He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “My parents are at a funeral,” I tell Brianna and Kyle.

  “At one in the morning?” Kyle says. “Cool funeral.”

  “Ha ha. It was today, but they’re gone overnight. First time they’ve left me alone, actually.”

  “Well, then we’ve gotta come over, babe,” Brianna says. “On principle.”

  A few people stop to grab more alcohol from their places on the way, and we also do a careful raid of my parents’ bar, but the party is low-key until Kyle spots the old vinyl record player.

  “Whoa, does this thing work?”

  “I think so.”

  Within a couple of minutes he has it up and running, ’70s disco playing, volume cranked. Brianna has a strobe light app on her phone, and somebody rolls back the rug so we can dance on the tile floor.

  Kyle turns into a hilarious dancing maniac. He jumps and slides and gyrates, and pulls out one record after another. Soon we’re all dancing. I grin and laugh and sway, my aches and pains forgotten, my money and future worries forgotten, my impossible crush and guilty feelings about my crush shoved aside, and lightness stealing over me.

  Things eventually start to die down, people leaving in twos and threes, and then I’m alone.

  Alone with Kyle, that is.

  “I don’t think I should drive,” he says, the manic gleam still in his eyes. “Can I crash here?”

  “Sure, um . . .” I’m not entirely sober myself. “You can sleep down here on the couch. But won’t your dad worry?”

  “As long as I don’t drink and drive, he’s cool. I just have to text him.”

  Kyle sends the text while I stand there waiting, swaying a bit on my feet.

  “Let me get you a pillow and some blankets,” I say.

  “I’ll help.”

  “No, that’s—” He’s following me up the stairs anyway. “Oh. Okay, thanks.”

  I feel him close behind me as I head down the dim hallway and push open the door to my room.

  “Do you want a T-shirt too, or—”

  I never finish the sentence because all of a sudden Kyle is kissing me.

  He’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him back.

  It is not part of the plan.

  And I have a split second of thinking I shouldn’t be kissing Kyle, because of Noah.

  But Noah’s with Ava. Right this second he’s with her.

  And damn, can Kyle kiss. Kyle can kiss so well he could give lessons. For the good of humanity he should give lessons.

  I let my arms wind up around Kyle’s neck and let him press in closer. We make out in the doorway until standing starts to seem counterproductive, and then we stumble over to my bed.

  “No sex, okay?” I murmur in his ear. “I just want to mess around.”

  “Fine, sure,” he says, and strips my shirt off of me.

  All right, then.

  Kyle comes on strong, hot, and hard to stop, but he’s also really fun.

  I lose most of my clothing and so does he, and there’s a lot of rolling around and heavy breathing, but everything’s playful and unserious until suddenly I feel him right up against me.

  I pull back. “Wait, no, wait.”

  And he says, “Sure, sure, okay. Relax,” and applies his lips to my collarbone and his hands to other places.

  I close my eyes and say, “Okay,” and relax, and then relax some more.

  And then all of a sudden it’s happening. The thing I said no to.

  I gasp.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and continues.

  It’s okay . . .

  “Condom,” I manage to whisper, and we stop while I get one from the back of my bedside table drawer.

  I didn’t want to do this, but now it seems too late.

  Oh well, I think but do not say, I guess we’re doing it.

  6

  NAKED IN THE DRIVEWAY

  The next thing I know I’m trapped under Kyle’s arm, watching him sleep.

  I can barely breathe.

  It’s the weight of his arm, I figure. Or maybe the smell of him—the now-stale beer on his breath, the sweat, a whiff of restaurant mixed with day-old cologne. Or maybe it’s just that there’s a naked boy in my bed . . . and I am so thoroughly disgusted with myself.

  I pry his arm off of me, escape from the bed without waking him, grab some clothes from the pile on top of my dresser, and make a beeline for my never-been-renovated, genuine vintage, mint-green-and-peach-colored bathroom. Once inside, I lock the door, brush my teeth, and take the kind of shower that would have my dad pounding on the door and threatening to turn the water off if he were home.

  Finally I get out, wrap myself in a bath sheet, and stare at my foggy outline in the mirror.

  I feel scorched and soiled, and I hate what I see there.

  Someone who let that happen after saying it wasn’t going to happen.

  Someone who didn’t even put up a fight.

  Still, it’s over.

  I put on deodorant, get dressed in the sweats and T-shirt I grabbed, and stick my hair up into a messy bun. Not wanting to be anywhere near Kyle, I head down to the basement with garbage and recycling bags to clean up. It doesn’t take long, and soon I’m outside the kitchen door, shoving the garbage in the garbage cans and the empty bottles in our neighbor’s recycling bin, crossing my fingers they won’t notice the addition.

  Then my eyes fasten on Kyle’s truck, sitting conspicuously in the driveway.

  Crap.

  The early birds are starting to chirp and soon it’ll be light.

  I need Kyle out of here. Now.

  I rush back inside to wake him, but he won’t budge. I try poking him, rolling him, saying his name, but all that happens is he jams himself into the corner and throws an arm over his face.

  Yikes. I need help.

  Emma only got back from vacation yesterday, and it’s an insane time to call anyone, but I go to the front hall and grab my phone anyway.

  There’s precedent for this. I went to her house in the middle of the night twice last year to help when she was having a panic attack and didn’t want to wake her parents, and we’ve always promised to be there for one another, no questions asked.

  Well, she will have questions.

  But she’ll save most of them for later. I hope.

  I hit CALL, wait while the phone rings once, then I hang up and dial again knowing her Do Not Disturb setting lets the second call through. I’m just about to give up when she answers.

  “Libby?” she whispers groggily. “What’s wrong?”

  “My parents went out of town overnight, and I sort of accidentally had a small party with some of my coworkers.”

  “Uh-oh. Is your house trashed?”

  “No, but there’s a boy in my bed.”

  She whistles. “You devil. What boy?”

  “Just someone from work. He didn’t think he should drive, so I let him . . .”

  have sex with me

  wtf

  “ . . . uh, crash here. But I need him out of here in case my parents come back early, or the neighbors notice his giant freaking truck in the driveway, but he’s dead to the world.”

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Dead to the world, Em, not actually dead.”

  “I’ll be there in five.”

  True to her word, Emma arrives, on foot, five minutes later. She looks far more alert and put together than seems fair, dressed in cute, color-coordinated tennis wear, her eyes snapping with curiosity, and only a pillow crease on her cheek giving any hint that she was fast asleep ten minutes ago.

  “How drunk was he?” she whispers as we head down the hallway toward my room.

  “Drunk but capable,” I say, and then feel myself flush and rush to add, “like, not stumbling around or passing out.”

 
“Will he be safe to drive?”

  “I . . . think so?”

  “Do you have his keys?”

  “They’re probably in his pants pocket. Hang on.” I creep into my room, grab his pants from the floor, and drag them back into the hallway.

  Emma’s eyes widen. “You didn’t mention he wasn’t wearing them!”

  “Oh, yeah, um . . .” I focus hard on the pants, give them a shake, and hear something that jingles like keys. “I guess I should probably warn you: he’s not dressed.”

  “You mean he’s naked?”

  “Well, last time I looked he had the covers pulled up to his chest.”

  Emma snorts and I shush her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, trying to stifle her laughter, “it’s just . . . the look on your face . . .”

  I start to laugh too, but it turns into more of a shiver, and Emma’s amusement evaporates.

  “Hey, whoa, Libby. You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, holding the pants away from my body and trying not to look at them. “I’ll be fine once he’s out of here.”

  “Okay, let’s get it done, then.”

  I get the keys from Kyle’s pocket, hand them to Emma, and we go in. On my way to the bed I casually kick my very-obviously-discarded-on-the-floor clothing to the side, hoping she won’t notice it . . . which she does not, due to the fact that she’s now stopped in her tracks and staring, wide-eyed, at Kyle.

  “Oh my,” she whispers.

  Kyle is uncovered from the waist up with one leg also thrown out toward the edge of the bed and looking extravagantly debauched. I busy myself with finding the rest of his clothing, folding it neatly, and setting it on the end of the bed with the pants, and try not to look.

  Meanwhile, Emma reaches over to give Kyle a gentle push, to zero effect. She tries again, and then harder, and finally gets a moan out of him. Then we both poke at him, and this time he groans, says “Piss off,” and then rolls away, putting his back to us.

  “Nice manners your boy has,” Emma says.

  “He’s not my boy.”

  “We could just whip the duvet off,” she suggests.

  I shake my head. I need him covered almost as much as I need him out of the house.

  “Or douse him with cold water.” Emma leans in close and sniffs. “He still reeks of booze, Lib. You know where he lives?”

  “Not in Pine Ridge—I think Bayview.”

  “We could drive him.”

  “But then we’d be stuck there with no way to get back.”

  “Shoot. Okay, so we just get him and the truck away from your house, and leave them somewhere nearby.”

  “Let’s just worry about getting him up.”

  Emma zips out to get a cup of water from the bathroom just in case we need it, then we get to work, finally having to roll Kyle right off the bed before there’s any response from him. He lands on the floor with the duvet, groaning and cursing.

  “Kyle!” I say. “You have to go.”

  “I’m sleeping,” he mumbles, making a baby face.

  “Cute faces aren’t going to cut it, dude,” Emma says, and then starts flicking water at him.

  He squeezes his eyes shut and stays put.

  “Here,” I say, then I reach for the cup and (unaware this is soon to become a theme) dump it on his head.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Kyle roars to life and we leap back.

  “You have to leave,” I say.

  “Fine.” Kyle gets up, keeping the duvet wrapped around him, and heads out of my room. We catch up with him in the foyer, where he’s shoving bare feet into his sneakers.

  “Wait!” I sputter. “You can’t just . . . Your clothes!”

  “Give ’em here,” he growls.

  I shove the bundle toward him and prepare to turn my back while he dresses. But he just pulls the clothing to his chest, opens the front door, and marches out onto the driveway. Then he opens the door of the truck, which he must have left unlocked, and stuffs himself, duvet and all, into the driver’s seat.

  “Where’s my keys?” he says, dopey and petulant. “Who stole my keys?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Emma tucking them behind her back.

  “We need to know if you’re sober enough to drive,” I tell him.

  “Is this how you treat all your lovers?” Kyle says, looking both wounded and peeved.

  “Only the ones who won’t leave when asked,” I say, and avoid looking at Emma.

  “Look, we can drive you,” Emma offers, and then we exchange a glance, during which we decide via best friend telepathy not to tell him our plan to leave him somewhere nearby to sober up. “I’m sure you don’t want your ‘lover’ to be grounded for life because someone sees you, or God forbid her parents come home early and find you here in the driveway . . .”

  “Sure, sure, but I’m fine,” he says, and then launches himself back out of the truck onto the driveway, still wearing the duvet. “Watch.”

  He lines himself up along the edge of the driveway and marches forward with excess deliberation. Then, clearly pleased with his performance, he closes his eyes and lifts his arms for a higher degree of difficulty . . . which of course causes the duvet to land on the pavement, which means that instead of being gone quickly and inconspicuously, Kyle is now naked in my driveway.

  “Enough!” I hiss, scooping the duvet up and throwing it over him.

  “No driving for you, mister,” Emma says, and helps me propel him to the passenger side of the truck and then push him inside, where he immediately starts snoring.

  “Is he asleep?” Emma asks me.

  “Yep,” Kyle says, “he is.”

  We drive to the gas station with the separate coffee kiosk inside (officially the cheapest date location in Pine Ridge) and park around back.

  “Kyle,” Emma says.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “You think he’s faking?” she asks me.

  “Who knows?”

  We get Kyle coffee and a doughnut and leave him a note on the dashboard. Then we give the keys to Emma’s cousin Jimmy, who works in the kiosk, instructing him not to give them to Kyle unless he’s sober.

  “And dressed,” I say under my breath.

  Jimmy winks at Emma, and we decline his offer of more coffee and leave.

  “You trust Jimmy?” I ask her as we start walking.

  “I kept it secret when he was growing pot in his parents’ attic a couple of years ago, so . . . yeah, mostly. You okay?”

  “I—sure,” I fumble. “But . . . can we forget this ever happened?”

  She gazes at me, a million unasked questions in her eyes, then says, “I can if you can.”

  7

  TEA

  Forgetting about Kyle is easy.

  My attraction to him has conveniently vanished, and been (inconveniently) replaced by distaste bordering on revulsion. I’ve been checking the weekly schedule Dev posts and swapping and/or giving away shifts where we’re both scheduled, and it’s not that hard to ignore his texts. Though he does keep sending them. Whenever I do have to work with him I’m perfectly friendly, but not friendly like someone who’s ever so much as kissed him.

  And as for the sex, I just don’t let myself think about it.

  Admittedly, if I do accidentally think about it, I start to feel queasy. And if his arm brushes mine at work, or he gets close enough for me to smell him, it’s an effort not to flinch or wrinkle my nose. Not that he smells bad, but it reminds me, and then I feel like an idiot for having such a weird reaction. I mean, I had sex with him, and I regret it, but life goes on. No big deal.

  And then comes a day that messes up everything.

  It’s a warm Friday in April, and “social issues” week at school, which means daily assemblies, each highlighting a different issue.

&
nbsp; Boris, tall, thin, and weed-like, with his big eyes and a wild shock of gelled-up, light brown hair, is hovering alongside Emma and me. We’re being bumped and jostled toward the gym, having just come from class together. Then I spot Yaz and Noah trying to push through—Yaz’s long, bright red hair and glowing pale skin visible from afar, and Noah easy to spot because of his height and because my eyes can always find him. They reach us just as Boris opens a chocolate bar and Emma swipes it and takes a bite.

  “Hey, give that back,” Boris says.

  “You want it back, you’ll have to come and get it,” Emma says, then sticks her tongue out with the partially masticated hunk of chocolate on it, and Boris moves toward her like he’s going to take it from her with his mouth.

  “Eww, you guys,” I say before I can stop myself, “spare me!”

  They practically jump away from one another, Boris flushing and Emma looking at me with stricken eyes.

  “We’re so sorry!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not jealous, I’m grossed out,” I snap. “If you could see yourselves you would be too.”

  I can tell by their chastened expressions that they don’t believe me, but I push my irritation down because this situation is my own fault. I’m the one who was too cowardly to break up with Boris when I realized I just wasn’t into him anymore, and instead messed with his head until he broke up with me, and then pretended to be heartbroken about it. I know—not my best moment, but my intention was to spare his feelings. (Word to the wise, this doesn’t work.) Instead it drove Boris to Emma—looking first for advice, then for solace, and you can imagine the rest—their pained, guilt-ridden confession that they’d fallen in love, my also-pained, chagrinned acceptance of it, and all the ensuing awkwardness as we all tried to move forward.

  Anyway, their relationship still bugs me, but not for the reasons they think.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to be harsh,” I say, trying to soften my tone.

  “It’s fine,” Emma says.

  “Yeah, we’re sorry,” Boris says, looking at me with his puppy-dog eyes and causing me another wave of irritation.

  Boris is a perfectly nice person, I remind myself.