She gives me a tiny, grateful smile, then goes back to packing, this time with less conviction. Her hands are clumsy, almost shaking.
She says, without looking up, “Did you stay at a friend’s last night?”
For a second, I have to replay the question in my head. I remember Thomas’s kitchen: the coolness of the floor under my feet, the eggs and sausage and black coffee, the way he called me a gift, the way his hand traced my thigh while we watched the city. I remember the soreness between my legs, the way the sheets stuck to my skin, the mark of his teeth on my collarbone. I remember all of it at once, a supercut of everything that happened and every way it changed me.
My face must do something, because Simone stops moving.
“Oh my god,” she says, voice low. “Andie. Did you?—?”
I snap to. “What?”
She abandons the sweater, crosses her arms over her chest, and narrows her eyes in a way I’ve only seen when she’s interrogating an underclassman who lied about cleaning the fridge.
“Don’t what me. You’re blushing like a first-year at a kegger. What happened last night? It was a guy, wasn’t it?”
I try to play dumb, but my body betrays me. My knees press together; my toes curl against the carpet. “Nothing. I mean—not nothing. I just—stayed at someone’s place, and yes, he’s male. That’s all.”
She nods, a big smile on her face. “So. Spill.”
I shake my head, stare at my knees. “It’s not—he’s not…” I can’t even say the word “dating,” not when the whole thing still feels so new.
Simone waits, silent, like she has all afternoon. I know that trick; it’s what she does with the kids she tutors: never push, just leave the silence on the table until someone can’t stand it anymore.
I give in. “I—” My voice is so small I have to clear my throat. “I had sex.” The words hit the air like an accusation. “Last night. For the first time.”
Simone’s eyebrows go up, but she doesn’t make a sound. She sits on the box nearest me, knees spread, leaning forward.
“With a man?” she says, softer than before.
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
She waits.
I try again. “He’s older,” I say, which is true. “Like two decades older, and he’s obviously not in school. Not really part of any of the dorms or classes, or anything.” I gesture at the mess of boxes, the empty walls. “It just happened.”
Simone’s face stays perfectly still, but her knuckles go white around the edges of the cardboard. “Okay, but do you like him?”
I let the question hang there, not sure how to answer. I think about the way Thomas looked at me, really looked at me, the way his touch was both a command and a comfort. I think about how the city looked from his windows, endless and blue and glittering, and how for a second, I thought:This is what it’s like to be chosen.
“I think so,” I say, and it feels like stepping out over open water. “I mean, it’s still early.”
Simone draws a breath, holds it. “Was it good?” she asks, and her voice is all curiosity, no judgment.
A laugh escapes me—nervous, bright, barely under control. “It was amazing. And terrifying. And not what I thought it would be.” I drop my eyes, picking at a loose thread in the mattress. “He was so gentle with me, despite his huge size. Like Sim, I didn’t think he would fit at first. Like no way, nuh uh.”
She giggles.
“That’s what I thought the first time I saw Liam’s tool. It was also near panic, shaking my head, my pussy’s going to be destroyed. But it was good right? You enjoyed it?”
I smile, warmth rushing through me.
“It was amazing. He was so tender, and not just in bed. After, too. He made breakfast. He made it feel like I belonged there, even though we hardly know each other.” My voice catches, stupidly, and I hate how soft it sounds.
I can’t look at my roomie, so I stare out the window at the thin slice of sky. I don’t know how to say it without sounding like every other girl who’s ever mistaken sex for love, but there’s a gravity in the memory, a sense of having crossed some private, irreversible threshold.
“He treated me like I mattered,” I finish, and the words feel so tiny compared to the feeling in my chest.
Simone says nothing, just sits there, face still and open. I can see her thinking, gears turning behind her eyes. I wonder if she’sremembering her own first time, or if she’s trying to calibrate whether I need comfort or reality.
