If We Had Known

by Elise Juska

  Alexis registered her complaints with this new arrangement: You never hang out here, roomie! Anna apologized—she truly did miss Alexis—but she didn’t mind the fact that James wasn’t frequenting their room. She knew he’d find their life in Hightower immature and silly (the thought of him being there when Alexis announced news of some fresh gossip made her cringe). With Alexis, she could allow herself to be glib, or lazy, but James was so intense that Anna always felt an obligation to rise to his level. To stay quick, stay interesting, take everything as seriously as he did. It was just easier, to be with him alone.

  In the off-hours Anna did find herself at home, she and Alexis spent most of their time discussing James: most pressingly, when to have sex with him. Date number eight, Alexis proposed. It was a Wednesday night, so they’d probably be drinking but not drunk, and Anna had been seeing him for over a week, even though it felt much longer. But the hesitation Anna was feeling wasn’t about the timing. She knew that sex with James would trigger an entire catalog of new worries—pregnancy, STDs, HIV—but didn’t want to admit this to Alexis. If it was in any way slutty, I’d tell you, her roommate assured her, adding that Violet Sharma had so far had sex with five guys in the month of September. In college, Alexis reminded her, to have sex with a person you legitimately knew and liked was actually somewhat rare.

  That night, the Wednesday, James made spaghetti carbonara and they drank a bottle of cheap red wine. The wine made Anna’s nose sting, like swimming underwater. The pasta she hardly tasted, distracted by the visible sheen of grease.

  When they were finished (she’d drunk half the wine, managed to empty half her plate), James took her hand and led her to the bed, then perched on the edge beside her. “I want to show you something,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “This,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket, “is the raw footage for my first film.” He handed her his phone. On it were dozens of videos, all of them basically identical: the same guy, dark-haired and overweight, sitting on a plastic lawn chair, a tweed couch.

  “That’s my big brother,” James said as Anna studied him. It was disconcerting: He was James, but an older, thicker version. “My film is going to tell his story,” he explained, as Anna thumbed slowly down the screen. There were easily over a hundred videos. In many of them, the brother was wearing the same red hooded sweatshirt. His facial hair differed slightly, from beard to goatee. “It’s going to take his life story and use it to expose the massive failures of our system,” James told her. “A real human story. Just truth. No bullshit.”

  “That’s really moving,” Anna said, and it was, in a way—if not James’s brother, then how much James obviously cared about him.

  “I wanted you to know about it,” James said. “Because it’s important to me. And you’re important to me.”

  Anna felt a little leap in her chest. “You too.”

  He took the phone from her hand. “Good,” he said, and kissed her. “Don’t move.” Then he stood up and began making minor adjustments, lowering the shades and lighting the white pillar candle on the bedside table. It was equal parts nerve-racking and sweet. Anna climbed under the covers, caught in that disorienting moment between knowing you’re about to have sex and actually doing it, her skin cold, her body still her own. When James crawled into bed beside her, he kissed her collarbone, her shoulders. He peeled off her jeans and kissed the insides of her knees. He looked at her seriously, eye whites glowing in the darkness. “Tell me what you like,” he said, and Anna felt too awkward to respond even if she’d had any idea what to say. She and Gavin had never talked during sex, had barely even looked at each other, but James was so attentive it was stressful. “That feels good,” she managed, and he whispered, “Try to relax,” so she closed her eyes and tried, and it felt nice, basically nice, but then she found herself worrying that he could feel the fat on her stomach, and sucking in slightly, then alighting on Alexis’s theory about sex and smart people—briefly missing Alexis, imagining how she’d tell her all about this the next morning—and thinking how abnormal it was to be missing her roommate at a time like this.

  Thankfully, James produced a condom without her asking. When he was finished, he collapsed, groaning, then sagged on top of her for what felt like minutes. Anna worried he might be leaking inside her. She was uncomfortably aware of how their bodies matched up next to each other: hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest. She had easily twenty pounds on him. She could count his ribs when he breathed.

  Finally he rolled off her, tossed the condom on the floor, and propped himself on one elbow, studying her. “Hi,” he said. “I’m James.”

  She laughed a little. “Anna.”

  “Can I ask you something, Anna?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

  “Excuse me?” she said, startled. “Of course. I mean—I think so.”

  “You would know for sure,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly defensive. “Well, okay then.”

  “Don’t worry. Lots of women don’t have them until their twenties.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” she said, though inevitably she would be now.

  She pulled the blanket to her chin. The wool was making her itch. James reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, next to the fat candle whose flame was flickering madly, wax rolling down the sides. “Are you on the pill?” he asked, taking an audible swallow.

  “Why? Is that a requirement for having sex with you or something?”

  “Of course not,” he said, holding out the glass. “Sip?” She could see, even in the half dark, the dust on the rim.

  “I’m good,” she said. “And, no, I’m not. On the pill.” She didn’t add that this wasn’t because she was unafraid of getting pregnant (she was terrified) but just that she was more afraid of getting fat.

  “What about STDs?” he said, and she felt a kick of nerves.

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have any?”

  “Um, no,” she said, with a strained laugh. “Do you?”

  “None that I know of. But I haven’t been tested in a little while.” He balanced the glass on his rib cage. “When’s the last time you were tested?”

  “Never,” she said tightly. “Untested. Probably riddled with diseases. Sorry to disappoint you.” She’d thought about going, of course, but the prospect of the needle, the excruciating two-week wait for results—she didn’t think she could survive it.

  “You’re not disappointing me,” James replied seriously, kissing her on the cheek. He took another swallow of the dust-water, then reached across her, returning it to the nightstand. “You should go, though. I’ll go with you. We’re going to be doing a lot more of this, right?” he said, and settled an arm around her shoulders.

  The bedside clock glowed one fourteen. She wanted suddenly to leave. She surveyed the floor and began mentally gathering her things—jeans, bra, backpack, Alexis’s shirt. She could make up an excuse—she didn’t feel well (not a lie), had an early class tomorrow. That part was easy. The harder part was getting home. She weighed the desire to be back in the dorm with Alexis against the risk of walking alone in the city this time of night, but at this point she didn’t care; the desire outweighed the fear.

  “Walk-in hours at the health center are on Friday mornings,” James was saying. “We could go this week.”

  “I’m really not good with needles,” she managed.

  “Oh, come on, Anna.”

  “No, really—”

  “It’s just a little pinch,” he said, then clipped at her waist with two fingers—a roll of fat. As he leaned in to kiss her again, she sat up on her elbows and said, “Actually, I think I might just go home.”

  Anna felt him go still behind her. “What’s going on?” To her surprise, his tone was flat, clearly annoyed.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  “I don’t feel very well.”

  “Si
nce when?”

  “And I have a test tomorrow.”

  “Anna,” he sighed. “Come on.” Abruptly, he pushed himself out of bed and pulled on his boxers. She watched, paralyzed, as he disappeared into the bathroom: pale spill of light, splash in the bowl. But instead of getting back in bed, he sat on the very edge of it, not touching her. She was alarmed by the absence of his attention, the void it created, the sudden, desperate feeling it woke inside her. She had ruined this, she thought. It was ending. It was over that fast.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Forget I said it. I’ll stay.”

  James was studying his hands, clenched in his lap. “Look. I like you, Anna. I think I’ve made that pretty clear,” he said. “But if there’s something on your mind, you have to tell me. If I’m going to be with someone, it has to be honest.”

  She nodded quickly. “I know.”

  “I realize I can get intense about things. But if something’s not worth getting intense over, I don’t see the point.”

  “I get it,” she said. “I feel the same way.”

  He looked at her, then reached out and touched her chin. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “Friday. We’ll go together.”

  Anna could only nod again, feeling cornered, unable to admit to him how much this scared her, how having him go with her would actually make it worse. He blew out the candle and crawled back under the cover, folding his pillow in half and stuffing it beneath his neck. He faced her, one arm flung across her ribs, one leg resting on her leg. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. He was asleep minutes later. Anna lay there, immobile, his breath warm against her face. She watched the candle smoke twine silently toward the ceiling, hoping the hot wax didn’t drip onto the bed and start a fire. Pictured the oily, uneaten pasta still sitting on the table. She closed her eyes and tried to be normal, rational. She reminded herself that this was what she’d wanted: a relationship that was meaningful and real. This was what she had been hoping for. As she listened to his breaths deepen, she crunched her stomach ever so slightly in and out, in and out, hoping the movement didn’t disturb the sheet.

  The next day, all day, Anna’s thoughts were circling. Everyone freaks out unnecessarily about getting tested, Alexis said. Logically, Anna knew she had no reason to be worried—she and Gavin had always used condoms, pausing to fumble in the steamer trunk—but she also knew it didn’t matter. That there were always exceptions. Freak things.

  That night, she told James she had too much studying to come over. She skipped dinner and went to the library, the fourth floor, where people went to do real work. It was actually quiet there, the only sounds the skitter of laptop keys, the occasional cough or creaky chair. No one talked on phones, or to each other. Anna opened her assignment for Intro to Psychology and her eyes glazed over the same paragraph three times. She twisted a strand of hair around her thumb. Crunched her stomach in and out, in and out. She needed to get some food. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and that had consisted only of frozen yogurt and Special K. Her stomach felt hollow, but the ache was reassuring, familiar. She promised herself she’d go get a snack when she finished this chapter. In Piaget’s preoperational stage, the child struggles with logical thinking—the line dissolved like sugar into tea.

  Over the edge of her laptop, she saw her antisocial hallmate, Carly Smith, sitting in a nearby carrel, face half hidden by the divider. She appeared to be typing, shoulders back and chin down. One eye was visible, peering through her owly glasses. Beneath the desk, Anna saw that she was wearing furry purple slippers, but her ankles were crossed as primly as a queen’s. The image was so absurd that for a moment Anna was distracted—she made a mental note to describe this to Alexis later—but then her phone began to buzz, inching across the surface of her desk. She clamped a hand on it. Missed Call Mom. She didn’t leave a message, naturally. Anna set the phone back down and resumed her reading—in Piaget’s preoperational stage—tightening the hair around her thumb and trying not to think about tomorrow, but five minutes later the phone was writhing again. Carly Smith’s half face peered up at her. She snatched the phone, then saw that it was Kim.

  The sight of her old friend’s name made her suddenly, deeply lonely. She wanted to talk to her but couldn’t answer, not in the quiet zone. And maybe this was a good thing. Because if she did, Kim would know something was wrong, and Anna didn’t want to have to explain. Even though Alexis had endorsed the joint trip to the health center as weirdly romantic, Anna was certain Kim would find the whole thing just weird. Probably find James weird. Already Anna had been getting this impression from group texts with Kim and Janie, and had started omitting key details accordingly, like his habit of scribbling notes on his forearms to avoid wasting paper, or sometimes, in the coffee shop, taking videos of strangers, or once announcing I choose to be poor (in the moment, Anna had nodded appreciatively, swept along in the tide of his conviction, but later realized this was something only an actually rich person could ever say).

  To Anna and Alexis, James’s candor was mostly appealing—tell me what you like was already their new in-house catchphrase—but Janie had laughed at the line, confused. Ooookay, she said. Way to put it out there, dude. To be fair, Anna had felt a similar bewilderment when Kim talked about Brian Tucker, with whom she was now, incomprehensibly, officially going out. Earlier that week, she’d told Anna that he was actually much smarter and more sensitive than they’d given him credit for. And it’s just nice to be with somebody from home, she’d said, a sentiment Anna couldn’t begin to share. Anna tried to picture James meeting Tucker, meeting Gavin, but it was unfathomable, the merging of two different species; the disconnect amused her. What worried her was the prospect of Alexis one day meeting Janie and Kim; she wasn’t at all sure they would get along. What did it say about her, Anna, that it was so hard to imagine her three closest friends being friends with each other?

  Her phone buzzed. Voicemail Kim.

  Disappointingly, the message was only nine seconds long. Anna pressed the phone to her ear. Hey, I know you’re busy having sex with your new boyfriend but call me when you can, okay? She smiled. It was probably an update on Tucker’s newfound depth of character. Anna would call her back tomorrow, when the appointment was over. But she listened to the message twice more, just to hear her voice.

  The plan had been to meet on a bench outside the health center after their appointments, but by the time Anna stepped out the sliding doors and into the sunlight, she felt dizzy and raw. Historically, Anna’s worries about a thing always outweighed the thing itself, but in this case the appointment had been far worse. It was more than just the needle. There was the quiz about her sexual history, the lecture about safe sex practices and the sheaf of fear-inducing brochures. By the time she’d had blood drawn—rubber tubing wrapped around her arm, nurse tapping bluntly for a vein—her hands were water. The needle went in, and the syringe filled slowly. I think I need to lie down, she said, and then everything was blurring around the edges and she knew that she was fainting but couldn’t stop.

  She woke lying down on the table with feet propped on her backpack. Her forehead was wet and warm. The nurse, now slightly more kindly, asked what Anna had eaten that morning (apple) and went to get her juice and saltines. Alone, she sat up. A damp wad of paper towel dropped to the floor. She stared at the posters on the wall before her, a black-and-white photo of a girl’s pained face. DEPRESSION HURTS. Next to it, two pairs of bare feet, one polished and one hairy, poking out beneath a blanket. PULLING AN ALL-NIGHTER? GET TESTED! She remembered the time, junior year, her period was late and she lived for five days in a state of abject fear—convinced her nausea was morning sickness, the occasional flutter in her belly a medically impossible kick. When finally she got up the nerve to take an EPT test, she and Kim and Janie had crammed into the bathroom, holding hands and watching the stick turn—a minus sign. They had celebrated with wine coolers, joked about narrowly averting the spawn of Gavin Newland. Thank God. Thank God! Later, Anna had read online:
Menstruation doesn’t occur sometimes when the body has too little fat to carry a child. It’s the body’s way of protecting itself.

  She bent forward and pressed her head between her knees. The smell of her jeans was faintly cottony, and it reminded her of home—the slow clouds of steam that blew past her bedroom window when the dryer rumbled in the mudroom—and tears pooled in her eyes: that this was her life now, sitting in a clinic getting blood drawn to check for potentially fatal diseases, a poster of a sad-faced teenager hanging on the wall. She wished she’d never let James put her up to this. Wished she’d taken an Ativan that morning. Wished she were back in Stafford, in her old bedroom, or Gavin’s basement, easy undemanding Gavin, watching Anchorman for the hundredth time and nursing a Diet Coke.

  When finally she left the building, squinting into the sudden brightness, the sight of James on the bench sent a blast of resentment through her: the booted foot, the sunglasses. Even the exposed gauze taped to the crook of his elbow seemed designed to provoke.