“Me neither,” I assure him.
It’s not a lie… is it? I mean, sure, it’skind ofa lie, but… time travel. Virginity is a social construct, and I can’t even begin to work out how my specific situation fits into that construct. So—virgin. Sure. Let’s go with that.
Encouraged by my words, he kisses me again. Soon, we’re both down to our underwear. I pause for a moment. He’s just… he’ssoyoung.
Now that we’re in close quarters, I’m discomfited to realize he smells nothing like the warm, spicy scent I’ve come to associate with Ellie over the years. Instead, he smells like cheap cologne, woody rubbing alcohol. Like the inside of one of those preppy outlet stores that keep the lights too low, the music too loud, and the scent strong and overpowering.
He smells, in summary, like an eighteen-year-old boy.
This isn’t weird, what I’m doing, is it? Sleeping with Ellie when he’s eighteen, I mean.
Sure, as far as he knows, I’m eighteen too. But I’mnoteighteen, I’m thirty-two.
“Everything okay?” he asks, so genuinely concerned that I can’t help but find him more endearing—something I truly hadn’t thought possible. “We can stop if you want.”
I shake off my uneasiness.
Plenty of women in their thirties sleep with barely legal guys. Women older than that, even—and sure, I’ve always found that to be a bit icky, but what are my options here? Find someone my own age? Then they’re the creep. Besides, I’mnotthirty-two anymore; I’m eighteen. Eighteen with the confidence of a woman in her thirties. I should be unstoppable.
Most men in this position wouldn’t think twice.
This is Ellie, I remind myself. He’s not just some random guy. He’s the man who spent weeks making LSAT flashcards with me in my room and months helping me study. The man who held me while I cried over a mean comment Sierra had made, hyping me up and reminding me that I was a “pretty big deal, actually” (his words, not mine). The man who successfully pulled off not one buttwosurprise birthday parties for me over the years.
My best friend.
Sure, it’s a little weird right now, but it’ll all be worth it if it means I get to live the life I always wanted, with Ellie by my side.
Okay, I’ve convinced myself. This is fine. Totally fine. More than fine. It’s downright kinky—even if I’m the only one who knows it.
I roll Ellie onto his back and straddle him. I’m about to make his fucking life. “It’s better than okay.”
“I don’t have a condom,” he says.
“I’m on the pill,” I assure him. It’s reckless, but I know I don’t have anything. Just like I know from years of drunken chats that he didn’t lose his virginity until next semester, to some random girl at a house party. Still, it’s important to check in, so I ask, “Is that okay?”
Ellie lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s better than okay.”
It isn’t until much later that I remember one very important detail:
I didn’t go on the pill until my junior year of college. Two years from now.
5
I can’t believe you hadunprotected sex!”
Madison has repeated this refrain on a loop all morning.
I’m driving us to the closest pharmacy so I can pick up some Plan B. I didn’t travel back in time just to let my second chance at life get thrown off course by an unplanned pregnancy.
I awoke this morning feeling more disoriented than I had in years. My head swam with a hazy swirl of memories that made no sense. I died? I was in college again? I slept with Ellie? There was a strange, antiquated office space? It was like waking up from a series of vivid dreams, and the logic of the events made about as much sense as in a dream.
I once read that we remember dreams as winding, non sequitur storylines because we actually have multiple dreams each night, and in the morning our brains patch them together, creating weird narratives where one moment you’re at school and then you walk through a doorway and into a bank.
That’s what it felt like. Separate, distinct dreams that my brain patched together. Death. Office. Party. Sex.
And yet, as I came to, I noticed things that called the dream explanation into question. Cheap plastic blinds instead of my blackout curtains. I was in a strange bed, lying underneath a thin, scratchy comforter, with somebody’s arm wrapped around me.
Someone pounded on the door—the frat boy whose room this was, returning from wherever he had passed out the night before. He didn’t seem fazed at discovering that Ellie and I—two complete strangers—had apparently had sex in his bed. Just said, “Nice one, dudes,” and stumbled past us.
