” or “I bet your wife likes that, Al.” My good-natured dad had taken the ribbing in stride. I’d spent the entire evening grateful the comedian had skipped over me. Growing up with two older brothers, I didn’t need to voluntarily be the butt of a joke.

  Because I could be one anytime they wanted.

  Like now.

  Both of them gaped at me as if they couldn’t believe I’d asked the question.

  Then Perry, my middle brother, responded first, adopting a faux-professorial air. “The most important technique you need to know is how to properly lick her asshole.”

  At those words, my eldest brother Bert laughed hard, and even I couldn’t help my snort. I set down my root beer, closed my eyes, and thought about faking my own death so I’d never have to face Perry or Bert or anyone else again.

  Asking these jackasses was such a bad idea.

  Perry lounged in Dad’s leather wingback chair in the den, pokerfaced, like the jerk hadn’t said anything crass, and sipped his ginger ale. Which he drank on the rocks in a crystal old-fashioned glass as if it were whiskey. While wearing striped, tailored pajamas and velvet house slippers. And a top hat. All he needed was an ascot and a pipe to be Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion.

  Perry. He was twenty, not seventy-five. He could be hilariously pretentious. Note to self: get him a smoking jacket for his birthday. Or a monocle.

  After I wrung his neck.

  But I was the one dumb enough to ask the question, and I’d expected the useless answer. I’d just hoped I’d get something more.

  I sighed and shook my head, exasperated already. “Fuck off. I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s how to ease a girl into losing her virginity,” Perry insisted, with a smirk he couldn’t hide despite trying.

  “By rimming,” I said flatly. “You’re telling me to engage in rimming as a beginner’s sexual activity. Correction. You are recommending the first sexual act I do with the only girl I’ve ever liked”—loved—“is to apply my tongue to her ass.” I threw up my hands. “You’re such an unromantic bastard. I’ve never even put my tongue in her mouth.”

  Perry lost the battle with his smirk and his laugh erupted out, evolving into a choked cough. He set his glass down, now in hysterics.

  I glared at him. “Dick,” I muttered.

  All of us swiveled our heads to the television because the centerfielder was up at bat. When he struck out, we collectively groaned. The TV cut to a commercial.

  I turned to Bert, who wore gray sweats and a T-shirt like me, rather than fucking silk pajamas like Perry. My oldest brother tended to be more serious than Perry, and I found myself pleading with him, to my embarrassment. In for a penny, though. “Please don’t be a douchebag, B. Please tell me the truth.”

  Bert kicked up his feet on the coffee table and sipped his own soda. At twenty-two, he was the only one old enough to legally drink alcohol, but Mom and Dad had never cared if we drank as long as we didn’t leave the house. They said it was safer. And they usually took pictures of our hangovers. Amazingly, they also said they didn’t care if we smoked pot, since it was legal. As a result, none of us drank much alcohol or were potheads, likely because our parents were permissive. Reverse psychology worked wonders. Soda for all of us brothers tonight.

  Bert looked like he was struggling with whether to answer me seriously or not, and finally ended up shrugging. “Well, rimming is one thing you can do as a first sexual activity, although I wouldn’t recommend it on the first date. Maybe for Perry, yes. But for you? No.”

  “Thanks,” I said flatly. “You’re extremely helpful. What else shouldn’t I do? Do I need to bribe you with Warriors tickets to get an answer?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. This advice is free. I’m amazed you’re still a virgin. I thought you popped your cherry years ago—”

  “Not helping—”

  “And I personally think your first sexual activity should be to eat her out.”

  “Fuck you both,” I said with no heat, although my cheeks burned. “I’m sitting here trying to ask you both a serious question, and you’re making fun of me. I can learn more from porn than you dumbfucks.”

  “I’m being honest about going down on her,” Bert said, and he gave Perry a “help me out here, bro” look. “It’s hot, and it works.”

  “What do you mean, ‘works’?” I asked.

  “It’ll get her off. She’ll come. That’s what you want, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then that’s what you should do. Apply your tongue to her pussy.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” I groaned, scrubbing my face with my palms.

  “I’m serious,” Bert insisted. “It’s a good first move. I mean, after you get to second base or whatever.”

  I hadn’t gotten to second base. I also didn’t want to admit this. “I give up. You guys are no help.”

  Perry chuckled, picked up his glass, and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. For real, what do you want to know?”

  I thought about it. “What was your first time like?”

  I knew when both of them got laid, because they told me, but I’d never asked for details. Because eww, brothers.
Desperate times, though.

  Perry was more promiscuous and more forthcoming than Bert, so his ready response didn’t surprise me. “I got off. She didn’t. It wasn’t my best.”

  “See?” I said with vehemence, almost knocking over my root beer. “I want to avoid that. I want to be good at it. The sex thing.”

  “Most people don’t have great sex their first time.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and drained his drink, his eyes focusing on the opposing team’s batter.

  “I’m not most people,” I said strongly, and I meant it. “I want to make it exceptional for her.”

  The tone of my voice made both of them stare at me, and I could see their attitudes shifting from making fun of me to helping me out.

  And for this, I knew I’d asked the right people. Because while they were my brothers and it was their job to tease me, underneath it all they had my back and would tell me the truth.

  Bert studied me. “She matters to you, doesn’t she?” His voice had turned quiet and sympathetic, the kindly older brother, the one with a steady girlfriend. The one I needed.

  I nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.” My voice cracked.

  The batter made a base hit, and we all vocalized our protests at the TV.

  While the coaches huddled with the pitcher, Bert turned to me, and his voice stayed low and sincere.

  “I don’t know. There really isn’t a specific technique you need to know. There’s no magic move. She doesn’t have an on button or an off button—although you should be able to find her clit. Honestly, this is what works for me.” He leaned forward. “The thing that matters is listening to her, especially to the things she doesn’t say. Pay attention. Look at the way she moves and how her body reacts. Repeat the things she likes and keep doing them until she pushes you away. The best advice I can give you is to listen to her body. Oh, and don’t do things to her. Do things with her.”

  He sat back and sipped his drink, his eyes on the game.

  Perry and I took a look at each other and then gaped at Bert.