“So, why did you guys not talk for so long after that?”
“Evan, I’m not a saint,” he said. “It still ripped me up to think of her with anyone else. She was a beautiful woman, for one, and I was young, thinking I’d owned something because I didn’t want anyone else to touch it. I said terrible shit. Told your dad he’d fuck you up without Melina to love you. Wrote him this big long letter about how his life’d turn to shit.”
“Well, it kind of did,” I said. “He’s been dragging us across the country for the last few years. We’re like nomads who live in condos instead of caravans. And just because I can make turkey doesn’t mean I’m not fucked up.”
Soren laughed. “You know, I have a son myself. Did your dad tell you?”
I just looked at him.
“Right,” Soren laughed. “I shouldn’t have to ask. Yeah, you have a cousin. He’s five. Lives in California with his mother. We split up not long after he was born, but I still live out there, most of the time, anyway. Work’s been hard to get lately, and his mother doesn’t like me much. I rile him up with gifts and wrestling and whatever, and she gets all pissy.”
“What’s his name?”
“McElhatton,” he said. “My grandfather’s name. But we just call him Mac.”
“That’s my middle name.”
“It’s a good name,” he said. “Your great-grandpa Mac was a good guy. Taught me so much shit. I don’t know why any of that never trickled down to my asshole father.” He turned toward the TV and jumped. “Jesus! Did you see that? Another interception. Unmute it, will you?”
I handed him the remote and laid back. Thinking again of this world where Keir was truly gay—Baker owed me twenty dollars for that, since we bet on it once, not that I’d ever claim it—and where my mother dissed a guy as awesome as my uncle for my dorky dad and where I had a cousin named Mac who lived in California.
“That’s fucking insane,” Soren said to the TV.
“Does Mac like football?” I asked.
“No telling what he might like. He’s a wild little kid, though.”
“I hate football,” I admitted.
Soren groaned. “That’s your dad’s work,” he said. “I bet you hate fishing too?”
“Kind of,” I said. “We only went once this summer.”
“Jesus!” he yelled up to the ceiling. “I’ve got a lot of work to do on you, kid.”
“Focus on Mac,” I said. “I’m a hopeless case.”
He drank more beer and looked at the TV. “No, Evan,” he said. “I wouldn’t say that just yet.”
Monday morning, before l left for school, Soren ran out in the driveway to say good-bye to me. He was only in a shirt, and it was freezing cold, but he didn’t seem to care.
“It was good to meet you, finally,” I said. “My dad told me about a lot of stuff you guys did, growing up.”
“That’s my necklace you’re wearing, you know,” he said.
“Really?”
“Melina gave it to me for a present when I was eighteen,” he said. “But I sent it back when you were born. Thought you should have it. Since I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to meet you.”
I touched the circle necklace. Felt a little shy about it. Didn’t know who to thank for it, just then.
“Well, I better go. I gotta get back and find work. Say what you want about your dad,” he said. “At least he’s always earned a good living.”
“Yeah, great,” I said.
“Hey, he’s not perfect,” Soren said. “And he’s never gonna want to talk to you about Melina and everything. But I know he loves the hell out of you. He told me about how you got hurt at that school. He was losing it, Evan. Really losing it. I was the one who said bring you here. That was how we started talking again—he didn’t know who else to talk to. So this summer was all my idea, and he thought it would work. Thought if you got enough sunshine and whatever else, that would make up for it. He’s kind of slow, like I said. But he means well.”
I nodded. He hugged me, and I didn’t feel weird about it. It was a very manly hug.
“You’ve got my number,” he said. “Keep in touch.”
The rest of the year went on. The court date in North Carolina was pushed back from June to September, and my dad considered switching lawyers until I told him that I didn’t care, the further away from it I got, the better. My dad and I had Chinese takeout for Christmas because neither of us could face the idea of dishes on the scale we had them on Thanksgiving, but then both regretted it when Jordan’s mom invited us over the day after for their leftovers and dessert and it was all so good, we realized we’d been idiots to eat moo shu pork instead of making an effort.
Jordan and I rang in the New Year with the longest make out in human history, on her giant plush queen-sized bed at her house while her mother worked an overnight shift at the hospital. Jordan was still very cautious about this kind of thing, always stopping at certain points and shutting everything down, as if Dr. Richter was in her head, telling her to keep herself safe. Which was probably a good thing, given how after long make-out situations like that, I’d feel like a total fucking animal. No better than Jake, really. It was hard, ha-ha, trying to keep all that from Jordan, so she would never know Dirtbag Evan existed.
But we did a lot of other things besides make out. Jordan and I got into doing jigsaw puzzles in her breakfast nook. I learned how to make ratatouille. My muscles got somewhat decent from Physical Conditioning. One day in English class there was an awful pop, and I realized that my hearing—some of it, anyway—was back in my left ear. I walked around that day feeling like everything was too loud.
During spring break, Jordan went to tour her college, some all-girls place in Vermont. I spent the week being the laziest fucker alive. Lying on the couch and vowing to go for runs but never doing it.
After spring break, Jordan seemed crabbier and I didn’t know what to do, besides imagine elaborate punch-out scenes between me and Jake that were likely to never happen. But mostly she was just so damn nice. I thought about her all the time. Not just sex stuff. But little things about her. How she automatically did her homework, no putting it off like I did. How she always ate a turkey sandwich and drank a bottle of grapefruit juice every day at lunch. How oblivious she was about sports and how she thought I was weird for running track. All that sweating for no reason, is what she said.
She always asked me what I was thinking too, which was thoughtful, I guess, but she’d get mad if I said I didn’t know. I’d tell her bullshit, then.
“All right, I’m thinking about poetry.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m thinking about the epidemic of emerald ash borers.”
“Come on!”
“Okay, I’m thinking about getting an Irish wolfhound.”
“You are?”
“No.”
“Evan, you bug the fuck out of me, you know that?”
Dr. Penny even started noticing that all I talked about was Jordan. I must have been boring her because one day she just flat out asked if I was “sexually active” with Jordan.
“No!” I said. “She can’t. Won’t. It’s kind of this big fucked-up thing.”
“What big fucked-up thing?”
I laughed. Dr. Penny swearing killed me, though she only did it to repeat something I said.
I almost didn’t tell her the whole Almost-Rape story, but then I just did. I was better about telling her the truth now. And that story was easier to talk about than my weird father or my dead mother, in any case.
“Have you talked about sex?”
“Not really.”
“Do you see yourself having sex with her?”
I laughed, a little embarrassed. “For real? Or just in my head?”
“For real.”
“I don’t know. I can’t ruin it. I have to be good to her.”
“This girl is not Collette, Evan,” Dr. Penny said after a long silence.
“I know.”
“You have
to like her for her, not as if you’re righting a wrong.”
“Okay.”
“Because it’s not your wrong to right. You can’t live out the past in this relationship.”
“So … you think we should have sex?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” Dr. Penny sighed. “I’m saying that you should see Jordan as her own person. As an individual. With very different needs than Collette.”
“Okay,” I said. Not really getting what she meant.
“I think you should consider sending Collette a letter soon, Evan,” she said. “I think it would be helpful to tell her some of these things you’ve shared with me.”
“I don’t want to upset her. I think even thinking about me would make her feel terrible.”
“It’s her choice to open a letter, Evan,” Dr. Penny said. “She doesn’t have to respond. Telling her how you feel would be an act of taking responsibility. Don’t underestimate the good in this. For both of you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Dr. Penny went on about closure, about how offering someone your true self was the greatest gift and blah-blah-blah. Then she gave me an assignment to write about something in the past that was painful and tell how I dealt with it, which wasn’t anything I was in a rush to write. Though I knew she meant my dead mother, of course. She was waiting for me to tell that whole story out, and I just wouldn’t and avoided the topic in our sessions as much as I could. The whole idea made me panicky.
Then I started getting panicky about Jordan too, thinking about her leaving for college. Not panicky in the sense that what the fuck was I doing with my life, where was I going to college. Me applying to college had about the same odds as me going to the moon, really. It wasn’t just the idea of leaving, but more that everything was moving too fast and I just wanted it to stop. Or at least slow down for a little while longer.
I knew just where I’d slow everything down too. We’d have these marathon make-out sessions in Jordan’s living room after school, before her mom came home from work, and they were slow and stuff but still really good. Nice. Relaxing. Every time, after it was over and I was getting my clothes on—Jordan liked to strip me down but rarely took off her own stuff, like I was some giant doll to play with, I guess—I’d think how shitty it was, that nothing good could ever just freeze and stay good. I mean, I’d have stayed in my boxers all afternoon if Jordan wanted. Forever, even. No sex, either. Just her and me and everything good and quiet.
And then, on cue, it was like Jordan knew that I wanted everything to slow down and stop. That I wasn’t accepting reality. We were in Foods one day, and I was telling her the latest news from Tom—he and Kelly had broken up, Everything apparently not being Enough—and though I was joking about it, Jordan wasn’t laughing.
“I guess that’s just what sex does to relationships,” I said.
Pregnant Chick rolled her eyes. Homeless Guy giggled.
“Physicality is not a substitute for trust,” Jordan quoted.
Maybe Dr. Richter was getting to her too, because soon after that, Jordan broke up with me. I was talking about my summer plans, about Soren bringing Mac to visit, when she announced she couldn’t be my girlfriend anymore.
I thought, God, I have an actual girlfriend!—just as it was clearly no longer applicable.
She went into a long speech about going to college and maybe it’d be easier on both of us if it just ended now. It was shitty but made sense, because the whole time she was talking I pictured the entire sky filling up with storm clouds and I just wanted to run from it. And her.
“Okay,” I said, not arguing. Then she cried, and I felt like a dick. As if I’d made the decision myself.
But then a week later, she showed up at my track meet and then we got dinner at Mackinanny’s together and we ended up making out. We didn’t talk about it, but soon we were in a pattern. She would break up with me, and though I’d feel panicked and crazy again, I’d agree. But then she’d show up and want to hang out like nothing happened. Sometimes I was the one who showed up. Either way, the world’s longest make out would occur and we’d act normal until she decided she couldn’t be attached any longer and I couldn’t handle the sadness that always came after she said stuff like that. Clearly, relationships were a big ball of insanity.
After graduation, the school had an all-night lock-in where we did shit like play poker and get our palms read and eat pizza and play basketball and watch movies in the library. The whole point was to keep us from getting shit-faced and plowing our cars into trees, but it was pretty fun. At five in the morning, while eating cinnamon rolls and watching the sun come up, through the cafeteria windows, Jordan broke up with me again. I sleepily agreed. It was time; school was over. I tried to think about other things as I drove home that morning and collapsed into bed.
But a couple of weeks into summer, while my dad was in Minneapolis for work, Jordan texted me.
My mom’s got an all nite shift at the hospital.
I paused the movie I was watching, stared at the text like it was from another galaxy. Pearl Lake was another galaxy this summer too. Mid-June and things were completely weird. There’d been no Midsummer Party, since Peggy Tonneson blew out her back. Brenda was in London with Baker until July. Soren was coming with Mac, but not until August.
So I texted back: Come over.
Jordan curled up by me on the couch, like she always did, like I was an extension of the furniture, something very comfortable and trustworthy. I asked if she wanted to watch something else, but she shook her head, and I could smell her girl smell, her skin fresh and damp, like she’d just taken a shower.
I wasn’t sure where this was going, since it was only a few more weeks before she left for college. Still, once the movie ended, I leaned over and kissed her. Then I pressed my head against hers and stared at her. Giving her one last out. She could leave. She could talk to me. She could go into full make-out mode. Any of these would be fine—that was what I was trying to tell her with my eyes.
She said, “Let’s go upstairs and listen to music.”
Well, that wasn’t on the script. But we went upstairs. She flipped through my playlists and then sat down on the bed.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked.
I wasn’t just asking because girls expect you to. I was used to her saying what she was thinking so it bugged me that she was quiet. She stared down at her bare feet, her bare arms in her tank top crossed over herself. She was so cute. Pretty. Crazy-hot, too, on my bed, with her girl smell. Everything about Jordan was just so good.
But I wanted to be good too. Really be it. Not just give the appearance of goodness. Or drown her in hot sex urges, so she’d be flattered, mistake that for goodness, like some other girls had. I wasn’t just thinking about getting down with her.
Okay, maybe I was. Because inside, I was the same Evan Carter. The Dirtbag profiler. The guy who yanked it often enough thinking about Jordan-shaped objects. Lots of other girl-shaped objects too. That Evan wasn’t loyal, but he was constant. And that Evan wasn’t going away, not entirely.
But that Evan wasn’t the one who’d stayed with Jordan over half a dozen breakups.
The Evan now sitting beside her on his bed? That Evan could lounge under a blanket with her looking at stars without getting handsy. That Evan did jigsaw puzzles and made shepherd’s pie and still locked the bathroom door before he stripped to shower.
Both of these Evans wanted to see Jordan naked, of course. But only one of them didn’t mind if it didn’t happen.
Which probably explained why it did.
Jordan switched on the nightstand lamp, turned off the overhead light, and said, “Just come here for a second.”
So I did, instantly next to her at pretty much the speed of light, because it was awesome to know what direction this was going. She lifted my hoodie off me, then my T-shirt. She touched my scar, softly, and then ran her hands down my arms, which I was secretly proud of since they were finally bulki
ng up. Not to Tim Beauchant standards, of course, which maybe explained why she didn’t linger there. Maybe girls didn’t give a shit about arms? Or maybe just Jordan didn’t. It wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on, because I was rattled enough by how bossy-yet-quiet she was acting.
“Hey,” I said. “What the hell’s up with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t keep doing this forever,” I argued.
“We can’t keep doing anything forever,” she argued back and then pushed me into in standard make-out mode. Clearly I’d been arguing for no reason.
She stripped off all my clothes, until I was in my boxers, which was also awesome, but also made me instantly calculate the hours between now and when she left, the math of which was full of Almost-Weepiness, a feeling so big and terrible that our multiple breakups began to make sense.
From all our afternoon make outs, I’d gotten over feeling like a dork about being the only half-naked one. It was her thing, and I never said anything about it. So it shocked me when she took off her own stuff. I tried not to look surprised at seeing her bra and panties, which had a matching blue-dot pattern that was cute, not meant to be sexy. Which made them instantly sexy to me, of course.
“Let’s get under the blankets,” she said.
Under the blankets like little kids, we looked at each other in the half-dark. Smiling like we were getting away with something. Her shy hands tickled me—she enjoyed making me squirm. To make her stop, I pressed her to me, and she was so still, I wondered if she might fall asleep. But then she started kissing me again. Slow, like always. She smelled and felt so good, but I avoided the bra and panties zones, as if they were something priceless and untouchable from a museum. She didn’t do the same for me, though. Her hands dipped down my boxers and she kind of sighed when she felt my hard dick—Jesus—and I wanted to apologize and almost did, but she pulled back and I breathed out, slowly.
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