Firsts

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

  The menu reads more like a gardening guide than something found at a restaurant. I let Kim order for me because I know she will get her way regardless, and there’s nothing I could order that wouldn’t make her shoot me a judgmental side eye anyway. I commit myself to hating this place on principle, with its obnoxiously green décor and references to nature. I think of Charlie, with his gardening gloves and shovel and his big secret planned for Angela, and whatever appetite I came in with all but disappears.

  “What do you think?” Kim asks, after watching me force down a wheatgrass shot.

  “I think this is why grass is in the ground,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Not fit for human consumption.” I almost want to add, I have swallowed worse, just to see her reaction.

  “So, there’s a reason I asked you to dinner,” Kim says, pushing her sprout salad around on her plate.

  Oh no. The last time she started a sentence that way, she wanted to let me know she had decided to move her twenty-year-old boyfriend into the house. Luckily, that phase didn’t last even as long as the juice fast.

  I take a bite of my grilled pear sandwich, the only thing that looked remotely edible on the menu. I spit it out. It’s not.

  “It’s your father,” she says. “He wants to spend some time with you. Says he wants a ‘second chance.’” She puts second chance in air quotes.

  I push my plate away, still tasting charred pear in my mouth.

  “Second? Try tenth. I’m not falling for it. Don’t let him bullshit you, Kim.”

  “Look, Mercedes. I think this time is different. He actually called me, instead of sending an e-mail at some ungodly hour. He admitted what happened between us was his fault.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean, his fault? Who else would be at fault for driving away in his stupid car?” I sound angrier than I actually am. I came to terms with growing up without a dad long ago, but the one memory that still hurts me is my dad waving from that stupid red Mercedes as he pulled out of our driveway. It’s probably the clearest memory I have from my childhood, period. I hate how that one gets to stick in my mind and that I can’t do anything to banish it or swap it out for something happier.

  Kim clasps her hands together and studies the remains of her mangled salad. “This is very awkward,” she says. “I didn’t want you to find out about this until you were an adult, but you’re seventeen now. I guess now is as good a time as any.”

  She stops talking and stares at me. Kim is almost as famous for her dramatic pauses during conversations as she is for her fad diets.

  “Your father didn’t just up and leave us. It wasn’t that simple. We both had our problems, and we both gave in to our vices.”

  I shrug. “So dad was a drunk?” I do remember lots of liquor bottles adorning our kitchen when I was little, but I always assumed it was Kim doing most of the drinking.

  She looks down at her hands. “No, honey. He wasn’t a drunk. He was”—she drops her voice down to a hush so that I have to lean across the table to hear her—“unable to look beyond a small mistake.”

  Now it’s my turn to stare. “What do you mean, a small mistake?”

  Kim closes her eyes and massages her temples, an awkward motion due to the excessive length of her nails. “We both made mistakes. Your father made his share. He spent too much time at work, sank all of his money into his stupid car collection. He didn’t pay attention to me.” When she opens her eyes, I’m surprised that they’re rimmed in red.

  “What are you trying to say, Kim?” My voice gets louder without me meaning it to.

  “I’m saying that I slipped. Just once, but once was enough for him to leave. He couldn’t trust me anymore.”

  The wheatgrass shot—or something else—churns in my stomach, threatening to come up. “Wait a minute. You cheated on Dad?”

  Kim nods almost imperceptibly. My head starts spinning. She never elaborated on why he left, and since she was always so reluctant to talk about it, I never brought it up, either. She managed to bad-mouth him in almost every way possible, from his propensity to throw money away to his absences at family functions. I always assumed if anyone had cheated, it was him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” I spit out.

  She begins quietly. “I knew you’d be inclined to blame me. But he was even more at fault. He told me he only married me because I got pregnant with you, that he wasn’t ready to be a dad. He even said I tricked him into sticking around.”

  “So you’re saying I was a mistake?” I grip the table, hoping that steadying my body will also steady all of the ugly thoughts clamoring for space in my head. I’m a mistake. I wasn’t wanted. Kim was twenty-eight when she had me. Old enough to know better, twice as old as Lydia was when she had Faye. I can just imagine her lying to my dad, telling him she was on the Pill when she secretly stopped taking it. She only wanted me to keep a man around—a man she cheated on. What a giant crock of shit.

  “Of course not, honey. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Kim reaches across the table for my hands, which I swiftly hide in my lap.

  “So you cheated on Dad,” I say slowly, trying to comprehend the words as they come out of my mouth. “You cheated on him and pushed him away.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” Kim says, her hands still outstretched. “It was once. I was lonely, so I went to the bar and met someone who made me feel good about myself. He actually complimented me. I didn’t realize how depressed I had been.”

  I grit my teeth. “So some guy at a bar feeds you a line and you throw away your marriage for it? Great decision, Kim. Well done.”

  “That’s not what it was like,” Kim says, raising her voice. People are probably staring at us, transfixed by our family drama, but I don’t let my eyes stray from Kim’s face. “Your dad checked out of the marriage way before it happened. He told me he wasn’t attracted to me. He told me he wanted to leave.”

  “So where do I fit into all of this?” I say, my voice quivering. “Dad wanted to divorce me, too?”

  Kim wipes her eyes with her napkin. “He wasn’t ready to be a father,” she says slowly. “He never got there. And I think when things went bad, you reminded him too much of me. He couldn’t be around you because it was too painful for him.”

  I stand up, my chair scraping the floor. “He was wrong,” I say. “I’m nothing like you.”

  “Don’t go, sweetie,” Kim says, gesturing for me to sit down. “Please don’t go. I never stopped loving your father, just like I’ll always love you.”

  “You have a weird way of showing it,” I say, grabbing my purse. “And in a few months I’ll be out of your hair completely. So it’ll be like your mistake never happened.”

  I have never cried in public, and I don’t plan on starting now. I focus on the ground and bite my lip as I weave through tables on my way out the door. But since I’m not looking up, I bump right into somebody.

  “I’m sorry,” I say instinctively. When I look up to see who I hit, I feel like I have been punched in the stomach. It’s Jillian Landry, holding hands with Tommy Hudson. The first.

  “Mercedes,” Jillian says sweetly. “It’s totally my fault. I never watch where I’m going.” She laughs, a sound as airy as wind chimes. She lets go of Tommy’s hand. “Babe, this is the brilliant tutor I was telling you about. The one who’s helping me pass chemistry.”

  Tommy opens his mouth and closes it again, like a fish gaping for air. Finally he manages a cursory hello. Obviously he didn’t know that the same girl who helped him is helping his girlfriend in a very different way. I see the fear flash across his eyes, the momentary panic that I’ll blow his cover and ruin his life.

  “See you on Wednesday,” Jillian says, but her words are muted, like somebody turned the volume way down. I bite the inside of my cheeks and wave good-bye. My hand feels like lead.

  When I’m outside the restaurant, I break into a run, sucking in giant breaths of air that turn into heaving sobs. My purse slaps against my
waist and my lungs feel like they’re about to capsize, but I don’t stop running until I’m home.

  24

  I pace around my bedroom until Rafe is scheduled to arrive, but I’m not sure if I’m listening more for the sound of the doorbell ringing or the sound of Kim’s key in the lock. When nine thirty comes and goes, I don’t hear either. Maybe Kim is drowning her sorrows at the bar, telling her life troubles to some idiot who doesn’t know any better. She’s probably sitting in a dark corner there now, waiting for some drunk guy to feed her a line. How pathetic. And maybe Rafe forgot about our date or decided he wasn’t interested in me after the vodka wore off. Also pathetic.

  I stare at my phone, hoping to see a missed message from Zach or Faye. I haven’t heard from either of them today. Maybe they have given up, and I don’t blame them. If they could see me now, they’d no doubt run the other way.

  I’m wearing black stilettos, fishnet tights, and a negligee the color of midnight. I loaded up on the makeup, rimming my eyes in kohl and painting my lips in that red Kim said didn’t suit me. I don’t look like myself, or even any version of myself that I would recognize. I’m edgy and very aware that if Rafe doesn’t show up, I don’t know how I will get rid of the edginess and stop it from eating away at me.

  Doorbell. Key in the lock. Doorbell. Key in the lock. I strain my ears, unsure of which sound I actually want to hear.

  And at nine forty-five, the doorbell rings. Rafe’s eyes bug out when I open the door, which was exactly the reaction I needed from somebody tonight. I force a smile but couldn’t feel further from carefree.

  “I thought I wanted to wait,” he says when we’re locked in my bedroom and I’m straddling his waist and unbuttoning his shirt. “But really, I figure nothing in life is worth waiting for. Especially something that’s going to give you pleasure.”

  I grab his face with my hands and pull him toward me. The motion catches him off guard. I want him to react, to turn into something feral, to flip me on my back. But he just sits there, letting me writhe on his lap until I finally tell him to take his pants off.

  “Wow,” he says, his voice raising at least an octave. “This is all happening so fast. Wow.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I maneuver myself underneath him. “You’ve got to use your arms to hold yourself up,” I say, struggling for breath as he positions himself on top of me. “You can’t just flop on top of me like a dead fish.”

  “Don’t flop like a dead fish. Got it.” I can tell he’s concentrating intently by his furrowed brow and the way he bites his lip. When he finally enters me, he moans in pleasure and flops like a dead fish all over again. I feel absolutely nothing besides a mounting sense of irritation.

  Why does somebody get to have such strong, capable arms but have no idea how to use them? I blow out a breath as I wait for him to finish. Rafe is exactly the type for whom instructions of any sort are lost instantly, because he has his own way of doing things.

  My irritation turns to guilt when I think about Zach. Zach’s way of doing things. Zach is great in bed and does everything right without being told.

  Zach is also great out of bed. The kind of guy who takes care of a drunk girl who didn’t even want to be his friend. The kind who wants to bring you soup when you’re sick. The kind who doesn’t suspect you of faking sick when really you’re blowing him off to sleep with a guy you don’t even want to sleep with.

  I feel sick. This is why I didn’t want anybody to get close. This is why I don’t want a boyfriend. This is why I don’t have a boyfriend.

  So why do I feel like such a cheater?

  When Rafe finally rolls off me, I pull my sheets over my body, a gesture that doesn’t mean much. Rafe isn’t looking at me anyway. He steps back into his jeans and starts laughing, a sound that starts out as a nervous giggle and ends in a sound resembling a roar.

  “What’s so funny?” I say.

  “I really owe you,” he says.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Rafe. I hope you learned something. Pay it forward to your girlfriend. Pass it on.”

  This is the part where I would usually initiate a conversation about how and where he planned to do the deed with her, about how he intended to make it special and memorable. This is the part I used to like the most. Tonight, I can’t even fathom dealing with it.

  “No, I owe you. You saved my life!” Rafe gesticulates wildly with his hands.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Rafe. It’s just sex.” My mounting irritation reaches a pinnacle. I want nothing more than for Rafe to leave me alone. And I want nothing more than for people to stop telling me I’m saving their lives.

  “It’s not just sex. I’m free now.”

  I pull the sheet over my head, expecting some spiel about how sex is the body’s utmost expression of freedom, or the human body’s highest art form. One of the other drama nerds, Joaquin—aka the Preacher—gave me a similar spiel a couple months ago. He even had tears in his eyes, although with drama geeks you never know if those tears are real or fake.

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” I roll over, hoping he will take his cue to leave. But he doesn’t.

  “You don’t understand. And maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m feeling so open right now. My girlfriend—Caroline—she’s absolutely psychotic. I tried breaking up with her at least a dozen times. I tried everything. I stopped calling, I blew her off, I even changed my Facebook relationship status.”

  I push my bangs off my face and pull the sheet down. “What are you talking about?” Despite my calm exterior, budding fear is replacing my previous irritation. I didn’t stalk Rafe on Facebook before he came over like I normally would, since I figured I already had him pegged as the musical superstar, Milton High’s Danny Zuko. I’m going to be seriously pissed if my own stereotyping bites me in the ass and I just slept with this idiot for no reason at all.

  “I’m talking about life! We only get one life, and it’s too short to spend with somebody you don’t love. But Caroline couldn’t get that through her thick head. She told me the only way she’d ever leave me is if I cheated on her. And that’s where you come in.”

  I bolt upright. “Wait a second. You used me as a cop-out so your girlfriend would dump you? Grow a pair, Rafe. That’s pathetic. And she won’t find out anyway.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you’re wrong. She will find out. These things always get out, sooner or later.”

  “No, they don’t,” I say, pointing my finger at him. “Nobody has ever complained about their girlfriend finding out. Not ever. You guys don’t tell, because if you do you’re screwing over yourself and all your friends. And the girls don’t know about it because nobody talks. That’s why it works.”

  He pulls on his shirt. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. I cannot let Rafe know how unsettled I feel.

  “I know you think you have a flawless system,” Rafe says, crossing his arms. “But if it was flawless, I wouldn’t be here. I’m here because I’m banking on it being flawed. I’m here because someday, hopefully not too far down the line, the virgins at Milton won’t be the only ones who know about you.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Rafe. Can you imagine how many relationships that would ruin?”

  He shrugs. “Not my problem. I’m an actor, not a fucking philanderer. I’m looking out for number one here.”

  I point at the door. “You’re welcome to leave now. And I think you mean you aren’t a fucking philanthropist, not philanderer. Because you are the exact definition of a fucking philanderer. And number one? You don’t even rank in the top ten.”

  He gives me a sweet smile on the way out, making me wish I were close enough to slap him in the face.

  “Mercedes. I hope you don’t hold any ill will toward me, because I’m forever grateful to you. I’ll probably mention you in my wedding speech, once I find the right girl. But the right girl sure as hell isn’t Caroline.”

  When he’s gone, I leap out of bed an
d wash my sheets immediately, wanting to disinfect myself from anything that has been in contact with Rafe. I almost can’t believe that his dick was inside me, and I can’t believe I wasted number fourteen on such a complete loser. And at this moment, I don’t care about numbers at all. I’m done paying it forward. Really done this time. It’s sad that Rafe took the last spot, but this is getting too weird for me. The virgins were supposed to make me feel in control, but I feel the complete opposite, like control has gone careening away from me. I should have just stopped at Evan Brown like I planned to, because that was when things started going downhill fast.

  I shut out the lights and try to fall asleep. Kim still isn’t home, and the fact that it’s after ten thirty means there’s a good chance she’s pulling an all-nighter somewhere, with someone. Rafe’s words echo in my mind. These things always get out, sooner or later.

  I pick up my cell phone. No new messages. I should have spent tonight helping Zach with his chemistry homework. That’s what a real friend would have done. I wonder what he would think if he knew what I was actually doing tonight.

  Pressure is building behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry over somebody as stupid as Rafe Lawrence. So I pull out my notebook and press down as hard as I can with my pen, so hard that it makes an indent on the next page. Not that it matters, since Rafe’s entry is the last one I’ll ever write. Rafe Lawrence, number fourteen. I don’t bother to rate him, because he doesn’t even deserve a zero. Instead, he gets a rant.

  CREEPY LYING ASSHOLE. Of all of them, I wish I could take this one back.

  My eyes burn. The tears want to come, but I won’t let them. Then I write down the worst thing of all, something I didn’t even know was true until I stare at it on the paper.

  He made me feel like nothing. Like I was the most pathetic person in the whole universe. Maybe I am.