Chapter 18
Things come to a head the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
Campus has started to empty out, but we technically have classes Monday and Tuesday, so some students linger.
I’m surprised to find Madison on her way out as I’m coming back from work.
It feels like whenever she’s not working, she’s hanging out with Patrick—which I love for her, but I miss my best friend.
I’ve missed her for years—not that I can express that to her.
I know this is partially my fault. I spend a lot of time with Alex and Helen, and that takes a toll on my friendship with Madison. I’ve suggested we all get dinner together a few times, but Madison seems to always be busy.
I keep getting this irrational feeling she’s avoiding me.
“Hey,” I greet her now. “Wanna grab dinner?”
I’m supposed to hang out with Alex, but I know he’ll understand if I postpone.
Madison freezes, and for a moment I get the uncanny sense that she’s about to lie to me, but then she sighs, looks down, and mumbles something.
“What was that?”
“I have a date,” she repeats, a little louder.
After I register her words—she has a date, and I didn’t know—my mind whirls back to Ellie’s party, when Cat asked how Madison was doing, and I couldn’t answer her.
It was easy to tell myself that friends grow apart when they’re separated by half a country.
But here we are sharing a bedroom, and I feel as distant from Madison as ever.
This is supposed to be my chance to make sure we never grow apart in the first place.
“Holy shit, Mads, that’s awesome. With who?” I say, trying to mask the conflicted feelings rushing through me. She averts her eyes as if she’s not sure what to say. I prompt, “It’s Patrick, isn’t it? You’re finally admitting you’re into each other.”
Another pause, then she looks up, locks eyes with me, and nods. “Yeah. It’s Patrick.”
It’s exciting to think that my plan to help Madison avoid heartache is working—but I’m also kind of surprised. Madison hangs out with Patrick constantly, but anytime I hint that something more might be happening between them, she seems annoyed, so I always back off.
“That’s amazing. Tell me everything. When did he ask you out? What made you change your mind? I told you you’d love him.”
“Yeah—I didn’t… I certainly didn’t expect this, you know? But, yes, I will tell you everything. Later, though, okay? I’m running late.”
In the blink of an eye, she’s rushing out the door, leaving me to change out of my work clothes and into something more comfortable to go hang out with Alex.
I’m halfway to his dorm when I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket.
Helen: Have you read this week’s stories for class?
I frown, confused why she’d text me about this.
Me: I thought class was canceled this week. I was planning on reading over the break.
The thought of having to read and come up with notes dampens my mood. Before I can get too upset, Helen’s response comes through. And then another. She’s one of those people who send several texts in quick succession instead of one long text.
Helen: No, you’re right. It’s canceled. Just…
Helen: Ellie’s story got sent out this week.
A brief flash of dread at Ellie’s name. I never sent him my writing. It felt wrong stealing from someone else for the express purpose of impressing Ellie, and when I sat down and tried to write something of my own, nothing came.
Well, actually, a lot of things came—they were just all shit.
I think of the text I’ve neglected to respond to for over two weeks. I know I’m blowing my chance, but it feels kind of good, leaving him hanging. Having him be the one to wait for once.
Helen: And I think it might be about you?
Helen: I mean, not ABOUT you. I don’t think you’re like that. INSPIRED by you??
Helen: Idk. I might be making it up!!
Helen: Don’t be offended if I’m wrong :/
Without responding, I pull my emails up on my phone and go to the assignment sent by Professor Travers two hours ago. I download Ellie’s story and sit on a bench to read it.
I know immediately that Helen isn’t making anything up.
The story is told in close third person, through the perspective of an eighteen-year-old boy named Valery. In the first scene, Valery meets a girl named Garrett at a party. They joke about each other’s names. They flirt. She leads him to a bedroom.
It’s exactly the same as the night Ellie and I met.
Only…
It isn’t.
What starts off romantic quickly grows distinctly unromantic.
Through Valery’s eyes, I see Garrett—myself—in a light that has to be at least a little fictional.
She’s too enthusiastic, too eager. It’s a little much, cringeworthy, even, but Valery eats it up.
It’s the first time he’s gotten attention like this from a girl, and he’s not sure what to do with himself. So he goes along with it.
That’s how his perspective of the night is presented—him following my lead up until the moment I take him to a bedroom.
Valery knew they should slow down. He should pump the brakes.
He wanted to get to know her better. He wanted to tell her that he’d never gone this far before, and he’d always imagined his first time happening with a girlfriend.
He could even see her becoming a girlfriend, though he’d known her less than an hour.
He opened his mouth to say something but hesitated.
He had never had any large amount of confidence to speak of, and the thought flitted through his brain: What if he never got a chance like this again?
Illogical. Irrational. He knew it. That didn’t stop the thought from blaring over and over, like a siren.
Was he supposed to be turned on right now?
She clearly was. He had the inappropriate urge to laugh. Could she not tell he was having a crisis?
Who could possibly think of sex at a time like this?
Eventually, he worked up the courage to tell her that he’d never done this before, that maybe they should pause and get to know each other. He resolved to ask her out on a date.
She cut him off after barely two words, misreading his intentions and assuring him that she’d never done this either. She seemed as nervous as he was, and he felt oddly comforted by that.
Maybe he should just go ahead.
Get it over with.
That’s what college is supposed to be about, right? Experimentation. Well, he could start right now. Get this interaction that he knew was going to be awkward out of the way so he wouldn’t have to have it later.
I stop reading for a moment. My face heats up. With embarrassment or anger? Disbelief or shame? Take your pick. All of the above. I’d felt so great that night. Sexy and in control. From everything I could tell, Ellie had enjoyed himself. I distinctly remember him saying, “It’s better than okay.”
I finally pinpoint the emotion I’m feeling.
Guilt.
Did I imagine his consent? Consent that had, in the moment, seemed pretty enthusiastic. How could I have misread the situation so badly?
But no, he cops to that in the story. He discusses the disconnect between the words coming out of his mouth and the thoughts rushing through his head. He wants what’s happening; he just wishes it were happening a little differently. Wishes he could shut off his brain and go with it. But he can’t.
That’s what the story is about, I realize.
Disconnect.
The disconnect between his words and actions on one side, and his anxiety-laced inner monologue on the other.
The disconnect between what he wanted and what he thought he should want.
The disconnect between Valery and Garrett—between Ellie and me—as they were engaging in an act that should be, at its core, about connection.
As I continue reading, I flush even more, for a different reason.
Ellie spares no details.
It’s not erotica, per se—it’s too awkward and embarrassing and messy for erotica.
But it’s erotic. Erotic in the worst possible way.
Erotic in the way that seeing two people you know but in whom you have no sexual interest heavily making out in public might be.
As in, it might check those boxes, but you’d still do your damnedest to extricate yourself from the situation at the earliest possible moment.
In the story, Valery is caught up in his own thoughts, constantly worrying—is he going to come too soon?
Is he going to be able to come at all? Should he flip them over so he’s on top?
Oh God, he did it, and now he has no clue what to do.
Is his rhythm okay? Is he hurting her? Shit, it really seems like he’s hurting her.
Should they have done more foreplay? Any foreplay at all?
In the end, he comes too soon, and as good as it feels, he can barely enjoy it.
Most of his pleasure stems from relief at the whole thing being over.
As he pulls out, he has the urge to apologize, but she seems so happy, so satisfied, that it stops his words. Had she come after all?
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
If I’d eaten in the past couple hours, I’m sure I would be sick.
It’s one thing to learn that someone regrets sleeping with you.
That, I could have handled. Finding out he hadn’t enjoyed himself as a vague, nebulous concept would have sucked, but I’d survive.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that I’d spent years building him up in my mind, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it either.
In the strictest definition of the word, I hadn’t enjoyed it.
I had just wanted to enjoy it.
But this? Having to read about his lack of enjoyment in explicit, excruciating detail?
It’s awful.
And it gets worse. After detailing our awkward post-sex conversation—which to me had seemed sweet and intimate—Ellie writes about how I passed out.
His internal debate: Should he leave? Is he an asshole if he leaves?
His guilt at the thought of me waking up alone the morning after losing my virginity.
Ever the sweet, romantic hero, even as he’s eviscerating this character insert of me.