The Wild One

by Gemma Burgess

  “That’s how I feel about my apartment … Oh, wait. No, no, I do not feel that way about my apartment at all. It is a piece of shit. I think that the Craigslist ad for it actually read ‘piece of shit.’”

  I crack up again.

  “The way you laugh reminds me of a movie star, you know, like from the ’30s or ’40s or something,” says Joe suddenly. “I just can’t think which one. One of those platinum-blond bombshells.

  “Really!?” My delight manages to beat down whatever self-consciousness was edging its way in. “I love old movies.”

  “So does my mom. She makes me watch them with her whenever I’m home.”

  “Your father won’t watch them with her?”

  “My father is dead,” Joe says.

  For a long moment, I can’t think of how to respond. His father died?

  “When?”

  “When I was ten.”

  We’re on a quiet patch of the street now, and Joe’s face is almost entirely in shadow, his voice low and expressionless. Suddenly he seems older, more serious. More tired.

  “How did he die?”

  “Car accident.”

  “I…” I pause. “My … my mother died.”

  “When?”

  “When I was nine.” The word gets stuck in my throat, like always. “Cancer.”

  I can’t remember the last time I said this out loud to anyone. Most of the people I talk to already know about my mom. And with new people, I avoid conversations about mothers so I don’t have to mention it. Ethan never even thought to ask, never cared.

  As Joe and I turn the corner to Union Street, I feel all the space between us disappear.

  So what if he’s a player? And he’s Irish and older than me and way hotter and cooler and funnier than I could ever be? I understand who he is, how he feels, what he thinks about in his darkest moments. I know, because he’s just like me. I totally get him.

  The thing about grief is you never really let go of it, you never forget it exists. You just get better at pretending everything is okay. You get better at structuring your life so there’s a dozen different layers of protection that prevent anything bad from touching you again. I’ve always hid behind my dad, my sister, my books, my baking.

  Everything around me holds me together. Because by myself I would fall apart.

  And yet … I don’t have any of those things right now, and I’m still together. I’m not falling apart.

  I wonder why.

  The Brooklyn night around us is so silent, all I can hear is the soft strain of music from one of the brownstones across the street, and suddenly I realize we’re home. We’re outside Rookhaven.

  I stop walking.

  I have an insane, almost unstoppable urge to give Joe a hug. Almost. But I can’t. It would be too awkward. Joe is about a foot taller than me so it would be like hugging a tree. And we only just met, and he’s my boss (which he insists on reminding me of every chance he gets). And he’s like this big, messy, overgrown wild man, he doesn’t exactly seem like the touchy-feely type. And he may not want a hug. Unwanted hugs are the worst. And, and, and I just … I can’t. I’m too scared.

  So I drop my gaze, turn, and start walking up our stoop.

  But just as I reach the second step, Joe grabs me by the hand, pulls me sharply around to face him, and wraps his arms around me, tight.

  A hug. A real hug. The kind of hug you just sink into.

  Joe is so much larger than me that his arms totally encircle me. I barely reach his chest. I’m trapped, held tight, unable to move away, my body pressed tightly against his. I can feel the heat of his body and my heart beating so hard and so loud that he must be able to feel it too.

  “Oh, Coco…” murmurs Joe. His voice is low and intense, all traces of that showy jovial charm gone.

  This is so surreal. Joe, my hot, smart-ass Irish charmer of a boss, a guy I met yesterday, for Pete’s sake, is standing on my front stoop, holding me.

  I can hear the rhythm of his breath, feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. I can smell the soapy cleanness of his clothes and the tiniest hint of something else. Aftershave? Shampoo?

  I can’t remember ever feeling this close to anyone before.

  Then Joe pulls away slightly and looks down, staring into my eyes, his face so serious, more serious than I could ever have imagined him looking at me.

  I gulp.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  After what feels like an agonizing wait—seconds have never felt so long—Joe’s head moves an inch closer, then another inch, and another. He stops, just a breath away, before our lips finally touch.

  Pia once told me that kissing a guy is like kissing every other guy, except when it’s really good, and then it’s like you forget what it was ever like to not kiss him. I totally agree: this is a whole new kind of kissing. It’s like I always imagined it should be but wasn’t, the kind of kissing that makes all your senses tingle, that makes you simultaneously burn and shiver all over.

  Eventually we break apart.

  “Jesus, that was unexpected.” Joe runs his fingers through his hair, slightly flustered.

  “I’ve never kissed someone who knew how to kiss before,” I say honestly.

  Joe laughs, then pulls me in closer, wrapping his arms around me again.

  “Do you want—” My voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it, and I can’t quite believe I’m about to say it, but I can’t stop myself. “Do you want to come upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Naturally, the girls bust me pretty much immediately the next morning.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen, feeling light-headed from the sudden influx of sunshine through the kitchen windows.

  I need water. And I need it bad.

  Sex is exhausting, am I right?

  I expected the kitchen to be empty, but instead I find Angie and Madeleine padding around happily in bare feet, fixing breakfast. Angie is having toast and eggs; Madeleine is making some kind of gross-looking shake with almond milk and chia seeds and spinach.

  When I walk in, they both look up. Angie does an overly dramatic comic double-take.

  “You had da sex last night!” shouts Angie.

  “I did … not?” I’m the worst liar. I start giggling helplessly.

  “You did,” says Madeleine. “Your hair’s a mess, you’ve got stubble rash. And you look happy.”

  “Okay,” I admit, slightly embarrassed. I wasn’t used to being on this end of the conversation. “I had the sex.”

  “Da sex,” Angie corrects me.

  “Da sex.”

  The girls scream with delight. “Details. Everything.”

  “Um, well, you know, Joe and I started drinking at the bar, and, um…” I raise my eyebrows innocently. “I guess it just happened?”

  “Nice work,” says Angie. “Sam is, obviously, my favorite flavor. But Joe has something.”

  “Yeah, he has something,” agrees Madeleine. “The kind of guy who walks into a room and people notice him.”

  “He has that thing,” says Angie. “That spark. Confidence without arrogance.”

  “He’s confident because he probably sleeps with hundreds of women,” I say. “I’m just another notch on his bedpost.”

  Angie shrugs. “All I meant was that he has charisma.”

  Madeleine takes a tiny sip of her shake and looks up at me. “So do you think it’s serious?”

  “Oh, fuck, no,” I reply without thinking. “Fuck, I just cursed. Oh, shit, I cursed again.” I clap my hand over my mouth before I can say anything else.

  Angie laughs so hard she splutters coffee everywhere. “So you’re just using him? Just a fuck buddy?”

  “Um…” I pause. “I hate that word.”

  “Not delicate enough for you? ‘Casual intercourse partner’? That better?”

  I laugh, but my brain is racing.

  Somehow, in the cold light of day, I know that I don’t want to date Joe. I know it without
even thinking about it. I’m attracted to him, really, I think he’s gorgeous, but it wasn’t …

  I don’t know, it wasn’t it.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like him. I understand him, completely. We have this strange, undeniable connection that comes from both losing a parent. And I want to hang out with him and maybe have sex with him sometimes, but that’s it. I’m not even sure why I know, but I just … I know. It’s too easy. Too relaxed. I don’t get butterflies when I think about him. I always get butterflies when I like a guy. I’m, like, the queen of butterflies.

  The point is, Joe is naked in my bed, but I don’t want to date him, because this isn’t love. It’s lust. All-consuming lust. And it’s exactly what I need to find the new me. The wild me.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. I guess I am using him. I mean, we’re using each other.”

  At some point during the night—I think maybe at the moment he kissed me—I stopped wondering all that stupid is-this-a-date? and is-he-out-of-my-league? shit. I stopped wondering what he was thinking. I stopped wondering if he liked me.

  I just thought, I want him. And I am going to, well, you know … have him.

  So I did.

  And it was absogoddamnlutely awesome.

  I kind of wonder if this makes me a bad person. A fallen woman.

  But why should it? Why do guys get to enjoy sex without guilt or love or relationships, and girls don’t? What’s the big deal? It’s safe. We used condoms. It doesn’t make me feel bad about myself. He wasn’t taking advantage of me, and I wasn’t taking advantage of him. He clearly has a lot of casual sex, he wasn’t, like, exploiting me. We’re not in some silly Nathaniel Hawthorne–inspired high school situation where he’ll tell people and everyone will talk about it because they have nothing better to do.

  We’re grown-ups. We’re friends. Joe isn’t judging me, he clearly does this sort of thing all the time. No one is judging me except myself. There’s a strange power in that.

  And by the way … it was so fun.

  We were in the dark, which made me so much more confident. And Joe kept complimenting my body, and was so funny and silly and sweet that I was smiling and laughing the whole time. It was so different from my first time with Eric that it was like having a different kind of sex altogether.

  Urgh, sex with Eric. That entire experience is like bile in my memory. Not just because it was so cold and strange and awful—and it was, truly, it was awful, and I knew I was being used, even as I hoped with all my heart that he liked me, I knew I was being used—but because of what happened afterward. Abortion.

  Even the word makes me feel bad.

  If this was some lame after-school special, you know, or some lame TV show made by old men in suits who have never experienced anything but want to tell everyone else what to do, then the abortion would be a huge mistake that ruins my life. That’s the only narrative that unwanted pregnancy is allowed to have. But this is reality. I talked it over with Pia and Angie so many times, and they really helped me get to the point where I can say: I will not be damaged by that experience forever.

  I am still me.

  No matter what happens, I will always be me.

  And last night I felt so comfortable with Joe, and he knew exactly what he was doing, and that little fire deep in my gut just got bigger and stronger and brighter until—

  “I totally came.”

  “WHAT?”

  Shit. Did I just say that out loud?

  Angie and Madeleine are shrieking when Pia stumbles in with swollen, bloodshot eyes. She’s still wearing her clothes from yesterday and has bed hair to rival mine.

  Immediately, there’s a collective gasp of shock.

  We just stare at her.

  She ignores us, going straight to the refrigerator.

  “Aidan is in San Francisco,” says Angie, finally, in a very quiet voice. “Where have you been? And with who?”

  “Whom,” corrects Madeleine.

  “Whatever.”

  Without answering, Pia pulls out the almond milk. “Who the fuck is lactose intolerant this week?”

  “Was it Ray? It was Ray, right?” Angie is furious.

  “Who is Ray?” whispers Madeleine.

  “That ancient restaurant asshole,” says Angie. “Not her boyfriend.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Pia rests her forehead against the cool refrigerator, as though she doesn’t quite have the strength to hold herself up anymore.

  “I cannot believe you cheated on Aidan.”

  Pia grabs a bottle of Coca-Cola. “Don’t fucking judge me, Angela.”

  “Don’t fucking call me Angela.”

  Pia ignores her and takes a swig of Coke.

  “Are you going to tell him?” asks Angie, raising her voice. “Are you going to tell Aidan that you cheated on him? Remember Aidan, your boyfriend? The guy who loves you and thinks you love him?”

  “My boyfriend has moved to a different city, on the other side of the fucking country.” Pia finally turns to face us. “He canceled three out of the last four weekends home, and he refuses to agree on a date for moving back … Would you call that a healthy relationship? We’re on death row. If he gave a shit about me, he’d be here!”

  We’re all quiet. When she says it like that, it sounds kind of terrible.

  Pia sighs. “I just wanted a little me time.”

  “A little me time with some cock!” shouts Angie, throwing her half-empty coffee cup in the sink so hard it cracks. “Aidan would never hurt you.”

  Pia’s eyes widen. “Excuse me? I’m not taking advice from someone whose entire experience of a real relationship is six minutes on a fucking boat pier.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Pia.”

  Angie storms out to the deck. A second later I hear the familiar sound of her lighting a cigarette.

  Pia slams the refrigerator door shut, and all my Aunt Jo’s old serving trays that we keep on top of it promptly fall off, clattering loudly to the floor.

  I scramble to help Pia pick them up. Tears are rolling down her cheeks.

  “Pia … it’s okay,” I say softly, and put my hand out to stroke her shoulder. At my touch, Pia instantly collapses into a little ball on the floor, sobbing.

  “I fucked up…” she croaks.

  I exchange glances with Madeleine, and notice that her hair is all matted and wild. Who was she with last night?

  But Pia’s wailing jolts me back to the problem at hand. “I want to die…”

  Madeleine rolls her eyes. “Oh, Pia, stop overreacting.”

  “Thanks, Maddy. You’re such a good friend.”

  “You make everything so much more of a big deal than it needs to be.”

  “More of a big deal than cheating on the love of my life by screwing the guy I’m trying to go into business with?” Pia buries her face in her hands again. “Never shit where you work. That’s the saying, right?”

  (Did I do that? Crap.)

  “Maybe you can still work with him?” I ask.

  “With Ray?” I can hardly hear Pia now. “No way. He only met me yesterday because he wanted to hook up. I thought I was networking. I’m such a dick…”

  Pia sobs loudly, and for once with Pia, it’s not just ninety percent drama, ten percent anguish. This is genuine misery.

  “We started drinking and I’ve been so lonely and it just … happened. Oh, God. I’m a terrible person.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say, at the same time as Angie. She must have been listening from outside, because she runs back into the kitchen and kneels on the other side of Pia, their argument forgotten immediately, as it always is between them.

  “You’re the best person.” Angie wipes Pia’s tears away. “You just made one mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “I thought you were pissed at me…”

  “I just got scared. If you and Aidan, who seem perfect for each other, can’t make it work long distance, what hope do Sam and I have?” whispers Angie.

  “Poo
r Aidan…” Pia’s voice is so faint I almost can’t make out the words. “He’s been texting me. I can’t reply. Oh, God, I can’t bear this. I can’t. I feel so sick, my stomach is actually aching—”

  “It’s just guilt, P-Dawg,” says Angie. “Just let it go. It’s a pointless emotion.”

  “Why is it pointless to feel remorse for making a huge mistake?” asks Madeleine.

  Angie snaps. “Seriously, Maddy? How the fuck is that gonna help?”

  Madeleine gets up from the table. “Sorry.” She rinses her glass, puts it in the dishwasher, and walks out of the kitchen.

  “Just when I think that chick has stopped being a bitch,” mutters Angie.

  Pia wails some more.

  “Pia. Ladybitch. Listen to me. Stop crying. I am taking away this guilt right now. Okay? It’s gone,” says Angie. “You can deal with everything tomorrow. But right now, go shower. It’ll make you feel better.”

  It’s weird hearing Angie be so motherly.

  Pia wipes her eyes. “But I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.”

  “I’ll sit in the bathroom while you shower,” says Angie. “Okay? I won’t look. I don’t want to see your junk.”

  “My junk is awesome.”

  “My junk is better.”

  “Can I do anything to help?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says Angie. “Go jump on that hot piece of Irish ass again.”

  Pia sits up straight and looks at me. “WHAT?”

  Just then, Julia walks in wearing her ancient Victoria’s Secret pajamas done up on the wrong buttons, also with wildly tangled just-had-sex hair.

  Wow, we’re going to be using a lot of conditioner at Rookhaven today.

  “Well, my vagina has never been so happy,” says Julia cheerfully. “Why are we all sitting on the floor? Why is Pia crying? Why does Coco have stubble rash? Why is Angie the only person who looks like she didn’t get laid last night? What the fuck is going on?”

  “I hooked up with Joe,” I say happily.

  Julia’s reaction shocks me. “Joe? The bartender? Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Joking?” I say. “Why would I be joking?”

  “Oh, honey. We can get you someone better than that.”