Chapter 20
When Jo’s Sunday morning shift at the coffee shop ends, she speed-walks to my apartment in record time.
We weren’t able to connect after my shift yesterday, so she’s been living with the knowledge that I have major updates for nearly twenty-four hours, and based on the crazed look in her eyes when she flops onto my couch, it’s been eating her alive.
I start by telling her about Alexander, and she gets appropriately angry on my behalf, spends ten minutes yelling into the void while periodically checking in to make sure I’m okay, and then remembers that I have more than a few Harrison-related updates to share, and so we table our discussion of Alexander.
It only takes a few minutes to fill her in on what’s happened with Harrison, and then we move into the part of the discussion where she asks follow-up questions and we unpack every single word Harrison and I have ever spoken to each other and consider what they might mean in this new context.
This exploration is so lengthy, it lasts three full cups of coffee, leaving us shaky and nauseous, which slows down the process.
By the time we wrap up the discussion five hours later, it’s midafternoon, and Harrison has returned home from wherever he was (probably his mom’s again, let’s be honest), made a pot of coffee, and showered, according to our analysis of the noises coming from his apartment.
Jo drinks the last sip of her third coffee, then slams the mug down on the counter with a bang. “So. To summarize. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m positive you’re going to fuck it up by trying to be perfect even though you’re not—”
“Thanks.”
“—and he’s going to fuck it up by refusing to prioritize himself. Exactly like Stephanie said. For example: spending time with his mom all weekend instead of making out with you.”
I groan, getting up from my chair and flopping onto my bed. It squeaks in response, and I mutter a curse.
Buzz.
Harrison: Creaky bed, huh?
Jo rushes next to me so she can snoop. “Oh my god,” she exclaims as she reads over my shoulder. There are footsteps from above, and she turns her voice to a whisper. “Is he sexting you right now?”
“What?!” I whisper back. “No, he’s asking about the bed frame. He helped me rebuild it, remember?”
Jo narrows her eyes. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.” My cheeks are literally on fire.
She sticks out her hand. “Phone, please.”
“Absolutely not. He’s not sexting me.”
“Fine,” she says. “If you’re so confident, let me send a mildly suggestive text back, and we’ll see what he says.”
“That’s insane.”
“I thought we’re trying to lock him down.”
“It’s complicated. We’re trying to take it slow and speed up at the right time. Which is not yet.”
“Well, you know what’s not complicated? Men. When they’re horny.”
I stare at her. And then I hand her my phone.
“Might need your help,” Jo dictates. She looks up at me. “I welcome your feedback.”
“Something about loose screws?” I offer.
Jo stares at me for a minute, then looks back at the phone. “Might need your help,” she repeats. “Winky face.” She gives me a thumbs-up with raised eyebrows, and I shoot her a thumbs-up in response. A swoop sounds from my phone.
“Do people actually use the winky face emoji?” I ask.
“No idea,” Jo says. I groan.
There’s a moment of silence, and our eyes simultaneously go wide with realization. “The footsteps stopped,” Jo whispers. “He stopped pacing.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper back.
My phone quietly dings.
Harrison: How exactly can I be of assistance?
The footsteps start up again.
“Holy shit,” we both say.
“That sounds sexual, right?” I ask.
“One. Thousand. Percent,” Jo agrees. “Like, absolutely.”
I grab the phone and start typing. You’re such a handyman. You know what to do.
Jo grabs the phone back and deletes. “You’re so handy with your fingers. I bet you know exactly what to do.” She looks up at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Swoop.
The footsteps stop again.
This time, there’s a longer pause. We watch with bated breath as bubbles appear and disappear and appear and disappear on my screen. Footsteps sound again, and then there’s a faint plopping noise, as if someone has sat down on a piece of furniture.
Ding.
Harrison: Sounds like you need to buy a toolbox.
We stare at it for a moment. “I’m stumped on this one,” I admit.
Jo grabs the phone. “What’s in the box?” she dictates.
“Should we add a Dick in a Box gif ?”
Jo stares at me.
“Like the SNL skit?”
Jo stares at me some more, then narrows her eyes. “You’re bad at this.”
“Give me my phone,” I say, and we briefly catfight until my phone falls on the floor.
“If that broke, you’re paying for it,” I hiss.
Jo snorts. “With what money? The huge profit we’re making at the coffee shop?”
It didn’t break, but the text message (What’s in the box?) did send, sans gif.
More bubbles appear and disappear. Finally:
Harrison: I’ll teach you once we get it.
We stare at it again.
“Okay, I’m going to be honest,” Jo says. “I’m actually not one thousand percent sure he was sexting you.”
I glare at her, blood draining from my face. “I’m going to kill you.”
“I mean, look,” she says, gesturing with my phone. “You didn’t say anything too weird. Just…” Her eyes scan the phone. “That you bet he’s good with his fingers. Could mean anything!”
I groan, my head flopping down into my lap. “Jo,” I hiss, my voice muffled. “Even if he were good with his fingers, I literally can’t even take advantage of that.”
Jo points at me with an encouraging expression. “Depends on what he’s doing with them!”
Ding.
I grab the phone and read the text aloud.
Harrison: Working with tools requires delicate precision. You have to be gentle with it. You have to know how it works. You have to be patient with it.
“I didn’t think Harrison was that serious about tools,” I whisper.
“You dumbass,” Jo says. “He’s talking about the clitoris.”
The blood rushes back to my face. “I thought we agreed he wasn’t sexting.”
“Well, apparently he realized you were,” Jo says. “So now you have to sext back.”
I don’t even pretend to have input. I hand her the phone.
“I—” she says, then stops typing. “Will you—” she says, then deletes everything again.
“I’m patient,” I suggest.
Jo opens her mouth and starts to scoff, then looks up at me with a raised eyebrow. “Actually, yeah, that’s good stuff.” She types it out and hits send.
There’s silence for a moment, then Jo, who is starting to look impatient, stands up from the couch, sits on the bed, and bounces, creating loud creaking noises.
Harrison: those noises suggest otherwise.
Harrison: sounds a little excited, if you ask me.
Jo grins wildly, and we both crumple into balls of silent giggles.
“I cannot believe we are sexting Harrison Carter right now,” Jo wheezes.
“I am sexting Harrison Carter right now,” I correct. “Let me take credit for my work.”
“He wants you so bad, it’s not even funny,” Jo says, laughing.
I laugh back, but there’s a pit forming in my stomach.
Am I leading him on? I told him I wanted to take it slow.
Is that taking it slow? By engaging in this, am I suggesting I’m ready for something I’m not?
But also, am I ready? Will I ever be ready?
After all, my vagina still feels sore from the gynecology appointment at the beginning of the week. And that’s not a promising sign.
“Before you ask,” Jo says, “yes, this still counts as taking it slow. You’re setting the stage for what’s to come, whenever you want it. Harrison is a good guy. He’ll go at your pace. And he can handle some light sexting in the meantime.”
I give her a soft smile, then take the phone from her, my confidence renewed. “You’re right,” I type. “I’m excited.”
I raise my eyebrows at Jo, and she shrugs. “It’s not sexting, but if it’s true, it’s just as hot.”
Swoop.
Harrison: Me too Em:)
“I am literally going to throw up,” Jo says. “That is disgustingly cute. I feel ill.”
Harrison: Do you have Fourth of July plans on Tuesday?
I look over at Jo. “Do we have Fourth of July plans?”
She shakes her head. “My sister’s driving up from DC for a couple days to hang while the coffee shop is closed.”
Emma: Nope! I’m off on Tuesday and Wednesday.
Harrison: My mom is hosting a small Fourth of July party at my grandparents’ old cabin. We have Tuesday off for the holiday and I’m also taking Wednesday, so I’m leaving tomorrow night after work and coming home Wednesday evening.
We’d gone to the cabin once during our junior year of college.
Harrison’s parents had gotten into some huge fight while he was on the phone with them one night, and the next morning he’d told me to pack an overnight bag and come with him.
I’d started to argue, but then he’d told me he really, really wanted to get off campus and really, really didn’t want to have to interact with anyone else other than me. And who was I to say no to that?
We’d driven an hour and some change to the cabin, then spent the night curled up by the fire with hot chocolate and a lot of cozy, albeit musty-smelling, quilts.
There were always at least twelve inches of space between us, and yet I remember thinking the moment was sweetly intimate, like we were a pair of eighty-year-old best friends, sitting peacefully beside each other and reminiscing about our sixty-plus years of friendship.
Harrison: Want to join?
“Holy shit,” we whisper at the same time.
“His mom hates my guts, though,” I murmur.
Jo gives me a sympathetic look and shakes her head. “If you want a chance at being with Harrison, I think it’s up to you to work on that.”
Emma: You sure that’s okay? I know your mom isn’t my biggest fan.
Harrison types for a minute, and Jo and I watch the text bubbles as if they hold the key to the universe.
Harrison: I really want my mom to like you, and I feel certain she will if you two just spend more time together.
Jo shrugs. “Can’t argue with that.”
Emma: Then I’ll be there!
Harrison: And now I’m even more excited!
I giggle, and Jo playfully slaps my arm. “I told you. You two couldn’t stay away from each other if the fate of the world depended on it.”
I love-react the message, and only then does it occur to me that I’ve agreed to go on an overnight trip with Harrison Carter.
My studio is dark and slightly muggy as the sun sets and Jo leaves, and as I cross the room to turn on my floor lamp, I accidentally make eye contact with the piece of furniture I’m trying to avoid.
Have you made any progress in figuring out the girth of his penis? Key Lime asks. I glare at the dresser drawer where I keep my dilators. I hear you might make some progress this week.
Does it matter? Cobalt says to Key Lime. It’s almost certainly larger than you, and she still can barely make you fit.
Maybe he has a micropenis, Key Lime says. Or maybe it has a below-average girth. Or maybe—
“Shut UP,” I yelp, then feel exceedingly stupid because I am screaming at a set of dilators.
I stomp over to the drawer and fling it open.
I toss a bunch of unmatched socks onto the floor, then grab the wooden box and throw it on my bed.
The force makes the box fall open, and Key Lime and Cobalt stare at me.
Hey, Key Lime says.
I drop my pants. “This ends now.” I haven’t touched the dilators since my gynecology appointment, wanting to give my soul and my vagina a brief respite, but now my motivation is back with a vengeance.
I will not allow a painful Pap smear to be the reason I stall out in physical therapy.
My willpower is stronger than that, as is my desire to Do Better.
Climbing onto my bed, I get on my hands and knees for cat-cow pose.
Inhale. I raise my chest, looking up toward the sky.
Exhale. I curl my back, dropping my head toward the duvet.
Inhale. This is so freaking stupid. I look like a cow.
Exhale. And now I look like a cat, which is also really freaking stupid.
Inhale. Maybe if I get Key Lime inserted, I’ll run upstairs and try to have sex and bank on him having an average or below-average penis size and also bank on some good luck.
Exhale. Maybe I’ll just text him to come downstairs, and I’ll wait here in my bed, pantsless.
I roll onto my back for happy baby pose, bringing my legs up and bending my knees, grabbing my feet in my hands. I rock side to side, which is what Kay told me to do, and is also what makes me lose all self-respect. My vulva feels cold from exposure, even though it’s probably in the mid-seventies.
Inhale. I rock gently to the right.
Exhale. I rock gently to the left.
Inhale. I’m so tired.
Exhale. I need this to be over.
Inhale. I want my vagina to work, for once in my goddamn life.
Exhale. I want to talk to someone about this.
Inhale. I want to talk to Harrison about this.
Wait, what? Do I?
You think he’s going to want to fuck you after you tell him you’re unfuckable? Cobalt asks. I drop my legs, grab her from where she’s sitting next to me, and chuck her so hard at the wall that a picture frame thumps to the ground and breaks apart.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I’m going to tell him.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I’ve got to tell him. This week, when we’re at his mom’s cabin.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I slather lube on Key Lime and gingerly press her against my entrance. My body cramps up in response, but I’m expecting it, and expecting my pain gives me power over it. Vaginismus is partially mental, after all. So, if I mentally prepare for it, then:
Not today, motherfuckers.
I press Key Lime inside of me, and
I
am
okay.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
My pelvic floor cramps up again.
I am okay. I am okay. I am okay.
Inhale.
Exhale.
My body calms down, and I take advantage of the break to press Key Lime farther inside of me.
I stare at my ceiling, blocking out the faint sound of footsteps.
I don’t want to be thinking about Harrison pacing around his kitchen making dinner.
I don’t want to be thinking about Harrison and what I hope is his smaller-than-average penis, and I don’t want to be thinking about Harrison, because the only thing that does is add pressure, mentally and physically.
My pelvic floor seizes up, and I breathe through it.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I will not give up. I can’t give up, not when I’m already too deep to swim back to the surface. But the surface was always turbulent with will-they-or-won’t-theys and friends-with-too-many-limitations and I’m-keeping-secrets-from-yous, and I don’t want to return there even if I could.
More footsteps make their way through the ceiling, and I breathe through the pain.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I slide Key Lime in deeper, and for the first time, she’s fully inserted, and I am okay.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be okay.