Chapter Fifteen
Daniel
Well, that was awful.
And wonderful.
The best date I’ve ever been on.
And the worst.
Tamsin.
Tamsin.
Tamsin.
Her name is like a refrain I can’t let go of, a song playing on an endless loop.
Tamsin.
She invited me up to her room, and I said no.
Fuck.
If I needed any more proof that I’m too screwed up to have a relationship, I just got it.
I can’t think of anything I want less than to put on my soaking wet T-shirt, but I don’t want to walk around bare-chested either. So I pull it on, and it’s every bit as cold and clammy as I figured it would be.
How can a night go from transcendent to tragic in a single minute?
Well, maybe not tragic. But definitely off the rails.
It’s all my fault. I knew I was playing with fire the moment I asked Tamsin out.
She’s like an open flame. And when I’m around her, I feel like a rag soaked in gasoline.
You should have spent the night with her.
I tell the voice inside my head to shut up. How the hell could I spend the night with Tamsin? She already asked me if I’m a virgin. There’s no way she wouldn’t know the truth if I tried to sleep with her.
A girl like Tamsin deserves a guy who knows what he’s doing. A guy she doesn’t need to educate like some kind of sexual charity case. A guy who won’t freeze up if she touches his cock.
She deserves someone experienced. Someone confident. Someone who can take the lead.
Because when it comes to relationships, a man should take the lead. I know that’s old-fashioned, but it’s what I believe.
I grew up with a single mom and a sister. I’ve seen women in action in church and community groups. I see the way they put other people first, the way take care of everyone except themselves.
I saw Tamsin do that with Oscar, the least deserving guy on the planet. All the little things she did for him that he took for granted.
When it comes to romance, I think the guy should do things for the girl. Open doors. Bring her flowers. Pay the check.
And rock her world in bed.
The rain stops just as I reach my house. When I open the front door, I see Trace and Beeker on the couch playing Assassin’s Creed.
The three of us really know how to have a wild Saturday night.
If I could I’d sneak up to my room, but the stairs are on the other side of the living room. I cross in front of Trace and Beeker without saying anything, hoping they’re too focused on the game to pay attention to me.
No such luck.
“Danny boy!”
That’s Trace’s nickname for me when he’s not using Galahad.
“Hey,” I say, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.
Beeker is staring at me. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you took a shower with your clothes on. Didn’t you have a date tonight?”
“I did. It’s over. I walked home in the rain. See you guys tomorrow, okay?”
I make it maybe three steps.
“Oh, hell no,” Beeker says. “Tell us about the date. The date with—what was her name?”
“Tamsin.”
“Yeah. Tamsin.”
They’ve paused the game, and now Trace leans forward and grabs a bottle of something—bourbon, maybe—from the coffee table, pouring a shot into a plastic cup.
“Want one?” he asks me, like he always does.
I always say no, and Trace always leaves it at that. He’s never given me a hard time about not drinking, which is one of the good things about him.
I don’t have some kind of moral objection to alcohol. I just don’t drink it myself—not since my neighbor offered me a beer when I was twelve years old and I took it, feeling ten feet tall and badass as I chugged it down.
I haven’t taken a drink since. But now I hear myself say,
“Yeah. I’ll have one.”
Beeker and Trace both stare at me. Then Trace grabs an empty cup and fills it half full of amber liquid.
“Here you go. Man, you must have had a hell of a night. Was it really good or really bad?”
“Both,” I say, coming over and taking the cup from Trace. “But I don’t want to talk about that. Are the West Coast games over? How did Oregon and UCLA do?”
There are two things I have no intention of doing. One, getting drunk. Two, talking about Tamsin.
So, of course, I get drunk and talk about Tamsin.
Trace and Beeker are pretty decent, all things considered. They don’t laugh at me too much, and they make sure I get upstairs and into bed before I crash.
They’re not so bad, those guys. Even Trace.
The first thing I do when I wake up—after I brush my teeth, since my mouth tastes like a dumpster—is check my Twitter DMs. I forgot to get Tamsin’s phone number last night, which means Twitter is the only way we can get hold of each other.
I open the app and check the little envelope.
Nothing.
I lay down in bed again and stare at the ceiling. I don’t remember much of my drunken conversation with Trace and Beeker, but I remember every detail of my time with Tamsin.
I fucked everything up at the end, and I can’t think of a way to fix it.
I could apologize, of course. That part would be easy enough. But what I can’t fix is the reason I acted the way I did.
I can’t fix being screwed up about sex. I can’t fix being a virgin with Tamsin unless I sleep with someone who isn’t Tamsin, and even if I wasn’t screwed up about sex, there’s no way I could sleep with a girl I don’t care about just to be comfortable sleeping with the girl I actually do care about.
What happened at the end of our date was a symptom of things I can’t change. So what good would it do to apologize?
Maybe it’s better that I don’t have Tamsin’s phone number. Maybe it’s better that she’s not DMing me. Maybe it’s better that we go back to being scene partners and frenemies or whatever we were before last night.
And maybe I’m a big fucking liar.
Yeah, I probably am. But going back to the way things were is all I’ve got.
* * *
It’s Tuesday night and I’m keyed up. I thought I might run into Tamsin before drama class, but I didn’t. So this will be the first time we’ve seen each other since Saturday night.
On the way to the theater, I decide I’ll let Tamsin set the tone. If she ignores me, fine. If she wants to talk, great. I was the one who asked her out, and I’m the one responsible for how it ended. I’ll let Tamsin decide what happens next.
When I get to class, Tamsin’s already there. She’s sitting between Izzy and Charlie in the third row.
What’s it going to be? Will she ignore me, or will she talk to me?
It’s sort of in-between. She doesn’t say anything, but she nods. The way you acknowledge an acquaintance.
I nod back. And even though I told myself I’d accept whatever attitude Tamsin took, that one moment of cool eye contact really stings.
Our kiss Saturday night shook me to my core. Tamsin shook me to my core. So much that I drank alcohol for the first time in eight years and babbled about her to my housemates.
But it looks like Tamsin wasn’t affected the same way.
It shouldn’t bother me. After all, I decided it would be better if we went back to the way things were. I should be happy, right?
Except I’m not happy. In fact, as Joan comes in and starts talking about dramatic tension and character conflict, I feel my own tension rising.
I want to talk to Tamsin. I want her to say that our kiss was the best one of her life, because it sure as hell was mine.
But who am I kidding? Tamsin slept with twenty-two people before she even got to college, while I’ve slept with a grand total of none. And yeah, I’ve fooled around with girls—two in high school and five here at Hart—but the fact is, Tamsin has a lot more experience than I do.
Chances are that kiss wasn’t the best one of her life.
And now, for the first time, I get why a guy might resent his girlfriend’s sexual past.
It’s not about her. It’s about his insecurity. But the fact that it’s a stupid, fucked up way to feel doesn’t make it less real.
Or less depressing.
I’m so depressed, in fact, that I don’t even feel nervous when Joan calls me up on stage.
I feel reckless.
I wasn’t really listening to her lecture about tension and conflict, but it’s too late to do anything about that. I’ll just focus on whatever setup she gives me.
“All right,” she says. “The title of today’s scene is, Confess Your Unpopular Opinion. It can be anything at all. What’s your unpopular opinion, Daniel?”
Most of what I believe is probably unpopular in here. But I don’t want to pick something random. I want to talk about something that actually matters to me. Something real.
I look out at the audience, and say:
“I believe in God.”
Joan’s eyebrows go up. She’s wearing a red sweatshirt, which makes her look even more like Mrs. Claus than usual.
“Okay, then. Who wants to take the opposite side of the argument?”
Tamsin gets to her feet. “I’ll do it.”
She comes up on stage, turns to face the audience, and bows dramatically.
“Just call me Tamsin, Godless Atheist.”
That gets a laugh, but not from me. I can already tell Tamsin won’t be taking this scene seriously.
But that’s not something I can control.
Joan hops off the stage and takes her usual seat in the middle of the front row.
“Okay, Daniel. Tell us what you believe.”
Wow. Talk about a tall order.
Then again, what the hell do I have to lose?
If there’s one thing I learned in high school, it’s that you’ll always be punished for sincerity. The only way to stay safe from ridicule is to never take anything seriously, never say what you really feel, and always sound cynical.
The day you decide you’re not going to do that is the day you grow up.
I turn to face Tamsin. She’s wearing an electric blue skirt, black boots, and a Ramones T-shirt so old the white lettering is flaking off.
She looks gorgeous.
I take a deep breath. “I believe in God’s love. I believe in God’s forgiveness. I believe that while human beings will let us down, God never will.”
Tamsin’s gray eyes narrow, and she folds her arms. Her posture seems oddly defensive, as though what I just said is some kind of attack.
“So you believe in a big sky bully, sitting up in heaven and judging us mortals?”
“Wow. No. That’s pretty much the opposite of what I believe. Did you miss the part about love and forgiveness?”
“That implies we’ve done things we need to be forgiven for.”
“Well, haven’t we? We’re all sinners. Or are you saying you’re perfect?”
“Oh, I’m far from perfect. But I don’t need God’s forgiveness—or anyone else’s.”
Her chin is up, and she looks defiant.
Does she think I’m judging her?
“No human being has the right to judge,” I say. “Our job is to forgive each other and love each other.”
I’m trying to get past Tamsin’s defensiveness, and I figure talking in a mild way about being non-judgmental and loving your neighbor is a good way to do that.
“That’s definitely the most patronizing thing I’ve heard this week. But of course it’s still early.”
So much for my theory.
“Come on, Tamsin. What’s patronizing about saying we shouldn’t judge each other? And that we’re supposed to be loving and forgiving?”
She’s looking more pissed off with every passing second, and I don’t understand why.
“I don’t need your forgiveness. Or God’s.”
I give the answer I’ve heard my minister give so many times before.
“Whether or not you need it, you have it.”
Her head jerks a little, as though I just slapped her in the face.
“Well, isn’t that sweet. No…that’s not the word I’m looking for. What is it? Oh, right.” She takes a breath. “Sanctimonious. You can take your forgiveness and shove it up your ass, you sanctimonious prick.”
I stare at her. What the hell is going on? I feel like I’m walking blindfolded through a minefield.
“I’m supposed to tell you what I believe. Okay, well, this is what I believe. I believe that God’s love can heal anything. I believe His grace is infinite and always available. But whether or not we let it into our lives is up to us.”
Tamsin doesn’t say anything to that. We just stand there for a moment, staring at each other.
“And…end scene,” Joan says. “Good job, you two. Nice job drawing out the tension and conflict. Okay, who’s next?”
Tamsin’s out the door the minute class is over. I’m caught flat-footed, with no chance to catch her—not with students milling around in front of the door, laughing and chatting.
Instead of trying to force my way through the crowd to run after Tamsin, I stay in my seat until everyone’s gone.
I feel frustrated. But the truth is, it’s probably better if Tamsin and I don’t talk right now. It feels like there’s a chasm between us—a chasm that Tamsin obviously has no desire to cross.
Finally I leave my seat and head for the door. But before I get there, I stop and look at the stage. Then I climb the three stairs that lead up to it, go to the center where Tamsin and I did our scene, and look out at the empty seats.
“We have traveled so far, and my wife is very tired. Is there any room at your inn?”
“You know, most people launch right into Hamlet when they’re alone on a stage.”