The Wild One (11 page)

Madeleine takes a tiny sip of her shake and looks up at me. “So do you think it's serious?”

“Oh, fuck, no,” I reply without thinking. “Fuck, I just cursed. Oh, shit, I cursed again.” I clap my hand over my mouth before I can say anything else.

Angie laughs so hard she splutters coffee everywhere. “So you're just using him? Just a fuck buddy?”

“Um…” I pause. “I hate that word.”

“Not delicate enough for you? ‘Casual intercourse partner'? That better?”

I laugh, but my brain is racing.

Somehow, in the cold light of day, I know that I don't want to date Joe. I know it without even thinking about it. I'm attracted to him, really, I think he's gorgeous, but it wasn't …

I don't know, it wasn't
it.

Don't get me wrong, I like him. I understand him, completely. We have this strange, undeniable connection that comes from both losing a parent. And I want to hang out with him and maybe have sex with him sometimes, but that's it. I'm not even sure why I know, but I just … I
know.
It's too easy. Too relaxed. I don't get butterflies when I think about him. I always get butterflies when I like a guy. I'm, like, the queen of butterflies.

The point is, Joe is naked in my bed, but I don't want to date him, because this isn't love. It's lust. All-consuming lust. And it's exactly what I need to find the new me. The wild me.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. I guess I am using him. I mean, we're using each other.”

At some point during the night—I think maybe at the moment he kissed me—I stopped wondering all that stupid is-this-a-date? and is-he-out-of-my-league? shit. I stopped wondering what he was thinking. I stopped wondering if he liked me.

I just thought,
I want him.
And I am going to, well, you know …
have
him.

So I did.

And it was absogoddamnlutely awesome.

I kind of wonder if this makes me a bad person. A fallen woman.

But why should it? Why do guys get to enjoy sex without guilt or love or relationships, and girls don't? What's the big deal? It's safe. We used condoms. It doesn't make me feel bad about myself. He wasn't taking advantage of me, and I wasn't taking advantage of him. He clearly has a lot of casual sex, he wasn't, like, exploiting me. We're not in some silly Nathaniel Hawthorne–inspired high school situation where he'll tell people and everyone will talk about it because they have nothing better to do.

We're grown-ups. We're friends. Joe isn't judging me, he clearly does this sort of thing all the time. No one is judging me except myself. There's a strange power in that.

And by the way … it was so
fun.

We were in the dark, which made me so much more confident. And Joe kept complimenting my body, and was so funny and silly and sweet that I was smiling and laughing the whole time. It was so different from my first time with Eric that it was like having a different kind of sex altogether.

Urgh, sex with Eric. That entire experience is like bile in my memory. Not just because it was so cold and strange and awful—and it was, truly, it was awful, and I knew I was being used, even as I hoped with all my heart that he liked me, I knew I was being used—but because of what happened afterward. Abortion.

Even the word makes me feel bad.

If this was some lame after-school special, you know, or some lame TV show made by old men in suits who have never experienced anything but want to tell everyone else what to do, then the abortion would be a huge mistake that ruins my life. That's the only narrative that unwanted pregnancy is allowed to have. But this is reality. I talked it over with Pia and Angie so many times, and they really helped me get to the point where I can say: I will not be damaged by that experience forever.

I am still me.

No matter what happens, I will always be me.

And last night I felt so comfortable with Joe, and he knew exactly what he was doing, and that little fire deep in my gut just got bigger and stronger and brighter until—

“I totally came.”

“WHAT?”

Shit. Did I just say that out loud?

Angie and Madeleine are shrieking when Pia stumbles in with swollen, bloodshot eyes. She's still wearing her clothes from yesterday and has bed hair to rival mine.

Immediately, there's a collective gasp of shock.

We just stare at her.

She ignores us, going straight to the refrigerator.

“Aidan is in San Francisco,” says Angie, finally, in a very quiet voice. “Where have you been? And with who?”

“Whom,” corrects Madeleine.

“Whatever.”

Without answering, Pia pulls out the almond milk. “Who the fuck is lactose intolerant this week?”

“Was it Ray? It was Ray, right?” Angie is furious.

“Who is Ray?” whispers Madeleine.

“That ancient restaurant asshole,” says Angie. “Not her boyfriend.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Pia rests her forehead against the cool refrigerator, as though she doesn't quite have the strength to hold herself up anymore.

“I cannot
believe
you cheated on Aidan.”

Pia grabs a bottle of Coca-Cola. “Don't fucking judge me, Angela.”

“Don't fucking call me Angela.”

Pia ignores her and takes a swig of Coke.

“Are you going to tell him?” asks Angie, raising her voice. “Are you going to tell Aidan that you cheated on him? Remember Aidan, your
boyfriend
? The guy who loves you and thinks you love him?”

“My boyfriend has moved to a different city, on the other side of the fucking country.” Pia finally turns to face us. “He canceled three out of the last four weekends home, and he refuses to agree on a date for moving back … Would you call that a healthy relationship? We're on death row. If he gave a shit about me, he'd be here!”

We're all quiet. When she says it like that, it sounds kind of terrible.

Pia sighs. “I just wanted a little me time.”

“A little me time with some cock!” shouts Angie, throwing her half-empty coffee cup in the sink so hard it cracks. “Aidan would
never
hurt you.”

Pia's eyes widen. “
Excuse
me? I'm not taking advice from someone whose entire experience of a real relationship is six minutes on a fucking boat pier.”

“Go fuck yourself, Pia.”

Angie storms out to the deck. A second later I hear the familiar sound of her lighting a cigarette.

Pia slams the refrigerator door shut, and all my Aunt Jo's old serving trays that we keep on top of it promptly fall off, clattering loudly to the floor.

I scramble to help Pia pick them up. Tears are rolling down her cheeks.

“Pia … it's okay,” I say softly, and put my hand out to stroke her shoulder. At my touch, Pia instantly collapses into a little ball on the floor, sobbing.

“I fucked up…” she croaks.

I exchange glances with Madeleine, and notice that her hair is all matted and wild. Who was
she
with last night?

But Pia's wailing jolts me back to the problem at hand. “I want to die…”

Madeleine rolls her eyes. “Oh, Pia, stop overreacting.”

“Thanks, Maddy. You're
such
a good friend.”

“You make everything so much more of a big deal than it needs to be.”

“More of a big deal than cheating on the love of my life by screwing the guy I'm trying to go into business with?” Pia buries her face in her hands again. “Never shit where you work. That's the saying, right?”

(Did I do that? Crap.)

“Maybe you can still work with him?” I ask.

“With Ray?” I can hardly hear Pia now. “No way. He only met me yesterday because he wanted to hook up. I thought I was networking. I'm such a
dick
…”

Pia sobs loudly, and for once with Pia, it's not just ninety percent drama, ten percent anguish. This is genuine misery.

“We started drinking and I've been so lonely and it just … happened. Oh, God. I'm a terrible person.”

“No, you're not,” I say, at the same time as Angie. She must have been listening from outside, because she runs back into the kitchen and kneels on the other side of Pia, their argument forgotten immediately, as it always is between them.

“You're the best person.” Angie wipes Pia's tears away. “You just made one mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“I thought you were pissed at me…”

“I just got scared. If you and Aidan, who seem perfect for each other, can't make it work long distance, what hope do Sam and I have?” whispers Angie.

“Poor Aidan…” Pia's voice is so faint I almost can't make out the words. “He's been texting me. I can't reply. Oh, God, I can't bear this. I can't. I feel so sick, my stomach is actually
aching
—”

“It's just guilt, P-Dawg,” says Angie. “Just let it go. It's a pointless emotion.”

“Why is it pointless to feel remorse for making a huge mistake?” asks Madeleine.

Angie snaps. “Seriously, Maddy? How the fuck is that gonna help?”

Madeleine gets up from the table. “Sorry.” She rinses her glass, puts it in the dishwasher, and walks out of the kitchen.

“Just when I think that chick has stopped being a bitch,” mutters Angie.

Pia wails some more.

“Pia. Ladybitch. Listen to me. Stop crying. I am taking away this guilt right now. Okay? It's gone,” says Angie. “You can deal with everything tomorrow. But right now, go shower. It'll make you feel better.”

It's weird hearing Angie be so motherly.

Pia wipes her eyes. “But I don't want to be alone with my thoughts.”

“I'll sit in the bathroom while you shower,” says Angie. “Okay? I won't look. I don't want to see your junk.”

“My junk is awesome.”

“My junk is better.”

“Can I do anything to help?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Angie. “Go jump on that hot piece of Irish ass again.”

Pia sits up straight and looks at me. “WHAT?”

Just then, Julia walks in wearing her ancient Victoria's Secret pajamas done up on the wrong buttons, also with wildly tangled just-had-sex hair.

Wow, we're going to be using a lot of conditioner at Rookhaven today.

“Well, my vagina has never been so happy,” says Julia cheerfully. “Why are we all sitting on the floor? Why is Pia crying? Why does Coco have stubble rash? Why is Angie the only person who looks like she didn't get laid last night? What the fuck is going on?”

“I hooked up with Joe,” I say happily.

Julia's reaction shocks me. “Joe? The bartender? Tell me you're joking.”

“Joking?” I say. “Why would I be joking?”

“Oh, honey. We can get you someone better than that.”

“Joe is hot,” says Angie. “I would totally tap that.”

“Can we please talk about my crisis again?” asks Pia pleadingly.

By the time I get back upstairs, it's nearly noon. I creep into my dark little bedroom, carrying toast and tea for Joe—as he requested when I left hours ago (sorry, Joe)—and am hit by the salty smell of, um, sex.

“Coco?” asks a voice from the bed. “Is that you? Do you have sustenance? Please say yes. I'm wasting away here. It's my own little Irish famine, right here in Brooklyn.”

Joe sits up, his wild hair flopping everywhere, his lanky arms and legs splaying out over the edge of my bed. I can't help laughing at almost everything Joe says. Sometimes I swear it's not even what he's saying, it's just the accent. Even though I know he'd probably rather be here with someone beautiful like Angie, even though I know he's way out of my league, it's just so damn easy to be with him.

Joe devours the toast with almost obscene glee, then grabs me again.

I'm actually a little sore down there, you know, like when you haven't ridden a bike in ages and then you start again and your body gets a little … achey. Yet somehow, the combination of crumbs and tiredness and giggling just makes it even hotter.

I don't know why I'm not more embarrassed to admit all this so openly.

I guess I just really want him.

“Wow. Sex is awesome,” I say afterward.

“Yeah. More people should know about it,” says Joe, reaching for me. “Kiss me again … Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Do you have any cake?”

“What, like, on me? Right now? No. What are you, some kind of cake fiend?”

Joe grins. “Yes. I am a cake fiend. I like to roll up cake and snort it through a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill.”

“Ew.”

He stretches. “I have to open the bar in a half hour. If only I could get from here to there without having to actually, you know, move.” He pauses, taking a moment to kiss me thoughtfully on the neck. “Fuck it, what's the point? It's closing, anyway. Gary is on his way to Nantucket. He'll never find out if I open an hour late.”

“I think you should go open up,” I say.

“Aw, really? Are you the responsible type? That's the last thing I want in a bar employee.”

“Also, I've had an idea,” I say.

“Is it something to do with sex in the shower? Because in that case, you read my mind, and—”

“No,” I say, laughing. “Double ew. My roommates have to shower in there too.”

“Kinky…” Joe waggles his eyebrows at me.

“Hush up and listen,” I say sternly. “My idea is about how you can save Potstill.”

“Go on.”

“Throw a Potstill Prom party.”

“A what?”

“A prom-themed party. You know? Spector will play, people can dress up in prom gear, like tuxedos and stuff, and we can have punch and snacks. Don't you wish you could go to prom all over again? I do!”