Trust(52)

“What?”

He grimaced. “Blood.”

Crap. Things between my thighs were a bit of a mess. “Oh, um, excuse me.”

I got off the bed and rounded up my bra, dress, and underwear. After cracking the bedroom door and listening for any signs of life from the rest of the house, I broke land speed records racing into the bathroom across the hall.

The girl in the mirror didn’t look any different. Mussed hair, pink cheeks, and swollen lips. Nothing permanent, however, seemed to have changed on the outside. Inside, things felt a little tender. I cleaned myself up and dressed. Then searched for a face towel to wet and take to John.

“I’d momentarily forgotten you don’t like the sight of blood,” I said, slipping back into the room.

A grunt.

“You okay?”

“Back in a minute.” After snagging his jeans off the floor, he took his turn in the bathroom. Apparently he wouldn’t be answering my question.

At a loss for what to do with myself, I took a seat at his desk and started putting on my boots. Sitting on the bed didn’t seem right. We’d done what we’d set out to do, and John didn’t strike me as the type to cuddle. Time to go back to being just friends.

Right, I could do this.

The toilet flushed and he reappeared, tying back his hair with a rubber band. He didn’t look at me. Guess we’d entered the part of the evening where we avoided eye contact. Awkward. This wouldn’t do.

“John, look at me.”

He did as told. “Yeah. Everything okay?”

I nodded, smiled.

His smile slowly returned. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Good.” He sighed, relaxing a little. “You want me to give you a lift back to your place?”

“To Hang’s would be great. Thanks.”

A nod.

I grabbed my cell and shot off a text.



Me: Back in 15

Hang: ???!!!

Me: You still at party?

Hang: No, come to my house.



“We’re fine, right?” I asked, not at all slightly nervous. “Still friends?”

He looked up in surprise. “Of course.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Shirt and shoes back on, he stood, hands on his hips. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks for that. For what we did.”

“Sure.” Another smile. “Ready to go?”

“Absolutely.”





That weekend, I did the laundry as a non-virgin. I also cleaned the kitchen, attempted to study, and then tried to start reading a new YA sci-fi series. Studying didn’t work as well without John, but texting him to come over so soon after last night’s events felt a bit weird. Eventually I gave up and took a nap.

Still, all of these miraculous feats were performed minus a hymen.

Remarkably, nothing much seemed to have changed. I still succeeded in doing the laundry, and failed on both the studying and reading fronts. Just like my previously hymened self. When we went out for lunch together at a local taqueria on Sunday, Mom didn’t even notice how her daughter had apparently become a woman. Of course, Hang guessed what had gone on. She’d taken one look at my messy hair and makeup and squealed with glee. Though, she’d been in on the planning stages.

I didn’t wake up the next morning feeling particularly wiser or more mature. Things down there were a bit sore, but that was about all.

Honestly, so long as there was consent and protection, the biggest danger in doing it for the first time seemed to be the memory you’d make and carry with you for the rest of your days. To be able to live with your decision and the whole reality versus expectations, etcetera. But once you’d started, did that automatically mean you should continue and just automatically do it with the next person you liked? Though that didn’t really make sense. Guess it depended on how you felt about the next person. And also, the risk of things getting emotional. If the person you’d had sex with ignored you after, or talked crap about you, that would suck. (Learning how to deal with assholes did, however, seem to be an unfortunate part of life.) I don’t know. Everyone’s different. And how I’d feel when I saw John again, I had no idea.

Found out first thing Monday morning in English class, though.

Ripped jeans, a faded T-shirt, and the mother of all yawns. He gave me a chin tip. I gave him a smile. Awesome. Not awkward at all. We’d survive this whole having-had-sex thing no problem.

“Hey, how you doing?” I asked, turning in my chair.

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

He pulled out his book and a pen, getting sorted. “Want to study tonight?”

“I’ll text you later.” I turned back to face the front of the class.

This was great. How stupid of me to have worried about how having sex would change things! Why, the scent of his sweat, feel of his skin, taste of his mouth, warmth of his breath, noises he made, weight of his body, strength of his hands, and his eyes, oh God, his beautiful eyes, never even entered my head.

We were still just friends. Excellent. Everything was perfectly fine.





While all remained apparently cool between John and me, the school grapevine was abuzz. Gossip had apparently been flying all weekend. We’d left the party together. Ooh!