Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

  The bottom of this website says, Created by Wyatt Rosen. My name, as well as my permission, surely, has been omitted.

  After pulling the phone from my pocket, I text Wyatt, Did I know you created a website of me?

  Seconds later, no.

  I go back to the Christakos Creatives website and click on his hyperlink. It goes to his website, which is super neat. I look through the posts and pictures for a few minutes and spot a gorgeous picture of him, looking happy and unaware. The caption says: one my girlfriend took of me when I wasn’t paying attention. My heart thumps heavily, once. I took this?

  While I’m on the computer, I get on the UCLA site, check out the classes that I’d picked for next year and groan: American Sign Language, Sociology, Paradigms Within Us, Banned Books, Math 105, Economy, and Body Works. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. It’s as if I wrote all the offered classes down on slips of paper, placed them into a hat, and picked them out at random while drunk. I don’t know why I would have to be drunk in that scenario for it to work, but it makes it sound worse.

  I still have a week for the change schedule/drop out date, so I write down numbers of people I need to talk to about dropping out completely and feel a ball of emotion fly into my throat. I don’t think it’s sadness over dropping, but anxiety about what’s to come next.

  Chapter Five

  James texts me moments after I log off the computer.

  I’m in town. Wanna cum over?

  Sort of ignoring the misspelling—did he mean to do that on purpose? Probably—I get an excited chill up my spine. Finally, finally, he replies. Which is good timing, because I have no idea what I’m going to do for the rest of my day and I desperately need to talk to him.

  About a half hour later, after ringing the bell at James’s parents’ doorstep, I’m feeling optimistic. Maybe he feels bad that he didn’t come to the hospital after I had my accident. Maybe he couldn’t come into town. I mean, I know we weren’t technically together, but there was a super lot of history there and he couldn’t not come.

  Maybe he’ll make me a fancy dinner like he used to in high school and we’ll sit and talk about how I’m feeling, how he’s feeling, and he’ll make us official. Finally.

  He opens the door after what feels like forever and he’s not wearing a shirt and I have this déjà vu moment of someone else answering the door half-naked, but the memory doesn’t stick and I don’t know who it was. Not that I mind that James is half-naked, but who answers a door with no shirt? His jeans are low-slung on his hips and his hair is a blond rat’s nest. His eyes are heavy and red. I’m guessing he either just woke up or he’s high. Maybe both.

  Not like I care. He’s here, in front of me, gesturing for me to come in. When I step inside, I make sure to brush against him. His chest skin is warm and soft on my upper arms and it takes everything I have not to claw his face towards mine and plant one on him.

  His smile is wicked cute as he closes the door. His head dips and he’s leaning into me, kissing me. It’s like no time has passed and we never broke up. This kiss tells me he’s still interested; it feels different than our booty calls. And I’m totally into it. I pull his shoulders closer and deepen the kiss. I press the balls of my feet into the ground and lean into him.

  “Whoa,” he says, breaking away and pushing me back a little. “Easy there.” He grabs my hand and leads me down the hall.

  I peer at the photos of him along the hallway. He’s an only child and his parents idolize him. He’s always talking about how they give him whatever he wants, pay for his schooling, his car, his food, his everything. The pictures prove their adoration: him kneeling next to a soccer ball, on a stage singing, holding a bat, sitting on a training toilet and giving a thumbs up, grasping an award for attendance, kicking a field goal, climbing a ladder to a slide, making a funny face and covered in spaghetti. His pictures cover almost every inch of the wall; he’s the center of attention.

  We go to his room, which is super messy and kind of smells of BO. He gestures for me to sit on the bed and sits close next to me. Then he kisses me and I can’t even get a, So, what’s been going on in, because I’m kissing him back and it’s lovely. I’ve always felt his kisses in my toenails. His hand slides up my shirt and God, it feels good to have his fingers on me, but I also really want to talk to him. Maybe he can’t help it. Hell, I can’t help it. I want him bad. Maybe we can talk after. His hand expertly pulls my pants and panties away from my hips and down my legs. I’m leaning back onto his comforter before I even know it and he unzips his pants. But he doesn’t take them off.

  Then I realize—he wants a quickie. He doesn’t even want to get completely naked and I don’t know how I feel about this. But it’s too late and he’s in me and my whole body aches in the best way possible and I close my eyes and just feel him. It’s been so long since I felt something like this.

  When I close my eyes, though, it’s not James’s face that comes to mind. It’s Wyatt’s. His soft brown eyes and floppy hair and sad smile. My eyes fly open and I force myself to look at James but he’s staring at some spot on the wall. Before I know it, tears come into my eyes and I push him off. “Wait,” I say, breathless. “Wait a second.”

  James pulls out. “Oh. Did you need a condom or something?” His eyes are lazy.

  A condom? Um, YEAH. Among other things. Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time for a condom, didn’t even have time to think about getting one on. This feeling makes me sick. Good thing I didn’t let him finish in me—I might have a repeat of last time. I touch my fingertips to my stomach, a vat of emotions rolling around inside of me. Guilt. Sadness.

  And now, not even thinking about a condom? Stupid. I’m not a big fan of myself right now and even less a fan of him.

  James doesn’t bother to cover up or zip up his pants when I step into my panties and pull them back on. I know I should avert my eyes, but I don’t. It’s repulsing the lack of tact he has. I stare at his nakedness and it makes me even angrier. “Why didn’t you come see me in the hospital?” I ask finally. I feel like a silly little girl asking this, like I should never question his actions and I don’t like that.

  “Who knows?” James says, an edge to his voice. “Probably because your parents hate me. Or because we aren’t together anymore.”

  “Your dick was just in me and you didn’t think I was worth coming to see when I almost died?”

  Finally, he zips his pants. He shrugs and looks away.

  “Weren’t you worried about me?”

  “Nah, you’re a tough girl.”

  I pshaw. “That’s not the fucking point. Jesus. I was hit by a truck. I had broken bones! Memory loss! Like you even knew any of that, because you weren’t there. If you cared about me at all, you would have been there.” And, as the words stumble from my mouth, I realize everything. He hasn’t loved me in years. Years. “Do you care about me?”

  “Sure I do. Why would you think I don’t?”

  “Um...because of the last few minutes of conversation. You know, you not coming to the hospital and all that. Haven’t you been listening?”

  “Not really. I don’t do good with people yelling at me.” He pulls a blue T-shirt from the closet and tugs it over his head. It’s a good thing he’s so good looking, because his head has grown so empty in the last few years. It’s a shame I’m only realizing this now. “You used to be cool,” he says with another shrug. “You like to hang out, drink and have sex. Very little conversation required.”

  “You’re making me sound like I was a brainless body that walked around doing your bidding. We have history, James. Years of it. Most of it was really, really good. And you’re just willing to throw that away?” My heart twitches, anticipating what he’s about to say next.

  He stretches and scratches the back of his neck, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

&
nbsp; I want to scream at him. I want to tell him about the baby I got rid of, how there was a little part of him that was nearly in our world. But I think about this for another second and decide that I don’t want his grubby mind anywhere near the baby’s memory. My eyes fill up, but not for him. Never for him again. For the baby. Even though I still stand by my decision, it doesn’t make it any easier that I had to make that decision for myself.

  I turn around before he can see the tears. No way will I give him the pleasure of seeing me this upset. When I walk down the hall and out the front door, James mumbles, “See you around.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” I yell back.

  * * *

  My phone chimes when I get back into my car. Wyatt.

  Did you like your website? Or should I take it down?

  I don’t respond. Instead, I peel out of James’s neighborhood, trying to see through my tears. I drive past my old high school, where I’d spent more hours thinking about and obsessing over James than anything else. We’d done it on the football field after they won the game one night when everyone cleared out. He’d wanted to do it on the fifty-yard line, but I insisted we do it where he made the final touchdown. The night was crisp and chilly and we’d left our clothes on then, too, but it was different then how it was just now in his room. That night was like we were in on some kind of secret, not trying to slip in a quick one.

  I’ve wasted so much of my love, my time, on him. It’s good that I figured it out now instead of later. Before I wasted ten or twenty years.

  When I pull up in front of my house, my phone trills again.

  From Wyatt: can you come over to talk?

  Being in another guy’s house doesn’t strike me as something I really want to do. So I type, feeling a little claustrophobic. Meet at Lion’s Park?

  I have Charlotte today. Mind if I bring her?

  The name rings a tiny bell, but I can’t place it. Who?

  She’s my “Little Buddy. Like the organization.” You might remember me talking about her back in high school.

  Oh, yeah. I think I do. No problem. Bring her along. If his “Little Buddy” is going to be around, the conversation might not be too bad. He probably won’t let things get too heated.

  Leaving now.

  K. Me too.

  Chapter Six

  I make it to the park before Wyatt and Charlotte, and when they pull up next to my car, Charlotte bolts from Wyatt and smashes me into a hug. She squeezes me so tight it’s like she knows me. Maybe I met her in the last few weeks and I just don’t remember.

  When she finally lets go and runs off to play with the other kids on the swings, I offer Wyatt a small smile and he returns it. It’s still weird seeing him, like being blasted back to my childhood.

  He looks good today. I tell him so, trying to keep my tone more friendly than romantic.

  “What? You don’t like my Scouts uniform?” He points the way to a bench just outside of the playground. I head toward it.

  “No...it’s...cute.”

  “That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a crooked smile. “Kind of. Sorry.”

  It’s a super hot day—sweat is pooling under my arms—and Wyatt is sporting a tank top that’s so loose, I catch sight of one of his nipples when he moves. A little pink sombrero. I blush and Wyatt totally notices.

  “What?” he says, smiling, like he somehow knows I was staring at his nipple.

  “Nothing,” I squeak, remembering the first time I noticed Wyatt’s body. It was eighth grade and we were at Chloe’s house, at the pool, and he’d dived in to tag me. He’d filled out and it made me nervous just to look at him. And now, I could see he hadn’t stopped filling out. He isn’t beefy by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s leanly muscular. I want to reach out and touch his bicep.

  I stand suddenly and walk over to a rusty seesaw so he can’t see my face, but then he follows me over and sits across from me. We keep each other balanced as I keep my eyes above his collarbone. “So what is it that you wanted to talk about?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Well, all morning I had it planned that—for better or worse—I was going to give you a piece of my mind. I was going to tell you that I love you and James doesn’t and that you need to break up with him and give me a chance. Even though you don’t remember you love me, you do, dammit. But on the car ride over, I knew that wouldn’t work. You’ve always been the kind of girl that does the opposite of what she’s told just for spite.”

  I chuckle. Hesitate. Then, with a small smile, I say, “James is an asshole.” It’s kind of a random comment, but I need him to know that I’ve had this revelation about James.

  He steadies me with his gaze. “I know.”

  I nod.

  “So I guess the only thing I have at my disposal is my niceness,” Wyatt continues. “I’m a really nice guy, Olivia—or Liv, if that’s what you liked to be called now—and you probably remember some of that. I’ll win you over if you’ll let me. And if not, I’m going to force my way in.”

  I stare at him, trying to let any hidden feelings for him come to surface. He deserves them. All of them. But the only things I truly own are those dreams and the memories of a small spark of attraction in middle school, and thinking about being remotely attracted to Wyatt Rosen warms up my cheeks.

  “So, since you aren’t arguing with me,” he continues, “and you aren’t telling me to shut up, it makes me think that I have a chance. So, I need to ask you, do I have a chance with you?”

  My eyes fall to my hands which are clasped tightly around the metal handle of the seesaw. Then to his, which are stuck in his armpits. “I...” I swallow. “You’re a nice guy and I’d love it if we could be friends.”

  “You can count on that,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. But I’m sensing that there’s a big but coming along in a second.”

  I smile. I was totally going to say but, but instead I say, “However...”

  He groans.

  “I’m not in the mood to be with anyone right now. I thought I was, that I wanted James, but I think I’m just trying to hang on to someone I don’t know anymore. I was willing to be with him, or to try to be with him, even though he didn’t really want me. I shouldn’t have a boyfriend right now when my idea of what I want from one is so screwed up.”

  He takes in a deep breath. “I can understand that.”

  “We should say we had some nice times and leave it at that.”

  “But you don’t remember those times,” he says, his voice small. “And if you did, you sure as hell wouldn’t say they were nice times. You’d say they were filled with drama and stress and whatever little amount of time we managed to get along in was explosive and amazing.”

  My cheeks warm again. “Explosive and amazing? Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. I’m feeling a bit overdramatic today, I guess.” His eyes flick over to Charlotte who’s still swinging.

  I wipe a hand over my face. “I’m so sorry I don’t remember.”

  “Me too.” His expression turns dark. “Now I understand all that crap everyone says about love. How it kills you.”

  I nod. I feel the same way about James and I wish I could take Wyatt’s pain away. I don’t want him to feel the way I did. “I’m tired of disappointing you. Maybe we should—”

  “Don’t say something that would make us see less of each other. Please. It would be torture for me.”

  I was about to say something exactly like that. That we should take a breather from each other. Until I know what I want. Until he knows who I really am, and what my secret is. He’s such a nice guy and he has this amazing vision of me. Even though it might be better for his sanity, I don’t want to break that vision into pieces right at that second by telling him about the abortion. “We can’t be h
ow we were. Isn’t that worse torture?”

  He thinks a minutes and then replies, “No. I mean, we hadn’t gotten to that comfortable pee-in-front-of-each-other stage or anything yet. It was constant back and forth and frequently awkward, so me pining for you on a regular basis and you ignoring me wouldn’t be much different.”

  I twist up my mouth. “Sounds like loads of fun.”

  He shrugs. “It kind of was sometimes.”

  We stop talking and watch Charlotte and the other kids play. She’s friendly with the other children. Always smiling and sharing. I notice then that she talks a little differently and I remember someone saying something in high school about Wyatt adopting a deaf “Little Buddy” for a week. I guess the relationship stuck.

  “I like her spirit,” I say.

  “And she loves yours. She can’t stop talking about you.”

  So I have met her. “I’m sure she loves everyone. She has that personality.”

  “Sometimes, I guess, but not girls my age. I’ve had a couple over before and she’s never taken to them like she has with you.”

  A twinge of jealousy worms around in my chest. I have no reason to be jealous, so I’m not sure why I have this reaction. Maybe the girl I was for a few weeks is still in there somewhere. “Oh, yeah? Other girls? Do you get around a lot, Wyatt?”

  He smiles. “Well, it’s not exactly like that. They were girl volunteers with the Scouts and, I’m sorry to say, they had more feelings for me than I did for them. To be totally truthful, I’ve been hung up on you since third grade. Every other girl pales in comparison.”

  My heart breaks a little but I can’t shake the thoughts of him dating other girls, good girls, who volunteer their time to children, and him being enamored with me, who has killed one. Something within me turns dark. Maybe I should tell Wyatt what I did so he won’t be hung up on me anymore. I lick my lips, the words ready to fall from them.