by Dahlia Adler
“Uh, you said your first time with Connor was the best sex you’d ever had.”
“Hello, I’m trying to be sympathetic here?” But a goofy smile steals over her entire face, and she washes the next plate with a little swing to her hips.
I throw my dishtowel at her face.
There’s a week and a half left until the thirty days are up, but that’s not the countdown my art history class is interested in. With midterms behind us, the trip to the Met in three weeks is pretty much all anyone can talk about. Including Abe.
“We’re rooming together, yes?” he whispers to me as Professor Richter switches on the projector to show us a series of slides featuring the work of female manuscript illuminators from the 11th and 12th centuries. Excited as I am for the trip, I also actually want to pay attention to this lecture, because this work is cool as hell, especially for the time.
“Yeah, of course. We’ll talk about it later.” I nibble on my pen cap as I wait for the first slide to show up, wondering if I should’ve brought my laptop in for this instead. I generally keep it old school so I have the freedom to doodle in my margins or whatever, but unfortunately, I don’t write nearly as fast as I draw.
“I think we need two more people if we want one of the cheapest rooms, right?” he continues as if I haven’t said a word about tabling this. “Who else do you wanna add?”
“Not sure,” I mutter, scribbling down whatever I can about Ende and the Gerona Beatus; Professor Richter will make the presentation available after class, but she always says far more in class than she ever puts on the slides. I learned quickly that her forgiving my lateness that first day was a minor miracle; the woman takes attendance—and punctuality—seriously.
“What about—”
“Abe, seriously, not now, okay? We can get coffee after class and talk about it then.” Shit, I missed whatever Richter just said and now she’s moved on to Diemud.
He groans, and I honestly can’t believe Richter doesn’t hear it, because he sounds like a fucking earthquake to me. “Tell me this isn’t because you’re bringing your girlfriend along.”
He says “girlfriend” how I imagine a normal person might say “syphilis,” but even more appalling is that fact that I definitely did not tell him about Samara; as per our rules, I haven’t told anyone at all, other than the obvious. “What are you talking about?” I mutter, keeping an eye on the slides.
“Oh, please—you haven’t been showing up to XO or any parties in weeks. I got curious. So sue me.”
“You got curious so you what, Abe?”
Whoops—that might’ve been a little loud. Richter stops talking and her gaze flickers up in our direction. She doesn’t need to say a word; her glare speaks a thousand. Thankfully, Abe finally learns to shut up and opens up a new document on his laptop instead. God, nothing as creepy as you’re making it sound. I saw your roommate and pretended I knew something was going on between you and someone, and she assumed you’d told me. JUST LIKE I WOULD HAVE.
The all-caps are a nice touch.
FYI, that’s still creepy, I scrawl in my notebook, pissed now, and if there was something to tell you, I would have.
So the girl’s not coming? he types, completely ignoring everything else.
Of fucking course not.
I don’t even hesitate before writing the response, but it does make my stomach churn a little. It’s been a couple of days since the dinner party, and between how well it went (minus my own freakish panic) and my conversation with Lizzie afterward, I’ve been feeling surprisingly calm about my relationship—or almost-relationship, I guess—with Samara. So much so that I actually have imagined inviting her along once or twice. She mentioned having been to New York City once in high school and having loved it, but not having had a chance to go to any museums. I have no doubt she’d love the Met, and maybe the Frick even more so. It’s shockingly easy to imagine walking through the galleries with her, hand in hand, talking about the different paintings and sculptures, seeing her face light up the same way it did at my art show.
But with all the other upheaval, the last thing I need is some shitshow with Abe. Sam and I still have another week and a half to get through, anyway, and who knows where we’ll be by the time the trip hits. Inviting her is dumb; if things go south between now and then, this will just make it a million times worse.
At any rate, Abe seems mollified, which means he’s finally quiet and listening to Richter. I turn back to the presentation, only to see that a slide about Herrad of Landsberg is now up on the screen. Fuck. What happened to Diemud? And did I miss anyone in between?
All I can say is we better find more people to room with for the trip, because at this point, leaving me alone with Abe might be a recipe for murder.
• • •
For all that I’m kind of a mess about the Samara stuff, I’ve also learned nothing soothes me faster than curling up with her and watching something mindless on TV. I hadn’t planned to see her that night, but with the stress of my argument with Abe weighing on my shoulders, I knew she’d be exactly the fix I need. Month-ago Me is laughing her ass off at how content I am right now in another girl’s bed, all our clothes on and a movie we’re actually (mostly) watching on the screen. But I feel good. Happy.
Which makes it a good time to finally take a little baby step forward.
“So, thirty days is coming up,” I say, toying with her fingers as I try to ignore the familiar pressure in my chest. “What should we do to mark it?”
The slightest smile plays at her lips, and she bites one to stifle it. Winged creatures that could devour butterflies whole take flight in my insides. What I wouldn’t do to take the hand currently in mine and put it where I could get a little relief from what that smile does to me. “Besides that,” I say, knowing it’ll make her blush. It does.
“I was thinking dinner, maybe,” she says, her eyes fixed on our hands in my lap. “Kind of a redo of our first date. There’s a Middle Eastern restaurant in Meadowbrook that I’ve been wanting to try—it looks like the closest to Armenian food I’m gonna get around here, and Lizzie inspired me to want to show you my food. I’m pretty hopeless at cooking without my grandmother, though, so this is the best I can do. And I know you have to work the next morning, so maybe we wait one more day and do Friday night instead?” Her face takes on that pretty pink flush I love so much. “For, um, sleeping-in purposes.”
“I love that idea,” I tell her, leaning over to kiss her on the nose. “It’s a date. I’ll ask Lizzie for her car.”
She snuggles in even closer, and I kiss her again, this time just behind her ear. Then at the curve of her jaw. I love the way her inhalations go shallow as I suckle gently down her throat, nibbling and tasting her smooth skin until I reach the neckline of her tank top, and then I kiss along that, too.
“You are really good at that,” she breathes, her nails digging into my back.
I tug down one of her tank top’s straps with my teeth. “Just you wait.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
I freeze, my lips still pressed to the fine bone of shoulder. It’s an easy question, despite the slow and steady throb between my thighs. I slide up on the bed so I can look her in the eye while I cup her cheek. “Then we won’t. Not until you’re ready, Sam, okay? However long that takes. You are so worth waiting for.”
“I appreciate that,” she says, grazing her thumb over my bottom lip before leaning over and nipping it between her teeth, “but I meant what if I don’t want to wait anymore?”
She closes the distance between us before I can manage a response, her warm mouth sealing over mine while her cool hand slides up my T-shirt. I instinctively wrap a leg around hers to pull her close and slip my hand beneath the waistband of her yoga pants to cup her ass. I’m surprised when my fingers encounter nothing but skin, meaning she’s wearing either a thong or nothing at all. Both possibilities are hot as fuck.
She moves to lift my shirt over my head and I let her, then
do the same with her tank. The little green lace bralette she’s wearing underneath doesn’t leave much to the imagination, but it does bare a whole lot of smooth golden skin. I retrace my path down her jawline, her throat, her collarbone, but this time, I don’t stop. Her breath hitches as my mouth grazes a nipple through the lace, and I linger there while my fingers go back to teasing at her waistband.
Thong.
Desperation to see her in nothing but these little scraps of fabric washes over me, and I kiss my way down to my fingers and sit back on my heels to tug her pants down.
And then the sound of banging at the door startles me off balance, and I topple off the bed just as Sam’s RA’s nasal voice calls, “Hall meeting in five minutes!” through the door.
“Frankie!” Sam gasps, and I mutter out a curse and rub my bruised butt. When I look up at her, she’s trying not to laugh. She fails, but so do I. “I’m so sorry,” she says, offering me a hand. “I completely forgot that was tonight.”
She pulls me back onto the bed, and we’re both still laughing as we find our shirts in the tangled sheets. “It’s probably for the best,” I say as I pull mine over my head. “We’re still not at thirty days.”
“This is true.”
I brush my lips over her forehead. “But good to know you’re ready.”
She smiles sheepishly. “You too, I guess.”
As I watch her fix her hair into its default smooth ponytail, I can’t help feeling grateful for the interruption. Yes, physically I am so, so ready to have sex with Samara, my clothing is about to spontaneously combust. Any concerns I might’ve had over whether it’ll be good seem like the worries of a very, very silly girl.
Emotionally, though…I still wanna wait. I know it’s just a week, but it’s the principle of the thing. I want to know I can do this; no, I want to have done it. For maybe the first time since we got together, my hesitation isn’t because I’m afraid I can’t commit.
It’s because I finally believe I can.
“I’m gonna see if Sid and Lili wanna have dinner, but I’ll text you later.” I kiss her again, full on the mouth this time. “And I’ll see you bright and early in the Psych building.”
“The last time there I won’t be able to kiss you hello,” she muses as she slides her feet into flip-flops.
I imagine it—a good-morning kiss to start my day twice a week—and I really, really like the way it looks in my head. “The very last,” I say as I give her one final kiss goodbye and slip out the door.
• • •
As day thirty nears, then passes, my confidence remains blissfully intact. Admittedly, I owe that in part to none other than romance guru Elizabeth Brandt, who’s been giving me pep talks on demand. For the big night, she goes a step further and gives me a Xanax, just in case there’s any lurking creature of panic somewhere in my brain.
With an hour left to dinner and the pill working its magic, I’m pretty calm…but I’m also dressed with nowhere to go just yet. Sam’s study group went late, and she asked if we could meet here to drive over at eight, instead of seven as we’d originally planned. But in the interest of keeping my shit together, I’d already mentally arranged my whole day for being ready now, and an added hour alone with my thoughts is not what I need.
A walk, I think in a flash. Perfect way to clear my head, take in the changing leaves and whatever instead of the fact that I’m turning in my bachelorette card. I know the fresh air and some time alone will help, so I double-check my makeup, throw on a coat, and head outside.
There’s no particular destination in my mind, but out of habit, I find myself wandering toward Greek Row. Given how many times I’ve forgotten my troubles in one of the fraternity or sorority houses, it’s only natural that’s my compass’s True North. But it’s confirmed that I made the right decision when I get to the actual street and sniff.
Barbecue.
I fucking love barbecue.
Best part? It’s clearly coming from the Sig Psi house, where I happen to have an in.
“Frankie! Long time no see.” Doug Leach’s smile when he sees me picking my way up to the front porch in my boots is big and genuine and at the sight of it, I’m reminded of all the fun, casual, no-strings-attached times we’ve had in this house. How weird to see him and have him be off limits. And how do I tell him that I am? Especially after over a year of telling him I’m not interested in relationships or anything more than a good time?
“Hey, Doug.” I accept a kiss on the cheek hello. “I was passing by on my way to dinner and saw the house was hopping. Figured I’d come say hi and see if I could mooch a bite of your hot dog. And no, that’s not a euphemism.”
He grins. “For you? Always. You can have a whole one, if you’d like.”
I should definitely say no—I’m going out to dinner—but they smell so damn good. “Just one,” I say, but then I quickly amend it to half; I know it’s important to Sam that I eat at the restaurant tonight, and I need to make sure I have room.
“Tell you what—I’ll split a hot dog with you if you buddy up with me for flip cup. I need your magic hands.”
I know he’s flirting, but flip cup sounds like the perfect thing to soothe my addled nerves. Plus, Doug is an actual good guy, not the type who thinks he’s automatically entitled to my body because he’s been granted entrance before. “Deal, but I have to be in Meadowbrook by eight. Do not let me lose track of time.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“There is no way you were a scout,” I say, even though he is absolutely the type.
“You win us flip cup, I’ll tell you whether I was or not.” He waggles his eyebrows and I laugh, and we head inside.
For all that I’m not terribly athletic—my sporting experience starts and ends with joining the neighborhood softball team for two years to meet girls—I am damn good at this game. I pound my beer and flip my cup in one perfect shot while their first guy is still chugging. “Damn, you are impressive,” Doug says affectionately as I down the celebratory Jell-O shot he brings me when we win. “Do you want another hot dog? You’ve earned it.”
“I can’t,” I say apologetically. I’ve heard enough about Sam’s love of dolma and nazook to know I should be saving belly room. “I really do have to run.”
“Oh, come on,” Charlie, one of the guys we just trounced, says, wiping a dollop of ketchup from his burger off his face. “You have to give us a shot at a rematch.”
“Can’t just embarrass dudes on their home turf like that,” another guy, Marcus, adds.
I glance at Doug, who’s already setting up eight new cups, and sigh. I know I should go, but after tonight, when I’m officially done with Doug, these guys are gonna like me a whole lot less. Sam wouldn’t begrudge me having fun with them one last time, right?
I’m back at the table before I can even contemplate the answer to that question.
This time, I’m a little less impressive. The guys put me third for strategic reasons, and by the time I lift the cup of lukewarm beer to my lips, I’m feeling a little out of it. I don’t chug it nearly as fast, and as my team chants their encouragement, it echoes in my head with a pounding pulse. I finish anyway, and it takes me seven or eight tries to flip my cup. When I finally do it, I nearly keel over.
“Hey, you okay?” Doug asks from his starting spot.
“I’m fine.” I wave my hand to let him know not to worry, but I nearly smack myself in the face. “On second thought, maybe I need to sit down.”
He guides me to the couch, and I feel myself getting sleepier with every step. “Dude,” I say quietly, and am I slurring? “What the fuck is in that beer?”
“It’s just beer,” he assures me. “We all drank the same stuff.”
“The Jell-O?”
“Just vodka. Nothing weird.”
I nod, feeling like a puppet. I trust Doug, but more importantly, I can’t think anymore. I just need to close my eyes for a minute, and I’ll be fine.
Just a minute.
I wake up feeling like death, and my mouth tastes like I’ve been making out with a raccoon. Blinking down at my body, I see I’ve definitely fallen asleep in my clothes. And not just any clothes, but actual nice ones—my best jeans and a wrap top I usually reserve for holidays at church, though I wear it with a tank top underneath for that and right now I am definitely not. In fact, my boobs are pretty nicely displayed right now—or will be, once I retie it properly—which is exactly why I picked this top for my date with—
No.
No no no no no.
My head whips around to take in my surroundings, and I get so instantly dizzy that it takes me a full minute to realize where I am.
In Doug’s room at the Sig Psi house.
With sunlight streaming through the window.
Which makes this…the morning after my big date with Samara.
The date I never showed up to.
Holy shit. I am a monster.
I rub my eyes until I can actually see clearly, and that’s when I realize I’m alone in the bed. I look down at the floor, and there’s Doug, curled up with his head on a pillow, sleeping like a baby. The bed belonging to his roommate, Jorge, is mercifully empty, though the clock on the nightstand says 10:42 a.m., so for all I know, he slept here last night with us. It’s not like I remember coming up here, and I certainly don’t remember crawling into these sheets.
What the fuck happened last night?
I slip out of bed and look at myself in Doug’s grubby mirror. My shirt may be askew, but it’s still tied, the edges of my black lace bra peeking out from underneath. My jeans are still on, zipped and buttoned. Whatever went down last night…well, it doesn’t seem like anything did, literally or figuratively. I don’t even have any beard burn on my face, and considering Doug only shaves like once a week, that’s pretty telling. The only clothing I’m missing are my boots, and those are easy enough to find on the floor.
So again, I have to wonder…what the hell?
Unfortunately, my pounding headache makes it hard to think, but a quick search of Doug’s toiletry bag yields a bottle of Advil. It’s only as I’m pouring three into my hand that I finally figure out what happened to make me lose my entire night.