I frown at her words, but of course that’s true. We met as roommates our freshman year, and from her perspective, that started only a little over a week ago.
“It’s fine,” she continues. “You don’t have to convince me. I practiced my flirting techniques in the mirror all summer—time to put them to use. I’ll be your wingwoman.”
“I don’t need a wingwoman. Even if Iwantedsomething to happen with him, it wouldn’t. Sure, we’ll have an amazing conversation. There might even be a moment when it looks like he wants to kiss me. I’ll ruin it because I’m nervous. And a moment like that will never happen again.”
Madison claps me on the shoulder, shaking me out of my reverie.
That wasn’t good. I almost spilled the beans. I glance up at the ceiling. What exactly constitutes something existence-erasing?
“So don’t ruin the moment,” she says as if it’s obvious.
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“Maybe it is.” Madison shrugs. “Remember what we said before we left the dorm?”
I smile. To me, fourteen years have passed since I walked out of that dorm. “Refresh my memory.”
“We’re not in high school anymore.”
“Thank God for that,” I mutter. I shudder at the thought of accidentally going backearlierthan now. Reliving AP exams? The SAT? College applications? No, thank you.
“And we’re going to act like it. No one here knows we’ve never had boyfriends. Or that we’revirgins.” Her voice drops low on the last word, as if it’s something to be ashamed of. “We can be whoever we want, so we’re going to be hot girls. I mean, look at us—we’rehot.”
She’ll hear no argument from me. I’ve spent many nights scrolling through old photos, lamenting the fact that my self-esteem at this age had been too low to appreciate what I had.
Although Ireallydon’t want to spot a mirror and see how I’ve done my makeup.
“You’re right. Wearehot. And however we did things the first time—I mean, inhigh school,” I say, stumbling to correct myself, “that isn’t how we have to live our lives now. Let’s go meet our men.”
I stand, waiting for the twinge that always hits my knee when I do so. Nothing comes.
Ha. Of course it doesn’t. Because I’meighteen years old.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that I don’t have any of my usual aches and pains—the tightness in my lower back and shoulders; the headache that always lurks in the background, ready to ruin my day; the ache in my ankles, although at a level so low I hardly even notice it.
Is this what it feels like not to be in a constant state of low-grade pain?
Being eighteen isamazing.
Madison walks forward, swaying her hips, full of confidence that I know is a front but damn if it isn’t convincing.
“Our men,” she says, turning to me with a giggle. “Isn’t it kind of weird to think of boys our age as men?”
“No,” I say. “Well, yes. Definitely. But I have a good feeling about these guys.”
We weave through the party, my shoes sticking to the hardwood floor with each step.
The sensation calls to mind the ugly shag carpet of the office I was in earlier this evening. Earlier this evening, or fourteen years from now, or somehow both at once.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I almost miss Jake stepping in front of Madison.
“Hey,” he says, all cocky and confident. I scoff—three years of pain, and that’s how it began? WithHey?
“Sorry, no,” Madison says, and skirts around him. I can’t help my smirk of triumph at his bewildered look.That’s right, Jake. Not this time.
This time, it’sourtime. Madison and I are going to go get our men.
Our eighteen-year-old baby-faced… men.
