“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” Juliet turns to me and uses the hair curler as a pointer. “Alice, Tristan’s got a girlfriend and he’s super jealous about what you’re doing with Simon – some guy you’re not even sleeping with.”
I hate to admit it, but that makes me really happy. I feel a little smile forming on my face and force it away. I change the subject.
“You really think that Simon’s hotter?” I ask.
Juliet rolls her eyes, again. “I’m not even justifying that with an answer. Your attachment to Tristan is ridiculous. He fucked up. Broke up with you. Why can’t you just move on?”
“I am moving on,” I say. It no longer feels like we’re joking around. Now, I’m getting mad. “I don’t want Tristan back. I wouldn’t even take him back if he wanted to get back together,” I add.
I’ve never said those words out loud. I barely let myself think them before. But saying them now feels true. Honest. Yes, I wouldn’t take him back. It’s over. We’re over.
“So why are you so afraid of sleeping with Simon?” Juliet asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “The only thing I do know for sure is that it has nothing to do with Tristan. It’s all me. I haven’t slept with anyone else. Maybe I’m just scared.”
Later that night, Juliet goes out to one of the clubs in Soho. It’s Tuesday night. Juliet likes to go out on weeknights because, according to her, “that’s when the clubs are full of locals” and not the bridge and tunnel kind. I’ve gone out with her once on a weeknight, but then couldn’t concentrate for shit in class the next day. She goes out a couple of times per week and insists that she’s perfectly fine the next day. But then again, I don’t spend my Wednesday mornings sleeping in and my Wednesday afternoons in a class on breathing. How can there be a whole semester on breathing? Is there even enough material to cover over twelve weeks? And if there is, how the hell are the rest of us getting by without this intensive 12-week class on something so elemental and essential to life? I doubt I will ever discover the answers to these questions.
I had invited Simon over to study earlier that day and he comes right after Juliet leaves. Unfortunately for me, I’m the only one who has to study. He’s coming to draw. I didn’t want to make any final plans about what would happen later tonight, but I decided to play it safe and shave my legs and other important parts of my body, just in case. I put on my best pair of panties and curse myself for not having a matching set of bra and panties. I mean how hard is it to get a matching set, anyway? You’re an adult now, Alice. A woman. And women have matching bra and panty sets!
I look at myself in the mirror. Black no-line panties and a black push up bra with lace and little flowers near the straps. The bra makes my breasts look like they’re a C-cup, even though they’re barely a B. My mom likes to say that these bras are false advertisements and that men will be undoubtedly disappointed. My sisters and I know she’s joking, but none of us are as well-endowed as she is. And at this point in my life, I’m not ready to go under the knife like many girls in my high school did. So the push up bra will have to do. And if he’s disappointed…oh well.
Once I make the undergarments decision, I turn to my closet and face a much more difficult and complicated decision: what to wear on top. I pull out two pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, two blouses, a skirt, and a dress. I try on a total of four outfits. One’s too dressy. Another one is way too dressy. One’s too casual and not feminine enough. Finally, the last one is just perfect. Skinny jeans, a tight Polo sweater with black and white stripes and a pair of Uggs with little bow ties in the back. I look at myself in the mirror. Cute.
Simon comes on time. He’s dressed in loose fitting jeans and a sexy grey t-shirt that hugs him in all the right places. After giving me a brief hug and a warm kiss, he throws his coat on Juliet’s bed and plops down on mine with his sketchpad.
“Can I draw you while you study?” he asks and begins to make an outline without waiting for my reply.
“What?” I ask. My hands grow cold and shivers run up my spine.
“C’mon, please?” he pleads.
No, I shake my head. Absolutely not, I think to myself.
“Why?” he looks up at me with his beautiful blue eyes. The light in the room makes them look hazel and even more mysterious and cunning than usual.
“Because I’m way too self-conscious!” I say. How’s that not obvious? Who the hell would agree to have themselves be sketched and feel okay about it?
“You have no reason to be self-conscious. You’re beautiful.”
Simon says that in such a quiet, unassuming way that I believe him. I know that’s exactly how he feels.
“Thank you.” I smile. “But that’s still a no.”
He puts his sketchpad away and inches his way close to me. I’m sitting with my legs crossed on the other side of the bed and he puts his hands on my knees and pulls himself closer.
“C’mon, I’m very respectful,” he whispers and kisses my hand. “This isn’t going to be like Titanic or anything, if you’re worried. You don’t have to take your clothes off.”
“Well, thank you for that.” I roll my eyes. I wasn’t even thinking that it would be, but now I am. Titanic’s my favorite movie. I’ve watched it a million times. My sisters don’t get it because it came out before my time, but I love old movies!
Simon smiles at me and refuses to break eye contact. The mention of Titanic has intrigued me. But there’s no way that I’m posing naked. Kate Winslet has way more guts than I do.
“Okay, fine. Suit yourself.” Simon pulls away from me. He gives me a quick peck on the cheek to show that they are no hard feelings and goes back to his sketchpad. I open my notebook and try to concentrate on my notes on Catcher in the Rye. Unfortunately, I can barely read my own handwriting or make out anything that I wrote down. Nothing I read makes any sense and after five minutes of struggling, my eyes start to drift.
27
“Wait, a second! What are you doing?” I ask when I catch a glimpse of Simon’s work and see an outline of my face.
“Nothing.” He smiles and covers his work. I grab it out of his hand and run to the other side of the room.
“Hey! That’s private!” he yells, half joking.
“Yes! Exactly!” I yell back and laugh. “This is my face! That’s private, too!”
Simon gets off the bed and starts chasing me around the room. We make two circles around the room before he catches up to me, grabs his sketchpad from my hand and knocks me down on the bed. We burst out in laughter, which quickly morphs into kissing.
Simon’s tongue slides down my neck and pauses at my breasts. He then continues further down. He pulls up my shirt and kisses my belly button. Suddenly, everything becomes a blur. My shirt comes off. I unbutton his pants. He struggles in pulling off my jeans. He takes off my bra. I pull off his shirt. He caresses my breasts with his tongue. I run my tongue toward his belly button and tug at his boxer briefs.
“Hey, have you seen my…” Tristan barges into my room.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I scream. He freezes in the doorway. I grab something off the floor and try to cover myself up. It’s futile. It’s my bra and I’m not in the right frame of mind to put it on properly. None of the clasps make any sense. I grab a shirt instead and wrap it around my torso.
When I look up, Tristan’s still there.
“Tristan! What the hell?” I say. “Get the hell out!”
But Tristan just stands there like a frozen statue. I see Simon smile wryly. The expression on his face makes him look proud. And if not proud then definitely unfazed.
“Tristan! Tristan!” I try again.
This time, he seems to snap out of it. Simon looks at me and then at Tristan. Back to me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and leaves.
I enter some sort of state of shock. My ears buzz and my hands get cold. I can’t feel the ends of my fingertips at all.
“He wants you b
ack,” Simon says and starts to kiss my shoulder. His lips feel cold and foreign. I push him away.
“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
Simon shrugs.
“Your ex…he wants you back,” he says.
The words that come out of his mouth don’t make any sense to me. I shake my head, no. And then look at Simon more closely. He isn’t jealous or worried. Instead, he’s oozing confidence and nonchalance. Is it all an act? I wonder. Doesn’t seem like it.
Simon leans closer to me. I’m still grasping my shirt around my breasts in a failed effort to cover up. He touches my arm and tries to pull it away. I stop him. Without a word, he starts to kiss me again. Up my neck. Then my lips. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to recapture our moment. Trying to bring us back to what we were doing before the interruption. But I can’t think straight. I can’t focus. I can’t let myself fall back into that world. The interruption is all I can think about.
“Wait, wait.” I pull away. “Stop. I can’t.”
“Oh c’mon. Don’t let him ruin this for us,” he whispers. His voice is intoxicating. His lips are so sexy. For a brief moment, I lose myself. But then pull away again.
“No, I can’t.” I shake my head. “You have to go.”
“What?” Simon can’t believe what I’m saying.
“I’m sorry,” I say and start getting dressed. “I have to study. And we shouldn’t be doing that anyway.”
“I can stay and study with you,” he says. I think about that for a moment. Perhaps we can just pretend that none of this happened. But then my thoughts drift to Tristan again. No, I can’t study right now. I need air. I need to get out of this room.
“No, I’m sorry.” I shake my head and usher Simon out of the room.
“I’ll call you later,” I say by the elevator. I lean up for a kiss, but Simon’s mad. He’s not saying anything, but I can tell. He turns his head away from me.
“Can I call you later?” I ask. A pang of fear rushes through me. What if he doesn’t want to see me again? What then?
“Whatever,” Simon shrugs and gets on the elevator.
“What the hell are you thinking?” I barge into Tristan’s room without knocking.
I hope to catch him doing something embarrassing and humiliating too, but he’s just sitting on his bed with a textbook open across his legs. He looks up at me as if I’m lost, as if he had completely forgotten what had just happened! Agh, he makes me so mad!
“What?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “What’s going on?”
“What? What’s going on?” I catch myself repeating his words. “YOU. Barging in on ME.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about that okay.” Tristan shrugs. “I was just looking for my jacket. I thought that I’d left it in your room.”
I shake my head. “This is unbelievable.”
I walk out of his room and slam the door on my way out. I start pacing around the living room thinking of something to say. Looking for words that I can use to convey my anger at him. But nothing comes. I want to slam something. Break something. Hit something. Hit him. Tristan!
“Okay, listen.” Tristan comes out into the living room. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I yell. I hate how my voice breaks a bit at the top.
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to interrupt. It was really an accident.” Tristan shrugs.
All I can do is stare at him.
“Is he still here?” he whispers after I don’t respond.
“No, of course not! Why?” I ask.
Tristan shrugs again. Our eyes lock. He looks away. I hate how sexy he looks when he’s wrong. He has this tendency to look down at his feet and shift his weight a bit from side to side. I wait for him to drop his shoulders and let out a few sighs. He does. Why do I have to know all these things about him? I curse myself. I should find him and all of his perfect imperfections annoying and vomit-inducing, but I don’t. Instead, they make me want to...
I shake my head. No, I won’t go there. Not even in my thoughts. This is over.
“Can I ask you something?” Tristan asks after a few moments of silence. I shrug and look at the floor.
“Why did you get so mad? I mean, I know I surprised you. But…why did you get so mad, Alice?”
“I didn’t get mad,” I say too quickly. “You just wouldn’t leave the room. Why did you just stand there like a statue? I had to yell at you a couple of times before you left.”
Tristan takes a step closer to me. He tilts his head forward and his hair falls into his face. We’re so close that I can see the pores on his face. Mysteriously, none of them are black.
“I was in shock,” he whispers.
“Why?” I whisper. We’re so close that I can feel his breath on my lips.
“Because you’d moved on,” he says after a moment and looks away. He turns around and walks to the kitchen.
“What?” I ask in my normal voice. The words seem to echo around the room. Tristan stops in his tracks.
“What?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. I feel like we’re dancing in circles and getting nowhere.
“I was in shock because you’d moved on,” he whispers. “That’s why I just stood there. I didn’t mean to interrupt, really. And when I saw you two, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.”
I can’t understand what he’s saying. My ears are buzzing again.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “We broke up, Tristan. A long time ago.”
He shrugs.
“You broke up with me, remember? And now you’re sleeping with my peer review partner. Tea. Remember? So you’re surprised when you catch me in bed with Simon? Are you insane?”
He looks at me confused. “Wait, what? Sleeping with Tea? Who said anything about sleeping with Tea?”
“You two haven’t slept together?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not that’s not any of your business.”
“Wait, I don’t understand,” I say. “You’ve been dating for awhile now.”
He shrugs. “The timing hasn’t been right. We’re taking it slow. But it doesn’t matter now. Everything’s different now, right?”
I want to run up to him and pound him on his chest. What the hell do you mean? It doesn’t matter now. What doesn’t matter? Why doesn’t it matter. What’s different? But something’s holding me back. This isn’t my old Tristan. This person’s different. And our relationship’s different. Fragile, new, to say the least.
“I guess,” I finally say. It’s all I can say. He looks away disappointed. If you want things to be different then tell me. Tell me what you want. Tell me something, anything, of value, I want to scream at the top of my lungs. But I don’t.
“I just want to tell you,” Tristan says. I look up at him with hope. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment when he really tells me how he feels about me.
“I just want to tell you that it won’t happen again.” He finishes the sentences and breaks my heart.
28
Tristan and Tea aren’t having sex. At least, they weren’t until today. I can’t believe I didn’t know that. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to Adele. I’m convinced that listening to too much Adele may be dangerous for my mental health, but I can’t help myself. She’s a drug. It took me months to get over her last album, but now she has a new album out.
Tristan and Tea weren’t having sex. But now that he had seen me with Simon, they will be. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, I decide after a while. I mean, so what? I thought they were having sex and now they’re going to. So why am I so afraid?
I take a deep breath. I have so much work to do. I have a paper due in English and a project due in Anthropology. I’ve started neither. Today was supposed to be my study day, but now it’s all gone to shit. Might as well just eat some junk food and watch TV.
I go out into the living room. When I see Tristan there, I give him a nod and place
a packet of popcorn into the microwave. Dylan and Juliet aren’t here, but that’s not going to stop me from hanging out in the living room. Tristan and I are over. We’re dating other people. We’re adults. We’re capable of being friends. Starting with right now.
Tristan’s watching some sports analysis show on ESPN. Football, I think.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Worried about USC this weekend,” he says. Tristan grew up being a USC fan. And now that we’re 3,000 miles away from Los Angeles and he’s going to a completely different school, he’s still a USC fan. I like that about him. Loyalty.
I ask him who they’re playing. He goes into a long spiel about the new coach and the quarterback this season. I’m only half listening, but I’m enjoying our time anyway. It has only been a few hours since the Simon incident, but everything seems to be somewhat back to normal. Friends. Okay, I can do this, I say to myself.
“Hey, are you listening?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I lie. That’s enough confirmation for him to start talking again. We watch ESPN together for a couple of hours. I spend most of my time on my phone reading and wasting time on Facebook, but our time together is still nice.
“So I think I’m going to go to bed now,” I say when I realize that it’s almost 11.
“Wish I could do that same thing,” Tristan says with a sigh and flips through the channels.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oh, you see that sock on our door? That means that Dylan’s in there with a girl. They’ve been there almost the whole night.”
I look at the sock. It’s bright red and so old that it looks like it’s been washed a million times (probably by Dylan’s housekeeper).
“I thought that was just a cliché. You actually do the sock thing?” I laugh.
“How else do we know not to barge in on each other?” he asks. “You know, come to think of it, you and Juliet should develop some sort of system like that too. Otherwise, you know, anyone can just come in.”
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