Anatomy of a Single Girl (11 page)

My heart rate skyrocketing, I skid to a stop, eye Amy,
and turn around. Guy’s just standing there by himself, holding a soft pretzel, his mouth in an adorable O of surprise.

“Hey!” I exclaim, the delight in my voice impossible to mask. “Great to see you!”

“Oh. Um … yeah. You too,” he says uncertainly as I step toward him. For a moment I consider playing off my being here as a coincidence, but the truth flies out.

“Actually, Guy, believe it or not, I was
hoping
to run into you.”

He lifts his head and squints down at me with suspicion. After a silence he responds, “No kidding?”

“Yeah. Bruce posted online that you all were here, so I …” My voice trails off and I wink at him. He doesn’t say anything, though the slow upward curl of his lips kills all the ugliness that has weighed on me since Sunday at Bantam Beach. “So,” I continue, “are you with
just
the Betas?” Translation:
Did you bring a girl?

“Right, it’s only us dudes tonight. Well, not anymore.” He stares me up and down, sending me into momentary light-headedness. “But why didn’t you call?”

I shrug and quote him, “ ‘The phone’s a crappy substitute for the real thing.’ ”

“Touché.” He’s still grinning.

“I was afraid, though, I wouldn’t find you in this mob. It’s lucky you spotted me.”

“Well, your Lilith hair is hard to miss.”

“Oh, yeah.” I run my fingers through my ponytail, still damp from the shower. “You know, only, like, one in a hundred people have the melanocortin-1 receptor on their sixteenth chromosome that causes this color.”

He laughs. “I always suspected you were a genetic mutation.”

“It’s true! At the hospital, a nurse told me that some redheads need extra anesthesia because—”

“Ahem.”
Amy clears her throat. I forgot she was here!

“Oh, sorry! Ames, this is Guy Davies. Guy, Amy Braff.”

“Heya, Guy!” Amy greets him with her megawatt smile, but Guy just nods at her before turning his gaze back to me. I’m such a Plain Jane next to Amy’s bee-stung lips and curvaceous figure, and I’m used to guys ignoring me for her. It’s fun being in her position this time.

The three of us then walk over to Guy’s four frat brothers, who’ve staked out a space near the front of the field. En route I get nervous that they’ve heard about our fight and will be inclined to dislike me. But when we all introduce ourselves, everyone’s friendly. Maybe Guy didn’t tell them anything. I guess nothing we did really qualifies as news—short-lived relationships are a dime a dozen in college. Or it could be they’re acting nice because Amy’s here, back in her element as the center of attention. While the other Betas buzz around her, Guy and I share his pretzel and gab as if nothing ever happened.

“Work’s been hell this week,” Guy says. “The mainframe crashed, and we lost a bunch of data.”

“It’s been rough at the hospital, too. I tried so hard making friends with the med students, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence.”

“I know what you mean. The postdocs never let me forget I’m the low man on the totem pole.”

“Oh, well. One day we’ll show ’em who’s boss—”

The floodlights flash on. Immediately, dozens of people stampede past us to rush the stage, leaving Amy and me unable to see the band over all the upraised arms. I don’t really mind, since I didn’t come for the music, but Amy’s annoyed. Then I notice her shouting something into Bruce’s ear. Five seconds later she’s sitting up on his shoulders and tousling his hair as if she doesn’t already have a boyfriend.

I’m torn between being awed and appalled by her, when Guy points to them and yells to me over the opening song, “WE CAN DO THAT, TOO.”

“OH.” I look back at him. “I DON’T KNOW.”

“WHY? DON’T YOU WANT TO SEE?”

The sensible course of action would be for Guy and me to keep some physical distance until we discuss what’s going on with us. I’m also perspiring from the July heat (and from seeing Guy), and I don’t want to sweat all over him. Plus, I’d feel bad impeding the view of the people behind us.… On the other hand, if being sensible were my aim, I’d have just stayed home.

Guy makes puppy-dog eyes and extends his lower lip. “C’MON. YOU’RE MISSING EVERYTHING.”

“OKAY.” I smile. “WHY NOT?”

“ALL RIGHT!”

Guy kneels behind me and instructs me to spread my legs. After hesitating for a second because the whole thing feels so unreal, I obey. Guy then pokes his head out from between my thighs, and I hold in my giggles when I think how it would look to everyone if he were turned around. Finally I grab on to his hands and crouch forward.

“HANG ON TIGHT!”

Guy shoots up, and I shriek as the earth sinks beneath me.

“YOU OKAY UP THERE?” he asks, now standing upright.

“UM …” I remain frozen for a couple seconds until I’m confident we’re stable. Then I slowly straighten out my back and breathe. “THE AIR’S A LITTLE THIN,” I kid, letting go of his hands. “BUT I’M FINE.”

“CAN YOU SEE?”

I pan the field with my eyes. “UH-HUH. PERFECTLY!”

Guy then passes up a Coors he disguised by cutting open a Coke can and pasting it over the beer can. I never understood the appeal of alcohol, though the whole concert atmosphere makes me thirsty for it in the same way you crave s’mores around a campfire or popcorn at the movies. So I pull open the tab and take a big slug. The taste is as revolting as ever, like liquid wood. But that toasty feeling as it runs down my throat is kind of nice. Now I look over to Amy, who gives me a high five, and for no good reason I start whooping at the sky. Nobody would guess that I’m the same person who forty-eight hours ago was crying naked in a tub.

After handing the can back down to Guy, I close my eyes, take slow breaths, and concentrate on relaxing. I try blocking out everything except the music, breeze, salty air, and Guy’s calloused fingers gripping my ankles. With every passing minute I’m getting more in the moment, and soon it’s as though I’m having a quiet epiphany about how good things really are. I’m young and free and on vacation and
next to my BFF on this perfect midsummer’s night, with a pack of boys as a bonus. How could I have ever dreamed of feeling sorry for myself?

Perhaps it’s just the beer mellowing me out, but this is the first time in a long time that my mind’s not racing, mulling, preparing, or strategizing. For once I don’t care about
was
or
will
and just let myself
be
.

14

A
fter the concert, Amy launches into her scheme to give Guy and me some time alone. First she suggests we all go to Chamber, a new eighteen-and-up club in North Fort Myers. Everyone seems into it, so then I lie about being too tired to join them. I’m not sure what we would’ve done next if Guy didn’t offer to drive me home, but he does. By midnight, Amy’s pulling out of Seminole Field with the other four Betas crammed into her Camry, while Guy and I commence the short walk to Ford’s campus to retrieve his Accord.

I guess neither of us wants to confront what happened between us, since we’re sticking to neutral subjects like what
we thought of the concert and our favorite bands. Then, when we reach the Beta house driveway, all conversation grinds to a halt as we gawk at Guy’s car. It seems to be repelling us with invisible currents to keep us from getting in.

“I was thinking, Dom …” Guy purses his lips in mock solemnity. “Maybe we should hold off a little longer before I get behind the wheel. I
was
boozing it up tonight.”

Guy had only one drink, and that was hours ago, but I play along anyway.

“Maybe you’re right. Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah. I bet your parents would prefer that we stall here for a while, since I’ll be transporting precious cargo.” He grins mischievously.

It feels
so
good flirting with him again. Then a completely insane idea comes to me that right now couldn’t be more perfect. “If you want, Guy, I can run some medical tests on you to check whether the alcohol’s out of your system.”

“Like what? You carry a Breathalyzer around?”

I laugh. “No, I mean the psychophysical exercises that cops make drivers do when they suspect they’ve been drinking. My dad showed me back when I got my license. That way we can scientifically assess whether you’re a true DUI risk.”

“Hmm.” He nods. “Okay … but only if you test me
inside
the house.”

That’s exactly what I was hoping he’d say.

When we get to the living room, I order Guy to take nine steps, heel to toe, in a straight line starting with his right foot.

“And when you get to nine, you have to swivel around
without taking your front foot off the ground. Then repeat everything going in the opposite direction. You also have to count the steps aloud as you take them, and you can’t ever pause or use your arms for balance.”

“That was a lot to remember,” he says when he finishes. “I was really trying, and I still messed up the turn.”

“That’s okay. You have to get at least two things wrong to fail the test, so you would’ve passed.”

Then I instruct him to stand motionless with one of his legs extended six inches off the ground.

“Hold it like that for thirty seconds, and count aloud. Be sure not to sway, hop, put your foot down, or rely on your arms.”

“Damn!” he exclaims after stumbling midway. “This is hard even if you’re sober. Winos don’t stand a chance.”

“That’s the whole point.”

Finally I approach him so we’re just a few inches apart, and I hold up my index finger to the level of his eyes. I can almost hear my blood surge from facing him this closely again.

“For the last test, keep looking at my finger as I move my hand from side to side. If your eyes start jerking involuntarily, that’s a sign you’re under the influence of something.”

I shift my finger to his left, but Guy’s not following it. Instead he’s staring straight down at me.

“Guy! Willful defiance of police orders would be grounds for me to arrest you.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

He begins bending over, and I tense up, certain he’s about to kiss me. Instead he keeps moving down until he’s
kneeling. Then he presses the side of his face to my stomach and whimpers, “It’s so cool you’re here. I freakin’ missed you.”

I’m tempted to reply
Not enough
, because if I were really so special to him, he would’ve tracked me down to say he’d changed his mind and wanted to give our relationship a shot. It’s useless arguing any more about impossibilities, though, so I just dig my fingers into his ‘fro and say, “I missed you, too, Guy.”

“I’m so sorry for … I don’t know what. Sunday was awful.”

“I’m sorry, too. I wish we could redo it.”

“I still don’t get what happened.”

I sigh. “We disagreed.”

“Yeah.” He looks up at me. “Then … why’d you come tonight?”

“I guess because nothing says we can’t … agree to disagree.”

“Can we?” He gets back on his feet and smiles hopefully. “You’re cool with hanging out again?”

“Apparently so,” I answer, unconcerned that just five days ago I was positive that’d be the worst idea ever. Now I care only that this is the best I’ve felt since then.

“So, to clarify … you’re cool with
just
hanging out?”

I turn away to hide my blushing. Then I hear myself tell him, “As long as I’m in Fort Myers, I see no need to impose limits.”

Guy’s tone gets serious. “How about everything you said before?”

I just shrug, but he goes on, “This is important, Dom. You’re positive you’re okay with, you know, us … not … after the summer?”

This time I’m tempted to reply,
Of course not, dummy!
But all he asked was if I’m “okay” with it. He’s not asking if it’s my dream scenario, which might never come true anyway. I’d rather be with Guy in the real world than by myself, fantasizing about some idealized version of our relationship. Because that’s all ideals are—fantasies.

“Actually, I’m
more than
okay with it. Maybe I even kind of see your point.”

And with that, Guy clasps his arms around my ribs and throws me over his shoulder like a backpack. I’ve been on his shoulders a lot tonight.

“Ahh!” I scream-laugh while flailing my legs. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

Holding tightly to my calves, Guy gallops up the stairs and down the hall to his room. Then he slams the door behind us, plunks me on his bed, and climbs on top of me. For a moment he just runs his hands over my hair and the length of my arms, as if to check that I’m real. Then he lowers his head to mine.

“Hello again,” he says, breathing heavily from his mad dash up here.

“Hello.”

We begin kissing, but I can tell he’s fighting to hold back. So am I. I think about how my reasons for taking things slow with him don’t apply to us anymore.

“Guy … what I said just now about limits … It’s fine if we … speed this up—”

“For real?” His eyes brighten.

“I mean, for tonight, we probably shouldn’t do
too
much, but—”

Glphf!

I nearly choke as his tongue clogs my throat. It’s as though my teeth are going through a car wash. My chin feels like it’s being pumiced to the bone by his beard stubble.
God, I missed this!

A moment later Guy pulls up a little, and I can barely make out a thin thread of saliva bridging our lips.

“You okay?” he asks, the thread breaking.

“Fabulous!” I proclaim before clenching the nape of Guy’s neck and pulling him back down to me.

I assumed that, after so many months of being without a boy, I might not remember how to French, but that basic motion of opening and closing our mouths in tandem is like second nature. It helps that Guy’s an expert kisser—forceful and aggressive, yet still gentle and playful. I suppose he’s had a lot of practice.

I also thought that making out with Guy wouldn’t feel as nice now that I know we’re done for. Back in high school, I never understood how Amy could enjoy getting with guys just for the short haul. In a way, though, making out like this is
more
enjoyable because there’s no pressure for me to not do or say anything stupid. What’s the worst that can happen if I do? So I’m freer to focus on what
I’m
feeling, not what
he
feels about me. I never appreciated before how much I was always putting myself second.