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Chapter 3
It’s been two days and I haven’t heard from Paul since he escaped from my apartment without so much as a wave goodbye. I know he’s still in town because my dad called, asking if I wanted to go out to dinner with them last night. But I couldn’t go. If Paul doesn’t want to see me, I’m not going to force myself on him, no matter how badly I wanted to accept the invitation.
In class I can’t focus. Which is crazy because English is my favorite subject, but all I can think about is where exactly I went wrong with Paul. Things were going so great, then as soon as there was a distraction, he looked at me as if I were a leper.
We’ve spent the last couple of years flirting, which felt like years of foreplay building up to the moment we finally found release. Now I can’t help but wonder if, for him, the fantasy was better than the reality. I feel stupid for not thinking about that consequence. Rejection sucks. It sucks even worse when the person rejecting you is someone you might actually—dare I say it—love.
“Rachael?”
My self-pity party is crashed when I hear my name. Looking up from the window, I see the entire class staring at me and Mr. Oliver standing by my desk. A pretentious academic, his brow-beatings are stern enough to leave a bruise. I don’t know how he can stand to wear that tweed jacket in this heat while I’m sweating oceans wearing a tank top. He bends over my desk to look out the window.
“Is there a riot out there, someone streaking, perhaps?” he asks.
My face is so hot it’s numb. I know I’m a horrible shade of pink. “Not yet, but I’ll keep an eye out just in case” I say, which gets a few snickers from my classmates.
Mr. Oliver is not amused.
“Is my lecture boring you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Then why don’t we leave the day dreaming for the musicians and artists, shall we?”
Says the man who moonlights as a creative writing instructor at night. Looks like I won’t be taking that class any time soon.
Mr. Oliver goes back to his lesson. Despite the boy next to me reeking of B.O. and the girl on my other side grinding her teeth, I’m able to concentrate long enough to make it through the class.
At noon, Emily and I meet up for lunch at a pizza joint down the street. I’m a nervous eater so I order way more than I should be eating by myself.
“You know what you need?” she says.
I take a giant bite of pepperoni with extra cheese and talk with my mouth full. “I’m all ears.” Because bad advice is better than nothing, and bad advice is all Emily has ever given me.
“You need rebound sex.”
A group of boys walking by slows at the mention of sex. I stare them down until they move on.
“Don’t you need to be broken up first for rebound sex? Paul and I were never dating.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says, popping a grape in her mouth and squirting me in the eye with the juice when she chomps down. She laughs, but keeps talking. “Just hear me out.”
I sigh, wiping my eyes. “The answer is still no, but keep talking if you want. I’m too busy making out with this pizza slice to care.”
Without skipping a beat, she says, “I know you like your guys with age spots and pumped full of Cialis, but there are guys at this school who are perfectly capable of doling out orgasms.”
I throw my crust at her. She laughs and tosses it to the pigeons stalking us. “There’s this guy, Jeremy, who was at your party and I have it on good authority that he’s really into you, and that he has Thor’s hammer hidden in his pants, if you know what I mean.”
“If I roll my eyes any harder, they’ll fall out of my head,” I say.
“I’m not asking you to fall in love. Just go on a double date with me and Chris. Maybe get laid and forget about Paul for a few hours.”
I have no idea who Chris is, but getting away from the apartment does sound good. The thought of sitting on my couch alone, binging Netflix and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches, makes me want to curl up and cry. It’s so depressing. I’m young and fairly attractive—well, at least three weeks out of four, before PMS breakouts make me look like I have a case of the black death. I should be going out, having the time of my life while I’m unattached and at an age where it’s still acceptable to make terrible decisions. I should be experiencing different guys.
“Fine, I’ll go, but I’m not promising sex with this guy, so don’t even plant the thought in his head.”
“I would never,” she says with her hand to her chest in mock-exasperation.
I’m already starting to regret this decision.
I’ve never been on a blind date before. Jeremy is tall, wide shouldered and narrow hipped with a prominent brow and piercing eyes; a Zach Efron doppelgänger who I definitely could’ve seen myself with had Paul not returned.
We go to dinner, a nice little authentic Italian restaurant in the valley. It’s a double date, but we sit away from Emily and her date so that we have a chance to talk and get to know each other. I learn that his dad is a veterinarian, but he would rather go into sports medicine rather than follow in his father’s footsteps. His favorite band is … I don’t remember. I’m really trying to make this date work, but I just can’t.
I put my chin in my hands, pretending to hang onto his every word. Emily is all smiles at the other table. I feel her eyes carving out a hole into my skull to see my thoughts. When I glance over at her, she looks mighty proud of herself. She texts me under the table, bragging about her skills as a cupid. Every time I feel my phone vibrate, there’s always the hope that it’s Paul.
After dinner Emily slips me a condom, even though I have plenty at home, before they leave. I can’t bear to tell her I’m not interested.
Jeremy drives me home and walks me to the door. He leans against the door jam. “It was really nice seeing you again,” he says, “I wanted to talk to you at your party, but that older guy you were with never left your side long enough to give me a chance.”
Though Jeremy looks like the kind of guy made of Hollywood magic, I hadn’t noticed him at my party. He is only familiar to me because we have a class together. I hardly notice him now, and it doesn’t help that I’m distracted by thoughts of Paul; our time in the pool together, the way he’d touched me in my kitchen, the desperate, needy way he’d kissed me.
“Right, him,” I say, wishing he hadn’t brought up Paul because now he’s all I can think about. For a second there I was doing a fairly decent job keeping him out of the frontlines of my thoughts. “He’s a family friend and is only in town for a little while, so, you know …”
“Yeah, no worries. I’m just happy I’m getting my chance now.”
Sorry, Bro, but you never stood a chance, I think to myself.
Talking about Paul only makes things worse. My self-esteem has plummeted faster than the pound on the stock market after Brexit. I feel like shit and I could really stand to have someone worship me right about now, even if it’s only for ten minutes—twenty if I’m lucky. I debate inviting him in, but I don’t think I’m ready for that. I don’t stop him when he kisses me, though. It’s a nice kiss, a lingering peck on the lips. Helps too that he smells fantastic, and tastes like the fruity moscato wine we had at dinner.
I have one hand on his chest and one on the door knob. It’s the moment of truth. Will I or won’t I? There’s a pause as he waits for me to invite him in. In the end, I just can’t do it.
When I don’t extend the invite, he says, “I had a nice time. I’d like to go out again, i
f you want.”
I nod. “I’d like that.”
He smiles at me and waves goodbye. I go inside. My apartment is quiet and already I’m lonely. I know I’ll spend all night waiting for a text or a call that will never come and I’ll feel even worse than I do now.
After I change out of my clothes and into a tank top and pair of shorts, I wonder if it’s too late to catch Jeremy before he gets out of the parking lot. Just as I’m about to send him a text, there’s a knock on my door. He must be reading my mind. I know I’m about to make a huge mistake, but I open the door anyway.
It’s not Jeremy.
My heart thrashes out a nervous beat in my chest.
“Paul, what are you doing here?”
Suddenly I’m on the verge of tears, and I feel really stupid for getting emotional. I hold it in the best I can but my chin is quivering and tears warp my vision.
He’s wearing a gray pullover, worn jeans with holes in the knees, and boots. He looks so. Fucking. Good.
Hands in his pockets, he asks, “Can I come in for a minute?”
I steel myself with a deep breath and try to regain some composure as I open the door for him. He smells like coconut again when he passes me, and something else that I can’t quite place, but it’s so distinctly Paul that I get wobbly from wanting. It’s as if I were cast from a Jell-o mold. He wanders over to the couch, patting the seat next to him. I sit down and chew a corner of my thumbnail.
“I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly the other night,” he says. He sounds upset and maybe a bit sad. I want to comfort him because I’m feeling those things too. Only, there’s a touch of anger mixed in with those emotions that keeps me from wrapping him in a hug.
My foot bobs. I chew on the inside of my cheek; a nervous habit that sometimes leaves the skin raw and sore. I’m sad that he left, but I’m also mad that he left me hanging there like an idiot.
“Why did you leave?” I ask, words outlined in anger. He flinches and looks at his hands.
He has the decency to look ashamed. “Several reasons. One, I’m too old for you, and two, you’re my best friend’s daughter. Your dad has been there for me through every part of my life. We didn’t have the best upbringing. All we had was each other. When we got older your mom and dad paid for my contractor’s license when I was just starting out even though your dad was barely making minimum wage and taking care of a teen wife and an infant. How do you think they’d feel if they knew I was falling for their daughter? I’ve watched you grow up.”
