“Kellan, I’m really not—”
“Don’t judge me,” he interrupts. “Please.” He looks so legitimately panicked that I start to panic. Kellan’s living the college dream: every girl wants him, every guy wants to be him. If something’s wrong in his world, we’re all screwed.
“I won’t,” I promise, hoping it’s true.
“I have…” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, I don’t have, but I did have… I had…gonorrhea.” He looks like he’s about to pass out.
“You have an STI?” I echo, startled.
“Had,” he’s quick to clarify. “I started feeling weird so I went to the doctor and got some antibiotics and now it’s gone. I had it. Now I don’t.” His eyes are so wide, his words so rushed, he could easily be talking about a government conspiracy while wearing a tin foil hat.
Slowly more puzzle pieces turn over, the unexpected mystery becoming clear. “That’s why you and Marcela aren’t…”
He waves a hand vaguely, as though that’s only part of the issue. “Eh.”
“And why you didn’t drink last night?”
A nod.
“Does Crosbie know?”
He pinches his brow. “No. At first I was embarrassed and then he was so anxious about the open mic night that I didn’t want to add to his problems.”
“So what’s the notebook for?”
He sighs and stares at it. “It’s a list.”
“Of?” I’m wondering how many STIs he may have had.
“Girls,” he answers, putting an end to that theory. “The doctor said symptoms normally show up within a few weeks, but sometimes they can take months. And since I’ve had a few…partners, I don’t know where or when I got it. I’m supposed to contact every girl I’ve been with and let them know they need to get tested.”
I think about the very lengthy lists on the bathroom walls in the Student Union building. “That’s awkward.”
He turns the notebook around so I can see. The list is two columns long and there are approximately fifty names. And four blank spaces.
Now I’m the one who needs a hot compress.
“A few months,” I say, trying to sound casual. “You’ve been with all those girls since September?”
“I’m going back to January,” he says soberly. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” I’m desperately trying not to sound, well, desperate. Because even though we’d used a condom during our poorly thought-out closet session, my name—or rather, my blank space—is on that list. I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything, but I’m most definitely feverish. And nauseous. What are the symptoms of gonorrhea?
“Nora?”
I blink and realize he’s said my name a few times.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m just…glad you’re okay.”
“Me too. Though I’m going to have a lot of awkward phone calls to make. And some intense Facebook stalking. I mean, I don’t even remember a lot of these girls. That’s terrible, isn’t it?”
Speaking from experience, it certainly is. Until it works in your favor. I squint at the list and realize some of the entries aren’t names at all, but notes. Kitchen at Beta Theta Pi house party. Pool at community center. Redhead from science lab.
Kellan rubs his hands over his face and stares at me beseechingly. “When the doctor asked how many girls I’d been with and I took a minute to count, he gave me a look.”
“A look?”
“Yeah. A disapproving look.” He gives me just such a look now, as an example. It’s mostly funny, but also disapproving.
“Ooh.”
“He was shaming me!”
I try not to laugh. I mean, he’s free to do whatever and whomever he pleases, but that list isn’t exactly bolstering his self-righteous case at the moment. Instead of responding I slump onto the floor, wrapping my arms around my bent legs. I’m feeling too many things right now. I’m surprised Kellan confided in me; not surprised he caught something over the course of fifty-plus random hookups. I’m worried I might have something; relieved he’ll never be able to figure out I’m one of those blank spaces. Nervous he might try to figure it out; confident he never will.
“I’m glad you told me,” I say, when I realize he’s waiting for me to say something. “And you have nothing to be ashamed of.” I’m not a great actress and it takes everything I have to utter those words with a straight face. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says quickly. “That’s the only thing. I’m going to work on figuring out how to find these girls, then…it’ll be over.”
“Over,” I repeat. “Excellent.” I don’t point out that somehow, over the course of fifty-plus notifications, the likelihood of this secret slipping out grows exponentially.
The confession seems to have lifted a serious weight from his shoulders because he finally grins at me, a big, unburdened smile. “Thanks, Nora,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here. Too bad we didn’t meet sooner, huh? Maybe then I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
*