I Never

by Laura Hopper

  Danielle tells me that she and Charlie have tried almost all of them, and the ribbed is definitely their go-to choice.

  “Isn’t the guy supposed to take care of this?” I ask.

  “Of course. And I’m sure Luke has a drawer full of them.”

  Ouch. The thought of Luke with a stockpile of condoms makes me wince. I hate the idea that he’s been with other girls. “Then why are we here?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  “Because if you show up with protection, he’ll know that you’re ready. He won’t worry that he’s somehow pushing you into something. And trust me, it’ll be the biggest turn-on ever.”

  “Makes sense,” I say, browsing through the buffet of prophylactics. “Do they go bad? I mean, what if I’m not ready for a while and they sit in my dresser for six months?”

  “First of all,” Danielle says as though she’s talking to a small child, “Luke will be gone in six months. Second of all, don’t be naive.”

  I’m not sure if I’m being naive because I wonder if condoms somehow expire or if it’s because I think I might want to wait what is evidently way too long. Hearing Danielle say that Luke will be gone is a painful reminder of our limited time together. The thought is always looming in my mind somewhere, but hearing someone else say it out loud is a reality check. I guess I have to make the most of the little time we have left.

  “You know the first time is going to hurt, right?” Danielle asks.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say.

  “It really hurts,” she says, looking at me grimly.

  “Really?” I ask, trying to gauge the level of pain she’s describing.

  “Well, it’s different for every girl. But I swear, it does get better.”

  “It’s got to, right? Or else everyone wouldn’t be talking about it,” I say, trying to focus on the positive. We share a giggle and I turn my attention back to the display. I grab an assortment of colored packages. Danielle gets an economy pack of Ultra Ribbed in a bright gold box.

  “I’m going over to Charlie’s to put these to good use before I have to babysit the monsters,” Danielle says as we exit the store. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “TMI, Dani,” I say with a cringe. “I don’t need a play-by-play.” This moment is one where, if Sloan were here, she would chime in, and we’d both give Danielle grief about her tendency to overshare. I hate that Sloan’s not here to offer her advice and comic relief. How long are we going to go without talking? Is it up to me to repair this rift? I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong, but Sloan is infinitely more stubborn than I am, and she could stay silent for god knows how long.

  I walk into my house to find my mom in the kitchen unloading groceries. She always does a big Friday-afternoon shopping trip so we have snacks and fresh fruit for the weekend. Since she’s in the classroom all week, she puts on her mom hat on Fridays at four, which means homemade cookies in the afternoon, fresh-squeezed orange juice on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and usually some big dish like lasagna or chili that we dig into all weekend long.

  I try to walk past the kitchen. No such luck.

  “Come say hi,” Mom calls.

  Before I walk into the kitchen, I plop my stuff by the front door. I fear that with her x-ray vision, she will see the condoms through the thick leather of my purse. “Hi, Mom,” I say and give her a kiss on the cheek. “What smells so good?”

  “Baked ziti.”

  “Yum. My fave.”

  “You around tonight?” she asks.

  “Yeah, but I need to run a quick errand. Okay to take your car?”

  “Sure. Key’s on the hook.”

  “Thanks, love you,” I say as I grab my purse and snag the key from the hook by the front door.

  Less than ten minutes later, I pull up in front of Sloan’s house. I have been practicing my strategy and making-up dialogue in my head, but now I’m too scared to get out of the car. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I grab a piece of gum and make myself walk up to the door and ring the bell.

  Gabby, Sloan’s oldest sister, opens the door while typing something on her phone. Without even glancing up at me, she says, “She’s in the den.”

  I walk back to the den, where Sloan is lying on the sofa with the television on and a bag of Cheeto Puffs in her lap. She looks up and tries her best to hide how surprised she is to see me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” she says, giving nothing away. She’s not going to make this easy on me.

  “I miss you,” I say.

  “You do?” she asks.

  “Yeah, a lot.”

  “Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t offer anything else. No I miss you, too, or Thanks for coming over.

  I recite the words I rehearsed in the car. “I just want to tell you that you’re too important to me to lose you over a boy. I think there’s room for both you and Luke in my life, and I hope we can figure this out.”

  “Okay,” she says again. I can’t tell if her voice is softening. Stubborn to the core.

  I stand there uncomfortably for what feels like an eternity, but in essence, it’s probably just ten or twenty seconds. Finally I turn to leave.

  “Wait,” she says. I turn around. “I’m really embarrassed.”

  “What are you embarrassed about?” I ask.

  “Please, Janey. I acted like such a bitch, and I don’t know why. I’m happy for you, I really am. I don’t know what my problem is. I’m so sorry. I’m the one who should be making the effort here, not you.” I can see that her eyes are getting glassy, and she swallows audibly, as though she’s trying to push down the lump rising in her throat.

  I plop down next to her on the sofa and hug her tight. She hugs back and I instantly begin to cry.

  “All this stuff with Luke is a big deal,” I say through sniffles, “and it sucks that I can’t share it with you.”

  “You can share it with me,” she sniffles back. “Please, I want you to. I want to hear everything.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” she says. Then she pulls away so she can look me in the eye. “Is there something I need to know?”

  “I bought condoms!” I whisper in her ear.

  “What?!” she screams.

  “I bought condoms without you and I hated it. I need you, Sloan. And not just for condom shopping.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m the condom connoisseur,” she says.

  “Oh, come on. I bet you know what to get even though you’ve never used one.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “that’s probably true.”

  I open my purse and spill out the collection of rubbers. We laugh and cry as the drama and anger of the last four days slip away. We go into her room because Sloan wants to show me a new dress she bought that she wants me to borrow for my next date with Luke. It’s pale gray and short with long sleeves and a deep scooped neck.

  “Try it on,” she insists.

  I do as she instructs and love the dress. Even though Sloan and I have different bodies—​she is a little shorter and much curvier than I am—​we can often share clothes because she likes things to hug her body and I prefer my clothes less revealing.

  “This dress is so good,” I say with genuine enthusiasm.

  She snaps a photo me with her phone. “OMG, you look amazing. Should we post it on Instagram? Or not, because we don’t want Luke to get a preview before he sees it in person.”

  “I don’t follow him on Insta. I’m not even sure if he has an account,” I say.

  “What? You don’t follow each other?” she asks, incredulous.

  “He never requested, and I didn’t want to seem like a creeper.”

  “You never searched him?” she asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “No. I told you, I didn’t want to stalk.”

  “Well, you know me, I have no trouble stalking.” Sloan goes on Instagram and searches Luke Hallstrom. His account comes up. He only has about ten pictures posted: some of him on the track and at meets with his
buddies, one of his whole family all dressed up, but of course the two pictures I zero in on are the ones of him with Amanda. One is clearly a selfie where they’re laughing, wearing matching La Jolla High baseball hats. The other photo is from a formal or prom or something, and they look annoyingly perfect. I hate seeing it. And I hate that I hate it.

  “Why are those still up?” I ask.

  “He probably never thought to remove them,” Sloan assures me. “Guys don’t think about that stuff. And anyway, it’s not like they had an ugly breakup or anything, right?”

  “No, of course not,” I say with slight sarcasm. “Luke loves everyone and everyone loves Luke.”

  “Hey, hey,” Sloan soothes. “You’re the one he’s with now. You’re the one he wants.”

  “I know,” I say, taking a deep breath, trying to inhale some sanity. “Ugh! Why is it that being in a relationship makes me feel so insecure? It should have the opposite effect. It’s counterintuitive.”

  “Don’t worry. Anyone can see that he’s crazy for you.”

  Just then, my phone makes the pong sound, letting me know I’ve just gotten a text. I pull it from my back pocket. The text is from Luke: Miss ya. I show it to Sloan. We both bust up laughing. It’s so nice to have her back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s Saturday evening and I’m going to Luke’s house for dinner. His mom is cooking, and it’s just going to be Luke, his parents, and me. I’m beyond nervous. It feels so official and daunting. Luke is acting like it’s no big deal. We were texting while I was at Sloan’s and he wrote, Wanna come over for dinner tomorrow? Sloan and I thought for sure that meant that his parents would be out and he and I would get some delicious takeout and curl up on the sofa, for starters.

  Sure. Sounds good, I responded.

  Great. My mom’s making steak. You eat red meat, right? I showed my phone to Sloan, and the laughter that started when I got that first text from Luke escalated into full hysterics.

  Now here I am in my mom’s car on the way to his house, wondering what the hell I’m doing. What are we going to talk about? What are they going to ask me? Did he have his other girlfriends over for dinner? Is this some kind of screening process? Am I dressed appropriately? I’m wearing Sloan’s gray dress (a sure sign your friend is true blue is that she lets you wear her brand-new clothes even before she does). I have a bouquet of daisies on the passenger seat, which my mom picked up at the farmers’ market. “You never show up at someone’s house empty-handed,” she repeats every time we are guests in someone’s home. My mom also told me to make sure to offer to help in the kitchen and to clear the dishes. As if I didn’t know.

  I ring the doorbell and Luke answers the door instantly. He’s in jeans and a black cashmere sweater. He looks utterly edible.

  “That’s so cute,” he says. “You got all dressed up.” Now I feel ridiculous. How was I supposed to know the dress code for these things? “Come on in.”

  Luke takes my hand and guides me into the living room, which is decorated with green plaid wallpaper and red leather club chairs. His parents are sitting on a plush green velvet sofa by the fireplace, each holding a glass of red wine in an oversize goblet. They stand up when we walk in the room and I am relieved to see that his mom is also wearing a dress. Granted, hers is purple, and the crisp fabric makes her look like the First Lady, but maybe the fact that I’m also in a dress will make her think I’m respectful.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hallstrom are older than my parents, making them appear serious and slightly intimidating. I remind myself that Luke is eighteen and the youngest of three kids, so of course his mom and dad would be older. His dad is silver-haired and handsome in his V-neck red sweater and gray slacks. His mom has dark hair, and she’s pretty in a country club sort of way. She wears bright red lipstick and simple, expensive-looking jewelry.

  After a few minutes of formal small talk, Mrs. Hallstrom says she’s going to go check on dinner. I immediately stand up, my mother’s voice in my head, and ask, “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No, sweetheart, we’re all set,” she responds with genuine appreciation.

  At dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Hallstrom sit at opposite ends of a rectangular table. Luke and I sit next to each other on one side. Monica, their housekeeper, serves dinner; however, it is made abundantly clear that Mrs. Hallstrom did the cooking. Even though the rare flank steak, roasted red potatoes, and sautéed green beans look delicious, I have no appetite. My hands fidget in my lap. Why am I so nervous?

  Mr. Hallstrom looks at me with interest. “Janey, tell us about your family.”

  Is this where I tell them that my parents are separated? Does that make me damaged goods? I guess I can’t leave it out. They probably don’t want their untarnished son to end up with someone from a broken home, but they’re bound to find out soon enough. I figure I’ll start with the good stuff and end with the bad news. “I’m an only child, and I’m very close to my mom and dad. My dad’s a commercial airline pilot, and my mom teaches kindergarten.”

  “How nice,” Mrs. Hallstrom says. “I’m an only child, and my parents were my best friends. The three of us were always together when I was growing up. Lovely that you have that, too.”

  Crap. Guess I waited too long to drop the bomb. “They’re newly separated,” I say quickly to get it over with. “We’re all just figuring it out.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Hallstrom says. And then there’s silence, long silence wherein I assume they’re figuring Luke could do much better. “Darling, more wine?” Mr. Hallstrom asks his wife as he lifts the bottle.

  “I’ll have some,” Luke says, seemingly well aware of how his parents will react.

  “Hilarious,” Mr. Hallstrom says dryly. “You can have wine when you’re twenty-one. Just three short years away.”

  “You know, there’s talk that California’s drinking age is going to be lowered to eighteen,” Luke offers.

  “Well,” Mrs. Hallstrom adds, “as soon as it’s the law, you may have a glass of wine at our dinner table.”

  “I debated that topic,” I chime in.

  “Oh? You’re on the debate team?” I wonder if Luke told his parents anything about me.

  “Yes, since middle school.”

  “Janey’s a total star,” Luke announces.

  “What side of the debate did you argue?” his dad wants to know.

  “I had prop,” I say, and then I realize that might not be clear. “Proposition.”

  “Which means you made a case to lower the drinking age?”

  “Yes, but we have to prepare both sides, because we don’t know until right before which we’ll be assigned.”

  “And did you win that round?” Mrs. Hallstrom wants to know.

  “I think I might have,” I say with as much modesty as possible.

  “Tell me the strongest argument in favor of lowering the drinking age,” Mr. Hallstrom says with interest.

  Really? He wants me to recite my argument? I guess I can tell him the data without the passion and fervor I use when actually debating. “Um. Well. Eighteen- to twenty-year-olds, who fall below the legal drinking age, tend to partake in binge drinking when they consume alcoholic beverages.” All of a sudden, I feel more self-assured, like I have something to contribute to the conversation other than talk of my sad family situation.

  “That makes a certain amount of sense,” Mr. Hallstrom concedes. “But it stands to reason that more drinking at a young age will only lead to more addiction and accidents. Also, drinking at a younger age has got to affect brain development, doesn’t it?”

  “Well,” I counter, “there is evidence that prohibiting alcohol consumption for people in this age group in public places makes them drink in unsupervised places, which makes them more vulnerable to negative consequences of underage drinking. Therefore, if the age is lowered to eighteen, they will get to drink in moderation, without the worry of breaking the law.” I realize that my language sounds very official, and that in normal conversatio
n I wouldn’t speak so formally, but because I’ve written and rewritten the arguments and read them and recited them so many times, it becomes a script that I have committed to memory

  “Fascinating,” Mrs. Hallstrom says, and it seems she really means it.

  Luke grabs my hand under the table and gives it a little squeeze. My whole body relaxes and I feel like maybe I belong at this table.

  Dessert is apple pie with gourmet vanilla ice cream and Luke whines a little bit because he thought his mom was making a red velvet cake, his favorite. Mrs. Hallstrom seems sincerely apologetic that she disappointed him.

  “The Granny Smith apples were just too gorgeous to resist,” she explains.

  “I think I’ll survive,” Luke says in a tiny, sad voice that elicits a giggle from his parents. It’s obvious they think he hung the moon. Their baby. The divine third child.

  I don’t want to overstay my welcome, and I’m not sure how long these things are supposed to last, so after I help clear the dishes, I thank his parents for dinner and claim that I have to get home to get some work done. Luke walks me out to my mom’s car, which I parked in front of their next-door neighbor’s house because Luke’s Jeep is parked in front of his house.

  Before I open the driver’s-side door, Luke presses me up against the car with every part of his body. Paranoid, I look up to see if his parents might be spying on us from their window. Thankfully, there is a big hedge separating the two homes and hiding us from all potentially curious eyes.

  “You were awesome,” he whispers, practically into my mouth. “I can tell my parents really like you.”

  “Really?” I want to hear it again. I want to know that his parents approve.

  “Big time.” He leans in hungrily and kisses me full on the lips.

  My eyes close, my arms wrap around him, and I feel wetness between my legs the second his tongue enters my mouth. As soon as he’s near me, touching me, kissing me, my body responds automatically. I feel weak, I moan, I get wet. I am physiologically connected to this guy, and it’s clear my body wants him desperately. I want to have sex with him. Every organ I possess is telling me that I want to have sex with him. On second thought, it might be more of a need. I need to have sex with him. The same way I need food, water, and shelter.