A condom wrapper?
I felt my throat tighten. I wasn’t sure. I’d never had a reason to use a condom, but Jake had some. I had found them deep in his closet when I was spying. He told me he had bought them while he was still living crazily.
I swallowed hard. Was I being melodramatic? But Jake was a precise artist. He was methodical. If there was a wrapper in the middle of that picture, it was there to send me a message. He knew I’d check it. He knew it would make me crazy.
I realized then how dangerous it was to get so close to someone. Only Jake could know exactly how to punish me so perfectly.
I simultaneously realized that I deserved every second of agony. I thought about him smiling his slow, slightly crooked smile at someone else. I imagined him laying her down and taking his time, being gentle. Or had he gone back to the way he was before? Drunk and uncaring?
How had it happened so fast? It was winter break. All of the lowlifes in the Sussex County area would be throwing parties, getting plastered and humping each other with jolly abandon. If Jake wanted, he could pick up a different girl, or even two, every night of the week, and it could happen in no time at all. In just one day, with just a few stupid decisions, he and I had probably smashed everything good and real we spent the last few months building together. And I started the whole ball rolling.
I wished I had never opened my laptop, but I also embraced the awful feelings that made me want to sob. I deserved to be hurt. I had hurt him so badly. I deserved to feel awful.
I laid on my bed and every crazy, terrible, wonderful thing that had happened in the last week swirled though my head, dizzying, and, finally, sleep inducing.
I slept a sleep so miserable, it felt like a complete waste of my time and woke up feeling drained and weary. I knew what I needed. It was still so early, nearly dawn, but I forced myself out of bed and took a hot, weak-watered shower, scrubbing off the caked-on makeup from the night before and the clinging smell of Saxon. I hurried to my room and tore through my suitcase, taking out my one crazy, luxury item.
I had learned to pack sensibly from my mother, and I knew every inch counted. But something pressed me to add my running shoes, a gift from Thorsten. They were fancy, made to cushion and support, and just be generally great. And they were super cute. I put on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and tied my shoes tight, just the way I liked them. I left a note for Mom taped to her door, and left the dorms.
The air was cold and biting, exactly the way I loved it. I started to run on the almost empty sidewalks. I ran past an old couple walking their dog, past a baker filling up her display case with hot pastries. I ran past buildings that were dove gray and so lovely, they looked almost feminine. I ran past empty parks with empty black benches and noisily splashing fountains. I passed a young couple bickering in a language that didn’t sound French while they put fruit out in their stand. I ran past newspaper stands, movie advertisement posters, beggars, surprised looking men in suits and women in smart trenches that flapped open when they walked. I was in Paris, France. There was more to life than the two boys from Sussex County who had turned my world upside down. I double clutched, two breaths in and one out, two in and one out.
Thoughts in my head bounced like so many ping pong balls, ricocheting all around. I didn’t push Jake’s pictures out of my head. I let them bob there, right with all of the other images, and tried to accept that they were part of the whole collage of my romantic life. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower, and wondered if Mom and I would go to the top. I knew we would if I asked. Mom. I loved Mom. I didn’t want to keep lying and moping.
I was breathing hard and my lungs felt a little torn, but also like they were stretching to accommodate all of the new air I drew in. I liked the feeling. Just like I felt my heart shrivel and harden on the museum roof after kissing Saxon, my lungs seemed to expand as I ran on the pavement.
Less room to feel, more to breathe. I would make do with that.
Soon the sun came up bright and warm, and my stomach growled and turned on itself. I looped back to the dorms, following the line of cheese stores, grocers, and bakers I had committed to memory like a breadcrumb trail. When I got to my hall, Mom stuck her head out her door and hugged me.
“Did you have fun last night, sweetie?” She pulled off the towel that she had wrapped around her damp hair, and it fell in light, wet waves around her shoulders.
I nodded, my body feeling incredibly hot now that I wasn’t racing the cutting air outside. “Yes. It was good to dance. I’m getting soft.” I gasped for breath.
She rubbed my back with one soft hand. “You look so cold. Go get dressed. We’re going to the Louvre today!”
I hugged her hard because I was really excited. Jake and Saxon were going to be where they were, and we would be or we wouldn’t. In the meantime, I would go and see the Louvre with my mother, and I would sincerely, adamantly love it. I had to give my slightly shriveled heart something to expand around, and boys were just too treacherous right now.
Mom and I met for breakfast.
“So how was the dance? Details, please.” She sipped coffee so hot it steamed continuously.
“It was okay.” I buttered a roll, paying a lot of attention to the process. She had already asked me in a cursory way, but she obviously wanted more information, and if I didn’t give it to her, she would keep digging. “The music was all French, but everyone danced. I danced until my feet ached.”
“I’m glad you went and danced.” Mom ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “I was always self-conscious about that kind of thing when I was young.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so stupid to be that way. The only one who knows if you danced or not is you.”
It was one of her tried and true sayings. “It was really fun.”
“Those are real travel moments.” Mom dipped a piece of croissant in her cup and took a bite. “More important than museums and tours are the things you do with the regular French people.”
Another of Mom’s favorite topics. She thought our time in Denmark was my most valuable experience because it was so normal; going to the post office, going to the bank, seeing a movie, watching television, taking walks. It was just everyday stuff, but she thought that made you take a country in best.
“I’m glad I went.” I wished I could work up more excitement, but it was difficult to push the time in Saxon’s room away from my memory.
There was a long silence, then Mom looked up, her blue eyes more gray, probably because she had a great gray cardigan on with her Swiss dot blouse.
“Did you have fun with Saxon?”
I realized that Mom was nervous, and I realized that she saw more than I thought, than I wanted.
“He’s a good dancer.” It was the most neutral thing I could think to say about him.
“He’s taken an interest in you,” Mom said pointedly. “Is that something you want?”
I wanted to tell her everything, starting with the first day of school. I had my mouth open to do it, but something in her eyes stopped me. I knew it would feel good in the moment, but I would wind up regretting it. Mom’s love for me was so strong, it would override respect for my privacy or my need to work things through on my own. Asking for her help by listening meant that I was inviting her to comment and take action.
And as messed up as things were, they were my own brand of controlled chaos.
“Saxon takes an interest in lots of girls,” I said lightly and shrugged. “He’s fun to go to a dance with. He’s just a friend.”