I turned back to the sink. “The age. I wasn’t sure if you’d be cool with his age.”
“As long as he respects you. Knows you want to wait.” She couldn’t even say the word. Sex. As if the three letters combined into something more foul than a curse.
I lowered my face into the hot water’s steam, grateful for the task of washing the dishes, for a reason to face a corner. “He does,” I said, but my voice shook.
“Communication, Audrey,” Mom said. “Just remember that.”
“He’s a good kid, respectful, great work ethic clearly,” Dad said. “He was nervous, understandably—which is a good sign. A good kid would be nervous.”
I glanced back as Dad raised his wine up to the light, and he squinted, maybe looking for a fly in the red. But there was nothing. His wine was clean, so he raised it to his lips and took in another mouthful, and he said, “I’m not concerned.”
33
Let’s Talk About It
You want to know what I think about sex?
Here’s what I think:
I don’t know.
I thought it would be like jumping into a pool: You don’t know you like the water, want to swim in the water, until you’re plunging into the deep end.
Sex wasn’t like swimming. I actually really like swimming.
I don’t know.
What do I know?
Before this week, I was a virgin.
Before this week, no hands but my own went below fabric.
Before July, I didn’t know what a kissing daze felt like. Rolling on the ground, out of breath, fully dressed kissing, nuzzling, for hours beneath a white star sky.
Because before July, I’d never been kissed-kissed.
But how do I feel about sex?
I’m not a prude. I’m not. But even if I am, so what?
I don’t think this should be such a big deal, but I don’t know how to make it not a big deal when all of my friends rave relentlessly about sex, when everyone expects me to be famished for it. But when you’re stuck with your body all day and all night and become aware of its growth, of its bends and dents and scars, and hate those bends and dents and scars, it’s not quite so simple. The idea of going beyond kissing feels confusing. I flinch when my mom pats my back while I’m doing the dishes, when Grace catches me off guard with a leap attack, when Dad tries to hug me good morning.
This is just me. This is just my head. I’m not comfortable with the vessel I inhabit.
So I breathe through my nose, and I know I’m fine, that there’s no reason, no explanation. Because then again, maybe it is rational, because how can I be okay with someone touching me, being so close, when I so desperately want to peel off my skin and scoop out my layers and burrow myself beneath blanket forts?
And that was fine. I was mostly content with that, with not wanting to be touched. But then I met Brooks, who was so tentative, so tender, so also alone, and his being close was exhilarating, reviving. I lost sense of myself when I was in his arms, just us and the fire pit or the beach or the Audi. And so, slowly, I let Brooks come closer and closer, and the warm summer days dripped into one long gasp, until he wanted to feel my skin on his, and I kind of wanted to feel his skin on mine. And last night, Saturday night, I thought I needed all of him, that he deserved all of me.
But I didn’t, and neither did he.
It’s so dumb. I know it’s so dumb, but some days I wish I were still ten. Because, most days, okay, all days, sex doesn’t even interest me—it feels entirely abstracted from kissing, rarely a plausible action in my life. Maybe my head and heart are broken. Maybe I simply haven’t fully matured, or whatever. Maybe I need a new body that doesn’t feel so foreign and strange. Maybe this is entirely normal, and I simply haven’t found others who feel the same. Maybe the others are all remaining silent like me.
Maybe I’m simply not there yet. Is that not enough of an answer?
* * *
* * *
So, I don’t know what I think about sex. I wasn’t raised religious, and all my parents told me was not to be stupid and to communicate and to be in love and to use my brain, but I felt safe—though not Thursday night—and I loved Brooks and he loved me, and he wanted to be close, and maybe I wanted to be close too, so why was I so hesitant, still wanting to wait?
* * *
* * *
I don’t think I’ve answered the question yet.
34
12:40 P.M.
Back at Grace’s house, we drink several glasses of water. We smell like smoke, and our skin is sticky with sweat and ash. Her parents are at Costco preparing for the worst. Hayden is quiet in his room. I shower again. The stench of smoke bleeds from my skin, filling the bathroom in waves. Hayden showers here too. I squirt on green body wash. It smells like Hayden, like peppermint.
Maya. I said I’d be a better sister. When Maya was dancing again and I was no longer dancing, I told myself I’d keep her close. But I didn’t. I stayed in my room, door closed. I stayed out, phone on silent. In mid-August, we let the notion of my tutoring her in happiness-dancing fall away. She’s the love of my life, and I failed as a sister. I didn’t save her cat. She’s in the hospital. She fainted. The cancer might be back. I stand under the shower’s spray and hold myself.
I grab the strawberry shampoo, squirt it into my hands, rub it into my hair. It smells like Grace. I am crying again. I thought I’d never be one of those girls who gets a boyfriend and disappears. But I was and I did. All summer long, I pushed Grace away. I can be better. I will be better. I’m crying because I’m underwater, and it’s finally safe to break. So I cry for my house and my family and what Brooks and I became and for the land that’s burning. I cry until I can’t anymore, until my body is pink and I know I’ve used more than my fair share of water.
I leave the bathroom. I’m fine. I’m clean. Everything is okay. It will all be okay.
Except it’s not.
A text from Brooks, sent three minutes ago:
I love you. I’ll win this, for you, us.
I write back:
Call me?
My smoky morning clothes lie in a heap in the corner of Grace’s room. Why the hell did I only grab one pair of jeans?
And I text him again:
I love you too.
And he ignores my question, my want for a call, and simply sends back:
Be safe.
I take a breath. Another breath. Two full minutes of breathing and 911 is typed into my phone. I count to ten. I clear it out. I pull on my sweatpants from freshman-year gym and head downstairs.
Grace scrunches her face at me. “You can borrow some of my clothes,” she says, standing at the stove.
“You’re practically ten feet taller than me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really though, gym pants?”
“I’m going to the hospital, Grace. Not the mall.”
While I was in the shower, she was busy in the kitchen. Scrambled eggs with spinach and cherry tomatoes. Fried jumbo-size tortillas on the skillet and thick-sliced bacon. Salsa and sour cream and shredded cheese and avocado. A pot of coffee still brewing hot. Orange juice—the good kind, fresh, with extra pulp.
A lifelong Disneyland nerd with flair in the kitchen and a want to escape Southern California, Grace’s dream is to attend the Disney Culinary Program in Florida.
I stare at the food. “Um.”
“When did you last eat?” she asks.
“At Starbucks.”
“When did you last eat-eat?” she says, because she knows I sometimes forget, knows I sometimes don’t forget and would just rather stay empty. “You freaked me out back there. I thought you were going to die on me.”
“This is awesome,” I say, “but I need to go. My mom—”
“Food!” Grace claps and piles eggs and bacon and avocado onto a tor
tilla, slides it in front of me. “You’re not allowed to drive until you lose your dizzy-eyes.”
But right then Hayden walks into the kitchen, and there’s no way I can eat now because my throat clenches. His hair is a mess of curls, and he’s wearing basketball shorts and an old shirt I’ve seen him in a million times. Because I’ve seen Hayden a million times. But everything is different because of last night and Friday afternoon.
He makes a slight show of pausing at my presence on the stool, as if he didn’t know I was here, like I haven’t sat here hundreds of times.
And for whatever idiotic reason, he asks, “You make it to bed okay last night?”
Grace scrunches her nose. “What does that mean?”
“With the smoke,” he says, not so smoothly. “It can be difficult to sleep.”
I cut into my tortilla. “I slept okay. Thank you.” I meet his eyes. “Seriously.”
“Good.” He’s nodding. “I’m happy to hear it.” He snags a slice of bacon from the pan, smiles at Grace. “I love it when you make second breakfast. What’s the occasion?”
She waves a spatula in my direction. “Audrey decided it was a good morning for a fire hike.”
“A what?”
“I had to get back into my house,” I say.
“You were evacuated.”
I nod. “Hence the get back.”
“Evidently Audrey doesn’t need me to train her to get up to speed in track,” Grace says. “You know the giant hill behind her house? She was running up and down it, and the fire was like right there across the street, and she was running all around, and I was like, dude, where did you get such fine cardio—”
“That’s definitely not what you said,” I say.
Hayden’s stopped eating. He’s staring at me. “You could have been massively hurt.”
“I wasn’t,” I say.
“May I ask why you went on this venture?”
“Maya was hiding a cat in her closet,” I say. “I had to go back. She’s going to be devastated.”
“In other words, we didn’t find a cat,” Grace snaps.
I glare at her. “Not like you helped me look. You stayed up on the ridge.”
“You were acting crazy! I didn’t know what you were doing!” she says. “I mean, seriously, forgive me for my sanity. Do I look like someone who is just going to run into a fire? Not to mention the fact that you demanded I wait.” Grace turns to the sink.
I check my phone. 1:11 P.M. “I have to go.”
Hayden pushes at his glasses. “Where?”
“The hospital. Maya passed out.” I speak calmly, so whatever, because I have to believe this is a fluke and has nothing to do with cancer. I have to hold on to the possibility. “She’s probably fine.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry,” he says, and he’s going to say more but Grace shushes him, shakes her head, nudges him out of the kitchen, and then he’s gone with a call of, “Nice seeing you, Round Table.”
“Why did my brother just call you Round Table?” Grace asks.
I fake a shrug. “He’s your weird-ass brother.”
“Oh no.” She drops the spatula in the sink. “My brother is developing a crush on you. Oh hell no. What a goon.”
My cheeks burn. “Chill out. It’s an inside joke from psych. And how is Round Table in any way an endearing name?” Thank goodness he left off the Lady.
“I don’t trust him.” She gestures at my plate in a huff. “Your food is getting cold. Eat.”
I don’t want to eat because my appetite evaporated back at my house, but I know I need to eat to make it through this day, so I chew and swallow and gulp until half the burrito and a quarter of my orange juice have been consumed. Mom texts me again. Mom says Maya is probably fine, just dehydrated, probably just needs support, but she’s fine. But why am I not there yet?
“Grace,” I say, when her back is turned, when she’s at the sink, scrubbing a pan. “Will you come with me to the hospital?”
She stops washing and I remember. Big Sur with Quinn, who will be here in only a few hours. I’m finally asking for help at the worst time.
“I can reschedule the trip,” she says, turning to me. “Quinn will understand. It’s not like I have all the details ironed out, and she’ll get it—”
I stand to rinse off my plate. “Don’t you dare,” I say. “I forgot, that’s all. Not a big deal.” I’m scared to go alone. I’m scared to absorb the news. But I say, “My mom would probably rather it be just the family anyway.”
“Text me, whenever, constantly,” she says. “I want updates.”
I can’t stall any longer. My mom texts again. It is time to go. I’ve sat in this kitchen for over twenty-six minutes. I’m running out of time.
Grace shoves my dirty clothes into her washing machine, and I repack my backpack. I appease her by taking off my sweats and tugging on a pair of her old denim shorts. I haven’t worn shorts in years. It feels almost okay. I zip up one of her old hoodies, a black one with neon skulls and devil horns.
“It’s over a hundred degrees,” she says. “You really need a hoodie?”
“Comfort,” I say.
“I can call Quinn right now,” she says.
“No,” I say. “You two are having your night, okay?”
I hug her again and start to leave. But I’m halfway down the drive when Hayden runs out of the house, calling for me to wait. An echo of last night.
So I wait.
35
Sitting Water
In early August, I invited Grace and Quinn along on a morning hike with Brooks. We drove through Trabuco Canyon, the canyon walls high and scarred with starved brush and withered sycamores. The riverbed that runs beside the dirt road was an endless stretch of hot white boulders.
Brooks had accepted my last-minute decision to invite my friends with a silent shrug and an okay, cool, good idea. But now he was silent, gulping from a thermos of coffee—his knuckles tight as the Audi hit potholes and rocks, at times the back wheels spinning out.
“We should have borrowed my sister’s Jeep,” Quinn said. “You sure we’ll make it?”
Brooks laughed, but it was warped, almost cruel. “Don’t underestimate my Audi.”
Grace reached forward and tousled my hair. “That’s right,” she said. “We must never estimate our Audie. She’s a gem.”
I grinned back at her before Brooks could react. “I am something of a glorious rock,” I said.
“Audrey,” Brooks said my name pointedly, looking at me, like he’d never made up the nickname, like Grace had never heard him say it in passing. “My rock indeed.”
Quinn whispered to Grace, warmth in her tone, a coo. Brooks’s cheeks were red. The wheels hit another dent in the road, and I jumped and he sighed. He didn’t talk the rest of the drive.
* * *
* * *
We hiked the shaded trail in silence. Grace and Quinn held hands and raced through a tunnel made of dried branches and leaves. Brooks and I kept close, sometimes close enough that our arms pressed into each other. I wanted to apologize for sabotaging his plan: a quiet hike, alone together. I also wanted him to apologize for his often brash treatment toward my friends.
“I should have brought Hayden,” Grace said. “He’s spending his entire summer holed up in his den of a room, and it’s making him even crankier than normal.”
“Can you really judge him for that?” I asked. Hayden’s summer was entrenched with advanced classes at Saddleback College, preparing for the ACT, and spending his mornings coaching a middle school summer camp basketball team. “His schedule sounds exhausting.”
“If he can be judgy of my fun-centric lifestyle,” Grace said, “I can be judgy of his repulsive dedication to his precious four-point-whatever GPA.”
“I didn’t find Hayden’s dedication repulsive,” Brooks said dryly. “
He seemed well-balanced to me.”
Grace smirked. “He was putting on a facade for you, trust me.”
“You just miss antagonizing the poor boy twenty-four seven,” Quinn said. “You’ve been the cranky one ever since he stopped studying in the kitchen.”
“Whatever,” Grace grumbled.
I was surprised by Brooks’s comment, surprised he even remembered Hayden, let alone defended him. I wanted to hug him for this, but he walked at a distance, his face absent.
“Mind if we do a sprint?” Quinn asked.
“A what?”
Grace lunged her right leg. “Get some training in so we don’t have to go to the field later,” she said. “We’ll meet you up the trail?”
I nodded and they took off—their feet bounding over branches, their arms rhythmic. Quinn’s long braid swung behind her, Grace’s hair pulled back into the tiniest of pigtails—their legs strong, bodies bounding forward. They seemed invincible, and I ached for it.
Brooks took a swig from his water bottle. “I didn’t know they were girlfriends,” he said, which made sense. He’d only met Grace at her house, working on his statistics project with Hayden, and then he’d run into her and Quinn in passing at the senior prank night. “That’s cool,” he said.
I eyed him. “Cool?”
“Your best friend is a lesbian.” He shrugged. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She’s bisexual,” I said, kicking a rock into the dried creek. His silence tightened my throat. “And you would’ve known if you’d hung out with my friends more often.” I faltered over my words. The morning was already too hot, his sadness thick. I was making it worse. “It’s not like it’s a big deal. She’s Grace. My best friend.”
He squinted. “Do you ever wonder if she has a crush on you?”
“You’re joking, right?”
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