“Yes, you do!”
“No, I don’t!”
“Will you please just tell me what the hell I did to make youbelike this?” he pushed. “I don’tlikeit. We’refriends! If I did something to hurt you, justtellme so I can fix it!”
My blood was boiling, and the bus was nowhere in sight. I was stuck, trapped on a corner with no answers and a quickening pulse. He kept asking, and asking, until finally I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why did you have tokissher?” I yelled.
“Kisswho? Maya?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, deflating like a popped New Year’s Eve balloon.
He was quiet. “It was just a game,” he said.
I kicked a pile of snow. “I know.”
“Did you—?”
“What?”
“Did you want it to be you?” he asked.
“No!” I objected.
But I was lying. And Ronald could tell.
“I call bullshit,” he said. Then he moved in close to me, put his gloved hands around my waist, and leaned in for an awkward smooch.
It was my first.
Over the next two years, we navigated the uncomfortable terrain of “firsts” with each other, slowly rounding the bases until the night of his high school graduation, where we went to another party—not at Maya’s house but at a rented beach house on Long Island—and ended up sharing a bedroom together. With deep bass thumping in the background,we went all the way amidst the smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke. I knew there was no way he was going to stay with me when he left for college in the fall. We loved each other, but he loved himself more, and that was no secret. Still, I wanted my first time to be with someone I knew and cared about, and the prudent part of my teenage self believed it made sense to lose my virginity to Ronald. When he broke up with me two months later, it hurt. A lot.
But in a muddled state of fear about starting my own senior year, I did the only thing I could think of. I focused on the things I could control. I concentrated on the tasks I had to take care of, like filling out college applications and writing essays. I put my feelings in a jar and closed the lid as tightly as I could, and then I put that jar in the back of my freezer, hidden behind the ice cream and frozen chocolate bars.
In short, I let him go.
Kind of like what I’m doing now.
Colin
Don’t panic. Everything’s fine.
I try to breathe, but I feel like the air is thick. Like it’s choking me.
You’re such a fucking dick sometimes! Why didn’t you justaskif she had a pseudonym?
And who the hell goes around spilling every detail of their fucked-up love life to someone they barely know? You might as well have posted the story right on Instagram, complete with pictures and hashtags and the whole nine.
Asshole.
Okay. This feels like a complete meltdown. I’m pacing back and forth in my office. I can’t focus. Can’t think about anything other than this giant mess I’ve gotten Gracie into. This poor, unsuspecting girl from my childhood who happened to drunkenly stumble back into my life could potentially lose her income as a result.
What do I have—the reverse Midas touch? Does everything I touch always have to turn to shit?
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say.
Daisy steps into my office. “No, Colin. I don’t think you have the reverse Midas touch.”
