Meant to Be

by Julie Halpern

  Is there an emoji for meh?

  CHAPTER 26

  The rain dumps onto my car the entire ride home. I do believe the cloud is following me, hovering above my roof to make me extra-introspective.

  Why does it bother me so much that Luke and I didn’t have mind-blowing sex? The obvs of it is that Lish claims she did have great sex, which happened to be sex with her MTB. She also claims to be in love with her MTB. Luke, whom I have known for three years, who is the physical embodiment of a teenage wet dream and is fun (enough) to be around, didn’t quite do it for me.

  This isn’t merely about the orgasm or lack thereof.

  I park the car in my driveway and click the garage door opener, giving me the shortest route from car to dryness. Not that it matters. I’m still soaked from half an hour ago, thanks to the complete saturation of my clothes mixed with the 100 percent humidity level in my car. It was too hot to leave off the air-conditioning, but the air blowing on my wet shirt had me in perpetual shakes. Half of my drive was spent flipping the AC button on and off.

  When the garage door opens, I see both my uncle Jim’s (barely driven) car and my mom’s. I brace myself for the downpour, and dash inside. Dripping but home, I walk into my house.

  “Hey!” I call. “I’m home!” I untie my sopping gym shoes and peel off my socks. I’d like to strip off everything as long as I’m in the laundry room, but I’m too old for a naked walk in front of my mom, let alone my uncle.

  I slide my way into the kitchen where Uncle Jim is cooking something that better taste as good as it smells. “Mmmm. Smells yummy. What are you making?” I sidle up to Jim at the stove.

  “You’re dripping onto my slippers.” He points a spatula at me.

  “Sorry.” I scooch away. I find it always best not to anger the chef.

  “It’s paella. You like shrimp, right?”

  I do not. Their faces are far too conspicuous for something I would eat, but I don’t tell that to Uncle Jim. “Sure,” I answer noncommittally.

  “Well, you can eat around them. Or give them to me. They were expensive. Well, they would have been if your mom didn’t get the sexy lady’s discount.”

  “Jim!” my mom shouts playfully at her brother as she enters the kitchen. “How was your day, honey?” she asks me, kissing the side of my head. “Ew. Go get a towel.”

  “After you tell me about your sexy lady’s shrimp discount,” I press.

  “Your uncle is exaggerating. There’s a nice guy who works the fish counter at the grocery store. He’s been there for years, so we kibitz a lot. Today he gave me a special on the shrimp. It’s no big deal,” she says, although it’s a big enough deal that she tucks her hair behind her ears playfully. And is that a slight blush on her cheeks?

  “You are adorable, Mom,” I note.

  “And you are forming a puddle on my kitchen floor. Go change.”

  I squelch my way up to my bedroom, stopping in the bathroom for a towel. I sit on the toilet and delicately wipe when I’m finished. My vagina is exhausted.

  In my room I undress with the window open and lights off. I heard that a person looking into my room would only be able to see me if it were lighter inside than it is outside. I’ve never tested that theory and, truthfully, there has always been something safely titillating about someone watching me undress. Of course, in my mind, that someone is the gorgeous Ukrainian exchange student who imaginarily lives in the house behind ours and is most decidedly not the divorced dad who picks the kids up once a month. Or the kids themselves. Maybe I should start closing my shades just in case.

  I slide on a pair of leggings covered in sprinkled donuts and a Haunted Hollow t-shirt from two years ago. Then I take the t-shirt off and trade it for a plain black one, lest I be reminded of my earlier choice to get buck naked on Haunted Hollow turf and bone a coworker.

  Did I really do that?

  I chuckle to myself at the recollection of recklessness and the choice to bare it all in a public place and do the deed with Luke Jacobs.

  It wasn’t so bad. I did derive some enjoyment from it, and Luke certainly had a good time. So what if we’re not in love yet? At least we both put ourselves out there and didn’t fall prey to society’s plans for us and our MTBs. Next time we do it, I’m sure it will be a billion times better. I’ll be explicit about my needs, and he won’t be quite as eager to get to completion. (It’ll be hotter than that sounded.)

  I have talked myself into believing that Luke Jacobs and I still have a future together of love and hot sex, so much so that I stupidly log on to Chapbook to see if he’s written anything about me. The quick answer is no, he has not written anything. In fact, there are no newly created pages by Luke or even a log-in from him recently. There is, however, a page posted on Luke’s Chapbook from one Adam Callas. It reads:

  You better hope there weren’t any hidden security cameras

  Followed by a delightful winking, tongue-sticking-out emoji.

  This can mean one of two things:

  Either Luke Jacobs robbed a bank and Adam is being a good friend in wishing Luke doesn’t get caught, or LUKE JACOBS TOLD ADAM WE HAD SEX.

  If any part of my body remained wet a moment ago, the anger steaming out through my pores ensures that I am dry now.

  How could he? We just had sex, and Adam already knows? That guy is such a perv. He didn’t need any more ammo to stare at me salaciously. Was it a total brag for Luke? A conquest? Did he even like me as a human being, or was all his charming hand-holding and dinner-buying a lead-up to this? Do guys actually do that? It’s like sleazeball-movie-character bullshit, not something that would happen to me.

  What a dick. I feel like this is a test. I’m supposed to roll over and go, “Oh, Lish has sex and love and it’s all because of her MTB, and I have no love and iffy sex with a douchehog who tells a total degenerate about us. If I had merely found my MTB and settled, none of this would have happened.”

  Well, fuck you, fate! I had mediocre sex, so what? At least I chose to. And it wasn’t with Hendrix Cutter? Who says sex with Hendrix Cutter will be amazing? Who says Hendrix Cutter and I will even like each other?

  I refuse to let this derail my life. My course is set for chaos. I don’t need a higher power or scientific anomaly or whatever it is to tell me what to do. Hell, I may go have bad sex with whomever I want! Because it is my choice, and that’s what matters.

  I close my laptop and bound down the stairs, fueled by Internet rage and my naggingly stubborn brain.

  “Mom,” I sputter, “I need to talk to you.” She sits at the table in her reading glasses completing the daily Jumble.

  “Do I need to leave the room?” Uncle Jim checks.

  “No. You can hear this.”

  “Do I need to worry?” My mom removes her eyeglasses.

  “No. Probably not. Just hear me out.” I burst right into it so I don’t chicken out. “Mom, you know I don’t want to go to college. Not yet anyway. There’s nothing I really I want to study—”

  Mom tries to interrupt with, “You don’t have to know right away—” but I cut her off.

  “Please let me finish, Ma. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. All I want to do right now is go to Australia. I want to backpack around and meet people from different countries and get a job working at Luna Park running the Ghost Train. I don’t want to be stuck here anymore in the same place with the same people.” I take a breath, and my mom seizes the opportunity to interject.

  “Ag, you can do all that after college. And you’ll meet lots of new friends at school.”

  “Mom! I didn’t want to play this card, but here it is: It’s my money. I’m the one who worked summers and baby-sat during the school year, and I would be the one taking out loans and paying them back. I’d rather use the money for something I want to do. I’m following your lead, Ma! You decided not to subscribe to this MTB bullshit, and that’s so cool! I want to explore the world and not have to find Hendrix Cutter and settle. I want to find real love, n
ot arranged marriage!”

  “Agatha!” Mom stands violently, cutting me off. I shut up when I see her welling up with tears. Shit. I didn’t mean to make her cry. Mom, never one to let tears flow freely, composes herself and speaks more calmly. “Agatha.” She clears her throat. “I’m not going to stop you from going to Australia. You’re right: It is your money and your choice. I hope to God that you’ll figure it all out and get yourself a college degree after you sow your wild oats or whatever it is you think is going to happen on the other side of the world. But you need to know something: I did not, per se, choose to be alone.” My mom sits and swallows. “After your dad left, I was so angry at all men and MTBs that there was a period of time when I believed never looking for love again was best. But it’s hard when you’ve been in a relationship for twenty-five years to be out of one. So I had my MTB’s signature scanned. I paid some idiot too much money, and this is what I learned: John Taylor, my John Taylor, was listed in the signature database. Because my John Taylor was a marine. And ten years ago he was killed in Iraq.” I do the math and gulp, holding in tears and words. My mom remains stoic. “I didn’t, nor do I, know how to feel. So the man I’m supposed to be with was dead before I was ever supposed to be with him? What kind of fate is that besides cruel? So, yes, I’m not pursuing my MTB because I have no MTB to pursue.” My brain whirs, livid at the brutality of having a dead man’s Name on my mom’s chest, a dead man she never had the chance to discover. And yet, I feel stupid for how callous I’ve been toward MTBs for years around my mom, oblivious to her story.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?”

  “I was ashamed, I guess. For scanning the Name, for caring more than I let on about the preposterous Naming. I don’t know what to tell you to do, Agatha. All I want is happiness for my daughter. What if your MTB is happiness?”

  “How can it be the only route to happiness, Mom? If it is, where does that leave you?” I walk over to where my mom sits and wrap my arms around her. “You deserve happiness, too, Mom. I love you so much.” I squeeze her tightly. “There’s always the shrimp guy,” I nudge. Mom laughs.

  “You make me happy, sweetie.” She squeezes me back. “Even if you’re torturing me by moving twelve million miles away.”

  “Mom!” I whine. “Do you want me to stay?” I ask, praying she doesn’t say yes.

  “I want you to find happiness, Agatha. If something is telling you to travel all the way to Australia to find it, then go hug a koala and throw a shrimp on the barbie.”

  “Shrimp are gross, Mom.” I release my embrace, relieved.

  “I knew it!” snaps Uncle Jim.

  We laugh together and sit down as a family to eat, air cleared, mind blown.

  The events of the day make it veritably impossible to fall asleep. My mind is a ticker tape of thought.

  Luke Jacobs and I had sex.

  John Taylor is dead.

  I can go to Australia.

  One thought in particular is nagging me.

  “If something is telling you to travel all the way to Australia to find it, then go.…”

  Do I want to go, or is something bigger than me telling me to go?

  If the latter is the case, then now must I make the conscious choice not to go?

  Why don’t choices ever bother to make themselves?

  Brain maxed out, my phone pings. It’s Luke.

  Doing the happy dance before bed because of you. Good night.

  The image of giant Luke Jacobs dancing around like Snoopy almost outweighs the disgust I feel about him telling Adam. It is, after all, another day. I cannot imagine what bizarre thing might happen next.

  Hasn’t that been my goal?

  CHAPTER 27

  I walk into work with a bit of trepidation and a whole lot of chutzpah. It’s definitely bothering me that Luke told Adam about us having sex. And not the fireworks-in-my-crotch kind of sex, either. Would that have made this better? Probably not, although I have heard a theory that some sort of chemical reaction happens within a woman’s brain after she has sex that makes her feel obsessively attached to a person. Is that only true if she has an orgasm? Is it true at all? How could something like that even be proven? I envision the scientists:

  [After watching two people have sex]

  Scientist #1: Hmmm, yes.

  Scientist #2: Quite.

  Scientist #1 to Subject #1 (male): How do you feel?

  Subject #1: Sleepy.

  Scientist #2: And how do you feel about her?

  Subject #1: Who?

  Scientist #1: The person with whom you just had intercourse.

  Subject #1: [snickers] Intercourse.

  Scientist #2: Answer the question, please.

  Subject #1: I … I like her? Can I go to sleep now?

  Scientist #1 to Subject #2 (female): How do you feel?

  Subject #2: Pretty great. Can I pee now?

  Scientist #2: In a minute. And how do you feel about him?

  Subject #2: That guy sleeping over there?

  Scientist #1: Yes, that’s the one.

  Subject #2: I just fell madly in love with him and want to have seven thousand babies together. After he wakes up, of course.

  Scientist #1: I think we’ve proven our hypothesis.

  Scientist #2: Quite.

  Do scientists really watch people have sex for “research”? I wonder if those people feel pressure to make the sex extra-impressive. What a weird job.

  As I contemplate finding work in the field of scientific sex (does one need a degree for that?), I round a corner and am face-to-lascivious-face with Adam. His expression changes from annoyance at someone being in his way to panic that it is me to realization that it is me who just had sex with his friend. He’s not ogling any part of me, but am I still allowed to punch him?

  “Hello, Agatha,” he purrs, a sound no one wants to hear from a squatty guy with a crusty baseball hat.

  “Hey, Adam.” I try to sound confident, nonchalant, like I either don’t know that he knows or I don’t care. It’s wonderfully powerful to look directly into his eyes and catch the strain as they try desperately not to look downward. Especially since I’m certain he has envisioned me naked at the Devil’s Dinghies.

  I can’t believe I was naked at the Devil’s Dinghies.

  “Have a nice day,” I offer, since we don’t seem to be moving.

  “Um, yeah. You, too.” He smirks and runs off. I hope it’s not to the Ghoster because I’m ready to confront Luke. If there is one thing I’ve learned from Savannah Merlot, aside from fifteen unique ways to describe an erection, it’s that one must never let her feelings fester. Yes, I’m pissed that Luke told Adam about us, but I’m not going to sit on it and wait to see if he notices that I’m pissed. Guys are never that observant. Well, maybe some are, but I have yet to be mad at any of the observant ones.

  Lucky for me, Adam is nowhere in sight as I approach the Ghoster. Luke’s hair looks particularly tousled this morning, no doubt as a result of the magical properties of hooking up with me. Do I look any different? Aside from the pattern of hickeys I discovered on my stomach in the mirror this morning (I hope they fade before my interview at the sex science center). I would be annoyed by their tackiness, but no one else can see them and I did enjoy the process by which they were created.

  Focus, Aggy. You’re mad, remember?

  Inside his booth, Luke leans over to pick something up, and I am compelled to think datass, which is offensive and lewd and totally hypocritical. I try to ask the Savannah Merlot in my brain what I should do, but she keeps going on about beignets and has no time to help me.

  “Hey,” I greet Luke, trying to sound stern but not motherly. He stands up from his bent position and flips his hair out of his eyes. How does he do that in slow motion?

  The instant he sees me, a magnificent grin spreads across his lips, dimples as dimply as ever. He steps forward, grips my face in his mondo hands, and kisses me so powerfully I stumble backward. With little effort, he moves one h
and from my cheek to my hip to steady me.

  I could not kiss him back. I could freeze my lips in protest and wait for Luke to feel my displeasure. But it is very hard to feel displeasure when my whole body reacts in complete meltiness. His kisses are strong and sweet, and the delicate rhythm of tongue is goading my mouth into kissing him back.

  Let us not forget that I have liked Luke for years. Let us not forget that I liked Luke enough to willingly let him into my pants last night. Let us not forget that Luke told Adam “Super Perv” Callas we did it.

  I pull away from Luke’s lip enchantment. “Why did you tell Adam we had sex?” I ask bluntly.

  Luke’s hands encircle my hips while he looks down at me. “How do you know? Did he say something?” He sounds both guilty and peeved, looking around as if the culprit is nearby.

  I grab his chin to focus his eyes on me. “You have no right to be pissed. I have every right.” I am calm and forthright, and I may have slipped into a tiny Savannah Merlot southern accent for a second while holding back the urge to call Luke “sugar.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have told Adam. But he called me, and I was excited.” He shrugs charmingly. “He may be a douchetool, but he’s my friend, the douchetool.”

  “Tell me more about this being-excited part.” I attempt to hide the smile growing on my lips and the warmth sprouting in my belly. There is something sweet about a boy being excited about me.

  “I don’t know.” Luke steps back shyly, rubbing his hand along the base of his neck. “I like you,” he states dopily, and he looks so heartfelt, his eyes embodying his gray/blue sincerity, it’s hard to hate him too much.

  “Okay.” I nod my head in vague agreement.

  Luke looks relieved, his large shoulders visibly releasing the tension they held.

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you’re not mad. I’ll kick Adam’s ass, though, if you want me to,” Luke offers.

  “Nah. As long as you didn’t go into graphic detail and he starts talking about my other body parts.” I laugh.

  “God, you’re cute,” Luke pants, and kisses me so compellingly I feel a flush between my legs.