Tease(15)

Carmichael studies them for a minute. “Yeah, everyone’s a phony,” he finally says, softly.

I look over, surprised he’s agreeing with me, but he’s just staring at Beth and Cherrie. Or maybe he’s staring past them—it’s hard to tell.

“The world is full of phonies,” he reiterates, but it doesn’t seem like he’s talking to me anymore. It sounds more like he’s reminding himself of something. Something he’d actually rather forget.





January


“DO YOU HAVE a—thing?”

The floor pounds beneath me as Dylan shifts to the side and reaches for his jeans. He doesn’t even answer my question; he just gets his wallet out of his back pocket and I hear the crinkle of foil.

It’s happening. It’s happening on the floor of Brielle’s parents’ guest room. The party’s still going on—the music is what’s pounding through the floor, through the walls. I practically had to yell about the condom, which kind of killed the mood. I think.

Though honestly, there wasn’t much mood to begin with. I started drinking around seven, I guess, well before anyone got to the party. Irish came through with the keg, but even before that, Brielle had gotten out the bottle of vodka she has hidden in her room for “special occasions.”

“Liquid balls,” she’d told me, pouring way more than a shot into a Solo cup. She poured one for herself, too, smiled wickedly, and downed it. I gulped mine. When I almost choked, she laughed and poured some more. “It’s your special night!” she crowed.

Now it’s, I dunno, ten? I’m wasted. I feel sleepy and wired at the same time. I feel like I love Dylan. I feel like he’s kind of crushing me into the carpet in a not completely romantic way. He hasn’t said much since we came into the guest room. He pushed a dresser half in front of the door. We were kissing and then we stumbled on our way to the bed, so here we are, on the carpet. Which is light blue. We should get on the bed, I think hazily—what if we stain the carpet? With . . . whatever?

Oh my God, he’s putting on the condom. I see his hands moving and quickly turn my head away, which makes the room spin. It’s dark in here, but not dark enough. Suddenly I feel really nervous and I wonder if I want to stop, if I’m about to throw up, if my life is turning into a crappy made-for-TV movie, if—

He’s on top of me again, and my last thought as a virgin is After this I won’t have to worry about it anymore.

It doesn’t hurt as much as I was afraid it would, but maybe that’s because it doesn’t take very long. I think I’m supposed to make sounds or something—like the movies, where it’s all screaming and moaning, isn’t that the way it goes?—but I’m still thinking about the carpet and then I’m kind of embarrassed for Dylan because he’s grunting and then—

That’s it.

He rolls off of me, still panting.

My bra is kind of wet from where he was sweating on it. I wonder if we should’ve taken it off first. It seems weird that he’s taken it off other times, while we were just making out, but didn’t for this.

The ceiling fan isn’t on, but it’s vibrating a little from the music, the long tassels swinging gently. I try to think about the song that’s playing, the song that played when I lost my virginity, but I can’t focus. I felt sober for a second, while everything was happening, but now I feel really drunk again.

“Dude,” Dylan says. He’s not talking to me; he’s fumbling with the condom. He curses under his breath.

I try to organize my limbs. I want to look sexy, how I’m supposed to look. I want him to want to do this again—not right now, but someday. Wasn’t that the whole point? Was this time even okay? My underwear are twisted around one of my ankles and I grab for them.

He’s not even looking at me, though. I know guys don’t like to cuddle afterward or whatever, but he’s already got his jeans back on and he’s running his hands through his hair, straightening himself up. Where did the condom go? How did he do that?

I reach out and try to gently pull his face toward mine for a kiss. Instead, I end up sort of lurching at his shoulder, grabbing it for support. I hear myself giggle and don’t even realize it’s me for a second.

“Hey, babe, steady,” Dylan says. It sounds so sweet I want to cry. That feeling you get at the back of your throat, right before the tears come. That lump. That happens—a split second after I’m giggling, I think I’m going to start sobbing.

Not a moment too soon, Dylan’s hands are around me, pulling me, holding me up. It’s not quite a hug, but it’s enough. It’s long enough for me to take a breath.

“You ready?” he asks.

I’m standing there in my underwear—sweaty bra and halfpulled-on panties—and I have to push my hair out of my face. But I nod, and I think I smile.

“Okay,” he says. He gives me a little kiss, softly. Nicely. “I’m gonna go back out there.”

His face is close to mine and I can just hear him over the music. I want to reach out to him again. I want to cuddle, even though that’s probably lame. I feel so close to him, I feel so warm inside, but really cold, too, in all the places he’s not holding.

But he’s not holding me at all now, he’s leaving. He’s pushing the dresser away from the door.