The Feel of Water

Twenty-Five - When She Comes Knocking

One night over the summer and late enough to see the sky lighten, I laid with Emilie in her bed. She had just gotten back from a party, and I stayed up to wait for her. By the time she walked home, she was nearly sober, and the first thing I noticed when she came in was mascara smudged under her eyes. It made her look dead. A part of me opened the door and immediately saw Emilie's corpse.

We shared the same pillow. We were destined to pillow-talk, but sleep deprivation brought on questions and topics I hadn't asked her about before. I asked if she was a virgin. She said no. She told me about her first time—it didn't sound romantic or special like I had imagined such things would be. Emilie had lost it in the back of David's car, and after hearing that, I prepared myself and understood that my first time wouldn't be like a movie scene. There was no editor to cutout nervous pauses or stumbles or unease. There is no montage or dreamy music or lustful stares. But the one thing I could make sure of was that I wouldn't be in the back of some guy's car.

I could make sure that I liked him. And I could be honest.

"Where are your parents?"

Sean's house is empty and dark. He turns on a dim light when we come through the front door. Something about this feels familiar—back when I was hopped up on ecstasy—but tonight it's different. The alcohol from Andre's has drained out of my system and I have nothing to encourage me but my own thoughts. I linger behind him, following up the stairs.

"They're in Seattle for a wedding. They won't be back until tomorrow night," Sean says, peering back at me.

Of course he seems unbothered. Confidence drips into him like he's hooked up to an IV, never having too much or too little. On the other hand, my mind is continuously sorting through thoughts, images, ideas, possibilities, wants. The adrenaline pumping through me lifts my feet from step to step so I can quickly get my head in order. I need a clear mind. Or at least something organized. Allison's advice pokes through the clutter every now and then; don't do anything that feels too soon. What if everything feels like it's too soon before I actually do it? Have I really felt ready for anything before, or have I simply dived in headfirst?

We come into his bedroom, and I sit down on the edge of the bed, remembering it clearly from last time. The things I felt when I woke up in his bed beside him—I couldn't possibly put it into words. It was like I was living the life of a girl I never knew I wanted to be.

Sean takes off his stained shirt and doesn't bother putting on a new one. I think it's normal for guys to be shirtless at home. Emilie used to be pant-less constantly, always having a pair of underwear on show with lace and micro-sized bows, or maybe even a word like 'cheeky' on the butt. Unlike her, clothes made me feel comfortable. I layered myself in t-shirts and sweatshirts and hoodies; I had shorts under pajama pants even in mid-summer. I covered myself in heavy fabric like it would replace the feeling of arms around me. My clothes held me. I felt safe.

I bring my legs up on the bed, holding them against me and resting my chin on my knee. My eyes glaze over his defined torso as my mind still cleans itself up, frantically shoving things in corners like a lazy person stuffs their junk in a closet. If I close the door, it's like none of it is there.

"Tell me you're staying for the night," Sean says, nearing me, "because I like having you in bed with me."

"Why? I don't steal all the covers?"

"No. You do. You also move around a lot, and you lay on top of me, and you talk a little in your sleep."

I roll my eyes and mutter, "Shut up. I do not."

"You do," he assures me. "You mumble. I thought I might hear some of your secrets, but I can never make any of it out."

"Well, now I don't know if I should stay. Apparently I'm a nightmare to sleep with."