My Last Innocent Year(40)

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IT WAS THE first weekend in March. Debra was at her cousin’s bat mitzvah, and Kelsey and Jason were heading up to Bo Benson’s ski condo in Killington.

I started getting ready as soon as they were gone. Roxanne was at her sister’s, so it was a rare Friday night that Connelly could get away. I’d hoped tonight would be the night, that I’d proved my devotion to him and our secret. I showered and shaved, then put on my prettiest bra and a pair of black pants with no zipper that I imagined him pulling off me with a yank.

Stringer Hall was dark at night. I tiptoed up to the fourth floor, then knocked my secret knock—three short taps.

“Come in.”

The lights were out. Connelly was lying on the sofa. His shoes were off, and he had one arm slung over his face.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” he said. “I’m having a vertigo attack. I’m waiting to see if it passes.”

“Should I go?” I asked, my voice heavy with disappointment.

“No,” he said, patting the sofa. “Come. Leave the lights off.”

I squeezed my hips into the space next to his shoulders. “I thought you got vertigo climbing high things.”

“Yeah, me too. But apparently not. Such are the indignities of old age.” He took my hand. “Talk to me. Tell me something.”

“What?” I wasn’t in the mood for talking.

“Anything.”

I took a deep breath and told him about the room I shared with Debra and Kelsey, how I slept on the top bunk because Debra was afraid of heights, the result of some sleepaway camp trauma. I told him about the couch we’d inherited from friends who’d graduated, how we’d had to carry it up four flights of stairs. How Kelsey had wanted to ask Jason and his brothers for help but Debra had insisted we do it ourselves.

“Ah, that Debra,” Connelly said.

I told him how the three of us used to be close but weren’t so much anymore, but that part made me sad so instead I told him how sophomore year, Ginny had gotten drunk and slid down a flight of stairs at Zeta Psi. She’d badly bruised her coccyx and had had to miss the rest of the crew season, and because of that I still got the words coccyx and coxswain mixed up. I told him about the time freshman year when my roommate and I woke up and found a guy peeing in our closet because he thought it was the bathroom. I told him about my job at the information desk and the Crushgirls, and even Bo Benson.

“Bo Benson,” he said. “Sounds like the name of a superhero. Is he a nice boy?”

“He’s okay.”

“Does he like you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet he does.” His eyes were still closed, his long lashes resting on his cheeks. “I bet every boy here is in love with you.”

“Hardly.”

“Their loss.” He ran a hand along my thigh. “Go. Lock the door.”

“I thought you were sick.”

“I feel better now.”

I ran for the door and locked it. As I headed back to the sofa, Connelly held up his hand.

“Stop,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I saluted, then started to unbutton my shirt.

“No. I want you to tell me something with that smart mouth of yours.”

“I’ve already told you everything.”

“No. You haven’t.” His face was serious in the moonlight. “You haven’t told me what you want.”

“I don’t know. World peace?” I didn’t want to talk anymore. I wanted him to kiss me, to wrap me in his arms and press me into the sofa until I couldn’t breathe.

“No,” he said. “You’re going to stand there and tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Then tell me what you want me to do to you.”

My knees buckled, my breath came hard out of my mouth. Had any college girl in the history of the world ever been asked what she wanted? I was most certainly the first.

“I want…” I undid another button on my shirt.

“Stop,” he said, louder this time. He pushed himself up to sit and rested his hands on his knees.

“Come on. I feel dumb.”

“There is nothing dumb about you, Isabel.” His tone was serious, less playful. “But if you can’t tell me what you want, then we can’t keep doing this. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I shook my head.

“Do you remember when you told me about that night, with that boy—what was his name? Zev?”

I’d forgotten I’d told Connelly about Zev, and I couldn’t remember why I did, only that at the time it had made me feel better knowing that he knew. Now, I wished I hadn’t.

“You told me you weren’t sure that night what you wanted,” Connelly continued. “Or maybe you were, but you didn’t say. Right?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He shook his head. “You see, I don’t want you telling a story like that about me someday. I know you think you won’t. But you don’t know what you might think about all of this later, when it’s over. What you wanted me to do to you, what you didn’t. We need to be clear about it now so there are no misunderstandings. Because the stakes are too high.”