Where I Want to Be Read Free Page A

I’ve improved since last time.”
    “How about just as an excuse to sit close to you and breathe down your neck?”
    “Oh, well, sure. In that case.”
    He stuffs stray burrito wrappings and napkins back into the paper sack, and then places the guitar across my lap and swings a leg around so that he’s sitting behind me. I’m not exactly passionate about these guitar lessons. I’ve got hypersensitive, redhead’s skin, and the strings always feel like they’re about to draw blood from my fingertips. But nothing feels sexier than Caleb sitting so close, the insides of his thighs hard against the outsides of my thighs, his fingers pressing over mine, his breath in my earas he explains frets and chord progression. Always breath-minty breath, too, because Caleb is totally paranoid about halitosis.
    We strum through some chords. Caleb’s talented. He learned guitar from his uncle Rory, a burned-out music genius who lives in Venice Beach. Unfortunately, I’m no Uncle Rory. After I mangle an old Eric Clapton song, the pads of my fingers begin to welt.
    “End of lesson,” I tell him.
    “A’right, ma’am, then I’ll have to demand some payment.”
    The only thing sexier than Caleb sitting behind me is when he leans forward to kiss me. Warm, mint mouth, palms cupping the edge of my face. So slow, as if he is living only inside right now, without a hungry eye on what might come next. For a second, though, I think I sense something different, a funny-shaped moment where Cay seems to almost-but-maybe-not shift away from me.
    “Something wrong?”
    “Just…these damn mosquitoes,” Caleb says.
    “What are you talking about? There’s no mosquitoes. It hasn’t rained for weeks.”
    In response, he makes a halfhearted slap at the side of his neck.
    I pull away. “Caleb, if you don’t want to fool around, you don’t need to invent some pathetic lie about it.”
    “I’m not…” He slaps his forearm, too deep in.
    Now I’m annoyed, so I stand up in a huff and head inside.I scoop up the remote and turn on the television. Caleb, following me, flops onto the couch and yawns.
    “Okay. The thing is…Mike Heller’s having a party at his place.” Caleb forces the casual tone in his voice. “Tonight.”
    “Eh,” I answer. I press the channel changer.
    Caleb clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking. We’ve been us two pretty much every night. I dunno, Lily. It might be good to get out. See kids.”
    “We see kids every day at work.”
    “You know what I mean, smart-ass. Our-age kids. Even if we don’t want to…”
    I turn from the screen. Caleb scratches at the late-night fuzz that shades his jawline. I won’t say what I’m feeling. This summer, I’m too old for fun and parties.
    “Next party,” I say. “Next time. Promise. Just, not tonight.”
    “Right.” He seems disappointed. I act like I don’t notice.
    “Besides, this is fun, isn’t it?” I wish I could sound a little more joyful about it. “Playing house? No ’rents?”
    “Mmm.”
    The truth is, it’s not that different from when Mom and Dad are home, cloistered in their bedroom to watch their own TV and give us some privacy.
    I shinny down on the couch next to him and stretch out on my side. Our bodies curve together. Familiar, but not so relaxed that there isn’t a charge there. Or at least, I feel the charge, even though it’s been one year, nine months, three weeks, and five days since Caleb and I started seeing eachother. It doesn’t seem like real time, though. It feels like one single, perfect day blended with forever. But our two-year anniversary is real enough. October 10.
    We doze through a horror movie. My head is propped on a cushion that rests on Caleb’s shoulder. My fingers drag lightly up and down his forearm, the way my grandmother used to do when I was a kid to get me to sleep. Caleb’s arm is as thin as mine, chlorine bleached and nearly hairless.
    “Something happened to me today,” he says. “At the