The Exact Opposite of Okay(18)

“All right. I’m the oldest of four siblings. I want to go to law school, preferably as far away from here as possible.”

“That’s cool,” I say. “Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?”

“No,” he admits. “It’s just what my parents want me to do. They’re both defense attorneys. Or they were until my dad got into politics. God, why does every conversation always swing back round to my dad?” This last sentence is laced with a bitterness I wasn’t expecting.

There’s another lull in conversation. Looking around the rose-smelling garden I can just make out a koi pond, plus the silhouettes of some creepy gnome-type things in a nearby flower bed. One is brandishing a fishing rod like a weapon.

“Er. Right. So. Here’s a question,” I mumble, in a desperate bid to ensure there’s no possible way his dad can crop up again. “What’s your patronus?”

This is in fact a sly test disguised as an interesting point of conversation. If he doesn’t know what a patronus is, I know immediately that there’s very little point in proceeding with the bench-based festivities.

But without even hesitating, he replies simply, “A duckbilled platypus.”

I’m quite taken aback by this. It’s not at all the answer I was expecting. Most dudes go with something obvious like a lion, but this is quite unique. “Oh really? Why’s that?”

He swigs his beer again. Despite the speed of his drinking he still seems pretty sober. “They’re just awesome and unique. Like, did you know they’re the only mammal that has a sense of electroreception? They hunt their prey by detecting the electric fields generated by muscular contractions. So basically they’re super smart, but in their own way.” He shrugs, like he can relate. “And they’re the only venomous mammal on earth. I like that they can strike back and defend themselves if they have to.”

What. The. Hell. He’s genuinely given this some thought. Like, Zachary Vaughan has put some serious time into considering his patronus. If there is any surefire way to win my respect, this is it.

I smile, observing his silhouetted profile. He’s really not terrible to look at – one of those cute dimple chins and a ski-slope nose that tilts up at the end. His father may be a fascist dictator, but he obviously has good genes.

“What about yours?” Vaughan asks.

I’ve had my answer prepared for over a decade. “A sloth.”

He spits beer everywhere as he laughs. “That’s hilarious. It’s so perfect. Cute and sleepy and highly entertaining. Yep, you’re a sloth, Izzy O’Neill.”

I grin. I can’t help it.

“Okay . . . what else can I tell you about myself??” he muses, looking around the garden as though waiting for divine inspiration to strike. He clocks the gnomes, and looks as perturbed as can be expected.

Then, borderline surprised like it’s the first time the thought has ever crossed his mind, he goes with: “Oh, I know. I’m a virgin, ha ha ha.”

???

[Yeah. Not what I was expecting either. I’ll give you a few minutes to process this.

. . . You good? Okay, so you recovered faster than I did.]

I have zip/zilch/zero/nada/nil problem with the fact he’s a virgin, I just was not anticipating this plot twist in the slightest.

So, very supportively and insightfully, I say: “Oh.”

Then the awkward silence kicks in. And all I can think to add is, “Why are you telling me this, of all people? We’ve never spoken before tonight, even if we do know each other’s patronuses now. How do you know you can trust me? I mean, I assume this is a secret.”

He shrugs and says, “I like you, Izzy. You’re funny and stuff. And I knew you were wary of me, so I told you something personal in the hope you’d see I’m not the jerk everyone thinks I am.”

Now, I personally find this logic quite flawed because I could very easily have turned out to be a vindictive psychopath and leaked this information everywhere. Obviously this is not the course of action I actually choose to take, but really, how did he know I’m not fundamentally awful? Also, being a virgin and being a jerk are not mutually exclusive, so the whole thing is quite hard to wrap my head around.

“Thank you, Vaughan. I feel kind of . . . honored? I guess?”

He just smiles and says nothing.

Mainly because I have no idea what to do or say next, I down the rest of my beer and then instantly start kissing him. Yes, I instigate it, for no other reason than: I wanted to. Which is a mistake, because if you’ve ever downed three-quarters of a can of fizzy liquid in six seconds, you know what happens next.


burp



Fuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkkkk –

My cheeks start to burn with the fiery magma of Mount Etna as I pull away, mortified.

Next plot twist: he is not an asshole about this horrifying bodily development. He just laughs and says, “I guess now we both know something embarrassing about each other.”

Then I get all serious, which shockingly I am capable of on occasion. “Being a virgin is not embarrassing, Vaughan. You know that, don’t you?”

“Try telling that to the rest of the basketball team.”

And then he’s kissing me again, and it’s actually not terrible, actually it’s really good, like really good, and he smells like fresh laundry, and his lips are so soft, and sweet Jesus of Nazareth –