in the light, it appears nearly
edible. I look away.
“ I just meant that you don’t
have to worry about sleeping beside me. You need to be fine with
it, because there’s only one bed, and I’m not sleeping on the
couch.”
“ I can,” I say, but I feel
the twinge of regret over not being able to wake up in this
gorgeous bed with the sun reaching through the skylight to warm the
sheets. Or maybe it was Oscar warming the sheets.
I shouldn’t feel any regret about not waking
up beside him, but a tiny, dirty little part of me does. I’ve
always been one of those girls who practiced abstinence, and
preached its benefits to my choirgirl, Sher, but we both knew that
our virginity wasn’t always intact because we wanted it that
way.
But we knew we should . Sher’s mother
beat it into our heads, usually with an arm wave to their
overly-child-packed apartment and the advice, “Don’t get knocked
up, girls. You see what happens? You get to work three jobs, and
you’ll still never have enough. Or you’ll die from a sex disease.
Or, at the very least, everyone will think you’re a whore. Do
yourselves a favor and keep your legs shut.”
Sher and I repeatedly told
each other how smart we were for never screwing around, but we also
talked at great length about how we thought it all worked, how we
thought we would do it, who we’d do it with, and how much we wanted
it to happen. And, at night, I couldn’t help that, sometimes, I’d
think about the way a guy looked at me at school, or I’d read a hot
scene in one of the romance books, and my fingers would meet up
with my desire in the dark. I’d fantasize that it was someone
else’s fingers inside me and it would feel like fireworks when I
came, but once I was done, I’d always feel guilty and ashamed for
having done it at all. I knew this was how I was supposed to feel,
because my dad, and Sher’s mom, and TV church broadcasts on Sunday
mornings, kept saying that girls were never supposed to want to do
that kind of thing with themselves, or with anyone else. When I’d
admitted it to Sher once, she just laughed her squealy,
high-pitched, nervous laugh and said, Oh
my God! But she never actually said that
she did it too, or that she had that same kind of intense urge like I
did.
Now, looking at Oscar’s half-naked body,
that deep urge tugs at me again and I’m ashamed that it’s there at
all. Even if I think about marrying Oscar, it doesn’t make the urge
feel okay. I just feel like I should never, ever want to do what my
body seems to be screaming for me to do. And then, on top of the
guilt, I feel like an enormous loser prude.
“ What are you thinking
about?” Oscar asks, as he takes fresh clothes from his bag. No way
am I telling him any of that.
“ I was thinking I should go
home today.”
He pauses. “Hale, you have to stop with
that.” Then he jumps subjects. “We’ve got to get some food for
around here and, if there’s anything you need, make a list.”
“ How long are you expecting
to stay out here?”
“ Probably a couple of weeks.
However long it takes for you to trust me.”
“ What you mean is: until I
say ‘yes’ to marriage.”
“ Pretty much.” He smiles at
me.
“ How can you act like this
is all normal?” I say.
“ Because it has to be,” he
says simply. “Arranged marriages work. We just have to get used to
each other.”
“ That’s really optimistic,”
I say. “So, it wouldn’t matter to you who you had to marry to get
your dad out of trouble?”
Oscar tosses his clothes on the bed and
steps in close to me. We’re only standing a foot apart and I can
feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“ If my dad was in trouble
and I had to get with a toad, well then, it’s a pretty sure bet
that I’d get with a toad because, and you’ll see this over time,
the Maree family is as loyal to one another as they come. But,” he
says, moving in so close that my nose is nearly touching his chest
and the smell of
edible. I look away.
“ I just meant that you don’t
have to worry about sleeping beside me. You need to be fine with
it, because there’s only one bed, and I’m not sleeping on the
couch.”
“ I can,” I say, but I feel
the twinge of regret over not being able to wake up in this
gorgeous bed with the sun reaching through the skylight to warm the
sheets. Or maybe it was Oscar warming the sheets.
I shouldn’t feel any regret about not waking
up beside him, but a tiny, dirty little part of me does. I’ve
always been one of those girls who practiced abstinence, and
preached its benefits to my choirgirl, Sher, but we both knew that
our virginity wasn’t always intact because we wanted it that
way.
But we knew we should . Sher’s mother
beat it into our heads, usually with an arm wave to their
overly-child-packed apartment and the advice, “Don’t get knocked
up, girls. You see what happens? You get to work three jobs, and
you’ll still never have enough. Or you’ll die from a sex disease.
Or, at the very least, everyone will think you’re a whore. Do
yourselves a favor and keep your legs shut.”
Sher and I repeatedly told
each other how smart we were for never screwing around, but we also
talked at great length about how we thought it all worked, how we
thought we would do it, who we’d do it with, and how much we wanted
it to happen. And, at night, I couldn’t help that, sometimes, I’d
think about the way a guy looked at me at school, or I’d read a hot
scene in one of the romance books, and my fingers would meet up
with my desire in the dark. I’d fantasize that it was someone
else’s fingers inside me and it would feel like fireworks when I
came, but once I was done, I’d always feel guilty and ashamed for
having done it at all. I knew this was how I was supposed to feel,
because my dad, and Sher’s mom, and TV church broadcasts on Sunday
mornings, kept saying that girls were never supposed to want to do
that kind of thing with themselves, or with anyone else. When I’d
admitted it to Sher once, she just laughed her squealy,
high-pitched, nervous laugh and said, Oh
my God! But she never actually said that
she did it too, or that she had that same kind of intense urge like I
did.
Now, looking at Oscar’s half-naked body,
that deep urge tugs at me again and I’m ashamed that it’s there at
all. Even if I think about marrying Oscar, it doesn’t make the urge
feel okay. I just feel like I should never, ever want to do what my
body seems to be screaming for me to do. And then, on top of the
guilt, I feel like an enormous loser prude.
“ What are you thinking
about?” Oscar asks, as he takes fresh clothes from his bag. No way
am I telling him any of that.
“ I was thinking I should go
home today.”
He pauses. “Hale, you have to stop with
that.” Then he jumps subjects. “We’ve got to get some food for
around here and, if there’s anything you need, make a list.”
“ How long are you expecting
to stay out here?”
“ Probably a couple of weeks.
However long it takes for you to trust me.”
“ What you mean is: until I
say ‘yes’ to marriage.”
“ Pretty much.” He smiles at
me.
“ How can you act like this
is all normal?” I say.
“ Because it has to be,” he
says simply. “Arranged marriages work. We just have to get used to
each other.”
“ That’s really optimistic,”
I say. “So, it wouldn’t matter to you who you had to marry to get
your dad out of trouble?”
Oscar tosses his clothes on the bed and
steps in close to me. We’re only standing a foot apart and I can
feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“ If my dad was in trouble
and I had to get with a toad, well then, it’s a pretty sure bet
that I’d get with a toad because, and you’ll see this over time,
the Maree family is as loyal to one another as they come. But,” he
says, moving in so close that my nose is nearly touching his chest
and the smell of
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