No More Confessions

by Louise Rozett

  The only lights on are a few strings of plastic jalapeño peppers that Travis put up one year for Christmas. A woman on the radio explains how to cook the perfect fried okra, her voice drifting in from the kitchen.

  “Gabe was different than you thought he was gonna be, huh?” she asks as she combs out my hair, getting it ready to be teased into an old-school beehive.

  “Completely,” I say.

  “Breaks your heart, that boy. Travis loved him like a brother.” I’ve lost count of how many times she’s told me this by way of explaining why it was so important to her to help Gabe. I want to ask about his suicide attempt, but I don’t do it. I think we’ve both had enough sadness for one day. “How’s your singin’ going, hon?”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m taking a songwriting workshop, and I’m figuring out how to write my own stuff. But it didn’t work out with the band, so I’m only singing for myself right now.”

  I think Vicky senses that I don’t feel like explaining what happened. She just nods as she puts the comb down and takes up a can of something that actually says, “Hold Anything Sticky Spray.” I wonder if I should cover my nose and mouth.

  “You know, Rosalita, you’ve been awful quiet on the subject of that boyfriend of yours.”

  “Jamie? He’s good. He’s really good.” I hear myself working to sound as positive as I can. “I think he might come on the college trip with Mom and me.”

  Vicky doesn’t fall for it. She sprays a whole bunch of sticky on my hair before she asks, “Are you sleeping with that boy?”

  I laugh. “Is this what it’s like, being in the salon with you?”

  She puts the can down, grabs a chunk of hair and starts teasing. “Oh no, honey. If you were in my chair at the salon, I’d already know the answer to that question.”

  “You’re funny, Vic.” I’m hoping to distract her but she just keeps waiting for the answer. I finally give it to her. “No, I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “But you want to.”

  I do want to—she’s right. I’ve been thinking about it since Valentine’s Day. I can’t help wondering what it would be like. “Well, if I don’t want to sleep with him, then I shouldn’t be with him at all, right?” I say.

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  “We’re just not…there yet.”

  “You mean you, hon? ‘Cause I’m guessin’ you don’t mean him. Show me a guy who doesn’t wanna have sex, I’ll show you chili with beans and tomatoes.”

  “Wait—chili has beans and tomatoes in it.”

  “Not down here, it doesn’t! Mind yourself now—you could get thrown out of the state for sayin’ that,” she scolds. “So are you tellin’ me this Jamie of yours doesn’t want to have sex?”

  I think about how chaste Jamie had tried to keep things between us until Valentine’s Day. “He wants it to be right, I think.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign! Sounds like he’s gentleman. So I’d like this boy.”

  I pause just a fraction of a second before I say, “You would.”

  Vicky doesn’t miss a trick. “Hmmm. Go on.”

  I decide that if I can talk to Conrad about it, I can definitely talk to Vicky about it. “He might drink too much.”

  The hair teasing stops suddenly. “What’s too much, sweetie?”

  “Well, he carries a flask. Sometimes.”

  Vicky puts down her comb and spray can and comes around the chair to kneel in front of me. “No, honey. Uh-uh. You understand me? Don’t sleep with him, because your heart’ll just go where your body went, and then where will you be? In love with a drunk, that’s where. Take it from a girl who’s been there and back and there again to get the T-shirt. You want no part of that.”

  After a long silence, I ask, “So what did the T-shirt say?”

  “‘Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt,’ in big ol’ sparkly letters.”

  Vicky chuckles as she stands up, pats my shoulder and gets back to working on my hair. I laugh along with her, glad she can’t see my face anymore.

  “Everything I Wanted,” Back in the Circus, Jonatha Brooke

  _______________________

  Chapter 16

  It’s almost midnight when I sneak out of the hotel room I’m sharing with my Ambien-ed, earplugged, eyeshaded mother and tiptoe down the hall, half expecting an alarm to go off. I’m nervous and freaked out, but mostly, I’m ready. I’ve wanted to be with Jamie like this since before I understood what it was I was feeling for him, and tonight, it’s going to happen. I’m on a roll after getting him to come to Boston with us—why not just keep going?

  Vicky would not approve.

  The TV is on inside his room, and I wonder what he’s watching. It’s weird that I don’t know what Jamie watches late at night. Shouldn’t you know that about someone you’re going to lose your virginity to?

  But then again, except for once when I was out of my mind and he was watching over me, we’ve never spent the night anywhere near each other before.

  I reach inside my shirt and adjust the straps on the pretty but ridiculously itchy lace bra Tracy and Holly helped me pick out. The matching underwear is pretty itchy too, but maybe that’s more due to the fact that I got a little overzealous with my razor. I knock on Jamie’s door. There’s no answer for a long time. And then, all the locks unlock, and he answers the door in jeans and no shirt.

  It’s not like I’ve never seen my boyfriend without a shirt on before, but this is different. He’s shirtless, in the doorway of a hotel room, and I have a very specific plan that I’m trying to execute that involves losing my virginity. Plus, he’s so beautiful he makes my heart stop, and he looks like…a man.

  I feel shy.

  I remind myself that I’m about to turn 17. Tomorrow. I can handle this.

  “Hey,” he says, managing to convey suspicion in that one word.

  “Hi,” I reply as innocently as I can. I work hard to keep from reaching out to touch the smooth skin of his chest, the muscles of his arms. When I used to go to Peter’s hockey games when I was in middle school, I’d secretly watch Jamie the whole time—to this day I’m not even sure if my brother was any good. I always wondered what Jamie looked like after the game in the locker room, pulling his shirt over his head and then taking off his pads, sweaty from the game, his hair wet.

  At the time, my imagination would stop there.

  No longer.

  I lean against the doorframe. “Can I come in for a second? I need to talk to you about something.”

  He doesn’t move. “You look like trouble, Rose.”

  Without my permission, my eyes slide down over his chest to his stomach. I know it’s happening, but there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s like a work of art.

  “So do you.”

  He gives me one of those spectacular smiles that make me feel like I’m on vibrate. “Go back to your room,” he says, though he was definitely amused, and maybe flattered, by my compliment.

  As he starts to close the door, I slide right past him, heading for the security of the window. If I get as far into the room as possible, there’s less opportunity for him to get me out. The Boston skyline glows outside the window—if I play my cards right, this could be romantic, and perfect.

  I don’t turn around until I hear him close the door. He’s standing in front of it with his arms crossed.

  “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” I start, reciting the first line of the script I wrote in my head on the plane back from Texas, even though I’d been up half the night with Vicky trying to convince me I shouldn’t sleep with Jamie. As soon as I got out of her house, I started thinking about how I could make it happen.

  “Uh-huh,” he says, like he knows exactly where this is going.

  “You didn’t already get me a present, did you? Because I know what I want,” I say. Suddenly my lines sound super cheesy, but I keep going—I don’t know how else to do this. “Do you want to know what it is?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?” he ask
s. He sounds slightly annoyed by having to play along, but also intrigued. Maybe more than that. Maybe a little turned on.

  I’m coming for him and he knows it. And—even though for whatever reason he thinks I’m an innocent who should, for the most part, remain that way—there’s a part of him that likes what I’m up to.

  I feel that sense of power again, that power I felt when I touched him that first time. I leave the safety of the window, walk over to him and put my hand right over his heart. I feel it beating under my fingers.

  “You. I want you for my birthday.”

  “You already have me,” he says, his arms still crossed despite the fact that I’m touching him.

  “In some ways I have you,” I reply. “But not all.”

  There’s a moment after he catches my very specific meaning when he’s processing what I’m suggesting—that we speed things up and go straight for the grand finale.

  “We’re not there yet—” he starts to answer.

  I slide my hands up over his shoulders and behind his neck, standing on my tiptoes to shut him up with a kiss. I keep it chaste and sweet for a moment, and then I don’t.

  I don’t taste alcohol on his breath. I realize that I intended to go ahead with my plan whether I tasted alcohol or not—I wouldn’t be the first girl to lose her virginity to a guy who’d been drinking. But I’m glad that’s not what this is going to be. Because I want it to be about us.

  I uncross his arms for him and put his hands on my hips, and then he’s pulling me closer and kissing me the way I’m kissing him. Maybe this isn’t going to be as tough as I thought.

  I step back, pull my shirt over my head and step out of my jeans, fortunately without falling over. I was planning to make this moment as sexy as possible, but I’m overcome with that shyness again. I’m standing in lace underwear in front of a guy, which I’ve never done before, but on top of that, this isn’t just a guy, this is Jamie Forta, who I’ve been dreaming about since the first time I saw him four years ago. So all I can really manage is to stand here and hope that he thinks I’m sexy without my having to do anything extra. Whatever that would be.

  I watch as his hazel-gold eyes take me in from head to toe, and it’s so different from the way anyone has ever looked at me. I feel beautiful. I never feel beautiful, but I feel beautiful right now.

  When his eyes make their way up to mine again, I see desire in them.

  I also see there’s a battle going on in his brain.

  “Jamie, I’ll be 17 tomorrow. Stop thinking of me as that scared freshman.”

  “I’m definitely not thinking of you that way right now,” he says with a smile.

  “Good. Because I’m ready.”

  I lose some ground as he folds his arms again. “We can’t, Rose—”

  I cut him off. “We can.” I lean over, reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out protection.

  He laughs a little and looks down at the floor. “Came prepared, huh?”

  “I’m not going to break. I’m not going to freak out. I want this. You want this too, right?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. He won’t look at me.

  “Don’t you?” I ask, starting to feel insecure. Was I completely off base? Have I been delusional this whole time about everything? “Oh my god. You don’t.”

  I suddenly feel naked. I grab my jeans and shirt off the ground and start toward the bathroom to get dressed. Jamie catches my arm and stops me.

  “You know I do,” he says, his voice resonating in my chest. He slides his hand down my arm, his fingers intertwining with mine.

  I drop my clothes back on the floor and turn around. “Do you love me?” I ask.

  He closes his eyes, almost like the question hurts him. He still can’t say it, but for once that’s fine. I was banking on it actually.

  “If you can’t say it, then show me.” I take a deep breath, preparing to deliver the last line of my script—the showstopper, the deal-closer. “Make love to me.”

  I intend it to come out as a demand, but it sounds more like a plea.

  We’re both frozen for a moment, staring at each other as my words hang in the air. Then, slowly, he pulls me toward him. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me so softly I almost don’t feel it at first. He leads me over to the bed, and we lie down together. My heart feels like it’s going to pound its way out of my chest. His strong, warm hands pull me against him and then slide across my body, everywhere at once. It’s like he’s finally been given permission—or been absolved of some responsibility—and is doing something he’s wanted to do for a long time.

  I’m glad we waited, so that it could feel like this, like it was inevitable.

  My breath catches in my throat as he takes off my lace bra and underwear. It’s a relief not to be wearing them anymore—they didn’t feel like me. He’s looking at my body but I don’t feel self-conscious, maybe because Jamie doesn’t seem to have any shame or embarrassment about any of this—he never has. Or maybe it’s because I’m with the person I’m supposed to be with.

  I close my eyes. I’m concentrating on the feel of his hands and his lips when I remember that he still has clothes on.

  I reach down and try to unbutton his jeans. It’s difficult to do—my hands are shaky. He finishes for me, shoving them off along with his underwear. And then, we are naked, together. I want to look. I hesitate for some reason, then I do it. All I can think is, this is the body of the person I love, this is the body of the person I love…

  Nothing happens for a minute as we lie there, looking at each other. I think we’re both astonished that we are finally here, though maybe for different reasons. He searches my face for the permission he always looks for and then looks for again, just to be sure.

  I give it to him.

  There isn’t a single moment when I’m afraid, or worried, or scared. Not when he’s asking me if I’m ready, not when he is putting on the condom to protect me, not when I feel the weight of him on top of me. I trust him completely, with my body, and my heart.

  When the moment comes, when I am losing my virginity to this person I love so much, I look in his eyes. I’m amazed to see that he is every bit as vulnerable—as exposed—as I am. In some way, some way I don’t quite grasp, this is something new for him too.

  It is then that I know without a doubt that Jamie Forta loves me.

  It is written all over his beautiful face.

  “Love Interruption,” Blunderbuss, Jack White

  _______________________

  Chapter 17

  When Jamie finally shows up an hour late for my birthday dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, it is hard for me to see him as the person I was with the night before.

  I feel his drunken fury from across the room.

  My first thought surprises me in its clarity, though I don’t exactly know what it means. I think, what happened between us last night was not a beginning after all. It was an ending.

  My mind starts spinning…

  He wouldn’t do this. Would he? I can save this, I know I can. My mother and my brother haven’t seen him yet. There’s got to be a way to keep him from ruining this, from revealing what’s happening inside him…from showing everyone what I’ve done.

  It turns out it wasn’t me that wasn’t ready for all of this. It was him.

  I wanted to spend the entire night next to him in that bed. When I couldn’t put it off any longer, we got dressed, and he walked me down the hall. He held my hand, both of us barefoot. He asked me if I was all right, and I had no words to explain just how all right I was. He kissed me at the door and waited for me to go inside. I got into my bed as quietly as I could and lay awake watching the sun come up on my 17th birthday.

  The day was perfect. We went to Harvard, Boston University and Tufts where my brother showed us around. And then we went to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts. We took a campus tour and stopped in at the students’ studios to see what they were working on. I was asking so many questions, ever
yone assumed that I was the one who wanted to go to the school. I kept saying that it wasn’t me, it was Jamie, and then he would give one-word answers to any question asked of him. The students there were obviously used to people who don’t care much for words because nobody seemed to mind.

  I’d been floating two inches off the ground the whole day. That’s why I didn’t realize it had all gone wrong.

  When Jamie sees us at our table, he walks toward us, unsteady. I start to stand but Peter is one step ahead of me. He puts his hand on my arm and says, “Let him sit. It’ll be easier that way.”

  I don’t know what “it” is, but I do what Peter says.

  My mother looks up just as Jamie reaches the table and steadies himself on the back of the chair he’s supposed to be sitting in.

  He reeks of alcohol. I can’t speak.

  I feel shame—shame that he’s drunk in front of my family, and shame that I let it happen. For months now, I have been either looking the other way or participating in everything that led up to this moment. I know from my experience with Peter that this is Jamie’s problem to solve, but I should have done something, said something. I shouldn’t have been pushing, pushing, pushing for all the things I wanted.

  “Jamie, are you all right?” my mother asks. In the middle of her question, she switches into her therapy voice. Although it’s a voice I’ve always resented, and sometimes even hated, I’m relieved to hear it now.

  I am in over my head.

  Jamie ignores my mother and stares at me. Peter decides to stand up after all.

  “I am not you,” Jamie says, his voice deadly quiet.

  “What—what do you mean?” I stammer.

  “Jamie, let’s go outside,” Peter says.

  “I’m not taking the GED again. I’m not going to college. I’m not going to art school. This bullshit is gonna stop now.”