But automatically, my mind wandered back to that moment Nate’s hands froze as he unzipped his pants. Here, alone in my bed, I let him keep going. Let him shove down his jeans. Let him slide inside me and begin to move.
Then I stopped—what would it be like to have sex with Nate Pearson? Was he gentle or rough? Was he quiet or loud? Did he close his eyes, mutter incoherent curse words, and use his dick like a hammer, like a lot of guys did, making sex feel strangely impersonal, like it was something being done to you and not with you? Or did he look at you, use his whole body, talk to you, make you feel connected to him, share the dizzying climb and the rapturous fall?
Sighing, I opened my eyes again.
Probably I was idealizing him. Idealizing sex, even. I always wanted it to be something more than it was. I always wanted it to mean more than it did. In my head, I could still hear him call me a little girl in a fantasy world, even if he’d tried to say otherwise earlier tonight. But it seemed to me if you let someone into your body, if you let him see you and hear you and touch you at your most uninhibited and vulnerable, it was only natural to feel something in your heart for that person you didn’t feel for anyone else. It shouldn’t be something you did on a whim with someone who had no interest in your heart whatsoever. If that was childish of me to believe, so be it.
It was a good thing we’d stopped.
Sunday morning I woke up around nine, and I felt so energized that I decided to get in some exercise before meeting my sisters for our standing eleven o’clock Sunday brunch date. Since a peek out the window told me it was pouring rain, I decided against a walk or jog, threw on a sports bra and some leggings, and dug out the yoga mat Maren had given me for Christmas. It had been at the back of my closet and had some pretty good-sized dust bunnies clinging to it, but I cleaned it off and spread it out on my bedroom floor.
Once I was sitting on it, however, I realized I actually didn’t know any yoga on my own. Wasn’t there something called a downward dog? Or was it a warrior dog? Maybe a downward child? I guessed my way through a few haphazard poses, then gave up and did some old-fashioned jumping jacks, squats, push-ups (albeit from my knees), and crunches. For good measure, I did a few side stretches and runner’s lunges before hitting the shower, congratulating myself on a well-rounded workout.
I dressed in jeans and a sweater, blow-dried my hair, braided it, and put on minimal makeup. Before I left, I checked my messages, since it was Maren’s turn to pick the place and my phone had died last night before she’d texted the spot. Sure enough, there was a message from her saying Rose’s at 11, see you there, which made me happy because I loved the little diner on East Jefferson. Best pancakes ever.
I had a few other messages—one from Coco asking if I’d have lunch with her and Mia tomorrow, which was normally my day off, and one from my cousin Mia, telling me she would be in town this week and wanted to see me. Ignoring the tug of disappointment I felt that Nate hadn’t texted to tell me how the night had gone, I resisted the urge to message him and ask. I responded to Coco, saying yes, of course, and asked where and when I should meet them, and texted Mia back that I’d see her tomorrow, adding a bunch of smiley faces. It would be good to see her—it had been a few months, and spending time with her always inspired me. She had everything: adoring husband, three beautiful children, a gorgeous home, a successful business. We shared blood, so I figured if she could accomplish all that by age thirty-six, there was still hope for me.
I drove to Rose’s, parked in the lot next to the small freestanding building, and hurried inside through the drizzle. The diner was crowded, as usual, but my sisters were already there and had a table. I made my way to the back of the restaurant and shrugged out of my coat before taking the seat next to Maren and across from Stella. “Hi. Sorry I’m a little late. I worked out this morning.” Statements like these always made me feel like a better person.
“You did?” Maren sounded more surprised than I thought was necessary. “Where?”
“At home. I used the yoga mat you got me for Christmas.”
She beamed, her face radiant. If there were anything that could convince me to eat, drink, and live cleaner, it would be Maren’s skin. She was always radiant. I was constantly asking her what she used on her skin to make it so bright, and she always claimed it was plain old coconut oil. Stella and I were convinced she had to be lying, although she is the worst liar in the world and wouldn’t have spent the money on expensive skincare or cosmetics anyway. Stella and I, on the other hand, were product junkies, and could happily blow a hundred bucks at Ulta with no regrets.
“I’m so glad you’re using it,” she said. “I was afraid it would sit neglected at the back of your closet.”
I didn’t tell her that’s exactly where it had been before I’d dug it out. “It was very useful. Thanks.” Before she could ask me about what I’d done, I addressed Stella. “Did you run this morning?”
She nodded. The most athletic of the three of us, she wore a track jacket and her hair pulled back. “Yep.”
“In this awful weather?” Maren asked, gesturing toward the windows.
Stella shrugged and picked up her coffee. “You get used to it. It’s not bad if you’re dressed right.”
Her answer didn’t surprise me. Not only was our older sister a total creature of habit, she actually enjoyed running enough to do it in the rain, if you can believe that. She ran marathons in cities all over the country. I thought running was repetitive and miserable even in beautiful weather, so her dedication made little sense to me.
The waitress came by, and I asked for some coffee. A moment, later, she came back with my cup and we put in our orders—eggs and veggies for Stella, granola and fruit for Maren, pancakes and bacon for me.
“So how are you, Em?” Maren inquired, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. “When I talked to you on Friday, you were pretty upset.”
For a moment, I couldn’t even think of what she meant, and then I remembered the wedding invitation. It seemed like ages ago! Had I really cared so much I nearly set my apartment on fire?
“About what?” Stella asked.
“Stupid Richard and Lucy invited me to their wedding,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Seriously? Are you going to go?”
“No. Do you think I’m crazy?”
Neither of my sisters answered that.
“I wouldn’t go either,” Maren said. “I don’t blame you for being upset.”
I sipped my coffee. “I’m not even that upset about it anymore. I don’t know why it had me so riled up.”
“Bad day?” Stella suggested.
“Not really.”
“Jealousy?”
I snorted. “I don’t care about that asshole anymore. She can have him. Those two deserve each other. I think it was more the idea that they assumed I’d want to attend their stupid wedding after what they did.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty ballsy,” she admitted.
“And it pisses me off that those two fell in love so fast and so easily when it’s so hard for the rest of us, you know? Well, for me, anyway.”
“And for me,” added Maren. She’d recently broken up with someone she’d met at the studio because he smoked too much pot and didn’t seem to have any ambition whatsoever.
Stella actually had a sort-of boyfriend, this psychologist she’d met at a workshop last year. He was nice enough, and attractive in a distinguished professor with glasses and elbow patches sort of way, but he never stopped talking about his fucking bees. He kept them in his yard and he was obsessed. Maren and I did not understand how Stella took it. His name was Walter, but we called him—wait for it—Buzz, and we were always making little buzzing noises or bee jokes. Kind of mean, but what are sisters for?
“Hang in there, both of you. You did the right thing to break up with that guy,” she said to Maren. “And you deserve a lot better than Richard, Emme. He was a classic narcissist.”
“Thanks. How’s Buzz?” I hid my smile behind my coffee cup and felt Maren kick me beneath the table.
“He’s fine, but do you have to call him that? There’s a lot more to him than his beekeeping.”
Then I stopped—what would it be like to have sex with Nate Pearson? Was he gentle or rough? Was he quiet or loud? Did he close his eyes, mutter incoherent curse words, and use his dick like a hammer, like a lot of guys did, making sex feel strangely impersonal, like it was something being done to you and not with you? Or did he look at you, use his whole body, talk to you, make you feel connected to him, share the dizzying climb and the rapturous fall?
Sighing, I opened my eyes again.
Probably I was idealizing him. Idealizing sex, even. I always wanted it to be something more than it was. I always wanted it to mean more than it did. In my head, I could still hear him call me a little girl in a fantasy world, even if he’d tried to say otherwise earlier tonight. But it seemed to me if you let someone into your body, if you let him see you and hear you and touch you at your most uninhibited and vulnerable, it was only natural to feel something in your heart for that person you didn’t feel for anyone else. It shouldn’t be something you did on a whim with someone who had no interest in your heart whatsoever. If that was childish of me to believe, so be it.
It was a good thing we’d stopped.
Sunday morning I woke up around nine, and I felt so energized that I decided to get in some exercise before meeting my sisters for our standing eleven o’clock Sunday brunch date. Since a peek out the window told me it was pouring rain, I decided against a walk or jog, threw on a sports bra and some leggings, and dug out the yoga mat Maren had given me for Christmas. It had been at the back of my closet and had some pretty good-sized dust bunnies clinging to it, but I cleaned it off and spread it out on my bedroom floor.
Once I was sitting on it, however, I realized I actually didn’t know any yoga on my own. Wasn’t there something called a downward dog? Or was it a warrior dog? Maybe a downward child? I guessed my way through a few haphazard poses, then gave up and did some old-fashioned jumping jacks, squats, push-ups (albeit from my knees), and crunches. For good measure, I did a few side stretches and runner’s lunges before hitting the shower, congratulating myself on a well-rounded workout.
I dressed in jeans and a sweater, blow-dried my hair, braided it, and put on minimal makeup. Before I left, I checked my messages, since it was Maren’s turn to pick the place and my phone had died last night before she’d texted the spot. Sure enough, there was a message from her saying Rose’s at 11, see you there, which made me happy because I loved the little diner on East Jefferson. Best pancakes ever.
I had a few other messages—one from Coco asking if I’d have lunch with her and Mia tomorrow, which was normally my day off, and one from my cousin Mia, telling me she would be in town this week and wanted to see me. Ignoring the tug of disappointment I felt that Nate hadn’t texted to tell me how the night had gone, I resisted the urge to message him and ask. I responded to Coco, saying yes, of course, and asked where and when I should meet them, and texted Mia back that I’d see her tomorrow, adding a bunch of smiley faces. It would be good to see her—it had been a few months, and spending time with her always inspired me. She had everything: adoring husband, three beautiful children, a gorgeous home, a successful business. We shared blood, so I figured if she could accomplish all that by age thirty-six, there was still hope for me.
I drove to Rose’s, parked in the lot next to the small freestanding building, and hurried inside through the drizzle. The diner was crowded, as usual, but my sisters were already there and had a table. I made my way to the back of the restaurant and shrugged out of my coat before taking the seat next to Maren and across from Stella. “Hi. Sorry I’m a little late. I worked out this morning.” Statements like these always made me feel like a better person.
“You did?” Maren sounded more surprised than I thought was necessary. “Where?”
“At home. I used the yoga mat you got me for Christmas.”
She beamed, her face radiant. If there were anything that could convince me to eat, drink, and live cleaner, it would be Maren’s skin. She was always radiant. I was constantly asking her what she used on her skin to make it so bright, and she always claimed it was plain old coconut oil. Stella and I were convinced she had to be lying, although she is the worst liar in the world and wouldn’t have spent the money on expensive skincare or cosmetics anyway. Stella and I, on the other hand, were product junkies, and could happily blow a hundred bucks at Ulta with no regrets.
“I’m so glad you’re using it,” she said. “I was afraid it would sit neglected at the back of your closet.”
I didn’t tell her that’s exactly where it had been before I’d dug it out. “It was very useful. Thanks.” Before she could ask me about what I’d done, I addressed Stella. “Did you run this morning?”
She nodded. The most athletic of the three of us, she wore a track jacket and her hair pulled back. “Yep.”
“In this awful weather?” Maren asked, gesturing toward the windows.
Stella shrugged and picked up her coffee. “You get used to it. It’s not bad if you’re dressed right.”
Her answer didn’t surprise me. Not only was our older sister a total creature of habit, she actually enjoyed running enough to do it in the rain, if you can believe that. She ran marathons in cities all over the country. I thought running was repetitive and miserable even in beautiful weather, so her dedication made little sense to me.
The waitress came by, and I asked for some coffee. A moment, later, she came back with my cup and we put in our orders—eggs and veggies for Stella, granola and fruit for Maren, pancakes and bacon for me.
“So how are you, Em?” Maren inquired, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. “When I talked to you on Friday, you were pretty upset.”
For a moment, I couldn’t even think of what she meant, and then I remembered the wedding invitation. It seemed like ages ago! Had I really cared so much I nearly set my apartment on fire?
“About what?” Stella asked.
“Stupid Richard and Lucy invited me to their wedding,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Seriously? Are you going to go?”
“No. Do you think I’m crazy?”
Neither of my sisters answered that.
“I wouldn’t go either,” Maren said. “I don’t blame you for being upset.”
I sipped my coffee. “I’m not even that upset about it anymore. I don’t know why it had me so riled up.”
“Bad day?” Stella suggested.
“Not really.”
“Jealousy?”
I snorted. “I don’t care about that asshole anymore. She can have him. Those two deserve each other. I think it was more the idea that they assumed I’d want to attend their stupid wedding after what they did.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty ballsy,” she admitted.
“And it pisses me off that those two fell in love so fast and so easily when it’s so hard for the rest of us, you know? Well, for me, anyway.”
“And for me,” added Maren. She’d recently broken up with someone she’d met at the studio because he smoked too much pot and didn’t seem to have any ambition whatsoever.
Stella actually had a sort-of boyfriend, this psychologist she’d met at a workshop last year. He was nice enough, and attractive in a distinguished professor with glasses and elbow patches sort of way, but he never stopped talking about his fucking bees. He kept them in his yard and he was obsessed. Maren and I did not understand how Stella took it. His name was Walter, but we called him—wait for it—Buzz, and we were always making little buzzing noises or bee jokes. Kind of mean, but what are sisters for?
“Hang in there, both of you. You did the right thing to break up with that guy,” she said to Maren. “And you deserve a lot better than Richard, Emme. He was a classic narcissist.”
“Thanks. How’s Buzz?” I hid my smile behind my coffee cup and felt Maren kick me beneath the table.
“He’s fine, but do you have to call him that? There’s a lot more to him than his beekeeping.”
