And then the pain comes. An excruciating stab between her legs, like something tearing. It’s worse than when she had her ears pierced and she screamed in the middle of the department store. She cries out now, her voice echoing throughout the woods.
“You okay?” he manages, but doesn’t stop. The deeper he pushes himself inside her, the better it feels—for him. His pleasure seems to increase proportionally with her pain. She’s in agony. Each thrust makes her cry out again. She’s gripping his shoulders, digging her nails into his shirt, which has the effect of riling him up even more. He starts pounding harder, faster, making weird noises. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh. Fuck. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Fuck. Uh. Uh.
Kersti’s eyes are wide open, staring up at the dense black canopy of trees where two raccoons are fighting noisily on a branch. She remembers her Natural Biology teacher mentioning something about how the North American raccoon is becoming a problem in some Swiss forests. It’s almost funny, the way they’re scrapping up in the tree while she and Magnus go at it down here. Magnus is still pumping away on top of her like he’s doing push-ups on a gym mat, but she never takes her eyes off those raccoons. It’s a good distraction and makes her think of home—bonfires in the backyard, camping trips in Gravenhurst. She pretends she’s enjoying the sex, moaning where it seem appropriate, calling out his name here and there, like she’s seen in movies.
And then he lets out a loud noise, like a goat bleating, and he collapses on top of her. She’s sopping wet between her legs and hopes it isn’t blood. She strokes the back of his head, something else she’s seen in movies.
“Oh my God,” he says, panting in her ear. “Oh my God. You sweet little virgin. That was . . . wow.”
Now that it’s over, she feels so close to him. She holds him tight while he tries to catch his breath. She’s never felt so wanted, so revered. It’s absolutely empowering, lying beneath the full weight of him, his heart beating against her breast. She tickles his neck with her fingers and he rests his face in the slope of her neck. She forgets they’re on a rock outside in the cold. She’s warm and content, the pain completely forgotten.
“I think I’m in love with you,” she whispers. She knows it’s impulsive, but after the things he’s just said to her, it feels right. “I’m so happy right now.”
“You’re so real,” he says hoarsely. “So down-to-earth and authentic. It’s beautiful. Really.” He leans up on one elbow and kisses her nose. “You sweet little virgin,” he repeats. “What a nice surprise.”
“I told you I didn’t know what to do.”
“I meant when I invited you out for a drive,” he clarifies.
“So your plan all along was to have sex with me?”
“Of course,” he admits, sitting up and pulling on his pants. “There’s just something about you.”
She looks down at herself and even in the dark, she can see blood all over her thighs and the fur lining of his jacket. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, embarrassed.
“That’s what dry cleaners are for,” he says, tousling her hair. “Don’t worry.”
She pulls up her pants and they each light a cigarette. The moment is utterly perfect. The moon, the rustling trees, Magnus.
She’s no longer a virgin. Magnus Foley is her first, will always be her first. Nothing and no one can ever change that fact and the realization fills her with indescribable joy. She can’t wait to tell Cressida. Cressida lost her virginity at thirteen to an actor in one of her father’s plays; Kersti is relieved to have caught up to her and have it over with now.
When she gets back to Huber House, still dazed and euphoric, Mme. Hamidou is about to lock the doors. She looks at her watch and frowns.
“Sorry,” Kersti says, rushing upstairs. She’s surprised to find her room dark and Cressida already asleep. It’s barely after ten. “Cress?” she whispers.
Cressida rolls over. “Kerst?”
“Are you asleep? Didn’t you go out tonight?”
“Too tired,” Cressida says. “I was at MUN till after dinner. We got Malawi. How was your date?”
Kersti turns on the bedside lamp and snuggles in next to Cressida. “We did it,” she blurts.
“You slept with him?” Cressida says, sitting up, fully awake now.
“I’m not a virgin anymore,” Kersti confides, beaming. “Can you believe it? But oh my God it killed. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Where were you? Where did you do it?”
“He took me for lunch at this place called the Auberge de—”
“Chalet des Enfants.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s his favorite place.”
Kersti doesn’t like the sound of that. It implies Cressida knows things about him.
“Then what?” Cressida says, not sounding nearly as happy for Kersti as Kersti thought she’d be.
“We had a lot of wine,” Kersti tells her. “He couldn’t drive, so we went for a walk in the woods—”
Cressida interrupts with a snicker.
“And then it just, like, happened.”
“On the ground?”
“On a rock,” Kersti says, beginning to get annoyed. “What’s your problem? You’ve never liked him—”
Cressida shrugs.
“Do you like him?” Kersti asks, panic flooding her chest.
“Of course not,” Cressida says, her expression inscrutable. She leans over and turns off the light. “I’m happy for you,” she mutters, lying back down.
But she doesn’t sound happy at all.
Chapter 11
BOSTON—October 2015
Deirdre opens the locked drawer of her desk, an elegant Louis something with cabriole legs and gilt edges, and retrieves a note. It’s handwritten on a piece of lined paper that’s been torn from a school notebook.
“Cressida left a suicide note?” Kersti’s question is a breath, a gasp.
“Yes.”
“You’ve had this all along?”
“Yes.”
“I thought they never found a note,” Kersti says, glaring at Deirdre in frustration. “You told me there was no note.”
“They sent it to me with her things after she was safely back in the States and far enough away not to damage their reputation,” Deirdre says. “It was Armand who found the note when he went there to pack up her things. Bueche said they missed it when they searched her room the first time. Covered it up is more like it. That school wouldn’t have wanted to be linked to an attempted suicide. All they ever cared about was their reputation.”
The creases from where the note is folded are worn from having been opened and closed so many times. It looks hastily scribbled, practically illegible.
I will miB you. Im sorry
“I will ‘mib’ you,” Kersti reads.
“She was very drunk,” Deirdre says. “That’s what they told me.”
“It’s uncharacteristically brief,” Kersti remarks, not knowing what to make of it.
“The truth is,” Deirdre admits, “I’ve never been one hundred percent convinced she wrote it.” She covers her mouth with a pale hand. “I suppose it’s hard for any mother to accept that her own child wants to die so badly she’s capable of taking her own life, but I never thought of Cressida as being suicidal—”