Chapter 11
Chapter
“I’m not inviting them.” I pull my Columbia sweatshirt over my head and grab my bag off the floor. I’m already late for rehearsal and not in the mood to have this conversation.
“You don’t think you’ll regret it if they’re not there?” Adam follows me around the living room with a coffee mug in hand.
“I really don’t.”
This conversation started when I told Adam I was reserving tickets for him and Chloe for opening night of The Mousetrap, and he asked what about your parents?
“I know you don’t have the best relationship with them,” he continues. “But I’m sure they’ll want to know.”
“You don’t get it.” I dismiss him and slip my running shoeson.
How could he? Adam goes home to Long Island almost every other weekend to have Sunday dinner with his family.
Whereas I’ve never had a meal with both of my parents.
Adam always invites me, but I’m usually working or in rehearsal, and I’ve kept the tradition of spending holiday dinners with Chloe and her family.
There’s something about going home with him that feels daunting.
Maybe I’m afraid I’ll enjoy myself too much.
“I don’t get it, because you don’t talk about it,” he says. “How am I supposed to understand if you won’t tell me?”
“What do you want me to tell you?” I turn to face him, and he flinches. “That my mom got pregnant at nineteen and blames me for her mediocre life? Or that my dad left when I was two?”
“June, I didn’t—”
“You know, sometimes I think it would be better if he just got my mom knocked up and left…instead of him getting to know me for two years and realizing he didn’t want me.
” I move my bag to my other shoulder and continue talking like a faucet whose spout won’t shut off.
“One time in high school, I had a speaking part in our spring play. I remember being so happy because my mom was able to attend one of the shows. On the car ride home, I told her I wanted to study theater in college, and she told me to do something I would actually be successful in. She told me to focus on getting a higher-paying job to pay off our debts. Our debts.” I let out a pathetic laugh, but I have no tears, no lump in my throat to swallow.
I’m past the point of being sad or disappointed. “I don’t want them to come.”
Adam stands there looking at me speechless, the groove between his brows deepening. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” I say firmly. “I just want you to leave it.”
“I will,” he says.
We’re doing this awkward thing where if I didn’t have to leave for rehearsal or if I wasn’t so worked up, we’d probably hug. But neither one of us is moving so I head out the door.
Two blocks away from the subway, I give in to the tick in the back of my brain and let out an audible groan.
I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through a significant number of chats in my queue until I get to the last text exchange between my mom and me.
Merry Christmas. This is what she wrote in response to my greeting.
Who types Merry Christmas with a period?
Instead of typing, my finger hovers over the call button—one ring, two, three, then four. My mother’s voice brings on a flare of PTSD as it tells me to leave a voicemail.
“Um.” I swallow. “Hi, it’s me, June. I wanted to let you know that I’m going to be in a new Agatha Christie play. It’s here in the city but…I can get you a ticket if you want. Let me know. Bye.”
I shove my phone back into my pocket and continue to walk.
Shawn, our director, calls a ten-minute break, so I sit against the wall in our rehearsal room and take a swig from my water bottle. The rest of the cast disperses and pulls out their scripts to run over lines or break into casual conversation, but I don’t feel like joining in on the usual chatter.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Caleb, another chorus member, says as he sits next to me.
He’s British, with pale skin and green eyes.
I remember those eyes catching my attention at our first table read.
This isn’t the first time we’re chatting, but any interaction between us has always been in a group setting.
“Just one of those days.” I smile, trying to forget about earlier.
It doesn’t take much time, but before the ten minutes are up, he asks me if I want to grab dinner with him this week and I say yes. As we exchange numbers, a text message appears from my mom.
Can’t make it.
Instead of disappointment, I kick myself for having had an ounce of hope.
“So, who’s the guy?” Adam leans against my doorframe.
It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date with anyone. Unlike Adam’s, my love life has become obsolete in the past year.
“He’s in the play with me,” I say, comparing two different outfits laid across my bed. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m finishing up a baked ziti for Stanley, then going to Robby’s to watch the game.”
Robby’s my favorite friend of Adam’s. They went to culinary school together and he’s the one who got Adam his job at High Rise.
I’ve met him only once, but he’s the epitome of Williamsburg cool, from how he dresses to the collection of tattoos on his arms. Whenever I hang out with them it feels effortless, almost like I’m one of the guys.
“Nice—who’s playing?” I ask.
“San Antonio and Miami,” he says. “Where’s he taking you?”
“Estella.” I hold up a black dress in front of the mirror and he watches me switch between that and jeans with a silk blouse. I notice his jaw twitch when I choose the dress.
“Let me know how their whipped eggplant dip is,” he says.
I pull out another dress from my closet and hold it against my chest. “God, I don’t know why I’m overthinking this.”
He stares back, straight-faced. I expect a joke, but he just puts his hands in his pockets. “Been a while?”
“Can I tell you something?” My eyes are still on his in the mirror and he nods. Turning around, I toss the outfits back onto my bed. “I’ve only been with one guy before.”
His eyebrows rise; this was clearly not what he was expecting me to say.
“Oh.”
Now, to clarify, while I’ve had sex with only one person, that doesn’t mean I’ve had sex only once.
I have zero qualms when it comes to casual sex, but it’s never been something I’ve had a desire for.
My ex-boyfriend and I met in freshman year of college, we dated for two years, and after we broke up, the opportunity never presented itself again.
While Chloe always supports my decisions, she can’t necessarily…relate, and for some reason Adam’s the first person I’ve ever felt comfortable enough to talk about this with. He’s someone I completely trust, whom I can let my guard down in front of, and who’s, well, of the opposite sex.
“I know it’s stupid but—”
“It’s not stupid,” he says firmly, and my train of thought is lost for a brief moment.
“Have you…also…?”
“Oh,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck. “No, but I understand.”
Right. Of course. I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my knuckles. Now I’m actively wondering how many women he’s been with.
“Well, I’m a little nervous,” I say. “Lucas, my ex, was really…vanilla.”
“Vanilla,” he repeats, making a face.
“You know…” I say, realizing Adam and I are entering a new threshold in our relationship that most roommates, and even friends, don’t cross. “Pretty much missionary the whole time, with him on top.”
Adam frowns. “How long were you two together?”
“Just under two years.”
He pushes himself off the doorframe and takes a step toward me. “And in those two years, you only did missionary?”
“I mean, we did it sideways once.”
“So, you’ve never been—” His brows furrow, correcting himself. “You’ve never tried doggy style?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Or been on top?” he continues, and I shrug. “Oral?”
“Well, I’ve given oral,” I say. “But I’ve never received it.”
His face drops. “You’ve never… Jesus Christ, June. ” He runs his hand through his hair in frustration, and if I didn’t know any better, I would say he’s mad. “This idiot was with you for two years and he never—” He stops and wipes his palm over his mouth. “Sorry.”
“It’s not because I didn’t want to,” I emphasize. “I want to now, but I’m nervous.” I laugh, knowing how embarrassing this conversation is. “What if I’m bad?”
He gives me an incredulous look. “June, trust me, you’re not bad.”
“How would you know?”
“ Because, ” he says, and shrugs. “There’s no way anyone could have sex with you and not enjoy themselves. It would be a fucking privilege for any guy to be with you.”
My cheeks become flush, my mouth opens and then closes. Before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings and my head whips to the clock on my bedside table. “Oh my God, he’s early! Adam, you have to keep him busy.” I push him into the hallway.
“What? For how long?”
“Just ten minutes, please,” I beg.
“That’s about nine minutes more than I want to talk to this guy.”
“You’ll live.” I slam the door in his face.
To spare Adam, I finish getting ready in seven minutes.
I land on the first dress with sheer black tights and heels, surprised at how sexy I feel.
As I make my way down the stairs, I see the back of Caleb’s head, and on the armchair across from him, Adam with his foot over his knee, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
He does a double take when he sees me, his eyes widening in the process, but he quickly recovers, looking away.
Caleb turns around and then stands up at the sight of me. “Wow, June, you look incredible.”
“Thank you.” I blush, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs. He takes the leather jacket I have in my hand and drapes it over my shoulders.
“Ready?” he asks, and I nod. “Nice meeting you, man.” He holds a hand up to Adam.
“Likewise.” Adam tips his head.
I follow Caleb out the door and for a brief second turn back to Adam, who’s still in the living room.
“Thank you,” I mouth, hoping he knows everything I’m thanking him for.