I watch as Josh Hartnett steps out of a Cadillac in a magenta velvet tux. His hair is simultaneously repulsive and erotic — par for the course in the ’70s, when “The Virgin Suicides” takes place — which is the same sentiment I have towards the puka shell necklace I know is hidden beneath his shirt. Oh, and my arm is touching John Graham’s* arm. John Graham, the boy who for the last year has been this unattainable mythical creature, the boy who I had sex dreams about every night for three months. The boy who until recently, had been my boyfriend’s best friend, and who was now my ex-boyfriend’s best friend — and the boy whose arm was touching mine.
As we covet Trip Fontaine’s velvet Tux, John jokes about getting one of his own. I picture us having gone to prom together. I have a serious case of prom envy/regret. I never went to my prom. My boyfriend at the time and I decided that we were “so over it” and spent the day doing arts and crafts and watching three of four Hannibal Lecter movies. There’s a scene in “Pretty in Pink” where Iona talks about the side effects of skipping the prom. How once in a while you feel like you’re missing something, only to realize that nothing is missing at all — you just didn’t go to your prom. I feel that way sometimes.
I feel my hair begin to creep down over my face. Because I’m lying on my left side with my right arm touching his, if I move my hair, our arms will no longer be touching. I lay like this with my hair in my face for a few minutes trying to figure out an alternative solution. I try to move it back into place with an inconspicuous head toss. I fail and hope that he hasn’t noticed the near convulsion. I eventually brush my hair back quickly and place my arm right back down next to his. Cool. Casual. Still touching.
The movie ends and we both sit up. I’m wishing that I had chosen any of the “Lord of the Rings” films to have watched instead. It’s late. We’ve watched three movies. He asks me if he should take me home. I guess so, but hesitate.
“May I be blunt?”
“Please do.”
“Do you want to make out?”
I said it. It was out there. Hanging. Wishing. Waiting.
“I think that’s something we should definitely talk about first,” he responds.
“I just think it would be fun.”
“I think it would be extremely fun. But what are the implications?”
“It’s just making out.”
“What would the retroactive implications be? Because this isn’t the first time we’ve hung out.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything. Grady and I are broken up.”
“Well, I have been wanting to make out with you for a while.”
“So have I.”
“How long?”
“Roughly a year.”
*awkward moment turns into passionate kissing*
***
If you ever find yourself at a loss with your crush, try leading with “Do you want to make out?” Because every kiss begins with consent. And it usually works.
John is now my boyfriend. And I think that if we could have helped it, falling for each other, we probably wouldn’t have. But we very consciously chose to be together. It’s difficult to want someone you shouldn’t. Not because they’re a bad person or with someone else, but because it’s morally murky, socially uncomfortable. Your best friend’s sister. Your brother’s roommate. Your ex-boyfriend’s best friend. And in my case, a sort of Cory-Topanga-Shawn dynamic.
There are a lot of confusing feelings that come with that. We didn’t know what to call it, and for a long time, we referred to each other as Weirdo Friends. There was the simultaneous elation of True Love and feeling like a dirt person because your vicious trollop-y ways splintered multiple friendships. Because of this John and I were in our own little world for a while. It was cosmic, like we were meant to orbit together. But sometimes that world all our own was isolating. Our world as a couple was made up of people we’d met more recently, ones who didn’t know our past relation to each other so they couldn’t pass judgment. And there were a lot of times where our relationship didn’t feel like our own, like every decision we made as a couple, had to take into consideration my ex, the implications, every possible outcome. There were times where I could sense that the closer John and I became, the worse we felt. Guilty for being so happy when my ex was hurting.
Our relationship was predestined for hurdles; all we could do was be open and honest with each other, about our insecurities, frustrations and worries. We inevitably punished ourselves for hurting our friend, but we tried our best not to punish or push each other way. We held hand hands (cupped) throughout the fallout and now still as things are getting better all the time.
He took me to “prom” at a bar dressed as Dale Cooper, quotes “Pretty Wild” and was one half of my homemade “CatDog” Halloween costume. He’s my best friend and I choose him every day.
If we’re an exception, I hope the universe forgets about us and we can stay here for a little while.
*The names of those involved have been changed because I think I’ve done enough damage as is.
