I pause here and glance up at Bay.
We were just talking about her thesaurus, and she’d written about it here—who knows how many days ago.
Our lives have been circling back to one another. To these moments. Not temporary like the throw of a boomerang. Not flashy enough to be fireworks, but we’re something subtle—yet bigger. Greater.
Infinite.
Baylee holds my gaze, and I see a pain in hers that says she’s still terrified.
“You look scared,” I say.
She makes a face at me.
I make one at her. “Come on, I can tell.”
She shrugs, tense. “What I wrote is heavy and it’s not like we’ve been…” She gestures from her chest to mine.
“Communicating?”
Bay nods. “We just started talking outside of work.”
“Right…” I wish we could erase all the years of silence. Replace them with actual memories of us together. So my name doesn’t sit side-by-side with her parents, in a pool of everything she lost. More than anything, I want to return to what we were. To be here for her.
To give her what she needs.
But it’s not real. Because “giving myself” means breaking the contract even more, which I’m not sure she’s willing to do. Me—I’d do just about anything at this point.
(I realize I’m reckless like that.) I return to her list.
We ended things abruptly (no breakup, no closure, nothing) and ever since, physical intimacy has been difficult for me. This is a more detailed list of what I’m having trouble with: 1. any over-the-clothes touching: every time I’ve done this with another guy, I feel really numb.
2. all kissing: refer to explanation #1.
3. skin-to-skin contact: I’ve been called a wooden board and a corpse by two different guys.
4. oral (giving & receiving): I freeze up. Every. Single. Time.
5. sex: refer to explanation #4. I haven’t been able to go this far with anyone else but you. Honestly, every time I try, it just feels like I’m betraying the memory of you (and I know that’s so inaccurate and weird—we’re not together). But I’m still holding onto you, and I have to figure out how to let go emotionally. I eventually want to be able to have sex again. I can’t cling onto you forever.
I can’t.
I reread the entire list three more times. My muscles strain, burning up—and the only time I move is to lean back, stunned silent.
She’s still holding onto me.
All this time—I had no clue. I didn’t even recognize the impact it’d have to leave Baylee the day after we screwed behind a costume rack. Without ever talking to her. We should have had time to discuss us.
Everything physical we had was layered in emotion. She was fourteen. I was only a year older, but we’d lost our virginities a year beforehand. We were both anxious, nervous, excited, so many sentiments pooling together as we fooled around, but I did everything I could to make her comfortable.
On a rare day her brother was gone, we had sex in her bedroom. I lit candles and put on a playlist of her favorites and mine. I can still see her escalating smile when “Hold Me Tight” by Johnny Nash started playing.
In our extraordinarily abnormal lives, that night was the most typical teenage experience we’ve ever had.
After that, it became hard to find locations to have sex. We didn’t own cars. (Still don’t.) Our places were almost always occupied, bedrooms shared, and so we chose riskier spots like the elevators, the hotel guest bathrooms, the seemingly empty backstage.
It’d all been good up until we got caught.
I put my hand to my mouth, thinking.
She can’t move on physically until she moves on emotionally…is that it?
(Corporate did this.) I blame AE for not giving us a chance to have closure. Four-and-a-half years ago, I pleaded to talk to her. To end this cleanly.
I look up just as Baylee sips her coffee. She’s watching my hands as I flip through the rest of the journal. The pages are blank except for this one. I close the journal but keep it near me.
I have so much to say, but I choose to start with this. “These ‘two different guys’ that called you a corpse—they can go fuck themselves.”
“Funny,” she says, corner of her lip rising, “that’s exactly what I told them.”
“You didn’t,” I say, knowing her.
“No, but believe me, I was put-off. I physically kicked the second guy out of my bed.”
Good. “Kick his dick or balls?”
“I was an inch away. No one was more pissed than me.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty pissed right now.” I never envisioned Baylee with another guy. I could’ve, but I tried not to torment myself like that. Not even when I saw her with Sergei at the bar.
Now I’m thinking about her in bed with a bunch of pricks—it’s as horrible as I thought it’d be. (I don’t suggest this for anyone who has an ex.) I literally can’t stop shaking my head. It’s like I have a neck spasm, and now I’m grimacing at the ceiling. Fuckfuck.
I reopen the journal.
She watches.
With knotted brows, I reread everything. She’s only had sex with me. If I were another guy, it’d probably make me feel great, but since I’ve slept with other women—I just feel like an asshole. And terrible.
I feel terrible.
I risk a glance at Bay, but she’s unzipping her wrist wallet and inspecting the contents.
“I finished,” I say.
“I saw.” She looks up. “You still weirded out?”
“I wasn’t ever.” But we’re both sitting uncomfortably straight again. I know what the list boils down to, and it kills me that she’s struggled for this long. “How can I help?” (I want to help.) Before she can respond, the waitress carries out my plate of fried Moon Pie. We don’t order anymore food.
I stab a fork into my discolored “extraterrestrial experience” and marshmallow oozes. I take a bite. It’s burnt and tastes like canola oil and soot.
Still, I eat another piece.
Baylee finishes off her coffee. “My original plan was to talk with you about your experiences. How you were able to move on, how you got over me—”
“I didn’t get over you,” I interject, mauling the Moon Pie with my fork.
“Luka.” Baylee shrugs at me. “Don’t make me say it.”
I lean forward. “Emotionally I didn’t get over you.”
“I’m not talking about emotionally. I mean physically.” She eases forward too, elbows on the table. “Do you really want me to say it outright?”
“Yeah.”
“You fucked other girls.”
We both wear a pained expression. A thousand arrows pierce and plunge into my chest—but I force myself to stay close, not recoiling. Not rocking back.
I stay right here. “We were apart for five years. I didn’t think I’d ever be with you. And I never…” I take a breath. “They were all one-night stands, Bay. I never even dated another girl. You could’ve had a boyfriend…”
“I didn’t…it didn’t work out like that,” she says. “Sure, I dated, but none stuck. I tried casual sex, but it didn’t happen either.”
(I realize that.) “Okay, do you think…are you saying that I don’t love you as much because I didn’t wait around?” I shake my head vigorously again. “This isn’t a reflection of my love for you, Baylee. It’s not.”
“Hey, I know it’s not.” She drops her leg to the ground and scoots even closer to the table. As close as me. “I remember what you told me when I was thirteen, right after I asked if you knew what to do.”
She means in terms of sex.
I can’t recall exactly what I said, but thick nostalgia hangs in the air. “What’d I say?”
“You told me that you knew more about sex when you were seven than you did math or science. Not because you experienced it but because you were surrounded by men who constantly talked about ‘fucking’ and ‘masturbating.’”