Before I got out of the car he put his arm around me and kissed me softly. Then he looked directly into my eyes and said, “So … do you want to be my girlfriend?”
“I do,” I said. And we both had laughed delightedly.
* * *
When I got home from my run I went immediately to my computer, without even taking off my sweaty clothes. I pulled up SearchForSchoolmates.com and clicked on Patrick’s name. In order to send an e-mail I had to sign up and pay fifty dollars. Fifty bucks? I hesitated for about two and a quarter seconds. Finally there was the e-mail window with Patrick’s name in the To box and mine in the From.
Patrick, I began.
I have no idea what made me go to SearchForSchoolmates.com, but when I saw your name on the list it made me smile and I had to join just so I could e-mail you. So you owe me $50!
How is it possible that it’s been 32 years?
I have so many fond memories of you. I remember your black leather jacket and your great smile. I remember dancing to Aerosmith and Badfinger. And I remember New Year’s Eve at Jack Bradshaw’s house when we were 17. Whenever anyone asks me about my most memorable New Year’s Eve, that’s the one I describe.
What’s happened in your life? Last I heard (20some years ago) you had moved to Florida. Are you still there?
I hope you haven’t forgotten me—I would be crushed. I hope you are well.
I signed it, wrote Your past comes back to haunt you in the subject line and read it over again. Should I send it? If I did would I tell Michael? Somehow that didn’t seem likely. But what the hell, I thought, and before I could change my mind, clicked Send.
I laughed at the nervousness I felt. What was that all about? Who cared? He was just a guy I’d known a lifetime ago. Big deal if I never heard from him.
But I hoped I would. I hoped he’d write back and say he thought about me every New Year’s Eve at midnight. I hoped that night was indelibly etched in his brain as it was in mine. It was the night, after all, that I lost my virginity.
Four
I’d been ecstatic when Patrick asked me out for New Year’s Eve. We’d only been dating a few weeks and it was such a big-deal date night. We’d go to a house party, he said, and I imagined us in a room full of other kids, dancing when midnight struck, his face close to mine, and then he would kiss me. Would it be a slow, passionate kiss in front of all those people, or just a peck? A sweet, lingering one, I hoped. One that announced that I was his.
“It’s at Jack Bradshaw’s house,” he told me. I’d known Jack since third grade. Our fathers played softball together, our mothers played bridge. Patrick told me Sophie and Pete would be there but he didn’t know who else. That didn’t matter a whit to me. All I cared about was being with Patrick.
Sophie and Pete were already at Jack’s when we arrived that night, and Jack’s friend Frank, but no one else. Were we early? A table was laden with chips, sour cream and onion dip, cocktail weenies wrapped in pastry, and Cheetos. Lots of Cheetos. A cooler with beer and ice stood on the floor in front of the table. It appeared that nothing had been touched except for the two Pabst Blue Ribbons that Jack and Frank held. The Doors blasted from the stereo with “Light My Fire.”
“Where is everyone?” Patrick asked as he shook hands with Jack and Frank.
“We’re it,” Jack said over the music. “Everyone else had something else going on. Said maybe they’d stop by later.” Clearly this was not his first beer. “Frank and I are going out. You guys are welcome to stay. No one’s home, folks are out—won’t be back till the wee hours of the morning. Eat, drink, be merry. We’ll be back later.” And then they were gone. The four of us burst out laughing.
So there we were, seventeen years old, alone in an empty house. Pete and Patrick each grabbed a frosty beer, clinked bottles, and took a long swallow. Then they got beers for me and Sophie.
“What the hell happened here?” Pete asked.
“How is it everyone had something else going on?” I asked. “When did he ask them? This afternoon?”
“Well, hey,” Patrick said, “here we are in this big ol’ house with food, beer, music and”—he looked at me—“each other. Can’t get much better than that.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Pete said, and we all clinked beer bottles.
There was a huge stack of LPs by the stereo and we looked through Jack’s collection. He had all our favorites: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Bad Company, Steely Dan, the Moody Blues, Neil Young. We talked and laughed and listened to music. We danced to the rock stuff and a little later turned down the lights and put on some slow songs. It was cozy and warm in the basement rec room, and having Patrick’s arms around me made it even warmer. He held me close and kissed the top of my head. I loved the feel of his body skimming mine and the way he ran his hands up and down my back. I wrapped my arms around him and closed my eyes. It was a perfect New Year’s Eve.
Sophie and Pete made out as they danced and I couldn’t help watching them over Patrick’s shoulder. I envied how easy they were with each other. Before long they disappeared entirely. After a while Patrick looked around the room and said into my ear, “Hmmmm, looks like we’re all alone.”
I was thrilled. And scared. We sipped our beer and danced some more and then Patrick kissed me, baby kisses on my neck and forehead. Then he kissed my mouth. His lips were soft and his tongue was in my mouth and there was no one to watch us and the house was quiet except for Elton John on the stereo. The lights were low and we sat on the couch, sinking into the puffy cushions.
His kisses were silky and his hands roamed my back and shoulders and up into my hair, making me tingle. When his hand found my breast, a part of me no one had ever touched before, I couldn’t concentrate on the kissing. But I didn’t stop him. I liked it, even while a voice in my head told me I shouldn’t let him do this, that it wasn’t right, that we hadn’t known each other long enough and he would think I was easy. Things were different then from how they are now; kids weren’t so sophisticated, things didn’t move so fast, relationships were more chaste, at least until you were an established couple. At least for good girls. I worried, but I’d had too much beer to worry for long.
Patrick moaned a little. Then he took my hand and said, “Come on,” pulling me off the sofa and leading me upstairs, into one of the bedrooms.
“Should we be in here?” I asked, wanting to stall, wanting to run out the door and into the street and right home to the safety of my father’s house.
“Sure. It’s okay,” he said. He locked the door and said, “All safe now. Is that better?” Not really, I thought, but I didn’t want to be a prude.
Patrick pulled back the flowered bedspread and sat down while I stood, not knowing what to do or say. I felt conspicuous and awkward, and I thought I should get the hell out of there before I did something I’d regret. Actually, I was eyeing the door for a quick getaway when he patted the bed beside him and said, “Come here,” so irresistibly that I went right over, as if magnetized, and sat beside him.
I stared at my hands. “I’m not sure we should do this,” I said, thinking he would laugh at me.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
He brushed my hair behind my ear and kissed it. His tongue darted inside and sent a thrill up my spine. Then he kissed my neck and buried his face in my hair.
“Smells nice,” he murmured. I started to relax and soon his hand was on my breast again. I kissed him back, touching his chest and running my fingers through his soft, silky hair. His hand snaked up under my sweater and caressed my breasts over my bra, and then he pushed my bra aside and touched my nipples, sending electricity up my spine.
His breathing was faster now. So was mine.
As if I had done it countless times before, I sat up, feeling bold, pulled my sweater over my head and removed my bra with a quick, expert movement. Suddenly there I was, practically naked. Oh, Jesus. It was like I was possessed.
Patrick
gazed at me—into my eyes, at my hair, my mouth, my breasts—and then he got up on his knees and took his shirt off, pushed me gently onto my back and lay down directly on top of me, his smooth, narrow chest connecting with mine, his skin cool. His back felt strong and muscled. I was breathless under him. But uncertain, afraid.
“Patrick…” I said.
He stopped, looked at me. “What, darlin’? You okay?” The warmth of his sincerity melted my hesitation like butter.
“I’m okay,” I whispered, and he planted kisses all over my neck and shoulders and breasts.
There was an awkward moment as he started to pull off my bell-bottoms. I helped him by lifting my hips off the bed and I could feel my face color. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood, leaving me exposed, alone and naked on the bed. He looked at me while he took off his jeans and Jockey shorts and I pretended I wasn’t embarrassed, making an attempt to look sexy (whatever that was) and returning his stare, resisting the impulse to pull the bedspread over my nakedness. I could see peripherally that his penis was jutting straight out from his body, and it was so weird that I had to fight the urge to laugh. I desperately wanted to examine it but couldn’t bring myself to look at it directly. Then I thought, How will that thing fit inside me?
He pulled something out of his jeans pocket and when the wrapper crinkled I knew it was a condom. Oh my god, I thought, I am really doing this. By then there was no part of me that didn’t want to, but it felt surreal. Patrick returned to lie beside me and pulled me back into his arms. He was unhurried and careful, as if I were a baby bird, and when he entered me he was gentle and cautious. “Is this your first time?” he asked. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t catch my breath. I nodded. “Are you okay?” he asked one more time, and I nodded again.
Don’t ask me any more questions, I thought, just do it. And he did. And it hurt for a moment but then it didn’t, and I could feel him inside me, pulsing and warm and I thought, I have a penis inside me.
Bells didn’t ring and fireworks didn’t explode, but when Patrick looked at me with those penetrating, sparkly eyes, it made my heart smile.
Afterward, we lay side by side, my head in the crook of his shoulder. He stroked my arm as his breathing slowed, and then he turned over, his arm forming a tripod to hold his head as he looked at me and asked, “Was it good for you?”
“It was great,” I said. And it was, but not for the reasons Patrick assumed. It was great because it made me feel special inside, and loved, and very grown-up.
“You’re beautiful, Libby,” Patrick said as he swept wisps of hair off my forehead. That was the part I liked best, more than the sex act itself—that attentiveness, those small but weighty gestures that made me feel valued. My heart wanted to lift right out of my body and float around the room. I wanted him to say it again. I wanted him to say he loved me.
Patrick got up out of bed, took my hand and pulled me up with him. When I stood he held my arm out to the side and his eyes traveled over every inch of my body. I didn’t flinch as he admired me. “Beautiful,” he said. “Perfect.”
I blushed.
“Dance with me,” he said, and took me in his arms. There was no music but my heart sang so loudly I thought that was what he must have heard.
I was in heaven. Pure heaven.
And then someone pounded on the door.
“Who’s in there?” Jack Bradshaw shouted, his voice edged with panic. “Harrison, is that you?”
“Uh, yeah. Just a minute,” Patrick called as we frantically grabbed our clothes off the floor, my heart pounding like a jackhammer.
“C’mon, man, get outta there. Now! My parents are pulling into the garage!”
Thinking back on this now made me chuckle, but there had been nothing funny back then. We’d both been horrified.
I was eating pancakes the next morning when Jack’s mother called. My mom picked up the phone in the kitchen and my fork froze in midair when she said, “Margie, happy new year to you, too.” Jack Bradshaw’s mom.
I watched her face and saw the exact moment when Mrs. Bradshaw described what she had seen last night after Patrick and I threw on our clothes and sprinted out of the bedroom—buttoning, zipping, tucking in. Mrs. Bradshaw had smiled at first as we came rushing down the stairs, about to say, “Happy new year,” until she took in the scene and our disarray, and her eyes went flat.
“Libby,” she had said. “What’s going on here?” Although it was clear as air.
My mother turned to me and stared as she listened, her eyes saturated with disappointment. “Don’t move,” she said when she hung up. And then she left the kitchen.
This must be what it feels like to go to the guillotine, I’d thought, cutting my pancakes into tiny pieces, pouring more syrup on top and mashing it all with my fork. By the time my parents came back and sat at the table, I was looking at a big gluey mass. My mother eyed the plate.
“Mrs. Bradshaw says you and Patrick used their bedroom last night and left it a shambles,” she said.
“It wasn’t a shambles,” I said.
“So you were in their bedroom?” my father said. I couldn’t bear the disapproval in his eyes. I picked up the fork and mashed some more.
“Libby, explain yourself.”
How could I possibly do that?
“Oh, Libby,” my mom said. “Tell me you were just making out.”
Hearing the words “making out” coming from my mother’s lips grossed me out.
Mash. Mash. Mash.
“For Christ’s sake, is that the kind of girl you are?” my dad said. He sat down and shook his head. “I’m shocked, I really am.”
“You slept with that boy,” my mother said.
Mash. Mash. Mash.
“Sex is serious, Libby,” she said. “Sex should be something special between two people who love each other and want to build a life together.”
“Do you know what boys your age think about girls who have sex with them?” my father said, and I wanted to clap my hands over my ears and hum to drown out whatever words would follow.
“You’re too young to have sex,” my mother said. “You have no idea what you’re doing, what that means.”
“I do, too. I’m not an idiot, I’m seventeen,” I said. “And I don’t go around having sex with all the boys at school.”
“Well, thank god for that,” my mom said.
“And who is this boy? We don’t even know him.”
I looked up from my mound of pancake cement. “His name’s Patrick, and he’s a really great guy,” I said.
“Then why haven’t we met him, if he’s so wonderful?” my father asked.
I shrugged. I didn’t tell him I was afraid they wouldn’t like him, that he had long hair. My father hated seeing boys with long hair, called them hippies in a derisive tone. “He looks like a girl,” he’d grumble.
And then there was Patrick’s black leather jacket and his chains. Strike one, strike two, strike three.
I wanted them to know what a good person he was, how responsible. I should have told them he had a job but instead I said, “We used a condom.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” my father said. He walked into the living room and back again, hands in his pockets. “I’m very disappointed in you, Libby.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “We love each other.”
Where had that come from? The look on my mother’s face reflected the surprise I felt after the words escaped my mouth, but I hated that they were thinking about me in bed with Patrick, thinking I was a tramp. It was humiliating. I just wanted to flee from the kitchen and the mound of pancakes and the looks on their faces.
I’d had to call the Bradshaws and apologize, and offer to buy them a new bedspread and sheets (which they kindly declined). I was grounded for a month.
“You will come right home after school and you will not go out on Saturday nights for a month except to work,” my father had said. “I don’t ever want to see you with that boy.”
Of course we saw each other at school every day. For the month I was grounded Patrick picked me up at the bus stop in the morning and dropped me there after school. After the month was over, when I could go out again in the evenings and weekends, I spent all my time with him. My parents knew who I was with but they never asked and I never said. I’m sure they breathed an enormous sigh of relief the day I left for college, mostly grateful that I hadn’t gotten knocked up.
Five
Michael called later in the day to say he’d have to meet me at my parents’ house, that his meeting was running long.
“Should I bring anything?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got some wine. We’re good. Listen, Michael … do you have a second or are you in a hurry?” I wanted to plant a seed about not getting married.
“I’ve got to run,” he said. “George is waiting for me.”
I sat for a moment after he hung up, thinking I should at least have told him not to say anything to my parents about our getting engaged. Well, I could catch him later.
Rufus was asleep on my bed, looking like a big ball of gray flannel. He opened one eye when he heard me open the closet door. He yawned and stretched and then walked over to the edge of the bed, where he stood meowing, ready to weigh in on what I was going to wear. My clothes hung neatly: jeans on one side, casual pants next, dress pants after that. Blouses, then dressy tops, then casual tops, then skirts and a few dresses. In one corner were the things Michael left at my house: a few pairs of khakis, two pairs of jeans and four shirts. The closet was tidy and organized. Kind of like my life.
While I grabbed a pair of jeans Rufus continued to meow, and as I pulled them on he extended a paw toward me, waving me over. It was his game. He liked attention. “Pet me,” he’d say if he could talk. “Just a little scratch around the ears.” So I did.
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