You in Five Acts(59)

There was Monday: Coming up out of the subway into one of those impossibly beautiful Manhattan spring mornings, like God had Gershwin on surround sound, still tasting you on my lips, my whole body humming as I took the stairs two at a time, barely feeling my feet (you were right: adrenaline is a crazy drug). We flew across that stage, nailed the lift, and could barely keep our hands off each other, which Mr. Dyshlenko and the pianist pretended not to notice. “I will tell Sofia she has nothing to worry about,” he said with a wry smile.

After rehearsal, we got lunch and walked to Central Park West, up to Sheep Meadow, where we lay for hours in various states of entanglement. With your head resting on my stomach, gazing up at a cloudless sky, you rewrote history, telling me everything you’d thought but hadn’t said for the past four years. I was especially shocked by the fact that Caleb—who you’d been so nice to—had inspired various revenge fantasies in which you unleashed some crazy capoeira on him in the orchestra pit.

“Maybe you should double major in drama,” I teased.

“What, you weren’t jealous?”

“Of your lady friends?” I thought for a minute. You flirted with so many people, I never really knew who you were just talking to and who you were actually talking to. “No.”

“Not even a little?” You sounded disappointed, and I wondered if I should tell you that whenever Liv or Ethan would start telling me about one of your hookups, I would stop them and change the subject. Liv always thought I was being a prude, and Ethan acted pissed, like I was robbing him of a valuable storytelling opportunity, but really I just never wanted to think about you, like that, with anyone.

“I mean, I guess I’m glad you never had anything serious.” I ran my fingers through your hair. “That would have been weird.”

“Actually,” you said, “I did have something kind of for real with—”

A stab of envy tore through my gut. “I don’t want to know!” I cried.

“I knew it!” You sat up and grinned, then leaned down and kissed me. “Don’t worry,” you whispered, your lips still grazing mine, your thick lashes fluttering against my cheek, “I was just waiting for you.”

? ? ?


There was Tuesday: sitting in the locker room with ice on my ankle and heat everywhere else, as you gently explored the territory under my thin cotton tank, your mouth on my neck. Things were moving fast, but then again we weren’t exactly starting from the beginning; it felt all of a sudden like we’d been dating for years and had only just realized we were allowed to touch.

On the uptown train ride I asked you, vaguely, if you’d ever had sex. I didn’t really get the words out, but you could tell where I was going and saved me from having to get too detailed about the most intimate act two humans could share while we were squished next to an enormous sleeping construction worker.

“A few times,” you said. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait. I didn’t know if—”

“No, I’m relieved,” I said, leaning over to whisper the next part: “One of us should know what we’re doing.” Your ears turned red.

“Girl,” you murmured, “Stop it. You’re going to kill me.”

We had dinner at your house, crowded around the tiny dining table with your mom and little brothers, eating pork and plantains while the Yankees game played on the radio. “I’ve given up,” your mom laughed. “I’ve surrendered to chaos!” But I loved how noisy and homey it felt, and how playful and loving the fighting was (except for Miggy and Emilio, who seemed resolved to do each other serious bodily harm through a series of post-meal couch-wrestling matches). In my family, I was used to silence, passive-aggressiveness, or the classical station on NPR. Deep belly laughter was not a Rogers-Wilson household specialty.

There was no chance I’d be staying over—a triple threat of Catholicism, a shared bedroom, and my parents’ curfew policy made that abundantly clear—but your mom pulled me aside before I left, both to send me home with extra food and to tell me how happy she was about us.

“This just fills my heart,” she said. When she smiled, she looked like you—or, maybe, you looked like her—all dimples and bright, dancing chestnut-colored eyes. “Between my job and his rehearsals I barely see him, and it’s hard not to worry. But now that he has you . . .” She laughed and waved at her face, blinking back tears. “You lift him up, that’s all.”

“Actually,” you said, coming up and giving her a half sincere, half shut up now hug, “I lift her up. If we’re being technical.”

“We’re not,” I said dryly, and your mom burst out laughing.

“Don’t let this one go,” she told you.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you said, just as Emilio beaned you in the face with a throw pillow.

? ? ?


And then there was Wednesday: Mr. D emailed us to say that he was sick, but you quickly texted that we should rehearse anyway, since we had security clearance to be at school and the whole stage to ourselves, so I dragged myself out of bed (oh, who am I kidding, I leapt. Leapt! Despite the lightning rod of pain in my leg), showered, and threw on my warm-up clothes, skipping coffee since I was already running strong on what felt like a battalion of butterflies madly flapping their wings inside my chest.