Jessica Sorensen - Delilah: The Making of Red

For the first time ever, I feel confident.

I feel like Red.

But then my mom walks into my room, wearing nothing but a silk shorts and matching tank top with no bra, and suddenly the illusion of the goddess in the mirror shatters.

“You look nice,” she says, after opening the door.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for my perfume on the dresser. “Is Dylan out there waiting?”

She nods and then leaves the door open as she walks away. I take a deep breath, feeling my nerves shiver inside me, but keep my chin up as I grab my purse and head out to the living room.

When I enter, Dylan has his back turned to me as he looks at some of the photos on the wall of what used to be my family. I’m not sure how to get his attention, so I clear my throat.

He turns, and I clutch onto my purse as he scans over my outfit, my hair, my body. “You look amazing,” he says with lust in his eyes that makes me glad I chose the red dress.

A slow, unsteady breath eases from my lips. “Thank you.”

He glances over me again and more lust radiates from him. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then offers me his hand.

I take it and again I feel the magic in his touch as he leads me toward the door. I thought the night was so full magic and possibilities that I was going to change because of it.

And I did.

But not for the better.

Summers in Maple Grove are surprisingly hot, considering how intense our winters are. It’s eight thirty at night and it still feels as hot as it did midday. But I’m enjoying the heat as I wander around the fair with Dylan at my side, the smell of cotton candy and caramel apples in the air, the sounds of roller coasters and other rides in the background. Lights flashing everywhere. It’s a magical night and I feel like Cinderella at the ball, especially with the way Dylan keeps looking at me and how he holds my hand for the entire world to see and doesn’t let it go, even when a few of his friends join us for a while.

We spend a lot of time riding the rides, ones that he lets me pick, never complaining even when I say I want to ride the Ferris wheel, which is known as the “couples’ ride.” He tells me I look pretty, that he likes my laugh. He smiles a lot. He has a really nice smile, one that makes people turn their heads and makes me forget how to breathe.

By the time we’re coming off the Tilt-A-Whirl, I’m high off the night, so elated I do a few pique turns when I’m going down the exit ramp with my arms out in front of me, spotting all the way to the bottom.

Dylan laughs as I reach the bottom. “That was impressive.”

“That was nothing,” I say proudly and then do a few fouetté turns, swinging my leg out as I spin in place on one toe. I smile when I finish and Dylan smiles back, completely entertained, and it makes me feel warm and breathless inside.

Then he steps off the exit ramp and brushes his hand across my lower back before heading toward the concessions. “So, Red.” He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans with a little bit of fray on them. His black shirt is just tight enough that I can see how solid his chest is. He’s also got a black baseball cap on that he’s wearing backward, hiding his hair, but he still looks as sexy as he does standing out shirtless working on his car. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?” I ask, fiddling with the strap on my dress, my skin damp from the heat and doing the dance moves.

He shrugs. “Anything,” he says. “Who you are? Where you’re from? I want to learn more about you.”

I fan my hand in front of my face. “Well, I actually used to live in Fairmount, but then my mom and dad got divorced a few years ago and we moved here because my mom needed to start over.”

“Do you ever go visit your dad?” he asks, watching me as we walk, the lights around us reflecting in his eyes.

I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him since the divorce.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “That sucks.”

I nod in agreement, staring at a candy apple booth beside me. “Yeah, but it’s probably for the best.”

There’s a brief pause, and when I glance over at him, he’s giving me a quizzical look. “How do you figure?” he asks.

I shrug, stopping and shuffling my heels against the dirt. “Well, he wanted a do-over too, like my mom, only instead of relocating he got a perfect new family, and I don’t really fit into that picture.”

His eyes leisurely scan over my legs, my cleavage, my neck, finally landing on my eyes. His eyes are hooded and gorgeous and his attention makes me feel special. “You look pretty perfect to me.”

My cheeks heat from his compliment. No guy has ever talked to me like this, and I feel like I’m going to melt. “Thanks, but I don’t think he agrees,” I say, and we start to walk again. “In fact, he made that pretty clear when he signed over full custody to my mom because he”—I make air quotes—“didn’t have time to raise a teenager the right way.” I lower my hands to my sides. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“I think your dad is an asshole,” he says with so much anger in his voice it startles me a little. And it should have startled me more. I wish I could go back and shake that girl, tell her to wake up and see the signs, but I can’t. All I can do is remember.

He reaches out and cups my cheek. The anger still there, and I can feel his hand trembling. “How could he not want you?”

His words are so overwhelming I start to tremble, fighting to keep my legs under me. He can feel it, too, and he brings his other hand up and cups my face between his hands.

“Hey, you want to go somewhere more private?” he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Somewhere where we could talk some more without all the noise and chaos.”

I nod eagerly. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

He takes me up to Star Lookout, where teenagers are known to go and make out. I’ve never been there, but once we get up there I realize the allure of the place. It’s got a gorgeous view of the city, the lights sparkling below and the stars twinkling from above. Plus it’s quiet and there’s no one around, so we have a lot of privacy.

“You know, I used to come up here a lot in high school,” he admits after we park and he puts the parking brake on, leaving the air conditioning on and the radio, along with the headlights.

I want to ask him if he’s brought other girls up here, but not wanting to seem absurdly jealous, I ask, “Wasn’t that, like, this year?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t been to school in two years.” He pauses, watching me. “I dropped out at the beginning of my junior year.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond.

“Do you think less of me now?” he asks, more entertained by my uncomfortable reaction than anything. “That you’re on a date with a high school dropout?”

“Not really.” I turn in my seat and face him, tucking my dress under my legs. “I’m not that great in school myself.”

“Yeah, but you still go,” he says, rotating in his seat and leaning against the door, his attention still fixed on me. “I chose to give up and be a deadbeat.”

“You’re not a deadbeat,” I tell him. “You work.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a steady job,” he says, bitterness slipping into his voice for a brief moment. “I’m just a washed-up loser at eighteen.”

My heart aches for him. “I don’t believe that’s true at all.”

“Yeah, but you barely even know me. And if you asked my father, he’d tell you how wrong you are.”

“Well, I think your father’s an idiot. In fact, most are.”

He sits quietly in the dark for a moment, and when he speaks again he sounds calm and content. “You think so?”

I nod, loving that I made him feel better. “I know so.”

He scoots closer to me and leans forward toward the console. “You know what, Red, you are very wise for a sixteen-year-old.”

My expression immediately falls. “I’m seventeen.”

He reaches for me and grabs a lock of my hair. “I think it’s cute that you’re trying to pretend you’re older,” he says. “But I promise it doesn’t matter.” He plays with the strand of my hair, tugging on it. “And word of advice. The next time you lie about your age, you should let your mom in on it.”

“She told you.” I frown, feeling ridiculous.

He chuckles lowly. “She actually told me a lot.”

“Like what?”

He starts twisting my hair around his finger, forcing my head closer to him, almost like he’s reeling me into him. “Lots and lots of stuff, like how you’ve never had a boyfriend before,” he says, seeming pleased. “But let’s not talk about that.”

Then, giving me no time to get embarrassed, he tugs on my hair just a little bit and my lips crash into his. The taste of him soars through me. I feel high. Powerful. Intoxicated. And the sensation only builds when he pulls me over the seat and onto his lap so I’m straddling him, and he does it somehow without breaking the kiss.

At first everything starts off innocently. Our tongues gently searching each other’s mouth, him playing with my hair and running his fingers along my shoulders. He even shudders once when I bite gently on his bottom lip, something I saw a woman do on television once.

Then his hand starts to wander under my dress, inching under the fabric. And the more heated our kiss gets, the higher his palm slides up, until finally he’s cupping my ass.

I’ve never done this with a guy before, and I feel breathless and excited and terrified all at the same time, because it’s new and I’m not one hundred percent sure that I should want him to touch me this way as much as I do.