Gideon and I are just friends. We are. I love you and I have to keep telling myself that we’re gonna be okay. You have meds now; I’m graduating soon. The rest of our lives is about to start. It’s starting already. You saved me from my mom. I was in a burning car and you jumped in and pulled me out. Not Gideon—you.
I head out to the front, where you’re waiting, and that letter seems to send out shock waves from inside my backpack. I hurry, and a part of me knows it’s not because I’m anxious to see you—it’s because I don’t want to see the look on Gideon’s face when you kiss me hello. I get into the car, quick. Slam the door shut. I hate my fickle fucking heart.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
You lean in.
I lean in.
You taste like cigarettes and I pull away.
“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes.
Can you see it? See my desperation to go, go, go?
“Gavin—you taste like a freaking ashtray.”
“I never heard you complain about it before,” you say.
“Well, now you have.” My voice is testy.
“What’s with the bitchiness?” you say.
I shrug. “Bad day. Sorry.”
You pull out of the parking lot and turn away from your house, toward the university. There’s a coffeehouse near there that you take me to sometimes. It makes me feel grown up, ordering a latte and hanging around the college kids. This will be me in just a few months.
After about fifteen minutes of driving, you pull into an apartment complex near your school. My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is hang out with your friends. I always feel like a kid around them, like me being in high school is so lame.
“Gav, I thought we were hanging out. Just us two.”
You grin. “We are.”
You park, then jump out of the car and run around to the other side to help me out, ever the gallant gentleman.
“This,” you say, taking in the apartment building with a sweep of your hand, “is our new home.”
*
“YOU GOT AN apartment?” I say.
You’re so happy right now. You’re practically bouncing.
“I’m just subletting from a friend of mine from school. He’s studying abroad and the guy who was supposed to be living here fell through. I’ll have it until the end of the summer. Come on.”
You reach for my hand and I follow you up to the second floor. It’s a new complex, with peach stucco walls and balconies where people stash their grills or small patio furniture. Someone’s blasting pop radio and somewhere a kid is throwing a tantrum, but otherwise it’s quiet. I don’t see anyone else.
“There’s a pool, too,” you say. “I thought we could have people over when it starts getting hot.”
I smile and nod and why do you keep saying we? You open the door and step aside.
“Welcome home.”
It’s a small one-bedroom with bare walls, the living room littered with guitars and take-out containers and half-unpacked suitcases.
“Yeah, the guy who lives here never got around to decorating,” you say, watching me as I check the place out. “And I promise I’ll try not to leave my shit everywhere.”
You take my hand and lead me farther into the apartment, stopping at a closed door at the end of the hall.
“And this,” you say, gently pushing it open, “is our bedroom.”
Our.
The only thing in the room other than piles of clothes on the floor is a double bed with a striped comforter.
“I’ve never seen you make a bed before” is all I can say.
You laugh, soft, and wrap your arms around my waist, rest your chin on my shoulder.
“I wanted it to be nice for you.”
Sex.
It’s the last thing I want, but how could I possibly say that to my boyfriend who I’ve been with for almost a year?
You lead me to the bed and gently lay me down. I’m trembling, as if we’ve never done this before and it feels like that, like that sharp pain is going to radiate through me all over again.
You’re gentle today, excruciatingly slow. I kiss you harder, try to hurry things up, but you just laugh softly against my lips and murmur, “Patience, Grasshopper.”
You tug at my jeans and slide them down my thighs, my knees. Next is my shirt, the one Gideon said made me look like a naughty librarian.
Gideon.
I close my eyes and try to forget him, but closing them just makes him more real and suddenly I know how I can get through this.
Your tongue slips into my mouth, but it’s not yours anymore, it’s Gideon’s, and I pretend I don’t taste cigarettes and coffee. It gets easier as your mouth moves down my neck, as your hands slide all over me, expert in my anatomy.
I bite my lip as you press against me and I want you—not you, Gideon—I want the you that is Gideon and this is wrong, I know it is, but I can’t do this any other way.
You reach across me and grab a condom and you take my hand to help you slide it on and I watch as you close your eyes and lean back your head and I forget about Gideon. Screw you for being beautiful.
I keep my eyes open now and pull you closer and we are a storm that tears through the room and I hold on to you because otherwise I’ll fly apart and your hands and your lips and don’t stop, don’t stop.
You collapse on top of me, our sweat mixing.
My stomach hurts all over again and I slip out from under you. You pull me close, my bare back against your bare chest and we lie there, huddled against each other. I’m so mixed up. First I’m imagining you’re Gideon, which is wrong and pervy, and then I’m wanting you, and now I just feel sick.
You’ll get me in trouble, I say to Gideon.
You’ll be given love, Bj?rk sings, you just have to trust it.
I slip away from you, mumbling about taking a shower. You watch me walk away, grinning.
“You sure are pretty,” you say in a Southern drawl.
I stand in the shower, hot water stinging my skin. I try to wash you off as best I can. But soap doesn’t work for everything. I don’t know how to explain to you—even to myself—why being here feels so wrong. It’s almost like stranger danger or something.
I’m not supposed to be here. Not now. Not yet.
I am filled with a fierce longing for Natalie and Alyssa and Gideon. I want to be at rehearsal and talking about how dumb it is that we still have to take the Presidential Fitness Test, running a mile because the government says we have to. I want to be laughing about the ridiculous dress code, how Alyssa got sent home because her tank top straps were one and a half inches wide instead of the required two or more inches.
Why can’t I just be honest with you? Why can’t I just let you go, stop all this misery? If I feel this bad, we have to be over.
But I can’t do it. I grab the skin on the inside of my arm and pinch it, hard.
You stupid fucking idiot girl. I hate you. You’re just staying with him because you’re a coward, a whore who’s too scared to be alone. Fuck you, Grace. Fuck. You.
I wish I could explain to myself why I’m such a pushover, why I’m so goddamn weak and spineless. You’re on meds. Maybe you’d be okay if we broke up. It’s a simple exercise: Let’s break up. I’m breaking up with you. We are not together anymore. I love someone else.