Not That Kind of Girl

by Nia Forrester

  The house is furnished the way one would expect it to be furnished by a bunch of college guys—disproportionate focus on the extremely large television, all the seating turned in that direction, a threadbare rug on the floor and a coffee table pockmarked with cigarettes burns and water rings.

  Ian leads me down a hallway, past clusters of people drinking and talking, a couple kissing, the guy’s arms braced above the girl’s head, hers up around his neck. Finally, Ian shoves open a door, forcefully as if he’s expecting it to have been braced shut. But it’s empty.

  “Thanks,” I say, stepping inside and looking around.

  Wayne’s bedroom is surprisingly neat, his bed has even been made. There is a sheet of paper in the center of it. I pick it up and hold it so that Ian can read the words that have been scrawled in large block text: Do not even fucking think about it. ‘Not’ is underlined twice.

  Ian and I laugh.

  “Looks like it’s working,” he says glancing around the room.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Then we’re facing each other with nothing else to say, nothing else to laugh about. Spontaneous kisses in the pool, or an “accidental” one in the street after saying we probably shouldn’t was one thing. But here in a quiet room, the door almost shut behind us, the air feels charged. There is just me and Ian in Wayne’s austere bedroom. Even the sounds of the party—squeals and splashing from the pool, the music and people yelling to be heard over it—are muffled.

  “This is so wrong.”

  It takes me a second to realize I’ve said it aloud. And when I do, Ian takes a step back. A look passes over his face, something between shame and embarrassment.

  “Even if you tried to give me an explanation,” I say. “For why you … I mean … you’re dating my roommate.”

  “Can you explain it?” he asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, I really didn’t like you. I like, disliked you. And all of a sudden …”

  Ian’s expression changes again, and this time its unmistakable. He’s hurt. I stop talking the moment I see it in his eyes.

  “Why’d you dislike me?” he asks, his voice quiet.

  “I mean …” My hands flail around a little as I struggle to explain. “You’re always in our room. You … screw her even when I’m sleeping right there. Like, I don’t know. I mean, maybe I don’t even really dislike you. I mean, obviously I don’t now. But maybe I never disliked you? Maybe I …”

  “Liked me too much.”

  The words land hard. Because I know they’re true.

  Ian advances toward me again. He pulls me closer and lowers his voice.

  “Sometimes I come over just to see you, y’know that? And you … you give me nothin’. Like, I’d be tryna talk to you and you just … look at me with your face like a … locked door.

  “So I needed to get you somewhere else. Out of that room, in a place where it was just us. I mean, I was curious I guess, to see whether we could, I don’t know, vibe differently.”

  “While you have a girlfriend,” I point out.

  “Yeah. I know. That’s not cool. But I didn’t know it would go down like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like … you know. What happened when we were in the pool.”

  “You didn’t know you would kiss me?” I say, skeptically.

  But Ian nods. “I didn’t know I would kiss you.”

  I sigh. “Okay, so what did you think would happen?”

  “We’d swim. We’d talk.”

  “And then what, Ian?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

  “So says every guy who’s ever cheated on his girlfriend,” I scoff.

  “You cheated with me.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “She’s your roommate.”

  I give a bitter laugh. “I knew this would happen sooner or later. You’d try to make me feel like …”

  “Hey. I’m not trying to make you feel like anything. Just like I didn’t make you kiss me back.”

  My shoulders sag. He’s right.

  His hands are still on my waist. He feels me relax a little and he relaxes too.

  “You want me to walk you back to campus?” he asks, sounding defeated when after a moment I still haven’t spoken.

  “No,” I say, so quietly I almost can’t hear it myself.

  “Then …”

  “Then let’s go out there and swim,” I say.

  Ian’s hands fall from my waist.

  “Can you wait outside while I change?” I ask. “I mean, to make sure no one comes in?”

  “Sure.” His voice is hoarse. He turns to leave, and I stop him by saying his name.

  “Kate won’t be back ‘til Monday.”

  His eyes meet mine. “I know,” he says.

  Jesus. Is this me? Am I that kind of girl? Could it really be this easy, to cross the line between who you think you are, and a person you never thought you could become?

  I see in Ian’s eyes that he’s wondering similar things about himself. Or maybe I’m just projecting. For all I know he’s done this before, with other friends of Kate’s. For all I know, he’s a complete dog. But it doesn’t change much. I want to see how we vibe, too.

  “Kate,” he begins. “She’s a cool chick. I like her.”

  “So, why would you even … do this?”

  “I’m just telling you that, so you’ll know I’m not makin’ any excuses. Like she’s a bad person or anything. She’s cool and I like her and she’s an easy person to be around. An easy, uncomplicated girl to be with.” He must have seen the look on my face because he exhales and runs a hand over his head. “I don’t know what the right thing is to say right now, a’ight? I mean … you want me to text her and break up with her?”

  “Don’t be … No. Of course not,” I say impatiently. “We’re not even … we just …”

  Our situation defies words or explanation. It feels like we’re on the brink of something, something that could be amazing, but neither of us wants to be the villain, the cheater, the liar.

  “But that would the right thing to do. Before we … before anything …”

  “Yeah, it would,” I say. “You know it would. But I’m not asking you to do that. Obviously.”

  “Because you don’t know about me yet. Because you’re just …” He shrugs. “Curious.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re on the same page,” Ian says. “And like you said. She won’t be back till Monday, so …” He leaves it hanging there, and we stare at each other for a few beats until he turns away again.

  We want something we both know is wrong, and dishonest.

  “I’ll be outside,” he says finally. His voice is gentle. “Get changed. So we can go swim.”

  That at least—the decision to cool down on a warm late summer evening—is an easy one.

  Chapter Six

  “God, he’s hot, isn’t he?”

  The girl sitting next to me is very drunk. She has long, thick blonde hair and seems to be attached to Wayne in some way. I think she’s the girl I saw him tossing around in the water earlier. Her accent is Southern as well, but different from Ian’s and Patrick’s and Wayne’s. She drawls more, and her voice is more nasal. Georgia, I’m guessing.

  She tells me her name is Emily. I almost respond, ‘of course it is,’ before I catch myself.

  We are watching six of the guys playing water volleyball. Wayne, Ian and Patrick are one team and a bunch of guys I don’t know make up the other. Ian’s team is almost viciously competitive. When they scream and yell at each other for missing a shot, they seem to mean it, the tendons on their necks standing out, their arm and back muscles visible and prominent as they sail the ball back and forth from one side of the pool to the other.

  “Who’s hot?” I ask Emily. I’ve been staring at Ian this whole time.

  “Wayne, of course,” she says. “I am so fucking crazy about him.”

  She is absolut
ely, definitely, positively drunk. I met her like five seconds ago, so she has no reason to be spilling her guts to me like this.

  “Too bad he’s such a pig,” she adds matter-of-factly.

  The comment is so unexpected, given what she said just moments earlier, that I visibly pull back.

  Emily laughs. “I mean look at them. All of them. Wayne especially. I’m pretty sure he cheats on me every chance he gets.”

  Instead of looking at Wayne, I look at Ian. Again.

  What about him? He’s good friends with Wayne from way back. Does he cheat on Kate every chance he gets? Is that what I am, just the latest chance he got?

  “However,” Emily drawls. “If I catch him at it, I will tear a bitch’s eyes out of her fucking head.”

  Then she turns and stares me down, her blue eyes like flames; like maybe I’m the “bitch” in the cheating scenario in her head.

  “I hear you, girl,” I say.

  Emily lifts a shaky hand and I give her a high five, rolling my eyes when she turns away.

  It is full dark now, and Patrick has turned on the pool lights. Very few people have moved on, so the party is still in full swing. All that remains of the food are a few rock-hard burgers and some cold hot dogs with grease coagulated around them, so just about everyone has turned to drinking.

  Earlier, Ian and I were in the water together, tossing around a beach ball and generally trying hard not to touch each other. We were both almost serious, not laughing and barely meeting each other’s gazes. Things only loosened up between us once when we were standing together in the shallow end and I made a playful (okay not really) comment about how come there were so many blonde chicks around, and Ian goes, “That’s ‘cause that’s what Patrick’s used to. Don’t let nobody fool you. The South is a hotbed of miscegenation.”

  A hotbed of miscegenation. Dammit, on top of everything else, he even had a way with words?

  I repeated the phrase and laughed at it. Delighted in it.

  “I am so stealing that,” I said, when I finally was able to make myself stop laughing.

  Ian leaned in, allowing his lips to brush against the shell of my ear.

  “You don’t have to steal it,” he said. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you.”

  I felt a literal twitch between my thighs right then, like guys must feel when they’re about to get an erection.

  It’s pointless pretending I don’t want him. And he knows I do. The only thing that makes this whole thing less than humiliating is that I can tell he wants me too.

  Occasionally, even in the middle of what looks like a very heated game, or match, or whatever they’re called, Ian glances my way, as if checking that I’m still there. He doesn’t smile, and nod, or wink or acknowledge me at all. He just takes notice of me, his eyes lingering for a few seconds, his expression still intense and competitive, and then he looks away again. I hope, a little spitefully, that I’m throwing him off his game. Why should I be the only one fighting with the uncomfortable anticipation, the knowledge that something illicit and inevitable is building between us?

  “I’m gonna be sick if I don’t start having water instead of this beer,” I tell Emily. “You want me to get you one?”

  Emily lifts a hand in a wave that I don’t know how to interpret, and I get up, heading toward the row of coolers that contain beer, bottled water and some wine coolers.

  As soon as I stand, I feel Ian’s attention on me. My blue swimsuit is partly wedged between my butt-cheeks and I want to reach down to adjust it, but I don’t. I just saunter over to the coolers and fish out two waters, aware that if anyone at all is interested in my butt, it’s Ian Everett. And that’s just fine with me.

  I hand Emily her water when I sit down again, and she looks at it in confusion like she has no idea what it might be for. I crack the seal on mine and gulp it down, surprised by how thirsty I am.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  I lost track ages ago. For all I know it could be anywhere between ten p.m. and one in the morning. This is not how I usually spend my Thursdays. It’s thrilling, being one of those people for a change, out late on a weeknight and not giving a shit about anything except having a good time.

  “Huh?” Emily’s head pivots unsteadily in my direction.

  “Never mind,” I mumble.

  She looks at my almost empty water bottle and gives me the one I just moments before handed to her.

  “I don’t need this,” she slurs.

  Honey, I think. If anyone needs it, it’s you.

  But I take it anyway, and when I finish the first, crack the seal on the second and swallow most of that down too. My head is a little woozy, but more from the sun than alcohol. I only had two beers and even then, don’t think I finished either. Still, it only takes a few minutes before I need to pee.

  Standing, I head for the house, recalling where I saw the bathroom when Ian led me to Wayne’s room to change earlier. My suit is still damp, but my feet are dry, so I don’t feel badly about tramping through the living room and down the hall as I am.

  In the bathroom, I walk on tiptoes, because everyone knows guys are gross, and their bathrooms are usually much grosser. I line the toilet seat and after peeling my suit down, sit on it and expel a formidable and noisy stream, exhaling audibly as I do. Midway through it, someone is knocking on the door, so I force the rest out.

  “Just a minute!” I call out, annoyed.

  I wash my hands and check my image in the mirror above the sink. I look like a character from Angry Birds, complete with wild eyes, now smudged because I didn’t think about what swimming would do to my so-called smoky eye when I was playing dress-up and pretending to be The Cute Girl.

  There’s another knock and before yelling at the person on the other side, I surrender to how crazy I look and unlock, then yank open the door. Standing there, soaking wet on the other side is Ian. Droplets of water glisten on his skin, and his curly hair is flattened on top from being wet.

  “Why is it that today whenever I open a door, you’re on the other side of it?” I ask.

  He gives me a slow smile. “Maybe God is tryna tell you somethin’ …”

  And before he even opens his mouth, I know what he’s going to do. He starts singing the song of the same name from The Color Purple in the same off-key voice he used to torture the heck out of a Nina Simone classic earlier this afternoon.

  I try to look exasperated and push past him, but he puts an arm across the doorway, blocking my escape. The singing stops.

  With Ian standing this close, I am achingly aware of him, bare-chested. And I am in a bathing suit. We are both practically naked. I feel my breaths become a little shallower, shorter, because despite myself I am holding it, waiting.

  “Every time I’m about to kiss you, I feel like I’m … accosting you,” he says.

  “You’re not,” I say. My voice barely works at this point.

  “No?”

  “No,” I croak.

  “Show me then,” he says. His voice is slow, slightly slurry, and his eyes are a little clouded. He’s tipsy.

  “How can I …”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I exhale, trying to make it quiet, but it isn’t just audible. It trembles a little.

  “You mean …” I’m stalling. I know what he means.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “You … kiss me.” And then he licks his lower lip as if moistening it in preparation.

  There is a water droplet at the tip of the lashes of his left eye. It looks like a tiny jewel in the dim light of the hallway.

  “Ian.” I swallow hard.

  Him kissing me has, up till this point, almost absolved me of responsibility for what happened—and is happening—between us. Not quite, but almost. It’s a slender thread on which to support my conscience: but he kissed me though! It is the last thread I have. If I let it break, I’m in this, I’m doing this. And there will be no excuses left.

  Still, I rise to my toes and without lifting my ar
ms, tilt my head to one side and lean into him. Ian watches me, then he leans back a little and I stop, blinking rapidly in surprise, disappointment, and embarrassment.

  “Sorry,” he says, biting into his lower lip and grinning. “Just messin’ with you. C’mere.”

  And when I don’t move, he says it again. “C’mere.”

  He leans within reach again and I get up as high as I can on my toes and press my mouth to his. I capture his lower lip between mine. I nip it a little, suck on it and then slide my tongue toward and against his. A groan escapes from the back of his throat and I feel his hands on my ass, tugging me against him. I can’t hold back then, and my arms go up and around his neck.

  By now, we have kissed more than a few times, including that first time. But there were no kisses like this. We aren’t weighed down by hesitation or second thoughts any longer, and we’re uninhibited from the beer; our limbs and minds loose from the sultriness of the summer evening.

  Ian’s erection presses into my stomach and I am just about to reach down to touch him when someone clears their throat pointedly.

  We pull apart, though not quickly or guiltily. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  “D’you mind?” It’s Emily.

  Ian tugs me out of the way and she staggers past us. Before shutting the door, she gives us a pointedly disdainful look.

  “And fuck, Ian,” she says. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  Ian and I look at each other. The mention of Kate out loud by someone other than one of the two of us, which hours ago might have stopped the action in its tracks, barely registers. It’s decided then. We’re doing this.

  When Ian looks at me, it is with dark, almost needful eyes.

  “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.”

  Without discussing it, we decide on his room rather than mine. Ian has a single, which is uncommon for juniors. But he tells me that since he runs track, he got an exception because his hours could be “disruptive” to a roommate. At least, that was the argument he made, with his coach’s support, and the administration accepted it. There is no secret that Penn State is deferential to its athletics programs. Sometimes tragically and to a fault.