“You would’ve volunteered to be my outlet?”

“Your receptacle. Because I’m a giver.”

“I just gave you an orgasm that made your eyes cross.”

“Well, sure. Giving has its benefits.”

He starts laughing again, and I hug him tight, loving the way his body feels against mine.

Loving him.


When we come out, we bump through the bedroom doorway, West’s hand at my hip, a shit-eating grin on his face that I can’t see but can feel with my whole body.

Happy.

It’s amazing, I think, that we can find so much happiness at a time like this. I mean, yes, sex. But it’s not really the sex. It’s what’s underneath the sex. It’s how he makes me feel, how I make him feel, how we are together. This golden ribbon of something beautiful we’ve always had between us, there even when I was peering into his car and trying not to look too hard at the bare slice of flat stomach reflected in the car window. Even when we were arguing at the library, not-touching at the bakery, kissing on the train tracks.

Even when I told him to make up his mind and walked out on him, that ribbon was there—a shining possibility underneath.

I do feel a little awkward, though, about Krishna and Bridget. Who are sitting on the couch, watching TV kind of … tensely.

I think the tension must be in their bodies. Bridget sits ramrod straight, the back of her neck pink. Krishna’s got his arm braced along the top of the cushions, his whole body turned toward her, one knee up on the couch, even, and I get this impression of haste, like maybe he just moved away from her, even though I would have seen it if he had.

If he’d been two feet closer to Bridget, his arm right behind her, leaning over her, leaning into her, and then hastily moved away to where he is now when I pulled open the bedroom door—I never could have missed it.

Except I think maybe I did, because when Krishna turns around, this kind of hard, glistening something in his eyes reminds me of a horse about to buck.

I’ve never even seen a horse about to buck, but that’s what I think of. A terrible impulse, barely contained.

“What are you watching?” West asks.

It’s a fair question. Because they’re watching My Little Pony. With the volume weirdly low. Like, barely audible low.

Bridget is picking at her track bottoms, pinching little tents at the spot where her knee bends and the material wrinkles up.

Krishna is looking everywhere, at nothing.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of them in the same room together but not talking. They are both Olympic-medal talkers. Talking is practically their religion.

I’ve definitely never seen them look so awkward.

Nor have I known Bridget to fail to answer a direct question.

That’s the point at which I would like to crawl into a cave for a while so I can sit with my humiliation, because of course this is our fault, West and me with our door-slamming and our probably loud loud loud sex noises through the thin walls, and Bridget and Krishna out here listening for God knows how long.

How awful are we?

Totally awful. I’m not a good friend. They’re here to support me after my meeting with the administration, and I let them be sexiled to the living room to marinate in the discomfort of West’s and my grunting horrible coitus sounds.

If that’s even what they were doing. Marinating in discomfort.

I don’t know. I’m just thinking about the best way to sweep the whole thing under the rug—apologize? But how can you apologize for sex noises? I would die—when West takes the conversation in completely the other direction.

“Is this one of those things where you mute the TV and replace it with another soundtrack? Like watching The Wizard of Oz while listening to Dark Side of the Moon, except with My Little Pony and Caroline and me fucking?”

I punch him in the arm. “West!”

Krishna starts to laugh.

Bridget covers her face with her hands and buries her head in the couch cushion. I think she says something about Twilight Sparkle, but it’s hard to hear her with her mouth against the leather.

“Dude,” Krishna says. “That was epic.”

“Right?” West is smiling in this way only a guy could—70 percent ego, 30 percent swinging dick. “I should get a medal.”

“Do you guys want a ruler?” I ask. “You know, for measuring your penises?”

Krishna makes a dismissive noise. “He’d win.”

From the depths of the couch cushions, Bridget makes this noise that’s like a scream crossed with a squeak.

“Do you want some ice cream?” I ask. Because that’s all I’ve got to offer. I don’t have one of those laser-gun things that can erase memories with one bright white pulse of light.

“Yes,” she says. “But only if you have the kind with the pretzels with peanut butter in the middle and chocolate on the outside, in the vanilla ice cream with peanut butter stripes.”

“Chubby Hubby.”

“Yes. Or I guess I’d take mint chocolate chip. But not that terrible stuff you had before with the fruit in it, because you know how I feel about fruit in my ice cream.”

“Why don’t you come with me and see?”

She gets up. I expect her to climb over Krishna, whose leg is partially blocking the path between the coffee table and the kitchen, but instead she goes the long way around and doesn’t look at him.

“Twilight Sparkle, huh?” West says to Krishna. “Is that what’s got you two all hot and bothered?”

“No, it’s that picture your mom sent me of her in her panties.”

“Oh, yeah? Was it as good as the video I got from your grandma last week?”

“Dude. Leave off my grandma.”

“That’s what your sister said when she wanted her turn.”

“Oh my God,” Bridget says. “Make it stop.”

My head’s already in the freezer. I take it out to call, “Settle down, boys! You’re both pretty.”

I try to sound scornful, but it’s hard to pull off when you’re smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.


The week after Sex-Picture Day is crazy.

Spring break is coming up. West and I both have mid-semester papers and projects due. I endure another meeting with Student Affairs because my dad has decided he wants to be part of everything, except once he’s in the meeting he doesn’t say a word. It’s this weird repeat of the first meeting but with more people in the room.

The Internet-Asshat emails keep flooding into my in-box. I guess they’ve found my phone number, because now I’m getting all these hang-up mouth-breather voice mails and ranting, insane threats. I have to screen all my calls, delete three-quarters of my texts. I decide to suspend my Facebook account and shut down my Twitter altogether.

All of it has to be documented, too. Everything needs to be tracked. I’m already tired of it. I wish I could just switch off the phone, turn off the computer, and ignore the whole river of garbage that my life has become.

And, as if that’s not bad enough, West can’t get his mom on the phone. Frankie hasn’t sent him any texts for a few days. He’s worrying.

There’s nothing I can do.

I’m overwhelmed, weary of being hated, worn out from so much hard work.

There’s nothing he can do.

We stick together like we’ve been glued to each other.

We’re at the bakery when his phone finally rings. I’m mixing up the dill, and he’s slitting open a bag of flour to dump into the bin. Since I’m closer to his phone, I look at the screen. “It’s Bo.”

He drops the blade on the floor. I meet him halfway with the phone. I know he’s been hoping Bo, his mom, someone, will call him back.

“Hey. What’s up?”

I turn my back to adjust the volume on the music, and the ten seconds the job requires is all the time it takes for the color to drain from West’s face.

“How long ago?”

He paces the length of the table as he listens.

“Did you try to talk her out of it? Or … No, I know.… No. All right. And what about Frankie, is she—”

His shoulders sag.

His fingers are white where they curl around the phone.

“All right. Thanks. It was decent of you to call. I’ll … I’ll take it from here.”

When he hangs up, he just stands there.

He stands there for so long, I’m afraid to touch him.

“West?”

“She took him back,” he says.

“Your dad?”

“She fucking took him back.”

This is the possibility he’s been afraid to name for the past few days.

The worst thing.

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. Bo didn’t even—he didn’t kick her out. He came home and all her stuff was gone, with a note saying she was sorry but she had to follow her heart.” He pounds his fist on the table. “Her heart.”

“Did they leave town, or … ?”

“They’re at the trailer park. Her and Frankie. They moved in with my dad.”

“Oh.”

I’m not sure what to say. There aren’t any words that will fix the defeat in his posture. The heavy dead sound of his voice, like someone has ripped all the fight out of him.

I know it’s bad because, when I stand in front of him and try to put my arms around him, he slumps against me hard enough that I have to lock my knees to hold him up.

Not for long. He gives himself ten seconds—surely no longer than that—and then pulls away.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’m going to have to go home.”

“Sure.” He’ll have to make sure they’re safe. Talk to his mom. Check on his sister. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“I have to fly. Pack up my stuff. Right after this shift’s over.”