Okay (16 page)

"What's buggin' you, Rory girl?"

I shook my head. There was no point in trying to convince him everything was fine, I'd just bite my lip and give myself up anyway, but I felt stupid for caring about something so silly. I had friends. Real friends. So why I was suddenly jealous of a bunch of girls I had nothing in common with, I didn't even understand myself.

Cam eyed me with suspicion throughout class until he could corner me at recess, at which time he used tickle-torture—a tactic he'd been known to use on me on the rare occasions I withheld information from my primary confidante—and got the admission he'd been after.

I'd expected him to make fun of me. Instead he was completely confused.

"What are you talking about, Ror? What the hell am I? Chopped freakin' liver?"

I smiled. He always made me smile. "You're not my BFF. You're my
Cam.
"

That only confused him more, but it made perfect sense to me. I knew that
BFF
stood for
best friends forever
, but that wasn't really what it meant. These girls were not best friends the way Cam and I were. They fought, talked badly about one another behind each other's backs, competed, and changed who their closest friend was with the season. Why I wanted that for myself that day, I can't say. Maybe I just wanted to be a normal girl for once. Maybe I just wanted a stupid note on my damned card.

"Of course you have
BFF's
, Rory girl. We're just not douchey enough to call each other that. We're literate enough not to have to speak in acronyms. We don't say
OMG
or
LOL
either," Cam reminded me, and of course, he was right. It wasn’t about the label, it was about the substance. Cam was always right.

Even Chip was always a better friend to me than Lacey and her girls ever were to one another, right down until I left town.

I can't help but wonder what he's up to now. Where he's going to school next year. I feel a fresh surge of guilt for boxing him out of my life along with everyone else. He lost Cam too. But he's also part of the town that hates me. And though he supported me through everything with Robin, he's also still friends with my tormentors, and I don't know if I'm more fearful that he would choose them over me, or that he would alienate himself from everyone he knows just to have my back. I suspect it may very well be the latter, and tell myself it's better this way. I know how it feels to have everyone hate you, and I would never want that for Chip.

I smile at the stupid teddy bear. It seems so silly now, but I'm grateful I have it. I push my Cam box back under my bed and curl up with my Cam bear. I reach over to my nightstand for the varsity tee shirt that affected Sam so strangely and pull it over the bear's head. It's way too big, of course, so I tie the hem in the back, cuddle the thing to my chest, and go to bed. Not to sleep, mind you, though eventually, many hours later, sleep does pull me under, and I awaken in the early morning in tears, with no recollection of the night's dream.

****

I
know as soon as I walk into homeroom the next morning that everything has changed. It's in the atmosphere, and I'm not the only one feeling it. The air grows ever warmer, more humid, as May slowly fades, and with it, the sense of normalcy and routine that has guided each of us since we started kindergarten. Every day we slip closer to more
lasts
, and the entire school is charged with a potent mix of excitement and anxiety.

Everyone is looking forward to their future. Everyone is terrified of their future. Including me. And it's not lost on me that the first sense of normalcy I've felt in a long time is credited to the growing anxiety of my peers.

But this morning brings other changes, subtle to those around me, but glaringly bright to me.

Sam does not wait in the hallway for me to arrive. In fact, he's not even in the classroom when I walk in. I make my way to my seat in the back and Carl whooshes in just as I sit. I fake a weak smile, and she returns it in sympathy.

Sam stalks in just before the bell rings, and doesn't so much as glance in my direction. It's enough to tell me everything I need to know.

When lunch rolls around, I rush around the outside of the building and am not surprised to find Carl and Tina alone by Carl's car. Carl repeats her sympathetic half-smile and confirms that the boys went for pizza today.

It isn't out of the ordinary; we usually only have lunch together at the diner a few times a week. Other days the boys go for pizza, or we go for frozen yogurt or something equally girly. If yesterday didn't happen, I wouldn't give it a second thought. But I know Sam's avoiding me, and I can't blame him for it either.

I don't see him again for the rest of the day, not even in the main hall where we usually pass each other after seventh period, and when I watch the taillights of his Escalade as he pulls out of the lot at the end of the day, I feel a strange wave of grief and acceptance. Because I don't know if Sam is acting this way to punish me or simply out of self-preservation, but I realize it's not something that will be resolved anytime soon. There's no quick fix for our issues, only time and understanding, and I've no choice but to give him both.

But my resolve to give him time doesn't mitigate the pain, and the perpetual ache in my chest feeds off of Sam's ice-cold shoulder, evolving into something almost crippling. I know that whatever my sentence is, be it temporary or indefinite, it will not be easy to bear.

Chapter Nine

T
he
last couple weeks of school fly by in a blur of lasts. Our last homeroom, our last AP exam, our last final. Soon, the three hundred plus of us graduating will roll through what are supposed to be epic events, all in the rush of a matter of weeks. The minor ones, like tomorrow's Senior Sleep-In and next week's Senior Monday, may be unique to Port Woodmere, but they are only variations of occasions celebrated by every other high school across all fifty states. The more significant events—prom, the athletics awards dinner, and graduation itself—are no less generic.  

All events that should hold some significance in the grand scheme of my life. I suspect I should be looking forward to at least some of them, but my mind is a world away. I may still sit in class every day, but a part of me has already moved into my shared apartment with Thea and is living my imagined future. In spirit, I am no longer an adolescent.

It didn't happen gradually like it probably does for most people. It happened from one day to the next. One ordinary Monday morning during calculus fewer than four months ago, to today. From your average eighteen year old kid with family issues, whose biggest concern was looking out for his depressed kid sister, and greatest interests were sports and fucking girls I couldn't care less about, to
me
. I bet there would be quite a few girls out there who would love the gratification of knowing I got a bitter taste of my own personal brand of sex with a side of
I don't give a fuck.

Even though I've always taken care to make sure there were no misconceptions about my hookups, there have been a few girls who didn't exactly take me at my word. Who thought maybe I'd change my mind after the fact. I never did. And until recently my day-to-day concerns generally entailed some jealous ex-hookup, or managing the expectations of my next random hookup.

Lately, every day I sit through classes and social bullshit, I feel like I'm trapped in the past. Like time is moving more slowly than I am.

But this morning I feel more like myself. Well, at least more like the person I'm transitioning into. The man I am becoming.

I dress in gray slacks and a black, light, spring sweater. I'm nervous. Really nervous.

I've only spoken to my father once since that epic failure of a phone conversation a couple of weeks ago, and only to confirm that we were still on to meet today at ten. And with all of my pent up frustration with my current situation with Rory, I'm already on edge, and if I have to listen to him question her integrity again, accuse her of fabricating the horrors of her past… well, I'm not sure any of Dr. Schall's methods for controlling my anger is going to help.

I haven't spoken to Rory either. Not since she used me for sex as if we were nothing more than some kind of casual friends with benefits.

Up until that moment I hadn't even realized that I was still holding on to some hope for us. I had convinced myself that I was simply being a good, supportive friend, looking out for her. But that was bullshit.

I don't know why I thought that our hooking up meant something. That it meant
everything
. Maybe because there's never anything casual about Rory and me when we're together like that. It's fucking
epic
. Every time. I know Rory's never partaken in the art of a booty call, or a
friends with benefits
relationship, so maybe she just doesn't know, but I'd think it would kind of be self-explanatory. That it's just about getting off. It's not about the other person, it usually doesn't even matter who they are. Only a physical attraction and a mutual agreement is necessary.

It's definitely not about needing the other person so badly that I wanted to crawl out of my own skin and inside hers. It's not about craving her like an addict, to indulge in my favorite sight, sounds, taste, and touch. To watch and feel an act I've known with fair consistency since I was thirteen years old as if it was a new experience, invented by Rory, never before even heard of. A casual hookup does not include whispered confessions of my desperation for her, and an all-consuming need far greater than the usual desire to fuck.

With Rory, it's like a completely different act altogether.

It's about
her
.  Wanting her and only her. Needing to be deep inside of her. It's about possessing and claiming her. There's no anxiety when she's like that. There's only beauty and confidence, if just the slightest bit of self doubt at times. But it's unwarranted, and I know exactly how to vanquish it, and I do.

Nothing feels as good as her. Nothing could ever compete.

I sigh, still completely unable to comprehend how Rory can go from
that
, to
friend
, in a matter of minutes. Part of me wants to chalk it up to her inexperience.

Because
that motherfucking bastard
may have stolen her virginity, but she had never really had sex. Not willingly—not because
she
wanted to. She admitted as much the first night she kissed me.

I shove my fingers through my hair and pull a little, letting it sting my scalp a bit before I let go. It releases only the slightest bit of the overwhelming tension that I hold fucking everywhere these days, physically and emotionally exhausted by the goddamn painful weight in my chest.

I still can't believe that Rory thought I'd ever experienced something like that before. My stomach knots up. Maybe she thinks all consensual sex is like that. And maybe it it would be for her. Maybe it's not
us
at all, it's just Rory. Maybe her kiss with her friend Cam was just as incredible as it is when she and I kiss. Maybe…
fuck
.

This is ridiculous. I need to fucking get my head straight. Because it doesn't even matter whether she does or doesn't get just how once-in-a-lifetime this thing with us actually is, and I don't just mean physically either. She gave it a shot, and decided she couldn't handle it. And if she can spend the afternoon with me in bed like that and then just brush it off like it was a casual thing, then clearly she either doesn't love me anymore, or never really did at all.  

I wince at the cold, hard truth of it all. But I know that I need to accept the situation and move on. Because this is my fucking fault. I never should have made any assumptions about that afternoon, and I probably shouldn't have even kissed her before I understood what her intentions were… or weren't.

And now I know that if we can ever really go back to being friends, I need to accept it and move the fuck on. But that's hard to do when I see her all the time, when I'm constantly jumping on every chance to spend time with her. So after that day, I decided to do the exact opposite.

I realized I need space from her. Because it's clear that I'm not over her. Over
us
. So right now I can be a better friend to her by giving her that space, and taking my own, than I can by hanging around her all the time. A good friend wouldn't be climbing into bed with her. A good friend wouldn't have kissed her, and certainly wouldn't engage in the activities that followed.

I shake my head in self-admonishment. I need to get it the fuck together. Because I just told myself I'm not a fucking adolescent anymore, and a man wouldn't be standing around, losing it over girl like a fucking pussy. And I have very adult issues to deal with today. Because distance or not, I'm still determined to protect her, and I still need my fucking father's help to do that.

My mom is already out going about her day and Bits is with her private tutor, muttering something in flawless French, and I don't understand a lick of what she says to me when I pat her on her head in goodbye. I tell her she's annoying and that I'll see her later in subpar Spanish, of which I only took two mediocre years before testing out.

I park at the Long Island Rail Road since we'll all be meeting at a bar tonight and Tuck is designated driver. I have decided tonight it is time to shed my sorry, mopey attitude and try to have a good time. Even if I have to fake it. I know Rory will be there with the girls, but she's been keeping her distance anyway, and I'm praying that with the help of some liquid assistance, I can try and forget about my troubles for a night. Because I can't move on if I don't move forward.

I pull out my phone and try to distract myself through the forty-minute train ride into Penn Station. The car is full of professional men and women in suits, all headed to their daily monotony. I try so hard to picture myself like them—as a grown up, perhaps with a family, trekking to my job hopefully in hospitality—but I can't see it. I fast-forward my imaginary day, past the part with the unfathomable family and house in the suburbs, and that's when I can see myself with some clarity. Getting an entry-level job in hotel management, working my way up the ladder just like Uncle Kelly, and maybe even owning my own boutique hotel one day.

I smile to myself. It's all paying off for him now. He's leaving the W Hotel Group now that he's secured investors to buy a sick spot in the Meatpacking District. A few million in renovations later and my Uncle Kelly will be an hotelier. And as soon as I graduate, I'll be his first intern.

It's the thing I'm looking forward to most of all. The one thing that lifts the perpetual weight in my chest, if only marginally. I realize it's nepotism, but I don't give half a shit. Because I'll get experience no one my age would ever have access to otherwise. I'll get to see the place built from the ground up. From architect drawings and design to execution and then management. But as vividly as I can see it, as much as I welcome the eager anticipation of it, it's hard for me to entertain the idea that it could be enough to make me
happy
.

Six months ago, living the single life of a college student interning at a world-class hotel was the dream. Now it seems like there will always be a missing piece—a fucking crucial, Rory-shaped piece—no matter what I do academically or professionally.

Get over it.

Yeah, sure. Will do
, I lie to myself.

I slip my phone in my pocket and start walking west. I avoid the taxi line that really only exists for tourists too inexperienced to know that there are countless cabs available with no line if they just walk a couple blocks away from the chaos of Penn Station. I hail one within minutes and head uptown to meet Thea.

I arrive at the building just after nine. She's waiting in the modern, minimalist lobby, chatting up the doorman. That's Thea, always making conversation with strangers, and I bet she'll know his kids' names and birthdays by the time we actually move into the apartment.  

I can feel her excitement as she greets me, and it stokes my own. I've only been here once, right after my Uncle Kelly bought the place, when it was completely empty and bare. Now Thea and my Aunt Nikki have spent a lot of time furnishing and decorating, and it's move-in ready. She's annoyingly eager to show it to me, but it's endearing, and I feed into her mood by overselling my anticipation.

"You're gonna love your room, Sammy. Honestly. It's so boyish. The-"

"
Boyish?"
What am I? Eight?

Thea rolls her eyes. "
Excuse me
," her tone drips with sarcasm, "I meant manly, macho,
so very masculine
." Her voice drops an octave as she tries to imitate the depth of mine and I laugh.

"That's better," I tell her.

I knew the apartment would be nice, but I'm not expecting just
how
nice. It seems somehow even bigger furnished. And it's stunning. Contemporary, rich in color and fabric, but not overly done. It's not unlike how I would picture an ideal hotel suite. The foyer has nothing more than a brushed chrome lighting fixture and a console table with a beveled mirror. The living room is done up in taupes and blues, with a simple chocolate sofa set facing a gigantic flat screen television.

Thea's bedroom—the master—is designed just like she is. Subtly feminine, but also minimalist. She is one girl you could never describe as high maintenance. And that's one of the many things I've always loved about my cousin. The room is a light, sea-foam green with beige and silver bedding and accents, a mirrored dresser, and an antique looking wrought iron chandelier.

We spend barely a minute in her room before she drags me down the hall to show me what she's done with mine. It's the second bedroom, but in a luxury apartment like this, it's nearly as big as the master, and also includes an en suite bathroom. And it's done perfectly. The walls are a pale gray, the decor and bedding stark white with deep blue accents. It is, in fact, boyish, or
masculine
, whatever.