Motion (Page 29)

Clearing my throat, I returned my attention to the photo. “What happened to the wig?”

“I think my mom burned it after I tried to wear it to that movie premiere.” Gabby chuckled.

But then she grew silent so suddenly I looked at her again. Her lips were pulled down at the corners and she seemed to be trying to swallow.

“What? What is it?”

She glanced at me and smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing my therapist hasn’t already heard.” She turned and strolled away, stuffing her hands in her back pockets. “Speaking of which, I could give you her name. If you want.”

Pushing away from the wall, I straightened the stack of CDs I’d almost knocked over. “What for?”

“You know I’ve been going to therapy for—like—ever, right? Well—” Gabby sat on the low bookshelf again “—I think maybe you should go to therapy and figure some shit out.”

I couldn’t help but screw up my face and give her the side-eye. “I do not need therapy.” I rejected the mere notion on a visceral level and repeated words that Dr. Steward had said to me on any number of occasions: “We—all of us—are extremely privileged and lucky, and I recognize my privilege. I’ve been given every opportunity to succeed, and I recognize that I’ve grown up with virtually no hardship in my life.”

My sister’s best friend watched me with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “Wow. I—wooow.” Gabby leaned back, her gaze moving over my face as though she were seeing me for the first time.

“Therapy would be a misuse of time and energy that could be spent attending to others who are actually in need of help.” This last statement hadn’t been one of Dr. Steward’s frequent reminders, but I could extrapolate. My discomforts were nothing in comparison to what other people lived on a daily basis, and I wouldn’t waste my time—or a therapist’s time—with my small concerns.

Gabby and I stared at each other for several long seconds, during which she appeared to be stunned. It was clear she didn’t know what to say, but she had an abundance of thoughts on the subject. Conversely, I didn’t need to give the issue any additional consideration. I knew my thoughts, and therefore I knew what actions to take and how to behave.

Eventually, the lack of conversation or action made me antsy. I turned from Gabby’s stare and reacquainted myself with our surroundings. Picking up the violin I’d left on Lisa’s desk, I carefully returned it to its case.

“You are . . .” Gabby paused, and I looked at her. Her expression was free of judgment. “You are . . .” Again, she didn’t finish her thought. This time her mouth opened and closed, as though she were hunting for the most-accurate descriptive phrase possible, her eyes narrowing as her focus seemed to turn inward.

Closing the violin case, I secured the latches and leaned it against the wall near where Gabby sat conducting her mental word search.

I’d just straightened when Gabby asked, “Are you a virgin?”

12

Newton’s Second Law of Motion: Concept of a System

I froze, shifting my eyes to her face. She’d asked the question evenly, thoughtfully, as though merely questioning whether I’d ever baked a turkey in the spatchcock position, and did I recommend it or have a good recipe.

I shook my head. “I’m not answering that.”

“Come on. Tell me. I’m seriously trying to help you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Gabby,” I leveled her with a glare, “You don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true. I like you, but you are also so freaking irritating.”

“Which means you don’t like me.”

“Because you became a Mary Sue. But I love you.”

I snorted, shaking my head, and returned to Lisa’s desk. Picking up the first half of the music books stacked there, I walked to the closet.

“If you search your coldly rational soul, you will see that I am telling the truth.” She watched me for a few minutes as I ignored her and piled the sheet music neatly in the corner of Lisa’s closet. Eventually she added, “Mona, we’ve known each other almost our whole lives. I will always want what I think is best for you.”

“You want what’s best for me? Which is what?” I returned to the desk, grabbing more music books.

“First and foremost, a life of fulfillment. Secondarily, security, peace of mind, comfort, and companionship.”

Her response surprised me to such an extent, I lost my grip on the second stack of music as I knelt, and they fell to the floor in a haphazard pile.

“Did I surprise you?” She asked this feigning a British accent.

I huffed a laugh, but said, “Yes. I find your answer surprising.”

“You can thank my therapist. So—” she sauntered over and shoved my shoulder again with her fingers “—are you a virgin?”

“No,” I ground out reluctantly, rearranging the pile.

“And I assume you lost your virginity to a boyfriend?”

I shook my head. “No. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Really? Now you’ve surprised me.”

“How so?”

Gabby was quiet for a bit. I heard her take a deep breath. Release it. Take another. Meanwhile, finished stacking the music, I stood and returned to the bed, reclaiming my seat at the end of it.

Finally, she said, “But, I guess, it does kind of make sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“You’ve never had a boyfriend, and that makes sense. It would require you asking someone to put you first.”

I gritted my teeth. “Gabby—”

“But how does that work? I mean, you yank away when I touch your arm and you’ve known me forever.”

I tried to hide my wince by studying Lisa’s bedspread for lint. “So?”

“Soooo, you don’t like to be touched. At all. How does sex work if you don’t like touching?”

“I don’t like uninvited touching, when it’s a surprise.” I believed these words when I said them. But after they were out of my mouth, I discovered they weren’t entirely accurate—not recently, not with Abram—and worked to suppress a blooming yet distressing warmth low in my stomach.

“I don’t get it. What do you do when you have sex? Announce what you’re going to do before you do it?”

“Not all sex requires a lot of touching. I’m extremely clear regarding my expectations before sex, what I want out of the experience, what we will and will not do, what I hope to achieve. I ask my partner for the same information. If the guy does anything unexpected, I simply end it.”

“Reeeeeeally?” Gabby plopped down next to me on the bed, the intensity of her gaze told me she was absolutely fascinated. “Like, you talk about the sex before you have it? What you’re going to do? What’s going to happen?”

“Exactly.” How else was I supposed to determine whether or not sex with a partner was necessary? The scientific method existed for a reason.

“That’s so interesting!”

I squinted at her. “You don’t?”

She shook her head.

“Not at all?”

She shook her head again.

I scrunched my nose. “If you don’t talk about it, about the plan, then how do you give consent?”

She scrunched her nose in return but also laughed. “Uh, through my actions.”

I turned away and stood before she could see my expression, walking to the desk. Consent through actions? Like people expected each other to read their minds and know what each person liked without talking about it first? And that assumed the other person would be mindful enough to ensure climax was reached? What about boundaries? Limits?

Sure. Right. Okay. NOPE! Not for me.

“I have more questions about your pre-sex discussions. But first, how many partners have you had?” Her voice adopted a tone I associated with academic discussions. For some reason, it helped me relax a bit, made the conversation feel less personal.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, I crossed my arms. “Seven.”

“Seven?” She stared at me, her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Oh. Okay. Wow. Also surprising.”

“Why? How many have you had?”

“One,” she said quietly, giving me the impression that her one had been meaningful. Clearing her throat, she continued, “Was any of the sex enjoyable?”

I paused to mentally thumb through all relevant encounters. “Some.”

“Were they all one-night stands?”

“No.”

“Some were multiple-night stands?”

“Yes.”

“But none became a boyfriend?” A renewed hint of curiosity edged into her voice.

“No.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“It wasn’t necessary,” I said with a sigh, tired of this discussion.

“Necessary?”

How could I explain this to Gabby in a way she’d understand? I’d sought to answer a question. The question had been answered. Case closed.

Eventually, I decided on, “I don’t have time for that.”