God, I hate that he’s right. Iwouldspiral. I would construct an elaborate internal narrative in which every person who stayed in our building this summer knows exactly what happened and is silently judging me. And I’d carry that narrative with me until it calcified into a permanent source of shame.
“You’d really do that?” I ask.
“Brother, I’d tell people I had such a good time with Drew that I ruined two pairs.” He grabs his laundry bag from its hook behind the door. “Now strip. In the non-sexy way.”
I retreat to my side of the room and turn my back, peeling off the khakis the way one handles hazardous materials. My briefs follow. I fold both items with military precision because some habits are branded into your DNA when your father is Colonel David Abrams, and hand them to Jackson without making eye contact.
“Shirt too?” he asks.
I glance down. There’s a grass stain on the collar and another on the hem. “Please.”
The button-down joins the pile. Jackson stuffs everything into his laundry bag alongside a few of his own items—strategic camouflage, I realize—and slings it over his shoulder.
“Back in twenty. Don’t go anywhere.” Jackson winks and disappears into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand in the middle of the room, naked except for my socks, and process what just happened. I pull on a clean pair of briefs and a T-shirt from my dresser, then sit on the edge of my bed. My hands are shaking again. Not from cold or fear, but from the aftershocks of a seismic shift in my understanding of myself.
I had an orgasm with another person tonight. With Oliver. And it was transcendent.
And now I want more.
The door opens seventeen minutes later, and Jackson returns, laundry bag notably lighter. He kicks off his shoes and settles back onto his bed, resuming his cross-legged position, having not a care in the world.
“Machines are running. Your shorts will live to fight another day.” He reaches for his trail mix, pops a cashew into his mouth, and studies me. “You’ve got the face.”
“What face?”
“The ‘I have a question, but I’d rather swallow my own tongue than ask it’ face. I’ve seen it approximately four hundred times since we became roommates.”
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. The dorm room feels very small and very quiet. Jackson’s side of the room is its usual disaster—shirts draped over his desk chair, protein bar wrappers forming a small mountain near his wastebasket, a movie poster—Sixteen Candles—with Molly Ringwald watching over us with a benevolent gaze. My side is immaculate by comparison: books alphabetized, telescope positioned by the window, Mom’s star chart pinned above my headboard.
“I have a question,” I say.
“Shocking. Hit me.”
“It’s about sex.”
Jackson doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pause his chewing. He just nods, gives me his full attention, and waits.
“When Oliver and I…when we do more than what we did tonight…” I trail off, my courage evaporating in real time.
“Take your time,” Jackson says.
I stare at the constellation chart on my wall. Orion stares back, offering no guidance on this particular matter. “Will it hurt?”
Jackson sets down his trail mix. “You mean penetration.”
“Yes.”
Jackson exhales through his nose, leans back against the wall, and crosses his arms. His expression shifts into something contemplative—a look I’ve only seen him wear during film study sessions, when he’s breaking down an opponent’s defensive scheme.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told a lot of people. And I need you to understand that I’m telling you because you’re my best friend, and you deserve honesty, not because I want this getting back to anyone.”
“I would never.”
“I know you wouldn’t. That’s why I’m telling you.” He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher on his nose. “The first time I got fucked was with Drew.”
My eyes widen. Obviously, I figured as such, but hearing him state it so plainly, so directly, still catches me off guard.
