CHAPTER 3
I don’t recognize him at first.
Or for the first five minutes of our interaction.
I bump into a tall man—or rather, the tall man bumps into me—and my water spills down the front of my pale pink top.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“Be grateful it’s not fruit punch,” the man says.
His voice is deep and gravelly. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on where I’ve heard it before.
It's dark, which is probably why I don't notice his striking blue eyes until they're staring me down.
I open my mouth to respond with a snappy retort and inhale sharply. I'm caught off guard, mesmerized by the most shocking pale blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
Not only is his voice familiar, but so are those eyes. I recognize his face, but I can't quite place him. He looks familiar and different at the same time. I squint hard, trying to figure out where I know him from.
I stare at him, waiting for some sign of recognition. Waiting for him to say something indicating he knows me.
But he doesn’t. He looks right through me the way someone looks at a stranger. I shake my head.
Maybe I'm imagining things, I think to myself. It's been a stressful day. Stress can play tricks on your mind. I think I read that somewhere.
As I scan his face for clues, electricity runs through my body. I shake myself to snap back to reality.
“How about you be grateful that I don't respond right now by throwing the rest of my drink in your face?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to feign confidence. My heart beats faster. I wonder if he can tell I'm nervous.
The man’s eyes scan my body, and I feel myself burning up from the inside.
“Mary,” he says after a few seconds, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice has a slight mocking tone to it, although I don't know why. I feel like he's in on a joke, or rather, he's making a joke at my expense, and I just haven't caught on to it yet.
I scrunch my eyes. “I think you have the wrong person, I’m not—”
“I know,” he says, cutting me off.
I frown at him. “It’s rude to interrupt people, you know.”
“Do I look like someone who gives a fuck about being rude?” he asks nonchalantly, taking a sip of his drink.
No, I think to myself. But I stay quiet, digging my arms deeper against my sides.
Then I remember how he just called me$1“Mary” and offered zero explanation why.
I look at him and he's smirking. I still have no idea what the hell he's up to, but whatever it is, I don't like it. I don't like being made fun of, and I hate being left in the dark.
I don’t know what comes over me, but all of a sudden, I’m pulling my hand back and flinging the rest of my ice water at him.
His eyes close for a split second. I steel myself, preparing for a verbal lashing at the very least. But when he opens them, no words come out. Just laughter.
That’s right. He’s laughing while cold water drips down his face—water I just threw at him.
I'm confused for a second, then annoyed. Then I'm confused by my annoyance. Why am I more angry than if he’d just yelled at me? Why am I annoyed when I'm the one who threw water at him? But more importantly, why the hell is he laughing?
“Why are you laughing, jackass?” I hiss.
“That was cute,” he says. “Are you that aggressive in bed, too?”
My cheeks burn, and I pivot on my heel. I'm not going to dignify that with a response, I think to myself.
He grabs my forearm, and goosebumps prickle against my skin.
“My bad, Mary,” he murmurs. “I forgot you hadn’t done that.”
“Haven't done what?” I snap, turning back towards him.
He stares at me like he's undressing me with his eyes. I force myself to hold eye contact, even though every muscle in my body is screaming at me to look away.
“Been properly fucked,” he says coolly. “Or at all.”
My stomach drops. I get it now.
He cocks his head to the side as if he's waiting for me to prove him wrong. “Am I wrong, Virgin Mary?”
I inhale sharply, and cool air rushes down my throat. I feel a brain freeze coming on.
Rage bubbles in my stomach, and something hot pulses between my legs. Part of me wants to slap this guy, while another part of me wants to make out with him.
I’m disgusted with myself.
“Stop calling me that,” I hiss. “My name is Belle. And not that it’s any of your business, but I have done that,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper.
It feels weird saying it out loud. I never admit it to anyone, sometimes not even to myself.
A year and a half ago, though, I started dating Anton, the leader of our young-adult group. We were together for about six months.
I don't know if I was ever that interested in him, but when he asked me out, I felt like I couldn't say no.
All of the other girls were into him, and I knew how much sway he had in the church. If I turned him down, I could just imagine what he'd say about me behind my back.
So while he never threatened me, I knew that there was really only one option, and that was to date him. I tried to hold off as long as I could. Like I said, I was never attracted to him.
But after a while, he wore me down. Constant whining, jabs, underhanded compliments, veiled insults—it got tiring. He called me a prude in private despite proclaiming to everyone that we were saving ourselves for marriage.
So I gave in near the end of our relationship.
The only positive is that he's as incentivized to lie about it as I am.
If word got out, his reputation would be destroyed too.
After all, at least a third of our programming revolves around purity pledges.
If word got out that the young-adult group leader had failed on that front, it would be a bad look.
I'm sure he'd blame me and say I tempted him or something, and maybe that would even work. But still, it's not something he wants to risk. So I'm glad at least that he has a reason to keep my secret, or rather our secret, even if that reason is just self-preservation on his part.
I feel disgusted every time I look at Anton, though. I'm disgusted by him, but I’m even more disgusted by myself for giving in to his demands.
For months I was furious with myself. Furious that I was so weak-willed that I was persuaded to give up something that was supposed to be special for someone I hardly even liked.
Why am I so weak? Why can't I stand my ground? These are questions I constantly ask myself.
At least you’re not with him anymore, I remind myself. Granted, I can't even really credit myself for that.
Anton broke up with me to date another girl in our group. Jessica. It was a relief.
No more pretending, no more living a lie. Now I could be celibate and single, and not worry about having to betray myself and my faith to please a man I don’t even like.
Him leaving me for another woman was the best possible outcome, to be honest. Not only did I get to escape him without burning any bridges, but I also got a little bit of sympathy from the other church girls.
For a few months, at least. After a while, everybody forgot that he essentially left me for her.
Now it's like they've always been together.
Hardly anybody even remembers that he and I were once a thing.
Except for Jessica, of course. She hates me.
But if that's the price of my freedom, it's one I'll gladly pay.
Since then, I've just tried to erase the memory of Anton and me ever being together from my mind. It helps that he's done the same. Basically everybody else in our church has done the same.
Maybe if we all act as if it never happened, as if Anton and I never slept together, it'll eventually become true. Maybe I'll become a virgin again. Maybe I’ll be able to forgive myself. That's what I've been trying to do, at least.
But here I am—admitting my biggest secret to a stranger. That I'm not a virgin. And surprisingly, I don't feel bad. I don't feel ashamed. I feel free.
It's weird. It’s something I never thought I would tell anyone. This was something I was prepared to take to my grave. Maybe it's because I don't know this man and I'll never see him again. Maybe it's like how people sometimes tell their entire life stories to strangers on planes.
I've never done that, but maybe I should. Maybe it's freeing or something.
Maybe it's because this is the first time that it seemed like virginity wasn't something to be proud of. In fact, I feel like this man would find it more weird if I was a virgin than if I wasn't. I'm not used to that. I’m not used to feeling like my past isn’t shameful.
It’s liberating. This is the first time that I've been able to say the truth without immediately wanting to hide under a rock.
I wasn't expecting that.
I'm angry, but I feel lighter.
I look back at the man.
His eyebrows raise, and my legs quiver.
“Interesting,” he says. He’s staring at me like I’m a science specimen. Part of me feels flattered and another part of me is annoyed.
“Interesting? Why the hell is that interesting?” I ask.
“It's just surprising, that's all,” he says.
What the fuck is this man smoking?
“Why would that be surprising?” I ask. “You don’t know me. I could be the campus whore for all you know.”
“Language, Mary,” he says, making a tsk noise.
“Stop calling me that,” I hiss. “Who do you think you are?” I ask, raising my voice slightly as I step towards him.
I feel a small surge of courage in the pit of my stomach. This man is really starting to piss me off.
I half expect him to step away, but he doesn't. He steps closer to me.
We're so close now that the front of his shirt lightly grazes mine. I feel the air between us, hot and thick. Breathe, Belle, I remind myself, as my heart hammers in my chest.
“You don’t remember me?” he asks, his right hand lightly brushing up against my left wrist. His fingers wrap around my skin for a split second, and my entire body freezes. And then, as quickly as his fingers wrapped around me, they unwrap, and he releases my wrist.