13
I Forgot All About Them!
~Claire~
Months pass: January, February, March. We don’t talk about New Year’s Eve. Ever. It’s as if it never happened. As if my insecurities are locked away in a vault. As if I hadn’t gotten drunk and made a fool out of myself in front of all those people.
Valentine’s Day came and went, but needs to be mentioned as the sweetest. We are talking breakfast in bed; a flower sitting on my desk in each class; and two dozen flowers hand-delivered by Mister Perfect himself, dressed deliciously in a newer pair of jeans, a white button up shirt, and an open vest, no tie. He took me to a small Italian restaurant where they served a seven-course meal with a handsome piano being played by an older gentleman who took requests. It was perfection.
Troy informed me after the Valentine’s day weekend that he went to visit Chelsea. We still don’t talk, and he always makes a point to only talk to me when Noah is there. I don’t know if it’s a guy respect thing, or maybe Troy knows he’s walking the tightrope and doesn’t want to catch me alone just to have accusations thrown at him later.
Troy told us that Chelsea is now five months pregnant. He wasn’t at school Thursday or Friday because he went to be with Chelsea during the ultrasound to find out the sex of the baby. Turns out they are having a girl. Troy beamed when I congratulated him. You could see the male pride coming off him.
Being responsible for a mother and your child seems to have matured him quite a bit. Troy is already more soft spoken, not aggressive at all. The tension and anxiety I used to always feel radiating off him is now this peace and control he has always strived to reach.
He told us that him and Chelsea are not planning to marry or even have much of a relationship. They agreed to remain friends and stay in each other’s lives as much as possible for the baby. You can tell that Troy is willing to do anything for his baby girl. He’s already so excited to meet her.
When all the congratulations and my questions were out of the way, Troy shook Noah’s hand, gave me a kiss on the head with a weird pat on the back, and then walked away like the conversation never happened. I looked at Noah, and he gave me a shrug, as if to say, “I don’t know what that was either, but okay.”
A few weeks later, we had dinner with my dad for his birthday. Noah helped me pick out a new briefcase for him. A sleek, black Burberry Brit briefcase, going half and half on it since it cost over five hundred dollars, and that was a steal. Good thing I had money saved up. I tried to argue Noah out of his half, but when Noah decides on something, there is no backing him down.
Noah and I spend a lot of weekends at his uncle’s house. Katy is so much fun to talk to while Noah and his band practice. If I’m not watching the band, then I’m talking to her as we cook or play with Abby. Katy is fast becoming the mother I never had. Even Signora Gelardi, who has been the only woman in my life until now, doesn’t come close to comparing to Katy, who hugs me often and talks to me as I imagine my own mother would. She has even taken me shopping with her, and once we went to get our nails done together, with little Abby with us, getting her nails painted a hot pink with “diamonds” strewn over them. That was a fun day.
Prom is next month, and though I never thought in a million years Noah would want to go, he asked me. It seems silly to go, surrounded by my peers who have never been nice to me. Plus, the thought of going to prom, of Noah going to prom, is strange.
Noah is so rugged, appearing older than his eighteen years, far more mature than the kids at our school. Him dressed up in a tux is hard to picture, though when I do, he’s stunning. I bet he ends up wearing nice slacks and maybe a tie, but never a tux. I just can’t see it.
Katy went with me to find a dress. Our small town doesn’t have much to offer, so we made a day of it and visited a lot of boutiques in Denver. She convinced me to go with a shorter dress due to my lack of height. It is midnight blue, strapless, accented with beadwork, and made from chiffon. It is sweet, yet sexy with an open back. There is a full, flirty skirt that reminds me of something a ballerina would wear. The skirt would be short on anyone else, but with me, it’s the ideal length, hitting right above my knees.
Embarrassing, but gratefully, she brought up the sex talk, starting with, “I hope you guys are using protection.” Just like that, all out in the blue. One minute we were talking about fabrics, and the next, she threw that bomb out there.
I blushed, of course. No words came to mind. I knew everyone assumed we were having sex. We spent enough time together, especially alone. But having someone come out and mention it … I didn’t know if I should be more embarrassed that we had or hadn’t had sex. If I told her the truth, would she even believe it? There was only one way to find out.
“Um, we haven’t—I mean,” I started, worried that she would assume that meant we hadn’t been using protection, “we haven’t had sex.”
She looked at me, like yeah, right. “Claire, it’s okay to talk about it. I know you are still in high school, but legally, you both are adults. I want to make sure you both don’t jeopardize your futures when an unexpected baby comes into your lives.”
That was when everything spilled out. I told her how Noah kept putting me off, how I felt about that, the fight we had over it—everything. We ended up at a small café, talking about it over coffee. She listened, pressing a sympathizing hand over mine. Then she told me, “Claire, it sounds like Noah is in this for the long haul. What’s six months compared to six years, sixteen, sixty? This is a blip on the full scale that is your life. Take your time, enjoy the innocence, enjoy being simple, because when it’s gone, there is no going back, no do-overs. Take your time so there are no regrets. You always remember your first time. Enjoy the buildup, enjoy the suspense because, in the end, that’s always the best part of any experience.” And that made me feel better, for a while, anyway.
Now it’s spring break, and I am sitting in Noah’s room, waiting for him to get out of the shower. No one else is home. Kyle took off right after practice, while Katy, Mark, and Abby went to go see a new Disney movie.
His room is so … blue, which he hates, and I think it’s funny. It’s plain; nothing characteristic of Noah. There is nothing that stands out as him. No posters, no trophies or awards, no knickknacks. Nothing but school books and his song notebooks, which he keeps under his bed, and a few pictures of us that sit on his dresser. His room is clean, way too clean for a teenage guy.
Wanting something to do while I wait, I drop to the ground beside Noah’s bed and fish around for his notebook, wanting to read any new lyrics he’s written. It doesn’t bother him that I love to read his words. Sometimes he’s even enthusiastic over sharing one with me, wanting to get my opinion on wording. I smile at that thought.
I don’t immediately feel his worn notebook, so I drop to the carpet to see what I am blindly reaching for. The notebook is north of where I was reaching. I finally slap my hand down on it and slide it toward me when a manila envelope catches my eyes. It’s up against the wall at his headboard, like it fell off his bed.
I drop down onto my belly and wiggle my way toward it, wanting to set it out for him in case he did lose it. Unfortunately, the thing is upside down and open, and when I yank it, papers slip out of the envelope like a stream. No, not papers.
Pictures.
Pictures of Noah and some woman.
Pictures of Noah and some woman having sex.
Pictures of Noah and some woman having sex on a couch, on a chair, over a table. His hands touching her everywhere. His mouth on her neck, her shoulder, biting, sucking, licking.
I reach for the pendant he gave me like that will center me, or maybe assure me that what I’m seeing isn’t the truth. And maybe it’s not because the look on his face in these pictures is one I have never seen before. He definitely has that arousal look I so love to see in his eyes, yet he has a look of detachment. This is not the Noah I know. And I am not like this woman. A woman he obviously wanted.
She has dark hair like me, but not as long. Besides that, there are no other similarities. This woman is a few years older than me, tall, thin, all the right proportions for a model. They look like a perfect couple in all their naked glory. Who is she? Most importantly, why does Noah have pictures of her? Why is he keeping them? If this is what he wants, then why is he pulling the celibacy act with me?
God, is this what he wants? I haven’t imagined us being together like this. I always imagine looking into his eyes as we make love, everything tender yet passionate, slow yet needy. This. This is raw. This is hardcore sex. He looks like he wants to hurt her, and she looks like she would love it.
When were these taken? Who is the girl? This must be from the city, right? I can see band equipment in the background, band posters advertising a venue. The venue is a place Noah has told me about, where his city band frequented. If this is before us, then why does Noah still have them?
God, this insecurity is choking me. We have been together for six months today, though neither one of us had mentioned the fact. We still have been playing it up that today is special, dropping suggestions and hints that we will be alone tonight, and this is what slaps me in the face? I wanted tonight to be special. I wanted to tell him I’m one hundred percent sure I’m in love with him; been sure since almost the beginning.
Noah’s been the one putting off sex. Then I see these pictures that show him not denying someone else, and it makes me feel inadequate. Is he afraid if he goes all the way with me, I will disappoint him? Has he been holding off in fear of us not being compatible that way? I know he said that isn’t a worry, but what else is there? We are adults; I shouldn’t have to be continuously shut down when we are in a relationship and I’m so willing. I’m sick of this. This is my decision, too. He can’t be the one to make all the choices in this relationship.
Are we even really in a relationship? I can’t not think this when I see the evidence of one of Noah’s priors. He gave himself to her, and others. What makes them different from me? What do they have that I don’t have? I mean, I get the not rushing, but I think I can make my own decision to lose my virginity to him. I don’t think most adults wait this long in a relationship before having sex, casual or not. This is ridiculous.
Anger sets in as I go through all twenty-five, full-color photographs, thinking angry thoughts directed solely at Noah and his “pure values” on our relationship. I’m tired of waiting, yet I really don’t want to think about having sex with Noah in the aftermath of discovering what appears to be his self-created porn. God, Kyle was right on New Year’s Eve night. Noah really was a manwhore.
Hands clasping my ankles makes me scream and jump, causing me to hit my back on the bed frame. Noah drags me out so fast and, because it’s such a surprise, I’m still gripping some of the photos when I’m out from underneath his bed.
I flip over to see Noah in only his jeans, water dripping from his hair and down his torso. He’s wearing his mischievous, playful grin until he sees what I’m clutching in my hands. That grin falls fast and panic overcomes his features. Then, as quickly, his indifferent face comes up.
~Noah~
Panic. Heart racing.
Shit! Those pictures came to me in the mail months ago. A so-called gift from the boys back home. That bitch had a video of us fucking all over the back room, and the guys printed out stills of the video to show me “what I’m missing being here.”
I forgot about them, forgot they even existed. As soon as I saw them, I had every intention of burning them, but Katy and Mark were home. I had to wait until they went to bed before tossing them into the fireplace. Obviously, that was forgotten.
I don’t know how to explain this. I have to tell her the truth, but how do I explain what the pictures entail? She knows I have had my share of women. She knows some of the things I did in the city, how I was. But she didn’t have to see it.
She has been giving me a hard-enough time about waiting on sex as it is, and now it’s thrown in her face that I did it with random women. Now she’s seeing the evidence of my flagrant ways on full display—tits, ass, cock shots, and all. What am I going to say to that? How is she going to take this?
I am so goddamn angry at myself, at her for finding those photos. Again, at me for forgetting them. Goddamn motherfucking shit! I don’t know what to say. And there she is, sitting on the floor, holding those goddamn photos, looking up at me with anger and hurt.
I swallow hard and look away from her as I snatch the pictures out of her hands and tear them up without looking at them. I then proceed to get on my hands and knees and crawl under the bed, gathering up the rest of the pictures.
“Are you going to say anything?” Claire’s small, controlled voice reaches me.
I make the choice not to answer right away, army crawling back out from under the bed where I make my way to the trash bin in my room and toss the pictures and envelope inside. Then I carry the bin out of my room, making sure to grab Claire’s car keys and a lighter, pocketing them as I pass the kitchen. There is no way in hell I am letting her leave before we talk about this, but I’m not ready to talk right now. This is a situation of fucked-up proportions, and I need to calm down before I open my stupidly forgetful mouth and let stupidly unforgettable words come out of my stupidly forgetful head.
I head out the back door and make my way over to the fire pit, dumping all the trash out of the bin. The lighter serves to do what I should have done months ago. Squatting, I set alight some papers that were at the bottom of the trash, effectively incinerating all the papers and pictures. I stay in that position, watching an army of ants running away from the heat.
I still haven’t calmed down enough, and my thoughts are running rampant on what to say and how she will react. When are we going to have the blowout? When will she leave me? When will she realize she’s so much better than me and I don’t deserve her? She’s now seen who I am—who I was. She’s now seen how I lived before her. Is this going to be the tipping point, where the scale of pros and cons will tip in favor of all my cons and she will run from me?
Fear has my heart pounding against my ribcage. I can’t fully breathe. I think I’m having a mini panic attack at just thinking about losing the best thing that’s happened to me. I can’t let her go. I have changed for her, become a better person. She brings out the best in me. She brings me comfort, listens to me, understands me. I can’t lose her. It’s only been six months, but the memories are seared into me forever. She makes me smile, laugh. I haven’t ever felt this free in my life.
“Noah?” I didn’t even hear her come up behind me, so lost in my thoughts.
I continue watching the ants scurry here and there, still not knowing what to say. Damn it all to hell. She probably thinks the worse of me now.
I can’t look at her when I say, “I’m sorry you found those. I meant to get rid of them the moment they were sent to me, but I … forgot.”
“You forgot? And who sent them to you? Her, the woman in the pictures? Is she waiting for you to come back?” Claire’s voice break as she tries to control her emotions. I can’t tell if she’s crying or incredibly pissed. She’s trying to be firm, but failing miserably. Either way, I regret those emotions I put in her.
“The guys, the band—they meant it as a joke. The woman …” I shake my head. “I don’t even know her name. She was someone I … was with my last night in the city.”
Claire starts pacing behind me. I can hear her steps squash through the wet grass. I’m still not brave enough to turn around and look at her, to see the disappointment, anger, and sadness in her eyes. I don’t want to see those emotions targeted at me.
“Do you realize how hurt this makes me? What’s been going through my mind? That you were keeping them to look at repeatedly. That she was someone you miss.” She huffs out a breath. “And then there’s the sex. You don’t even know her name, yet you had sex with her? We’ve been together for six months and nothing! Do you know, understand, comprehend how that makes me feel? I’ve been feeling inadequate, like you are holding this off because you think I will disappoint you or something. We’ve had this argument, but that’s still how I feel, Noah. Don’t we feel more for each other than you do for a woman you supposedly don’t even know her name? Aren’t we more than that? If so, then why? Why not give me something you so freely gave to just someone. It makes no damn sense to me!” Claire swearing is never a good thing. The closest thing she says to swear words are darn and crap.
If only I can get her to see that she means more to me than a quick fuck. I don’t understand how someone who was closed off from relationships suddenly has this desperate need to take our relationship to the next level. I have been trying to make her feel cherished and loved because she is. I don’t want her to think that, the moment I sleep with her, I will leave, or that our relationship will change, or anything like that.
“Please, Claire,” I try.
“And then I think about how you were having sex with her. Is that what you want? Is that something you need? You looked so angry in those pictures, like you wanted to hurt her. Is that something you expect—”
“Claire, stop!” I jump to my feet, standing in front of her within seconds and towering over her petite body. “What you saw in those pictures is in the past. I’ve told you and told you, I didn’t give a damn about any of them. It was all about me.” I pound on my chest, and Claire takes a step back, dropping her guitar pick pendant that she was no doubt sawing back and forth, her newest anxiety twitch. “Me and my selfish wants. What you saw has nothing to do with us, with how we will be. I could never treat you that way. Don’t put your expectations or what you think mine are based on what you saw.”
I turn away from her and run my hands through my hair, pulling so hard it hurts. “Dammit! I wish you hadn’t seen that. I swear to God, Claire, I forgot all about them! I don’t want the reminders of how I was. I don’t want to go back to that person.”
Claire lets out a sigh. “I understand. But it still hurts. And I wanted tonight to be about us. I wanted to …”
I turn around to see Claire looking down, shaking her head.
“You wanted tonight to be the night.” God, I wanted prom night to be a surprise, but now that probably won’t even happen, so I might as well tell her. “Look, let’s go back inside. We can talk in there. Unless …” She looks up at me, and I try to school my features into apathy. “Unless you want to go home now.” I drop my head back down.
It takes a few seconds for Claire to respond. “No. I think it is time to talk about this. I need to understand why you keep holding off.” With that, she turns and marches back inside the house.
~Claire~
At this point, I’m numb. The anger, the betrayal, even the embarrassment at finding those pictures and pouring my desires out are completely gone. I’m numb, not even caring at this point what he has to say.
I make my way into the living room and sit on the couch. Noah likes closure, and I want to get this conversation of excuses over with so I can go home and go to bed.
Noah comes in behind me a few moments later. He looks distraught. He looks like his eighteen years and not the mature twenty-something I first thought.
He sits down on the couch, away from me, on the other side, a whole two feet of space between us that feels like so much more. His hands are in his pockets as he sits, his long legs stretched out before him, facing forward, and not angled in my direction at all, which is similar to the way I am sitting, but my arms and legs crossed. Petulant and tortured; that’s how we look right now.
“I’m going to come out and say all this in one swoop, and excuse me if I sound like a broken record,” he says in a monotone voice. “My past is my past. There is no changing that. Those pictures were a crude joke, and I am sorry you found them. I’m sorry it even happened; that the bitch videotaped us without my knowledge, that the band thought it would be funny to send them.” He removes his hands from his pockets and finally angles his body toward me. “I can apologize repeatedly, but it happened. It’s over. I don’t know what else to say to you.”
I remain silent, staring at the cold fireplace. I know I should accept his apology, that I’m being irrational to something that happened before me, but it still hurts. I still feel rejection.
Noah scoots closer. “As for us, I already had a date in my mind for when I can give you what you want. I don’t want to have sex here, in my uncle’s house, or even at your house where your dad could come home at any time. I want us to have our own space and as much time as we need. I want the entire night to be perfect for you, Claire. As perfect as you are to me. I don’t want your first time to be in my bed where we hear someone come home and have to jump up and get dressed before Abby or someone comes barging in. That’s not what you deserve, angel.”
I soften a bit, knowing what he says is possible. It has happened before when we were making out. My dad would come home while we were kissing on the couch, and I would feel so embarrassed for being caught. Or the time Abby came in and jumped between us, asking if we had run really far and that was why we were breathing so hard. I don’t want that to happen during sex.
Curiosity piqued, I finally turn toward him. “What date did you have in mind?”
“Prom.” No hesitation.
I roll my eyes and turn a little from him. “You have to be kidding me. That’s so cliché, Noah. Prom? You know I don’t even want to go. And I know deep down you don’t want to, either. I say we skip prom, do something else exciting. I really don’t want to be around all those people. It’s not on my bucket list.”
“Honestly, it’s not on mine, either, but it’s a special night. I know girls like to dress up pretty.” He scoots even closer and starts playing with my hair. “We can go out to a nice dinner, dance, maybe have a few laughs at the idiots around us. Then we get the hotel room …” He lets that linger.
I can imagine the picture he’s painting in my mind. Dancing with Noah would be pretty special while dressed up and feeling pretty next to Noah’s gorgeousness. But then I picture going to the bathroom and hearing petty talk from the girls at school, hearing them talk about Noah. Then I see those pictures in my mind again, and those girls replace the woman in the photographs, listening to them say what they want Noah to do with them. My imagination is running away from me.
“I really don’t want to do it, but”—I turn toward him and set my hand on his—“if it’s something you have planned, then I’m there.”
The corner of Noah’s mouth twitches, fighting back a smile. “Really? So, you’re not upset anymore?”
I pull away a bit. “Oh, I’m still upset.” That comes out sounding like a lie because a nervous chuckle comes out. “But knowing you have something planned, something I’m holding you to”—I point a finger at him—“makes it a little better.” I lean into him, resting my head on his chest. Noah brings his arms around me, holding me so tightly. “I really wish I hadn’t seen those photos.” Suddenly, the urge to cry overcomes me, and I feel a tear silently slip out.
“Me, too, angel. Me, too.”