The last line sounded practiced, each word too rehearsed.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked. My words echoed in my ears. My chest was tight. “We made it through your first year of college. That was supposed to be the hardest part—you in college and me still in high school. But we did it. And I’m going to lose my virginity to you in less than four weeks.”
Whit looked around, upset by my volume, probably worried that my dad would hear us through the open window.
“No,” I said, anger taking over. “Don’t you worry about who’s listening. We’ve been waiting for this. You said we should hold off until you were out of the dorm and in your apartment. That’s so soon. You said you were counting down the days.”
He hesitated for what felt like an hour and then opened his mouth to speak.
“Wait,” I interrupted, before he could respond. “How long?”
“How long what?” Whit asked, having the nerve to look irritated.
“You said you met someone else, so when? How long has this someone else been around? We’ve been planning for July tenth in your apartment for two months now. When you have your own room. When your roommates are away for the weekend. At what point did you meet someone else?”
Whit rubbed the back of his neck the way my dad does when he pays bills.
“Technically, I’ve known her all year, in my program, just as a friend. Nothing’s happened; she knows I’ve had a girlfriend who’s still in high school. But over the year, we grew closer, and I tried to set boundaries, but . . . you can’t force them. We’re both in these summer classes now, and we’ll be together all the time. It’s just harder to ignore.”
I shivered, not knowing whether it was because the temperature was dropping with the sun or because I was so upset that I was experiencing some sort of arrhythmia.
Two girls who looked a few years younger than us walked past the house, singing a song I recognized from the radio. Something about the heart wanting what it wants.
“Have you had sex with her?” I asked loud enough for the girls to hear. I needed some witnesses to prove this was happening. The girls stopped walking and singing and turned to stare at Whit, waiting for an answer, pleased to be part of the drama.
“Jeez, Maya. No,” he said. “I just told you—nothing’s happened.”
“Nothing’s happened!” Whit shouted again in the direction of the girls, one of whom yelled back, “Whatever, man,” before they continued on their path.
I thought of the past few weeks with Whit and whether I had missed any signs. It seemed impossible that I wouldn’t see this coming.
“We love each other,” I whispered, more to myself. “There’s been no evidence to suggest that anything has changed.”
“Evidence,” Whit repeated, shaking his head. “That’s part of the issue, Maya. I think on some level I’m finally admitting to myself that you and I are just too different. You breezed through calculus, even though you were the youngest person in the class. You know the exact percent chance I’ll have kids with red hair. You care about metastatic tumors and . . . zebrafish, or whatever. And I love that about you. You’re brilliant, Maya. But I have to admit that being with Andrea—this other person—it’s just . . . easy. It’s been kind of nice to hang out with someone who gets what I do. She and I can talk about screenplays for hours. I mean, don’t you want to be with someone who gets what you do? Someone more like you?”
“No,” I said, my voice strong again. “I just want you.”
“You haven’t even started college, Maya. You don’t know what you want.”
My head snapped back. He’d never been so dismissive.
I sat still and silent then and focused on the pace of my breathing while Whit explained that he had fallen for a film student named Andrea Berger. Like him, she was going to be a sophomore at Boston University. They had signed up for the same summer-session writing classes, and he was helping her make a short film. He was excited about it.
“You should go,” I told him once he stopped talking, my voice flat, my legs too gelatinous to stand.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “We can talk some more if you want. I know there’s a lot to say.”
“No, there’s not.”
He nodded and rose, towering above me as I wrapped my fingers around the rusty metal railing of the stairs for support.
He didn’t try to help me up.
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About the Author
Author photo by Ben Stas
MEREDITH GOLDSTEIN writes the Love Letters advice column in the Boston Globe and hosts the podcast by the same name. Chemistry Lessons is her other book for teens. She lives in Boston with a carnival-size cotton candy machine.
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