Then, only a minute later:I’m sorry. You’re probably busy.
There’s nothing terribly anxious about the tone of her messages but I can feel her worry through the screen.
My thumbs hover over the screen, stalled by the millions of things I want to say. Likecome over, right nowandI’ll meet you anywherebut also,you hurt me that nightandI’m not interested if you’re going to tell me that I’m a mistake again. But the thing is this: if Corrine wants to talk to me, even if there’s a chance she could hurt me again, I want to hear what she has to say.
You could come to my house. If you want. No I’m not busy right now.
There. Now the ball is very firmly in her court. Plus, regardless of what she wants to say to me, it will probably be easier to hear it at home rather than waiting until tomorrow morning.
It takes her many long minutes to formulate a response, the text bubble appearing and disappearing before she writes back:Sure. Where do you live?
I send her my address and she says that she’ll be here in half an hour.
Corrine Blunt will behere. In thirty minutes. Three-zero. I survey the living room, where unpaired socks lie waiting to be put in the laundry and old fast-food beverage cups litter the coffee table. The rug hasn’t been vacuumed in weeks at a minimum.
“We’re slobs,” I murmur in terror.
I launch myself into cleaning mode while Amy blasts her disco tunes upstairs. For a moment I consider cleaning my own room but no.
Best not to get too ahead of myself.
After twenty-five minutes, I sit on the couch with the TV off, waiting for her knock. At thirty minutes, I move to the bench by the front door. After forty, I check through the peephole, my insides a flutter of nervous and excited butterflies.
After sixty minutes, I realize I never even bothered to tell Amy that my boss who I hadintercoursewith was coming here but now it seems like maybe I won’t have to. I check my phone but there are no new messages.
I’m not going to text her.
I put the phone in the kitchen.
I amnotgoing to text her.
Throwing myself on the couch with another cup of coffee, I turn on the television. The pipes groan as Amy turns on the shower. A small part of me worries that maybe something happened to Corrine on her way here. But a voice that sounds suspiciously like Amy’s reminds me that she’s probably just freaking out. Because of the intercourse.
I peel off my T-shirt—Amy insists on keeping the thermostat set at Hell On Earth—and pull my headset on and turn on my gaming console.
This is me, being “chill.”
This is a normal weekend.
This is me, not texting her. Not waiting for Corrine to come to my front door with arguably the best sex of my life and also my career in her hands.
The chatter from my headphones invades my brain until Amy stomps past in nothing but a towel, her hair still wet.
“My eyes!” I yell. “Put some clothes on.”
She yells something back but I can’t hear her through the voices of the players chattering in my headphones. A cool blast of air comes from the front hallway. I set the controller down, sliding the headphones off. I hear Amy’s voice and then another woman answering.
It’s like my brain glitches because I recognize the voice but hearing it makes me realize just how much I’d convinced myself she wouldn’t show. And now she’s here at my front door and it takes many long seconds before I stand up, pick up my T-shirt, trip over the coffee table on my way to the front hall. I get to the small vestibule at the front of our house in time to see Corrine’s dark head bobbing down the front steps.
“Ms. Blunt!” I yell, shouldering past my sister. She doesn’t stop, picking up her pace as she runs down my street. “Ms. Blunt!” I yell again, pulling my T-shirt over my head as I run down the front steps. “Ms. Blunt!Corrine!”
But she is already around the corner. I stop and look back at my house. Amy stands in the doorway pulling the towel tightly around her, mostly contrite but also a little angry. Right now is not a great time for Amy to pull the overprotective card. She lifts her chin, her jaw set.
I chase after Corrine but I don’t have to go very far. She sits on the concrete steps of a house just a few feet around the corner. I slow to a walk and stand in front of her. Boston is just starting to cool off and my skin prickles at the contrast of our hot house with the cool air. A gust of wind blows a few leaves and empty coffee cups between us.
Her eyes are downcast and she plays with the hair at the end of her ponytail with one hand. A lit cigarette dangles from the other one. Her shoulders are tipped forward and even though she is petite, this is the first time she has ever seemedsmall.
There are so many versions of Corrine Blunt. Strong, in charge, a leader, mostly. Beautiful and sweet. And now I know that when she comes she is this vulnerable, flushed, wide-eyed version of herself that makes me want to make her come again and again. But I’ve never seen anything like this version of Corrine: embarrassed, alone.
