Can't Let Go by Jane Hill Page B

Carillo was nestling next to me, trying to
peer out of the same small window. I felt his stubble rub
against my cheek. His hand stayed on my back, and then
it moved – I'm sure it did – to rest on my bottom. It stayed
there for a while. I did nothing to stop it. In fact, I may
have encouraged him with a flirty wiggle. He grinned at
me; I grinned back. We were co-conspirators in jail
together.
    There was another cell that they allowed you in and
then shut the door on you, with a loud clang. The cell was
dark and crowded, and I was standing very close to
Rivers, so close that I could feel his forearm touching
mine. I leaned in a little closer and I think he did too.
Perhaps he was standing a little too close to me for
propriety, but I didn't care. I felt his hand touch my hip,
but maybe it was just for comfort. It was scary, dark and
claustrophobic in that cell.
    Later, we sat in the sunshine on the wall that overlooks
the drop down to the ocean and the skyline of San
Francisco. He asked me questions about myself: where I
lived, what books I liked, what music I listened to. He
asked me about my acting, my family, my plans for the
future. I tried to play the part of world-weary, cynical,
seen-it-all young adult in my replies, but I probably just
came across as a callow teenager.
    Whatever. We were definitely flirting. He flirted with
me and I flirted back. He recited a poem; I said I liked it
and asked him who wrote it. He told me that he had. I
knew I should be asking him more questions about
himself but I didn't. Instead I let him ask me stuff and I
tried to sound as interesting as possible with my
responses. I was sure he liked me for my mind.
    He took a photo of me, San Francisco in the background.
Then one of the other tourists offered to take a
picture of the two of us together and we moved apart
slightly. I felt Rivers stiffen. 'No. No, thanks. It's okay,'
he said. 'We're not together.'
    On the ferry on the way back to San Francisco he said,
'That might have taken some explaining to your parents –
a photo of you looking cosy with a middle-aged stranger.'
    'You're not a stranger,' I said.
    He looked at me, shook his head and laughed. 'Wrong
response. You were supposed to say, "You're not middle aged."'
    I looked at him. He was grinning.
    'How old are you, anyway?' I asked.
    'Thirty-eight. Does that seem really old to you?'
    I shook my head, firmly. I was surprised, but
determined not to show it. He was twenty years older than
me. More than twice my age. I smiled to myself. There
was something magical about that figure. Twenty years
older: he was Mr Rochester or Maxim de Winter. Rivers
Carillo was the perfect age for me.

Twelve
    An eighteen-year-old girl in charge of her own
sexuality is at least as dangerous as an eighteen-year-old
boy in charge of his own car. She might
even be more dangerous, because there's no test that you
have to pass, no theory, no practical. One minute you're
at school dreaming of pop stars and T V actors and romantic
heroes in novels; the next minute you're out there, all
tits and legs, tarted up and made up and ready to go.
    I knew what love was. I'd read about it in books and
seen it in films. I knew it made your heart beat faster and
your eyes glow, and it made you feel alive. Love made
stuff like eating and sleeping seem mundane and
unnecessary. I knew so much about love that I'd ended
things with my home-town boyfriend a couple of months
earlier because he made me feel none of those things. I'd
watched my sister Sarah with her fiance Chris and I'd
shaken my head sadly, full of teenage wisdom and
understanding, when I'd decided that they couldn't
possibly be in love because Sarah was so calm about her
forthcoming wedding.
    I was a deep and passionate person, and I was destined
to fall in love deeply and passionately with a deep and
passionate man.
    Or I was an annoying, naive, pretentious teenager
destined to have her heart broken into tiny pieces.
    I thought that Rivers Carillo was the