“Without the harder pieces,” I said, “the insertion won’t be especially satisfying.”
I gestured to the bartender with my empty glass. The last thing I needed right now was another drink, but if this conversation was any indication, I was long past making wise choices.
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” she said.
Of course I knew. Just like I knew the punk-ass bitch she was banging in July wasn’t good enough for her.
She watched me while I checked my phone and sipped my drink, and eventually turned her attention back to the stage when I didn’t respond.
I didn’t trust myself to say anything. She was dragging me back to the land of the living, one strange concert at a time. She was holding my whole fucking universe together with her convoluted dissection of my existence and more sofa snuggling than I’d ever dreamed of, and I couldn’t fuck any of that up with my jealousy.
My waning interest infriends.
My industrial-strength blue balls.
So I didn’t mention how much I hated thinking about any man touching her. I didn’t point out that anyone who left her with a ‘fine’ memory of sex hadn’t earned the privilege of knowing her intimately. I didn’t tell her she deserved someone who treasured her.
I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t offer her much better.
16:21 TIEL:HEY. U want 2 c some tunes 2nite? Done w grading now
Sam’s schedule was packed this week, and I hadn’t seen him since we parted ways on Lansdowne Street in the early hours of Sunday morning. I dragged him out to see Reel Big Fish and Less Than Jake at The House of Blues, and after the concert, we kissed against the Fenway Park gates.
It was much like being back in junior high. Tons of kissing, tons of awkwardness, and massive apprehension about when—the real question wasif—we’d get to the other bases.
Though it shouldn’t have, it surprised me. I wanted more than he did, and I had to keep reminding myself that. He liked our little routine, and though I wasn’t sure when—we did spend a good chunk of time together—I was certain he was getting some action on the side. I couldn’t substantiate that with anything more than an odd sense, and I made more than enough critical comments about his sex life. If I was wrong, he would have corrected me by now.
Shaking my head, I tapped Ellie’s number and hoped she wasn’t in rehearsal. Thankfully, she answered on the second ring. “Explain to me why I should hang out with the preppy player who loves all this ambiguity.”
“I take it this fascinating experiment is still going on,” she said. “And maybe you shouldn’t?”
“But he’s so adorable and funny and the swoons. So many swoons.” I knew there were two Sams: the womanizer with the smooth, panty-dropping smile that mowed down everyone in his path, and the sweet, beautiful boy who thought so much more than he spoke. I saw both, and when I looked closely, I could convince myself that they were one and the same.
“But he’s an asshole . . . ?”
I could almost see her face twisting into a confused grimace, and I laughed. “He’s not.”
“Okay. Explain these straight girl problems to me,” she said. “Us lesbians are far less complicated.”
“Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yeah, we’re still riding Wilma,” she chuckled. “This girl gives as good as she gets.”
I sighed. “Do you think the band could get a new bus for the next leg of the tour, or maybe give Wilma a new name?”
“That’s unlikely,” she said. “We’re rather fond of Wilma. We get on our old lady every chance we get.”
“That was funny for the first three months of the tour,” I laughed. “I don’t know what he wants, and I don’t think he knows either. We hang out all the time, and he’s always talking about my boobs and that’s great, but it’s so freaking confusing when it stops with snuggletime. And for all I know, he’s got a rotating cast of slampieces and he’s just using me for the soft stuff.”
“Mmhmm, that is a conundrum,” she said. “You can tell him what you want.”
“Yeah, I do not see that working out well.”
“That’s dumb.” I started to interrupt, but Ellie continued. “No. Seriously. That’s dumb. Put on your big girl panties and act like a boss. Tell him you want the snuggletime to become snugglefucking, and if that’s too much for his delicate man-psyche, tell him to piss off.”
“Ell, I don’t want to tell him to piss off. He’s cute and a total freak but in the most precious ways. He always gets me coffee, even if it’s ten o’clock at night, and he hasn’t judged me for that in weeks. He carries a cloth handkerchief and uses obscure words—”
“Don’t besmirch the use of obscure words, even in jest,” she said. “That’s perspicacity, young lady.”
