by Rowena
“No, none of the above. We actually have a bit of history—I met her some time ago, when we were pretty much kids. We used to be neighbors, sort of. Anyway, it’s been a long time since then, and I thought I’d never see her again, but there she was, in my English class. I just… I finally have a chance to be with her, and I’m not letting her get away this time.”
“Huh,” is all Cody says, and I suspect he’s still stuck on the idea of getting a chance to bang my ex.
It’s not like I didn’t know Beth was the most lusted after girl on campus, and it’s not like the guys can do much to hide their envy that I was with her; I don’t blame them for drooling.
Cody’s right—any or all of them would take up an offer from her, if given the chance.
Well, let ‘em have her—she’d be off my back, at least.
My mind drifts back to Maddy.
I’d bet money she’s not the type to have seven-eleven legs; in fact, her count is probably super low. She can probably count her partners on one hand with fingers left over.
Hell, there might even be a chance I could be her first!
But no way I could be that lucky—she has probably experimented once at least—maybe at her old college.
Still, I’m pretty sure Maddy’s conservativeness is not an act; she is hesitant about opening up to anybody in a way that assures me there’s no way she’s some hidden raging slut or ‘nerdy skank’ as Beth called her. Maddy keeps to herself; she keeps her circles small.
I’m amazed I’ve known Maddy for less time, and yet I’m more sure of her in every way.
“So you’re really serious about being done with Bethany,” Cody says, like he finally processed it, still staring off to the side. Then he turns to me. “Okay, but—not that I’m judging or have anything against it—but going after Maddy right away—isn’t it a bit quick?”
“Eight years is fucking long enough. No more waiting.”
He nods as if conceding. “I hear ya,” he says. Then he tips his glass toward me. “Cheers.”
I’m not sure what exactly we’re toasting, but I think he’s wishing me good luck.
While Cody goes to put in the next round, I think about how to approach Maddy.
5
Madison
Diary Entry #256
My hair is a hazard to my health.
It can get caught in car windows, refrigerator doors.
It can be the reason my neck gets broken, or a spot on my head is sore for days if a small patch gets yanked out.
But it’s dangerous in other ways as well.
It starts conversations I’d rather not have and makes people disrespect me in brave new ways.
I learned early to put it up and away, out of sight, out of mind; people can be unbelievably rude.
Since my teenage years, I can count on one hand the number of times I went out in public with my hair down, and there’s always some asshole who feels they have the right to reach out and put their dirty hands in it.
All respect for personal space goes out the window, so I keep it hidden.
My hair attracts too much unwanted attention.
I’m brushing my hair when Judy surprises me by coming home early.
“Whoa,” she says, sounding like someone who just witnessed a shooting star up close. “That’s a lot of goddamn hair!”
She’s usually in class at this time, so I thought it would be a good time to do my routine.
“I can’t believe… is it real?”
I almost laugh. “Yup,” I say, sort of enjoying her wonder.
“How long did it take you to grow it?”
She still looks hilariously incredulous.
“I’ve just never had it cut. And apparently I inherited a long growth pattern from my mom—she had almost knee-length hair.”
“Goddamn,” she says again, her hand reaching up to her own neck-length black hair, I suspect involuntarily.
“How long does it take for you to… you know… take care of it?”
Uncharacteristically, I happily launch into details of my hair routine.
I guess it’s because we’re in our own dorm room so it’s just the two of us, and I’ve been lightweight stressed lately due to a certain quarterback.
Talking about something so light and frivolous is helping me take some of the edge off.
I remember how nice it is to be able to share like this sometimes, especially something I’m so proud of.
I can easily see why people do this every now and then with one or more people.
Talking about something as silly as hair, with no real stakes involved—the interaction is relaxing.
Besides, I don’t have my usual social anxiety with Judy because, well, I’ve seen her dirty panties crumpled up, and I know what kind of deodorant she wears, what kind of hair products she uses, how she likes to go to bed (pajama shorts and tank).
In a way, she and I are already quite intimately familiar with each other.
At some point, I even let her touch my hair—it seems like she needs to do it in order to confirm what she’s seeing is real.
She is still gazing wondrously.
“Not that I blame you, but why keep so much of it? It obviously takes some effort. Like, why not just have it at waist-length or something if you want it long instead of help-a-prince-up-a-tower long?”
“It’s something my mom and I had in common,” I say quietly, my mood suddenly darkening.
To her credit, Judy seems to intuit that it’s a tough spot, and she drops the subject. And the lock of my hair she’d been holding.
“I want to take you out,” Abe says as soon as we’re in step after our shared class.
In my head, I’m immediately like, how about no, but my traitorous mouth says, “Where?”
Damn. Why did I say that?
If I let him take me out, there’s an excellent chance I’m doomed to lose my virginity—my body won’t stop crying out to be held by his.
No doubt that’s all he’s after from me—especially now that I probably seem like a tougher nut to crack, a bit of a challenge.
Guys like him—all they want is to sample different flowers, right? Dipping from nectar to nectar like parched bees?
I know this is all he wants from me, and yet I can’t stop myself from wanting the same from him—I’ve never wanted to give up my V-card so much in my life—and I don’t know why!
It’s kind of driving me crazy.
Okay, I guess the fact that he’s steaming hot and doesn’t actually come across like a complete asshole, and his voice is like melted butter is good enough for the baser parts of me; he’s got me interested on a primal level. My lizard brain says those genes of his have got to be good—prime material for baby-making. I could have a gorgeous, healthy son or daughter with a guy like this.
Obviously, I don’t want babies—not now, anyway—but my body has no objection to opening up to this male specimen and take that risk.
I know if I give in, I’ll regret it; I’ll end up heartbroken, mentally whipping myself for being so stupid for letting him do that to me.
I don’t want to be a stupid girl!
There’s not even a guarantee I’ll have a good time if he gets in my pants and yet here I am, waiting for his answer so I can pretend to begrudgingly say, “Maybe,” still trying to play hard to get, of course.
Am I trying to punish myself for something? For leaving my last school? For not sticking around and being strong? Do I believe I deserve whatever I get for running away? Even if it’s getting used and abused by some airhead jock?
“I was thinking the Arboretum and Botanical Garden,” Abe says in his deep, silken voice. “Would that interest you?”
It’s a wonder I don’t drop my pants and bend over for him right there and then.
It takes me a second to stutter out what’s supposed to be a smart-ass reply: “A jock and a bunch of plants?”
“A human being interested in the nature of many things.”
My cheeks heat with shame.
I’m definitely going to have to find some other way to try to resist him—lame sarcasm and fake scorn is not the way.
I’m not fooling myself, and I’m just giving him more ammunition to get past my walls because at every turn, he reminds me that he is not an object or stereotype, making me even more interested in him than ever before.
I’m pretty much handing him the tools to further break me down.
I give myself a pass this time around, though—the last thing I expected was for Abe the Babe to come up with the most irresistible date imaginable.
How did he manage to come up with that? It can’t be coincidence.
Has he done some kind of homework on me?
But where would he have obtained personal information?
I don’t have much of an online presence; I barely have a Facebook page.
I try to think if there’s anything on there that he could have picked up on and come up blank.
My profile is pretty minimal: a few photos of me, some with my mom and me, but I don’t have time to announce to the world what I like to eat or do, and I definitely don’t like to announce where I am or where I’m going—I’m far too paranoid to share most stuff, and I certainly don’t crave the attention of strangers.
Plus I have some serious privacy settings on there—not just anyone can see the things I have posted, and I don’t friend just anyone.
I think I have about seventy-two ‘friends’ between high school and college friends and acquaintances, coworkers from various jobs I’ve held over the years, and a couple of distant cousins.
“I’d love it,” I finally say softly, my throat a bit tight. “When?”
He smiles an almost-blinding smile and emotions start choking me even more.
How the hell does he do this to me?
“How about this Saturday at twelve?”
“Deal,” I say, still warm all over.
His adorable half-smile will be my undoing.
Thank goodness I don’t have to dress much differently for the date, but I spruce up my face a bit—some lip gloss, mascara. A bit of eyeliner.
I almost feel like a slut for doing it—like I’m actively trying to tempt Abe to take things further with me—but I like what I see when I’m done, and I ignore the impulse to wipe it all off.
He didn’t show up to class on Thursday, so I only saw him once this week instead of twice like last week.
That saying about absence and the heart is right on about now.
My heart pounds harder as the time until I see him ticks nearer, and it pounds even harder once my eyes finally rest on his large, muscular form again.
Even though Abe is dressed essentially the same, something’s a little different about him, too, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Maybe he brushed his hair differently?
When I get closer to him, I suddenly find myself lost in his masculine aromas.
I never noticed his cologne before, or maybe he’s wearing a new one.
Either way, the scent is heavenly and the whole of him makes me lightheaded.
I feel like I’m going to be lost to him soon.
I don’t know how to stop what’s happening to me, and I no longer want to.
Abe looks so genuinely happy to see me, it immediately destroys me.
He seems truly excited, and it’s making him appear adorably boyish and absolutely irresistible.
He’s not a player extraordinaire for nothing—he has completely convinced me of his joy, despite me already knowing he’s full of it.
Welp—might as well treat this like it’s real. Might as well make a positive memory of it.
“Hi, Maddy,” he says warmly, and again with inexplicable depth of feeling. “You look beautiful.” Off my expression, he says, “You do—don’t give me that look.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Or giggle, I guess—like some damned hormonal fourteen-year-old.
“I’m really glad you agreed to come with me,” he says.
“Not sure I had a choice,” I say somewhat truthfully.
I have this odd feeling something else is at work here, and I don’t want to use the F or D word, but there seems to be something beyond us between us, and I’m just riding the wave.
“What made you think of this?” I ask Abe when we take a lunch break after about an hour exploring the gardens.
I can’t read his look clearly, but there’s a flash of guilt maybe?
“Well, I know you really like plants, and I just hoped you still did after all this time. I figured there was an adult way to indulge it somehow.”
“Hold up, back up. Where’d you get that from? I don’t wear vines around my wrist or neck or anything. I don’t wear flowers and leaves in my hair… ”
“You used to be really into gardening. You and your mom sometimes did it together.”
The intoxicating cloud I had been floating on as we walked from place to place, learning and pointing out this tree and that flower, disintegrates, and it feels like there’s a piano poised over my head, hanging by a thread.
I definitely didn’t put anything about my mom and me gardening on Facebook.
I considered putting up a photo of a weird-shaped tomato once, but I decided against it because who cares? Even if the tomato looked like the victim of a nuclear fallout? It’s not that important or interesting.
“Okay, you’re creeping me out, so you better explain yourself.”
He smiles a little, reaching for my hand, and I instinctively pull it away.
He looks a bit hurt by my actions, but what did he expect? I’m seriously weirded out.
He takes a deep breath.
“We used to live near each other at some point. About eight years ago.”
It feels like time stops as my heart pounds loudly while tiny pieces start falling into place.
No way.
“I lived a few doors down, but not far enough that I couldn’t see you guys out there, tending to whatever you were growing. We never met officially, but I recognized you as soon as I saw you that first day of English class.”
I know what he’s saying to me but part of my brain won’t accept it.
“But how can that be? The only guy my age from around that time—his name was Kevin… ”
“My full name is Kevin Abraham Stone. I just go by Abraham now. I dropped my first name not long after I moved out of your neighborhood.”
My mind is reeling, and I realize my chest is heaving pretty obviously, but I don’t care.
You mean to tell me that sitting in front of me is the grown-up version of the boy I crushed on so severely, I dedicated pages and pages of diary space to him?
That boy I regretted never taking the opportunity to introduce myself to is now looking at me with warm green eyes?
The boy who saddened me with his darkness greeted me with pure light as I headed for him and his car for this date?
I don’t even care to acknowledge my last wall crumbling to the ground.
I have so many questions!
I start bombarding him with them before I can stop myself.
His smile is almost blinding as he holds his hands up in mock defense against my verbal missiles, except his smile has less humor than before.
I almost wish we hadn’t brought any of this up because a familiar dark cloud starts to settle over him.
“Okay, to answer a few of those questions—my mom and I moved there after fleeing my childhood home. It was my mom’s attempt to start a new life without my dad. He had been abusive for years, and by that time, she had a restraining order on him and everything, but ultimately neither that piece of paper or moving to a different place saved her from him. He tracked us down and shot her to death while she was out shopping, and once she was… gone, I couldn’t stay there. I went to live with relatives.”
My hand involuntarily reaches for his, covering it, and I only realize I’d made the gesture when relief floods me that he hasn’t pulled his hand
away.
I have to shake off the heavy wave of emotion that flooded me during his story to talk again.
“I am so sorry, Abe,” I say.
He shrugs a little.
“Anyway, I was named after my dad, and after he offed my mom, I pretty much didn’t want to have anything to do with him—including answer to the first name we shared.”
My hand squeezes his.
“He’s in jail now—got sentenced to thirty years so he’ll be in there a while.”
I realize he hasn’t met my eyes for some time now.
But then his large hand suddenly squeezes mine back, warm and strong, and then his gorgeous green eyes meet mine again.
“What’s been going on with you?”
It’s almost comical. He says it like we’re friends who got out of touch, like we’re not gripping each other’s hands right now, gazing into each other’s faces.
Like he didn’t just tell me such a horrible thing.
But I indulge him and allow the spotlight shift.
“Well, my mom and I lived there a few more years after you left. She died in my senior year of high school, so I didn’t have to worry about placements or anything—I had planned to head off to college after graduating. I hadn’t decided which offer to accept until she died, actually. Then I knew I had to get out of there—I couldn’t stay around the same place that would remind me too much of her. I had to start anew, somewhere fresh. So I left the state for the first time in my life.”
“Why did you transfer here? It’s still a long way from home.”
“Well, we had an incident at the school I couldn’t quite get over—a small-scale shooting. A disgruntled student opened fire and took out a professor, and a few students got injured. I tried, but after that, I couldn’t really focus like before. Everything felt disrupted, and I just couldn’t stay there anymore.”
“I’m so sorry, Maddy.” His voice is heavy and the genuine regretful tone reaches deep into me, making me uncomfortable.
Again, I feel defenseless against his penetration.