First Timers
Fiction Friday
“Peterson, what the hell are you doing over here?”
Tony is shouting even though he doesn’t need to. From here, the music blaring in the back patio is nothing more than a dull hum.
“Isn’t tonight supposed to be the night,” he asks, holding me at a distance. His entire head nods up and down as his glassy eyes give me a look-over. “So I guess that’s a yes.”
“Yeah, dude, it is. We talked about it and that was my take away, at least.”
“Yeah, okay,” he forces a few laughs and eye-rolls. “I’ve heard that one before. That’s probably why you’re standing here all by yourself — even you realize it’s hopeless!”
“I’m just waiting to use the bathroom.”
“Whatever you say, chief. Alls I’m saying is that you’ve been saying the same thing since prom. It’s already August and you’ve made zero progress. Jasmine is super hot, but you’re wasting her potential.”
I walk to the credenza and search for a place to set down my empty beer. It’s harder than it looks — nearly every inch of surface space is covered by photos of Jasmine and her family. Tony continues to indulge in the obnoxious sound of his voice, but I stop listening. I always get thrown off when I see stuff like this — images of a miniature Jasmine with uneven pigtails and a checkered smile, doing things like riding a tricycle and fishing with her dad. Wearing ugly denim hats and Velcro shoes. Before she was a total babe.
Suddenly, the bathroom door opens and that goober Danny Minello walks out and past us.
“Do what you gotta do, big guy. I’ll see you outside. Time to put your money where your mouth is,” Tony says, giving me a quick tap in the nuts before he walks away, chuckling, “it’s not like you’ll be needing those.”
I step onto the patio and scope out the scene before rejoining the party. I’m surprised Jasmine’s father signed off on this — a sea of people are scattered throughout the lush green lawn that he toils over every weekend, for countless hours.
Hold up. My stomach drops. What does this guy think he’s doing? I storm off the patio and into the yard, swerving through the throng — ignoring hello’s, what’s up’s, and outstretched hands along the way.
I don’t let up until I can see her bright blonde hair. The color. The way it dusts the tops of her shoulders. It’s unmistakeable. I swoop in from behind and turn her around to give her a kiss. Jasmines’s mid-sentence, but immediately relaxes her lips once she sees me. As we kiss, I keep my eyes open and glare at Danny Minello, who’s awkwardly standing behind her, left hanging mid-conversation.
“I missed you,” she says.
“I missed you too.”
“Look what Danny got me for my birthday,” she squeals. She starts dancing with the vinyl record that I just noticed she’s holding, and turns to Danny, “I can’t believe you remembered how much I liked these guys!”
“So, Brian, what did you get her,” he asks me with a wry smile.
Like one those models that show off the prizes on old gameshows, I take a step back and gesture towards myself with both hands. “You’re looking at it.”
Before Danny gets the chance to make some snide remark, Jasmine throws her arms around my body and presses her cheek against my chest.
“And that’s all I wanted. Best boyfriend ever!” She pauses for a moment to bask in the glow of the string-light network that’s floating above us. “Look at all of this — it’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I quickly shift gears, “let’s get some alone time for a minute. Inside.”
She wrinkles her nose with a smile and purrs, “okay!”
I let go of Jasmine’s hand as I scamper up the stairs. It’s nearly silent once I reach the top floor — the cacophony of party noises has faded away, and all I can hear are the slow clacks of her heels languishing behind me.
“Hey,” I say when she finally arrives. With a gentle finger, I prop up her chin and softly gaze into her wide, wet eyes. “What’s wrong? Look, I know we talked about tonight and how it’s important to make everything perfect. I know I said that we were going in for some you and me time, and I’m sorry for getting caught up in that game. I shouldn’t have done that.”
She looks away as the tears welling beneath her eyes begin to spill over the edges. “You think I’m mad at you for wanting to play beer pong with your friend? It’s a party, Brian. I want people to have fun. I’m upset because I can’t figure out why you would feel the need to get mad in front of everybody and scold me over a game?”
“You knocked over our own last cup and lost the game! You heard Tony. He was talking so much shit the entire time. He thinks he’s so good at everything. Yeah, he’s my friend, but I just hate losing to the guy.”
“Like — w-w-what,” she starts looking around, as if the words she’s searching for are going to appear beside her. “What does that even — are you trying to — really?”
Seeing her flustered like this, and knowing that it’s my fault, almost brings me to tears, like my body is attempting to flush out the guilt. I cut her off and pull her into my arms before she has the chance to lay it on further.
“You’re right, you’re right.” I begin stroking her back, “I’m so sorry. There’s no excuse for that and I shouldn’t have done it. I’m so sorry.”
A faint smile pops up on her face and she lets out a laugh that really sounds more like half a sob. “How do I look?”
“Well, your eyes are puffy, your cheeks are red and tear stained, and you’ve got a little something coming out of your nose, but I still think you look beautiful.”
“Okay,” she tells me, wiping away her tears, “go wait for me in my room. I’m gonna clean my face up really quick, and I’ll meet you in there. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
No, that looks ridiculous. Don’t be a tool. The lights are off and I’m squinting at my barely visible reflection in the full length mirror that’s hanging from Jasmine’s door. My fingers fumble around as I re-button my shirt. Who do you think you are? Some doofus on the cover of a romance novel? Knowing Jasmine, she would probably start laughing if she walked in and saw me lying on the bed, in wait, with my shirt “seductively” unbuttoned.
Fully clothed, I shuffle over to the bed and take a seat, figuring that it would be far less awkward than standing in the middle of a dark room. I keep tracing the circular outline of the condom inside my pocket.
Do I take it out? Put it on the nightstand? Is that too crass? What if I have to stop in the middle of everything to fish it out of my pocket later? What if that kills the mood? Luckily, before I can wrack my brain any further, light from the hallway peaks into the room and Jasmine walks in, wiping her nose with a tissue.
“Are you ready,” I ask, patting down on the empty bed space beside me. But she doesn’t budge. Her eyes stay focused on her restless, tapping feet. She can’t even look at me. “Is everything okay? Please don’t still be upset about earlier, I know it was really dumb of me.”
“I’ve been thinking and I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t think we’re ready.”
“I knew this was gonna happen the moment you got upset.” I throw my arms up to express my frustration. “Look, I said I was sorry. There’s no need to go back on our plan over something so small. You promised.”
“Brian, that isn’t what this is about.”
“Then what’s it about? Because this is starting to become really unfair towards me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jasmine, I’ve never wanted to be the asshole that pressures his girl into having sex for the first time. And I haven’t. I want you to feel comfortable with it. But come on — we’ve been together for nine months, and for the last five of them, you’ve been saying yes, then no. I feel like I’m being strung along.”
Finally, she looks up at me, and I think I can see her lip quivering. “I just want it to be special,” she says.
“Today’s your birthday! How much more special can it get? Am I what makes it not special?”
“No! That’s not it!”
“Well, what is it?”
“I just want to know that we’re in love before we have sex.” She meekly recoils as soon as the words blurt out of her mouth. “I love you, Brian. And I know you say it and I know you care about me, but sometimes I just can’t tell if — ”
“What do you expect? Flash mobs and big public speeches?” I can hear my voice steadily rising. Arms are no longer going to do the trick. “Fireworks conveniently going off in the background every time we kiss? This is the real world, not a rom-com. Your sense of what love is supposed to be is so ridiculous that you can’t even realize all the ways that I show you I love you.”
“When you’re really loved, you don’t need to look for all the ways in which you’re loved — you just know.”
I’m on my feet at this point. The sound of her sniffling is being drowned out by my sneakers thudding against the wooden floor. I don’t know what else to do — another second of sitting down and I may combust.
“Well, for starters, how about the fact that, until tonight, I’ve been super cool about you holding on to your virginity for forever. Most guys wouldn’t have put up with this shit for nearly as long as I have. The constant flip-flopping. Maybe Tony was right.”
“Well then, why don’t you go fuck Tony,” she yells. Makeup is bleeding from her swollen, red eyes, down to her chin. But her sobs have stopped, and before I know it, a throw pillow knocks the glasses off my face. Then, two more follow, whizzing past my head as I bend down to pick up the newly crooked frames.
“Fuck this! I’m out,” I say, moving towards door. “Happy fucking birthday.”
Sip. Step. Sip. Step. I do this for the entire walk home. A mile and a half of treelined suburban darkness. Just me and this bottle of caberneg savignun — or whatever in the hell it’s called — that I swiped from Jasmine’s parents’ liquor cabinet.
With each movement, the warm wine splashes against my insides. I can almost hear the sloshing as I turn around to roll the empty bottle down the hill, before walking up my driveway. Except for the garage, all the other lights are off. Good.
Not good. My head is spinning as I tumble through the front door, tripping over the ledge on the way in. The wine. Oh God, the wine. I don’t even have time to scramble to my knees and brace myself. Lying on my parents’ entryway rug, full-on dick to floor, I puke. With each ghastly heave, my body gyrates, kneading itself into the growing puddle of hot soured wine.
The lights flash on.
“Brian!” I can hear my mom gasp from somewhere above me. The pitter patter of her feet on the stairs and her cries of oh my God grow closer.
“What’s wrong,” she asks, pulling me away from the shallow red pool. Cradling my head, she assesses the damage. “Is that wine? Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God. You’re just drunk as a skunk. I thought that was blood.”
Her cool hands feel like heaven against my skin, as they wipe away the stringy stomach juice covering my face. Back and forth she rocks, with my head in her lap, combing the soggy bread fragments out of my hair. Splotches of my byproduct stain her silk pajamas.
“This smells horrible.”
“Sorry, mom. I had a really bad night,” I slur.
“I can see that, my love.”
“Don’t be mad. Please.”
“Oh, I’m furious,” she softly says, caressing my head. “You’re seventeen, wasted, and just ruined a Persian rug. You’re most definitely in big trouble. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I love you.”
And just like that, I begin to cry. My mom keeps asking me what’s wrong while she brushes away the wetness, but the tears continue to pour out. They’re now cascading down my face.
“I need to call Jasmine. I need to tell her that I’m sorry,” I say in between sobs. “She was right.”
Lying in my mothers arms, I keep crying out the same words, over and over again: “Now I understand.”
