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I sit at the kitchen table, looking out the window that peers into the backyard. I’d kept a small garden in the spring, but now the entire yard is covered with untouched snow.
I smile slightly to myself as I eat my cereal. The crotch of my underwear is wet, and I shift in my seat. I’m still a little swollen. My stomach tightens when I remember the way I furiously rubbed myself earlier. I shudder at the dirty, depraved thoughts that have occupied my mind. Was I a bad person for spending my Christmas morning thinking about getting fucked—not having sex, but getting fucked—by my much older neighbor?
I shake the thoughts out of my head. Even though I know it’s normal for a girl my age to touch herself and have sex, I’m still so freaked out by the idea of sleeping with a man.
It’s not like I’ve never done anything with a guy. On the last day of eleventh grade, I agreed to give my then-boyfriend a blowjob in the back of his car. It lasted about five minutes before he finished in my mouth, and I swallowed it because I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t necessarily a bad experience, but it didn’t turn me on either.
That guy and I broke up two weeks later, and I haven’t so much as kissed anyone since. Just threw myself into school, graduated valedictorian in hope of a full-ride scholarship. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, so I go to the community college down the road to save money.
It’s not that I don’t want to lose my virginity, but all the guys my age seem so…shallow. Erotic novels and my fingers are all I need right now. If the right person comes along, I would love to have sex with them. But no one has yet.
My mom stirs in the living room. I hear her groan and the sound of wine bottles clinking against each other. She is the exact opposite of me; Mom has been a party girl all her life. She likes men, expensive clothes, and alcohol, in that order.
I think she really did try her best to be a housewife and good mom when I was born, but then my dad left, and she lost all control. I grew up with a carousel of seedy men coming to see her, and I vowed to myself that I’d never be like that.
I can hear her stepping out of the living room and listen to see whether she’ll head upstairs or toward the kitchen. When I hear the creak of her stepping onto the staircase, I call out, “Merry Christmas, Mom!”
“Don’t yell,” she snaps back at me before heading to her bedroom.
I shrug. Shouldn’t have expected anything better. That’s the thing, Faith, if you keep your expectations dead-low, she’ll never disappoint you.
Thoughtfully, I finish eating my cereal. My mind is elsewhere, thinking about the classes I’ll be taking next semester and looking forward to getting to spend most of the day away from my mother again. Winter break is a godsend to most students, but I wish I had some homework to keep my mind occupied or at least a job.
After I’ve finished eating and placed my bowl in the sink, the doorbell rings. Puzzled, I head toward the front door, unsure who could be visiting us at nine a.m. on Christmas Day. Unless my mom had invited someone over…ugh. I steel myself before opening the door, half-expecting one of my mom’s creepy gentleman callers to be on the other side. But when I swing the door open, the guest standing on our front porch is someone I already know.
“David?” I ask in a confused tone. He’s smiling widely, if a little nervously, and holding a box wrapped in bright green wrapping paper.
David and I have known each other since the seventh grade and have always been competitive. He was the salutatorian of our graduating class, with a GPA only a point below mine. We had some things in common: bookish, impetuous, motivated. But he was a natural extrovert and Prom King while I ate my lunches in the library. Still, he hadn’t left me alone like I’d expected him to—especially after becoming captain of the football team.
He only lived a few blocks away, and we’d study together at least once a week. We were good influences on each other back then; having someone to compete against made me care more about my grades. It wasn’t like Mom cared. I’d always had the sense that David had a slight crush on me, but I never reciprocated or flirted with him beyond light teasing about grades.
But we hadn’t seen each other in almost two years. He’d gone to college out of state, on a football scholarship, and didn’t often come home for breaks. Yet here he is, dark brown hair tucked away in a red knit hat, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Hi, Faith,” he says nervously, flashing me a winning smile. He’d had braces for most of high school but now had the blinding grin of an actor or model.
“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. David is nice but has always been…intense. I saw how he treated some of his girlfriends in high school; he could become very pushy, and I know he cheated at least once. It was partly why I didn’t ever consider him romantically. I stood with the door only partially open, barely wide enough to poke my face through.
“It’s Christmas, and I wanted to come celebrate with you. Just for a few minutes,” he says, flashing that wide grin again. He’s stepping from foot to foot, breath puffing slightly into the air. “Can I come in?”
The last thing—the very last thing—I want is for him to come inside and see my hungover mom. She’d probably try to hit on him anyway. This Christmas was already disappointing; I didn’t want it to become full-on depressing.
“Uh—” I lean back to grab my gray wool coat from the coat rack. “Hang on, um, my mom is still asleep. I’ll come outside.”
I shut the door again before David can respond and slip on a pair of slippers I keep by the door. Buttoning up my coat and pushing my hair back off of my head, I open the door again and step out to see David. My feet crunch in the snow as we face each other, and David holds out the wrapped box. He’s smiling with all the excitement and innocence of a Golden Retriever, and his brown eyes are barely blinking.
“Merry Christmas, Faith,” he says, giving the box a little shake. It isn’t large, probably six inches long and three inches deep. It looks like a box for a necklace, or a bracelet, or something. Over David’s shoulder, I can see the window into Vincent’s living room. Am I imagining it, or do I see his curtain open then suddenly close?
“What is this?” I gingerly take the present in my hands. It’s very light, and there’s a small white sticker with “TO FAITH :)” written on it in blue ink.
“A present,” he quips, voice dripping with sarcasm. He jams his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket, emblazoned with his college’s mascot on the chest. “Open it!”
“David, we’ve barely talked since graduation—” I say, trying to give the present back to him. “Whatever this is, it’s really too much.”
He pushes the present away, shaking his head without breaking eye contact. David is a good six inches taller than me, and I feel like I can’t really say no.
“I insist, Faith. Plus, I’ve been keeping up with you online. It’s not like we’re strangers.”
I don’t like the cajoling tone of his voice, but I figure I may as well see what’s inside. I undo the ribbon tied around the box, a nice touch, I must admit, and slip my finger gently under the seam of the wrapping paper. David is breathing a little too hard, and I see the plumes of vapor going down.
