“The nanny left that guy for Russell? Is she blind?”

“Oh come on. Russell’s a handsome man.”

“Yeah, in a very Brooks Brothers-bring-him-home-to-meet-Mom kind of way. This guy is so hot I would keep him as far away from my Mom as possible because she would immediately kick me to the curb and try to give him a blowjob.”

“I thought your parents are still together.”

“They are.”

Marnie came over ten minutes ago in her Lululemon outfit and sneakers, claiming to be jogging around Brooklyn, but I know she just wanted to check up on me. She had texted me every ten minutes from five-thirty this morning on until I got back to her, just making sure I didn’t get murdered. Now she wants all the juicy details and I’m trying to stall by claiming that I need a cup of coffee first. As soon as my timer goes off, she presses down on my Bodum French press, pours me a cup and says: “Now. Tell me everything.”

I woke up this morning feeling sore in places I’ve never been sore before, in a way that has never felt so damned good. I lay awake, remembering last night, still tasting him in my mouth, smelling him on my skin, but I almost couldn’t believe it wasn’t just a dream. I immediately checked my phone to see if he’d called or texted, but realized that we didn’t exchange numbers. We didn’t even exchange last names.

I can’t believe I completely surrendered myself physically to a stranger so many times, was as vulnerable as I could be, and I might never see Vince again.

The thought caused my stomach to turn—not the fact that it happened, the possibility that it won’t happen again—but now that I’ve had a shower and an hour to get used to the idea, I am almost complacent just focusing on how good he made me feel for a night and how he saved me from what would surely have been the lamest break-up drinking binge ever. He turned my closed-off anger into openness, turned that into lust, and turned that into sweet satisfaction. He’s an alchemist. I’m grateful.

I can’t stop smiling.

“Uh huh,” Marnie says.

We both collapse onto my sofa.

“Well I already know you brought him back here, because this place smells like sex and the coffee and incense did nothing to cover it up.”

I put the coffee mug down and laugh, pulling my knees up to my chin.

“So I take it he had a penis and a condom and he knew how to use them?”

“Oh, Marnie.” I drop my head to my knees and cover my face with my hands. “Oh my God.” I lift my head up, but I can’t look at her when I say it. “He also had fingers and a mouth and a tongue and his eyes, oh God his eyes are what really killed me.”

“Yeah. That and the big hard weapon between his legs, right?”

I’m blushing. I didn’t divulge much information about my sex life with Russell to Marnie, because there wasn’t that much to talk about and also we all work together so it wasn’t appropriate. But she’s easy and fun to talk to, and I have to talk about this with someone. “Oh my God. It was so amazing.”

“So the sex all happened before he told you that he had stalked you?”

“After. Well. Mostly after.”

“That’s hot. I don’t know why that’s hot, but it’s hot. Last night Dave and I binge-watched Arrested Development, made out for thirty-five seconds and then fell asleep on the couch. I woke up in the middle of the night and his hand was on my boob, his mouth was on my cheek. We literally fell asleep in the middle of making out. Your thing sounds a little more fun.”

“I would love to stay in and make out while watching Arrested Development. That’s basically my dream date.”

“Please. In case I haven’t made it clear yet—I’m proud of you. It takes guts to spread your legs for a total stranger. Guts and a blue drink.”

“I don’t know why, but I just trusted him. I mean, I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. On purpose.”

“Yeah. It’s the eyes.”

“Yeah.” I cover my face again, but that just makes it worse, because those eyes of his are all I see. And his mouth. And his chest. And his hands. And his arms. “I kind of hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with him. I don’t think I could handle getting my heart broken by a guy like that.”

“Awww.” She pats my knee. “Sweetie.”

I sigh. I’ve been sighing all morning.

“Well. What the hell right? What’s the worst that could happen? You’re what—thirty?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“You are?” She looks genuinely shocked by this news.

“Yes.”

“I thought we were around the same age.”

“I’m five years younger than you.”

“Wow.”

“Do I look like I’m in my thirties?”

“No. God no. You look nineteen. You’ve just always had a thirty-something vibe to you. Like, we always joke that you have a secret husband and five kids in Canada and you just work here during the school year.”

“You do? Who’s we? Is that really what people think of me?”

“Well, honey, it’s not an insult or anything. You’re just usually so proper. It’s about time you realized you don’t have to act like a first grade teacher every second of your life.”

I grin. “I said ‘fuck’ a bunch of times last night.”

“Oh I’ll bet you did. Which Outsiders character is he? Dallas, right? He’s straight-up Dallas Winston.”

This is a game we play. Whenever we have a troubled boy in our classes we try to figure out which character from The Outsiders he is. I get a lot of Ponyboys and Johnnys in the first grade and by the time they get to her fourth grade class, they’re Steve Randles.

I had such a crush on Matt Dillon and Dallas Winston when I was thirteen, but I told people that Ponyboy was my favorite.

“He was probably a Dally when he was younger, but he’s got those Johnny Cade eyes.”

“Right,” she says, nodding emphatically. “The eyes.” She pulls out her phone and brings up the picture I sent her last night.

“Sodapop,” we both say at the same time.

Dreamy.

“Yeah.” She finally puts her phone back in her hidden pocket. “Sodapop.”

“Yeah.” I stretch my arms up and yawn, reach for the coffee.

“You gonna come for a run with me?”

“Um. I mean, I don’t know if or when he’s going to show up, so…I should probably hang around here.”

“Can’t you text him?”

My face falls.

“He didn’t give you his number?”

“I don’t even know his last name.”

“Wow. So you really might not see him again.”

I pout.

“Sorry. I’m sure he’ll come back. Of course he will.”

“But if he doesn’t I’m totally fine with that.”

“Of course you are.”

“I am.”

“Just, you know. If he does come back, and if you do get involved, be careful.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know. A guy like that. Just be careful.”

“I don’t. Marnie. How am I supposed to be careful? Wear a chastity belt?”

“Yeah. Wear a chastity belt around your heart. I think that’s a Sting song from the Nineties.”

She hops up off the sofa and stretches her calf muscles, checks her Fitbit. “Okay. I’m gonna go. Call me if you need to talk more. Find an excuse to take more pictures of him if he does come back.”

I laugh. “Um. No.” I get up to hug her. “Thanks for coming by.”

“One of these days you’re coming jogging with me.”

“Oh for sure.”

“Stay gold, Ponygirl.”

While I finish my coffee and stare at the hole he punched in the drywall, I suddenly remember that Vince said: “I can’t believe she fucking left us.”

Who is “us?” Does he have a kid? There is so much I don’t know about him, but I still feel like he knows me so well. How is that possible?

I wonder if he’s actually going to come back. Part of me doesn’t even want that hole in the wall to be covered up. I want to take a picture of it and post it on Instagram and say: Last night I had a hot one-night stand with a bad boy stranger and all I got was this hole in the wall and about ninety orgasms.

I’m going to listen to Joni Mitchell, drink tea and try to put together an outfit for today that says: “I have no regrets about last night, but I’m not that kind of girl. Thank you for honoring your commitment to filling up my hole.”