There’s a long pause and then you say it: “This isn’t working.”
First: shock. A punch to the chest. We’re so close already. To untangle me from you would be like tearing out pieces of my flesh. I’d bleed everywhere. Mom would be furious. It’d be such a mess.
But in my gut: relief. I can stop feeling so bad about how strict my parents are. I can stop feeling like I’m holding you back. This whole summer I’ve been waiting for you to break up with me. Seen it coming. Every time we’ve talked, you’ve been upset by the end of our conversation. I’m already starting to see how different our worlds are. My life is all rules and your life is none. I live my life in black and white. You live yours in color. You stay out however late you want, come and go as you please. There are literally no rules in your life except maybe don’t kill people or steal. I can’t go to any of the shows you play, any of the parties you’re invited to. I can’t swim in your pool or watch movies on your couch or sit next to you in a restaurant.
“If … if you want to break up I … um … I understand,” I whisper.
It was too much to expect, that someone would love me like this for very long.
I’m dead weight.
The future lies out before me, lonely and bleak. No more dancing in grocery aisles. No more being serenaded. No more surprises around every corner. No more being saved from The Giant. We’ve been loving at warp speed, not caring about anything or anyone else. We’ve made each other everything. Our own little universe.
It isn’t enough. Not for you.
“Why did I have to fall in love with you?” This is a growl. It comes from somewhere deep inside you, as if you’ve been asking yourself this question for a very long time.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quiet.
What am I sorry for, exactly? Existing? I don’t know. But these are the words that always jump out of my mouth whenever you’re upset, because I assume it’s my fault. I’m not fully aware yet that there doesn’t have to be a reason for you to be unhappy. The sad swims through your veins, dives right into the middle of your chest with no help at all from me.
“I’m a legal adult,” you say. “I mean, what am I supposed to tell people at school? Oh, sorry, you can’t meet my girlfriend because her curfew is before the party even starts. Oh, my girlfriend can’t come to my shows because she’s a minor. I mean, Jesus Christ. What are we doing?”
“I’m holding you back,” I say.
You’re quiet. Which means you agree. A Muse album playing in the background abruptly turns off, like someone ripped Matt Bellamy’s voice away from him.
I take a breath. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop fucking saying that!”
I’m sorry.
I cower. If I had a tail, it would be between my legs.
There’s a bang and then you curse under your breath. You’ve hit something and now the bruise on your knuckles will be my fault. You’ll think about me every time you see it.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I whisper. “I love you.”
Nothing.
“Gav…” My voice shatters and I bite my tongue, hard, to keep from crying, but a sob slips out.
Your voice immediately goes soft. You can’t stand it when I cry. You say it breaks your heart.
“Baby, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I just … fuck. I’m really sorry. I feel like I’m losing it. God, I’m such a dick.”
Now the tears fall fast and hard. You tell me you love me, that you’re taking out your anger at my mom and The Giant on me.
“I don’t deserve you,” you say.
“No, I don’t deserve you.” It’s true. You’re too good for me. It was an accident, me getting you for these past five months.
“Baby, no. Listen.” You sigh. “God, I just … I want to be with you. You’re crying and I can’t even come over and give you a hug and it’s killing me.”
“I thought you wanted to break up,” I say.
I have no idea what’s happening right now.
“It would end me, not being with you.”
And I melt. There I go, all over the kitchen floor.
In the silence that follows I can feel us get closer, as though all the bits of you you’ve given to me and all the bits of me I’ve given to you are tightening their grip. But then: “I’m thinking about it again,” you say, soft.
“What are you—”
And then I understand. It. Suicide.
“I’m coming over,” I say.
“You’re grounded!”
“I don’t care. I’m coming over.”
I throw on exercise clothes, then lie to my mom, tell her I’m going on a run to burn off some calories from all the cookies I’ve been eating from the Honey Pot. My mom’s always dieting, so she doesn’t think twice about it.
I get to your house in record time—five minutes.
When you open the door, I throw my arms around you.
“I love you,” I say, over and over.
“I’m fucked up. I’m sorry,” you say.
“No, no, you’re perfect.”
Your parents aren’t home. We don’t know when they’re coming back. We don’t care. You pull me inside, kiss me until I’m dizzy, then practically drag me to your room.
“Baby, maybe we should talk about this,” I say. “This is really ser—”
“I need you,” you say. “I need to be as close to you as possible. You’re the only thing that makes me feel real.”
You slide your hands underneath my shirt. “As close as possible,” you repeat.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I whisper, suddenly scared.
“I need you, Grace,” you repeat. You bring your lips to my ear. “Please.”
You’ve had to put up with so much shit from my family. I owe you this. And I want to give myself to you, I do. I’m not sure what’s holding me back. I look into your eyes, fall into those blue pools and get lost in them.
“Okay,” I whisper.
This isn’t happening in slow motion, like a movie where the girl and the boy decide that tonight’s the night and he’s filled his room with candles and tries to clumsily set the mood. No. This is rash and now now now. In seconds there are no layers between us. Dusk settles over our skin and I shiver because you are beautiful and you are mine, one of those forlorn boys with pouting lips in an oil painting. An angel wrapped in colorful swaths of fabric, a young prince lounging in his palace.
I press my lips to the scars on your wrists and you inhale sharply.
“I love you,” I say again, like the words are medicine, like they’ll keep you here on Earth for the next hundred years.
You lay me down on the bed and climb on top of me.
You pull a condom out of the box next to the bed.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” you whisper, just before.
I run the tips of my fingers over your face; they shake a little because I’m thrilled and scared and full of a want that is threatening to crush me.
“I’m okay.”
You push into me and it hurts. I bite my lip to keep from crying out and you bring your forehead down, rest it against mine.