by Lori L. Otto
“You’re just old-fashioned,” he says.
“It’s our first date!” I say, surprised that he really thought he could take me back to his place tonight. “It’s not old-fashioned to not want to sleep with a guy on the first date! It’s practical.”
“Practical?” he asks, now laughing at me.
“It’s... it’s...” I can’t think of a word. “It’s defensive. It’s protection.”
“I have protection–”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“I know it’s not, Liv,” he says, continuing to poke fun at my reactions. “I’m just speaking my mind. I’m saying what I’m thinking. I didn’t think you’d say yes, but you can’t blame a guy for asking.”
My heart rate finally starts to return to normal. “You already know you want to sleep with me?” I ask him, still in disbelief.
“Half the school wants to,” he says.
“They don’t even know me.”
“They don’t need to, either,” he adds. “It’s just sex.”
“I, ummm...” I take a sip of water. “I’m not sure I can ever be that callous about sex. I want it to mean something.”
“We all want it to mean something eventually,” Emmanuel says. “We just don’t always get what we want every time. But we can get pretty damn close. It may not mean something every time, but you feel something.”
“I want it to mean something,” I reiterate, confident in that statement. I want him to know it.
“Okay,” he says. “Then I want it to, too.”
We both finish our dinners, staying off the topic of sex and attraction and instead focusing on photography and art. I feel much more comfortable by the end of the date, and certain that he’s not going to try anything tonight.
Feeling a little tipsy from the sangria and the lack of food–I didn’t eat much at all, now that I think about it–he walks me back to my dorm room. When I start to put the key in the door, he snakes his arm around me, stopping me, pulling my arm into my body. I feel his mouth press against the back of my neck, and get goosebumps immediately. I close my eyes, reveling in the feeling I’d missed for too long. His tongue drags lightly up to the hollow beneath my ear, and he kisses that once, then again. I pull away when I feel his lips wrap around my earlobe, though. That’s sacred ground. “I had a good time,” I tell him, keeping my back to him. He doesn’t fight me when I pull my hand away and put the key in the door.
“I did, too,” he says softly against my shoulder. His lips touch it gently and his fingers move from the nape of my neck to the middle of my back where the dress begins. “Let me take you out again.”
I open the door and step inside, glancing briefly at my roommates as they watch TV in their pajamas before turning around to see him. Now inside the room, I feel safer. My breathing is quick, though, and my heart is racing. “Okay,” I tell him with a smile.
“Okay.” He grins back at me. “Good night.”
“Bye.” I shut the door softly, taking a deep breath before facing Rachelle and Katrina.
“Well?” Rachelle asks.
“You’re home awfully early,” Katrina says with a frown.
“It was...” At this very moment, all I can remember about the entire night is his tongue on my neck and his fingertip on my back. “It was good.” And it was good.
CHAPTER 5
I was so distracted last night and so caught up in the retelling of my date that I completely forgot about Camille’s call. Something reminded me of it in the middle of the night, but I forced myself to wait until this morning to call Jon. The rest of the night’s sleep was completely restless with him on my mind.
Of course he doesn’t answer his phone. He hasn’t changed his greeting from when he got back in town from Utah. His happy voice doesn’t calm my nerves at all. Two seconds after the beep, I realize it’s recording.
“Oh, Jon,” I say quickly. “Um, it’s Livvy.” This isn’t at all how this was supposed to go. I’d rehearsed every word and perfected my message between two in the morning and now, and all of a sudden, I can only remember my name and one-syllable words that I probably murmured as a baby. “Hi. So, anyway, Camille called me last night. Yeah, out of the blue.” I stop myself, remembering he’s not on the other line. Have you ever left a voicemail, Livvy?
I inhale deeply to get a grip. “She needs help in chemistry, and she remembered how much you helped me last year–because you did–and she wanted to know if you’d have time to help her. She said she’d pay you...” A few more seconds tick by as I try to think of what to say next. “Anyway, I don’t expect you to call me back, because why would you?” There’s the anger. That’s more like what I’d planned in the middle of the night. “But her num–”
“Your message has been recorded. Goodbye.” And his phone cuts me off. I tuck the phone in my pocket and bury my head in my hands, frustrated and embarrassed. I sounded like an idiot. I’m sure of it. I didn’t want to sound that way at all. Wondering if I have time to call him back and explain my botched phone message, I check my watch. I’m already late to class.
“Miss Holland,” my English Poets professor says to me as soon as I walk in the door.
“Yes?”
“I’ve already collected your papers. Bring yours up here. It’s a subtraction of five points for being late.” The eyes of the rest of my class on me, I don’t argue with her even though I don’t think it’s fair. I’m confident the essay is good enough that the point deduction won’t affect my grade too much. I should still get an A.
“Sorry, Professor Talese.” I clumsily pull out my notebook and find the symbolic assessment I’d written for Paradise Lost. Dad proof-read it for me a few nights ago, suggesting that I take a closer look at a few sections. I’d made adjustments as I discovered more. I know I’m lucky to have a father like him.
“Take your seat,” she says, pointing to my assigned chair in the third row.
I settle in quietly, being careful to not make any more noise than I have to. I glance at my classmate’s book to see what page we’re on in the syllabus. I start to follow along when my phone rings. Again, everyone looks at me.
“I am so sorry,” I say as I fumble through my purse and shut off the ringer, addressing everyone in the room, but especially my annoyed teacher at the front of the class.
“Livvy, maybe you have more important things to tend to than this class today.”
“No, Professor Talese, I don’t. I’m paying attention. I swear.” She stares at me hard for a few more seconds, then finally looks away and continues with the lesson I’d interrupted. What if that was Jon?
My eyes glaze over as I look at the paper in front of me. Could he have gotten the message already? I should check. When the rest of the classmates start to shuffle through their things, I glance over to see what they’re doing. I grab my T.S. Eliot book to keep up. I re-read the poem we’d been assigned on Wednesday. She gives us about ten minutes before addressing us again.
“What is hysteria?” she asks the class.
“Excitement?” a guy behind me asks. “Mania?”
“Euphoria?” another says.
“Mental illness,” a girl states assuredly.
“Who’s right?” Professor Talese asks. “Livvy?”
“Um, do you mean how it relates to the poem?” I ask, unsure if I missed part of the discussion.
“In general,” she says.
“Then any of them could be right, I guess.”
“Good,” she says as she gives me a slight smile. “And Livvy, who in this poem do you think is experiencing this hysteria? This excitement, or mania, or mental affliction... who is hysterical?”
“Either of them,” I tell her, checking the notes I had written in the column of the book, suddenly doubting myself even though it had been clear to me the first time I read the poem. “Yes, either of them.”
“Anyone disagree?”
“The lady’s clearly nuts,” the guy next to me says, looking over at me and e
xplaining this to me as if it’s truth, and right, and the only answer.
“Not necessarily, but she’s obviously driving him nuts,” I tell him. “He’s saying that if she shuts up, he might be able to enjoy the rest of the afternoon. She’s just laughing.” I shrug my shoulders. “I guess she could be delirious,” I concede.
“He’s embarrassed,” our teacher says, confirming my answer. “So, Dylan, you think she’s hysterical. Livvy says they’re both a little off kilter. Anyone going to vote just for the author?” A few people raise their hands. “Maybe he’s easily annoyed, and she just saw something funny. Who knows?”
I start to read it again as she returns to her podium.
“Your assignment is to sell me on your decision. If you think the woman only is experiencing hysteria, tell me why she is, and why he isn’t. If you think it’s the other way around, explain why you feel that way. And if you’re like Livvy, and you’re having a hard time deciding, convince me of that. Five-hundred words, due at the beginning of class, or else...”
I stop jotting down notes and look up when she doesn’t continue. She’s staring at me again, waiting for me to finish her warning. “Or else you get a five-point deduction.”
“It would be ten for you, Livvy. Five for the rest of you. Have a good weekend.” I finish writing down the assignment before gathering my books together and putting them in my bag. I grab my phone out of my purse and get up, slinging my bags over my shoulders. “Livvy, make sure you brush up on my classroom rules. Section C in the syllabus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Livvy?” she calls to me, stopping me from ascending the stairs of the auditorium.
“Yes?”
“Your introductory paragraph is excellent,” she says, holding up the paper I’d turned in late. “This thesis statement is perfectly written.”
“Thank you.”
“I look forward to reading the rest of it.”
“Cool,” I say.
She chuckles a little. “Cool,” she responds, obviously making fun of my choice of words.
“Splendiferous?” I ask, testing one of my SAT words out on her.
“Much better, Miss Holland. Have a killer weekend.”
“Nice,” I remark on her dated slang, turning away as she picks up her things. “Thank you.” As soon as I exit the building, I check my messages to see who called. I hold my breath, waiting for Jon’s voice.
It’s Emmanuel, and even though it’s not the call I’d wanted, it’s not a bad message to get. I listen to it twice before heading back to my dorm to grab my bags for my trip back to the city.
My hall seems livelier than usual, even for the start of a weekend. My friends swarm me when I get inside the room. “Livvy, we have some horrible news,” Rachelle says. Their faux sympathy is obvious because neither can maintain a straight face.
“What?” I ask.
“They’ve closed Manhattan. The strangest thing,” Katrina continues the lie. “Apparently it’s over capacity this weekend, and they just can’t handle one more person on the island.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here,” Rachelle says, sticking her bottom lip out in a ridiculous frown.
“I don’t think so,” I tell them, trying to break free.
“Oh, we know so,” Katrina counters. “A bunch of the a cappella groups are singing at a house party, and we are so there.”
“It sounds lame, I know,” Rachelle says, “but the singers are incredible... and they sing, like, stuff we listen to now.”
“Stuff you listen to,” I murmur, making fun of her pop obsession like I have since our first day here.
“Yeah, not your industrial crap–”
“It’s not industrial,” I giggle. “It’s Indie rock... as in independent.”
“Maybe you can request a song. Surely you’re not the only Indie freak at Yale.”
“Guys, I have to go home.”
“No,” Katrina says, “you don’t. We’re going to keep you here this weekend, but we’ll let you go home next–”
“Good, because it’s my birthday!” I remind them.
“Yes, and of course we’ll let you go because you invited us to your loft for a party, remember?”
“I remember,” I tell them. “But come on, guys. It’s such short notice. My parents are expecting me tonight.”
“The hell they are!” Katrina says, throwing her arms in the air. “They evicted you last week!”
I start laughing. “They didn’t evict me.”
“No, they built you a haven that should keep you from ever wanting to step foot in their house again.”
“And the pictures don’t even do it justice,” I tell them, bragging a little.
“Stay this weekend, Liv, okay?”
“Will one of you go to the studio with me for awhile?”
“I’ll go,” Rachelle says. “I’ve got some sketching to do.”
“Okay,” I finally agree. “This better be an amazing weekend.”
“You’ll never want to go back to Manhattan again,” Katrina says.
“Well, except for the kick-ass loft,” I remind her.
“Shut up,” she says.
An hour into the performance, I’m wishing I hadn’t volunteered to be the designated driver. I didn’t think anything of it when Rachelle, Katrina and I had discussed it earlier, because I didn’t think any of us would be allowed to drink since we aren’t twenty-one yet, but I was very wrong. No one cares, and even though the concert is fun, it’s obvious everyone else who’s drinking is enjoying it much more than I am. I don’t know these people well enough to start jumping around to the music and singing along at the top of my lungs.
Jon was the only person outside of my family that I’d ever felt that comfortable around. I check my phone for the twentieth time, wondering why I haven’t heard from him yet. I thought it was such a good reason to call him. I thought for sure it was neutral enough that he’d contact me. I thought for sure he would have softened a bit, but maybe I’ve pissed him off more. Maybe he expected an apology. If he hasn’t read my letters, he doesn’t know that I’ve already begged for his forgiveness–nor does he know that I don’t intend to do that anymore.
“Did you get my message?” I turn around quickly, stumbling into Emmanuel’s open arms.
“Hey!” We stare at each other for a second before hugging. “You come to these things? It certainly doesn’t seem like your scene,” I tell him.
“My best friend’s a baritone,” he explains. “Plus, it’s always a good place to meet drunk girls.” I make a face at him, showing my disapproval. “But I don’t have to do that tonight, now that I know you’re here.”
“Oh, don’t let me get in your way.”
“You’re so prissy sometimes,” he teases me. “I mean, don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind to take advantage of pretty girls who aren’t thinking clearly–”
My jaw drops at his admission.
“To model,” he clarifies. “An uninhibited model is the best kind. But I don’t think my lawyer would be too fond of me allowing drunk women to sign my release forms. That probably wouldn’t hold up too well in court.”
“Well, good.”
“No, I provide the alcohol after they sign.” He grins, and with that smile, I can see how any girl would agree to model for him.
“No, you don’t,” I challenge him, turning away to look back at the stage.
“Yes, I do,” he says as he takes a step forward to stand next to me. “If they want it.”
“Do you sleep with them after that?” I ask him.
“That’s pretty personal, Livvy,” he says, looking at me suspiciously. “What if I said yes?”
“I wouldn’t approve.” I cross my hands in front of my chest.
“I don’t,” he says quickly.
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“I want to be respected for what I do, Liv. I’m a professional, and I can separate my personal life from my work. A model nev
er becomes anything more than that in the same night. That’s my rule.”
I nod a little, accepting his answer.
“I may ask her out for the next day, but that doesn’t break any rules.”
“Have you had a lot of girlfriends?”
“Compared to...”
“Anyone?”
“That’s too general. Let’s talk about you. How many boyfriends have you had?”
I glare at him, sensing he knows the answer. “You know, I don’t have to tell you that to know that you’ve had many more partners than I’ve had.”
“Partners,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “When you said ‘girlfriends,’ you meant lovers?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you know. Are you sizing me up, Liv? Are you seeing if I meet your standards? Your expectations?”
“I’m just trying to get to know you better, that’s all. Don’t read into it. And, I mean, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”
“Four,” he says. I’m pleased with the answer, and smile as I sigh in relief. I think I could go out with a guy who’s–
“Four girlfriends and nineteen lovers.”
I laugh at his joke, eventually meeting his eyes to see them staring back at me, serious. He’s not kidding. “Nineteen?” I ask him.
“That’s a lot?” he asks. I nod quickly, definitively.
“But only four were girlfriends,” he says soberly, as if that’s a good thing.
“That makes it worse, you know,” I tell him quietly.
“Right, because you think it should mean something.”
“Yes,” I tell him. “And you said you did, too.”
“It would mean something... with you,” he whispers into my ear, pulling away slowly to see my reaction. I push him away.
“Let me be clear,” I tell him with a smile but meaning everything I’m telling him. “We have to mean something to one another first before I would even consider that.”
“I know,” he says. “And I like a challenge. I don’t mean anything to you yet?” he asks, feigning sadness.
“I really don’t know you yet.”
