Chapter 13
But when he answers, he’s alone. He steps back so I can come in, then puts a sock on the outer doorknob, closes the door, and throws the bolt.
He doesn’t waste any time with our newfound privacy.
He pulls me toward him and turns me so my back is against the door.
Burying his hands in my hair, he gives me a long kiss.
He runs one hand up and down the side of my body.
It seems impossible how quickly he can wake up every nerve ending I have.
Richard’s room is little more than a window dormer flanked by two twin beds.
The ceilings are low and slanted with the roof.
When we read Crime and Punishment in Enriched English last semester, the main character lived in a garret, and this is sort of what I imagined.
Richard looks like a giant in it because he can only stand up straight right by the door; everywhere else he has to stoop to not hit his head.
It makes for a perfectly reasonable explanation of why we have to kick off our shoes and stretch out on the bed.
We’re mirror images of each other, stretched out on our sides, hands holding up our heads, elbows propped on the pillow.
He’s looking at me intently; his eyes are an invitation.
It makes me think about how many things I could tell him, how many things I haven’t told him.
The only thing that stops me from opening Pandora’s box is I don’t know how to start.
“What’s going on in there?” he says, touching my temple. “I can see a lot of wheels turning.”
I shrug. “Just catching my breath.”
“I didn’t know you were breathless.”
I scooch closer to him. “A little.”
He starts kissing me again, and it’s just like on the bus.
It feels like I’m drowning in it, no, swimming in it, NO, floating, like I’m weightless and surrounded by sheer yumminess.
I let myself relax, and the places where our bodies are touching take turns being at the front of my consciousness—first our lips, our tongues, then my hand on his arm, then his hand on my waist, and then our two sets of socked feet intertwined.
Now he’s working on the buttons of my shirt, and with one hand it’s going pretty slowly.
I realize I don’t want him to get frustrated and give up, so I help him with the last few.
The whole time that button business is happening, our mouths are crushed together with a four-alarm-fire level of intensity that makes me feel like a different person, not an anxious, self-conscious person but someone untamed, like I just emerged from the woods or something. Like I’m wild.
He sits up then and grabs the back of his collar, pulling his T-shirt over his head in one swift motion.
I take the cue to do the same, but there’s no way to get my bra unhooked and off without looking clumsy and awkward.
Why didn’t I wear my bra that hooks in the front?
! I try to hold his eyes with mine and just get it off as fast as possible so it won’t take up too many frames in the mental movie I’m hoping he’ll play of this later.
Then we come together again, his arms encircling me.
There’s so much skin, all of it smooth. Richard only has a few chest hairs right at his sternum, downy and soft, which I like.
I touch his nipples, and am surprised when they get hard the same as mine do.
Apparently, we are both thinking about my breasts at the same time, because he rolls me onto my back and then moves down to put his mouth on each of them. I almost cry at how good it feels.
Suddenly, he’s pulling away from me. He reaches over and tugs the curtains closed, so that there is only a long strip of light left on the opposite wall from the rays of the setting sun sneaking through the crack.
Then he reaches down into his backpack sitting on the floor next to the bed.
I hear the crinkle of plastic as he finds what he’s looking for.
He brings it up, holds it with both hands and tears the wrapper. It’s a condom.
My body goes cold. I feel like he just skipped about ten steps.
“What’s that for?” I ask, my voice flat. How did we get here?
He smiles at me, still playful. “You know what it’s for.”
I’m so confused. “But we only just started— I mean, this seems fast …”
“Why? I’m ready. You feel ready. What’s holding us back?” The last question is muffled as he leans into me, kissing my neck.
But everything yummy has evaporated, and now I am acutely aware of the sticky wetness of his spit on my skin.
The room smells stale and sweaty. I sit up quickly and almost crack my head on the ceiling, ducking at the last second and scooting down to the foot of the bed so I can put both feet on the floor.
I grab my shirt and stuff my arms in the sleeves.
“Hey, where are you going?” He says it plaintively, like a little boy, pulling on my hand. “Come back.”
I reclaim my hand and try to clear my head. Maybe I can save this. We’re just having a misunderstanding.
“Look, Richard, I don’t expect you to know this about me, ’cause we haven’t really had a chance to talk about this yet, but I would only …” Only what? Go all the way? Make love? Fuck? “I can totally see myself having sex with you, I want to, but we would have to be in love first, you know?”
Immediately, he says, “Well, I love you.”
A bark of a laugh jumps out of me at the ridiculousness of that statement.
What the hell? “No. You don’t. You barely know me.
” My body seems to be done with this whole scene before my brain can catch up.
I’m surprised to find I’m already putting on my shoes and tying the laces. I stuff my bra into my pocket.
He looks unbothered by what I just said. “I think I do.”
The calmer he is, the more out of control I feel. “No. I promise. You don’t know me at all. And you definitely don’t love me.”
There’s a minuscule shift in his gaze; his eyes get stony, as if he is looking at a stranger who may have stolen his bike.
There is a hard edge to his composure. “You don’t have to hold on to these old-fashioned ideas of what gives women value, Hattie.
You’ll be the same person afterward.” What is he, a women’s studies professor?
“That is not what I’m doing. Don’t tell me what I’m doing.” I’m stumbling over my words, I’m so agitated.
He props up a pillow and sits back, putting his hands behind his head. “I’m just saying. It doesn’t need to be a big deal. Everything doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
The note of condescension curls my hands into fists.
“You can throw that condom away.” I have to go.
I feel like a failure even though I’m pretty sure he’s the one fucking up.
I open the door, then I pull the sock off the doorknob and toss it into the room before shutting it behind me.
I’m moving on instinct now. In the hall, I turn toward my room.
But halfway there, I spin around. What if Amanda is in there?
I’m not ready to interact with her. I head outside and the inevitable cold hits me, shocking me with its impact.
With no coat on, my teeth are chattering within seconds, but I want it. I want the punishment.
The regrets are ganging up on me, screaming in my ears. Did you seriously just blow up this whole relationship? Walk away from the boy you’ve been obsessed with for months? And why? Because he said he loved you? You could still be kissing him right now if you weren’t so melodramatic.
But even as my guilty verdict is being prepared by my brain, some other, more visceral part of me is pulling up wordless images in my defense.
That icy expression on Richard’s face, the way he put his hands behind his head like he’d already lost interest, the gross smugness of it all.
It was like he was trying to make me out as some sort of prude, which is completely unfair, because I’m not against sex, not at all.
I’m not even afraid of it, really. None of that part of the Catholic Church ever rubbed off on me; it doesn’t feel true in my body to think of sex as bad.
I just want it to mean something. And I guess, yeah, that’s especially true for my first time.
But I could have seen us getting there in a few weeks or months, and doing a lot of amazing fooling around in the meantime.
Fuck! Why did he have to push it? Why did it have to be today?
After I’ve circled the lodge three times, I’m too cold to be upset.
I’m numb inside and out. All my nose hairs are frozen and the chill I felt in my limbs now feels like straight-up pain.
I can’t avoid my room anymore. I decide to pop in and grab my coat, act like I’m meeting Richard without saying that explicitly.
When I get there, Amanda is inside as expected, trying to do a French braid around the top of her head like a crown, but her hair is so silky and fine it keeps falling out.
Fortunately, this appears to be taking up all her concentration, and she doesn’t grill me on anything boy related.
You would almost never know that she is seething with jealousy.
She is a pro at hiding her feelings, which in this situation is fine by me.
“Shoot! I can’t believe I have to start over again! My arms are going to fall off.” She pulls out the braid and brushes her hair smooth. “Hattie, would you help me? I want to look Swiss, like I belong in a ski chalet with a big tray of beer steins.”
She wants to look like a waitress? “I think steins are a German thing,” I say, then feel cringy about correcting a factual technicality and go to help her.
I take the brush and separate the hair by her left temple into three sections to start braiding.
I notice that she’s completing the look in a blouse with a bodice and ribbons and everything.
Her boobs are pressed together for some impressive cleavage.
Guys may come and go, but she’ll have those babies for life.
I wonder if my jealousy for her physical attributes is more obvious than her jealousy for what she thinks is my romantic situation.
“German, Swiss, whatever,” she laughs, then looks determined.
“I want to look like I’m in The Sound of Music.
” I almost blurt, “They were Austrian,” but manage to stifle it in time.
After all, who doesn’t want to look like the Baroness in her gold lamé gown, or Liesl in the greenhouse in the pouring rain?
Of course, they don’t have braids, and Julie Andrews has no hairstyle at all in that movie, unless “chopped” is considered a hairstyle, but I get what she’s driving at, and I’m definitely not going to correct her again.
I nod and keep braiding, soothed by the meditative quality of it, the ability to concentrate on something outside of my roiling thoughts. I get all the way across the top of her head and then stop, stuck. “Now what?” I ask.
She laughs again. “You know what, I have no fucking clue.”
“Wait, let me try something.” I start to grab strands behind the braid until I am braiding back in the opposite direction.
After another full braid across the top of her head, I secure the rubber band low behind her ear and cover it up with the hair spilling down her back.
I examine her in the mirror, proud of my work.
As I do, I realize I’m admiring how my efforts have made my main competitor look more attractive. I snort at the irony.
“I know, I know, it’s way over the top, but I’m into it,” she says, misunderstanding my noise. “Okay, I’m off to après-ski!”
There’s that phrase again. I make a mental note to look it up. I smile and make a thumbs-up, which I instantly regret. Something about Amanda’s energy makes me my uncoolest self. She goes and I exhale into the quiet of the room.
I need a second opinion on the Richard situation. Was I overreacting? “Mason?” I ask softly, seeing if I can conjure him up at will. Nope. No Mason. Was there ever really? It’s so hard to be sure. In any case, time to turn to the land of the living.
I pull my phone out of my bag and call Asha. She’ll be able to break this down for me. If anything, she’ll be harder on him, which I would appreciate, since the idea that this was somehow all my fault keeps creeping into my mind.
“You have not reached Asha,” her familiar message tells me. “Guess she’s too busy for you. But here comes a beep you can talk to. Go ahead. Talk to it.” Beep.
Shit. I hang up and call my mom, not sure yet how much of the story I even want to tell her. It’s more just to hear the voice of someone who is definitely on Team Hattie. My dad answers. I guess he counts?
“Hi, Dad.”
“Well, my other child is in the house with me so I guess this must be Hattie!” he says, making an attempt at a dad joke.
“Ha, you got it. Why do you have Mom’s phone?”
“Apparently she left it behind when she went off to book club.” Ah, no wonder my dad sounds so jovial. He’s probably having an extra beer without the tsking disapproval of his wife.
“Okay, well, I won’t bother you.” I don’t feel like I can talk to him, but if he asks me what’s going on, I might. Maybe this could be the start of us finally understanding each oth—
“I’ll tell her you called,” he says, like he’s merely Mom’s assistant and not also my parent. “We’ll look forward to your triumphant return tomorrow.” Click. God, he is so, so weird.
So this is the culmination of all the big “we need to talk” lectures my parents have foisted on me since before I was even getting my period. All the promises of “always being there for me” and “available whenever I want to talk” evaporated by a book club and an oblivious dad. Guess I’m on my own.