Chapter 59
“Sorry if my car smells,” Nolan says as he pulls into a parking space at the Marriott.
What do you tell someone when they’re looking for reassurance that you can’t legitimately give them? His car does smell. Of Funyuns and vinegar and old McDonald’s fries trapped somewhere in the purgatory that is a seat cushion crevice.
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
“You look so pretty in that prom dress,” he says, rubbing his hands on his pants. And as he leans over to kiss me, I force myself not to wince.
We were having sex last week in his bedroom while Back to the Future played in the background, and he said “I really like you,” which is what people say when they want to say “I love you” but think it’s too soon.
I tried to negotiate with my body. Convince it to make things easy. Who cares? I said to it. Who cares if he cares more? You’ll break his heart and he’ll get over it. Just enjoy a good fuck. Be present and feel good. Let yourself feel good.
But there was no pleasure to be felt. My body turned off.
I was a block of flesh with no soul inside it.
A fuckable ghost. As he railed me during Marty’s “Johnny B. Goode” guitar solo, I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember if I was out of Cocoa Pebbles and needed to pick some up on the way home.
Afterward he asked if everything was alright.
Said I seemed distant and that he was uncomfortable having sex with me like that.
I said it was nothing, that I was just feeling a bit disconnected.
“Was it because of what I said?” he asked.
I assured him that wasn’t it, and that I was just tired, and he said alright.
We haven’t had sex since then. And as respectful and considerate as he is, I can tell it’s starting to get to him. His glances have been getting a little longer, his puppy eyes a little more pleading. He’s begging to be wanted. Desperate for it.
We head to the hotel ballroom, and I scan it the frantic way Jason Bourne would for a killer.
I see flashes, just flashes. A hand on an ass.
A head-tossed-back laugh. A girl who cares too much dancing with her date, who doesn’t care enough, his eyes bloodshot from pot.
An overly serious DJ. A few teachers, scattered around and trying to look unassuming.
But no Mr. Korgy. All this for him. Stupid heels that make my toes bleed, dress so tight I can barely breathe, and the hope.
So much hope. Nothing hurts as bad as hope being met with reality.
I feel the sweaty heat of Nolan’s hands as he moves them toward my hips.
“I’ve gotta pee,” I yell over the music.
“I’ll wait to dance till you’re back,” he says.
“No need!”
I push open the double doors. Kids make out in the hallway and sneak sips of liquor from flasks.
A hotel manager scolds an employee. I run to the bathroom, dizzy, and shut myself into a stall, tilting my head back so the tears don’t fall.
I go to grab a strip of toilet paper, but the roll is empty, so I use a toilet seat cover instead, and the weird, wasteful center circle flaps over itself with each dab.
Fuck this. I’m not gonna be this weak. I can’t be this weak.
My chest heaves with a cry but I swallow it down and head back to the dance.
I shove open the double doors and scan the ballroom again—but this time for the person who does want me.
For the person who treats me right. For the floppy, kindhearted person standing in the corner of the room bobbing his head haphazardly to the music.
I grab Nolan’s face and jam my tongue into his mouth, and when I’m done he looks shocked. Tousled. Satiated.
I take a step back and see Mr. Korgy leaning against the wall, arms crossed, lips tight, staring right at me.