by Nina Kenwood
— Okay
— I’m at my dad’s place.
I send him the address, and he says he’s on his way. Dad calls out to me then, asking if I’m ready to watch the next episode. We’re watching a new Netflix series that is very, very slow and it takes all my strength not to look at my phone every two seconds, but I’m trying not to ruin our first night together, because that might set the tone for the rest of our lives. Dad and I have to figure out a whole new relationship, one without Mum’s presence, and I have no idea how to get it right.
I walk into the lounge.
‘Dad, someone is coming over.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s after ten.’ After 10pm, to Dad, is a time for quietly drinking a cup of tea and eating shortbread biscuits. It is not a time for going outside, being loud, or doing things of any kind, most especially socialising.
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s important.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A friend.’
‘Coming here?’
‘Sort of. I just need to talk to them for a second. I’ll go downstairs, I won’t bring them up here.’
‘You can bring your friend up here.’
‘I’d rather not.’
He looks at me, and frowns. ‘You are being very mysterious.’
‘Says the man who lied to me for ten months.’
‘Well now…’ he pauses.
He and Mum are still really struggling to come up with ways to get around the fact that they did a terrible thing to me. They still won’t admit it was terrible—they won’t say it, but we all know it was.
‘For my peace of mind, tell me who it is,’ he says.
‘A boy.’
‘What boy?’
‘A boy called Alex.’
‘Is this boy called Alex nice?’
‘I’m still deciding.’
‘Okay. Are you going to go somewhere with him?’
‘No. I’m just going to sit in his car and talk.’
‘All right. What are you going to talk about?’
‘That’s private,’ I say, which is a mistake, because now he probably thinks it’s about sex.
Dad sips his tea and puts the cup down with a rattle. ‘You know you can always talk to me, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ This is true: Dad is far less judgmental than Mum.
‘I’m good at giving advice.’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘And I was once a teenage boy, so maybe I have insights you don’t know about.’
‘You would have been a very different kind of teenage guy to Alex.’
‘So he’s not a Star Wars super-fan who collects rocks?’
Dad was very much a nineties nerd stereotype as a teenager, as far as I can gather. I saw a picture of him once, as a fifteen-year-old, and I felt instantly sorry for him, even though he looked happy with his arms slung over the shoulders of two friends, all of them grinning, one of them delightedly pointing to his T-shirt which had an image from a movie I didn’t recognise on it.
Then I imagined my own child looking at pictures of me at fifteen and feeling sorry for me, except that was easier to know why, because of my skin, and the way I can never, ever relax in front of a camera, which comes through so clearly in every single photo. I’m always looking down, looking away, half-turning, straining, enduring, smiling in a closed-mouth, get-this-over-with way. ‘Gee, you’re not photogenic, are you,’ a friend of Lucy’s once said to me, choosing which group shot to post on Instagram, and I said, ‘It’s good because people are never disappointed when they meet me in person,’ and she nodded earnestly, like it was my master plan all along.
‘Not quite,’ I say now to Dad.
‘Still, try me.’
‘Fine. Hypothetically, and I’m not saying this is Alex, but if someone cheated on their previous girlfriend, does that mean they’ll cheat again?’
‘Yes,’ he says, without hesitation.
‘So if you do something bad when you’re young, that defines who you are for the rest of your life?’
‘Well, no.’
‘So which is it?’
He takes another sip of his tea, thinking.
‘I don’t know, sweetie. People aren’t all good or all bad. You can learn from mistakes. Or you can keep making them. You can always become a better person.’
‘That’s not very helpful.’
‘I do know I don’t like the sound of this boy.’
‘I said it was hypothetical.’
‘Well, I hypothetically don’t like him.’
I’ve introduced Dad to the idea of Alex with the worst story possible, which is incredibly stupid, but I can’t imagine Alex ever actually meeting my parents. That feels years away, if it ever were to happen at all. It’s the problem of a different Natalie. This current Natalie just needs to know what to do tonight, here, now.
When Alex messages me to say he’s outside, I hurry down the three flights of stairs as fast as I can, and then I feel ridiculous. Calm down. Don’t be the girl who trips and dies because she’s rushing to see a boy who took two days to text her and who once cheated on his ex.
I walk out of the apartment building and over to his car, trying to look casual.
‘Hi,’ he says, smiling when I open the door.
‘Hi,’ I say, getting in the car.
God, he’s cute. I wish I didn’t think that every time I saw his face, but it’s involuntary now. Alex. Cute. Alex. Cute.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Let’s start over.’
‘From when?’ I say.
‘From before the movies.’
‘But after Queenscliff?’
‘Yes.’
So we’re keeping the kissing but erasing my knowledge of the cheating? I frown, and the car falls quiet. For once, I don’t feel the need the fill the silence. This is his silence to deal with, his problem.
‘It wasn’t cheating cheating,’ he blurts out.
‘I thought we were starting over.’
‘I know, I know. I just feel like you’ve heard about one of the worst things I’ve ever done, and we’re not going to get past it.’
‘I think the less we talk about your ex the better.’
‘It wasn’t Vanessa’s fault.’
‘Okay, that’s the opposite of what I just said.’
‘I know, I just want you to know I’m not blaming her or anything.’
On the one hand I’m pleased he said this, because the idea of him bad-mouthing Vanessa after he cheated on her would make me furious, but on the other hand, it also doesn’t make me feel any less insecure about him maybe still being in love with her. I flashback to watching her sitting on his shoulders and feel a stab of jealousy at the ease of their bodies together.
‘Clearly, you two still get along, so there’s no reason for me to be mad about it if she’s not.’
‘I wasn’t always a good boyfriend to her.’
‘Obviously, because you cheated on her.’
‘I feel like the word cheated is being overemphasised.’
‘In what way?’
‘Look, I was seventeen, I wasn’t even sure if we were together anymore, I was drunk and sad, and I kissed a stranger at a party for a minute.’
‘You said it was two minutes before. Now it’s one minute.’
‘It was a very, very short amount of time.’
‘Did Vanessa consider it cheating?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she upset?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘I’m not saying I wasn’t in the wrong. I’m just saying what happened. It wasn’t something that I’d planned. And I told Vanessa about it straight away.’
‘So it was spontaneous? The kind of thing you might do again at any moment?’
‘No!’
I don’t know how mad I can be with him about this. Am I just a horrible, judgmental person, hassling him about something that is largely no
ne of my business? Or am I doing the right thing, the smart thing, finding out everything I can before I get too attached? Surely things shouldn’t be this messy after one date. We’re barely a week in. I should be asking him his favourite colour or favourite TV series or favourite something. We should be exchanging boring facts. Not traumatic secrets.
‘Look, I don’t know how to talk about this stuff,’ Alex says. There’s real panic on his face. This is hard for him.
‘You don’t owe me an explanation,’ I say. This is all Zach’s fault. Damn him and his big mouth and his need to ruin my life.
‘I would have told you about it. Probably not on our first date, but at some point,’ he says.
‘Well, I know now.’ I wish I didn’t.
‘I just don’t want you to think of me as the kind of person who would cheat on you. It’s not who I really am,’ Alex says.
I look at his face, half-lit by the nearby streetlights, and I do believe him. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
In that moment, I decide to trust him, and what he’s telling me. Which feels reckless, like I’m giving him something I can’t get back. A leap of faith. I even decide not to mention that he didn’t text me for two days. (Maybe I am more emotionally mature than I thought.)
‘Well, at this point, I mean, would it even be cheating?’ I ask, opening a whole new can of worms. What kind of together are we? If I’m trusting him, I need to know the answer to this question. I’m glad it’s dark, because my face feels very red. I think my hands are shaking.
‘I meant cheat on you in the future. If things get, you know, more serious,’ Alex says, glancing at me and then away.
‘Oh, right.’
‘But also now. It’s not like I’m seeing anyone else.’ He looks at me again, but this time he doesn’t look away.
‘Me neither.’ I repress the urge to laugh hysterically at the very idea. God, every step in this process feels like a competition in making yourself the least vulnerable person in the equation.
‘I’m not even thinking about anyone else,’ he says, still holding my gaze.
‘Me neither,’ I say again, my heart hammering. I give him a little smile.
He leans over and kisses me then, and we kiss for a long time, and I forget we’re on a public street until my phone buzzes and I assume that it’s Dad texting me and if I take too long to respond he’ll come downstairs to find me and we’ll never be able to look each other in the eye again for the rest of our lives.
‘Okay, I should go back upstairs now,’ I say, pulling away.
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘My Dad is waiting. It’s my first night staying at his new place.’
‘Okay.’ He rests his forehead against mine very briefly and it takes all my strength not to reconsider and stay in this car forever.
‘You could come over to my mum’s house tomorrow.’ These invitations just fly out of my mouth now.
I want to be around you all the time and that desire makes me feel sick.
‘Yeah?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
Every second of this is terrible and confusing and wonderful, and I love it and hate it in equal measures.
27
The First Time
I’ve thought a lot about my first time having sex. Maybe I’ve over-thought it, but over-preparation and over-analysis are better than none at all. I’ve read as much as I can online and in books, and I’ve come to have three expectations—one: it might hurt; two: it’s very, very unlikely I’ll have an orgasm (I know how to have one on my own but there seems to be a lot of logistics, multi-tasking and detailed communication involved in having one with someone else); and three: I won’t know what the hell I’m doing, in a general sense.
I wish I could skip the first few times—maybe even the first ten times, or twenty, or thirty (sex might be one of those things it takes ten thousand hours to become really good at it, like golf and playing the piano) and get to the point where everything works perfectly and I either look good doing it or I’m enjoying it so much I don’t care what I look like.
When I was younger, I thought I wouldn’t have sex with anyone unless they loved me with an all-consuming movie-star love. Then I got bad skin, and I changed my stance—maybe the person didn’t have to love me, they just had to like me a whole lot and have really good shoulders. Or like me a little bit. Or be willing to look at my face without making fun of me. Or just be simply willing.
Lucy and I decided one day (this was before she was with Zach, and before she had sex with Travis) that we’d figure out sex, and all the other stuff that goes with it, once we got to university. We’d magically find low-stakes, low-maintenance boyfriends (or in Lucy’s case, maybe a girlfriend, she was open to either). They’d be people who were cute and fun but who we didn’t care about that much, and we’d get good at sex while sleeping with them, without worrying too much what they thought of us or the pressure of anyone having feelings.
But now there is Alex.
Alex and all the Alex-feelings that go along with him.
He’s the person I want to have sex with. The sooner the better, before this whole thing falls apart and I miss my chance.
I figure today is the day. Alex is coming over, like we agreed in the car last night. Mum is at work. If we do it now, in my room, on my terms, on my invitation, then I’m more in control of the situation. I’m in control of how much—or little—he’ll be able to see of my body in the process.
I might not be in control of what happens with my parents, or where I will live, or what university course I get into, or what I will do with the rest of my life, but, fuck it, I will have control over this.
I’ve tidied my room and put clean sheets on my bed. I’ve bought a box of condoms from the supermarket. I’ve double-checked I haven’t missed a pill in the last month. I’ve had a shower and put on my expensive skin moisturiser, the one I save for special occasions. I’ve brushed my teeth twice. I blow-dried my hair this morning, and kept going until all my hair was dry, which is a big deal because I usually lazily leave the underlayer damp. I even stretched my hamstrings and watched a meditation video on YouTube to centre my spirit, whatever that means.
I text Lucy and say ‘I might have sex with Alex today’ because it doesn’t feel real without telling her. She immediately calls me.
‘Natalie!’ she shouts.
‘It might not happen,’ I say, putting her on speakerphone so I can examine my eyebrows at the same time.
‘Are you sure about this? It seems very fast,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say. I am sure. I think. I’m eighteen. It’s time. It has to be time. It feels like my moment. I could start university ahead of schedule.
‘What are you wearing?’
‘The Boob Top.’
‘Okay, good. How are you feeling?’
‘Nervous,’ I say, leaning as close to the mirror as I can. My eyebrows need to be sex ready. I don’t know what that is exactly, but I know how they currently look is not that.
‘Do you want…advice?’ she says, a little hesitantly.
‘What kind of advice?’
‘About…any of it.’
‘Okay, tell me your top five tips,’ I say, suddenly realising Alex is going to be here any minute.
‘I’m not a BuzzFeed article.’
‘Quick, just tell me the most important things.’
‘Um, okay. Go slow. Have fun doing other stuff first, but don’t do anything that you don’t want to do. Use lubricant. And stick to the basics.’
I have a million questions (What are the basics!? How necessary is lubricant!!?) but the doorbell rings and it’s all too late.
‘He’s here. I have to go!’ I hiss into the phone.
‘Good luck!’ she says.
I hang up, take three deep breaths like my YouTube video said to, and walk to the front door.
‘Hey,’ he says, when I open it.
‘Come in. No one’s home,’ I say, already on the edge
of nervous babble.
I lead him immediately towards my bedroom. I’m jittery. I suddenly just want this to be over with. I picture myself an hour from now, as a sophisticated person who has had a satisfying sexual experience. I want to jump ahead to that moment.
He’s looking around, as though I’m going to give him a tour, but I shepherd him straight into my bedroom and I sit down on my bed.
‘We have two hours, maybe three, before my mum gets home,’ I say. Mum doesn’t normally get home until six, but I’m building in a buffer.
‘For what?’ he says, looking a little confused.
‘For whatever we want to do.’ I keep my tone light, but I hope he gets my meaning. I don’t want to resort to smiling suggestively.
‘Okay.’ He still sounds confused as he sits down next to me. We look at each other. He didn’t shave this morning and he’s wearing a plain grey T-shirt. The combination of a stubbly cheek and a well-fitted top is irresistible.
I stand up, and pull down my blinds, then shut the door.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, looking at me like I’m about to commit a murder.
‘Just giving us privacy,’ I say.
‘Right. Isn’t the house empty, though?’
‘Extra privacy.’
I sit back down on the bed, leaving a space between us. It’s not completely dark with the blind down, but it’s dark enough that he won’t be able to see my skin properly. If I’m going to take my top off, I can’t let him see my scarred back in natural light, that’s for sure.
‘So,’ I say.
‘So.’
I lean forward and kiss him, and he kisses me back, but he seems a little hesitant. After a few minutes, he’s lying on top of me, and the hesitation is disappearing. I tug at his T-shirt, and start to pull it up, putting my hands on the bare skin of his back. Now he stops.
‘What are we doing?’ he says, leaning up on one elbow.
‘What do you think we’re doing?’ I say, feeling a little twist of nerves in my stomach but trying to play things cool.
‘I feel like…I don’t know.’
‘Well, we’re doing whatever we want,’ I say. I can picture someone else—someone cooler, the kind of person with the confidence to wear black nail polish, the kind of person who could cut their hair into a pixie cut without regretting it, the kind of person who’s done more than the sex basics with at least two different people—being able to say this line in a really seductive way. I sound like a child.