know I’m not into that,” I said sharply. “You know I don’t do that stuff. Why are you always trying—?”
In the middle of the dance floor, but we weren’t dancing, and Teresa seemed a million miles away. Poor Clay. He’s not a bad guy, really. He could be someone’s teddy bear. He could. But why does he care so much about me? We saw each other for less than a year, and it wasn’t even an exclusive thing. So why does he care so much?
I feel sorry for him now. Is that why I let him pull me out of the club? Or is it the wine? Did I have three glasses or four?
Up the stairs and out onto Second Avenue and into a taxi. He’s squeezing my hand so tight, like he’s never going to let go.
“We said good-bye, remember?”
Doesn’t he hear a word I say?
“We’ll have a good talk, Ellie. We were always so open and honest with each other.”
We were?
He’s so sad. I’ve made him so sad.
And now we’re walking up the steps to the brownstone where he lives, bumping each other, leaning on each other. “Just one last time,” he’s whispering.
And we’re in his stuffy, cluttered one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I’m staring at the travel posters on the wall, British Rail posters, trains arriving at cold-looking, stony beach towns. Why does he like these posters?
I let him pull me to his bedroom. Yes, I let him. My head still throbs from the club music. The floor tilts as he leads me.
Y’all ready for this?
Y’all ready for this?
He’s undressing me. “Clay—please . . .”
He’s undressing me so feverishly with those clumsy bear paws.
I’m letting him. Yes, I know. I should fight or scream or something. But I’m letting him.
My glittery top. My short black skirt. He’s pawing at my skirt, tugging it down as he leans over me, pushing me onto the unmade bed.
“One last time,” he whispers, his breath so hot and wet in my ear. His dark eyes spinning. “Ellie, please . . . one last time.”
No. This is wrong, Clay. No. Stop.
Did I say the words? Or did I only think them?
His hand between my legs. Then he pulls down my black underpants. “One last time.”
No. Don’t.
I’m only thinking the words.
I’m letting him . . . letting him. My underpants are around my ankles. And he’s on top of me now. And now he’s in me. Now . . . now . . . now . . . now . . .
What is he saying?
He’s talking rapidly, talking, moving on top of me, and talking the whole time. But I can’t hear the words. I can’t hear his voice.
And once again, I see the blond boy in his place.
Once again, I see the blond boy moving on top of me, not Clay. The adorable blond boy, so light and fair, like a fine, pale deer.
Not Clay. No, not heavy, bearish Clay.
The blond boy is here again, and Clay disappears. And I’m sliding, sliding, sliding into a kind of dreamworld. Only I don’t slide all the way because I know what I’m doing. . . .
I know the blond boy isn’t making love to me.
I know the blond boy is a ghost.
But I don’t care. I want him there. After all these years, I still want him.
After all these years.
And now Clay is finished. I hear him groan and see him lifting himself off me.
Why do I let him take advantage of me? My underpants still knotted around one ankle. I don’t want to be here.
I let him . . . I let him . . .
He slides beside me. Presses his hot mouth against my cheek.
I take a deep breath. I don’t know if I can breathe in here. “Clay . . . this is the last time,” I whisper.
His lips are against my ear. “You can’t get away from me, Ellie.”
“No, Clay. Listen—”
“You fucking can’t get away. I won’t let you.”
But I’m already gone.
Did I say the words? Or did I just think them?
2
T he next morning—a windy, gray Saturday in late May. I called my mom.
I call my mom once a week, and she always acts surprised to hear from me. Like it’s been a year or two since we spoke.
First we do the weather report. “It’s kind of blustery
Gene Wentz, B. Abell Jurus