Chapter One
Tamsin
The first time I ever saw Daniel Bowman, he stood up for me. He didn’t even know me, and he stood up for me.
Not that I needed him to. That’s another thing that happened when I was fifteen: I decided I would never, ever wait for someone else to stand up for me.
Because I would always stand up for myself.
“That’s her. The skank who goes at it so loud with Oscar I can hear her through the fucking walls.”
It was freshman year, and I was at the coffee house in the basement of Heller Hall, caffeinating myself before class. To give the asshole credit, I don’t think he meant for me to hear him. I had ear buds in and I was sitting with my back to the rest of the room.
But I did hear him.
I started to turn around. But I hadn’t done more than tense up and put my hands on the edge of the table when I heard another voice.
This one was slow and deep and easy—the kind you always hope has a body to match and hardly ever does.
“Couple things wrong with that,” the new voice said.
“Yeah? Enlighten me.”
“First, don’t call women skanks. Not when I’m around.”
There was a short silence. Then:
“Are you shitting me? What are you, fucking Galahad?”
“Second, if you’re calling a woman a skank because she’s loud in bed, that tells me you’ve never made a woman come so hard she screams. That’s on you, man.”
I wanted to stand up and cheer. And at the same time, my throat tightened and I felt like crying.
But I didn’t cheer or cry. I just listened to the rest of the conversation, which turned into the asshole trying to defend his bedroom skills and Galahad giving him enough rope to hang himself with. Then, when their chairs scraped the floor as they got up to go, I turned my head.
The asshole said something about his next class and headed for the trash can with his empty cup. But Galahad was still at their table, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
Oh. My. God.
He wasn’t my type. I tended to go for guys like Oscar—guys who wore their artsy natures on their sleeves, going for punk or grunge or beatnik, with tats and piercings a major theme. This guy was more of a preppie god in a button-down shirt and khaki pants.
But it wasn’t the clothes I was focused on.
He was big—big like my friend Will, who was on the football team—and he had the kind of body that made me wish he wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He had short black hair and dark blue eyes and—
And he was looking right at me.
It was just for a second. Then, almost before I could be sure our eyes really had met, he turned to follow his asshole friend out the door.
The second time I saw Daniel Bowman was in Oscar’s dorm.
“That’s him,” I said, grabbing Oscar’s arm and pointing across the dining hall. “The one who thinks you must be good in bed.”
I’d told Oscar about the conversation I’d overheard, which of course he’d loved, with the implied shout-out to his woman-pleasing abilities.
“Him? Okay, yeah. His name is Daniel something. He plays football.” Oscar paused. “He’s a good guy,” he said after a moment, almost grudgingly.
That was freshman year. Sophomore year, Oscar dumped me. My friend Claire, who’d just gotten dumped herself, talked me into taking a vow of celibacy for fall semester.
No one thought I’d last more than a week—least of all me. But I ended up sticking with it longer than Claire did.
We both made it through the semester, thus honoring the vow. Once she was free to date again, though, Claire got together with Will…while I found out I kind of liked the whole celibacy thing.
Have you ever known—just known—that a boyfriend was about to break up with you? However you react when that happens, it’s probably better than how I used to react.
I’d get desperate. Clingy. I did all the things you’re not supposed to do, the stuff your friends tell you under no circumstances ever to do.
Calling and texting all the time. Cooking for him and buying him cute little gifts. Trying to be so amazing in bed he’ll never leave you for another.
Trying to be the girl he used to want.
I know. Pathetic, right? My friends thought so, too.
He’s not worth it, Tamsin.
He doesn’t deserve you.
Just focus on yourself. Your classes. The important stuff.
That last piece of advice came from my roommate Rikki, who’s amazing. She’s always been able to focus on work and classes and “important stuff,” even freshman year when the rest of us were floundering around pretending we had it all together. Rikki actually did have it all together, except for this one time when things kind of fell apart with Sam—the guy she’s with now. The guy who loves her the way every woman in the world dreams of being loved.
For years I went from guy to guy looking for that, hoping for that, and never ever finding it. But those days or weeks of knowing it was over before it actually was over were the worst.
And then, like magic, things changed.
Maybe it was having a friend do the vow-of-celibacy thing with me. Maybe I’d finally hit some kind of critical mass of shitty boyfriends. Whatever the reason, something changed that semester.
The fever broke. And God, the relief.
No more lying awake at night wondering what I’d done wrong, wondering when he’d call, or wondering if he’d stick around till morning. Guys stopped being the center of my life.
And I will never, ever, ever go back to way I used to be.
Just to be clear, though: I’m still Queen of the Sluts. Once a slut, always a slut, even if you’ve decided you’ve had enough crappy relationships and want to take a good long break.
It’s the first day of junior year, and this is where I am. Stronger than I’ve ever been, happier than I’ve ever been. Rikki says I’ve found an equilibrium for myself, and that feels right.
I looked up equilibrium. The first definitions are 1. Bodily balance and 2. Emotional stability. I read those two phrases over again and again because I liked them so much.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, will make me give up my bodily balance or emotional stability ever again.
Not even the preppie god who just walked into my Experiments in Drama class.