Anatomy of a Single Girl (7 page)

Guy slips off his shoes.

“I’m sorry. That’s plain abusive.”

“But effective. Nothing bonds people more than going through shit together.”

Guy pulls off his polo, exposing a tight, white Hanes T-shirt.

“Still, stories like that are what made me too scared to rush at Tulane.”

“It’s worth it in the end, though. I’m alone in the lab so much, I like coming home to an actual house where there’s always people over and stuff happening. Well, that’s not the case now, obviously. Campus is dead in the summer.”

Guy empties his pockets of his phone, Altoids, and wallet, which falls open as he sets it on the floor. I see that one of the credit card slots contains a condom.

“But it must be nice having a room to yourself. That’s such a luxury in college.”

“Yeah, it’s, uh … it’s definitely convenient.”

Guy scoots back on the bed and lies on his side so he’s against the wall and his head is propped up on his bent arm. He’s giving me that hungry look like he did on my terrace.

“So, Dom, I know there’s not much space here, but”—he places his other hand flat in front of him and pats the sheets—“care to join?”

I didn’t know it was possible to feel this ecstatic, wary, and turned on all at the same time. After a deep breath, I stand up and tentatively cross the two yards of space separating us. Instead of lying next to him, though, I kneel by the bed and place my hand on his.

So,
of course
I want to hook up with Guy. If you haven’t
already picked up on it, that has pretty much become my default daydream. But I love where he and I stand right now. It’s like we’re on the brink, and everything’s full of excitement and potential precisely because the heavy making out is still something to look forward to. I realize we can’t remain PG-rated forever. I’m all too aware, though, how easy it is to let hooking up become the crux of a relationship. Then you forget how to just
be
together and why you should
stay
together. So for the meantime I’d like to take things slowly in order to prevent hooking up from ever getting too important.

Amy would say I’m overreacting, but I’m just trying to learn from past mistakes. And if Guy isn’t an asshole, which I’m confident he’s not, he’ll go along with it.

I’m about to speak, but Guy pipes up first. “This might sound strange, but you smell really good.”

Even stranger than his saying that is that I’m thinking the same thing about him. It’s not of anything in particular. His aftershave has long since worn off. He just smells … right.

Abruptly, Guy sits up, cups my face in his hands, and gives me a long, soft kiss. Then a harder one so my lips are smashed against my teeth. Next he slides his mouth down to my neck, and I giggle when his poufy hair tickles my cheeks and chin. Soon we’re kissing again as his hands run up and down my sides, and it feels so amazing—like little fireworks beneath the surface—that I wonder how I’ve been able to live for the last several months without being touched like this. It’s a medical fact that babies are less likely to survive if they’re not frequently held, so has my skin been starving
all this time? Within the minute, though, Guy begins pulling me toward him onto the bed, and I sense the tip of his tongue pressing between my lips. I jerk back.

“Oh, crap,” he says, holding his hand over his mouth. “Does my breath reek of soy sauce? I took two Altoids.”

“Oh, no. You’re fine. It’s, um … it’s me.”

“You need time to digest or something?”

I laugh again. “No. It’s, uh …”

I stand and pace and strain to come up with the words while each of my body’s fifty trillion cells is screaming for me to rip the Hanes off this younger and cuter Mr. Chesnoff type, who’s mine for the taking.

“It’s just that … I would like … to wait more … before we go … any further.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t look angry. Just confused. “All right.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “You sure that’s okay?”

“Yeah … Well, it’s not what I’d
choose
, but, Dom …” He sits up and gazes plaintively at me. “I’m really sorry. I hope you didn’t feel, you know, pressured or anything. I swear I thought you wanted to mess around.”

“I did! I do!” I kneel down again so we’re eye level. “Everything that has happened so far has been great. And it’s not that I haven’t done any of this before. I’ve done
a lot
more. But for now I just … I want … For me … It’s hard to explain.”

“You don’t have to.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “You’re just not ready or whatever.”

Actually, the more accurate assessment is that
we’re
not ready, but there’s no point in splitting hairs when he’s taking this as well as I could’ve hoped. He seems uneasy, though, so
I sidle next to him and say, “Guy, I’ve loved every minute of tonight. I don’t want you to think anything’s spoiled.”

“Hell, no! Dom, you’re the first girl I’ve met this summer who I look forward to just talking to.” He wraps his hands around the top of my head. “I like what’s in
here
.” He squeezes. “As for everything else,
you
set the pace.”

My eyes start tearing. “Thanks, Guy, for being so cool. Lots of boys wouldn’t be.”

“I’ve never understood that—that there’re some dudes who’d make a girl feel bad for not putting out. How could a guy enjoy it if the girl doesn’t really want it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s so sad so many girls think they’re undatable if they don’t go all the way. I’d never do it just to please a boy,” I say proudly. However, I immediately question whether that’s totally accurate. Although it was my idea to start having sex back when I did, at least a tiny part of my motivation may have been to try to receive extra commitment in return. I hoped that having sex would add formality and legitimacy to being in a relationship, and that it would elevate us to a higher plane than merely two star-crossed teenagers in love.

“Anyway,” Guy goes on, ”I’m just glad you spoke up before. And
please
keep telling me what’s on your mind, because apparently I suck at reading it. I don’t want to do
anything
with you unless you’re on board.” Guy casts down his eyes. “I’d feel so guilty if you ever regretted something we did.”

“Aw, I never doubted that.” I wrap my arms around him and lean against his shoulder. That he’s sensitive to this stuff makes him all the more attractive.

“Damn,” Guy says. “Nothing like a little wellness seminar on a Friday night, huh?”

I laugh. “Still, it feels really nice being so open about everything.”

“Yeah.” He throws his arms around me too. “It does.”

We continue holding each other as we share a long silence. There’s no awkwardness, though. I’m more comfortable with him than ever. Eventually Guy asks, “How about we go downstairs and finish watching episode six till you have to leave?”

I plant a kiss on his cheek, grab his hand, and pull him off the bed.
“Let’s do it.”

9

“S
ushi?”
Dad repeats disgustedly while stringing his fishing rod. It’s eleven a.m. on Sunday, and my parents and I are finally together on our little boat, drifting along Pine Island Sound. “ ‘Sushi’ is just a fancy word for ‘bait.’ ”

“Millions of people eat it every day, Dad. Raw seafood is a delicacy.”

“Delicacy, shmelicacy. If I took one of the seven-pounders I intend to reel in today and bit off its flesh with my bare teeth, that wouldn’t be so delicate, would it? The mark of civilized man is using fire to cook his kills!”

“Whatever.” I finish applying sunblock to my face. “Guy and I had fun.”

“Are you sure you want to keep seeing him?” Mom prods.

I look at her like she’s crazy. “Um,
yeah
. Why shouldn’t I?”

I’m sorry for asking. Mom takes it as another cue to harp on how this isn’t the time to be tying myself down to one person. So I just tune her out while concentrating on what a wonderful weekend it’s been so far.

After
Jedi
on Friday, Guy walked me to my bike, where he kissed me goodnight and promised to call the following evening. Then in Tampa yesterday, Amy and I laughed our way through Bonnie’s Bridesmaids Salon, the Lowry Park Zoo, and the museum of art, not to mention the two-hour-plus car ride each way. When I got in last night, Guy phoned like he said he would, told me about an NPR story he just heard on stem cells, and asked when he could see me again. So now I’m counting the hours—seven—until he picks me up this evening. At the dentist’s last week I read an article in
Cosmo
claiming that couples can’t say they’re officially together until they’ve gone out three times. It’s a groundless rule, though I’m still giddy about tonight being
our
third date.

“… but despite all that,” Mom concludes, “your father and I are glad you’re getting out there and having a good time. And we’re very impressed at how well you’ve been balancing that with your work responsibilities.”

“Even if it means
we
haven’t seen you for so much as a meal,” Dad ribs.

“Sorry, guys. I’ll try to be better. And I’m here now!”

“Indeed you are,” Mom says provocatively. “And while we finally have you to ourselves for a while, we’d like to share some important news.”

I look up from my tackle box, suddenly not feeling so well. My parents
never
have news, important or not. The only “new” thing that has happened is that Dad’s now sporting a fully shaved head, an act of defiance after begrudgingly accepting that the toupee he bought last month didn’t fool anybody.

My face turns to stone. “Is one of you sick?”

“No, God forbid!” Dad exclaims, setting down his rod. “Your mom and I are just going to be … making a change.”

“Change” is as bad as “news,” and next I think of divorce. This year the parents of two of my dorm-mates separated. One of the girls said it was because of empty-nest syndrome, and the other girl said her parents had planned to split for years but held out until she started Tulane so she wouldn’t have to live through the upheaval. But my parents don’t have a hint of dysfunction in them. They’re a sickeningly cute couple whose biggest fights revolve around how best to cook the fish they catch. Furthermore, Mom’s schoolhouse decorum is a perfect counterbalance to Dad’s jailhouse gruffness, so I don’t know how either could hope to find a more compatible match. Plus they’re grinning, which you don’t typically do before announcing the breakup of a marriage.

“Now,” Mom begins, “we know this is unexpected, but—”

“You’re pregnant?” I scream.

“Dommie, please …”

I don’t hear her over the pounding in my ears. I just recall Amy teasing me about how after I went to college my parents would rejuvenate their sex lives by getting it on all over the apartment since they wouldn’t have to worry about me walking in on them.

“Oh, God!” I wail, envisioning their fleshy bellies jiggling while they do it against the kitchen counter, without protection, no less. “You know, when I was little I used to
beg
for a brother or sister, and
now
, when I don’t even
live
here anymore, you—”

“Get a grip!” Dad yells. “We are
not
expecting a baby.”

My heart’s still lurching. “You sure, Mom?”

“Of course! Nor do we desire another child.”

“You’re handful enough.” Dad crosses his arms at me.

“So”—I catch my breath—“just tell me!”

“We’re relocating!” Mom chirps.

Dad then reveals that a big-time law enforcement consulting firm in Gainesville phoned three weeks ago to offer him a higher-paying job. “Your mom and I can’t wait to take this boat out lake fishing there—”

“Wait … We’re
moving
? And you’ve known about this since
June
?”

“You were still studying for exams when Daddy got the call, so we thought it best not to distract you.”

“Anyhow, your mom and I needed time to consider this on our own. We only just decided—”

“But what about
your
job, Mom?”

“Well, I spoke with the school board last week, and we agreed that I’ll stay on until winter break. In the meantime, they’ll search for a replacement to take over after the holidays.”

Dizzy with disbelief that my old headmaster knew we were moving before I did, I lean back against the side of the boat so I won’t keel over. “But everything’s fine in Fort Myers. Things have been fine here for two decades!”

“We’re looking toward the
next
two decades,” Dad states. “I’m antsy for a new challenge, and at this point in my life I’d like a quieter desk gig. But I’m just happy that, with the extra money, your mom can finally take some time off and get that master’s.”

I didn’t even know she wanted one. She might have mentioned it before, but just in passing.

“You know, Dommie, listening to you talk about Tulane all year made me so nostalgic for university life,” Mom says whimsically. “And UF has a graduate program in mathematics!”

“What if you don’t get in?”

“Dom!” Dad reproaches, but Mom doesn’t seem bothered.

“Then I’ll keep reapplying and tutor in the interim like I’ve been doing during the summers. And there’re always online degrees. But just think, maybe this time next year we’ll
both
be students!”

She smiles at me, her emerald eyes sparkling in the sunlight, but I turn away and look out over the water.

“Aw, honey,” she goes on. “I understand your being surprised, but not upset. Remember,
you
applied to UF for your safety school, and you liked the city well enough when we all toured it for you. Gainesville is still Florida. Only more inland.”

“I just don’t see how you guys could make a choice this ginormous without at least consulting me first.”

“Well, would you really have told us to pass up this opportunity?” Mom asks.

I … suppose not. But still
.

She continues, “And it’s not as if this will impact your
daily life in the slightest. You just said you no longer live here.”