by T. Bester
I feel him step closer, and look up when it’s his warmth that engulfs me. He’s still frowning. “How I felt about you, terrified me. I woke up, and you were there, and I remembered every second with you. I panicked. And I hurt you, I know that, and I ended up hurting me too.” He lifts his hands, and cups my face, his thumbs tracing the contours of my cheek bones. “I’m so sorry, Savannah.” My insides twist, and my duplicitous heart beats erratically, just about ready to lurch from the confines of my chest. I want him to kiss me, but I also don’t. Because we can’t go back to how it was, and I don’t know how we can move forward or where we would go from here. Luckily, Nathan makes the decision before I have to. “I miss you, every day. I have that phantom limb thing you told me about, you’re not with me but it still feels like you are. And I can never apologize enough for walking away.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “So, now what?”
His frown deepens, and his hands shake, but he doesn’t drop them. There’s a finality in his touch, as if he knows this is it. Somewhere inside me, I feel it too.
“I know you need time, and I’m going to listen.” He leans in, and kisses my forehead. “I meant what I said. When you’re ready, I’m here.”
He steps back, his expression pained, and before I can ask him to stay, he’s walking away from me.
Only this time, I feel like it might just be the right thing for us.
It still hurts.
But it’s the right thing.
At least I think it is. We happened so fast, before either of us could really think about the consequences of our actions, even just as friends. And when we crossed that line, experienced something both beautiful and terrifying, he wasn’t ready. But was I?
I don’t know how to answer that.
MY ALARM GOES off at 7 a.m and I groan into my pillow. I tossed and turned all night, my mind too preoccupied for sleep. I have a quick bath and when I’m dressed and ready to go, I find Zoey in the kitchen. The counters are adorned with pastries — fresh croissants, scones and toasted bagels. The scent permeates the entire apartment, the rich, sweet odor making my belly growl.
“Hi!” Zoey greets, her smile too wide, her voice too high. “I made breakfast.”
“I see so.” I take a seat, and pour myself some coffee, hoping the caffeine will soak into my bones and make me feel somewhat energized. I sigh when the liquid travels down my throat, and savor the taste.
“So…” Zoey wipes her hands, and brushes her bangs from her face.
“So…” I mimic. Our gazes meet, and I see the contrition in the depth of her eyes.
She watches me, and when I don’t bite, she sags against the counter. “I thought I’d ply you with food before I beg you for forgiveness. I took some baking classes in Austin.” She’s rambling, and despite the turn of events, it’s not Zoey I’m upset with.
“How’d you know it would work?”
Zoey wrings a dishcloth with her hands. “I have it on good authority that you’re quite agreeable after a good meal.”
Of course she does. And she’s correct. But it’s going to take a little more than a kitchen full of pastries to get me to forgive her immediately. I don’t want to torture her though. That would only make coming home harder and I don’t want that atmosphere here. “I appreciate it, Zo. Really.”
Zoey’s expression softens, her lopsided grin hopeful. “So, does that mean you’ll stay?”
Leaving isn’t an option, but even if it was, I don’t think I’d actually leave. My place in the dorm is already taken by some other poor soul - God help them — and I happen to like my new place. It might mean having to see Nathan more often, he is my landlord after all, but that’s something I will have to deal with when it happens. I know I’ll see him at the office, but it’s easier to throw myself into work and avoid him. I can’t do that here. Rather than lament on it, I put Zoey out of her misery. She’s still my friend, and I can’t hold her responsible for Nathan’s choices and surely I can’t fault her for wanting to help her brother. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing for Griffin.
“You’re stuck with me.”
“Does that mean I can apologize now?”
“No need. I know you’re sorry, and that nothing you did was to hurt me.”
“So, we’re okay?”
“We’re good, Zo. Promise.” I drain the remainder of my coffee, and then stand. “But, if your brother is ever going to be here, you’ll have to warn me.”
“He won’t. I’ll go to his place, so you won’t have to see him here unless you really want to.”
“He’s your brother, I don’t expect him to stay away. Just…give me a heads up, okay?”
She nods, and then hands me a lunchbox. “I packed you some lunch, in case the pastries didn’t work.”
I happily take it — that way I can eat lunch at my desk rather than brave the cafeteria. “I’ll see you after class?”
“I’ll be here. I’m meeting my student advisor today, and with a bit of luck, it will go smoothly.”
“You’ll be fine.” I leave her with that assurance, and make my way to campus by car. I find a parking spot close to the Student Union - which almost never happens to me - and pick up a few coffee orders on my way up to the office.
“You’re a damn angel,” says Erin. She takes her Latte from my hands, and I suppress a giggle when her eyes roll back.
“You’re welcome.” I look at her desk. “Long night?”
“Ugh,” she groans. “You have no idea. Toby’s really cracking the whip on us at the moment.”
I glance at his door and then back at Erin. Her expression is…weird. “What?”
“You haven’t been by the house in a while. Everything okay with you and Nate?”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Erin is asking. She’s dating Brian, Nathan’s roommate, but she’s also one of Nathan’s closest friends. Because I spent so much time at his place, I got to know Erin pretty well, and we became friends. She always reminded me how nice it was to have another girl in the house, what with her (almost) living with three guys. Not that we saw much of Jordan before he moved out. The burly football player keeps to himself, and on the rare occasion that he’s here with all of us, he doesn’t say much.
“Yeah,” I shift awkwardly. “I’ve just moved in with Zoey, and it’s been a really crazy time.” Lies, lies, lies. But it’s better than spilling my guts to Erin and getting stuck on Nathan and me.
“Well, don’t be a stranger, okay? We should do lunch. Brian is driving me crazy and I could do with a girl’s day out.”
“I’d like that. I’ll get Zoey in on it too.”
Erin gets back to work, and I dump my messenger bag beside my desk. Toby left a bright pink sticky note on my keyboard with several tasks, and without hesitation, I get started. It’s mundane things, like photocopies, and printing, and collecting or delivering mail, and of course, a million coffee runs, but I don’t mind it. The busier I am, the less time I have to think. That doesn’t stop me from looking for Nathan though. Every time the elevator dings, I hold my breath and hope it’s him. But he doesn’t come in at all, and not texting him, like I would have done, is a struggle.
By lunch time, I’m absolutely famished. I take out the lunch Zoey packed for me — a toasted bagel with vanilla cream cheese. It makes my taste buds dance, and I shoot Zoey a text saying just that. While I devour my lunch, I grab the research Toby gave me the day before. I threw it on my desk haphazardly before I left and only considered looking at it in a few days. My trepidation is still there, but what harm would it do to look at it now? I need something to pass the time until I head out for my first class.
I sift through the first few pages, most of which include academic journals dedicated to women’s studies and female sexuality. It’s a subject completely new to me, which is probably what keeps me reading. Journals, periodicals, statistics, and various studies compiled by other universities in the country, all exploring the same thing but in different ways.
Some of the content is too dense for me to understand it all, but then I stumble across a survey done here, at Hudson.
The sample size is small, in comparison to the total student population, but still substantial enough to validate the findings. And the results surprise me.
Of the 15, 000 female students who participated, 68 percent are sexually active, and 32 percent are virgins. Of the students who are sexually active, only 15 percent are in committed long term relationships. The rest fall into ‘casual hookups’. Not surprising, considering college is about self-discovery and that includes sex, but what I don’t expect is the amount of students who admitted to being afraid of the stigma attached to casual sexual relationships. It’s a known fact that casual sex is a common cultural practice, but it’s only the female students who are considered sluts. Guys, on the other hand, are praised for their conquests, the proverbial ‘notches’ on their bedposts. Female students also admitted to being embarrassed about sex. Toby also included a list of websites dedicated to male students and their sexual behaviors, advice columns about how to blow girls off after a one-night-stand and reassurances that a bad sexual experience is the girl’s fault. What horse shit. The list of the same websites and blogs dedicated to the sexual health of female students is much shorter, and even so, the advice is meek, lacking the same freedom you would find on the sites for guys. Again, what horse shit.
I push the research aside and do some of my own, searching websites such as College Girl, Her Life and any other credible sources dedicated to the college girl’s experience.
And it’s more than a little infuriating.
It’s perfectly acceptable for a guy to brag about his experiences, and ask questions like “I can’t get hard. What’s wrong with me?”, but the moment a girl asks something like “I like this guy, but is it okay to have a friend-with-benefits type of thing?” she’s labeled with some derogatory term?
Seriously? Was this not the purpose of fighting for women’s rights? Okay, maybe not specifically about sex. I mean, it was more about women having the same rights as men, but as a girl, I’m offended by some of the information I’m reading. I am a sexual being — albeit inexperienced, which in itself is nothing to be ashamed of — and I have the right to express who I am. We just can’t catch a break here. Too much sex (with no strings) and we’re whores or considered promiscuous, and no sex (or too little sex) makes us prudes, or frigid. Next, they’re going to say that rape is our fault, which is what propels me over the edge.
It’s clear that my sisters are in dire need of a voice, someone to guide them through the maze that is sex.
And I, Savannah Leigh, have heard them. I will be that voice, that guiding light.
Although, I do believe that ‘Ask Annie’ is a sure fire way to get girls not to write in. The name reminds me of the advice columns during the 50’s that made marriage a ‘career’ and sex was never spoken about but only happened once a month, on a Wednesday night, with no contact save for the ‘hole in the sheet’. Ugh. How archaic. And stupid. I’d be a crazy cat lady had I been born during that era. No man will put me in a kitchen, tell me how to iron his stinky briefs, and then tell me which nights are dedicated to ‘hole in a sheet’ nights.
No. I need a name that will inspire girls to write in, a name that will become synonymous with empowerment and freedom of expression. I ponder it, staring at the screen. ‘Dear’ something. ‘Dear Danny’. ‘Dear Dorris’. No.
And then it hits me.
Dear Delilah.
8
SAVANNAH
WITH A REKINDLED SENSE of excitement and determination, I print out some newer information, more for myself, and then find Toby. He’s in his office, but my knock is interrupted by some loud voices on the other side of the door.
“I asked you to stop fighting, Griff.”
Griffin is here? The douche didn’t even stop by my desk to say hi.
“And I asked you to stop provoking those fuckwits in class. But no, you’re just going to do whatever the hell you want.”
“So you’re going to keep fighting out of spite, then? To prove that, what, you’re the man in this relationship? It’s a little childish don’t you think?”
“No, I’m going to keep fighting because I like it. It’s just the unsanctioned fights you have an issue with, and I don’t plan on stopping that either so I guess we’re at an impasse.”
“Then let me make myself clear. I will not stay with you if you keep fighting, Griff.”
Griffin huffs, and I imagine him standing there with his hands on his hips, and a thunderous expression on his face. “So you want me to choose between you and my fighting, that’s what you’re saying, right?”
There’s a moment of silence before Toby speaks again. “By the sounds of it, I don’t have to give you the options. You’ve already chosen and it sure as hell isn’t me or our relationship. So, problem solved. I’ll have my shit out by tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother,” snaps Griffin. “I’ll move out.”
“Whatever makes you fucking happy. I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”
“Back at you, Toby.”
My eyes widen at the way Griffin spits Toby’s name out with complete vitriol. I’m ready to scurry away and hide, maybe pretend I hadn’t just witnessed my brother and Toby’s break up, but Griffin blows past me, not even realizing I’m there. I contemplate leaving Toby alone, but decide better of it and walk into his office anyway. His eyes are red-rimmed from beneath his glasses, and a little puffy.
“Hey,” I greet, my tone tentative. I’m careful to hide my shock, still trying to make sense of the last 30 or so seconds. “Can I come in?”
Toby grunts, and then falls into his office chair. “Might as well. I’m sure the whole fucking campus heard that. Your brother is being such an asshole.”
My hackles rise. “You gave him an ultimatum. You know him well enough to know that won’t bode well for you. He doesn’t do ultimatums.”
Toby glares at me from above the rim of his glasses. “Is there a reason you came in here, or are you just going to defend your brother after eavesdropping on our very private conversation.”
Okay, that was uncalled for, not to mention straight up fucking rude.
I throw the research I’d done on his desk. “I’m doing the ‘Ask Annie’ column, and you’re going to rename it to ‘Dear Delilah’.”
“Fine.” He throws another piece of paper across his desk, and I catch it before it slides off and onto the floor. “There’s your first assignment. You have one week.”
I turn my back, ready to stomp my way out of his office when he stops me. “And Savannah, I need you to go to the arts building. Nathan is busy with the shoot for the Cheerleaders’ and Football players’ annual charity calendar. I need the first set of proofs as soon as he’s done.”
“But he’s going to be there all day.” I only know this because Toby keeps a giant calendar on the wall that details who is doing what for a particular week. For the remainder of this week, Nathan is in studio with our sports’ teams, and today, it’s the football players and the cheerleaders. Had I bothered to check it earlier, I would have stopped hoping Nathan would show up and saved myself a whole lot of disillusionment when he didn’t. I also would have noticed that of the three photojournalists on staff, he’s the only one editing his photographs on site, rather than coming back to the office like everyone else.
“He just let me know the first set of proofs are ready. You’ll still be in time f0r your classes if you leave now.” He senses that I’m dithering, and then adds, “Please. Just do it. I don’t want to have to explain to anyone else what they heard, or why I look like a fucking raccoon.” The quiver in his voice assuages the chagrin I feel, if only slightly. He’s hurting, and while I don’t believe that’s a valid excuse for anyone to behave like an asshat, I do empathize. My insides hurt not only for him, but for Griffin too.
I leave him alone, and shut his office door, flipping the sign beside it to �
��Meeting in Progress’. That should give Toby enough time to pull himself together and get through the remainder of the day without having to explain anything to anyone.
I, on the other hand, have to hustle across campus to the arts building, and be back in time for my first class.
The cold air whips around me, slashing across my cheeks and exposed hands. I make it to the arts building in record time, but grow impatient when I find that I don’t have access to the studio. Because of the high tech equipment in the photography and graphic design studios, only students with access cards can get in. I wait beside the door, hoping that someone will come in or out, but as luck would have it, I’ve stopped by mid-class which would explain the absence of other students. After 20 minutes, I decide to call Nathan and ask him to come get me, but it rings and rings and rings, then goes straight to voicemail. I try again, only to get the same result. I’m about to call Toby and let him know I have to get to class when the door swings open, and a few cheerleaders step out, kitted out in their championship uniform. I stop the door before it slams shut, and sneak in, looking for the studio where Nathan is shooting. Loud music plays down the hall, and when I follow the noise, I find the right studio. The football team stands in front of Nathan, all shirtless (hello!), and pose with balls in their hands while he clicks away from behind his camera. I stare at him for a moment, no less in awe of how he looks behind a camera than the first time I saw him taking pictures for the paper. His gray beanie rests low on his head, but not so low that it obscures his view. His navy blue Henley hugs his torso and his arms, and his dark denim jeans look snug around his legs. For such a big guy, he moves without effort, and when he’s holding that camera, his smile is blinding.
“Can I help you?”