I tugged my scarf over my chest at the memory of Matthew’s teeth on my breasts early this morning, his voice hoarse after hours of growling when he said, “Nick and I are biking to the Vermont border and back, and I want to see you tonight. I want you in this bed, all naked and fuckable, all night. Tell me you’ll be right here when I get home.”
I glanced up at Shannon. “Maybe for a bit. I have some work to do, and I have plans with Matthew.”
Of course I agreed to his demands. Growly, bitey Matthew was irresistible, and despite my attempts at moderation, at taking care of me, at focusing on work, we always ended up together, night after night.
“Why do you call him that?” Sam asked. “Matthew. We only call him that when he’s in trouble.”
“Well…” I started, rewinding to those first moments we shared. I’d always called him Matthew. I didn’t think much about the structure and definition of us, but calling him Matthew was part of our foundation. It went hand-in-hand with my obscene requests and his cavemanning, and it wasn’t something we could explain to anyone else. “I like it, and so does he.”
Sam shrugged, considering my response for a moment, and then returned to the latest edition ofDwell.
Things were changing, that I knew. The days were shorter, air crisper, trees barer, but it wasn’t only the slide of autumn into winter. There was something inside me—something elemental—and it was shifting at a pace I couldn’t comprehend. At first I thought it was immediate, and quite possibly attributable to hiring Drew the Dean and off-loading a chunk of my overdue action items to him. I then realized it was most likely a gradual change, quiet yet invasive, like vines crawling around the slats of a fence, twisting and knotting and spreading until the two were indistinguishable, inseparable, indivisible.
I didn’t know whether I was the vine or the fence.
In the hushed moments when his head was nestled between my breasts or on my belly or just a breath from my center, we revealed softly spoken truths about everything beforeus. He seemed glee-filled to know I could count my lovers on one hand, not including the thumb or pinkie. It was his brand of cavemanish pride, something tangled up with possession and purity, and I accepted it without further analysis. He nudged me for some explanation of why my number was so low, but I offered few details and he didn’t push further.
I harbored a spoonful of silly triumph after discovering Matthew’s past relationships were cut from the friends-with-benefits cloth. When I pried, he mentioned never liking anyone enough to want more than basic fucking. He also referenced how, ahem,vocalI was in the bedroom, saying, “The minute I saw you, I thought ‘naughty schoolteacher.’ Turns out, I really dig the naughty part.”
We called it casual, we told our friends and families it was casual, we carried on with our lives as if it was casual, but it was powerful—magnetic—and the language necessary to describe what was happening to us hadn’t been invented yet.
And I wanted Matthew. I wanted to claim the notches and grooves around his collarbones and throat as my private hideaway, and I wanted the growls, bites, and sweat, and the tender heart he so diligently worked at hiding. But as much as I wanted to tell him everything, those words didn’t flow like my obscene demands. The only adequate method of communication was rough, profane sex, and I had to believe he knew what I was thinking and feeling.
*
We huddled againstthe bone-chilling wind, too cold to talk, hurrying through the narrow Boston streets, our shopping bags slapping against our legs, until we arrived at the wine bar. We settled into a narrow table looking out onto Boston Common, and a waiter delivered menus and a small bowl of olives.
“There’s a bottle I really want to try. Is that okay with you?” Shannon asked.
“I do not discriminate. You know what I like, and you know the wine in my glass is my favorite kind.”
Shannon ordered an Australian white blend, and it wasn’t long before it was empty and we were sampling something new.
“So I invited Matt’s friend Nick to dinner next week,” Shannon said. “Those eyes. Swoons. I’d like to bite his ass. At least lick it.”
I wanted to ask why the Walshes were such biters, but exploring that path with Shannon seemed unwise. My brothers’ sex lives were not one of my preferred discussion topics, and I had to believe Shannon shared that position. “Does he know that?”
“I’ve been forthcoming with those interests. He’s less excited about the ass biting than I am.”
“You’re sure I can’t bring anything?”
I was looking forward to Thanksgiving at Shannon’s next week. It was a new chapter for me, and I liked hanging out with the Walshes. I doubted I’d encounter any vegan green bean casseroles with this crew, but I was excited about the butternut squash pie. A strange new sentimental part of me recognized this as my first coupled holiday, and that knowledge filled me with a twinge of giddy anxiety.
This wasn’t how I expected things to happen for me, but I kept reminding myself to embrace the controlled chaos. It wasn’t the polite series of dates leading to precise relationship milestones, and that left my rule-following good girl rather twitchy.
My holiday enthusiasm didn’t transfer to drinks with Elsie and Kent. Her cheerful email last week reminded me that I promised an appearance at her champagne luncheon, and Steph and Amanda insisted via group text that a pop-in wouldn’t kill me.
It took them two days to respond to my original text (“would it be wrong for me to tell her I have malaria and skip?”), and in those two days, I devised several ways to break the news of my malaria to Elsie. They didn’t respond to my follow-up (“would it be wrong to send fancy champagne and skip? seems like a win for all…?”), and I found that more unpleasant the prospect of brunch with Elsie.
Rather than waiting for approval from my friends, I sent champagne and a quick note omitting all mention of malaria. With my karmic luck, she’d organize a mosquito net benefit event in my honor, and then I’d be screwed. Yeah, it would be a win for malaria prevention, but I couldn’t handle that much time in Elsie’s company.
I expected geography would alter my relationships with Steph and Amanda, but I was stunned how quickly our old patterns faded. Where we once maintained a religious adherence to group texts on Monday mornings, we rarely shared inspiring memes, amusing weekend stories, or photos of heinously-expensive-yet-necessary-for-survival shoes anymore. Most weeks, it was like talking to an empty room, usually waiting hours and sometimes days for a standard “omg we have to talk soon! heart you” response.
Steph was pregnant, and surprised didn’t begin to capture my reaction. I couldn’t imagine her going through that again—the bed rest, the c-section, the post-partum anxiety—and I had only watched from the sidelines when she was pregnant with Madison. But she and Dan wanted a big family, and they wanted their kids close in age, and this time around she didn’t even mention they had been trying until after she missed her period.
Amanda had been promoted to managing partner at her finance firm, and was busy interviewing candidates for the squadron of nannies and housekeepers she would need when the baby arrived this spring. She wanted my opinions on gender neutral toys and intentionally diverse storybooks, and when she realized I knew plenty about schoolchildren but nothing about babies, she announced she needed a nursery consultant, and advised me to start planning the birth of my yet-to-be-conceived child while I had the time.
Their lives were different now, I understood that, but things with Matthew were too intricate to manage alone. And after nearly ten years of sharing most major decisions in my life with Steph and Amanda, they weren’t available when I needed them. Realizing the relationships that served us through college and our twenties were dwindling away hurt. I knew we’d always have memories of Williams College and The Dungeon, but it was another form of chaos I wasn’t prepared to navigate.
