“Which means you don’t like me.”
“Because you became a Mary Sue. But I love you.”
I snorted, shaking my head, and returned to Lisa’s desk. Picking up the first half of the music books stacked there, I walked to the closet.
“If you search your coldly rational soul, you will see that I am telling the truth.” She watched me for a few minutes as I ignored her and piled the sheet music neatly in the corner of Lisa’s closet. Eventually she added, “Mona, we’ve known each other almost our whole lives. I will always want what I think is best for you.”
“You want what’s best for me? Which is what?” I returned to the desk, grabbing more music books.
“First and foremost, a life of fulfillment. Secondarily, security, peace of mind, comfort, and companionship.”
Her response surprised me to such an extent, I lost my grip on the second stack of music as I knelt, and they fell to the floor in a haphazard pile.
“Did I surprise you?” She asked this feigning a British accent.
I huffed a laugh, but said, “Yes. I find your answer surprising.”
“You can thank my therapist. So—” she sauntered over and shoved my shoulder again with her fingers “—are you a virgin?”
“No,” I ground out reluctantly, rearranging the pile.
“And I assume you lost your virginity to a boyfriend?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Really? Now you’ve surprised me.”
“How so?”
Gabby was quiet for a bit. I heard her take a deep breath. Release it. Take another. Meanwhile, finished stacking the music, I stood and returned to the bed, reclaiming my seat at the end of it.
Finally, she said, “But, I guess, it does kind of make sense.”
“What makes sense?”
“You’ve never had a boyfriend, and that makes sense. It would require you asking someone to put you first.”
I gritted my teeth. “Gabby—”
“But how does that work? I mean, you yank away when I touch your arm and you’ve known me forever.”
I tried to hide my wince by studying Lisa’s bedspread for lint. “So?”
“Soooo, you don’t like to be touched. At all. How does sex work if you don’t like touching?”
“I don’t like uninvited touching, when it’s a surprise.” I believed these words when I said them. But after they were out of my mouth, I discovered they weren’t entirely accurate—not recently, not with Abram—and worked to suppress a blooming yet distressing warmth low in my stomach.
“I don’t get it. What do you do when you have sex? Announce what you’re going to do before you do it?”
“Not all sex requires a lot of touching. I’m extremely clear regarding my expectations before sex, what I want out of the experience, what we will and will not do, what I hope to achieve. I ask my partner for the same information. If the guy does anything unexpected, I simply end it.”
“Reeeeeeally?” Gabby plopped down next to me on the bed, the intensity of her gaze told me she was absolutely fascinated. “Like, you talk about the sex before you have it? What you’re going to do? What’s going to happen?”
“Exactly.” How else was I supposed to determine whether or not sex with a partner was necessary? The scientific method existed for a reason.
“That’s so interesting!”
I squinted at her. “You don’t?”
She shook her head.
“Not at all?”
She shook her head again.
I scrunched my nose. “If you don’t talk about it, about the plan, then how do you give consent?”
She scrunched her nose in return but also laughed. “Uh, through my actions.”
I turned away and stood before she could see my expression, walking to the desk. Consent through actions? Like people expected each other to read their minds and know what each person liked without talking about it first? And that assumed the other person would be mindful enough to ensure climax was reached? What about boundaries? Limits?
Sure. Right. Okay. NOPE! Not for me.
“I have more questions about your pre-sex discussions. But first, how many partners have you had?” Her voice adopted a tone I associated with academic discussions. For some reason, it helped me relax a bit, made the conversation feel less personal.
Sitting on the edge of the desk, I crossed my arms. “Seven.”
“Seven?” She stared at me, her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Oh. Okay. Wow. Also surprising.”
“Why? How many have you had?”
“One,” she said quietly, giving me the impression that her one had been meaningful. Clearing her throat, she continued, “Was any of the sex enjoyable?”
I paused to mentally thumb through all relevant encounters. “Some.”
“Were they all one-night stands?”
“No.”
“Some were multiple-night stands?”
“Yes.”
“But none became a boyfriend?” A renewed hint of curiosity edged into her voice.
“No.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“It wasn’t necessary,” I said with a sigh, tired of this discussion.
“Necessary?”
How could I explain this to Gabby in a way she’d understand? I’d sought to answer a question. The question had been answered. Case closed.
Eventually, I decided on, “I don’t have time for that.”
“That? What is ‘that’?”
“You know—” I waved my hand in the air “—calling, texting, having conversations about mundane things, making plans. That.” Not when I could achieve more satisfaction on my own than with a partner. It was simple math.
Gabby blinked at me several times. “It’s like I don’t even know you, Mona.”
My chuckle caught me off guard, so did my lingering smile as Gabby and I looked at each other. Her eyes were intent as they moved over my face, like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
“You need help,” Gabby said at last, causing my smile to vanish.
I frowned at the floor. “Help with what?”
“You have a distorted view of reality, and what you deserve,” she said softly.
“No. I just don’t believe romantic relationships are necessary.”
“You think you deserve less.”
“It’s not about what people deserve, Gabby.” I sighed. Again. Hadn’t it been an hour yet? Shouldn’t she be leaving soon? “It’s about what people need. I don’t need—or want—a relationship.”
“Because you don’t have time?”
That wasn’t precisely true, but—as Lisa would say—whatever. “Sure.”
“Because you’re so busy being a genius and doing the math, you don’t have time for people?”
“I have time for people, just not a boyfriend.”
“Even if that boyfriend was awesome? Even if he built you up, supported you, loved you, adored you, and made it his life’s mission to ensure you knew—every day—how amazing and special you are?”
“That’s not a boyfriend. That’s a dog.”
She waved away my sarcasm. “You don’t need love? Companionship?”
I hesitated, searching the air around her head for the right words.
“Fine,” she said before I could assemble a response. “Then you think you need less than other people.”
I shot her a questioning glance, but before I could respond, she snapped her fingers.
“I have an idea!” Gabby scooched to the end of the bed closest to me and leveled me with an intent and wide stare. “Abram.”
I returned her stare, giving nothing of my thoughts, or my feelings, or my body’s betraying, quantum reaction at the mention of his name. “What about him?”
“He’s hot, right?”
I shrugged and confessed to the understatement of the century, “His exterior is attractive.”
“Yeah, but what do you think of him so far? You two were flirting up a storm the other day. Is he a guy you might want to get to know better? If you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know him very well,” was what I said, but my thoughts on the subject were: I LIKE HIM SO MUCH!
“Ah ha!” She pointed at me. “You didn’t say no, which means you’ve pictured him naked.”
I sighed for the hundredth time. Speaking of, where the heck was Abram? Shouldn’t he be kicking Gabby out?
She grinned, wagging her eyebrows. “You should let him touch you.”