Vanishing Girls by Lauren Oliver

Author:Lauren Oliver [Oliver, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Google: 7VIJBAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00KVHZVI8
Barnesnoble: B00KVHZVI8
Goodreads: 22465597
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2015-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

BEFORE

FEBRUARY 16

Nick

“Tell me again”—Aaron takes my ear between his teeth, pulling lightly—“what time your mom is coming home?”

He’s made me say it three times already. “Aaron,” I say, laughing. “Don’t.”

“Please,” he says. “It’s so sexy when you say it.”

“She’s not,” I say, giving in. “She’s not coming home at all.”

Aaron smiles and moves his mouth from my neck to my jawline. “I think those might be the hottest words in the English language.”

Something hard and metal is digging into my lower back: the spine, probably, of the pullout couch. I try to ignore it, try and get into the mood, whatever that means. (I’ve never understood that phrase; it makes it sound as if moods are something you choose, like putting on a pair of pants. Dara and I once decided that “sex-mood” would be a leather romper, skintight. But most of the time I just feel like a big pair of sweatpants.)

But when Aaron shifts his weight, leans into me with a knee between my legs, I let out a sharp cry.

“What?” He sits back, instantly apologetic. “Sorry—did I hurt you?”

“No.” Now I’m embarrassed and scoot backward, instinctively covering my breasts with an arm. “Sorry. Something was digging into my back. It was nothing.”

Aaron smiles. His hair, true black and silky, has grown out. He brushes it away from his eyes. “Don’t cover up,” he says, reaching out and easing my arm away from my chest. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re biased,” I say. Aaron’s the beautiful one. I love how tall he is, and how small he makes me feel; I love the way basketball has defined his shoulders and arms. I love the color of his skin, a cream-gold, like light shining through autumn leaves; I love the shape of his eyes and the way his hair grows silky-straight.

I love so many individual things, points of a compass, dots on a diagram. Yet somehow when it comes to filling in the big picture, to loving him, I don’t. Or I can’t. I’m not sure which, and I don’t know that it matters.

Aaron reaches out and grabs my waist, leaning backward and drawing me onto his lap simultaneously, so I’m the one on top. Then he’s kissing me again, exploring my tongue carefully with his, running his hands lightly up and down my back, touching me the way he does everything: with cautious optimism, as if I’m an animal who might startle away from his touch. I try to relax, try to stop my brain from firing out stupid images and thoughts, but suddenly all I can focus on is the TV, which is still on, and still replaying old episodes of some competitive grocery shopping show.

I pull away and just for a second, Aaron lets his frustration show.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just not sure I can do this to a soundtrack of The Price Chopper.”

Aaron reaches for the remote, which is lying on the floor next to our shirts. “Do you want to change it?”

“No.” I start to ease off him.

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