Guyaholic

  “What were you saying?” Nate asks, looking up at me.

  I smile. “You were telling me about athletic training.”

  As I said, the perfect breakup remedy.

  I follow Nate’s Jeep onto the highway, off the highway, around corners, through intersections, and down an unmarked dirt road. I consider calling his phone and asking whether he’s single, just to see if this even harbors a possibility, but he’s driving so fast, it’s all I can do just to keep up.

  We pull into the driveway and cut our engines. Actually, it’s more of a gravelly loop. Beyond that, there’s a ranch house with a grassy lawn that slopes down to the waterfront, complete with a dock and a speedboat.

  I pull down my visor and glance into the mirror. Not bad, I think, yanking my hair out of its ponytail. Especially since I didn’t shower this morning and I have on the same clothes from yesterday. Of course, I didn’t realize Linda’s cousin’s son was going to be hot, so I’m not wearing any makeup and my legs are stubbly. At this point I just need to find a bathroom and shave and change into something cuter, maybe my navy halter dress with the strapless push-up bra. I actually packed the super-sexy dress I bought for graduation, but that’d give the impression I’m trying too hard, and if I can wrangle Nate away from his phone, I should probably make him work a little.

  I comb my fingers through my hair, slide on some lip gloss, and meander toward Nate’s Jeep. He’s still in the seat, gathering stuff into an athletic bag.

  “That person you were texting,” I call through the open window, “is she your girlfriend?”

  Nate turns off his music and joins me on the driveway. “Why do you ask?”

  I grin. “I’m taking that as a no.”

  “Since you’re wondering . . . let’s just say there’s no one person right now.”

  “Now we’re talking definite no,” I say, laughing.

  Nate studies me for a moment. “So what do you want to do?” he asks. “You’re staying overnight, right? Want to take out the boat and go waterskiing? I think my sister’s around. We could probably get her to spot.”

  I glance at the dock. I’ve never been waterskiing before, but if my downhill ability is any indicator, I should probably avoid that sport, too. Also, after my run-in with Rachel, I’m not in the mood to involve anyone’s sister in my romantic pursuits.

  “Maybe we can just hang out at the dock?” I ask.

  “Sure . . . I usually go swimming after work.”

  “Is it cold?”

  “Yeah. It’s freezing this year.”

  I tell Nate how I still haven’t thawed from my motel room last night, and, speaking of, maybe he can lead me to a place where I can shower. Nate nods and then strolls toward my car. He opens the driver’s-side door, pops the trunk, and asks what he can carry up to the guest room. He’s all take-charge about it, which I know should make me feel girly and grateful, but I can’t help wondering whether Sam would carry my bags or whether he’d say something like I know you’re strong and can —

  STOP!

  I need to stop thinking about Sam.

  And, honestly, the best way to stop thinking about Sam is to see Nate in as little clothes as possible as soon as possible.

  As I’m lounging on the dock, watching Nate’s orgasmic body plunge in and out of Lake Erie, I’m still thinking about Sam. It’s the same thing in the kitchen later. Nate has a towel wrapped around his waist and his sister, Delia, is eating a peach at the breakfast nook and I’m sitting on a stool, drinking a Coke and chiming in with the occasional commentary. I can tell by the way Nate is laughing at my every word that my navy halter and push-up bra are totally doing the trick. If I had any doubt, though, as soon as Delia leaves to see her boyfriend for the evening, Nate twists up his towel and snaps it toward my butt, which should have sent me into throes of ecstasy, right?

  Wrong.

  I am still, pathetically, thinking about Sam.

  Partially, I’m wondering what he’d say if he knew I was in Pennsylvania with some guy. But also, no matter how gorgeous and emotionally unavailable Nate is, there’s this part of me that wishes Sam were here instead. I can imagine him making me dinner, and then, once it got dark, we’d skinny-dip in the lake and sprint naked across the lawn and tumble into that king-size guest bed and fool around for hours.

  But Sam is not here and, worse, he’s all the way in California, so I tilt my head to one side and say, “Don’t you know that if you swat a girl’s butt, she’s going to think you’re into her?”

  Nate smiles. “Is that what you want to think?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Should I send you a text and ask you instead?”

  Nate snaps the towel toward me again, this time grazing my thigh.

  “Okay,” I say, sipping some Coke. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

  Nate wraps the towel around his waist. “Do you like hot dogs?”

  When he says that, I laugh so hard I spew my soda across the kitchen.

  “You,” Nate says, tickling my waist, “have a seriously twisted mind.”

  I’m still choking when Nate heads outside and shakes a bag of charcoal into the grill.

  I guess things get better out on the deck. Nate barbecues hot dogs and I laze in the hammock and we have a beer and then, when he comes out with the buns, he tosses me another beer, which I drink faster than the first. By the time we sit down at the picnic table, I’m pretty buzzed and, I have to admit, I like the way he’s looking at me. Also, when his phone vibrates over on the banister, he doesn’t even get up to check it.

  As Nate dumps our plates into the trash, he says, “So what do you want to do now? I could call some buddies and —”

  “How about we go into your room and look at your coin collection?” I ask.

  “I don’t have a coin collection.”

  “Exactly.”

  Nate grins at me and then leads the way back into the house. As soon as we get to his room, we start kissing. After a while he unties my halter and I unhook my bra and, before long, we’re rolling around his bed. Nate has wriggled off his shorts, and I can feel through his boxers that he’s hard. He pushes up my dress and circles his fingers around my belly, slowly inching lower and lower. I know I should be turned on, but I’m totally not. I move his hand away from me, reach through the opening of his boxers, and, basically, take the necessary steps to finish things off.

  A few minutes later, Nate falls asleep. I rehook my bra, tie my dress around my shoulders, and tiptoe out of the room.

  Sam and I waited a month before we had sex.

  That’s what I think as I rock in the Andersons’ hammock and stare up at the sky. I came out to the deck because I was lying in the guest bed and I felt like I couldn’t breathe, so I thought some fresh air might help. But I’ve been here for over an hour. I saw Nate’s parents pull up to the house. I saw the lights come on and go off again. I saw the stars disappear behind murky clouds. And I still can’t breathe. And I still can’t stop thinking about Sam.

  He was a virgin when we met. He’d fooled around with several girls, but he told me from the start that he put sex in a different category, something you do when you actually care about the other person.

  I, on the other hand, lost my virginity when I was fourteen. It was with a guy in Vermont, when Aimee and I lived on an artists’ commune. He was eighteen and cute in a sensitive-but-clinically-depressed kind of way. We did it one Saturday night when Aimee was working late and I invited him over to keep me company. I’d taken a bus to the mall earlier that day, blew some cash at Victoria’s Secret, bought condoms, and then spent the rest of the afternoon plotting how to get him into bed. When we actually did it, we were tangled on the couch and both of us still had our jeans on, just pushed down in key regions, and, honestly, there was nothing pleasurable about getting a dick forced into a place that could barely accommodate a tampon. We did it a few more times that week, and it definitely started hurting less, but by that point we were both sick of each other. br />
  I had more meaningless hookups in New Orleans, which is where we moved after Vermont, and Oregon, which is where we moved after New Orleans, and San Diego, which is where we moved after Oregon. During my first year in Brockport, I slept with two guys and had flings with six or seven others. I guess I didn’t see sex as a big deal. It was just something you do when you’re young, like smoking weed in graveyards and drinking forties from brown paper bags.

  From the start, everything with Sam was different. It took us forever to kiss. I think it was at least a week because I’d just gotten my stitches out and he came over to see how I was doing and we were sitting on my bed and chatting and the sexual tension was seriously high. When our lips finally touched, it was so intense I remember thinking, So THIS is what the big deal is about.

  That’s all we did those next few weeks. We made out until my mouth was numb and my cheeks were flushed and my underwear was wet. And, finally, on a windy weekend in April, Sam’s parents took Rachel on a college tour. Sam invited me over, and we went straight up to his bedroom and slowly removed every article of each other’s clothing. Sam noticed my hands were trembling, and he kissed each of my fingers, one by one, before rolling on a condom and sliding inside of me. As he did, I remember getting a feeling in my stomach that this was the most important moment in my entire life.

  Of course, we didn’t always have so much blissful solitude. Sometimes it was a quick fix before my grandparents got home. Sometimes it was a stealthy squeeze, blasting music in his room and telling his mom we were doing our homework. But, even so, it never stopped feeling like a big deal. And, unlike with every other guy, I never wanted to run away as soon as it was over.

  The good news is that by the time I wake up, Nate is already decimating a parking lot. The bad news is that as I wander into the kitchen in search of caffeine, Nate’s parents are sitting at the breakfast table. Nate’s dad is staring at a laptop. Nate’s mom is flipping through the newspaper. As soon as they see me, they both smile.

  “You must be V!” his dad exclaims.

  “We’re so sorry we missed you yesterday,” his mom says.

  His dad is in his mid-fifties, with smooth skin and a small hoop in his ear. His mom is a sporty-looking Asian woman, her hair cinched into a ponytail, her spotless sneakers raring to hit the tennis courts.

  “Well,” Nate’s dad says, “Nate certainly enjoyed spending time with you.”

  “And now we get to,” his mom says.

  “So tell us all about yourself,” his dad says.

  “How long have you worked with Linda?” his mom asks.

  “Have you met Sierra?” his dad asks. “Isn’t she the sweetest thing?”

  I’m standing in the doorway, completely paralyzed. I’m not the biggest fan of parents, especially the high-energy types who want to be your new best friend. Also, when you’ve just had intimate contact with their son’s penis, it’s hard to bounce into casual chitchat over orange juice and a sesame bagel.

  I can hear my phone ringing in the guest room. I dash down the hallway and grab it off the bed. It just turns out to be my grandparents. This must be their tenth call since I left Brockport. I clench my jaw as they explain how they’ve been following the weather patterns across northern Ohio and it looks like there are severe thunderstorms coming and maybe I should stay with Linda’s cousins for an extra night.

  I tell them I’ll think about it. But then, as soon as we hang up, my low-battery signal bleeps, and instead of plugging in my phone and sticking around while it recharges, I shove it into my bag, strip the bed, and straighten the pillows. Then I head into the kitchen, where I thank Nate’s parents for letting me sleep over and say how I need to clock some good mileage before the storm hits.

  The rain starts about twenty minutes into my drive. At first it’s not bad. But by the time I cross the border into Ohio, it’s pelting down so hard, I can barely see. Even though my windshield wipers are on high, they’re just smearing the water from side to side. I grip the wheel and attempt to navigate between the lines, but every few minutes a truck cuts me off, sending me lurching over the shoulder. My heart collides with my rib cage, and I swear I’m going to crash and my car will crumple like a paper bag and I’ll die instantly.

  It doesn’t help that I have a caffeine-deprivation headache. And I’ve barely slept the past two nights, so I’m completely zonked. And when I reach for my phone to call Mara, I discover the battery is dead. And my gas gauge says I have less than a quarter tank, but the storm is so bad I’m scared to pull over and fuel up.

  To make matters worse, I can’t stop obsessing about how I lured Nate into his bed. Did I really think some stupid hand job was going to make everything better?

  A truck veers in front of me, drenching my windshield with water. For a moment I’m blinded. I grip my wheel and think, This is it. . . . I’m going to die. But then I can see again, and although I haven’t crashed, I’ve somehow steered into the express lane and there’s so much traffic I can’t get back across. The sky is an angry purple and thunder is booming and signs are indicating some direction I don’t think I want to be going and one song ends and another comes on and —

  Oh no.

  It’s Sam’s song, that ballad about two people who are total soul mates and miss each other when they can’t be together. Sam listened to it constantly. It was even playing when we had that fight in his backyard after graduation.

  Damn.

  How did I not take this off my iPod?

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  The tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I must have swerved again because this other car is honking at me. There’s a wide shoulder coming up. I tap my brake and ease onto the side of the road. As soon as I shift into park, I collapse into sobs.

  Oh, my God.

  I have totally been in denial.

  Sam and I were together.

  Sam and I were completely together. No, not just together. We were in love, like Sam tried to tell me, only I pressed my hands over my ears and demanded that he never say those words in my presence again.

  Oh, my God.

  I bury my head in my hands and think about how I pushed Sam away and cheated on him and how I’m the most horrible person in the history of the universe.

  When I finally look up, Demon Puck is staring at me. I arch into the backseat and paw through the bag from my grandma until I find that pocketknife. I flip out the largest blade and force it between Demon Puck and the dashboard. The puck snaps off and topples to the floor. I scoop it up, roll down the window, and chuck it into the muddy grass.

  I thought that would be all cathartic, but when I close the window, I don’t feel the slightest bit better. I rest my head on the steering wheel and start sobbing all over again.

  When I wake up in the morning, I smell cigarettes and peppermint gum. I have no idea where I am. But then I stumble out of bed and part the heavy green curtains and stare at the strip malls and shopping centers, and I remember . . . oh yeah . . . melting down on the highway . . . coasting on fumes to a nearby motel . . . trudging through the rain into the lobby . . . being informed by the desk clerk that I was ten miles east of Cleveland . . . sleeping all afternoon . . . eating vending-machine crap for dinner . . . blasting the TV . . . and then fending off another night of unbearable silence.

  At least it’s not raining. That’s what I think as I drive across Ohio. At least it’s not raining because, other than that, my heart is heavy and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a terrible person and, no matter what, my mind keeps wandering back to Sam. I’ve decided that, partially, I was scared of him getting to know the real me. I mean, if I really let my guard down, that would require talking about my mom, and to talk about my mom is to admit that she doesn’t love me — or maybe she does, but it’s in this screwed-up way, and the only thing I’ve ever been able to interpret from that is that, deep down, I’m not worth loving. Which brings me back to my initial thought, that I could never let Sam get to know the real me because, ev
entually, he’d discover the same thing.

  I’m curious to hear what Mara is going to say about this. I called her this morning when I stopped for gas and coffee. It’s 350 miles from Cleveland to Chicago, so I told her I’d probably make it sometime in the evening. She said she’s living near the University of Chicago, so I should get off at the Fifty-fifth Street exit, head east, and try her cell phone.

  The best thing about Mara is that she tells it like it is. If I explain everything that happened with Sam and she agrees I was an asshole, she won’t be afraid to say it. And, honestly, I’d probably benefit from someone saying it to my face, really letting me have it.

  As I cross into Indiana, the landscape is mostly flat, with endless cornfields, and factories burping pollution into the thick, white sky. I see a service plaza coming up with a sign for McDonald’s, and I suddenly realize I haven’t eaten much since those two hot dogs in Erie.

  I pull into the parking lot, grab my cash, and step outside. The air smells like freshly cut grass, and it’s so humid my tank top is sticking to my stomach. I head into the bathroom, splash my face with water, and then study my reflection in the mirror for a long time.

  A few minutes later, as I’m reading the overhead menu, the guy behind the counter says, “What do you want?”

  I stare at him.

  “What do you want?” he asks again.

  What do I want?

  I want to forget. If I can’t forget, I want none of this to have happened. I want to have been born to a different mom or maybe she could have been older than nineteen and maybe she could have known my dad’s last name and, maybe, that time we lived in Maine for twelve days, she would have listened when I told her how this girl in school invited me to a sleepover and we would have stayed in town after all and I would have gone to that party and made a huge group of friends and we would have remained close through high school and danced together at the prom and inscribed one another’s yearbooks with things like “Let’s be in touch forever” and actually have meant it.