You lose track of the lie.
By curtain call, this music has made you completely forget the whole point of the plot—the takeaway of this entire story—which is that Sandy decides that what Danny wants is more important than what she wants.
Even with all the cheerful music, I find my brain wandering toward Stacey and Dooney. The truth is, I’ve done so much thinking this week about what it means to say no that I haven’t done any thinking at all about what it means to say yes.
What if I want to say yes?
I am thinking about this during the musical, sneaking quiet glances at Ben as he watches the show. His eyes light up, and his perfect lips erupt in laughter. He reaches over to squeeze my hand during “Beauty School Dropout” without taking his eyes off the stage. He simply runs his hand down my arm and laces his fingers through mine as if it were the most normal, perfect thing in the world.
As he does it, I think, Yes.
I am thinking about this in the car on the way back to Ben’s place, when I bring up what a lame message Grease! has, and how surprised I am that people let their little girls watch it without even talking to them about it. He laughs—not at me, but in a way that tells me how much he likes me. He asks me questions about my opinion. We talk about it all the way to his house, and he nods, like he’s never thought about it that way before.
He says, “Guess it’s sorta like porn.”
I say, “What?” perhaps louder than I mean to, because I feel like I might fly out the window of his truck at that moment. “How is Grease! like porn? And how do you know what porn looks like?”
He smirks at me. “I just mean that you know it isn’t real life. You know what’s happening on-screen is way different from what would happen when you actually have sex. It’s the same thing as watching a car chase in a movie. You’d never try to drive like that on your way to school.”
It’s such a weird, wonderful moment when I realize that this guy I am talking to has opinions. Smart ones. I feel so lucky that we have known each other for so long, and still feel comfortable talking like this. It’s so frank and so honest and so . . . easy.
It makes me want to say yes.
I am thinking about this when Ben orders pizza, when he tells me that Adele is gone for the weekend at a Zumba competition in Chicago, when he asks me if I want a rum and Coke.
I say, “Yes.”
I eat pizza, but not too much.
I drink Bacardi, but not too much.
I kiss Ben for a while on the couch in the rec room, but not too much, because after a little while, he pulls me close, wraps his legs through mine, and lays his head against my chest.
He tells me he means it when he says, “I love you.” He tells me he’s loved me ever since the day I kicked him in the head.
I run a hand through his hair, messing it up a little. He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. I tell him that I want a future beyond the county line, too. Someplace where I don’t “know” anyone, but where I know him.
“Think we can make it through college together?” he asks.
I don’t know if it’s the rum or Ben’s body pressed into mine, but I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I pull his face toward mine and have time for a single word before our lips touch:
“Yes.”
What does it mean to say yes? To consent to a kiss? To a touch? To more than that? When we finally move to his bedroom, he takes my hand, and I know exactly where we are going. I follow him because I want to. I haven’t said the words yes, I would like to have sex with you, but I can feel myself telling him in so many other ways that this is okay, that I want this.
I pull off his shirt as we climb onto his bed. I can feel the power coiled in his shoulders and arms, the strength beneath his skin, but I’m not afraid. He is listening to every word I haven’t said. We are communicating, but in a quiet give-and-take that doesn’t use our voices.
He’s so tall, and yet somehow, wound up in the sheets on his bed, our bodies are a perfect fit. One shirt and one sock at a time, our clothing falls away, and when there is nothing more between us, he speaks:
“Kate, is this okay?”
One more time, I say, “Yes.”
And if this were a movie, there would be no more words. There would only be a magical fade-to-black moment where our simultaneous first times were the stuff of legend. There would be no discussion that Ben has done this once before with someone else. Or that he is worried about hurting me. Or that I am a little worried about that, too. There would be no ten-minute break while he digs through his mom’s nightstands (yes, both of them) until he finds the condoms. There would be no giggling about how, after the Great Condom Hunt, I have to pee and abscond to the bathroom momentarily.
But this is not a big-screen car chase.
This is driving in real life.
So, we talk to each other. We go under the speed limit. We keep it cautious and safe, buckled in by all of the trust between us.